Leather stocking and silk, or, Hunter John Myers and his times a story of the valley of Virginia |
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IN THE VALLEY OF MEADOW BRANCH. |
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 | Leather stocking and silk, or, Hunter John Myers and his times |  |
2. PART II.
IN THE VALLEY OF MEADOW BRANCH.
1. CHAPTER I.
A NEW AND AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
It was just at sunset of a fine September day in the
year of grace 181-, nearly five years after the events we
have narrated, that a traveler coming from the east, that
is to say from the direction of Martinsburg, stopped upon
the “Third Hill Mountain” some miles to the west of
that town, to rest his horse for a moment before descending
into the little valley beneath. “Sleepy Creek Mountain”
stretched just in front of him across the narrow
glen, and the round red orb, about to disappear, had
kindled the tall pines upon its summit into a blaze, and
like a bonfire threw the long shadows of tree and rock and
knoll, down the declivity into “Meadow Branch Valley.”
The traveler was much struck by the fair picture, so
quiet and so lovely; but after gazing upon it for a few
moments, he touched his magnificent sorrel with the spur
and went on again, down the mountain, breasting the
full red rays which lit up radiantly his rich dress, and
brown closely trimmed hair and beard, and his fine smiling
face. His object was apparently to reach some friendly
shelter before the cool September breeze made the open air
uncomfortable. Besides he seemed to have ridden far and
naturally looked about him now for a night's resting-place.
He had nearly reached the base of the mountain, and,
interest on a large Dutch barn and dwelling-house far to
the south, when coming out from a clump of pines which,
just in his front obscured the view, he found himself
close to a mountain-dwelling.
“Ah,” murmured the stranger, “where were my
thoughts wandering? Might I not have expected to find
precisely at this spot what I now see!”
And with a well-satisfied smile he approached the
house, at the door of which was seated a tall powerful
mountaineer.
The mountaineer was apparently above sixty, with hair
nearly white with age; not wholly, for many dark threads
still remained relieving the silver sheen of the rest. He
was very plainly the owner and lord of the mansion, and
at the moment when the stranger drew near, was caressing
with his vigorous hand a tall deer-hound, who submitted
with evident pleasure to this agreeable ceremony.
The traveler courteously saluted him, dismounting as
he spoke; then in a voice, open and frank, but slightly
French in accent, he said—
“May I crave a night's lodging, sir? I see no houses
of entertainment any where, and find myself somewhat at
a loss for a night's rest.”
“You are very welcome, sir,” said the mountaineer,
rising, “make my house your own; such as it is.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied the stranger, “but will not
my horse embarrass you?”
“We'll see to him—we'll see to him. A fine animal
he is too. He shall stand by my own, and feed as well.”
“Thanks, sir—many thanks for your hospitality,” the
traveler said with a smile.
“There's no thanks owing to me, sir. I'm a poor
man, but would think myself not doing my duty to turn
away a guest. Wife,” added the mountaineer, turning
toward the house from which came the busy hum of
us. My wife, sir—Mrs. Myers. My own name is John
Myers—at your service.”
The old dame came to the door and courtesied, smiling
cheerfully: then betook herself to preparing the supper.
“My own name,” the traveler said, “is Doctor Thomas;
and while supper is getting ready, my good sir, I will
with your leave see to my horse. We are old friends; I
must not slight him.”
“I like you the better for that, guest,” the mountaineer
replied in his hearty voice, “and I'll go with you, and let
you see that all's right.”
Thereupon the mountaineer led the way to a rude, but
well constructed shed, some few paces behind the house;
and opened the door. It was already occupied by a large
black horse, who might have borne Goliah upon his broad
back; but at his side was a vacant stall, and here the
traveler saw his steed, comfortably housed, with a plentiful
feed. They then returned toward the house. This
was a building of some size, of logs hewn smooth with
the ax, the spaces between carefully plastered to exclude
rain and wind. The roof was of clapboards, held down
by long poles fixed across them, and the chimneys—one
at each end—were of large brown stone. In front was an
antique “hominy sweep,” with its heavy pestle, and at a
little distance, a scaffolding, where, to judge by the pile
of wood-dust, the “whip-saw” of former days, was still
made to do duty.
There was about this house, little that did not remind
you of that picturesque past, of our Virginia border, which
has scarcely left any trace of its habitudes and peculiarities
in our own day. Every thing spoke of former days—the
hominy sweep, the whip-saw, the clap-boards of the roof;
—and all this the traveler seemed to gaze on, with a loving
eye, for its very antique rudeness.
They entered.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE HUNTER'S DWELLING.
Inside, all was quite as old-fashioned as without. The
fireplace was broad and large; and in addition to the
long rifle, there hung above it, fishing-rods, almanacs, and
bundles of pepper pods: and in the middle an old Dutch
clock ticked cheerfully. The chairs were of wicker-work,
and the table of heavy oak. In one corner a flight of stairs
wound up to the small rooms above; beyond this flight of
stairs, a half opened door permitted a glimpse of an apartment,
which, from its great neatness and simplicity, was
inhabited by a child apparently, most probably by a young
girl, since taste was every where very evident in its decorations;—a
taste of that refined and elegant description
which it is never the good fortune of the ruder sex to possess.
The very arrangement of the simple furniture, the
light in which the few cheaply-framed pictures were hung,
the small hanging shelves of books, all nearly in their
places, the chair, with its pretty calico covering, the little
table, the lingering flowers so gracefully trained around
the window—all gave the traveler good reason to believe
that the occupant of the small chamber was a female.
The large apartment in which he found himself, had a
wholly different character; and just as plainly—with its
large chair, and guns, and hunting-horns—was the
mountaineer's; though, certainly, not his sleeping-room,
which adjoined it.
The traveler seemed to be satisfied, with the single
to observe quickly and thoroughly, after completing its
survey of the apartment, no longer fixed itself upon these
material surroundings.
“Sit down, Doctor,” said the mountaineer, “we are all
very plain people in this neighborhood, but you are welcome
to all we have. From foreign parts, I judge?”
“Why do you judge so, host?”
“From your way of talking,” said the hunter, laughing
silently, “and—”
“Why do you stop?” the traveler said, smiling too;
“from what else?”
“From your dress, guest.”
“Ah!” said thoughtfully the stranger, “there it is.
Why dress—what is dress, that people should judge so
much from it of the individual's character. 'Tis the
fault of the age—externals, externals.”
Then seeing that his host had not followed him in his
musings.
“You are right so far, sir,” he said, “I am from foreign
countries; but I trust that my heart is what it
always was—silk stockings and velvet have not changed
me, God be thanked!”
There was so much frankness in the stranger's voice,
and his face, ornamented by its light colored beard and
mustache, assumed—spite of those martial appendages—
an expression so mild and gentle, that the mountaineer,
yielding to the fascination of his manner, stretched out
his arm, and cordially shook his guest by the hand.
“We'll be good friends, I see, guest,” he replied, “and
now, I know you will be satisfied with our rough fare.
Come, supper is on the table.”
The supper was spread upon the broad table, and the
cheerful and smiling old dame, did the honors at its head,
pouring out for the traveler goblets of foaming milk, and
huge cups of coffee—a great luxury at the time—and
sorts of bread. The traveler thought he had never
tasted richer butter, or finer venison.
They allowed him to finish his supper before again
speaking; and then his host led the way to the grassplat,
which ornamented the knoll in front of the house. There
setting seats, he invited his guest to smoke with him;
which Doctor Thomas very readily assented to; but pleading
the force of habit, took from his pocket a cigar. The
mountaineer admitted the validity of this excuse, lighting
his old pipe made of a corn-cob, with a stem of reed;
and so they sat in pleasant converse;—the hunter, with
a calm, quiet smile on his old rugged face, stroking from
time to time his favorite stag-hound lying at his feet—
the stranger with a thoughtful, musing manner, which
terminated many times in revery; but not a mournful
revery it was plain—rather well-pleased and hopeful.
His eyes were fixed admiringly on the broad belts of
pines, now in deep shadow, and the rosy flush slowly
dying away on the top of the mountain, when his host said
quietly, but much more gently than he had yet spoken.
“There is my daughter.”
At the same moment, a young girl came singing up the
knoll from the banks of the brook.
3. CHAPTER III.
INTRODUCES ANOTHER OF OUR HEROINES.
At sight of the young girl, one of the half dozen tall
stag-hounds rose from the grass, where he had been lying
with outstretched forelegs, and thoughtful eyes, and hastened—if
the word may be applied to movement so dignified
as his—toward her.
Sally Myers was not quite seventeen, but she was the
acknowledged beauty of the valley. Her pretty, round
face, was lit up with a merry smile, and her arms, entirely
bare almost from the shoulder, were models of beauty.
The stranger was much struck with her—he who had
seen so much female excellence—and he felt well satisfied
that the character which belonged to this smiling face,
could not be other than excellent. He did Miss Sally
Myers no more than justice. It was not her face alone
that overcame the hearts of all the young men of the
neighborhood; for that matter, she was not so beautiful
as some; but when her warm constant heart, and never-ceasing
cheerfulness and vivacity, were thrown into the
balance, the merits of any other young lady of the country
side, were as nothing. So thought the mountain
youths, at least.
Sally came up in company with the deer hound and
courtesied to the stranger. He had risen on her approach,
and now made a low and courtly inclination laying his
hand in foreign fashion on his heart. Sally laughed at
seemed to feel that his ceremonious bow was a little out
of place. So, resolving like a sensible man to retrieve
his error, he approached the girl smilingly and shook her
cordially by the hand.
“You were laughing at me, I perceive,” said he, “and
you were right.”
“I couldn't help it,” the young girl replied, coloring,
“excuse me, sir!”
The traveler laughed.
“Ah!” he said, “I have been far, and seen strange
people, and I have come back not much improved, I am
afraid. But may I ask what song you were singing?”
“`Flowers of the Forest,' sir.”
The stranger threw a piercing glance upon the girl,
and then stroking the large hound, who had by this time
become acquainted, and submitted very quietly to his
caresses:
“Do you like that song?” he said.
“Yes, sir—very much.”
“For whom do you sing it?”
The girl blushed and laughed.
“For any one,” she said.
“Please sing it for me, then,” he replied with a smile,
and offering her his seat.
But Sally had become very nervous under the stranger's
fixed, and penetrating look, and she felt wholly unable
to command her voice. She therefore murmured
an inaudible excuse, and ran rather than walked by the
stranger, into the house, and to her chamber.
The stranger took his seat again with a smile, muttering,
“Oh yes! he must have seen her, and if he has seen
her—”
He was interrupted by the mountaineer, who had followed
his daughter with his eyes, and now turned to him
happy and proud.
“There's the little witch,” he said, “you ought to
have heard her sing, sir.”
“I hope I shall yet have that pleasure.”
“You stay long in these parts, do you?”
“You know when you arrive—you know not when you
go.”
“Oh, you're at your proverb-sayings!”
“I mean that I may leave here in a few days, or stay
for years.”
“You! where are you bound, Doctor?”
“For Mrs. Courtlandt's—somewhere down the valley
here.”
“For where!” cried the mountaineer, starting and
turning full upon his guest.
4. CHAPTER IV.
HOW HUNTER JOHN'S RIFLE WAS BEWITCHED AND BY WHOM.
A long pause followed this expression of astonishment
on the part of the mountaineer. He seemed to doubt the
seriousness of his guest—he, apparently, could not believe
he was in earnest.
“Mrs. Courtlandt's!” said he.
“Certainly my friend!”
“Down the valley here?”
“Why, somewhere in the neighborhood. I can't say
precisely where.”
“And why are you going there, sir?” asked the old
hunter.
“I have business,” said the traveler with the air of a
man whose private affairs are invaded by idle curiosity.
The mountaineer shook his head.
“No good will come of it,” said he.
“How so?”
“Mrs. Courtlandt, sir, don't stand well in these parts;
and I'm free to say I don't like her myself, though her
brother is my good friend.”
“You! do you know her?”
“I've been to her house off and on these five years,
and I never missed seeing some deviltry there.”
The traveler bent a steady grave look upon his host.
“What do you mean by deviltry?” he said.
“She's good friends with one I won't name,” said the
there that oughtn't to be. Don't ask me about it.”
“And why don't you like her?”
The mountaineer with a great effort, replied shortly,
“She spelled my rifle!”
“What is `spelled?”'
“Bewitched some people call it.”
The traveler did not smile this time; but fixing himself
calmly in his seat, and quietly smoking:
“Tell me how that was, my friend,” said he.
“Well, that I'll do soon,” his host replied. “There's
a buck about here, in these mountains, half as big and
strong again as any deer they ever run in these parts.
We call him Old Satan; you see that name was given
him because the rifle ball has never touched him, or,”
and the hunter lowered his voice, “passed through him
and not given him any hurt. I don't believe that myself,
but old father Brant, one of the best beads in the hills
here, says it's so—and only the other day coming along
here, he told me he was done hunting the varmint. He
couldn't stand it.”
“Have you hunted him?”
“I'm going to tell you. Yes I have, and I'm most
nigh wearied out; I thought I had strong legs and pretty
good wind, but that buck has tired out me and Elkhorn
—knocked us both up.”
“Who is Elkhorn?”
“My horse.”
“Well about your rifle and the rest.”
“I'm coming to that. I hunted the buck I've been
telling you about till I was tired, and I had never yet
got a shot at him. I thought if I could draw a clear
bead on him he was gone. The other morning I passed
by Mrs. Courtlandt's early and was so thirsty that I nigh
gave up. I went in to get a drink, and she was up that
early, fixing some plants or other in a big book and writing
any liking for—strange outlandish jars and machines—
and I most repented coming. She gave me the water
very polite, and took my rifle to look at, and asked me
if I had killed the buck. I told her no, and then she
laughed, and begun turning something, and said she
would fix my gun so I couldn't miss. She made me rest
my right hand on the table, and touch my gun to the top
of a bottle. I did it! and I felt as if the lightning struck
me! I dropped the gun and stood there without knowing
where I was, and the first thing I knew I was in
the path outside, and she closed the door. All she said
to me was, laughing, `Go on, hunter John! go on, hunter
John!”'
The mountaineer put up his sleeve to wipe the perspiration
from his brow.
“And you think your gun was bewitched?”
“Sure as you're there,” he said in a low voice, “I have
had three shots at that buck, and I've missed him every
time. I had a clear bead and shot steady. It was no
use. The ball went crooked!”
The stranger mused.
“And you are still hunting that buck?”
“I'm going to hunt him till one of us is dead.”
“And you think I had better not go to Mrs. Courtlandt's
do you, my friend?”
“You know best.”
“I do; and I must go and see her: but I shall see you
all here again.”
“Why,” cried the mountaineer hospitably, “I just remember
now. Wife and Sally are going to have a merry-making
here to-morrow evening, and you must come.
Sally!” he called aloud.
“Here I am father,” the girl replied. She was at his
elbow and heard the conversation.
“Tell doctor—my poor old memory.”
“Doctor Thomas!” said the stranger, addressing his
reply to the young girl.
“Well, tell Doctor Thomas,” said the hunter to his
daughter, “that we'll be mighty glad to see him.”
“Indeed, I will, sir—we all will be mighty glad. It is
to-morrow evening about sundown.”
The traveler was about to repeat his low bow, when
remembering himself he said,
“I'll certainly be here, Miss Sally.”
“And now,” said hunter John, “to bed!”
5. CHAPTER V.
THE STRANGER AND SALLY BY THE BROOK SIDE.
The traveler was shown into one of the small upper
rooms of the hunter's dwelling, where he found a comfortable
and very clean bed prepared for him. Without
delay he threw off his clothes and soon forgot in deep
slumber the fatigue and the incidents of the day.
He was aroused at a very early hour by the barking of
dogs and the winding of a horn, under the little window
of his chamber. Then the hoofstrokes of a horse were
heard; and finally the notes of the horn and the yelping
of the dogs, receded from him and died away gradually
in the distance. He rose, and looking through the window
saw the tall form of hunter John, mounted on his
enormous steed, and followed by his dogs, disappearing
among the pines of the mountain side. He was going to
hunt his buck.
The traveler dressed and descended. At the foot of
the stairs he met his hostess who gave him a fair good-morning,
and busily set about preparing breakfast, in
which she was assisted by a small negro girl. Her guest
strolled down toward the brook.
He was standing on its bank and admiring the fresh
morning light scattered upon the waves, the mountain
pines, and the green-topped knolls of the glen, when all
at once he perceived the daughter of his host beneath him
in a little green nook which a large mossy rock separated
on a part of this rock which projected over the stream,
and with bare feet, was playing with the water, and apparently
lost in thought. Beside her lay two small shoes
and a pair of stockings which she had, it seemed, just removed
from her feet.
The traveler walking on the soft moss approached her
silently and touched her shoulder. The girl started up,
coloring and hiding her feet.
“My goodness, sir! how you frightened me!” she said.
“I am not such an awful personage am I?” he asked,
smiling.
“No, sir,” the girl replied with a laugh, while she
busied herself—turned away from the stranger—in putting
on her shoes and stockings, “but you came so sudden.”
“You were washing your feet, were you?”
She looked down.
“I'm sorry I disturbed you in such a praiseworthy employment.”
“Oh, it's no matter,” she replied pouting, “I wasn't
washing my feet. I just came down here.”
“Come now we won't quarrel, Miss Sally,” said the
stranger dropping his sarcastic tone, “I was only joking,
and you'll find I never mean any thing, as I shall, I hope,
see you often.”
“Are you coming to our frolic, sir?”
“Oh, yes.”
“It is this evening, remember.”
“How can I forget it—but excuse me, I am again at
my foolish ceremony. Come, let us go back to breakfast.
Will you take my arm—or here is my hand.”
The young girl took the proffered arm, and they returned
toward the house.
“It is a beautiful morning,” the stranger said, “those
tall pines in the bright sun are grander than any thing
Only one thing is needed, Miss Sally—a song.”
“Well, sir,” said the girl, who had by this time become
more familiar with her father's guest, and less embarrassed
in his presence, “I will sing for you, if I can. What do
you like?”
“Do you sing Scottish songs? I prefer them to all
others.”
“And so do I, sir. Oh, they are so sweet!”
“Sing me `Auld Robin Gray.”'
“I'll try, sir; that is one of my favorites,” said Sally;
and in a clear, birdlike voice, she went through the ballad.
“An excellent soprano,” muttered the stranger to himself,
with a smile, “he's gone beyond hope. Very well.”
“What did you say?”
“This is such a beautiful song.”
“Very, sir.”
“And it is so true. Now tell me,” he said, laughing,
“would you like to marry an Auld Robin of that sort?”
“No, never,” said Sally Myers, with uncommon emphasis,
“I'd never marry such a person, as long as I
lived!”
The stranger laughed.
“And pray, what sort of a person would you marry?”
he said.
“That is my business,” she replied, coloring and laughing,
with a bright glance at the stranger.
“What do you think of light hair and beard?”
“I prefer dark hair, sir.”
The stranger laughed so heartily at this, that he could
not for several minutes command his voice.
“No personal reflections, I hope, Miss Sally,” he said;
“now my hair and beard are light!”
In this strain they ran on in merry talk, until they
reached the house—Sally's natural gayety and ease having
effect of the stranger's hearty and good-humored manner.
They found breakfast nearly ready, and the table being
set in a trice by the girl, who blamed herself for idling
at the brook—“though he had made her stay,” she said,
laughing, and pointing to the stranger—they soon sat
down to an excellent and plentiful meal.
Half an hour afterward, Doctor Thomas was again
mounted, and on his way down the valley. He would certainly
return to the merry-making that evening, he said.
6. CHAPTER VI.
SHE WAS A WITCH!
The traveler continued his way down the valley, along
the banks of the brook, in a very cheerful and contented
mood. He seemed to be much amused at something, and
at times a gay laugh would escape from his lips; or muttering
“parbleu!” or “ma foi,” he would give his splendid
sorel the rein, and scour along in pure merriment of
heart.
The beautiful morning, it is true, was partly the cause
of this singular conduct on the part of Doctor Thomas.
There is nothing so inspiriting, as a ride on a magnificent
morning in October, just after a comfortable breakfast,
and through a fair land—such as our traveler was traversing.
The Virginia mountains are at all times beautiful
and commanding, but their attractions are greatly enhanced
by the “fall days.”
The sun, by this time, had climbed above the heights
of the “Third Hill,” and was flooding the whole valley,
with fair bright light, and laughing in the waves of the
little streamlet, and scattering his fire-tipped arrows into
the obscurest depths of the old, close-set pines, which
clothed the “Sleepy Creek” mountain side, until every
mossy rock, and fallen trunk was visible. Moreover, it
flashed from the myriad colors of the autumn leaves—the
purple of the maple, the yellow of the little alder-tree,
and the crimson berries of the dogwood. These beautiful
mountain dwellers seemed to rejoice in the warm, pure
children, scattered behind them a rustling mirth
and laughter.
Half an hour's ride brought the stranger in sight of a
small dwelling, situated on the western slope of the valley,
and surrounded with dark-waving, slender-trunked pines.
The roof was thatched, and many little ornaments about
the gate, and door step, and windows seemed to denote
that it was the residence of a female.
The stranger hastened on joyfully, and throwing himself
from his horse, which he secured to a bough, ran to
the door, and knocked. It was opened by a tall, elderly
female, of refined appearance, and with a very calm manner.
She was clad, however, in a very singular dress.
She wore a man's collar secured by a black cravat, something
enveloped her figure from the waist up, not unlike
an ordinary boy's roundabout, and her feet—coming
out plainly from her short skirt—were cased in elegant
moccasins of deer-skin, ornamented with beads, and fringe.
Behind this singular figure, a table was visible, on
which a host of jars and retorts, and small machines were
heaped, and the air of the room was very strongly perfumed
with sulphur. The stranger saw all this at a
glance, and smelling the sulphur, thought of hunter John
and his superstition. But he had no time for further
thought; the elderly female looked at him a moment
with great astonishment apparently, then seemed to
struggle with her recollections, then—when the stranger's
face assumed its ordinary pleasant smile—came
forward and fell upon his neck, crying and smiling
through her tears.
“Welcome, welcome,” said she, “I got your letter and
have waited long for you. Come in.”
And kissing the stranger affectionately, with tears of
joy in her eyes, she drew him into her dwelling. The
door closed behind them.
7. CHAPTER VII.
MERRY-MAKING IN THE MOUNTAINS.
Punctual to the time mentioned by his host, Doctor
Thomas as we shall in future call him, arrived at the
abode of the hunter.
A large crowd had already assembled—or we should
rather say a goodly number of the valley dwellers. In
our day a “large crowd” at a festival of any sort suggests
several hundred persons; and there were scarcely several
dozen here. Doctor Thomas entered and was soon on
good terms with every one; for faithful to his promise to
Sally he had abandoned entirely his “set up” air as she
called it to herself, and was a very model of good-humored
frankness and ease. The supper was to come after
the dancing and other amusement, and just as the Doctor
entered, they had commenced a Virginia reel.
The fiddler—high perched above the guests upon a
lofty eminence provided for the purpose—struck up inspiringly
a gay heart-enlivening strain; the rude, but
frank and pleasant looking mountain “boys and girls”
commenced flying through the dance, and a buzz of voices,
at times almost a shout, rose to the ceiling, and scattering
itself through the windows, died away in the pine trees
of the mountain side. All was merriment and laughter,
joy and uproar. Then commenced a jig. It is possible
our readers are not familiar with the nature of this
ancient pastime. It was danced in this manner. Two
persons male and female entered the circle cleared as for
a slow and measured movement which they accompanied
with many bows, smiles, and complimentary
words. The gentleman's duty was to compliment in
every possible manner the execution of his companion—
if any portion of her toilet became disordered, or awry, to
politely inform her of that fact, and during all these
ceremonious observances never for a moment to cease
keeping perfect time to the music, whose duty was to
gradually grow more rapid, until one of the dancers unable
to keep up with it or overcome by fatigue acknowledged
him or herself vanquished.
Doctor Thomas was looking at the dancers with great
interest, and at times laughing heartily at their odd
movements, when his host came up to him.
“Well here you are,” said hunter John with his placid
smile, “how did you spend the day—whereabouts I
mean?”
“Why, at Mrs. Courtlandt's.”
“Really now?”
“Really, my friend; I did not find her the terrible personage
you made her out. You must know I have come
here to look about me; who knows but I may settle.”
The hunter shook his head.
“Did you see nothing strange?” he asked.
“Why yes—some singular things, I confess.”
“And what did she say to you?”
“There you are too much for me. I believe she observed
that it was a fine day.”
“I see that you don't mean to let out on the matter—
and you may be right. It's none of my business. But
I went again to-day and missed that buck.”
“You were away I know when I left here this morning.”
“I was after him, and chased the buck from one end
of the mountain to t'other, but it was no use. I'll die
hunting that buck.”
At this moment a noise at the door attracted every
body's attention and turning round, Doctor Thomas saw
descending from a small carry-all a party of guests who
had just arrived. The hunter went to welcome them,
and the Doctor's eyes were immediately riveted upon
them as they entered and received the merry greeting.
The party was composed of an old fine-looking German
—father Von Horn he was called by every one—a beautiful
woman of twenty-one or two, and a young man of
nineteen with long dark hair, and dressed in the usual
garb of mountain hunters, as indeed were almost all the
male guests of the company.
A few minutes afterward the signal for supper was
given, and the crowd flocked into the adjoining room.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE DOCTOR OVERHEARS A PRIVATE CONVERSATION.
The large table was spread with every variety of eatables,
and the repast seemed to be a general commingling
of breakfast, dinner and supper. Meats of every sort—
venison, bear, ham, fowls, vegetables as for a dinner, coffee,
Jamaica rum, great flagons of thick creamy milk—these
were the components of the profuse mountain supper.
Every one hastened to help himself and his partner,
and it was refreshing to see with what gusto the young
damsels applied themselves to the rich ham and venison,
and how little “shamefacedness” they exhibited at eating
before their sweethearts. The supper was a merry one
—and as the old fiddler on his perch in the next room
had been plentifully supplied the first thing, and his
heart enlivened with a huge cup of rum, music was not
wanting to add to the universal mirth.
Two persons formed the only exceptions to the general
merriment—they alone did not add to the terrible uproar
by the sound of their voices. These persons were Sally
Myers—who was clad in a pretty white dress which set
off charmingly the fresh happy beauty of her face—and
the young man who had entered with father Von Horn.
They were whispering.
“I have not seen you for so long—nearly three days,”
said the girl.
The young man replied to this tender reproach more
by his look than his words. But, speaking in the same
tone:
“I have been kept away, darling,” he said.
“By what, Barry?”
“Oh, I could not tell you all now,” he replied with a
long happy look, “but if you could walk out to-morrow
morning—”
“Oh yes, I could.”
“Say to the Moss Rock on the Sleepy Mountain,” said
the young man.
“Indeed, I will, dear Barry.”
“At sunrise then, dear.”
“And at the Moss Rock.”
“Yes.”
It was plain that the conversation was becoming very
stupid, but the lovers made up for this by their looks.
“You didn't know I am at the branch now nearly
every morning did you, Barry—early I mean.”
“Down at the branch?”
“Yes. I go down there very often—nearly every day:
the place is so pretty, and I think of you, you know.”
“Of me, dear?”
“Yes, and I am very happy; I was down there this
morning, and what do you think happened to me?”
“Happened to you?”
“Just as I had my feet in the cool water with my
shoes off, down came Doctor Thomas, the gentleman who
came yesterday—”
“And frightened you nearly to death; eh, Miss Sally!”
said the voice of the doctor behind the lovers.
The girl started, and the young man turned round, with
a face flushed and a little angry.
“I did not know you were so near, sir,” said Barry,
coldly.
“Oh, my friend it is my place; I am a doctor. Now
you know the French proverb—or rather you probably
don't know it, so I say nothing more.”
The young man seemed both angry and embarrassed.
and turning to Sally:
“You returned me good for evil, however,” he said,
“how sweetly you do sing, and how soon you sang at
my solicitation.”
Sally pouted and looked annoyed; the young man
angry. But at that moment one of the young girls ran
up and catching the doctor by the arm cried to him:
“Oh sir, come if you please! Nina Lyttelton says she
has half cut her hand off and won't have any one but
you to fix it.”
Doctor Thomas chuckled to himself, and with a low
bow turned to follow his conductress. At the other end
of the room the lady with the cut hand was seated on a
wicker bench calling for the doctor, and wringing her
pretty hand.
“I am here, madam,” said the doctor, with a low bow;
and he smiled.
9. CHAPTER IX.
THE DOCTOR COMMENCES A MILD FLIRTATION.
The hand was not badly cut, but it was a very pretty
hand, and the arm attached to it quite as beautiful. It
was not long before the fair lady was once more smiling.
“Are these cuts ever dangerous, doctor,” asked Mrs.
Nina Lyttelton with a languid smile.
“Not very, madam. We doctors are very unwilling to
confess that any thing is dangerous. That would imply
that there was a possibility of losing our patients—which
we never admit until they are so unfortunate as to die.”
Mrs. Lyttelton laughed.
“And you cure every hurt, do you?”
“All but heart wounds, madam,” the doctor replied
with a bow to the fair widow.
“Those you can not cure?”
“Wholly unsuccessful, madam. I have seen many
scales of physicians' fees—but never such a clause as:
`To curing one young person crossed in love,' so much.
No, that is beyond our skill.”
“Heigho!” sighed Mrs. Lyttelton, “I believe it is
true, nothing can cure some things.”
“A profound remark,” said the doctor laughing.
“As long as the heart is not touched—in both senses
doctor—the patient may recover.”
“The inmost heart—yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that often grief is a fancy—sorrow a chimera.”
Mrs. Lyttelton became unaffectedly grave. She had
just thought of her husband who had died about two
years before. But the light and merry nature of her
character soon banished this fleeting regret, and she
tnrned again to the smiling cavalier before her.
“But do you not believe that persons often die of love
—when they are crossed?”
“I do, I confess, madam—though I have heard it
asserted that such a thing is folly—mere imagination.”
“And what medicine do you administer to such people?
You may not be able to cure, but you attempt the cure,
do you not?”
“Why yes, madam.”
“Well suppose Mr. — or Mr. — in Martinsburg
were to complain to you of melancholy, loss of appetite,
depression, and utter dislike of every thing around
them—”
“I would ask the origin of all this.”
“Well suppose they assured you that the cruelty of
some young girl had plunged them into this state of
mind; what would you prescribe?”
“I should prescribe a visit to Meadow Branch Valley,
madam, and the acquaintance of Mrs. Lyttelton,” replied
Doctor Thomas with a smile and a low bow.
“You are very gallant, doctor!” said his companion,
laughing.
10. CHAPTER X.
A CHALLENGE PASSES.
After supper the company again returned to the
dancing-room, and again betook themselves to the merry
reel, and wearying jig with new ardor. Sally Myers and
her friend Barry were still talking, though now more
reservedly since the doctor had surprised them; and
seemed disposed to withdraw themselves as much as possible
from the gay crowd.
Doctor Thomas soon surrendered Mrs. Lyttelton to
some one else, and approaching a number of young men
who were assembled at the door, he listened with much
inward mirth to their critical comments on the figures,
dress, and general appearance of the young gentlemen
and ladies then engaged in dancing. Still the doctor's
eye dwelt with profound interest through all, upon the
young man Barry, who was talking with Sally Myers in
a corner a few feet off. The smile would at times disappear
from the stranger's face, and a look of love and
tenderness impossible to describe, light up his countenance
and soften every feature; then he would mutter to
himself, and his old sarcastic smile would return.
The young men after praising or abusing all the young
girls of the company, came to Sally herself who was declared
by universal acclamation, the beauty and darling
of the mountains; now by “darling” much more was
expressed than by the former word. Beauty was a good
thing, and the “beauty” was naturally a much-desired
personage by all, for dancing, berry-hunting, and riding;
the dear of every body, and privileged to drive every one
to distraction. When Sally was therefore called the
“darling” of the valley, a very high compliment was
intended to be paid her.
We were wrong in saying that she was universally
praised. One young man said that she was “the silliest
looking girl he had ever seen,” a “mere child” and “not
worth making a fuss about.” The stranger saw Barry's
head turn like lightning, and his large brilliant eye
directed its glance toward the group of men. Five minutes
afterward he had left the girl, and was at the young
man's side.
“You were not abusing Sally Myers, gentlemen,” he
said calmly, “I hope I did not hear right just now; but
I thought some one spoke of her as `silly' and `childish.”'
There was nothing threatening in this address—no
anger in the young man's face; and the person who had
uttered the words in question hesitated for a moment;
had Barry spoken threateningly he would have gloried in
repeating them.
In the midst of the pause Doctor Thomas' voice was
heard:
“You address all here I believe, sir,” said he, “and as
that is the case, I reply for myself.”
“Well, sir,” said Barry, his face flushing.
“Not knowing whether you mean or do not mean to
insult me equally with the rest, I would say—”
“You may understand my words as you fancy, sir,”
said the young man with flashing eyes, and lowering his
voice.
The doctor smiled.
“Then of course there is no insult, sir,” he replied;
and turning round he commenced an indifferent conversation
with one of the guests.
Barry went out to cool his flushed forehead, and to
the face of the young girl. While thus sunk in thought
he felt a hand upon his shoulder. He turned and saw
Doctor Thomas.
“You insulted me just now, sir,” said that gentleman,
“and if I did not resent it then, I have not forgotten it.”
Barry's face flushed then turned pale.
“Did you dare to say that Sally Myers was silly or
childish?”
As he spoke the young man advanced a step, his form
trembling with passion.
“One moment, sir,” said the doctor, calmly; “I am a
professional man, and I do not wish to fight on small
provocation. Your insult to me, your tone of voice, all,
was much more serious than any criticism of a young
girl could—”
“I ask you if you said it?”
“Suppose I did.”
“Then one of us shall leave this place forever.”
“You are determined then to fight me, are you, sir?”
said Doctor Thomas.
“Yes, I will fight you in any way!”
“Be cool! this red-hot way of talking answers no purpose.
Well, you have insulted me or I have insulted you
—no matter which. We'll fight. What weapons?”
The young man, with flashing eyes and passionate
voice, replied to the doctor's cool words, with a single
word—“Any!”
“Pistols then. I brought a pair with me, luckily.”
“You thought it probable you would be called on to
insult a young girl, I suppose?” said Barry with a sneer.
The doctor muttered something to himself, and looked
admiringly at the young man.
“No,” he said, “I did not. But we are losing time:
the place is the next thing.”
“Any where!” said Barry.
“Well, say to-morrow morning then, about sunrise, at
the `Moss Rock,' on the side of the Sleepy Creek Mountain—eh?”
“Or, here and now!” said the young man, grinding his
teeth; “you spy and eaves-drop very well for a professional
gentleman, sir!”
The doctor winced, and a slight smile flitted across his
countenance.
“It is true I heard your appointment with your sweetheart,”
said he, “but I assure you it was unintentional,
sir—wholly.”
“Assure me on your word of honor, sir,” said the
young man, “and perhaps I shall believe you!”
“The devil take him,” muttered the doctor, laughing,
to himself. Then he said to his companion:
“We lose time in all these recriminations, sir, and
should be arranging our affair. I am a good shot, and
shall kill you, I know—let it be at an early day.”
“I shall consider my life well lost, sir,” said the young
man coldly—and suddenly recollecting how useless his
anger was—“well lost, if lost defending a young girl
from insult.”
The doctor seemed to be carried away by admiration
of this sentiment, and was about to hold out his hand,
when he suddenly recollected himself.
“Well, sir,” he said, “we will arrange this matter
satisfactorily within the next few days. These affairs
will always keep; though I remember at Paris—but we
are in Virginia, a much better place, by-the-by. We will
defer, if you please, our arrangements. But remember, I
am the challenged party, and have the choice of weapons.”
Then politely saluting his companion, who scarcely
deigned to move his head in return for the profound
congé of his adversary, the doctor took his way again toward
the house.
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE DOCTOR MEDITATES BY MOONLIGHT.
It was nearly midnight when father Von Horn, that
worthy and much-beloved German patriarch gave the
signal for separating. He rose and called to him his
daughter Nina, and Barry. But it was some time before
Barry could be found, inasmuch as he and Sally Myers
had stolen away from the company (now uproarious and
extravagant with their blindman's buff, and boot-binding
and other rough games), and in the quiet moonlight were
gazing into each other's eyes and talking the usual nonsense
of lovers alone and by moonlight.
The company we said was uproarious; some of the
young men, it must be confessed, had paid too exclusive
devotion to the great bowl of punch which, with arms
akimbo and smiling countenance, stood ready to welcome
all comers on a side table. The consequence of this indiscretion
was deplorable. Many maidens on that night
quarreled with their sweethearts for their want of attention,
and many more declared that this was the last party
they would ever attend riding behind their chosen cavaliers.
It was afterward, however, observed that these
complaints ended in nothing, and that the next party was
as well attended, and in the same fashion as this one at
Hunter John's; and this leads us irresistibly to the conclusion
that beaux are indispensably necessary to young
ladies every where; and that young ladies, where a merrymaking
forgiveness.
It was a gay scene—the parting of the company; and
only the pencil of some artist-humorist could convey an
adequate idea of the strange mountain vehicles which
drew up to the door to receive their guests. The young
ladies experienced much difficulty in mounting gracefully
behind their swains—the moonlight being so very clear,
and ankles cased in white stockings so painfully visible:
but at last the guests were all mounted, or snugly ensconced
in their carryalls and light wagons, and began to
take their departure with many good-by's and many parting
words. Old father Von Horn lingered last—that
worthy father Von Horn who, shaking his broad chest
with internal laughter waited patiently for Barry, and
would not see or laugh at Sally's blushes, when coming
in with the young man she found the old man and Nina
waiting for him!
Doctor Thomas had made himself very officious in
assisting the young ladies to their seats behind their
cavaliers—and we are bound as faithful historians, to say
that he was much more ready and polite when young and
pretty girls needed his services. His officiousness was
not, however, by any means disagreeable to the damsels
who had to endure it. There was much grace, and unbounded
politeness in the doctor's manner and tone; and
the young ladies in question had rather neglected their
ordinary beaux throughout the evening for the handsome
stranger. More than one small hand grasped his own
with friendly warmth; and more than one voice at parting
emphasized the first syllable of “good-by” at parting.
These the sarcastic stranger greeted with a suppressed
chuckle as they disappeared. He found at last that no
lady but Mrs. Nina Lyttelton remained, and he assisted
her to her vehicle, or rather her father's with extraordinary
attention; the reward for which was an urgent invitation
mountains came together.” The doctor bowed and promised.
As he turned, his quick eye pierced the deep
shadow of the doorway, and he saw Barry and the young
girl exchange a tender kiss.
“Where's Barry?” cried father Von Horn, shaking
with merriment.
“Here, Uncle,” said the young man; and bidding his
host and hostess good-by, he took his place beside Nina.
The carryall then rolled off; and Doctor Thomas going to
the chestnut to which he had tied his horse, mounted and
riding up to the door, also took his leave. He was going
back, he said, to Mrs. Courtlandt's; she had promised him
a lodging for a few days, and he had found it always the
best policy not to disappoint the ladies. With this gallant
speech, and a friendly bow to his entertainers, he
took his departure.
Pursuing the road running along the bank of the brook,
the stranger gave himself up to merry thoughts—to judge
from his amused smile. The night invited him to meditation.
Nothing stirred the calm hour but the hoof-strokes
of his horse, the bubbling of the streamlet, and the far
away dying shouts of the merrily-galloping revelers scattering
to their homes. The Doctor mused.
“A fine evening I have had,” he said half aloud, “and
a pretty place I am now going to—the house of a witch.
I rather like that Mrs. Lyttelton. `Like her?' I think I
shall fall in love with her—yes, I am determined to do so
on the first favorable opportunity. What a charming
child is Sally—never have I seen so much beauty of character
united to so much grace; she'll make a good wife.
And that handsome Barry! A perfect hero, and would
have eaten me whole at a word; I'm glad I tried him. It
was a sudden thought. And now, Doctor Thomas, you
have a bloody duel on your hands—you have lost none of
your folly; you are now at twenty-five—more or less—
rest till you had got a duel on your hands;” the stranger
chuckled, “yes, an awful encounter, for there's no `back
out' in Barry—my young hero!”
And giving rein to his horse the stranger went along
rapidly; weary of his musings, it seemed, and desirous
only of a good bed to rest in after the long evening and
the trying exercise of the reels he had gone through.
12. CHAPTER XII.
A RIFLE-SHOT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
At eight o'clock in the morning, the stranger was
aroused and informed that his professional services were
needed, and urgently. He dressed, and in a few moments
issued forth: at the door was hunter John Myers,
mounted on his large sable steed; but none would have
recognized him for the merry, hearty-voiced host of the
preceding evening. He was pale, his form drooped toward
the neck of his horse, and his eyes were red with
dried-up tears.
“Doctor!” he said in a trembling voice, “will you
come and see my Sally? She's dying!”
Doctor Thomas sprang toward the hunter so suddenly
that the large black horse, who was covered with sweat,
and foaming at the mouth, threw up his head and half
reared back from the gateway.
“What say you!” he cried, “dying!”
“Come on, doctor!” the hunter said, “I'll tell you as
we go along. Where's your horse?”
Doctor Thomas ran to the place where his horse was
installed, and in five minutes had saddled him and was
mounted. He joined the mountaineer, and they both put
spurs to their steeds and took the road to the hunter's
dwelling.
“Now, my friend,” said Doctor Thomas, “I see you
are much agitated, and some accident must have happened
to your daughter. But remember that she is such
a favorite with you—as is natural and proper—that you
Much more probable is it, that you overrate the
danger. Come, tell me all.”
“That I'll do in short words. I went out this morning
as usual to hunt that buck I've been telling you of, often
and over, and I got on his track. I thought this time
I'd run him down, and I believe I became sort o' deranged
about him; my head seemed to be turning round,
I didn't know how to hunt, and I hallooed on the dogs
as if the devil was being run down and done for. Don't
think I had been drinking and my brain wasn't clear.
No, it wasn't that. Besides that, I'm powerful strong in
the head, and God has given me the strength to drink as
much as three of most men—I don't feel it. Well, it
wasn't liquor, but I was sort o' cracked—I didn't know
what I was about, and my head didn't feel right. I
thought that devil of a varmint was laughing at me—it
was the wind, I reckon—and Belt, my crack dog, seemed
to be crying as if something hurt him.”
The doctor shook his head.
“Too much cerebral excitement lately, my friend; this
deer will be your death yet, if you are not more careful.
But continue: you had vertigo. Well.”
“Well, I reckon I had something of that sort, and I
followed that buck four mortal hours from one end of the
mountain side to t'other; then he crossed over toward
Sleepy Creek: then he doubled back toward my house
and took down the mountain nigh a place called `Moss
Rock'—a big rock with a tall pine tree growing out of it.
Then I thought I had him, and I got crazy! I pushed
Elkhorn down the mountain path as if it was this level
road we are galloping on! I passed somebody, but I
didn't know him; it was Barry I thought; my head this
time was turning round! for I saw something white-like
about two or three hundred yards before me! and thought
it was the buck—and—”
“Unhappy man! you have killed your daughter!”
cried the doctor, with pale face and trembling lips.
“Oh, my Sally! oh, my heart's dear! oh, my baby!”
groaned the hunter, almost reeling in his seat. The doctor
thought he was going to faint, and still galloping
caught him by the arm. He shrunk at the hand laid on
him; but putting it aside, said more calmly,
“No, doctor, I'm not sick—my head's pretty clear
now. Come, we must get on!”
The horses thundered along; and mouth to mouth,
devoured the space as if the excitement of their riders
possessed them also, and they felt and comprehended the
danger of the valley's “darling.”
At this rate they soon arrived at the hunter's; and the
doctor immediately hastened to Sally's chamber. The
old dame was sitting at her daughter's bedside, vainly
trying to suppress her tears—and as the doctor passed
into the little room, which as we have already informed
the reader, lay immediately behind the main apartment,
he observed Barry leaning with his head on the windowsill,
his face in his hands.
Sally was lying very easily, and seemed to suffer little
pain. A moment's examination showed the doctor that
the rifle ball had not inflicted a mortal wound, having
only lodged in the shoulder, and this comfortable intelligence
he communicated to the family. He then removed
the coarse wrapping, dressed the wound, having of course
extracted the bullet first, and bandaging the fair shoulder
with softer stuff, administered a slight opiate, and left
the young girl in a quiet slumber.
“And now, my friend,” said the doctor with a smile,
“as Miss Sally is comfortably asleep, will you let me have
some breakfast? I am somewhat hungry, inasmuch as I
have ridden well this morning.”
The doctor was made comfortable with that rapidity
and deference which for some reason, is always the lot of
satisfied. The hunter and his guest then sat down outside
the door, whither they were followed by Barry, who
silently returned the doctor's bow.
“I broke off when I was telling you about it, doctor,”
said Hunter John, “but I hadn't much more to say.
My head was all running round, and I don't know how I
sighted my gun but I shot; and then I found I had
struck down my child, my darling!”
And bending down, the hunter let fall two large tears.
“Barry was there and helped me, or I would have gone
mad straight off. Oh, how could I keep my head at seeing
my baby there weltering in her blood, and all dabbled
over with it—her neck and all! Doctor, I ain't much in
this world, and I don't know much besides bringing down
game, but for all that I don't believe that child could love
me better if I was the highest in the land! My little flower
that I went and cut down—my pretty little flower!”
And burying his face in his hands, the mountaineer
bent to his knee with deep sobs and sighs. Barry, with
folded arms and eyes swollen with grief, leaned against a
tree.
“Come, come, sir!” said the doctor, “this is unreasonable.
You certainly did not mean to strike your daughter
with the ball from your rifle. It was aimed at what
you thought was a deer; plainly the fault of the retina,
not yours. Miss Sally is not very dangerously wounded,
and all that will result from this, will be a fever and some
weeks' confinement. At the end of that time my friend,
she will be well—perfectly.”
And as if without intending it, he glanced at Barry.
His head was turned away and he was weeping; the
good news was too much for his weakened nerves.
“May the Lord grant it,” said the mountaineer;
“Hunter John couldn't stand the loss of his baby long.
He would go after her.”
“Don't be uneasy,” said the doctor, “I shall come
here every day to see her, and a month will entirely cure
her. Still you would do well to send to Martinsburg for
Dr. Harrison or some one. You know nothing of me.”
“Yes I do, doctor; I looked at you when you were
fixing the wrappings and taking out that ball from my
pretty baby's shoulder, and I knew from the way you did
it that you ain't an every-day doctor.”
The stranger smiled: he appreciated the compliment.
“I studied in Europe,” he replied, “and I learned there
what few learn in this country—that handling the patient
is much. It's best to be easy and quick. They are far
beyond us, over the water.”
“To tell you the truth, that's why I like you,” said the
hunter, “you fixed that shoulder like she was your own
baby; and if you cure her, there'll never be a friend
who'll go further or do more for you than John Myers.”
“Good! I think she'll get well herself, however, my
friend.”
“I begin to think so too.”
“I have had worse wounds to dress than that—and
there is no fracture—”
“Fractures you're talking of,” said the hunter, “well,
I just bethought me; will you look at my arm? It's
hurt me all along, but I hadn't time to 'tend to it.”
“What's the matter?”
“I haven't looked, but it hurt me dreadful when you
caught hold of me in the road.”
The doctor examined and found that Hunter John's
arm was badly fractured. He had rolled under his horse
on seeing his daughter fall, and Elkhorn had struck the
arm with one of his heavy hoofs, and broken it. Worthy
hunter! “he had not had time to attend to it.”
13. CHAPTER XIII.
NINA AND THE DOCTOR.
A week or two glided quietly away, and the doctor
every day called to see his patient. A mild fever, not
dangerous, succeeded the young girl's accident, and in
her feverish sleep she would mutter and murmur words
which showed plainly whither her thoughts were wandering.
At such times, the doctor would ask leave to sit and
watch her alone, and thus he was the only confidant, so
to speak, of those unconscious revelations.
Sally would often close her eyes and seem to sleep
while her mind was perfectly active; and at such times
she would murmur, “Yes, Barry—you know you love
me as well as I love you—and that's oh, so much! It is
a lovely morning, and see how the stream goes by laughing!
Are you happy, Barry? I love so to see the trees
and rocks, and the moss—you are here with me, and that
makes me love them more—let me lean my head on your
shoulder. You shall fix my hair! See how tangled it
is! I wouldn't let any body else fix my hair—but you
shall, Barry dear! Oh me! I thought I saw that deer
father hunts so often! I don't like that deer—he'll bring
me bad luck. See how the sun shines on the mountain—
if we had a little cottage up near the Moss Rock, just
under the tall pine, we could live so happy! We would
run over the meadow down to the brook, and gather the
flowers that grow all about, every day—you know how
pretty they are—the violets and primroses and buttercups.
any body but each other. Oh! we'd be so happy, dear!”
At such times, the doctor would shrug his shoulders
with a slight inward laugh, and gently smooth the child's
pillow. And she would open her eyes and smile.
One day Mrs. Nina Lyttelton came over to see Sally,
as great numbers of her friends had done, on hearing of
the sad accident. The doctor was there, and when she
came out of the chamber met her.
“A fine day we have, madam!” he said, bowing and
offering his hand. Nina shook hands.
“Beautiful, doctor,” she said, “and I only wish dear
Sally was well to enjoy it.”
“Oh, don't fear. Another fortnight will complete her
cure; she is already convalescent, and if you would tell
Barry to come and comfort her—”
They exchanged a smile.
“You wicked doctors!” said the lady, “you suffer nothing
to escape you! Now, how did you know that Sally
was his sweetheart?”
Doctor Thomas shrugged his shoulders.
“We all unconsciously obey the gospel precept, madam,”
said he. “`He that hath ears let him hear,' is the
only command of the Bible universally obeyed, I believe;
well I have heard.”
“I understand you.”
“She was feverish—I would not mention it, as we of
the profession have no right to speak of such matters, but
you certainly know these children love each other.”
“Oh, yes; it's the talk of the whole valley. Such
children to love!”
The doctor laughed.
“You believe then that the heart must mature before
this is possible.”
“Women love more ardently than girls—do they not,
doctor? what is the result of your experience?”
“My experience, fair lady? I have none. I have
never been in love.”
“You! at your age!”
“What do you estimate my age at?”
“Why, twenty-five or six.”
“You have guessed nearly correctly—I could never
speak as certainly of yours.”
“And what do you think my age is?” asked Nina,
laughing.
“Eighteen, madam—nineteen at most. It is the most
attractive of all ages,” said the doctor with a bow.
“I suppose next you'll say I am the most attractive of
all your acquaintances!”
The doctor was plainly taken aback.
“You are called beautiful,” he said.
“Ah, doctor, what if we are so called by indifferent,
careless people. None here appreciate me.” And the
lady sighed.
“Pardon me, madam—there is one who does.” And
the doctor laid his hand upon his heart, with a look of
admiration too profound not to be somewhat affected.
“Flatterer!”
“I never flatter, madam.”
“And you think me beautiful?”
Doctor Thomas had found more than his match; that
was plain.
“Beautiful, madam?” he said, “I find in you that
rare and excellent combination of qualities which I have
never met with save in a friend of my youth. She was
a paragon of all excellence.”
Nina laughed.
“I am very glad so gallant a man as Doctor Thomas
has visited us,” said she.
“And I that so charming a lady as Mrs. Lyttelton has
met me.”
“Such persons then, doctor—”
“So mutually suited—”
“So congenial in their tastes—”
“Should be—”
“Friends at least, doctor!”
“More than friends, I hope, madam!”
And after this mischievous and significant colloquy,
the lady and gentleman bowing profoundly, separated,
merrily laughing.
The doctor chuckled to himself throughout the whole
day.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
BARRY GOES A-COURTING.
Doctor Thomas was not deceived: an in fifteen days
from that time Sally was out of bed, and could even in
the pleasant October noontide stroll down to the brook.
There seated on her favorite moss-clad rock, she would
muse for hours very happily, or, better still, spend the
morning in pleasant talk with Barry, who came over now
almost every day.
One day, the conversation led to a subject which somewhat
agitated the young girl:—their marriage. They had
settled all this with the usual dispatch of lovers, and now
Barry was anxious to go and get her father's and mother's
consent, and be comfortably fixed before Christmas. Sally
after much blushing and hesitation consented to this; and
Barry that very evening introduced the subject to the
hunter, while they were sitting alone after supper. He
shook his head.
“There's only one thing, Barry,” he said, “which puts
it entirely out. I've gone and made a vow that Sally
shan't be married till she can wear a silk bought with the
carcass of that cursed varmint I've been hunting. I'll
never enjoy a happy minute till I circumvent that Satan
—and before Sally can stand up with you I must bring
him down.”
Barry was far from being cast down by this strange
resolution of the hunter.
“Well then, father John,” he said, using the word
and affection, “well, so be it. Still I hope that Sally
will be able to marry me before Christmas.”
The hunter shook his head. Was he jealous of this
young man who came thus coolly to ask him for his
heart's treasure?
Barry did not press the matter, and he declared that
evening to Sally that there was no real obstacle in the
way of their nuptials. As to his duel with Doctor
Thomas he had wholly forgotten that, lately. It was
swallowed up with other trifles in Sally's illness. Sometimes
it crossed his mind and damped his joy, or threw a
cloud upon his hopeful thoughts; but he wisely resolved
to allow his adversary to take the first step, as he regarded
himself as the insulting party, and then he thought no
more about it.
So a week or two glided past, and every day the hunter
was on the track of the buck. That enchanted animal
had a still more deadly enemy in Barry!
15. CHAPTER XV.
THE DOCTOR FOLLOWS BARRY'S EXAMPLE.
Two days after this interview, Doctor Thomas was
passing by hunter John's on his way up the valley to see
Mrs. Nina Lyttelton, who had occupied much of his leisure
thought-time lately, when he observed the mountaineer
busily engaged in some mysterious occupation at his door.
He held a dog between his knees and in his right hand a
hot iron.
Suddenly, a horrible howling echoed along the valley,
and, released from his master's hands, the animal ran
yelping into the pines.
The doctor stopped, and called out to know the cause
of the howling. On becoming aware of the presence of
the doctor, hunter John seemed much confused.
“I was burning Belt,” said he.
“Burning him?”
“Yes, doctor; and if you don't know what burning a
dog in the forehead 's for, I can't tell you. Won't you
stop?”
“No, my friend, I am going to pay a visit up the
valley. So I am to apply elsewhere for information as to
—your servant, Miss Sally, you are wholly well, I see, and
really looking like a rose-bud.”
Sally laughed.
“A very white one then, sir.”
“Why, yes, but the bloom is coming back, and you'll
soon bear the bell as usual among the mountain beauties.”
“Oh, sir!”
“I have but one last prescription.”
“What is that, sir?”
“That you shall mount behind me—my horse is perfectly
gentle—and ride up the valley to Mr. Von Horn's.
I really think the ride would do you good.”
Sally's eyes sparkled.
“Oh, I should like so much to go, sir! Do you think
it would be good for me?”
“Why, you may have a very dull time up there with
only Mrs. Nina, and that young Mr. Barry, as you call
him. But then you will have had your ride, and it will
do you service. If you could stand the tedious visit
now!” said Doctor Thomas, smiling.
Sally laughed and blushed, and her mother bringing
out a large shawl, she was soon mounted behind the doctor
and merrily conversing, they took the road to father
Von Horn's—the large Dutch dwelling visible some five
miles off at the “locking” of the mountains to the south.
They there found Nina and Barry—father Von Horn
was out attending to his farm. He was about arranging
every thing for the winter, they said, when he would return
with his family to Martinsburg where he lived eight
months in the year. It is not perfectly certain whether
the absence of the old man was regretted or not, but the
conversation was very merry and animated—between the
doctor and Nina at least. As to Barry and Sally, they sat
at a window some distance from the talkers, and spent
two hours very foolishly, whispering and smiling softly at
each other.
Father Von Horn gave the doctor and his “daughter
Sally” a hearty greeting, asking them how all were down
the valley, and whether hunter John had killed that buck
yet? “He ought to be allowed to hunt him in peace—
glancing at Barry—and two persons ought not to go after
the poor deer at once. It gave him no chance!”
With such cheerful conversation and much hearty
laughter, father Von Horn beguiled the half hour before
dinner; and then the plentiful meal was spread before
them; and then after more conversation they rose to go.
Nina kissed Sally with great affection, and warned the
doctor—with a flitting blush—to take care of her.
“Certainly, madam,” he said, “I value my little patient
more than any thing in the world. I hurt her! or
suffer any thing to!”
“Well, sir, you show good taste,” said Nina, half laughing,
half pouting. “Good-by!”
The doctor placed the little arm of Sally carefully
around his waist with one hand, while he took off his hat
with the other and made the old German and his daughter
a low bow. This time Nina undoubtedly thrust out
her pretty lip.
As they went along, Sally perceived that Doctor Thomas
was shaking with internal laughter.
“Why, what are you laughing so funnily at?” she
asked, laughing herself.
“Oh! I couldn't tell you, Miss Sally, if I tried; but I
am ready to burst. A ride! a ride! that's what I want.
Would you like a ride?”
“Oh, yes!” said Sally, her eyes sparkling. And in a
moment they were going at full gallop.
16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE PRACTICAL UTILITY OF BURNING A DOG IN THE FOREHEAD.
They went along at great speed, when the fine level
valley road rolled out its white ribbon before them, and
the bloom which they had laughed about soon came into
Sally's cheek, and the light into her eyes again. The
animal's gait was regular and easy, and by the time they
had reached the bottom of hunter John's hill, the young
girl looked like a different being, so rosy were her cheeks
and her brow so laughing. She seemed to have caught
the gorgeous crimson of the sunset-trees, and the light of
the radiant heaven, and with the incarnate spring-time of
her smile to make the autumn glories, merest folly—
wholly out of place!
The doctor was pressed to spend the night, and finally
he consented—making hunter John promise to awake
him early. The hunter gave him a strange look, and
said, “Please God that should be:” which Doctor Thomas
tried in vain to understand.
“What were you burning your dog to-day for, friend?”
he said, while they sat thoughtfully smoking before the
blazing pine splinters, whose warmth the coolness of the
October evening rendered far from unpleasant; “you did
not tell me, recollect.”
The hunter smiled.
“That ain't all,” said he, “I've been to Mrs. Courtlandt's
to-day since you passed by; and more has been
done yet.”
“What?”
“You'll see, I hope. I'm hoping the time's come.
But suppose it does,” muttered the hunter, “what'll I
gain? Why on earth now should I be so anxious? Poor
old fool! I'm not knowing what I do.”
The doctor endeavored in vain to extract from hunter
John an explanation of these singular speeches; and soon
after he was shown to his chamber. Very early he
seemed to hear, as in a dream, the same trampling that
formerly attracted his attention, then the subdued yelping
of dogs, then the gradually dying notes of a horn—that
seemed to sound from fairy land. Then all died away,
and he slept again.
At sunrise he was suddenly aroused by the report of a
rifle, which—borne on the echoes of the valley—came
distinctly and clearly to his ears. He rose and dressed,
and descended. He met his hostess and Sally who were
already “stirring,” and asked them who had fired? They
could not tell, but expected it was the hunter.
Suddenly a horn, ringing, joyful, and sonorous, rolled
its clear music down the mountain side, and all paused,
listening earnestly. It sounded again; then a third time.
Sally clapped her hands and with a flushed face cried,
“Oh! I believe father has killed that buck at last!”
And so the hunter indeed had. In half an hour he appeared
on the bank of the stream with the enormous buck
before him on his saddle; there the stranger met and
congratulated him. They were soon before the house
and the buck was laid on the grass. It was an animal
of uncommon size—with antlers of extraordinary length
and weight, and its hair was much lighter in color than
usual. There could be but one such deer in a thousand
herds.
The hunter did not appear as joyful as one would have
expected at this realization of all his hopes and desires.
“When you saw me yesterday,” he said to his guest,
when any deviltry is in a hound—”
“Deviltry?”
“To be plain, when they are witched,” said the hunter,
“and Belt was as much witched as my rifle. Then I
went down to Mrs. Courtlandt's and she took my rifle and
unwitched that!”
Hunter John spoke doggedly, and the stranger did not
contradict or interrupt him. He proceeded:
“I knew after that how it would be,” he said, “and I
can't say why I didn't brand the dog before, and get Mrs.
Courtlandt to fix my gun; but I reckon I was afraid,”
added the hunter, ingenuously. “So this morning I went
out after the buck, determined to bring him home with
me, or wear myself out. Just up on the mountain side I
met Barry, who was also hunting the varmint, and we
took different ways looking for him. I knew his haunts
though, and in half an hour I was on his track—he was
started—and I knew it was the beast himself, for Belt
don't run any other of late, and his tongue told me when
the game was afoot. Well, I ran him from one end o'
the valley to the other—doubled the mountain, and went
after him along Sleepy Creek. I thought Elkhorn would
a' burst—but he never failed, because he knew well
enough that the buck was doomed. The varmint soon
doubled again for the mountain and I followed him—I
could see him easy now, and I followed him without
holding Elkhorn in, though the mountain ain't a level
road there. So we came—thunderin' down straight toward
the house here—yonder you see the bridle path;
and having a good sight of him, I dropped the bridle and
leveling my gun, let him have it. But I missed—my
rifle hadn't the deviltry out of it quite yet. I knew I
hadn't touched him—but Belt was at his heels and he
was tired. The next minute I saw him rearing on Moss
Rock, and he fell over the precipice—the dogs after him.
and off foreleg is broke! Well, I was on him in no time.
My arm still hurt me where it was broke and it was
weakly, but that was nothing. I jumped off my horse,
pitched into him, and got only this scratch here, before
my knife was through his throat, and his neck was
quivering!”
As he spoke, the hunter, with flashing eyes and flushed
face, rolled up his sleeve and showed a deep wound in his
shoulder. The doctor looked at the deer—his antlers
were bloody.
“You are wounded!” he exclaimed, “run, Miss Sally,
and get some linen.”
The girl, pale and startled, hastened to bring it. The
hunter suffered his wound to be bandaged, with many
“pshaws!”
At the moment he again rolled down his wide sleeve,
as if nothing had happened, Barry made his appearance
at the bottom of the hill, his horse white with foam and
bathed in sweat. On seeing the deer, he threw himself
from the seat and ran up the hill.
“Is he dead at last!” cried Barry.
The hunter smiled.
“As a door nail, Barry my boy; you can see for yourself.”
“Poor animal!” said the doctor laughing, “he was too
fine a beast to be cut down in his pride—only to supply
some hungry mouth with venison!”
Sally blushed, and looked at Barry.
“There's more than that on his death, doctor—and I
believe from your wicked way of laughing, you know it,”
said the hunter. “Sally's marriage to— but she'll tell
you all. I need rest. I'm most nigh worn out.”
“Your marriage, Miss Sally!” cried Doctor Thomas
with well dissembled astonishment. The young girl
blushed; and Barry seemed much disposed to interrupt
propriety.
“So there's a marriage on the tapis is there? Well, I
suppose you'll have a splendid supper on the strength of
the buck, my dear host—I have no doubt you will enjoy
a slice from the saddle.”
“No,” said hunter John.
“You won't eat him?”
“I am going this very morning to Martinsburg to sell
him. Sally's got to be married in him.”
“Married in him!”
The hunter laughed.
“I'm joking with you,” said he, “I mean that the
money I get for the varmint is going to buy her a white
silk dress—yes, that very thing. My baby'll look pretty
then, won't she?” said the hunter, tapping his daughter's
cheek with a well pleased smile.
Sally, overcome with joy and diffidence, ran into her
chamber, where throwing herself into a chair, she began
to cry. But they were not sorrowful tears.
“And now, dame! some breakfast!” cried the hunter,
“I'm off in an hour.”
17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE RATTLE OF TONGUES.
A month had flown onward, making the gorgeous
forests still more brilliant in their coloring; the mountains
still more beautiful; freshening still more the bracing
air, which, long dreaming of the warmth of the summer
sun, was loth to give up all at once the glories of his
smile. But that smile if not so warm was brighter—and
its splendor flashed along the morning streams, and broke
above the waving trees at noon, and broadened to a red
faced, silent burst of merry laughter, when across the
mountain the great orb went dragging with him one more
golden autumn day.
Barry had never thought the mountains so beautiful—
though he made the discovery, very soon, that Sally's
smile added much to their attraction.
At last the day approached for the marriage of the
“young folks;” and Doctor Thomas averred that never
in all his travels had he seen such a commotion; perhaps
this was in consequence of Sally's great popularity with
the young (and old too) of both sexes, in the neighborhood.
Certainly, her wedding was looked forward to with
rejoiceful expectation, and the young girl was scarcely
suffered to “sew a stitch” for herself; her friends insisted
on doing it all for her. Hunter John had brought back
from Martinsburg what all considered a magnificent white
watered silk, and dozens of consultations were held before
the precise fashion of the dress was determined on. Nina
speaker.
“Oh! low necked by all means!” she cried. “Who
would have a great stiff silk up to her throat?”
“But,” suggested one of the young ladies, “it is not
summer time.”
“What of that?”
“Low necks are for summer!”
“Nonsense!” cried Nina, laughing.
“I know why you are for low necks!”
“Why?”
“You are wearing a low-necked dress now.”
Nina laughed still more loudly.
“I appeal to Doctor Thomas,” she said, as that gentleman
entered, “if that is not the prettiest and most
suitable.”
“What, ladies?” asked the doctor.
“The neck bare in a bride.”
“Why, now—”
“Come, doctor, you shall decide—”
“I can easily decide one question, madam; namely,
whether such fashions are becoming. Mrs. Lyttelton
has never looked more radiant.”
Nina laughed.
“Still,” said the doctor, “it seems to me only proper
and reasonable, that Miss Sally herself should have some
part in this discussion, as she is to wear the dress.”
This decision was on all sides voted down, as ridiculous,
and an unwarrantable innovation on established usage; and
in the midst of the clamor Sally herself entered, looking
like a rose-bud. The important question was finally decided,
and the young girl was entering her room when the
doctor made her a sign that he wished to speak to her.
“A present for you, Miss Sally, from your friend—or
rather my friend, Mrs. Courtlandt,” he said, giving her a
costly pair of ear-rings.
“Oh, thank you!” said the girl, delighted; “that's just
what I wanted: but do you think father would let me
take them from—” she paused; and the doctor smiled.
“They are good friends now,” he said, “since the gun
is unwitched; but here he is, ask him.”
Hunter John in fact entered at the moment.
“Where did your pretty ear-drops come from, pet?”
said he; “your servant, doctor.”
“From Mrs. Courtlandt, father.”
The hunter looked grave; then laughed.
“I begin to think my old superstitious head has been
making me think her too much of a witch,” he said. “I
used to see her oftentimes in Martinsburg, years back, and
she wasn't such a dreadful person. It's only since she
came to the mountains here, some four years ago, when
her school was broke up, I have felt afraid of her. Most
old people now are like me though—all were in the back
times.”
Then taking the jewels, and looking tenderly at his
daughter, he said to the doctor:
“And you brought these, I reckon; well, Mrs. Courtlandt
must have fallen in love with you; what do you
say? ha! ha!”
“Why, I don't know.”
“She's still handsome.”
“Yes.”
“And you're certain—come now, doctor—that she
hasn't taken a fancy to you?”
“Why, she received me with a kiss when I arrived,”
said the doctor gravely; “and now I come to remember
my friend, the care she takes of my wardrobe signifies
much. That should have opened my eyes.”
This speech threw the whole company into profound
astonishment. It is probable that such was the intention
of the speaker. Nina, however, said nothing; for “matters
had become very serious” between herself and the
overwhelmed with questions; and for some minutes
was in despair. The storm at last settled down, and
he had an opportunity, all thought, of explaining himself.
Nina, above all, waited for this explanation; not that
she feared a rival in Mrs. Courtlandt, but it is one peculiarity
of that position in which this lady now stood toward
the doctor, that the mind does not weigh clearly
and decide rationally. Nina was therefore determined to
quarrel with her suitor.
The doctor gave her no opportunity, however, but
mentioning as a piece of pleasant and agreeable news that
his friend Mrs. Courtlandt was then preparing a new coat
and moccasins to attend the wedding, he took his departure.
Having cast this bombshell into the midst of
the company, he very rationally supposed that it would
form the topic of conversation—and thus he himself
escape “abuse;” and he was not mistaken.
No sooner had he disappeared, than the storm burst
forth with overwhelming power.
“That Mrs. Courtlandt!”
“No better than a witch!”
“She's handsome though.”
“You ought to be ashamed to say so—she handsome!
with that old cap on her head and that odious boy's
roundabout!” cried Nina.
Every one laughed.
“Nina is jealous of her,” said one; “the doctor is her
beau, you know, girls! and she can't bear Mrs. Courtlandt.”
“I think Mrs. Courtlandt is still very handsome,” said
another.
“And I think you very impudent,” said Nina, laughing,
“to say the doctor is my beau!”
“You know he is, Nina.”
“I don't care that for him,” snapping her fingers; “and
than that himself.”
“Why only yesterday he told me that he had lost his
heart completely.”
Nina blushed, and turning away hid her confusion by
asking for “a piece of bobbin edge.”
“Bobbin edge on that!” cried one.
“Certainly,” said Nina.
“I never heard of such a thing! It won't suit!”
“I appeal to you, girls—”
“Yes!”
“No!”
“It will ruin it!”
“It will make it beautiful!”
And forgetting completely the affairs of Nina and the
doctor, these young ladies again plunged into the weighty
considerations of trimming, and assorting colors—at which
point we leave them with great pleasure.
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW THEY RAN FOR THE BOTTLE.
The wedding morning dawned clear and auspicious,
with a laughing sun above the evergreen pines, and
on the many-colored woods of later fall; and a bracing
freshness in the wandering wind that gently caressed the
cheek, and brightened every eye. The stream danced
along the valley with a gayer music than its wont; the
golden leaves seemed laughing and chuckling privately to
themselves; the small white clouds came slowly floating
from the east and west with the veering wind, and pausing
just above the home of hunter John, were plainly
interested equally with stream, and leaf, and tree, in this
the wedding-day of the valley's “darling!”
Noon was approaching when an echoing shout—flying
and gamboling like a schoolboy on a holiday—came down
the valley, and gave warning that the company were
drawing on.
In five minutes the dell seemed alive with horsemen,
who galloping as though a rushing flood greater than
ever broke through Holland dykes was at their heels,
flew onward toward the house of hunter John. With
hair streaming—caps waved madly over their heads—and
heels dug violently into the sides of their flying coursers,
they came more recklessly than ever yet the riders in
any steeple-chase, toward the hill. For there awaited
them old hunter John—a mighty, ribbon-ornamented
bottle in his hand. Why need we add, those rushing roaring
mountain youths were “running for the bottle!”
Among the foremost, mounted on his gallant sorrel,
and thundering along with careless rein, and hand upon
unusual elegance. He wore a laced velvet coat, a many-colored
vest, and his silk stockings and white-topped
boots were marvels of taste and richness. You hardly
looked at the rider nevertheless—so fine a sight was the
noble sorrel, with arched neck and glossy coat, flying onward
to the merrymaking, as though he too knew the
meaning of it all.
Behind the valiant doctor came a dozen other horsemen,
all at full speed, with coats streaming, hats waved
madly over head, and merry shouts; behind, for though
the speed of the mountain horses was great, the sorrel
kept before them all.
Suddenly, with a burst of jocund laughter all drew up,
checking their foaming horses, and yielding in the contest.
Doctor Thomas had reached the hill, sped up to
the door, and received from hunter John the famous bottle.
A shout greeted this performance, and the horsemen
coming up, the victor was congratulated by all. He
handed the bottle to a young mountaineer, on a swift
black mare; and in a moment the young man was on
his way back at full speed. Barry and the wedding
party were to drink of “Black Bess”—so they called it—
before they came on to the mansion.
By noon the guests had all arrived—among the rest
father Von Horn, and Nina, and—to the profound astonishment
of all—Mrs. Courtlandt! That lady was not
clad, as Doctor Thomas had threatened, in her singular
home costume of moccasins and coat, but in a plain dark
dress, which set off well her calm and refined countenance.
Hunter John expressed some consternation on
her arrival—mounted on the little white pony all knew
well—but soon this passed, and the merrymaking commenced.
The bride, had not as yet made her appearance;
but soon her door was thrown open, and the “darling”
of the valley issued forth.
19. CHAPTER XIX.
HOW SHE WORE THE WHITE SILK AFTER ALL.
Sally had never looked prettier than at this moment
She was clad in the famous silk, whose history the reader
has heard at so much length, and it now appeared that
Nina Lyttelton's counsel had carried the day—for the
dress was low-necked. The rich silk undulating as she
moved, fairly dazzled the eye—and had not Sally on that
morning withdrawn herself solemnly from the list of
mountain belles, we can not estimate the number of
enemies she must have made. In her hair some white
lingering autumn flowers clustered together, spreading
around her as she came, a faint delight—and, not to
elaborate what we feel to be a most poor and inadequate
description, this young lady whom we have promoted to
the post of heroine, in one word, so overcame all hearts—
including of course those youths who would have died for
her before—that many felt thereafter (for a month or two)
that life had lost all charm for them; that all their happiness
was merest shadow, existence but a dream, and
that unhappy; the world no longer bright since she, the
“darling” of all hearts had gone from them; “gone and
got married,” as they said, and so was lost forever!
But unconscious of the many hearts she was breaking,
the young girl came on, attended by her bridemaids—
and at her side walked Barry, proud and happy. Around
him were gathered also the attentive groomsmen in their
snowy aprons; and soon the ceremony was commenced
and ended;—and Sally, blushing like a rose, received the
customary on such occasions.
When all had pledged the new-married pair in the
contents of the great punch bowl, the broad table was
drawn out, and those white-aproned gentlemen we have
mentioned, hastened to the next room—temporarily the
kitchen. Thence they filed in with the great hissing
dishes, and having placed the profuse meal, as was their
duty, on the board, they sat down with the rest, and the
feast commenced.
20. CHAPTER XX.
HOW THEY ALL ROMPED MERRILY, AND WHO GOT THE SLIPPER.
It was a hearty and cheerful sight to see old hunter
John upon that merry day. He seemed to have returned
to his boyhood once again, and when he took the head of
the table, with his wife at the foot and Sally at his side,
you should have seen him! He was clad like all his
guests—Doctor Thomas only excepted—in the ornamented
hunting shirt of the mountaineers, leggings,
stockings, and high-buttoned vest; an enormous collar
sawed his ears, confined by a narrow ribbon, bound
around his broad muscular throat; and his iron-gray hair
was gathered in a queue behind.
But no one saw his dress, or dreamed of the existence
of the queue; the smile of joy and pride, illuminating
gloriously the broad bright-eyed face, alone was visible;
and when the hunter stood up with a mighty cup raised
in his right hand and drank “to the young people's happy
times,” all the company rose as if on springs, and a shout
broke from them which was heard far off upon the
mountain side, and made the house vibrate with very
joy, and wholly drowned the merrily-laughing fiddle
which was perched in the corner, over the revelers' heads,
with standing orders never to stop a moment to take
breath, but do its best to drown the clatter of plates, and
silence every voice!
It was not long before the scramble for the slipper of
the bride commenced. This new—or rather very old—
mode of “hunting the slipper,” was simply to obtain by
slipper of the bride, and he who succeeded in gaining
possession of it spite of her struggles, and of the efforts
of the groomsmen in her defense, was entitled to two
kisses, and a bottle of wine—declared by long established
and well-known usage his appropriate reward.
First, one of the young men would come behind her
chair, and commence an indifferent conversation—then
bend down to admire the new ring upon the fair hand of
the bride; then suddenly the meaning of all this man
œuvring would betray itself in a quick dart at the little
shoe firmly fixed on the little foot beneath the table.
But the shoe was not so easily captured—and most probably
the adventurous wight was caught by the attentive
groomsmen, and thrown staggering back; or worse still, a
ringing sound was heard, and he retreated with tingling
cheek from the offended bride. Every stratagem possible
was used, every effort made to get possession of the slipper,
and we may assert with perfect safety that the bottle
of wine was not the prize so warmly struggled for by the
young mountaineers. Sally was too honest and reasonable
to dispute the right acquired by the fortunate person,
and she made every exertion to preserve herself from the
threatened kisses.
At last the struggle for a moment ceased; they were
taking breath.
“Brave girl!” cried old father Von Horn who sat at
her side, and had watched the romping with vast delight;
“I know she's a match for you all, boys! no kisses for
you here! You will have to confine your embraces to
your own sweethearts;” here the old man looked mischievously
around on the young girls.
They all tossed their heads.
“Pshaw!” he cried, “you know I am joking, my
daughters. But I was saying that this little shoe here
was safe still, and in— how long is it, friend Myers—”
“In ten minutes it'll be out,” said hunter John, looking
at a Dutch clock over the mantle-piece. “The time will
then be up, and we'll get to the dancing, girls.”
“Oh, yes!” they all exclaimed, “let us have the
dancing soon!”
“I love so much to dance!”
“I'm your partner, recollect!”
“No, you are not for the first reel!”
“What a merry fiddle!”
In the midst of this burst of talk, Sally turned to
father Von Horn with a beseeching look.
The old man laughed significantly.
“Do you want any of these youngsters to get the
shoe?” he said.
“Oh, no! father Von Horn,” with great energy.
“Eh? not one?”
“Indeed I wouldn't let a single one touch it—if I
could help it. But I can't! I don't think I can keep it
on my foot,” said the girl, laughing; “I thought that last
pull of Doctor Thomas would certainly bring it off.”
“Come now, is there no one here you have less objection
to kiss?”
“I hate to think of kissing any.”
“Why, what a cruel little chit!”
“Oh, father Von Horn!” said Sally, laughing, “to
think that some one of these rough boys should take off
Barry's kiss;” her voice sank at these last words and she
blushed and smiled.
“To say nothing of the bottle of good old wine.”
“Oh, any body may have that—there it is on the
mantle-piece,” she said; and then in the softest and most
caressing tone of voice:
“Do you like Madeira wine, father Von Horn!” asked
the little witch.
The old man laughed loudly.
“Why, yes!” said he, “but I'm afraid I shall get none
a pretty little shoe it is,” said the old man, glancing at
the small foot, “the doctor there, says it's so small he
can't grasp it with his hand!”
“Oh, he's a great flatterer, father Von Horn! But I
didn't say I wouldn't let any one take my slipper, as you
say—”
“What—!”
“Not in the least, father Von Horn,” said the girl with
a sly and confidential smile, “I said none of the boys!
of course I wouldn't care if some nice old gentleman
could—”
“Treason!” cried father Von Horn; “was the like
ever seen! Come here, boys!”
“Oh, please don't betray me!” said Sally, beseechingly,
“please, father Von Horn. They would laugh at me till
I cried; and then you know,” she said smiling, “there
would be no dancing!”
“What are you talking about, father Von Horn?” the
young men asked.
“Why, I wished to say to you, my young friends, that
in five minutes the time for getting the slipper off is out
—then good-by to the kisses and the wine.”
The young men approached the bride carelessly.
“Oh! we have given it up.”
“Wholly.”
“It's no use.”
“Miss Sally has got the fairies to work her a slipper
and it is put on with a spell.”
But these careless laughing words only masked a more
violent attack than ever; and with such vigor and skill
was the onset made that the young girl only kept her
slipper on by the closest pressure of her foot. Suddenly,
father Von Horn cried:
“The bottle, boys! the bottle! see to it!”
All heads were turned to the mantle-piece, thinking to
with a quick jerk drew off the slipper and held it up in
triumph!
“The slipper! the slipper!”
“Father Von Horn, indeed!”
“It ain't fair!”
“I believe you let him take it, Miss Sally!”
“How can you say so!” she replied, laughing; “could
I think of it while I was looking at the bottle?”
But spite of this ingenious defense, we are obliged to
express our serious doubts of its sincerity. It was afterward
stated that Miss Sally, when all eyes were turned
away, had slyly bent back father Von Horn's stalwart
thumb; and that in obedience to the signal, the slipper
had been seized.
However it may have been, one thing is certain, that
the old man claimed the penalty; and the bottle gayly
decked out with ribbons was handed to him. He filled
the bride's cup, then passed it round; so it was emptied.
The rest of the penalty was more ceremoniously claimed
by the fortunate possessor of the slipper.
21. CHAPTER XXI.
THE RECLAIMING OF THE SLIPPER.
The party all rose from table, and the table itself was
borne with the rapidity of magic from the room. Thus
the floor was cleared for dancing; but first the ceremony
we have alluded to was to be gone through with.
The company scattered back to the walls, where ranging
themselves in close columns they looked on in silence.
Then forth into the open space came father Von Horn,
and with a profound bow, and a sign to the music, said:
“Here am I—where is the bride?”
“Here am I—I am the bride,” said the merry voice of
the young girl, as she came into the open space, from the
opposite side, with a slight irregularity in her gait—for
the old man held gayly in his hand the captured shoe.
Father Von Horn bowed again.
“Is this the bride's shoe? look at it well,” said he.
“I am the bride—the slipper is mine,” said Sally,
blushing and laughing.
“I found the slipper—the little white slipper.”
“Do you wish a reward?”
“Yes.”
“What shall it be?”
“The slipper is pretty, and worth two kisses.”
“Kisses, sir?”
“Two of them!”
“Here are my lips.”
As they repeated these words, they slowly approached
each other, and father Von Horn kneeling on one knee,
girl's foot, and then rising, placed his arms round her neck
and kissed her twice, exciting thereby dreadful enmity
among the young men against him.
At the same moment, the whole company commenced
gayly singing,
To keep your foot warm,
And two little kisses will do you no harm.”
The fiddle changing its tone from the wild outrageous
merriment which before characterized it, to a thoughtful
and subdued measure, here glided in, so to speak, and
interpreted the words. The whole was wound up with,
“heigho! heigho!” sung as a chorus, but these “heighos'
were much more like laughter than sighing.
Then the fiddle, as if ashamed of falling into a fit of
musing, and being absent in company, struck up a merry
reel, and the bride, the groom, the whole joyful party
commenced gayly dancing.
22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE DOCTOR REMINDS BARRY OF HIS ENGAGEMENT.
The happy company took no thought of the rolling
hours, but acting on the ancient and respectable maxim,
that no time is like the present moment for enjoyment,
entered into the dancing with a spirit, which for the time
made them lose sight of every thing else in the world.
It was part of their teaching—this wild abandonment to
mirth and laughter. But a few years before, within the
memory at least of many, the savage had often interrupted
such sport with the yell of onset; and the recollections
or the traditions of those former years still dwelt
in the minds of all, and impressed upon them the importance
of the moment for enjoyment.
Alone in the background, Doctor Thomas looked on
with silent pleasure; his eyes following incessantly the
forms of Barry and Sally and Nina as they ran through
the dance. Barry was entirely happy, perhaps for the
first time in his life, for his was a nature which demanded
the extremes of emotion always; and now in the
extreme happiness of his union with the young girl, he
forgot all the sad days that had gone before and gave
himself up to unreserved delight.
He left the room, just as the mountains and the sky
were darkening, to commune with his own thoughts in
silence and obscurity. The sound of an approaching footstep
interrupted him. He turned round.
“Ah, sir,” said he, “you are here; I thought I was
alone.”
“Which means that my presence is an intrusion, eh?”
said Doctor Thomas.
“The world is free, sir.”
“Pardon me, that is a fallacy; but I came, sir, to
arrange our little matters; you no doubt understand to
what I allude.”
Barry's face flushed.
“We are to fight then are we, sir?”
“Why certainly; you challenged me, I think.”
“No sir—not challenged you,” said Barry coldly, and
repressing his agitation by a powerful effort, “you insulted
a lady and I resented it.”
“Well, well, words convey ideas; and I think you offered,
on the occasion to which I allude, to fight me `with any
weapons.' Those were your very words, were they not?”
“And I am ready to hold to my words,” said Barry,
with an icy sensation at his heart.
Doctor Thomas threw a piercing glance upon the young
man's agitated but resolute face—his pale but firm lips,
his cheeks filled with blood, his large glowing eyes.
“Splendid diagnosis,” he muttered with a smile.
Then he said aloud:
“It is no child's play we are about, sir; this will be
—should we fight—a matter of life and death.”
“So be it!” said the young man.
“I am sorry.”
“Be sorry on your own account, sir! you have not the
satisfaction of feeling that you fight in a good cause. I
have it!”
“How so?”
“You pretend not to understand me. Well, sir, that
is your own business.”
“I only understand that we must fight, and that you
are just married.”
Barry's lip curled with scorn.
“And for that reason you have pressed the matter now.”
“Come, come—”
“I admire your great delicacy, sir.”
There was so much scorn in these few words that one
then and there. The doctor only smiled, and his smile
was bright and unaffected.
“Why, we are enemies are we not?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; we are.”
“Well, when you have an enemy what do you do?”
“Say what you have to say, sir.”
“May the devil take me, you are crusty, my friend:
it is not etiquette to reply to me in this way.”
“I don't mean to use ceremony.”
“It is, however, far more comme il faut—pardon my
rudeness. In Paris, the centre of European refinement—
so they say at least—a challenge necessitates courtesy,
between the principals. You may kill, but you must kill
with politeness and kindness.”
To these coolly uttered words, Barry replied, with flashing
eyes, “I do not take pattern from others, sir, when
I am insulted!”
“Well, I was about to ask you, just at the moment
you interrupted me, what your course toward an enemy
would be under the present circumstances. I meant to
say that my revival of our quarrel at this moment is not
so heinous an offense against good breeding as you would
make it. Granted I hate you, does it not follow that my
proposal at this moment is the most rational, philosophical
and consistent I could make? You are at the height
of felicity—I would plunge you into the depths of despair,
by saying to you, `Come now and give me your
life; you owe it to me!”'
Barry turned pale.
“I am ready,” he said, with one hand on his heart.
“Pistols?”
“Any thing.”
“Now? They are not far off.”
Barry's head sank and his lip quivered. Oh! to abandon
so much happiness just as he had grasped it—to yield
up the prize just when it was his own! to die just as he
that dear heart to drive away all sorrow, and light up his
days with never failing joy! It was a hard trial, and
the stranger watched him with close attention; he saw
the head droop, the lip quiver. But the next moment
Barry's head rose, and his large haughty eye flashed fire.
“Now!” he said, resolutely, “yes, sir; you have the
right to order all! Let it be now!”
The doctor received this reply with an expression impossible
to describe; but he gazed upon the young man
with the deepest tenderness—the most unmistakable admiration.
Then advancing a step toward him:
“Sir,” he said with dignity, and in a voice from which
every trace of its usual mocking sarcasm had disappeared,
“I ask of you pardon for the unworthy words I have
uttered now and at our former interview, and hope you
will forgive me for what I have both said and done. I
can not offer you an apology for the insult to your bride,
for I am guilty of uttering no such words, of offering no
such insult. You do not know me,” here a brilliant
smile lit up the martial and attractive features of the
stranger, “or you never would have believed me guilty
of such an act.”
Bowing to Barry, he turned away and bent his steps
toward the mansion, leaving the young man in such profound
astonishment, that he was wholly incapable of
returning the stranger's courtly inclination. That astonishment
was far from disagreeable, however: this
thing of nursing a quarrel which had cooled, into its
primitive violence, and deliberately taking a man's life
or losing his own for it, was repugnant to every principle
of the mountaineers. At the risk then of lowering
our hero in the reader's estimation, we must confess he
was delighted.
Suddenly a loud shout from the house attracted his
attention, and he hastened in.
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
HOW DOCTOR THOMAS EXHIBTED GREAT DELIGHT AT NINA'S
SAYING “NO.”
The cause of the outcry was very simple. Some of
the young men had provided themselves with an enormous
pumpkin, which, having hollowed it out, they
carved into the form of a terrible and threatening face,
with goggle eyes, frowning brow, and huge ogre teeth.
They had then fixed candles in the eyes, and raising it
on a stick, suddenly presented it at the window; at the
same moment, a young gentleman renowned for his
excellence in the department of animal-mimicry had
uttered a terrific roar.
The consequence of this manœuvre was first the
shrieks we have mentioned—then sundry fits of hysterics,
some fainting fits indeed. The first in point of suddenness
and violence was Mrs. Nina Lyttelton who seeing a
wicker couch convenient, and catching a glimpse of the
doctor, had fallen with a truth of representation and a
grace of attitude worthy of the highest admiration.
The doctor bending over her, applied the usual restoratives
with his usual ironical courtesy, and subdued
chuckle: but it might have been observed that his manner
had much changed toward the fair Nina.
At last she opened her eyes.
“Is that you?” she said smiling, languidly.
“Yes,” said he, very rationally.
“Oh, I was so frightened!”
“Those wicked boys!”
“What was it?”
“Why, nothing but a large pumpkin which they had
fixed with lights. How could you faint at that.”
“Oh, it seared me so.”
“And your fright was pretty, on my faith. You faint
charmingly, Nina,” said the doctor in a low tone, almost
whispering.
The lady laughed.
“Doctor Thomas is very flattering,” she said with a
gay emphasis on the two first words of the sentence.
“He will break himself of that bad habit perhaps
when—”
“You stop; why don't you finish your speech.”
“When he is united—no, I mean when he is “the
happiest of men;” that is a prettier phrase.”
“Impudent!”
“Who—I?”
“Yes.”
“How am I, pray?”
“To presume to speak of our marriage as all settled.”
And she gave him a fascinating smile.
“Why, is it not?”
“No.”
“Good! I thought so, I knew I couldn't be mistaken.
As usual your no means yes.”
“You are unbearable.”
“What a charming pout you have, Nina! I now see
for the first time how much you have gained in beauty.”
“And you are much deteriorated.”
The doctor curled his mustache, with a flattered air.
“Well, when shall it be?” he said.
“What?”
“Our wedding-day, of course!”
“I won't marry you ever.”
“Say on Christmas eve, darling.”
“No! no! no!”
“I am the happiest of men!” exclaimed the doctor,
kissing her hand with an expression of deep delight.
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
HOW FATHER VON HORN DRANK TO THE GOOD HEALTH OF THE
ABSENT AND WHAT ENSUED.
The happiest days must come to an end, the merriest
hours go onward to the shadowy tomb of the future,
though the gayest music strive to rouse them from their
biers. The splendid October day had gone across the
hills and far away, and was no more a thing of being,
real life to “Meadow Valley;” only a memory, long time
very sweet and pleasant to all the dwellers in those borders.
The night darkened and darkened, and at last the
hour approached when the merry company must say
good-by, and once more seek their homes. In other
words the big Dutch clock struck twelve.
Mrs. Courtlandt, whom we have scarcely noticed, chiefly
because she kept herself so quiet in a corner with some
middle aged gossips of her acquaintance, rose to go.
“Well, Mrs. Courtlandt,” said hunter John, “you ain't
going yet? The parting cup's yet to be drunk you know,
and the supper ate; the boys are now in the other room
fixing it.”
Mrs. Courtlandt, with a pleasant smile and a polite
word, readily consented to wait. “She was no spoilsport,
and if she tried to break up the party now, they
would go home and abuse her so badly that she would be
persecuted for a witch, which some now thought her!”
At this hunter John laughed; but was interrupted in
his reply by the throwing open of the middle door,
whence the large table entered, loaded with the mighty
supper. Huge roasts hissed and smoked—broils, stews,
potatoes rose in pyramids, until they looked down
proudly on the very rum-jugs, tall and portly which stood
flanking all.
The supper was done full justice to, and again we
must call attention to the fact, that the young ladies
were by no means backward in their demeanor at the
table. From noon to midnight dancing all the while,
and with none of those intermediate meals which enable
the fair damsels of our day to exhibit at the table such a
birdlike slenderness of appetite—certes they must have
been most honestly hungry! At least they seemed to
be; and so the meal passed with a mighty clatter; not
alone of knives and forks, be it observed—but also of cups
and quickly emptied flagons.
At last a silence of expectation succeeded all this noise
and bustle; the toasts were now to come; what in our
day we call the “regular toasts.”
First, by hunter John—“Health, happiness, and salvation
to fellow men all the world over,” which was drunk
with much pleasure, and a great deal of honesty and
sincerity.
Next by the Rev. gentleman who had united the pair,
and who buried in a corner, talking theological dogmas,
has not once crossed our vision—“Health to the new-married
ones; the Lord guide and strengthen and preserve
them, and make them his own. Amen.” This
was considered a little too much like “asking a blessing,”
and they hesitated between drinking and using their lips
for the purpose of saying amen: but the worthy clergyman
settled their doubts by draining his glass, and smiling
as none but the old fox-hunting parsons of past
days ventured to do. So the toast was duly honored with
“healths,” many fathoms deep, even with shouts.
Then father Von Horn passing his hand across his
brow, to dispel what seemed to be a cloud before his
elsewhere. May they all come back!” and he glanced
mournfully at Mrs. Courtlandt. That lady was smiling.
“Father Von Horn will tell you a story, girls,” she
said, “and whom he means by the `absent over seas.”'
The old man hesitated, but obeying a sign from Mrs.
Courtlandt:
“I don't know, children,” he said thoughtfully, “what
makes me so mindful of this now; but as sister Courtlandt
has promised you a story I will tell you one.”
“A story?” said Doctor Thomas, “well, sir, we will
listen. Be sure to begin at the beginning.”
Father Von Horn smiled.
“Once upon a time,” he said musingly, “there was a
foolish old man who had two nephews: these youths
were the sons of his sister, and as she and her husband
both died in their childhood, he took them to his home as
was but proper and right.”
“He was a true and kind man, sir,” said Doctor
Thomas, in a low voice.
“One of the nephews,” continued father Von Horn,
“was willful and wild—God forbid I should speak
harshly of him now, but he was the cause of much heaviness
of heart to the old man, who was not so old either—”
“Well, sir—”
“He was a pretty boy,” said the old man, smiling and
gently beating his open hand with Sally's, “and I think I
see him now just as he went away, with long curly hair
and merry mischievous face—”
“He went away, did he?” murmured Doctor Thomas,
stooping to touch his lips to a goblet of water.
“Yes; I was the old man and he was my nephew;
and one day we had an altercation on some trifling matter—I
was hasty and he left me.”
“He ran away?” said Doctor Thomas, with a tremor
in his voice.
“Yes.”
“And did he never return?”
“Never,” said father Von Horn, sadly and thoughtfully.
“Where is he now?”
“In Europe—Paris they say, studying at the great
free colleges.”
“You never heard from him, then?” said Doctor
Thomas, starting.
“Yes, long ago: and we wrote to him, Barry and all.”
“He never got your letters!”
“Why, what do you know of him?”
“What would you give to see him?” asked the doctor,
disregarding the old man's question, and trembling.
“Much,” said father Von Horn briefly, and looking at
his interlocutor with astonishment.
“And you, Barry Courtlandt, what would you give
to see your brother?—you, Mrs. Courtlandt to see your
nephew?”
“I would be as happy as I could be in this world,”
said Barry, “but I am afraid,” he added with mournful
gravity, “that brother Max will never come back again.”
Doctor Thomas dashed down his cup and rose with
radiant countenance, and eyes that seemed to fairly flash
lightnings of joy. His form appeared to dilate, his stature
to increase, and pushing back his chair, he came with
one bound to Barry who had risen struck with astonishment,
and mastered by a vague excitement.
“You are wrong, Barry!” cried Doctor Thomas, catching
the young man in his arms, “you are wrong! I am
here now—that brother Max! You didn't know me!
and you, uncle, you were drinking to the health of your
bad nephew! Oh, he has changed, and I hope for the
better!”
The doctor ran on with a perfect river of exclamations,
and it was difficult to say whether he did not make more
from his eyes, he embraced the old German, hunter John,
Sally, Nina and as many young ladies as came in his
way—to their profound consternation; and declared to
every one that this was the happiest day of his life: that
foolish doctor Thomas Maximilian Courtlandt!
Then seizing a huge goblet, or rather flagon, foaming
with its ruby contents, he raised it high above his head,
and drawing to him Barry and Sally with his left arm,
drank to their health, and called on all to do as much
once more!
And as much was done! a fair cup was emptied joyously
by all, and in the middle of the bustle and uproar
and merrily-sounding shouts, the fiddle perched upon the
eminence above, took suddenly his rightful part in the
rejoicing, and bursting into a roar of laughter, soon out-talked
them all, and reigned with undisputed sway!
Doctor Thomas, with his head bent down and his arms
around Barry and Sally, who were crying, could only sob
and laugh—that cynical, sarcastic Doctor Thomas!
25. CHAPTER XXV.
TEARS AND LAUGHTER.
It will not be necessary for us to describe the rapture
of father Von Horn and Barry, and Sally, and indeed
every one, at the return of Max Courtlandt so long lost
and now come back to them, healthy vigorous and joyful.
As for Nina she had been let into the momentous secret
some time before, as the reader may imagine. But father
Von Horn and the rest were thunderstruck. That the
wild young Max should return the elegant cavalier, the
calm and self-poised man they saw before them: that he
could have so changed as not to be recognizable by those
who had loved him and lamented him so long, was most
marvelous. But there at least he was! The mystery
was over. Dr. Thomas was the merry Maximilian Courtlandt
of old days.
The old man shed tears of joy: he had never ceased to
hold the young man's image in his memory and heart,
from that melancholy hour when bending down he had
wept upon his passionate letter, after their quarrel. He
had never ceased to lament the unhappy event which
drove the boy from his house—though he was not to
blame, his neighbors had said a thousand times.
But now all regret and sorrow were over and gone; the
Prodigal Son had returned; and joy had come to his heart
once more. Barry wept in silence.
The company at length broke up, and with a thousand
expressions of good-will to the doctor, took their leave;
with many merry compliments to the married pair also.
merry shouts, soon died away. Silence reigned once
more on the mountain side, and Max—now Doctor Max
—related in a few words, the outline of his adventures
after leaving Martinsburg.
He had gone to the seaboard, intent on leaving Virginia
at least; with no idea, however, of his future mode of
life, or with any scheme whatever. He had finally gone
on board a schooner at Alexandria, which he was told,
would sail for Philadelphia. The schooner in reality was
outward bound, and only touched land again at the mouth
of the Seine. He had gone to Paris—had determined to
make himself a physician—had entered at one of the
great free colleges—had lived precariously—had gained a
prize—been assisted by one of the most emiment savans
of the time—had written much for the journals of medicine—had
gone to London and written more—had finally
become dreadfully home-sick, and here he was!
This was the outline of his life and adventures, which
the young man, with rapid and picturesque utterance,
traced for his attentive and most loving auditors. They
hung upon his words—surrounded him with loving
glances full of joy and sympathy—and when he had
finished, and his last feeling words died away in the midnight,
all were on the verge of tears—tears of the purest
joy.
“Well, God bless us,” said father Von Horn, “it has
been a long weary time you have been away, my boy.
My heart was very sore at your going away from us—
my fault—all my fault—”
“Dear uncle—”
“Don't say me nay: I never should have chid you so
rudely. You were not a child, and had no cool, aged
blood in your veins. But all that is gone!”
“To think it!” said hunter John, “that this fine Doctor
I have been talking to so much of late, was nobody
—in spite of what he says.”
Nina laughed.
“Are you as bad as ever, Max?” she said, “is every
thing as much a jest as ever with you.”
“As much as ever,” he replied, “no, one thing is not.
That is earnest.”
At which speech Mrs. Nina was observed to blush—
which was remembered afterward.
“How long it seems since you and Sally acted Romeo
and Juliet! brother,” said Barry in his soft earnest
voice. “It seems years to me.”
“When you first displayed your chivalric devotion to
this young lady here. Do you remember, mon garçon?”
“Oh, perfectly,” said Barry, laughing.
“And you, my Juliet?”
“Yes—oh, yes,” said Sally, blushing, “how could I
forget it?”
“True; let's see, what says Romeo?”
And with solemn intonation he repeated:
Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
To think it was so?”
Sally blushed again.
“Paris on that occasion resuscitated,” said the doctor,
“but did not marry Juliet. Barry is a tolerable substitute,
however, Sally.”
“What a joker you still are, Max,” Nina said.
“Yes, yes. I shall never get to accustom myself to
the professional air—solemn and wise; but my folly
never wounds. You are not angry now, are you, Sally?”
“Oh, no.”
“Well come give me an affectionate kiss. I'm brother
Max now. After which I may say:
And hire post horses; I will hence to-night.”
was coming, and having heard my adventures already,
very naturally accompanied homeward a party who went
by her dwelling.”
The kiss was very tremulously, but willingly and lovingly
granted to her new brother by the young girl; and
then he and father Von Horn and all took their leave—
the Doctor riding very gallantly by Nina's side, until they
reached their mountain home.
Spite of the pressing invitation to remain, the Doctor
returned homeward, lost in thought: he could not explain
to his own satisfaction why he had not taken advantage
of the invitation, but determined to pay a visit
to Nina on the next day. Consoling himself with this
resolution, he went quietly along, and soon reached Mrs.
Courtlandt's.
On the next day he paid the visit he had determined
on: and on that very day he asked Nina a most tender
question. We know not what the reply was in exact
words; but Doctor Courtlandt went home overwhelmed
with joy—that fierce, sarcastic Doctor Thomas.
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
A MERRY CHRISTMAS.
The merry yule-tide came with jest and laughter and
abundant cheer; and joyful gatherings of how many
friends; and earnest blessings on the absent loved; and
charity toward all men, every where. Most merry was
it there in Meadow Branch Valley with roaring logs, and
great foaming bowls, and roasted turkeys, such as never
yet walked through the dreams of epicures, and all gay
adjuncts of the festal season.
“Festival” was very “high” in every house—even at
Mrs. Courtlandt's that good Catholic, who never betrayed
her connection with the church, but on such festive days.
The days were bright; the snow was covered over with
a mantle of sunlight; the frost upon the window panes
reared its grand fairy palaces for merry children. Mirth
and gay-hearted laughter reigned undisputed, and every
where Saint Nick came visiting with most capacious
valises, holding fabulous amounts of good things.
Christmas was kept with great joy and heartiness, at
father Von Horn's and hunter John's. And here we will
record an historical fact of some interest. Father Von
Horn first introduced the Christmas Tree, a German
custom, now so universal in our land. Upon his hospitable
board was raised for the first time in Virginia that
evergreen pine which now is every where the emblem of
the season—which rains on children's heads such magical
fruit; which has wholly routed and put to flight the old
English “Christmas-box.” Saint Nick for the first time
deviated from his route and came to Meadow Branch,
and hung his presents on the fairy pine.
But where are we wandering? Shall we describe
those Christmases, and bring our musty historic disquisitions
as a sauce to our description? Why should we attempt
to catch some of the aroma of the jubilant festival,
when the whole record lies untranslatable on every heart-tablet?
Is it not all written in the Book of the Chronicles
of Christmas kept safely in those loving memories?
But we must not pass by one circumstance which
made the merry yule-tide merrier, in Meadow Branch.
This was the marriage of Nina with the gentleman whose
name has appeared so often in this history; Mr.—now
Doctor—Maximilian Courtlandt. That happy event came
in due time, and father Von Horn's measure of joy was
full. The old man now was satisfied; he could die in
peace he said, with Max to take care of his dear daughter;
and should we never again in this brief history recognize
that cheerful face, or listen to that hearty loving voice,
we may at least be sure that that true loyal soul, was
now once more most happy.
Max was again the son indeed of his fond uncle; and
Nina gave her whole heart to him—Nina so merry but so
earnest in her tender love; so changeable but ah! so
close-bound now with golden chains by her true love; her
love for that much-wept companion of her youth: lost to
them all so long, her own at last.
| Leather stocking and silk, or, Hunter John Myers and his times | |