University of Virginia Library

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,

hashes sent forth their appetizing odor, and large crumbling
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

eyes, drank “To the absent—every where—over-seas or
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

noise than all the crowd together. The tears gushed
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!