Leather stocking and silk, or, Hunter John Myers and his times a story of the valley of Virginia |
 | 1. | PART I.
IN THE TOWN OF MARTINSBURG. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
| 34. |
| 35. |
| 36. |
| 37. |
 | 2. |
| 3. |
 | Leather stocking and silk, or, Hunter John Myers and his times |  |
1. PART I.
IN THE TOWN OF MARTINSBURG.
1. CHAPTER I.
OLD MARTINSBURG.
The antique character implied by the term old has
passed away from Martinsburg. It is now a busy, bustling
town, which daily raises its two thousand heads and
hushes its two thousand tongues to listen to the shrill
steam-whistle of the cars: but even this event, which in
the old time would have furnished so much food for
neighborly gossip, and street-corner harangues attracts
attention but for a moment. The hurry, the bustle, the
healthy activity which spring from trade, and announce
prosperity, commence:—and Martinsburg, thus absorbed
in her joyful present, scarcely ever gives a thought to her
past.
That past was as picturesque as the present is prosaic:
not only the manners and personages, but the town itself.
Standing on the hill to the southward, you had before
you a long unpaved street—Queen-street—which crossed
a low stone arch, ascended the rugged hill, and was lost
with its numerous trees and old mansions in the distance.
The stone arch—for it could scarcely be called a
and fall was bright with waving corn, and tall grass:
through this ravine, and under the arch, a little stream
gurgled over rocks covered with moss and saxifrages.
To the left was the church which had seen the men
and dames of ante-revolutionary days, and given a resting
place to many stately characters of long past generations:—across
the ravine was the German quarter of the
town, its substantial wooden houses half concealed by the
foliage from which light smoke-wreaths curled upward
against the blue background of the mountains and the
sky.
There was about the town in those days a thoughtful,
slumbrous quietude, which was very striking to such travelers
as stopped there: more especially if among such
travelers there were any artists armed with their sketch
books. All day long the atmosphere brooded like a
dreamless slumber upon the quiet borough, and the only
sound that never died away was the sighing of the willows,
which stretching down their long arms to the
stream unceasingly complained to the waves. All day
long the air was stirred by no other sound, unless it were
the sudden roar of the rock-blaster's mine echoing along
the stone-fenced valley. No stranger, except at long intervals,
made the stony street resound with hoof-strokes;
no cur ran barking at the pedestrian's heels. Such horsemen
and pedestrians were seldom seen—and the curs had
got out of practice. The cloud-shadows floated across the
streets, the tall old willows sighed and rustled, the corn
tassels waved their silky fibres in the gentle lazy breeze:
and Martinsburg might have sat for a sketch of Drowsyland.
Our story relates to this old Martinsburg—this land of
the dolce far niente—which is so completely a thing of
the past. But not wholly. The town was at the period
when these veritable events occurred, in the transition
of thought, every thing—were changing. The close-shaven
and prim expression of our own day and generation had
already begun to take the place of the bluff and joyous
bearing of the elder time. Powdered heads were going
out of fashion with fair-top boots and shoe-buckles and
silken hose:—the minuet, that stately divertisement in
which those honest old folks our grandfathers and grandmothers
took such delight, was slowly disappearing:—
stages had commenced running between the towns, thereby
realizing the long dreamed of luxury of a weekly
mail:—and Martinsburg with her sister boroughs was
enlivened from time to time by “professors” of music,
dancing, fencing, drawing, all the accomplishments, in a
word, which are thought necessary parts of education by
the inhabitants of a thriving country town.
It is at this turning point between the old days and
the new, when the nineteenth century, very nearly in its
teens, began thinking and acting for itself, that our history
commences.
2. CHAPTER II.
INTRODUCES ONE OF THE HEROINES.
One of the most comfortable mansions of the German
quarter was that of old Jacob Von Horn. It was one of
those houses which are eloquent of the past—which tolerate
about them nothing modern in character. The
building was large, consisting only of two stories, and
covered with its out-houses space sufficient for a dozen
dwellings of the present day. The massive timbers which
formed its walls had once stood, tall woodland monarchs,
not far from the door: and in front of the broad portal
two giant trees, of the same species, still threw their verdurous
bough-arms over the wide roof and around the
gables, and brushed against the large chimneys which were
clearly relieved against the foliage.
In the large dining-room were an ancient harpsichord;
a mighty patriarchal clock; shelves glittering with burnished
pewter and gayly colored crockery; a ponderous
German-English Bible with silver clasps; and on the
rough wall two or three much prized portraits.
One fine morning in early autumn in the year 18—,
about an hour after sunrise, the passers by the door of
Father Von Horn (so the old German was called) might
have seen, had they taken the trouble to look through the
window which was open, a much more attractive object
than any of those above mentioned. This was Nina, the
old man's daughter—seated with the air of a matron bebehind
the large coffee-run.
Beside her sat a boy of fifteen, with long dark hair,
soft tender eyes, and, on his lips, the gentle ingenuous
smile of early youth. He was clad in a rough, loosely-fitting
roundabout; his collar was thrown open and only
confined by a narrow black ribbon, which clearly defined
itself against his white throat; and on a chair, near, lay
a rustic cap, and two or three school-books.
The boy seemed absorbed in thought, and not unpleasant
thought: his large, dreamy eyes were wandering, one
would have said, over some fair landscape, beyond the view
of mortal vision, far in Fairy-land: in a word, he was in a
profound reverie.
The young girl pushed him on the shoulder with one of
her small white hands, and said, angrily:
“Come Barry! stop that ridiculous thinking! You'll
never be fit for any thing, if you don't give it up. You
are positively in a dream.”
The boy returned to himself, so to speak, and to the
scenes around him, with a laugh and blush.
“I'll try and not do it so much, cousin Nina,” he said,
“but—”
“There, you are going to say—”
“Only that I—”
“I have told you, Barry, often, that you ought not to interrupt
a lady when—”
“O, I won't any more, cousin Nina.”
“There, again! Really you are too vexatious. You
plague me to death.”
Barry seemed hurt at the rough tone in which the
young girl spoke.
“I am sorry I plague you, cousin Nina,” he said, timidly,
“and I know my habit of thinking about all sorts of
things is wrong. But I can't help it. I was born so.”
“Yes, born so! That's every body's excuse,” said the
girl, curling her pretty lip; “where's aunt Jenny? Aunt
Jenny! These servants will run me crazy.”
“I'll call her, cousin Nina,” said Barry, humbly.
“I don't want you to! Finish your breakfast and go
to school!”
“I can not eat any more,” said Barry, rising mournfully,
“you are angry with me, cousin Nina: I am sorry
I offended you.”
“Foolishness! who said you offended me?'
“I love you too much to,” said Barry.
“Aunt Jenny!” called Nina.
Barry turned away blushing, put on his cap, and took
his books.
“Good-by cousin Nina: I hope you are not angry
with me. I wouldn't feel easy if I thought you were.”
“Barry, you are the most perfectly ridiculous child I
ever knew in my life. You imagine that every body is
angry with you for something; and I can not say a word
to you, but I am offended or angry or some nonsense. I
am out of sorts this morning, and I am angry—aunt
Jenny!—and if that lazy Mr. Max don't come down in ten
minutes, I vow I will lock up every thing. Let him get
his breakfast where he can. He is the laziest, idlest—”
“Brother Max sits up studying, cousin.”
“Studying!”
“Don't he, cousin?”
“Barry, you'll drive me mad! For heaven's sake go to
school, and—”
“Hey, Nina!” said a voice, which voice belonged to a
personage who entered at that moment behind the young
girl, “there you are, abusing Barry again: now Nina!”
“Not abusing me, brother Max,” said Barry.
“But I heard, Barry, my boy. I heard that last blast.
Now Nina—cousin Nina, and when I say cousin Nina, I
am on the affectionate key—don't speak so roughly to
Barry. He's too timid: pour it out on me—I can stand
it all—my nerves are strong.”
“Impudence!”
“I impudent!” said Max, with an air of astonishment!
“As you can be!” said the young girl.
“And you—you Nina are—charming. Barry, you rascal,
go kiss Nina; and I think I'll have a kiss myself, this
morning.”
Nina's good-humor seemed to have returned in a measure.
She kissed Barry, who came forward timidly: but
when Mr. Max offered the same compliment, she seized
her cup and threatened to discharge its contents upon him.
Max, upon mature consideration, retreated.
“Nina, you are dreadfully cross this morning,” he said;
“I really thought just now you were going to bite Barry;
and now you threaten to scald one of your most devoted
admirers.”
“Barry is always dreaming, and you—you are—”
“What pray?”
“Always sleeping.”
“Sleeping? Good! I the active, the restless! When I
am in love I will begin to sleep and dream—not before.
Barry never fall in love—it's a losing game, Barry: take
my advice and never fall in love, Barry.”
Barry blushed and laughed. Then, taking up his
cap which had fallen on the floor, he left the room, with
an affectionate look toward his brother who sat down
yawning.
3. CHAPTER III.
MAX MAKES A CONFIDANTE OF HIS COUSIN, AND CONSULTS
HER ON THE SUBJECT OF HIS COSTUME.
Perhaps it would be as well before proceeding farther,
to convey to the reader a somewhat more distinct impression
of the two personages now left alone together.
Nina was a young girl of seventeen, with a profusion of
golden curls, very red lips and cheeks, arms of dazzling
whiteness, and a figure of undeniable beauty, though a
critical eye might have considered it a little—a very little
—too Dutch in character. Two brilliant orbs full of
mischief and sauciness sparkled under their well defined
brows, and whenever Nina smiled—which was usually
at some unlucky visitor's expense—she displayed a row
of snow-white teeth of admirable beauty.
Maximilian Courtlandt, her cousin, was her elder by a
year or more, and was not unlike Nina; his hair long,
fair, and curling; his features regular, and their expression
laughing and full of joyous pride.
We might dwell at some length on the costume of these
personages of our tale—costume so different from that of
ladies and gentlemen in our own day:—but we refer the
reader rather to those portraits, which are found in almost
every house of the land. The young girl's dress was plain
and elegant, her hair not half as high-raised as was then
the fashion, in fact not more than six inches—the heels
of her shoes scarcely two inches high. Her cousin was
clad, as was usual at the period, in short pantaloons, stockings,
a long waistcoat, and stiff-collared coat.
He took his seat at the table, and patiently waited to
be addressed. He did not wait long.
“Max,” said Nina “you are positively the idlest, most
indolent person I have ever known in my life.”
Max helped himself to a roll.
“Idle!” he exclaimed.
“Yes; you know you are.”
“Nina, you astonish me.”
“An hour after breakfast-time! There is the clock!”
“I can't deny that, Nina,” said Max with his mouth
full, “but you know I was up late last night studying—”
“Studying what?”
“My Romeo.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the girl.
“And you know they expect great things of me, my
darling Nina.”
“Max, I'll thank you not to address me as your `darling,”'
the young girl said, pouting, “keep that for Miss
Josephine!”
“Josephine! Is it possible, Nina dear, they have told
you any nonsense about Josephine?”
“You know you are in love with her!”
Max seemed astonished.
“I in love with her!”
“Yes—do you deny it?”
“Deny it? no, I never deny any thing.”
“Don't `dear' me then, please!” said Nina. “Keep it
for those you care for.”
“I care more for you, Nina,” said Max, “than for any
body in the world—a few people excepted.”
“I don't believe it.”
“And I will prove that to you, Nina,” said the young
man.
“How?”
“By asking a favor of you.”
“A favor?”
“Don't that prove my regard for you?”
“A pretty way! and what is the favor? I warn you
beforehand, I shall not grant it.”
“Oh yes, you will: for you know Nina,” said Max,
coaxingly, “you are always so good to me—every body
is, for that matter.”
“I know how you persuade every body to do what you
want by wheedling them; you're the greatest flatterer in
the world.”
“Flatterer! Have I ever flattered you?”
“A thousand times.”
“Just because I said you were the prettiest girl in
town, and the wittiest—that's not flattery.”
“That is a proof you don't flatter, I suppose,” said
Nina, laughing, in spite of herself.
“Ah, there is the proper expression back again: now
for my favor.”
“I shall refuse it”
“Very well—listen first.”
“Go on.”
“You know they have applied to me to act Romeo and
Juliet at Mrs. —'s school next Thursday—Commencement.”
“I have heard something of it.”
“Heard something of it! Just listen. When all the
town is agog on the subject, and talking—”
“Of Mr. Max Courtlandt and Miss Sally Myers.”
“Well—hum,” said Max, with a conceited air, “suppose
they do talk of us. But we are getting away from
the favor you can do for me. It is necessary I should
have, in order to act Romeo properly—and oh, Nina! I
shall throw such expression, such melancholy, into the
part—”
“Who is `getting away' now?”
“I am, I confess: but you know when uncle took me
to Philadelphia I saw the play, and I think I shall act it
of three things.”
“Does it?”
“I will particularize.”
“Do,” said Nina, laughing.
“First a cap—long black feather—jewel to hold it in
—cap black. For just imagine Romeo in any other color?”
“Well—what next?”
“Next boots and silk stockings, also black.”
“Very well.”
“For you see,” said Max, with a business air, “shoes
and buckles would not be in keeping, as they say.”
“Especially if you borrowed them.”
“No joking, Nina: Romeo and Juliet is a serious matter.”
“I thought all tragedies were.”
“Let me get through,” continued Max. “In the
third place I shall need a fine dark-colored coat, profusely—
Now I know you are going to cry out “Forsooth!”
or something of the sort.”
“Go on; profusely what?”
“Laced—black or dark lace.”
Max had guessed rightly. The young girl uttered
one of those “hums!” which express so much.
“A laced coat!” she exclaimed.
“Indispensable,” groaned Max, shaking his head, sadly.
“And I suppose I am to furnish the whole: or what
part? Your boots, or your coat, or your cap—which?”
“I am really afraid, Nina, you will have to furnish all,”
said Max, piteously.
“Folly!” said Nina.
“Yes, yes, I suppose it is,” said Max, “how could you?
Certainly you have no boots: what possessed me to come
to a young lady for boots? I believe I am cracked—I'm
nearly sure of it!—Or for a coat, or cap—do young ladies
wear coats or caps any more than boots?”
Max let his head fall, mournfully.
“Never mind—don't be so down in the mouth,” said
Nina, “why you have no energy! We'll see yet. There
is time between this and Thursday.”
“Well: you make me hope something will turn up.”
“I can make the cap.”
“Can you! Nina, you are the nicest, most obliging,
dearest—”
“That's enough. It is not so very difficult. Will
black velvet be proper?”
“Proper! Romeo himself, if consulted on the point,
would be in ecstasies.”
“You are recovering your spirits.”
“I believe I am.”
“See about the coat then.”
“But have you velvet for the cap?”
“I have my black velvet body.”
“Your what?”
“You know what I mean—the body of my dress; like
this. Then for the feather, my riding plume—and for
the jewel—I'll sew in this bracelet.”
“Nina, I desire to kiss you,” said Max, “in no other
way can my gratitude—”
“Come a step nearer and I'll burn you with this hot
water.”
Max, who had risen and approached his cousin, drew
back.
“Well—another time,” he said, “and now I am going
to see Aunt Courtlandt. I'll have my hair powdered, and
then—”
“Your hair powdered, indeed!”
“Why, certainly.”
“Who'll do it for you?”
“Let me see: why, Monsieur Pantoufle.”
“Max, you are the most impudent fellow in the world.
Monsieur Pantoufle powder your hair!”
“Will you bet me the cap against—let me see—against
a kiss, say, that he does not?”
“I'll bet you a box on the ears.”
“Very well: in half an hour—no in an hour—I shall
come and tell you which has won.”
“I suppose Monsieur Pantoufle will be engaged that
length of time upon your hyacinthine curls. Conceited!”
“Why, Nina, you read Shakspeare! No, but I am
going to the `Sisters of Mercy' to see Aunt Courtlandt.”
“And who besides?”
“Any one who will submit to being seen.”
“Josephine Emberton, for instance.”
“Nina, I really believe you are jealous. Josephine and
myself like each other: but I assure you nothing serious
has passed between us,” said Max, gravely.
Nina burst out laughing.
“But you! I like you so much better!” said Max, tenderly.
“Aunt Jenny! are you coming?”
“Good,” said the young man taking his hat, “I see
my conversation is getting dull. Well, now for the coat
and boots: fortune favor me!'
4. CHAPTER IV.
MAX FINDS MONSIEUR PANTOUFLE IN A GREAT RAGE.
The young man, gayly humming a tune to himself, went
along Queen-street toward Monsieur Pantoufle's. Perhaps
swaggered along would more strikingly suggest his
manner of walking. But Max Courtlandt was too well
bred and graceful to swagger—in the common acceptation
of that word. His gait was jaunty and swinging;
but neither affected nor pompous: it was the easy, careless
carriage of one who is a favorite with every body, and
Max Courtlandt was certainly such a person.
This young man had one of those cordial and winning
faces which prepossess all persons in favor of the owner.
The men liked to see his cheerful countenance as he passed
along:—the fair sex had their joke or laugh for him;
the children held him in high favor, for they had judged
with the unerring instinct of childhood that the bright
smile was part of a loving nature and tender heart. With
the little things Max was a prime favorite—in fact with
every body, spite of his restless and mischievous bent of
mind. That he had his full proportion of this latter
amiable quality the reader will perceive in due course of
time.
Monsieur Pantoufle was one of those wandering “professors”
we have alluded to, and had but a short time before
set up his tent, metaphorically speaking, in the
town of Martinsburg. This metaphorical tent was in reality
“apartments”—that is to say two rooms opening on
other for a studio, fencing gallery, dancing, drawing, and
music room. Monsieur Pantoufle taught each and all of
these accomplishments.
Monsieur Pantoufle was a little man, always clad in
silk stockings, pumps, and ruffles, and his thin hair—invariably
powdered—was brushed back from one of those
narrow, lynx-like faces, which look out from the portraits
of Louis XV.'s time. Under his arm he carried—an inseperable
portion of himself—a full-laced cocked hat. If
we add that his proper name was Monsieur Pantoufle
Hyacinth Xaupi, we have said as much of him as the
reader need know for the purposes of this history.
Max found Monsieur Pantoufle—so he was now universally
called—in a very great passion, striding up and
down his studio, as he liked to call it, and overturning at
every round either a music stool, a chair, or a pair of foils,
of which several pairs lay scattered about upon the tables
and stands.
“Oh me! what is the matter, sir!” cried Max, thinking
his bet with Nina already lost. “What has annoyed
you, Mousieur Pantoufle?”
“The d—d tailor—sacre!” said Monsieur Pantoufle, in
a fury.
“What has he done? Every body seems to be put out
this morning but myself.”
“He has cut my coat wrong!”
“Your coat—what coat? Ah, I recollect! you are very
fond of having your coats made in the fashion of the times
of King Louis XIV., Monsieur Pantoufle, with large cuffs
and all. Now, I suppose the tailor has cut your coat in
some other style—either Louis XIII. or Louis XV. Is
not that it, Monsieur Pantoufle?”
“Oui, oui, you guess right, my young friend,” said the
fencing-master, with a strong French accent, “but he not
only cut my coat wrong, he make it wrong!”
“I never should have expected the man to be guilty of
such conduct, especially to you, Monsieur Pantoufle, who
are so particular. Was it of much value? What was
the style of the coat?”
“It was Charlemagne, Capet, Spain, Italy, any style
but Grand Monarque style—sacre!” cried Monsieur Pantoufle
in a rage. “Begar!” he added, seizing a foil and
throwing himself into an attitude; “I will stick him, I
will transfigurate him like an ortolan on a skewer!”
“Italy did you say, monsieur?” said Max, suddenly.
“Any thing but proper cut, my young friend.”
“And was it laced?”
“Full laced.”
“What color?”
“Black—the royal color?”
“And where is it?”
“I send it back—he say I shall pay.”
“But you don't want it?”
“It is enfin a thousand league too big for me.”
“And is it at the tailor's below?
“Oui, oui!”
“Monsieur Pantoufle,” said Max, “perhaps I can help
you to get rid of it. What was the price?”
“One hundred and twenty franc.”
“But in dollars?”
“Voyons—five franc to the— 'tis twenty dollar.”
“Wait till I return, Monsieur Pantoufle,” said Max.
And putting on his hat, he ran out of the room, leaving
the fencing-master in profound perplexity.
5. CHAPTER V.
MAX ARRIVES AT THE TAILOR'S, BREATHLESS, BUT IN TIME.
Max ran as fast as he could until he had reached the
tailor's, so fearful was he that some one had already purchased
the coat of his imagination. He was convinced
that his only chance to become its happy possessor was
to anticipate the whole eager community.
It was hanging up in the window: Max breathed and
went in more calmly.
“What a pretty coat that is in the window!” he said,
“good morning, Mr. Barlow: take it down, I want to see
it.”
The tailor laughed.
“I made it for Mr. Pantoufle,” he said, “but he refuses
to receive it.”
“You wouldn't force him to, Mr. Barlow,” said the
young man, “I know you wouldn't!”
“I don't know. What can I do with it? It might
serve as a sort of sign out there.”
“A sign?”
“Yes, of my making; it is as nice a piece of work as
I ever did.”
“It is so,” said Max, examining it, and wistfully passing
the laced cuffs through his fingers, “I think I should
like to have that coat myself.”
“You?” said the tailor, surprised.
“I think really I should,” said Max thoughtfully, and
in a melancholy tone; “but I can't, I'm afraid.”
“You want it?”
“Yes, yes, my friend; the very thing.”
“Why, you shall have it then cheap.”
Max shook his head, with a sad smile.
“How much?” he said.
“Eighteen dollars.”
“Eighteen dollars! A fortune—Oh I wish I had
eighteen dollars. I haven't got it.”
“You seem to have set your heart on it—now to oblige
a friend I'll say sixteen dollars. I wouldn't for any one
but you.”
Max shook his head, sighing.
“Oh, what a pretty coat; and it is the very thing!
couldn't I buy it!”
“It is dirt cheap.”
“Sixteen dollars—sixteen dollars!”
“Say fifteen, not a cent less; it cost me fourteen, on
my word.”
“Oh, I was not trying to beat you down, Mr. Barlow.
I was only thinking of the price, and where I should get
the money.”
“You may pay me at any time.”
“No, no, I have promised uncle never to buy on credit.
Fifteen dollars,” murmured Max wistfully, “let me try
it on, Mr. Barlow.”
The tailor helped him on with the coat. It fitted to
perfection.
“I never saw any thing so becoming,” said the tailor
“Not fashionable, though,” suggested Max, smiling,
and looking at the cuffs.
“Why no—but really you look like the Marquis Lafayette.”
“You are attacking me through my vanity, Mr. Barlow.
It is a pretty coat,” said Max, admiring himself
in a large glass, “and what nice lace.”
“The best.”
“It will just suit,” continued Max, and stretching out
his arm, he muttered “`Tybalt, liest thou there in thy
bloody sheet!”'
“Yes, it is really too cheap.”
“Fifteen dollars?” said Max, waking up from his
revery. “Ah, I will have it; and not through Nina.
Certainly I will have it. She will give me the money;
she is so good. Why didn't I think of that before?”
“You take it?” asked the tailor.
“Yes, yes! but provisionally, Mr. Barlow—contingent
on a negotiation I am about to undertake,” said Max,
smiling, “I really must have that coat.”
“You shall.”
“Keep it for me until to-morrow, and promise not to
sell it. I have my suspicions that Hans Huddleshingle
wants that coat: I think, too, that Monsieur Pantoufle
might pass by, and change his mind. Promise that no
one shall have it—neither Hans or Monsieur Pantoufle or
any one. What should the dancing master take it for?
You can make him a real Louis XIV. grand monarch
coat,” said Max, smiling, “and I shall, therefore, Mr. Barlow,
consider this coat promised to me; is it not?”
“The great Mogul should not buy it,” said Mr. Barlow,
laughing.
“Well, I'll come for it—fortune favoring me,” Max
said; and he returned much relieved to Monsieur Pantoufle.
6. CHAPTER VI.
HOW NINA LOST HER WAGER.
Monsieur Pantoufle had recovered a portion of his habitual
equanimity. The numerous “sacres,” he had uttered
were so many safety valves for his pent up anger.
He had replaced under his arm the indispensable cocked
hat which in the torrent of his wrath had fallen to the
floor, and was amusing himself by making passes at a
wooden figure representing a man which stood near his
harpsichord—which exercise he accompanied with many
stamps of the feet and contortions of visage.
“Well, Monsieur Pantoufle,” said the young man, “I
have succeeded in persuading Mr. Barlow not to force you
to accept that coat, but on the contrary to sell it to me.
The fact is 'tis not a Louis XIV. fashion.”
“Never! but sell it to you.”
“To me.”
“You want it?”
“Yes. Do you object to my having the coat?”
“Oh, not so my young friend. 'Tis a grand favor to
persuade that canaille to take it back. Je vous remercie.”
“I know what that means. It means, `I thank you.'
I wish you would teach me French, Monsieur Pantoufle,
you speak it with such elegance.”
“Ah! Monsieur Max, you flatter me.”
“Oh, no, Monsieur Pantoufle.”
“Ah, yes—” said the Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders;
“you are ver polite.”
“Not half as polite as you, Monsieur.”
“You do me honor,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, bowing.
“Oh, I'm but a boy: you are a great traveler,” replied
Max with a bow still lower.
“We shall be friends, Monsieur Max,” said the delighted
fencing master, whose greatest ambition was the reputation
of a traveled man, who had seen the world. “You
shall come see me—we shall fence, we shall play violin
together; I shall give you lessons in the dance.”
“Oh, I already dance tolerably well—the minuet I like
the most.”
“All the other dance is nothing.”
“That is royal, is it not?”
“His grand majesty Louis XIV. dance nothing else
all his life.”
“Indeed!”
“'Tis true.”
“Well, I can dance the minuet, and I often go to the
convent over there—the Sisters of Mercy you know—and
dance it with them.”
“You dance minuet there?”
“Oh yes—with Miss —, but you don't know her,
Monsieur Pantoufle.”
“Who? ah, your amie, Monsieur Max!”
“No, no, but Monsieur Pantoufle, I have just thought
of a project for increasing your number of scholars. You
have a good many, have you not?”
“Yes, yes, and I think the most charming, the most
elegant, is Mademoiselle Nina.”
“Thank you, Monsieur. Well my scheme was to introduce
you into the convent. You know my aunt is Superior.”
“Introduce me into the convent?” asked Monsieur
Pantoufle, in astonishment.
“Oh, it is not strictly a convent, far from it. We call
it so for fun. It is a Catholic school—very strict though.
her scholars take dancing lessons.”
Monsieur Pantoufle's face beamed with delight.
“There are forty or fifty,” continued Max; “now say
thirty take lessons.”
“Will that many dance, think you?”
“At least—oh, at least thirty. Well, thirty at—how
much?”
“Twenty dollar a whole year.”
“Thirty at twenty dollars would be—would it not,
Monsieur Pantoufle—six hundred dollars.”
Monsieur Pantoufle stretched out his arms, and embraced
the young man.
“'Tis magnificent!” he cried.
“Six hundred dollars is a nice sum, Monsieur Pantoufle.
It will buy a heap of things; ever so much of that nice
hair-powder I see on your toilet, for instance. Let me
see what it is made of, Monsieur Pantoufle.”
The Frenchman skipped to the toilet table and brought
the box.
“Oh, what nice perfume there is in it!” cried Max,
taking up in his fingers a portion of the fragrant powder.
“'Tis my Paris receipt, Monsieur Max.”
“Oh, how nice. How pleasant it must feel on the head.”
“Magnificent!”
“I should like so much to have my head powdered for
once, like those fine gentlemen who pass in their curricles
with their fair topped boots, and silk stockings to the
parties. I should feel like a lord.”
“Take—take, my young friend.”
“No, I would never know how to put it on.”
“Rub—rub—'tis all.”
“I couldn't. Now if some of my friends were only here
to put a little on my head!”
“I will myself, Monsieur Max. I am ver good friend
to you.”
“O, I couldn't think of it, Monsieur Pantoufle!” cried
Max laughing.
“'Tis nothing—sit down.”
“Never, never, Monsieur Pantoufle!”
“'Tis no trouble.”
“A man of your standing, think, Monsicur Pantoufle!”
“For a friend, Monsieur Max!”
Max sat down with a laugh.
“Well, how can I thank you sufficiently! Just a little,
Monsieur Pantoufle!”
The Frenchman went through the operation of powdering
with the ease and celerity of his nation—that nation
which does every thing gracefully, from overturning
a throne to seasoning a sauce.
Max rose from the operation with a delicious feeling
about the coronal region, and snuffing in clouds of delicate
perfume. It seemed to him that some magical influence
had suddenly converted him into a large bouquet,
redolent of a thousand odors.
He looked in the large mirror; a snow storm seemed to
have descended on his long curling hair, and on his
shoulders.
“O,” cried Max, putting on his hat, “how sweet it
is! How obliging you are, Monsieur Pantoufle! How
can I thank you. I never can!”
“'Tis nothing—'tis nothing,” said Monsieur Pantoufle,
politely.
“And now good morning, Monsieur Pantoufle, I must
go to aunt Courtlandt's. I'll remember what I said about
the dancing.”
“And so I will,” said Max to himself, as he went out,
“though I did promise only to get my head powdered.”
7. CHAPTER VII.
HOW MAX VERY NEARLY FOUGHT A DUEL WITH MR. HANS
HUDDLESHINGLE, ABOUT HIS COAT.
As Max Courtlandt passed by Mr. Barlow's door, his
jealous eye fell upon a gentleman who, with his hands
stuck in his pockets, was occupied in gazing intently on
the celebrated coat. Max felt all the jealousy of a lover,
when the heart of his mistress is endeavored to be alienated
from him.
On approaching nearer he discovered that this man was
an acquaintance, and no other than the individual who
had been pointed out by his prophetic imagination as the
rival he would probably encounter in his attempt to seduce
into his possession the much coveted coat. In a
word, the gentleman gazing so intently into the window
of Mr. Barlow's establishment, was that red-haired, broad-shouldered,
and red-cheeked young German, Mr. Hans
Huddleshingle.
“Hans,” said the young man, touching him on the
shoulder, “what are you looking at there?”
Mr. Huddleshingle turned round.
“At that coat,” he replied.
“That coat—ah!”
“Well, what is so strange in that?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“It is a very pretty coat.”
“Very!”
“The finest lace I ever saw.”
“Yes, it is,” said Max.
“I think I should like to have it.”
“But you shall not!” cried Max.
“Shall not? what do you mean?”
“I mean you shall not have that coat in the window.”
“If I want it, I will.”
“Try it,” said Max, getting angry; “it is mine, sir,
and you shall not lay your hand on it.”
“Hallo!” cried Mr. Barlow, coming out of his shop,
“what's all this about—quarreling, gentlemen?”
“I was not,” said Mr. Huddleshingle.
“I have no desire to quarrel with any one,” said Max,
“but—”
“Well, Mr. Huddleshingle, I am ready.”
“Where are you going?” asked Max.
“To the court-house. I am subpenaed in a suit of
Mr. Huddleshingle's, which will be tried to-day, and he
came round for me.”
“And he was waiting here—”
“Until I had locked my money drawer,” replied Mr.
Barlow.
Max burst out laughing.
“Hans,” he said, offering his hand, “I beg your pardon
for my rudeness; but I thought you were bent on depriving
me of my coat. Now I have set my heart on having
that coat, and I believe I should fight in mortal combat
for it.”
“You were near it,” said Mr. Barlow, laughing, while
the young men shook hands—Max cordially, Mr. Huddleshingle
phlegmatically; “but I had promised to keep it
for you, had I not?”
“Yes, you had. But when a person has but one idea in
his head, he is always doing something foolish. That coat
is my single idea, at present.”
“It's a good-looking coat—but I don't want it,” said
Mr. Huddleshingle, “come go with us to the court-house,
and hear Lyttelton. He is booked for a great speech to-day.”
“What the solemn Mr. Lyttelton?”
“William Lyttelton.”
“I'll go; he looks as wise as an owl. If I can get up
as grave a face, when I get my license, my fortune will
be made.”
In five minutes, they reached the court-house.
“Come, here we are,” said Mr. Huddleshingle; “Mr.
Barlow, we'll be ready for you in a little time.”
So saying, the young German led the way into the court-house.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
HUNTER JOHN MYERS.
Max, forgetful for the time of his “negotiation,” was
about to enter the old ante-revolutionary building (“where
the court-house stands,” the act incorporating Martinsburg
says), when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a
hearty and firm voice uttered the words, “Well, Max,
how is it with you to-day?”
He who had thus arrested Max, was a tall, gaunt,
powerful man, of a slightly stooping figure, clad in a
hunting shirt, and old weather-beaten slouched hat, originally
brown, now of no particular color, but a mixture of
all. Leaning quietly on the railing of the court-house,
he alternately raised and lowered with two fingers, an
enormous rifle—the butt of which rested on his Indian
moccasin—as if it were but a straw. The hunter—for
such he plainly was—seemed verging upon sixty; his
beard was grizzled, his hair already gray. From beneath
his shaggy eyebrows flashed a pair of keen gray eyes;
and his lips were thin and firm. There was nothing disagreeable,
however, in his face, rather the contrary; a
quiet, simple smile seemed the natural expression of his
countenance and in the keenness of the eye there was
nothing threatening, though much to show that the owner
had latent in his character something that once aroused
would make him “dangerous.”
He held out his hand to the young man, and inclosed
his delicate fingers in his iron grasp.
“How is it with you, Max?” he said.
“Thank you, sir, I am very well,” said Max, respectfully,
“I hope all are well in Meadow Branch.”
“Yes—all well,” replied the hunter; “and your uncle
told me to say that you, and Nina, and Barry, might look
to see him in a day or two.”
“Oh! then he will be down to the play!” said Max,
joyfully.
The mountaineer smiled.
“Yes—he's nigh done on his farm, and the hands can
get along without him for a time, I reckon. He was
telling me of your and Sally's play—though I don't know
as yet what that is.”
“It's from Shakespeare, sir”
“Anan?” said the hunter, inclining his ear.
“It is part of a play from Shakspeare, sir—`Romeo
and Juliet.”'
“Ah, you young folks are mightily ahead of us old
people. I've heard tell of Shakspeare, but I never did
see what you call a play.”
“But you have seen a great deal of reality—if not a
play, sir.”
This was said with a modest laugh and some little
embarrassment. There were but two or three persons in
existence who were complimented by any diffidence, felt on
the part of Mr. Max Courtlandt in their company; the
old hunter was one of these—a man whom Max respected
much. When he ventured on a joke, therefore, Mr. Max,
uttered a profoundly respectful laugh.
“Reality? Ah, you mean the old times. Well, there
was mighty little play that's true, when Injuns were
about.”
“I've heard you tell of those times often, sir, when
you used to come over to uncle's, and sit by the fire with
me on your knee; a long, long time ago.”
“Yes; I've been getting old this many a day. We
gone by so long. They were hard days, and I never
want to see 'em back.”
“Oh! but I have wished I lived then, a thousand
times.”
“Why?”
“What a splendid, glorious life, so full of joyful adventures!”
exclaimed Max, with sparkling eyes.
“Anan?” said the hunter.
Max blushed.
“I mean, we live so tamely and easily now.”
The hunter shook his head.
“I remember when that street was covered with thick
pine growth—and often and over I've stood on the rock
where that stone house over the bridge is, and seen
nothing but the court-house here, and a few poor cabins.
Is it worse now? No, no, much better.”
“But the adventures you had, sir.”
“The adventures were plenty enough—you could not
stir without your gun!”
“The Indians, sir?”
“Injuns, Max—blood-thirsty child-killers.”
The hunter's eye flashed, and his brown, weather-beaten
face, flushed.
“I have never got over that,” he said, “and though
the whole earth is most nigh changed, and there's no
danger, you see my old gun travels about with me like it
used to. But here we are, diggin' into the times gone,
and I don't know even how my Sally is. I've just come
from the valley, and was waiting till her school was out.”
“It is nearly time, sir. You will see her coming
down the street soon, toward the run where the girls
play.”
“I must go and make her tell me all about the play
you are going to have. I know it's right though, because
neighbor Von Horn said it was.”
“Oh! sir—”
“Why, there is my Sally,” the hunter said, with an
expression of quiet pleasure on his old face; “who's with
her?—my old eyes are getting bad.”
“Barry, sir.”
“I must see Barry, too—Barry's a good boy. Come
Max; they don't see us.”
And they left the court-house just as that legal gentleman,
Mr. Lyttelton, compared by Max to a solemn owl,
began to shake the walls with his indignant thunder.
9. CHAPTER IX.
TYPES OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT.
Sally Myers was a pretty little girl of twelve, open
and ingenuous in manner, and with the brightest eyes
and cheeks in the world. She and Barry seemed to be
on excellent terms, laughing and talking about a thousand
things. He carried in his left hand her sachel,
which was empty and destined to receive such flowers
as the autumn days, now fairly come, had spared to the
green banks of the run. His right hand held one of the
child's, which he swung backward and forward as if it
was all for fun—a mere unconscious, mechanical act—
which it was not.
The child looking round saw her father; the old hunter
stretched out his arms—Barry felt the small hand suddenly
jerked away, and she was in those stalwart arms,
on that broad breast.
Max touched Barry and said laughing:
“Pretty sight isn't it, Barry?”
Barry blushed, and smiled.
“Why, how well she looks,” said the hunter admiringly,
“cheeks like the roses, and she's really getting fat
here in town! Did any body ever!”
The child laughed.
“I am so, father!” she said; “and I don't know what
I'll look like in the play with Mr. Max—besides being so
scared!”
“What is it, darling?”
“It's Juliet I'm to play, sir. I most know it now, and
Mr. Max showed me, yesterday, how to kill myself.”
“Anan?” said the hunter.
“I'm to kill myself, you know, father—in the piece.”
“She's to make out she kills herself, sir,” said Max,
laughing.
“Yes, sir,” said the child; “I have done it two or three
times now, and I know all my words.”
The old hunter shook his head.
“It's mighty strange to me, this playing like you were
in earnest: but I know it's all right, because Jacob Von
Horn says it is. Besides, I'll be there little one, to see
you killin' yourself,” added the old man, laughing.
Then stooping down, he kissed his little daughter again
—the small bright face against the old weather-beaten
brows so long lashed by stormy winds—the tender arms
tightly clasped around those brawny shoulders which had
borne the weight of that past discoursed of; that past
more stormy than the stormiest wind! Here for the
thoughtful eye was truly the young, bright present, full
of peace and joy, clasping the rugged strength—hardened
in many stern encounters—of the former time.
“The old man is ill without you, little one, up there in
his valley,” said the mountaineer. “I must come and see
you oftener. Now I must go, daughter, to see to my business.
I'll be at the school, though, this evening.”
“Come to our house, and we'll send Barry for her, sir;
or if Barry won't go,” said Max, laughing, “I'll go myself
for Miss Juliet.”
The old man assented to this, and left them, his gun
under his arm.
“Well, Juliet, we must have a rehearsal,” said the
young man; “get your part well by this evening. Have
you your white dress?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Max!” said the child.
“And that reminds me that I must leave you, Juliet,
full of light.' I must go and see my friend, Mrs. Courtlandt,
about my dress.”
“Oh, ain't you afraid, Mr. Max?”
“Afraid!—why?”
“She's such a dreadful person the girls say, you know.”
“Do the girls say that?”
“Yes, sir,” said the child, “don't they, Barry? I
wouldn't dare to look at her!”
“She is dreadful,” said Max, “a regular old ogress: but
she's my aunt, Sally: I must not abuse her.”
And Max leaving the children to finish their stroll in
the direction of Tuscarora brook, took his way toward the
abode of the ogress, Mrs. Courtlandt.
10. CHAPTER X.
THE DREADFUL MRS. COURTLANDT.
The convent, as the young man—somewhat incorrectly
—called the dwelling of the “Sisters of Mercy,” stood
just upon the brow of the ascent, beyond the arch spanning
the ravine. It was even then an old house, and
was, perhaps, as finely finished in its “woodwork” as any
building in the whole valley of Virginia. The former
possessor was one of those free and joyous spirits who fill
their mansions with gayety and music, and entertain all
the world:—welcoming every new comer in the old openhanded,
free, true-hearted style.
In those days the rooms echoed to merry measures,
danced to by merry feet, and merry laughter flowing
from glad merry hearts. Now the Sisters of Mercy—a
charitable society of Catholic ladies—had possession; and
though they had a school for girls there, there was little
merriment. Max had called it a convent; he was not
far from the mark, since Mrs. Courtlandt the superior,
had the reputation of being very strict in her ideas of a
superior's duties; and scarcely ever permitted the young
ladies—Protestant and Catholic—placed under her care
to receive visitors from the town.
This redoubtable castle, commanded by this terrible
ogress, as Mrs. Courtlandt was reputed to be—whether
justly or unjustly we shall see—Max was on the point of
taking by assault.
He ran up the steps and gave a thundering knock. A
and grave expression, replied to his summons; but at
sight of Max this primness disappeared, and the grave
face relaxed into a smile.
“Oh, how set up you looked, when you thought I was
somebody else!” cried Max, gayly.
“Who do you want to see, Mr. Max?” asked the girl,
laughing; “not—”
Max drew himself up.
“Miss Prudence,” he said, “I am surprised that you—
a staid New England lady—should ask me such a question.”
“Oh, I thought—”
“Who should I wish to see in this establishment—this
convent—”
“Certainly nobody, but—”
“My much-loved—”
“Oh, I knew you were in love with her!” cried Miss
Prudence, giggling.
“In love with her!”
“She's the nicest person here.”
“Certainly she is, Prudence.”
“The prettiest, too.”
“Hum! I don't know—”
“I'll tell her that!”
“Tell whom?”
“Miss Josephine!”
“Josephine—Josephine—tell her what?”
“That you said somebody else was prettier, Mr. Max.”
“Who said any thing about Josephine!”
“You!”
“Me?”
“Certainly.”
“Why, I came here to see aunt Courtlandt.”
“You said she was the nicest person here; you know
you meant Miss Josephine.”
“Prudence, you belie your name. Miss Prudence,
your proper designation would be Miss Mischief. I request
Miss Prudence, that you will at once tell my respected
aunt I have come to see her.”
“Your respected aunt is ready to see you,” said a
voice from the right-hand room.
“Oh! Mr. Max,” whispered the girl, “she heard every
word I said!”
“Certainly she did,” replied Max, coolly.
And leaving Miss Prudence somewhat abashed, he entered
the apartment where the dreaded Mrs. Courtlandt
waited to receive him.
She was a woman of thirty five or forty, tall, masculine,
and severe in deportment; but from her black eyes shone
a world of latent good-humor and charity. Mrs. Courtlandt
was one of those persons whose real characters
are wholly concealed by their outward appearance, an
who consequently have the reputation, with the thoughtless
and surface-judging world, of being just what they
abhor and are the most removed from. In ordinary society,
she seemed the farthest possible removed from gayety
or cheerfulness—in reality, there was not one particle of
sternness in her character. She was cheerful, charitable,
loving;—if her natural gayety, and girlish lightness were
gone, there was good reason for it in that misfortune
which had chilled her heart for years. But with this
our story has nothing whatever to do.
Mrs. Courtlandt was certainly eccentric, however: her
dress, for instance, was sui generis. It consisted of an
upper garment, which bore a striking resemblance to a
man's sack coat;—a very short skirt apparently of broadcloth;—and
on her feet (her enemies—who has them not?
—whispered), the usual feminine slippers were replaced
by—boots! Perhaps this report had its origin in Mrs.
Courtlandt's fearless mode of riding on her numerous
errands as a Sister of Mercy;—perhaps there really was
black hair cut short and closely confined by a silken
net of the same color, gave a stately expression to the
face of the lady, whose portrait we have thus made an
attempt to sketch.
“Well, Max,” said Mrs. Courtlandt, rising from her
seat, “pray what were you saying to Prudence about
`nice people?”'
“Oh, aunt,” said Max, taking the offered hand with a
mixture of affection and respect, “you heard us, did you?”
“Certainly, the door was open.”
“What did you hear?” continued Max, desiring, like
a cautious diplomatist, to sound the depths of the enemy's
knowledge.
“I heard you say you had come to see the `nicest person
in the convent.”'
“That was you, you know, aunt,” said Max, laughing.
“Nonsense!”
“Not you?”
“Decidedly not.”
“Who then, aunt?”
“Josephine Emberton, perhaps.”
“Josephine! oh, aunt, what could put such an idea in
your head?”
“Were you not talking about her with Prudence just
now?”
Max had forgotten this small circumstance.
“Why yes, we certainly were, dear aunt—I now recollect.
But you must have heard my reply to Prudence—
who, by-the-by, aunt, is a remarkably pleasant young
lady; I never saw less of the ducnna—you know the
maids in Spain are called duennas—I've been reading a
novel lately, all about that—and—”
“What a tongue you have, Max; you talk too much;
but, after all perhaps it is better that the excess should
be in that than in the other direction.”
“Do you think I shall make a lawyer?”
“I hope so.”
“If I could only turn out a credit to the family now,
aunt,” said Max, smiling.
“I think you will, Max,” his aunt replied, with an almost
affectionate glance at her nephew, “you are a great
rattle-trap, but have very good sense.”
“Do you really think so, my dearest aunt—you delight
me; though confidentially speaking, I never have considered
myself a perfect dunce.”
“When do you apply for your license to practice?”
“Not for a year still—but I am already `retained'—
that is the word with us lawyers, aunt!” said Max; “I'm
already engaged in a suit—though not exactly at law.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm engaged to defend somebody.”
“Who, in the world?”
“Juliet, aunt—I shall have opposed to me, Paris, whom
it is arranged beforehand I shall overcome.”
“What an inveterate jester you are! Well, I have
heard something of this. Come and tell me all about
it in my lecture-room. I wish to try some experiments
while the children are playing in the garden.”
And Mrs. Courtlandt with stately gait led the way to
the lecture-room beyond.
11. CHAPTER XI.
MAX KEEPS HIS PROMISE TO MONSIEUR PANTOUFLE.
The lecture-room was in the rear of the house, and
opened upon a long portico which overlooked a handsome
falling garden full of flowers, of which Mrs. Courtlandt
was very fond, and shaded by tall trees, whose leaves
were just beginning to turn yellow. The lecture-room
was not finished with the extreme beauty of the one they
had just left, where the chisel of some Benvenuto Cellini,
seemed to have shaped the cornices and wainscoting, so
admirably carved were the wreathes of flowers, and delicate
traceries of drooping vines. Here the modern and
practical seemed to have routed the antique and poetical.
The room was full of electrical machines, Leyden jars,
telescopes, black boards, slates and school-books. On the
benches lay, half-open, “Natural Philosophies,” “Euclids,”
algebras, atlases, and geographies—with here and there a
carelessly thrown down sun-bonnet. After traveling with
much dissatisfaction through the most beautiful regions
of the world—radiant in blue and yellow—the school-girls
had, with the greatest satisfaction, betaken themselves to
an exploration of ground nearer home—namely, the yards
and garden of the convent.
Mrs. Courtlandt was devoted to science for its own sake
—laborious study and acts of charity absorbed her whole
mind, and time, and interest.
Max looked round on this heterogeneous assemblage of
his school day tormentors, and blest his stars that he was
away algebras and geographies. Mrs. Courtlandt looked
at the electrical machines as if they were trusty friends
—well beloved. She turned a handle, and with a discharging
rod emptied a jar.
“This is my invention nephew,” she said, “see how
rapidly the electricity accumulated.”
“I like electricity and geometry, aunt,” Max replied,
“and that is nearly all.”
“You never would study any thing long enough,” she
said, “ah, the young people are growing so frivolous.”
“I am not frivolous, aunt.”
“You all are.”
“Then every thing but science is frivolous.”
“I did not mean that—you know Max, that I have
never been opposed to harmless diversion.”
“`Harmless diversion,”' repeated the young man to
himself, “that seems to me to be the exact description of
dancing—and now or never, is my opportunity to keep
my promise to Monsieur Pantoufle. Honor bright!”
“Aunt,” said Max, “I don't think you observed how
elegantly my head is powdered—did you?”
“No—I observe it now, however.”
“Isn't it elegant?”
Mrs. Courtlandt smiled.
“You certainly came to see some of my scholars—
most probably Josephine—instead of an old woman, like
myself.”
“You an old woman! My dear aunt, you know
you—”
“No flattery, Max—recollect it is thrown away on me;
—how can you be so foolish.”
“I was only going to say what every body says, aunt,
that you are lovely; you know I think you are, and if I
did want to see Josephine, I came to see you to-day—indeed
I did. And Monsieur Pantoufle powdered my hair,
him!” said Max, laughing.
“Did the dancing-master himself powder your hair?”
“Monsieur Pantoufle himself.”
“Why, you must have given him love-powders—he so
punctilious—”
“I gave him something better than love-powders for
his hair-powder, aunt.”
“What was that?”
“I gave him a promise.”
“A promise?”
“Yes, and you know I always keep my promises. I
promised to recommend him to you for a dancing-master—to
teach all those charming and graceful young
damsels hopping about out there in the garden how to
lance!”
Mrs. Courtlandt's face assumed a curious expression.
“Monsieur Pantoufle my dancing master!” she said.
“Oh, no—not yours, aunt—not teach you to dance;
you dance now, elegantly I have heard, especially the
minuet.”
“Well, if I have danced when I was young and giddy,”
said Mrs. Courtlandt, with a sigh, “I do not now.”
“But you don't disapprove of it?”
“No—not at all; you know how often I have played
minutes for yourself and Josephine. I suppose the town
would think I was crazy, if they saw me seated at the
harpsichord playing, while you young folks were courtesying
and bowing about the room to the music. I will
think of Monsieur Pantoufle's request, and if my scholars
obtain permission from their parents, they shall find no
obstacle in a refusal from their old schoolmistress. I do
not disapprove of dancing, or any other harmless pleasure,
nephew—heaven forbid! young people will be young
people, and if I feel as old as Methuselah, it does not
prove that they must feel so too. No, no—I am very eccentric
enjoyment.”
“You are the best and sweetest woman I know in the
whole world, aunt,” cried the young man, catching the
dreadful Mrs. Courtlandt in his arms, and saluting her
with an enthusiastic kiss.
At that moment Max heard a subdued “hem!” behind
him. He turned round, and found himself face to face
with Miss Josephine Emberton.
12. CHAPTER XII.
MAX PROPOSES A BUSINESS ARRANGEMENT TO MISS JOSEPHINE
EMBERTON.
Miss Josephine Emberton was a small, slender young
lady of fifteen or sixteen, with profuse dark hair, much
like Mrs. Courtlandt's, and brilliant eyes, lips, teeth, and
complexion. In her madcap smile the very essence of
mischief betrayed itself, though at times a most winning
softness was not wanting—only the more striking for the
contrast.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Miss Josephine, with a mock
bow to the young man; then to Mrs. Courtlandt, “I just
came in because I was tired jumping the rope, ma'am,”
she said.
“Jumping the rope!” said Max, “is it possible a young
lady as old as yourself jumps the rope!”
“Certainly, sir.”
“But you didn't come in for that—you heard me in
here; did you not, now?”
“No, but I saw you—” said Miss Josephine, laughing.
“Kissing his old aunt,” said Mrs. Courtlandt, finishing
the sentence with a smile which somewhat disconcerted
Miss Josephine, “but you do not know why he was thanking
me, I think.”
“No, ma'am.”
“Because I did not set my face against dancing—Monsieur
Pantoufle the dancing-master, wishes to give lessons
here,” said Mrs. Courtland, moving away.
“Oh, how delightful it will be!” said Josephine, elasping
her hands.
“Would be, Miss Josephine, you should say,” Max
replied; “the thing is not arranged so nicely yet as you
seem to think.”
“Pray, what has Mr. Max to do with our dancing,”
the young girl said, “I suppose it is one of his usual airs.”
“My usual airs!” cried Max; “I have a great deal to
do with it, Miss Josephine. I proposed it to Monsieur
Pantoufle, and aunt has consented to allow you all to
write and ask your respected parents for permission to
take lessons.”
“Oh! so you know Monsieur Pantoufle, Mr. Max?”
“He is one of my best friends.”
“What a big man you are getting!” continued Miss
Josephine, “you are a friend of Monsieur Pantoufle—you
are kind enough to do us poor little school-girls a kindness
—you are going to play Romeo—oh, what a fine gentleman!—please
don't stop speaking to me.”
Max received this raillery with great coolness, and
replied: “You might have used the words of Portia, `I
pray you know me when we meet again,' but that
reminds me, Miss Josephine, of a matter of business.
Don't think me so disinterested. Lawyers—and lawyers
to be too, don't give their time and talents for nothing; I
hold that to be a cardinal doctrine of our profession—”
“Our profession!”
“Don't interrupt me, Miss Josephine—I was about to
explain. For my exertions in favor of yourself and your
companions, I ask your assistance in a very perplexing
matter. You have mentioned, my dear Miss Josie—I beg
pardon Josephine, for you know aunt, who is busy at her
electrical machine yonder, dislikes nicknames—”
“So do I.”
“How can I get on!” cried Max, impatiently “if you
interrupt me whenever I speak.”
“Really!”
“You spoke of my acting, Josie—what a tongue I
have!—Miss Josephine, I should say. Now, to act
Romeo it is absolutely necessary I should have a dress—”
“Well.”
“Dress requires money, Miss Josephine!”
“Money!”
“And the idea which has occurred to me,” continued
Max, with a business air, “is for you girls to raise a subscription
to buy my dress.”
“Are you in earnest?”
“Certainly I am.”
The young girl looked doubtfully at her companion.
“Give me a slate and pencil,” continued Max, “and
we'll figure it out.”
Josephine handed him a slate. He sat down and wrote
on the left hand, “Romeo's Dress”—on the right, “Subscribers.”
“How many girls?”
“About forty,” said Josephine.
“Excellent—that is forty subscribers; but say only
twenty dance—that is twenty subscribers.”
“Are you in earnest?” repeated Miss Josephine, bending
over him.
“In earnest about what?” asked Mrs. Courtlandt,
behind them.
Josephine drew back, and the young man said, laughing:
“About subscribing an amount of money, for which I
am negotiating a loan, aunt.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only a joke, aunt.”
“I might have known that—you are always joking.
Josephine,” she continued, “go ask Sister Julia if it is
not time to call in school. Good-by, nephew; you must
not stay.”
“That's what you always say, aunt—would my face
frighten the girls? But dear aunt, I have something to
say to you. Please come in here for five minutes.”
“Certainly, nephew,” said Mrs. Courtlandt, following
him into the front room.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
MAX MORALIZES ON THE VANITY OF FASHIONS IN COSTUME
Max looked at his aunt and sighed, which ceremony
very naturally excited the lady's curiosity.
“Well, nephew,” she began, “what have you to say
to me? make haste; school will be called in, and I hear
Sister Julia and Sister Martha coming down stairs. What
did you want?”
Max's eye wandered mournfully over his aunt's figure,
and endeavored to ascertain whether report had rightly
charged her with wearing boots. Then he heaved a
second sigh.
“Well, what are you thinking about,” asked Mrs. Courtlandt,
patiently folding her hands.
“I was thinking, my dear aunt,” replied her nephew,
“of the importance the world attaches to the outward
appearance of things. At the moment you spoke, I was
reflecting upon the peculiar costume you have adopted—
no doubt with good reason—and of the great number of
invidious observations I had heard about it, from some
of the most charitable persons of my acquaintance.”
“About my dress?” asked Mrs. Courtlandt, “who
pray?—have I not a right to dress as seems best to myself?”
“Certainly, my dear aunt, and that is precisely what
I have often had occasion to say. You undoubtedly have
that right, and yet I believe you have personally offended
some most excellent persons by not dressing as they think
you should dress—indeed I know you have.”
“Offended, did you say, nephew?”
“Yes, yes, aunt.”
“Why, what is offensive in my costume?” continued
Mrs. Courtlandt, looking at herself.
“There it is, aunt—nothing at all. Even if you do
wear boots—I have often said—are boots unfeminine, are
boots improper?”
Mrs. Courtlandt held out her foot: it was cased in a
good, substantial covering, something between a gaiter
and a boot, but with this peculiarity, that the upper leather
was thin and pliant and fell down, so to speak in folds.
“There is my foot,” said Mrs. Courtlandt, stoutly,
“judge if I wear boots, nephew.”
“I really do not know what to call that, aunt—” said
Max, conceiving at the very moment a nefarious intention
in the depths of his heart.
“It is a shoe I have worn for years, to prevent the stirrup
from rubbing my ankle,” said Mrs. Courtlandt calmly,
“and I shall wear it as long as I think it my duty
to ride about and visit the sick: consulting no one on
the subject but myself. But now Max, tell me what
all your moralizing about the importance of costume
—and boots—and people's opinions—signifies. Pray
make haste—I must go very soon to my duties.”
“That train of thought was suggested to me, dear
aunt,” replied the young man, sighing, “by my engagement
to appear as Romeo on Thursday.”
“How is that?”
“Romeo was an Italian, was he not, aunt?”
“Why certainly, the scene lies in Verona—but what
connection—”
“I know what you would ask, aunt,” interrupted
Max, “how does this connect itself with costume.”
“Well—how does it?”
“If Romeo lived in Italy, he dressed differently from
Americans, did he not, aunt?”
“Certainly.”
“And I am to act Romeo—you know that, dear aunt?”
“Yes—what next?”
“Well, now, I doubt if I should properly represent the
character in this brown sack coat, and the rest of my
dress.”
“You could not—have you not prepared your dress?
Mrs. —'s exhibition is next week, you know.”
Max heaved a deep sigh.
“I know it, aunt—but I have no dress; the coat is the
great difficulty. There is a coat up at Barlow's, which
answers to perfection. I must have that coat, aunt!
you can't imagine how I have set my heart upon that
coat. Oh, I should make such conquests—I know the
sex, well, very well—”
“The sex! what do you mean?”
“The female sex—the gentler, tender, more romantic
sex. They all judge from outward appearances, my dear
aunt—I know the effect a charming coat like that will
have upon them—”
“I am of the `sex' you libel.”
“You! oh, no; you are above them much, aunt, a
thousand times superior to them. I do not covet the
coat for such as you—but the young maidens. But after
all, the price is fifteen dollars,” added Max, mournfully.
“Aunt, I want fifteen dollars.”
Mrs. Courtlandt rose. “Is that what you have been
coming to all this time?”
“Yes, yes, my dearest aunt. I was embarrassed—like
an unfortunate borrower, I did not know how to bring
out my want at once, and say I had come for it. But
I did come for it;—your affectionate nephew humbly
requests a donation of this coat from his beloved aunt.”
“Well, his beloved aunt will give it to him,” said Mrs.
Courtlandt, “and you shall pay me out of your first fee;
recollect it is a debt of honor, nephew—you can give me
from her purse.
“I think I shall kiss you again, aunt,” said Max,
“how good you are to me!”
Perhaps Max would have carried this threat into
effect—but at the moment when he moved toward Mrs.
Courtlandt, the mischievous face of Miss Josephine appeared
in the framework of the door.
“Miss Julia is ready, ma'am,” she said to Mrs. Courtlandt.
“Good morning, nephew,” said Mrs. Courtlandt,
“come again soon.” And passing by the young girl, who
made way for her, she left the room.
Josephine lingered a moment.
“Shall we really have the subscription?” she asked
dubiously.
Max drew himself up.
“I am surprised, Josephine, at your asking such a question,”
he said.
“Surprised—indeed!”
“My dear Josephine,” said the young man, taking
from his breast a small locket, “do you see this?”
“Yes—some of my hair; I wish I had never let you
coax it from me. Give it back to me!”
“I prefer not; I attach to it an interest far too tender.
And you—could you suppose that after receiving from
that fair hand, this beautiful lock of hair as a pledge of
your affection, I could descend so low as to accept money
from you, Josephine? Never! never!”
And having uttered this dignified speech Mr. Max
Courtlandt made a profoundly respectful bow to the
young girl and went away merrily jingling in his pocket
the donation of his aunt. He felt all the refined satisfaction
of a man who has made a stately and graceful
speech, and performed at great self sacrifice a most disinterested
action.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
William Lyttelton Esq., Attorney at Law.
Max hurried to Mr. Barlow's, and to his inexpressible
satisfaction, found that the magical coat was still unsold.
With the distrust of a man who has set his heart upon
possessing a thing—which thing, is open for emulation's
“thousand sons”—he had imagined, that the object of his
desire, might possibly escape him. Might not some
wealthy parvenu, basely taking advantage of his wealth,
have bribed Mr. Barlow by a higher offer than his own?
Might not Monsieur Pantoufle have preferred his prior
claim? Might not Mr. Barlow's house have been reduced
to ashes, while he was at his aunt's? As with a distrustful
lover, so with Max. Nothing was improbable.
He counted out to Mr. Barlow the fifteen dollars, received
the coat compactly wrapped up, and joyfully took
his way home, there to exhibit his purchase to his cousin.
Nina was sitting in the middle of the room: Max
threw the bundle on a chair and crying, “There it is!”
sprang toward the girl. But he suddenly checked himself:
Nina had a visitor.
This visitor was a tall, solemn-looking man, of twenty-five
or thirty, clad in black, with black hair, black beard,
and black eyes. He seemed to diffuse around him a
pleasant odour of law-books and dusty parchments, and
in the wrinkles around his close shut mouth, the three
tomes of the Novelli might have lain concealed. This
gentleman was no other than that Mr. William Lyttelton,
whose legal thunder had assailed Max's ears when he left
of business—also a very successful and “rising” man,
further, he had been spoken of for Congress—which various
circumstances had not operated to his disfavor, with the
fair damsels of Martinsburg, who, like many damsels, of
many other places, then and now, were not averse to what
is called high reputation. Mr. Lyttelton, it is true, was
solemn, and rather dull; but he was a man of irreproachable
character; was said to have defended the rights of
more than one widow and orphan, without fee; and when
aroused was capable of no ordinary display.
What had brought this legal gentleman to see Nina,
Max was completely at a loss to understand; but he was
soon enlightened on the subject.
“I will thank you, madam,” said Mr. Lyttelton in a
sepulchral voice, after a stiff movement of his head toward
the young man, “to inform your father that I called. It
is absolutely necessary that we should have his deposition.”
“He will return in a day or two, sir,” said Nina.
“That will do, madam.”
“And I will tell him, sir.”
“You will oblige me, madam.”
Mr. Lyttelton rose.
“I have thought it unnecessary to have a summons
served upon Mr. Von Horn by the proper officer—” he
said:
“O, that is not necessary sir,” broke in Max in a business
tone, “you know it is left entirely to—”
“Pardon me for interrupting you, sir,” said Mr. Lyttelton
with the ghost of a smile, “what you say is very
just.”
“I am studying law, Mr. Lyttelton,” said Max consequentially
“and we of the profession—”
“Max, you are detaining Mr. Lyttelton,” said Nina
laughing.
“Oh, not at all,” observed that gentleman smiling;
and although he had taken his hat, he lingered a moment.
“Hum!” said Mr. Lyttleton, gravely.
Nina smiled politely, as much as to say, “Did you
speak, sir?”
“Hum!” repeated Mr. Lyttleton, looking out of the
window, “we have a very fine day, madam.”
And after this uncommon observation—for Mr. Lyttelton,
that rigid business man, most extraordinary—the
visitor took his leave.
Max burst into a laugh as soon as the door had fairly
closed.
“What a post that is!” he said.
“A post, indeed! I wish you had half his mind!”
“What mind has he? Why, for nothing but law—
law—law—”
“And is not that a very valuable sort, Mr. Impudence?”
“My dear Nina, I would thank you to recollect my
baptismal name of Maximilian, when you do me the honor
to address me. And I will add that you astonish me
by uttering such sentiments. Is law all that men have
to interest them in this world? Is a man to sleep, eat,
drink, and play law? Law is a good thing—especially
when it is for you in a case—an excellent thing; but law
is not the sole thing man was placed upon the earth to
give his thoughts and all to, my dearest Nina.”
“I'll thank you to drop that mode of addressing me,
sir.”
“Now, observe this Mr. Lyttelton,” continued Max
philosophically, “he is a mere lawyer—a walking volume
of his namesake old Coke Lyttleton. He has no idea of
any thing but declarations, statutes, pleas, replications,
rejoinders, and sur-rejoinders. The sun does not shine
for him; the birds are a vexatious interruption to his
studies, when bending over his dusty papers he hears
their singing; he does not feel in his stony heart an
my dear Nina. There is my quarrel with him; he is
utterly unsocial—business alone is his god—miserable
business,” said Max, as if the very word were distasteful.
“Unsocial, indeed,” said Nina, “I wonder if he did
not say it was fine weather.”
“Do you call that—”
“Has he been as polite as that to any other girl in
town?” asked Nina, forgetting completely her train of
argument.
“Why, you are setting your cap at him!” said her
cousin.
Nina laughed, and turned the conversation.
“How in the world did you get your hair powdered,”
she said.
“Monsieur Pantoufle did it—I've won my bet, charming
Nina.”
“On your honor now, Max?”
“On my honor, madam,” said Max, bowing and laying
his hand on his heart.
“Well, you do coax people! I suppose Monsieur Pantoufle
consented just to get rid of you.”
“Not at all, Nina—he insisted on it, contrary to my
wishes,” said Max, “but it seems to me there was a bet.
A box on the ears against a cap and feather. I've won.”
“Your cap is finished—look up-stairs in your room on
the table. What is in that bundle? I hav'n't asked you.”
“Look for yourself,” said Max, running up-stairs.
As Nina was opening the bundle, a knock was heard
at the door, and Mr. Hans Huddleshingle entered the
apartment.
15. CHAPTER XV.
HANS HUDDLESHINGLE, ESQ.
“Good morning, Miss Nina,” said Mr. Huddleshingle,
with a movement of his head, which approached as near
to a bow as this phlegmatic gentleman was capable of
making it, “I was passing by, and thought I would come
in and see you this bright morning.”
“It is a very fine day, sir,” said Nina, coldly, and
stiffly sitting down, with a glance at Mr. Huddleshingle's
personal adornments, which conveyed plainly to that gentleman,
the fact that she had seen through his pretense
of coming in incidentally, as he was “passing by.”
To explain this conduct a word is necessary. Mr. Huddleshingle
was one of Nina's most devoted admirers—and
though his “good estate,” and purity of (German) blood,
had made him rather popular with the young ladies of
the quarter, he was not in the least liked by Nina. She
had signified this dislike so often that she began to experience
a feeling of resentment at Mr. Huddleshingle's
repeated visits—that gentleman having either not perceived,
or declining to perceive, the light in which his
attentions were regarded.
Her dislike was attributable to the fact, that Mr. Huddleshingle
perseveringly monopolized her society at the
social gatherings in the neighborhood, thereby excluding
from her, all the more agreeable beaux who found it difficult
to edge in a word while the young German's flood
of phlegmatic commonplace was rolling on;—he was,
moreover, undeniably wearying to a young girl of Nina's
spirit;—in short, Mr. Huddleshingle was what in our
own day, ladies (and other persons), call a bore. Add to
him so contemptuously, and the reasons for Nina's
dislike of her visitor will be completely understood.
“It is a very fine day,” said Mr. Huddleshingle, “and
I have been up at the court-house all the morning attending
to a case I have there, which I think, is the most
barefaced claim against me I ever saw. I'll tell you
how it commenced—”
“I never could understand legal points, sir,” said Nina,
impatiently.
“But this is very plain. It began with—”
“Mr. Huddleshingle, I have a headache to-day; I
hope you will excuse me if I leave you. I will send
Max down to entertain you—I am so stupid, I could not.”
“If you have a headache I will not stay,” said Mr.
Huddleshingle, somewhat irate at the young girl's manner,
“I suppose that wise-looking Mr. Lyttelton, who
went away as I came up, gave it to you.”
“No, sir—he did not.”
“He's enough to give any one the headache.”
“I see nothing in Mr. Lyttelton to produce such an
effect, sir.”
“Well, I'll go, Miss Nina, I see you have had a very
agreeable visitor—this Mr. Lyttelton, and can't bear me
after him. Good-morning.”
“Good-morning, sir,” said Nina, with contemptuous
indifference. Mr. Huddleshingle left the room with
wrath in his heart.
“I am glad Max was not here,” said Nina to herself,
when her visitor had disappeared. “He would have
challenged Mr. Huddleshingle on the spot,” she added,
laughing. “Oh, what a tiresome, disagreeable person
that is. On my word, I will not speak to him hereafter
—no, that would offend father. I suppose I must.”
And Nina returned to the bundle, as Max came out of
his room, waving the new cap and shouting, “What a
glorious, splendid feather!”
16. CHAPTER XVI.
MORE DIPLOMACY, AND HOW IT RESULTED.
The young man entered in triumph, his long curling
locks surmounted by a handsome velvet cap, from which
floated a magnificent black feather.
“Nina,” said he, “you are a peerless woman; I could
not have desired a more beautiful cap than this. How
did you manage to get it ready so soon?”
“I had the velvet and all.”
“And the feather? But I see it is from your riding
hat. And then this jewel! who would imagine it was
your bracelet!”
“You seem to like the cap?”
“Like it! I am delighted with it! nothing could be
more beautiful—except, indeed, my coat there.”
“I have not got it out—this cord will never come untied.”
“Break it—there!” cried Max, snapping the string
and pulling out the richly finished coat, “did you ever
see any thing more beautiful?”
“It is very pretty—where did you get it?”
“Ah, thereby hangs a tale,” said Max, facetiously, “I
have been unremittingly engaged in pursuit of that coat
since I left you this morning. That garment, my dear
Nina, is the reward of the highest generalship. It would
be a long story—but it is worth the trouble I expended
upon it.”
“Well, I don't know how you could have come by it
—honestly?”
“Oh, perfectly, Nina—I have, I believe, never robbed
any thing but orchards; and I am inclined to think the
owner, had I filched it, would identify his property next
Thursday, since every body in town will be there. What
lovely cuffs!”
“Very pretty—try it on.”
Max drew himself up.
“Before you, madam—I disrobe before a lady?”
“Oh! you don't think of `disrobing before a lady,'
when you want me to mend your coat for you.”
“That was in my boyish days, my dear Nina—when I
was young and knew no better, Miss Von Horn; it would
not be proper for me to sacrifice my dignity so wholly in
presence of the lady who is to be my wife.”
“Your wife, indeed—the wife of a boy like you!”
“That is just what I said to a friend of mine the other
day—”
“What did you say?”
“He advised me to court you.”
“Well, sir!”
“And I replied, as you have replied to me, `What!
court a girl like that!”'
“I wonder, Mr. Max, if girls are not women two years
before boys are men. You are eighteen, and though I
am seventeen I am a year your senior.”
“True, true, I had forgotten that,” returned Max, “it
is undeniably true; in fact I have always said so.”
“Said what?”
“That the female character matures sooner than that
of the lords—the lords of creation.”
“Pray, where did you get your fine ideas, Mr. Philosopher?”
“Experience, all experience, my dear Nina; I really
ponder at times on these mysterious matters so deeply,
that I feel at least sixty-five and look in the glass to see
if I am not turning gray. You girls are like flowers—
like trees. Long before we have arrived at our full development,
the young ladies who were the delight of our
youthful hours, who played with us—mere children—a
few years back, these ladies like so many lovely flowers
have budded and bloomed, and fallen from the stem into
some outstretched arms; and we—we are alone. A sad
world, my Nina!”
“I have not `fallen from the stem' if I am your senior.”
“My senior? Oh, then if you are really such an old
woman as that, I'll try on the coat, though I know I am
committing an impropriety. There, what do you think
of it? coat, cap, and—”
“Bells—you should get the bells now. But it really
is a very handsome dress. Where in the world did you
get it?”
“It was made for Monsieur Pantoufle,” said Max, prevaricating,
“but Barlow sold it to me.”
“With Monsieur Pantoufle's consent?”
“Oh, he thanked me for buying it. But I'll tell you
how funnily Monsieur Pantoufle acted some other time.
Now, my dear Nina, I have a serious proposal to make
you; I am no longer in a jesting humor, for a great interest
is at stake. You must act, too.”
“I won't! what part could I take? I suppose after
choosing little Sally Myers for your Juliet, you would
have me to play some inferior character.”
“No, my dear Nina—no, no! At one time it had
occurred to me that you would make a charming Paris,
but I abandoned that idea at once—you are too feminine,
too gentle, you want spirit to ape a `merry gentleman.”'
Nina seemed to be somewhat doubtful whether to take
this as a compliment or a satire. Max continued.
“No, I had no intention of proposing to you a character
in Romeo and Juliet, where, as you say, little Sally
Myers already fills the chief female part;—you should
know what strange stories are told of her mimicing powers,
even in the nursery. That induced me to select her;
and, I assure you, nothing is more wonderful than the high
dramatic talent the child conceals under her infantile manner.
But I wander from the subject.”
“Is that unusual?”
“No, Nina, I confess it—'tis not. But I will proceed
to what I was about to say. The play of Romeo and Juliet
is, you know, a tragedy.”
Nina tossed her head.
“You think no one but yourself has read Shakspeare,
I suppose?”
“No, no—but you interrupt me. I was going on to
say, that when tragedies are performed, there is always
another piece afterward;—you know I have seen the
actors in Philadelphia.”
“Well, sir.”
“Now, I want you to act an after-piece.”
“I won't.”
“Now, Nina!” said Max coaxingly, “it will go off so
much better. I shall produce a dreadful effect on the
audience with the poison, and vaults, and daggers, and
all that—they will go home frightened, Nina. The after-piece!
the after-piece!”
“I will not.”
Max sat down dejected.
“Well, I suppose I must abandon it,” he said, sighing,
“but I had set my heart on it.”
“It is not necessary.”
“No, no,” said Max, mournfully, “but I could bear
the disappointment but for one thing.”
“What is that?”
“Your refusing me a trifle like that, Nina—and I
ready to die for you.”
“What could I act, in the name of goodness?”
“Nothing, nothing—that is to say, any thing, every
thing with your genius. But let us dismiss the subject,
Nina,” said Max, much dejected.
“Max, you are the most ridiculous person in the
world,” said Nina, “what are you sighing so for?”
“Was I sighing?” asked Max, sadly, “I did feel some
disappointment.”
“At what—my refusal?”
“Oh, don't let us return to the subject; I have annoyed
you too much already, Nina.”
“Who said you had annoyed me; did I?”
“No, but I must have done so.”
“Why?”
“You seemed so much opposed to what I said—but I
know I was wrong. Excuse my troubling you, Nina.”
Nina reflected a moment, then said, “What's the use
of an after-piece?”
“None—none at all.”
“What would it be?”
“A little comedy with two or three players, taking in
all not more than fifteen minutes; but let me drop the
subject, it is disagreeable to you.”
“I think I might change my mind, Max, if the piece
was what I would like.”
“Would you?” cried Max, brightening up; “oh! Nina,
you shall choose just what you want from all the play-books
I can borrow. There is plenty of time between
this and Thursday, is there not?”
“Plenty.”
“Then any dress will do.”
“I can fix all that.”
“Nina, you are the dearest, sweetest girl in the universe!”
cried Max, waltzing her round the room; in the
course of which proceeding, he came with a whirl up
against that sable matron, aunt Jenny, who just then
entered with a pile of dishes.
“Have done, Max!” cried Nina, flushed with the
rapid evolution—“see there! you liked to have thrown
down all the things; and then, sir, you should have had
no dinner.”
“I'm glad I did not,” said Max, “for I am getting
very hungry. Come, Nina—if there is any one place
where you conspicuously shine, it is at the foot of the
table.”
“You at the head, I suppose.”
“Precisely; 'tis the husband's place, my Nina.”
17. CHAPTER XVII.
FATHER VON HORN.
At night the whole household were gathered round the
fire-place in father Von Horn's great dining-room. In
that large fire-place, between the handirons which raised
their grotesquely-carved heads like towers, a bundle of
twigs and pine splinters, dispelled with their cheerful
blaze, and warmth, and merry crackling, the gloom, the
chill, and the silence of the long autumn evening.
Hunter John Myers was there with his little daughter,
and the rough old face, was such a pleasant face, as he
held on his broad breast the bright head of the child!
The red fire light streamed upon them, and enveloped
them in that soft, rosy light, which filtrates through the
evening clouds of August;—the small form of the child
rested calmly and confidingly in those rugged arms—she
seemed to have flown to that honest heart for refuge, and
finding it, to be content. They might have been taken
for some old Italian picture—for they did not move,
except when the hunter's hand gently smoothed the soft
silken hair, or the small arms clung closer around his
shoulder.
Nina was sitting busily occupied with her needlework,
and Barry, in a corner, was closely engaged at an obstinate
problem in arithmetic. Max was nowhere to be seen.
“Father,” said little Sally, looking up with her frank,
tender eyes, “I was just thinking how I should like to
see an Indian—you know you used to tell us so many
ugly?”
The hunter laughed.
“The ugliest varmints to be seen on a summer day,
daughter,” he said, “and I've seen enough of 'em to
know. Many's the time I have fought with them out on
the border—”
“That was a long, long time ago, wasn't it, father?
None of them ever came to Meadow Branch, you
know.”
“They've melted away off to the West this many a day,
daughter; but what put the Injuns in your head?”
“I was just thinking about them so, father. Was there
ever any Indians here in Martinsburg.”
“Plenty, plenty, and I could tell you many stories
about their doings when I was a boy. Old Courtlandt
the tall, up there”—the hunter pointed to a portrait hanging
over the fire-place—“and me, went out often in the
woods here when I was a boy, and many a narrow escape
we had. He was a brave man, and that's the face for all
the world.”
“Don't you think it's like Barry, father?”
“Why, now I come to look at it good, there is the very
same look out of the eyes.”
Barry, hearing his name called, turned round.
“Why, Barry's Courtlandt Von Horn all over again,”
he cried, “just like what he was! Ah, Barry, you have
an easier time now than we did in the old days. Then
it was all fighting—now it's all playing.”
“Do you mean our play acting, father?” asked the
child.
“No, daughter,” said the hunter, “I mean every thing
is softer, and pleasanter, and easier now. Why, in the
old time there was not a road to be seen any where, and
now you have a regular stage to the water;—and you
have your letters; seems to me,” added the hunter, laughing,
I just can read.”
“Could he read?” asked the child, pointing to the portrait.
“Not a word,” said the hunter.
“But Barry can, father; he ain't like him in that.”
“Barry is all the better for it, daughter. Ah, all you
young folks have great privileges;—you ought to thank
Providence for 'em. Providence has done much for you,
and I'm in hopes to see schools all over the land yet.”
“We have enough in Martinsburg, sir,” said Nina,
“and we have more yet. We have a real Paris dancing-master,
Monsieur Pantoufle. And that reminds me that
he has not been to give me my music lesson to-day.”
As she was speaking a knock was heard at the door,
and Barry going to open it, the very gentleman in question
was ushered in.
Monsieur Pantoufle, with his cocked hat pressed upon his
heart, and his head gently turned over his right shoulder,
saluted the company with a profound bow.
“Mademoiselle Nina,” he said, with a most amiable
smile, “I have great happiness in seeing you look so
charming, so fresh. Monsieur,” he added, to the hunter,
“I am rejoice to see you.”
Room was made for Monsieur Pantoufle; and little Sally
was about to slide into her corner, but her father held her
tight.
“The little thing is coming to be a real fine lady,”
said the hunter, smiling tenderly on her, “Mr. Pantoufle
won't mind your sitting on your old father's knee, child.”
“A beautiful sight,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, with a
sad smile, and something like a sigh, “I love the young
people much, hélas! very much!”
“You did not bring me that pretty minuet you promised
me, Monsieur Pantoufle,” said Nina, “you promised
it to-day.”
“Oh, pardon Ma'mselle,” replied the gentleman, smiling
and shrugging his shoulders, “I was so engage to-day.”
“Very busy, sir?”
“Ah yes, Monsieur Max, your cousin, Ma'mselle, has
made me fence—you comprehend, with sword—all the
day.”
“Oh, I understand—”
“Ma'mselle said—?”
“It is for his play.”
“His play—ah yes; he act Romeo, is it not so?”
“Yes, sir—and there is Juliet,” said Nina, laughingly
pointing to the child.
“What a charming Juliet! I think I have never seen
more charming Juliet.”
Little Sally blushed.
“I am to act too, sir,” said Nina.
“Oh, are you?” cried the child.
“Yes, dear, after you, you know.”
“Oh, I'm so glad!”
Barry raised his head, listening attentively
“What's the matter, Barry?” asked Nina.
“I thought I heard Burt's footstep, cousin Nina.”
“Father! could it be father!” cried Nina, jumping up.
She ran to the door, and opening it was received into
two stalwart arms, and saluted by a hearty and loud
sounding kiss; at the same moment a cheerful voice
uttered the words:
“Well, good people!”
Father Von Horn, who now entered, was a bluff old
gentleman of decidedly Dutch figure, about the same age
as hunter John Myers. There was no similarity, however,
between these two men. Hunter John was completely
English, Virginian, in the character of his person
—father Von Horn was as wholly Teutonic. His face
was broad and red, his person corpulent, his voice guttural,
and suitable for the difficult ich's and diphthongs of
with this bluff person—and no gentleman in the land
was more refined, or better bred, than Jacob Von Horn.
Opulent in his circumstances, and with a clear, just
mind, studiously cultivated by the best English and
German literature, it was impossible to class him with
those illiterate, and narrow-minded representatives of his
nation so often met with. Father Von Horn was a good
German gentleman, and no one had ever been ten minutes
in his company, without ascertaining as much. If
we add, that the old man was a warm admirer of every
thing German, and inherited all the superstition of his
sturdy mountain ancestry, this sketch of him will be
sufficient for the moment.
Hunter John grasped the old man's hand with friendly
warmth.
“Well, you got through soon, neighbor,” said the
hunter.
“Yes, neighbor Myers, I wanted to get down and see
you all. Where's Max?”
“Out visiting somebody, father,” said Nina, taking his
hat and gloves.
“Ah, the dog! he'll never stay at home and study.
Wasn't Barry there just now?”
“He's gone to see that Burt is attended to, father.”
“Good boy! Well, Mr. Pantoufle, I'm pleased to see
you; I hope your music gets on, Nina.”
And father Von Horn seemed as much pleased, and as
greatly bent on asking questions, as if he had been absent
a year instead of a fortnight.
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RED BOOK.
And now who should come in, clad in his visiting suit,
and showing on his stolid countenance no trace of the
morning quarrel with Nina, but Mr. Hans Huddleshingle!
“Ah, Hans! I am glad to see you,” cried father Von
Horn, grasping him heartily by the hand. “Sit down!
Nina, don't trouble yourself so much—I am not hungry.”
For Nina was very busily engaged preparing supper for
her father; so busily indeed that she had scarcely found
time to greet Mr. Huddleshingle with a distant bow.
Soon the table was set, and a substantial meal spread
upon it—to which father Von Horn, despite his assurance
of a want of appetite, did appropriate honor.
“Ah, Nina,” said the old man, with his mouth full,
“there you are, behind the cups and saucers, like a veritable
matron. Some day you will marry and leave your
old father—that will be a bad day for him: he will not
know what to do without you.”
“I never intend to marry, sir.”
“Never marry!”
“No, indeed,” said Nina, smilingly, twisting a curl
around her finger.
“Not marry!” repeated father Von Horn, “not be in
the Red Book?”
“It never shall be opened for me. I'm sure grandfather
Courtlandt up there, would stop any such thing:
we should see his ghost,” replied the young girl, laughing.
Father Von Horn's face became serious.
“Don't jest about such things daughter,” said he, “I
pray you do not.”
“Livre rouge?—ah, what is that?” asked M. Pantoufle,
with a polite smile.
“It is our family record, Mr. Pantoufle,” father Von
Horn replied—“in it are written all the marriages of the
family: it contains our genealogical tree, on both sides of
the house, far back into the past.”
“Possible!” ejaculated M. Pantoufle, “but, Ma'mselle
Nina, you speak of a ghost, is it not so? what is
that?”
“Father will tell you, sir.”
M. Pantoufle turned to the old man, with a courteous
look of inquiry.
“Nina was speaking of one of the traditions of our
family, sir,” said father Von Horn, very gravely; “it is
this. When a marriage is about to take place among us,
which is likely to be unlucky, or unfortunate, for some
reason we know naught of, our ancestors—”
Father Von Horn paused.
Mr. Huddleshingle bent forward, listening.
“The ancestors—they—” said M. Pantoufle, inquiringly.
“Well, I see no harm in telling any one. The dead
men haunt their graves, and so forbid it. Let any one
disregard that warning! Ruin and sorrow, fall upon their
roofs!”
Hunter John, listened to these words with gloomy interest.
“I have known that thing to happen to German families,”
said he, in a low tone, and very thoughtfully.
A dead silence followed these words: father Von Horn
rose from the table.
“Come neighbors!” he said, “let us not talk on such
subjects: they are not cheerful. Friend Hans, what are
children say!”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Mr. Huddleshingle, in great
confusion.
“Well: now daughter Sally what are you thinking
of?” asked the old man of the little girl, “I am sure, of
your play, daughter. What a pretty Juliet she will
make, neighbor Myers.”
“They said something about her killing herself, neighbor,”
observed the hunter, looking fondly at the small,
smiling face, “what is it?”
“That's a part of the play—but it's all pretense. It is
nice fun, isn't it, Sally?”
“Oh, yes, sir—I know how to kill myself very well
now. Mr. Max, has shown me how.”
“What a wild dog that Max is,” said the old man,
“the idea of his selecting you: why not take Nina?”
“I shall act too, father.”
“You!”
“Yes—in the other piece.”
“Oh, I'm so glad,” cried little Sally, “I didn't much
like, to be alone.”
“Hans,” said father Von Horn, couldn't you appear
too—with Nina, say?”
“If Miss Nina says so, sir.”
“Max arranges every thing,” said Nina, “Mr. Huddleshingle
must not apply to me.” And Nina devoutly
resolved, that Max should have his orders to exclude Mr.
Hans, that very evening.
“Well, well,” replied her father, “we'll have all arranged,
no doubt, just as it should be. Neighbor Myers,
you don't leave Martinsburg before it?”
“No, no,” said hunter John, “I must be there to have
my eyes on the little bird here. I'm most nigh afraid
she's going to kill herself in earnest.”
“Never fear—well, you shall come and stay with us.
than you are at the “Globe.” I'll see to Elkhorn in the
morning. The house is big enough.”
And so with familiar talk, the old man beguiled the
time, until the visitors, one by one, took their leave:
M. Pantoufle bowing, smiling, and retreating scientifically
backward: Mr. Huddleshingle in unwonted abstraction:
hunter John, with his eyes fixed with a last tender
look on his little daughter, who ran and put her arms
round his neck, to have another kiss. It had been arranged,
that the child should stay for the night, with Nina;
with whom she was a favorite.
19. CHAPTER XIX.
MAX DREAMS OF BOOTS, AND YIELDS TO THE TEMPTER.
“What a dream I have had,” said Mr. Max Courtlandt,
waking with a laugh, two or three days after the scene
in the last chapter. “I thought I was in a universe of
boots, a chaos of all imaginable styles of boots. Certainly,”
he added, “there was some sense in dreaming about
them, since having attained all the other articles for my
dress, the coat, the cap, the feather, the waistcoat, the
`silken hose,' as the nice folks call them, and the sword
—there now remains but a single thing to find.—That
is my boots,” continued Max, thoughtfully. “Boots!
what are boots that I should be so overcome by the
dreadful idea; that I should dream of them, that they
should fill my nightly thoughts, and waking dreams?”
Max sprung up and dressed; this operation somewhat
interrupted the train of his reflections. But, standing
before the glass, contemplating the effect of the Romeo
cap, which he had placed gracefully on his head, the
subject which had tormented him in slumber, returned in
all its original strength.
“Boots are not difficult to find,” he mused, “many
persons have boots—I had a pair myself once, and only
discarded them, because, being unable to afford fair top-boots,
I would not be content to put up with ordinary
ones. Could I not buy a pair? No, I have no money.
Could I not borrow them from some one? No, why should
I, from modesty, conceal the fact, that my foot is a most
foot: a real woman's foot, which no doubt arises
from my purity of blood. What shall I do? I can not
borrow—no one has a pair small enough. I can not buy,
for my money is all gone, and I will not ask uncle for
any more, or aunt Courtlandt either.
“Aunt Courtlandt!” soliloquized the young man, “what
idea was that which occurred to me the other day at the
convent? an improper idea, in its nature felonious and
criminal! Shall I ask for them? and be refused? No I
must not. Shall I— no that is wrong. But let me reflect.
In this singular world many persons can well do
without what they, nevertheless, set great store by, thinking
the thing wholly indispensable. Were they asked to
part with it—they would refuse: were they deprived of
it, little inconvenience would result. Let me see then.
What would be the consequence if I yielded to this temptation—to
which I foresee, I shall wholly yield? Why a
night's inconvenience—at the most.
“Shall I then?” asked Max of himself in the glass.
That individual smiled: the very cap-feather seemed to
laugh an approval.
“I'll do it!” said Max, resolutely; “faint heart never
won ought yet. Let's see for means. Oh, mischief, thou
art swift.” And murmuring these words our hero descended
to breakfast.
20. CHAPTER XX.
MRS. COURTLANDT PLAYS A MINUET FOR THE YOUNG PEOPLE,
AND WHAT ENSUED.
Mrs. Courtlandt was in her lecture-room, engaged as
usual in trying experiments with her apparatus, when
Prudence informed her that her nephew was in the
parlor.
“Come in, nephew,” said the lady's voice, “you need
not stand on ceremony.”
Max entered.
“Oh, good-evening, aunt,” he said, “I knew I should
find you unemployed. School-hours are the busy ones
—are they not?”
“Yes, I receive no visitors in school-hours.”
“How are you to-day.”
“Very well—except that I am much fatigued from
riding over to see a sick family on the Opequon.”
“Aunt you are very good. Why don't you make some
of your scholars go for you, and carry the medicine.”
“I prefer going myself.”
“Besides, I ought to have reflected that they are all too
wild and thoughtless.”
“No, not all of them.”
“Still, a great many are: Josephine—my particular
friend, you know, aunt—Josephine is as wild as a deer.”
“Indeed you mistake, nephew. She has a great flow of
spirits, but is as good a little creature, and as obedient as
possible. She loves me, I believe, most sincerely.”
“Who does not?”
“Come nephew, there goes your tongue again. Your
tongue, and your feet, seem made to be constantly in
motion.”
“I do talk too much, aunt,” said Max, “but exercise,
walking, and all that, is good for one, you know.”
“Dancing, you think too?”
“Oh yes, dancing! and that reminds me how I long
for a little dance. It does seem to me, that I can not get
any one, to dance with me. I was at Mrs. —'s last
night, and none of the girls—Oh! but aunt!” cried Max,
breaking off, “the place to play in is changed. Just
think: Mrs. —, says her parlor is not large enough,
and she is going to have the examination and exhibition
and all, at the “Globe.”
“Mr. Gaither's?”
“Yes, yes, in the big dining-room. A platform is to
be erected, and all.”
“Well, it is a better place—much.”
“So I think—but imagine, my respected aunt, what
an honor it is for your unworthy nephew, to play Shakspeare
in the Globe.”
“Why?”
“Why, it was the Globe you know, where Shakspeare
himself acted.”
“From which you conclude, I suppose,” said Mrs.
Courtlandt, “that you are another Shakspeare?”
“Who knows?” said Max, audaciously.
This reply of her nephew actually brought a smile
from Mrs. Courtlandt: in the midst of which Miss
Josephine Emberton made her appearance at the door.
“May I come in, ma'am?” asked Josephine.
“Yes, Josephine; there is no one here but my nephew.”
“Whom she came to see,” added Max.
“Indeed I didn't,” said the girl, “you always think I
come to see you.”
“Well, Miss Josephine,” said Max, “we will not quarrel”
(indeed, it was necessary, as the reader will perceive
that he should remain on the very best terms with Miss
Josephine), “we will not quarrel about that. I know if
you were any where, I should, for that very reason go
thither; there, does that satisfy you. Come, let us have
a minuet. I know my well-beloved aunt will play for us.”
Josephine with longing eyes turned to Mrs. Courtlandt.
She was passionately fond of dancing, especially of the
minuet. Mrs. Courtlandt hesitated.
“Do come and play for us, most respected of your
sex,” said Max, “Josephine, or Miss Josephine dances so
nicely; the harpsichord will do.”
“And I would rather have you to play for us, ma'am,
than any body in the world,” said Josephine, sincerely.
This gained over the outwardly austere, but really
yielding, Mrs. Courtlandt.
“Well, children, come,” she said, “you two would persuade
any body.”
Max relented from his purpose, and half crushed a small
object in his pocket.
“I do repent me,” murmured he, dejectedly. But at
that moment he caught sight of the magical boots on his
aunt's feet, as she slightly lifted her skirt to ascend the
step leading to the parlor. This spectacle completely
overturned all our hero's good resolutions; overcome
again by the temptation, there was now no longer any
room for repentance.
Mrs. Courtlandt took her seat at the harpsichord and
commenced a minuet. Max advanced to the spot where
Josephine with a stately air had taken her seat too, and
with one hand on his heart bowed low, and requested the
honor of treading a measure with her. To which the
young girl, smothering a laugh, with stately condescension,
and a ceremonious “with pleasure, sir!” consented,
giving him her hand.
Then commenced that royal dance, which we in our
day laugh at—calling it “stiff,” and “odd,” and “ridiculous.”
Young ladies now wonder at the very idea of
the minuet, comparing its stately measured motion, with
the fast-whirling waltz and polka; and young gentlemen
make very merry over it to their fair partners, held in
the pleasant close embrace, of the said waltz or polka.
Our grandmothers—unhappy beings—knew nothing of
the polka, and would have positively objected to having
around their waists some perfect stranger's arm. In
modern parlance, those old folks were “slow”—and the
minuet, being a slow dance, most probably suited them
on that account.
Max and Josephine danced well. They were both
naturally graceful, and had practiced much. His bows
were very elegant, and full of chivalric and profound
respect;—her courtesies (each fair hand holding up her
skirt, stretched gracefully to its full width), replete with
winning grace, and, as Max inwardly decided, the very
poetry of motion.
They approached each other for the final movement,
Max with an elegant mincingness in his gait, Josephine
gliding with the pleasant, stately music like some little
fairy queen. Then it was that Max took from his pocket
a small, neatly folded note, and as he extended with
graceful ease his hand, slipped the said note into Miss
Josephine's, where the full ruffles falling down, concealed
it. The dance ended. Mrs. Courtlandt turned round.
“Just in time,” muttered Max, “I do repent me
still!”
“What did you say, nephew?”
“Oh, nothing, aunt!”
“Josephine, you dance very well,” said the lady, “I
really see no necessity for M. Pantoufle's giving you lessons
in the minuet.”
Josephine laughed, and blushed.
“Nor to Max.—I observed the elegance with which
he approaches and gives his hand—”
“Oh, my dear aunt—”
“And how elegantly you, Josephine, receive it. Now
children I must spend no more time in trifles—I have my
duties Good-morning, nephew.”
Max with terrible doubts upon the subject of his note,
felt that this was a dismissal from the convent. He
therefore took his leave, with many misgivings, and returned
homeward.
Once in his room he began to reflect whether his aunt
had discovered his surreptitious act—or whether his
guilty conscience had given an imaginary meaning to her
words of parting—these were the questions. He was
thus sunken fathoms deep in thought, when he heard
himself called by Nina.
“What is it, my dear Nina?” he said opening the door
with a look of quiet, and profound sadness.
“Here is a message from aunt Courtlandt,” said Nina.
“From aunt Courtlandt!” murmured Max, with guilty
fear, “bid the messenger ascend.”
“It is Prudence, and she has something for you.”
“Prudence, what bring you?”
“Here's a bundle and note from Miss Courtlandt,” said
Prudence, delivering a brown paper parcel.
Max took it.
“She didn't want any answer,” said Prudence, with a
sly laugh: and then that young lady retreated through
the open door. Max ran up to his room and tore open
the bundle.
His aunt's boots!
Max tore open the note: therein he read the following:
“You are very foolish Max. Why did you take all
the trouble to write that note? Besides, I disapprove of
know it was a jest, but it was wrong. I saw you in the
mirror over the harpsichord, and Josephine gave me the
note. I send my boots, as you call them. Why did you
not ask for them? Always ask me for what you want.
If it is in my power I will refuse you nothing that I can
properly grant. You are very welcome to the shoes.
“Most excellent of her sex!” cried Max, “to think of
being so completely done up by her. But here are my
boots—my boots!”
And Max tried them on. They were somewhat tight,
but answered to perfection. Max sat down admiring
them.
“Seriously though, aunt Courtlandt is an excellent woman,”
said he. “For me to ask Josephine to steal these
boots; for my aunt to find it out; for the injured person
to send the object of the intended theft! Oh, I am ashamed
of myself. I am getting bad-hearted.”
“She knows it was all a joke, however!” cried Max,
reassured—“but these elegant boots—they are no joke!”
21. CHAPTER XXI.
AT THE “GLOBE.”
The Thursday, on the evening of which Max was to
make his first appearance on any stage, arrived in due
course of time. It was a pleasant day, and a pleasant
evening—and all Martinsburg appeared to be in motion
toward the “Globe.”
The reader may fancy, that we have created this name
for dramatic point, but such is not the fact. The
“Globe” was as real, as the convent of the Sisters of
Mercy; as veritable as M. Pantoufle, or hunter John
Myers; and many persons now living will well recollect
the excellent and obliging host, Mr. Ephraim Gaither,
to whose courtesy the Martinsburgers were on this occasion
indebted for the large and commodious saloon in
which the examination of Mrs. —'s scholars and the
other exercises of the day were about to take place.
The “Globe” was a building of considerable size standing
just opposite the court-house, and had the reputation
of being the best inn, as Mr. Gaither had the reputation
of being the prince of landlords for twenty miles around.
The most remarkable thing about the tavern, however,
was its dancing-room, in which all the balls of the time
had been held. It was an apartment of extraordinary
size, taking up nearly the whole ground floor of the
building; and in this room on a platform raised some feet
above the floor, and draped with curtains, our hero was
about to make his appearance.
All Martinsburg had assembled at the announcement
—elegantly dressed ladies, radiant with rich falling lace,
and supporting on their white foreheads curiously fashioned
towers of hair; gracefully attentive gentlemen with powdered
locks, stiff-collared coats, and silk stockings and
knee-buckles; shop-keepers, countrymen, and in the obscure
distance, behind all, no slight sprinkling of laughing
ebon faces;—such was the audience which Mr. Max,
out of his abundant good-nature, had consented to appear
before, when the regular examination was gone through
with.
The room was packed full. Conspicuous on the front
seats, eager to applaud as ever were the friends of actor,
sat father Von Horn; and Mrs. Courtlandt (behind her,
Josephine, and other of her scholars); and hunter John,
come to see little Juliet; and squeezed in one corner, Barry,
who waited, trembling, for the moment when little
Sally must appear before that vast assemblage of expectant
eyes, and go through with her part. Barry felt sure,
that he should never be able to utter a word.
The examination of the scholars, was altogether very
gratifying to the pride of Mrs. —, and of their fond
parents, who listened admiringly to their sons and daughters,
answering without mistake or hesitation complex
questions in geography, arithmetic, and even astronomy,
and algebra, and geometry.
Under the small fingers which grasped manfully the
blackboard chalk, the difficult problems in geometry, astronomy,
and algebra, “rounded with flawless demonstration.”
The “young Norvals” detailed the occupations of
their fathers, Hamlet soliloquized on human life, and all
the ills that flesh is heir to, Wolsey gave feeling advice to
Cromwell, and the little bright-faced girls laughed out their
answers to every question, as if knowledge was mere
amusement, and it was so funny in Mrs. — to think
they could be ignorant of such well-known things!
The examination was decidedly successful, and scarcely
any scholar missed getting his or her silver medal—with
“MERIT” graven on it—which very naturally delighted
their fond parents, and made them think that Mrs. —
was the princess of school-mistresses, and then and there,
resolve to send to her their children always.
Then, the examination being ended, a large curtain
was let down before the platform; and through the vast
crowd ran a murmurous humming sound, such as some
autumn breeze arouses in the dry leaves of the forest trees.
Silks rustled, the gayly decorated forms undulated like
waves, and all awaited the moment, when the rising curtain
should reveal to them the “gentle Romeo.” Well
might little Barry hold his breath, and think how he
would feel!
22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE PLAY, AND IN WHAT MANNER IT WAS INTERRUPTED.
The curtain rose, and Romeo made his appearance in
the midst of a deathlike pause.
If our readers have come to the conclusion, that Mr.
Max Courtlandt was only an ordinary “rattle-trap,” with
a voluble tongue, a handsome face, and a faculty of coaxing
persons into doing what at the moment he desired
them to do, they have done that young gentleman very
great injustice. Max Courtlandt's was no ordinary mind;
to a facility in taking impressions on all sides, he united
an individuality of character, as distinctly marked as any
even the most unmistakably individual in that vast audience.
He seemed careless, thoughtless, light in temperament
as the down of the thistle tossed about hither and
thither by the slightest breath of wind;—in reality, no
more sadly thoughtful mind, when his exuberant health
did not fire his blood, could be conceived.
Max Courtlandt was no common jester; he often uttered
with a laugh, sad truths. He was no mere wheedler
of people, as Nina said; from a low opinion of human
nature, practicing on its foibles; true, he saw through
these foibles and made merry with them; but a kinder,
softer, more hopeful, humanity-loving, humanity-admiring
heart could not be found. Our readers, therefore,
have too lightly rated the character of this young man
if seeing him impressible and volatile, they have conceived
have concluded that life to his thoughtless mind was but
a jest.
It had been predicted by some, that he would, on his
appearance before the audience as Romeo, salute them
with a burst of laughter, from pure inability to overcome
the humor of the contrast. Mistaken idea! This boy
was capable of greater things than keeping countenance
in presence of a mere crowd, ready to laugh at him.
The Romeo who appeared was the Romeo of Shakspeare;
his griefs, his love—the course of which had run
so roughly—and his mortal purpose plainly written in his
face. Still a calm face, very calm—thoughtful, dreamy,
“sicklied o'er” with doubts of every thing, even whether
the phantasmagoria around him were phantasmagoria—
or mere phantom phantoms!—a dream within a dream,
all to dissolve before long, leaving no trace!
Romeo advanced, chaining the large assemblage with
his melancholy eye—dreamy, and full of melting sadness.
Then turning to Balthasar lost in the shadow, he uttered
in the deep tone of overwhelming woe, those heart-broken
words:
“Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars!”
Balthasar, who has raised this tempest of affliction, by
the intelligence of Juliet's death, goes out—the apothecary
enters, and in reply to the demand for poison, pleads the
Mantuan law of death against vending such. Romeo,
with a scornful look, asks:
And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression stareth in thy eyes,
Upon thy back, hangs ragged misery.
The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law.
There is thy gold! worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world
Than these poor compounds that thou may'st not sell.
I sell thee poison: thou hast sold me none!”
The tone with which these latter words were uttered,
electrified the audience: “this loathsome world,” expressed
all the mournful fortunes, all the gloomy horror of a
despairing shipwrecked soul.
Then the scene shifted to the tomb of Juliet. Romeo
and Balthasar stand before it: Romeo takes the iron from
his servant's hand shuddering.
........ Upon thy life I charge thee
Whate'er thou hear'st or seest stand all aloof.
And do not interrupt me in my course.
Why I descend into this bed of death
Is, partly to behold my lady's face;
But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger
A precious ring; a ring that I must use
In dear employment: therefore hence! begone!
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do—
By heaven! I will tear thee joint by joint,
And strew this hungry church-yard with thy limbs
The time and my intents are savage-wild!
More fierce and more inexorable far
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea!”
Balthasar starts back at these terribly passionate words,
frightened at the glittering sword, which leaps from its
scabbard, and flashes in his eyes. Romeo left alone gazes
with heaving breast, on the tomb of Juliet: then pale,
shuddering, with clenched teeth wrenches open the vault,
murmuring:
Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth,
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open!
And, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food!”
Hearing a noise he starts, and turns round with fiery,
affrighted eyes. Paris with drawn sword stands before
him.
Can vengeance be pursued further than death?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee:
Obey and go with me; for thou must die.”
Romeo shrinks not before the threatening sword point;
but meets the eye of Paris with a scornful calmness.
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;
Fly hence and leave me: think upon those gone;
Heap not another sin upon my head
By urging me to fury. O, begone:
By heaven, I love thee better than myself.
For I come hither armed against myself.
Stay not: begone: live, and hereafter say—
A madman's mercy bade thee run away.”
Paris sword in hand, throws himself upon Romeo.
And do attach thee as a felon here!”
Romeo, with a whirl of his sword dashes aside the
murderous point just as it touches his breast.
“Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy!”
They commence the mortal combat with flashing eyes,
close pressed lips, hatred driven to fury. Romeo runs his
adversary through the heart—he falls with a groan of
anguish.
Open the tomb: lay me with Juliet!”
Romeo gazes steadfastly on the writhing body of his
adversary. Then kneeling, pale and overcome by some
sudden memory, he takes the dying man's hand. He
starts, one hand on his cold brow.
Mercutio's kinsman! noble County Paris!—
What said my man, when my betossed soul
Did not attend him, as we rode—I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet!
...... O give me thy hand!
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave,
For here lies Juliet! and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light!
Death lie thou there by a dead man interred!”
He lays the body in the monument, then reappears with
the smile of incipient madness, but shuddering beneath
that ice-like merriment; he has seen in the tomb, a sight
with cold sweat, his lips move, and he whispers almost:
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death! Oh, how may I
Call this a lightning?”
He turns trembling, with clasped hands, toward the
tomb; a passionate sob tears his breast in its passage.
Death that hath sucked the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty!
Thou art not conquered! Beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks!
And death's pale flag is not advanced there!”
He falls upon his knees covering his face; then raising
his head again, gazes deeper into the tomb.
Oh, what more favor can I do to thee?
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain,
To sunder his, that was thine enemy—
Forgive me, cousin!”
Starting up, he advances to the entrance of the vault
and kneels, sobbing and murmuring:
Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous!
For fear of that, I will still stay with thee,
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again; here, here, will I remain
With worms that are thy chambermaids: Oh, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh!”
He bends toward the body, now no longer horrified but
in love with death.
His arms encircle the dear form, his lips approach the
pale cheek.
Arms, take your last embrace; and lips, oh, you
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!”
He rises, drawing from his pouch the flask of poison.
Holding it up, he gazes upon it with eyes full of despair,
love, and madness. “Come!” he groans,
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here's to my love!”
He drains the flask of poison, staggers, drunk with the
fiery potion; and falls writhing, dead.
The audience, overcome by the profound reality of the
scene, uttered no sound. A white form, weak, with
feeble feet, rises from the vault. It is Juliet in her white
clothes, with the undecided gaze of a person just awakened
from sleep. She sees Romeo, and starts with a suppressed
scream; then throws herself on the body, yet “warm and
newly dead.” The dreadful reality flashes across her
eyes; she sees the flask and clutches it.
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end!
Oh, churl! drink all and leave no friendly drop
To help me after? I will kiss thy lips—
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make me die with a restorative.
Thy lips are warm!”
She starts up, sobbing with passionate anguish; a
noise is heard without; she looks around, and seizes
Romeo's poignard.
This is thy sheath! There rust and let me die!
Juliet stabs herself, and falls on the body of Romeo
with a wild cry.
That cry was answered by another from the front
benches—more passionate, frightful, terrifying than Juliet's;
and the next moment, Barry pale and overcome
with horror, sprang upon the platform, and running to
the spot he had left, stood hunter John, pale and trembling.
For a moment the audience were too much astounded
to comprehend the full significance of the scene; they
seemed, however, suddenly, to realize how the boy had
been carried away by the terrible reality of the performance;
and then there arose one tremendous burst of applause,
which shook the “Globe” from roof to foundation
stone. The assemblage undulated like a stormy sea, a
hundred voices clashed together, and in the midst of the
most tremendous excitement the curtain fell upon the
group, so picturesquely arranged.
It was a long time before order could be restored, or a
hearing for the after-piece (as Max pompously called it),
was thought of as attainable. In that piece the reader
will recollect, Nina was to act a part—and this fact—in
which was embraced an expectation—gradually quieted
the tumult. By slow degrees the waves subsided, the
voices were lowered, and soon only the low hum of comment
upon the strange scene that had just been enacted,
disturbed the silence.
It is not necessary for us to minutely trace Nina through
her light comedy part, as we have done Mr. Max and little
Sally, seduced by their remarkable performance on
this occasion. Nina, and the other young ladies who
played with her in these private theatricals, did their
duty very manfully in presence of those laughing eyes—
Nina, indeed, looking exceedingly beautiful.
But the second piece had its consequence more important
than the strange incident of the first. If Barry proved
by his conduct that little Sally was all in all to him—Mr.
William Lyttelton proved by his own for days afterward,
that Nina had made a complete conquest of him. Such
was the plain and unmistakable fact. When Mr. Lyttelton
went away with the delighted company, he felt
been.
In an hour the vast room was empty. All had sought
their homes, loud in their praises of the performance.
Max was, if not a prophet in his native country, at least
a hero for the moment.
Miss Josephine Emberton, at least, was of this opinion;
and in coming out, Max read in her admiring looks, and
her unusual quietness of manner, the effect his tragic performance
of the part of Romeo had produced upon her
feelings.
“You liked it, I hope, Miss Josephine?” he said.
“Oh, yes, you did it so well.”
“Thank you.”
“You did it admirably!”
“Praise from so fair a source, is praise indeed,” said
our hero, bowing low.
“See the fine chevalier!” laughed Miss Josephine,
unable to suppress her besetting sin.
“Happy chevalier, if I am yours,” said Max.
“Would you like to be my knight?”
“Yes, yes! How can you ask?”
“I promote you, then.”
“But I must have a token of my lady's favor:—all
knights have,” said Max.
“A token—what sort?”
“Any thing; that pretty bracelet, say.”
“Take it,” said Josephine, merrily unclasping the
bracelet from her white arm.
Max took it with a profound bow, and placed it in the
pocket of his Romeo coat—which he had not removed—
nearest his heart. After which, their respective parties
calling them, the young girl and her companion separated,
laughing. This trifling incident bore fruits in aftertimes.
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
SUPPER AFTER THE PLAY.
Half an hour after the dispersion of the company, the
household of father Von Horn, were gathered around his
broad board, upon which was spread an excellent meal.
Actors (even actors in private theatricals) are, it is well-known,
very partial to suppers, and Max seemed to have
gained an excellent appetite, for material things, from
feeding so full of grief, in his character of Romeo.
Little Sally, who sat demurely by her pleased father's
side, divided the honors of the evening, with our hero.
“How well she did play!” cried Max, with his mouthful,
“I was astonished, to hear her speak her part so
well; the best of it is, too, that the whole was her own,
I did not teach her. Why Sally you did not seem in the
least abashed: I declare, I have a great mind to come
round and kiss you, only Barry would challenge me to
mortal combat. Barry, what did you interrupt the performance
in that way for?”
Barry blushed, and stammered out some indistinct
words.
“Let Barry alone Max,” said father Von Horn, “he
was right, and I honor him for his chivalric conduct.”
“Chivalric, sir?
“Certainly: did he not think the child had killed
herself?”
“I most nigh thought so myself,” said hunter John,
laughing: “and I was near doing as much as Barry.”
“How well she did it!” said Nina.
“And Mr. Max most scared me, when he was fighting,
you know: I most screamed.”
“Screamed? What for?” asked Max.
“You seemed so much in earnest, Mr. Max,” said
Sally, nestling close to her father, with her little bright
eyes fixed upon the young man.
“In earnest!” cried Max, “why, I was in earnest.
At that moment, my dear Sally, I was Romeo, at the
tomb of Juliet. I was Romeo, though, from the beginning.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“I mean, I forgot the company and all, after the first
minute, my dear,” said Max.
“Wasn't you scared?”
“The moment before I appeared, my charming Juliet
—but not afterward. I did feel like laughing, when I
saw that mischievous young lady, Miss Josephine smiling
at me: but think of Romeo's laughing, on being told of
your untimely end, little Sally.”
“You mean Juliet's, sir,” said Sally, laughing.
“You are Juliet—and I don't think it could have been
played better. I had no idea you could do it so well.
When you screamed, you know, I was very near reviving,
and telling you not to be afraid, that I wasn't dead.
And when you `kissed my lips,' as the play says—to
get some of the poison—for you know, you kissed me
Sally—”
“Indeed I didn't, sir—I only made pretense.”
“Listen to the little prude. By this hand you kissed
me.”
“Oh, Mr. Max!”
“Don't mind him, Sally,” said Nina, “he always tells
stories.”
“By-the-by, Nina,” said Max.
“Well, sir?”
“You did yourself considerable credit,” said Max,
patronizingly.
“Thank you, sir!”
“You did, indeed. True, Sally and myself were the
prominent objects of interest, but I did not see more
than a dozen persons yawning while you were going
through your part.”
“Yawning!” said Nina, indignantly.
“Max, you joke eternally,” said father Von Horn,
who listened to this jesting conversation with great amusement;
“I say Nina, that you played excellently—quite as
well as my nephew.”
“Well, neighbor,” said hunter John, “I don't repent
comin' down to the play. I didn't know even what that
was, till I saw 'em at it—but I soon made out the matter
it was about, because little Sally was to be in it, you
know, neighbor. Well, we old folks have much to learn.
The young people are gettin' ahead of us. I must go
back to my mountain valley, and tell the old dame all
about it—how the child did her part,” he added, looking
with tender affection on the little bright face leaning upon
his shoulder. “I'm glad to have seen if—I can now say,
I have seen a regular play. Think of that.”
“But you are not going back at once, neighbor?” asked
father Von Horn.
“Yes, yes! I'm most afraid the game will get too
pert, and think the old hunter's gun is witched, neighbor.
Then, I can't breathe this low country air long, from living
so entirely up in the hills. I'm tired of so many
houses—but you won't think I'm tired of you all; or of
you, daughter.”
“Father, please stay a little longer—please,” said little
Sally.
“I can't, daughter, I must go to-morrow: I'm feeling
that a deer hunt is in my blood.”
“A deer hunt!” said Max, “I would give any thing
sir!”
“Come then, my boy.”
“But my law—uncle says—”
“I'm afraid you are neglecting it, Max,” said father
Von Horn.
“Yes sir, lately, I know—”
“With all this playing and visiting, and other things,
Coke and Blackstone stand a bad chance.”
“Well, sir, I suppose I ought—”
“No—if you have set your heart on going, you may as
well go.”
“I go in the morning,” said hunter John.
“Well, neighbor, if you must, you must,” the old man
said; “and I suppose Max might as well go and get this
acting out of his head. Now for prayers.”
Prayers were said, and every one retired to rest. On
the stairs Max passed Nina, who went up last, carrying
in her dainty hand her japanned candlestick.
“I say, Nina,” said Max, “don't be married before I
get back.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, Messrs. Huddleshingle and Lyttelton are both
smitten with you, Miss Nina. While you were acting I
saw them—you know I was in the green-room, peeping
through the curtain, there was a hole—”
“What did you see, you goose?” said Nina, smiling.
“I saw the beforementioned gentlemen devouring my
amiable and handsome cousin with their glances. I really
thought Hans Huddleshingle was going to make his fat,
pinky eyes into saucers—”
“Foolishness!”
“And as for Mr. William Lyttelton—”
“What of him, pray?”
“He could not have gazed more attentively or showed
more profound satisfaction, if he had just found some favorable
its graces and attractions. Nina, I am getting jealous:
Nina, I am going away, and I can fancy the delight
which the absence of so formidable a rival as myself will
afford those sprightly and agreeable gentlemen. But
Nina, I go in full confidence—in confidence as strong as
ever Romeo felt in the faith of gentle Juliet, whom, by-the-by,
you much resemble. Think of me often, Juliet—
Nina, I should say,” Max continued dolefully, and casting
a tender glance upon his cousin; “think of me often; not
in the dim watches of the night alone, when `even the stars
do wink as 'twere with over-watching,' but even when
the `garish day' is bright, and you are surrounded by
the most gallant cavaliers—the sprightly Lyttelton, and
gay Huddleshingle. I am not afraid, my Nina; I have
no fear that you will espouse a walking lawbook, or ever
write your name Nina Huddleshingle! But still, I pray
you, think of me—of me, your most devoted, your most
loving—”
The closing of Nina's door, clipped off the remainder
of this most eloquent speech. Max also retired.
On the next day, hunter John, immediately after
breakfast, had his horse brought, and declared that he
must set out—though Meadow Branch valley was scarcely
ten miles distant. He was evidently restless at the very
thought of the great mountains, which, indeed, possess
a mighty influence over those who have experienced their
fascination. Hunter John, had been less than a week in
Martinsburg, but was already country-sick.
Max made ready to accompany him; leaving with Nina
many messages, and running about, with all the delight
of a boy who has a holiday granted him, and the vision
of woods and mountain-slopes before him. Romeo and
Juliet; Josephine; Monsieur Pantoufle's fencing lessons—
all were forgotten, and Max, with his impulsive temperament,
knives, and powder-flasks:—heard but the barking
of the dogs, which frisking and wagging their tails, and
leaping about, uttered at intervals, sonorous bayings, eloquent
of mountain-side adventure.
If Max forgot Romeo and Juliet, however, hunter
John, only half imitated him. He remembered Juliet.
Father Von Horn's hand passed through the ordeal of the
hunter's iron grasp, Nina and Barry were told good-by:
and then the quondam Juliet—little Sally—ran to get
the last word from him: and kiss him, crying at his
going away. The old mountaineer raised the little form
to his heart and held her there—a mere flower, a blossom
so light was she—and again the old, gray, storm-beaten
brow, rested on the bright rippling gold, and the red, tender
cheek. He sat the child down: she covered her face, and
began to cry. But Max jested with her, and made her
laugh, and the dogs bayed more loudly, and good-by being
said again, they mounted their horses.
“To the mountains!” cried Max, with sparkling eyes,
“Oh, what a glorious sight, the fall woods are—and the
deer!”
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
MR. HUDDLESHINGLE CONCEIVES AN IDEA: WITH THE CIRCUMSTANCES
WHICH LED TO THAT PHENOMENON.
The individual who monopolizes the whole conversation
in an assemblage of many persons, his talk flowing on like
a river which nothing can check, and absorbing such
chance sentences as others utter, as easily and gracefully
as a large stream absorbs into its bosom the little rills:
—such a talkative personage, despite every thing, is apt
to grow wearisome at last, and miss that attention which
other more silent individuals command.
We are afraid that the sayings and doings of Mr.
Max Courtlandt have filled too large a space in these
pages, and that the reader will very willingly good-speed
him on his journey to the mountains. Whether this be
the case or not, we shall proceed to report the words, and
actions of those other personages thrown by that impulsive
gentleman, almost completely in the back-ground. Mr.
Huddleshingle, with all his virtues, his peculiarities, his
devoted admiration for our heroine, will now take his
rightful place in this narrative, and perhaps act a more
prominent part than Max has hitherto played, figure in
a more striking catastrophe, than that which we have
described as occurring at the “Globe:”—Mr. Lyttelton,
that solemn devotee of legal lore, and prospective rival of
our hero in the affections of Nina, will have due attention
paid to his wise words and looks:—all the `neglected peronages'
finding the coast clear, and the silence no longer
take their rightful stations—usurped no longer—in our
comedy.
Max had gone away with a gay jest, beseeching Nina
not to lose her heart to Mr. Lyttelton, that walking law-book,
before he returned from his visit to the mountains.
What seemed then the merest jest, was soon no jest at all.
Mr. Lyttelton, dressed with unusual care, and radiant
with something which nearly approached a smile, called
at father Von Horn's scarcely half an hour after the departure
of the young man and hunter John. He came,
he said, to compliment Miss Nina on her admirable vivacity
and grace in the part of Lydia, which he had the
pleasure of seeing her perform, on the last evening at the
“Globe.” He had been very frequently, in his visits to
the north, to see the piece in many theatres, personated
by many beautiful women:—but he had never had the
pleasure, the happiness he might say, of witnessing a
performance so replete with grace and power, so full of
sparkling and fascinating vivacity, as that of the lady in
whose presence he now had the honor of being—then and
there.
These words were not precisely those uttered by Mr. Lyttelton,
that solemn admirer; but we have given a tolerably
accurate transcript of his remarkable and uncommon
speech on this occasion. That he had prepared himself
before undertaking such an extraordinary effort—
perhaps written it carefully and committed it to memory,
like many orators celebrated for their impromptu bursts
of eloquence—there seems little reason to doubt. True,
Mr. Lyttelton was not accustomed to con over or write
out his forensic addresses; but even the most fluent
orator, when he desires to make a profound impression,
studies beforehand his subject, selects and arranges his
sentences, seeks to discover the most winning gestures
and captivating tones. It was Mr. Lyttelton's object to
so far succeeded, that when he took his leave Nina acknowledged
to herself, with a sentiment of self condemnation,
that in heretofore regarding this gentleman as a decidedly
wearisome person, she had done him very great
injustice. As for Mr. Lyttelton, he went away completely
enslaved—and for twenty-four hours afterward was reported
to have not once looked into a law-book, or opened
a record. Strange power of love, even in the most stubborn
hearts.
Thus was the first step taken by Nina and her admirer,
hand-in-hand, toward the imaginary altar over which
presides that merry god, lover of jocund wedding bell-chimes,
and golden rings. Hand-in-hand: for we must
confess that Nina felt that Mr. Lyttelton's attention to
her were, all things considered, a most extraordinary
compliment, and she was not backward in betraying her
great satisfaction at his visit, and his promise to come
soon again. This visit was a compliment which no other
young lady could boast of: hitherto her admirer had been
wholly absorbed in his legal and political pursuits, had
forsworn the society of ladies, and had even—wrapped
up in his dusty papers, and law-volumes—seemed wholly
unconscious of the existence of such things as young girls.
He had not, however, on this account disappeared from
the eyes and thoughts of the marriageable young ladies
of the borough;—many had “set their caps” at the rising
young lawyer and politician; and not a few would have
returned no churlish answer to a declaration (not legal)
on his part. He was not agreeable, certainly—did not
dance—seldom smiled—was addicted to the unsocial habit
of falling into reveries, in which all consciousness of place
and people was lost upon his part: but he was undeniably
most intelligent, was of good “estate,” by no means
ill-looking, and was almost certain to be returned for Congress
in a year or two. Is it wonderful, therefore, that
person for matrimony, by the fair dames of the
borough; or that Nina should congratulate herself upon
having ensnared this formidable woman-hater?
Max knew not the sad consequences which were to
arise from his suggestion to Nina, in relation to the after-piece.
Had he dreamed of such a thing, we doubt
whether the young man would have taken so much pains
to persuade his cousin to appear in it. Her fascinating
appearance on that interesting occasion—beyond the least
doubt—fashioned and “shaped the ends” of her after
life, more powerfully than Max had dreamed they could.
She had completely charmed the sombre lawyer and politician—he
was now her willing slave, soon to assume
another, and very different position, in the eyes of the
law, at least.
Days and weeks glided away, and Max, absorbed in his
mountain sports, did not return. Nina was not sorry for
his absence, since she would have experienced some awkwardness
had he been present, and for a very simple
reason. Mr. Lyttelton was now her avowed suitor; that
gentleman called to see her every day; the house was
full of his presents—some of them exceedingly elegant
and costly: in a word, a new chapter had opened in the
book of Nina's existence; and that new chapter might
not be very much to her cousin Max's taste. Nina was
relieved by his absence—for she felt that Max had very
piercing eyes. If he loved her, on which point she had
never been able to make up her mind, how unpleasant
would be his presence!—If he was indifferent to her marriage
with Mr. Lyttelton, how dreadful his bantering
tongue! Nina was devoutly thankful for his absence.
So rolled on the days, the weeks, and at the end of a
month Mr. Lyttleton had paid the young lady such delicate
attentions, had made himself so agreeable, had ministered
so pleasantly to her vanity, by attending her to
transformed, for the nonce, into a gay lady's man—that
Nina's heart was won; and so, one morning when Mr.
Lyttelton asked the delicate question, which is to so
many men a stumbling-block, Nina without hesitation
gave him her hand. Mr. Lyttelton solemnly kissed the
hand, and as he would doubtless have expressed it, the
“pleadings” were through, and the “issue” was made up.
Soon the interesting fact was made known by Nina, to
her relations and friends; father Von Horn would not
have forced his daughter to marry the marquis of Carrabas;
he was delighted to find that she had chosen so
worthy a man, and gave her his blessing. Nina's friends
received the intelligence with complacent smiles: they
had “known it from the very first,” they said. And so
the day was fixed, and Nina, to her profound astonishment,
reflected, that she would soon be that very character she
had declared she never would be—a married woman.
There was one person who received the intelligence of
her intended marriage, with profound wrath and bitter
jealousy of the happy man to be. This was Hans Huddleshingle,
who, as we know, was one of Nina's most persevering
admirers, and who never for a moment had
doubted his ultimate success—backed by the evident partiality
of her father for him as a German, and the graces
of his intellect and figure. Hans was overcome with
rage; then with despair; then a thousand projects chased
each other through his somewhat muddy brain, all bearing
on the subject of the marriage, and the means of
preventing its consummation.
One morning he heard that the day for Nina's marriage
was fixed; then suddenly flashed across his memory
a conversation he had heard, not long ago at father Von
Horn's, and a strange idea occurred to him.
He determined that this idea should be shaped into an
act.
25. CHAPTER XXV.
AN AUTUMN EVENING WITH JEAN PAUL.
It was two or three days before the time appointed for
Nina's marriage, when one evening that young lady was
seated at the supper table, from which her father had
just risen.
In truth there seemed some foundation for the general
opinion, that Nina was one of the prettiest maidens of the
whole borough of Martinsburg. It is undeniable that
her dress was negligent and her hair disordered; but as
she sat there at the broad board, with the rich red sunlight,
streaming through the open window upon her curls,
turning them into waves of molten gold—upon her white
forehead, her bright eyes, her rosy cheeks—lighting up
all with its warm autumn radiance—one might have
been pardoned for concurring in the above-mentioned general
opinion. Certainly, Nina was a beauty—and though
none of the gentlemen of her acquaintance had hung
themselves, or fought duels, or written poetry, or done
any other dreadful thing in honor of her charms, yet that
beauty had not been without effect upon the hearts of
many:—a fact of which Nina was perfectly cognizant.
After scolding aunt Jenny, and nearly running crazy
a small negro boy, hight Sallust, by the number of orders
given him in rapid succession; and treading on the cat's
tail; and pinching the ear of the old superannuated dog
Bugle, who lay stretched beside the table; and bowing
coquettishly through the window to an acquaintance, who
these household duties and pleasures, she betook
herself with the key-basket on her round bare arm, to the
door, where her father sat smoking his immense meerschaum
and quietly reflecting on the events of the day,
which was about to close. From time to time, the old
man's eyes would wander to the portrait over the fire-place,
distinctly visible from the place where he was sitting—the
portrait of old Courtlandt Von Horn his father,
that hero of so much military renown, upon the border,
long ago, who now lay like a valiant German Ritter taking
his rest in the church-yard on the opposite hill. From
time to time, too, his eye would fall on a German book
lying open on his knee, in which he seemed to have been
reading.
“Nina, darling,” said father Von Horn to his daughter,
“come, read me a chapter in my new book. You will
like it much, for it is beautiful and genial, like every
thing from Fatherland.”
Nina pouted: and the reader must not think too hard
of her, for doing so. She was in one of her bad humors,
such as we have seen her betray on the morning when
this true history commenced: and further, she had no
desire to pass the beautiful evening with her eyes upon a
page full of black, German characters, when the cloud-characters
of orange and gold in the blue sky were so
much more attractive.
“What is it, father?” she asked.
“`Nicholas Margraf.' Jean Paul's last work: as far
as I have perused it, it is well worthy of him.”
Nina took the book.
“Commence at the seventh chapter daughter,” said
father Von Horn.
“It looks so dull,” said Nina, turning over the leaves
listlessly.
“It is not dull, daughter.”
“Oh me! I'm mighty tired!” groaned Nina, “these
servants will run me distracted!”
“Don't read, then, my child,” said her father, “don't
make a duty of what I meant for a pleasure.”
But Nina knew that her father would be hurt if she
failed to read, and as she loved her father this would
afflict her. Therefore, she turned duly to Chapter VII.,
and commenced, reflecting that after all her attitude in
the little wicker chair, with one white arm supporting her
head the other across the book, was not so ungraceful
should visitors approach.
It was a pleasant sight to see the old German and his
daughter, thus side by side in the quiet, beautiful evening,
under the broad old golden leaved oaks, fronting the setting
sun. It was amusing too, to witness the difficulty
with which Nina—only half comprehending the meaning
—enunciated the guttural diphthongs of that strange language
which Jean Paul delighted in making, more wild
and rugged than it naturally was. As to the old German,
he seemed much pleased, and often interrupted the reading
with a subdued laugh which was the very music of
hearty enjoyment.
The sun sank behind the blue mountains, and father
Von Horn took the book from Nina.
“What a wonderful writer—what a striking humor!”
he said, “Herr Richter is a good, as well as a great man.”
“It's so strange, father.”
“Yes; so it is. But it is not too strange to teach us
how great and commendable, are content and love in this
world.”
Nina turned the leaves, carelessly glancing at an approaching
visitor.
“If we are amiable and contented, daughter, and love
our neighbor,” said father Von Horn, “we are not only
living a more holy and God-fearing life, but are happier
here below.”
Nina's good humor began to return; she was a somewhat
fiery young lady, but not what is called moody.
“Content is an excellent thing, father,” she replied;
“but every body can't be contented.”
“Are you discontented?”
“Oh, no,” said the young girl, slightly blushing; “but
you know, father, how aunt Jenny and Sallust try me.
They almost drive me crazy!”
This was said with a laugh. Father Von Horn's
echoed it.
“Pshaw! these are trifles,” he said, “you have a
warm, good heart, daughter—don't mind them.”
“I don't, much.”
“You are not an irritable person; you love, not hate,
most people, I am sure;—as is right.”
“I dearly love you, father,” replied Nina, bending
over, and laying her hand trustingly on the massive
shoulder.
“Not a doubt of it, child,” said father Von Horn,
cheerily; “still you are going to leave me, you little
witch.”
“Oh, father,” said Nina, laughing and blushing.
“At what time did he say he would be able to return?”
“William from Alexandria, sir? He said nine o'clock
this evening.”
“Ah, I don't think I can spare you!”
“Father!” said Nina, beginning to cry. The old man
drew her to him and kissed her. She rose to go in, seeing
a gentleman approach whom she did not care to see;
but her father laughingly restrained her.
The gentleman was Mr. Huddleshingle.
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LAST INTERVIEW—BUT ONE—BETWEEN NINA AND HANS
HUDDLESHINGLE.
It can not be said that Nina received Mr. Huddleshingle
in a very flattering manner; the original pout came
back in its full force, as she returned a distant bow to his
phlegmatic salute.
“Welcome, Hans,” said father Von Horn, “what
news?”
“Nothing that I have heard, sir,” said Mr. Huddleshingle.
“Miss Nina, I am glad to see you looking so well
and happy this fine evening.”
“Thank you, sir, I am very well.”
“You are looking better than I ever saw you.”
“I am glad to hear it, sir.”
“To be sure,” continued Mr. Huddleshingle, with a
slight tremor in his voice which excited Nina's astonishment,
so phlegmatically self-possessed was her visitor on
ordinary occasions, “to be sure, it is nothing more than
I might look for—health and happy looks I mean—on the
eve of your marriage.”
Nine bowed coldly.
“It's a very agreeable time generally,” said her visitor.
“Agreeable, sir? I do not understand.”
“I thought I had a right to think so,” said Mr. Huddleshingle,
“having seen so many couples married. Ladies
“Do they?” asked Nina, with intense disdain—so
intense that her unlucky admirer almost ground his
teeth.
“I think they generally do,” he replied moodily, “and
I suppose Miss Nina will be looking as bright as a—as a
—flower, this time day after to-morrow. Some will not
feel so pleasant as she will, I know though:—but every
young lady has a right to please herself, and nobody
ought to say her nay.”
What it cost Mr. Huddleshingle to utter this speech,
his agitated voice, and heightened color indicated.
Father Von Horn came to divert the threatened storm,
by laughingly slapping the young German on the shoulder,
and saying:
“That's right, Hans! always leave the choice to them.
I should, if I had fifty daughters: my father, old Courtlandt
Von Horn, as you call him yonder, taught me that
much.”
Hans almost started.
Nina glancing sideways at him, was conscious that
while he ostensibly spoke with his eyes fixed on her, his
gaze wandered to the portrait, and his eyes almost blazed.
Misunderstanding his agitation, and attributing it to disappointment—for
she knew very well Mr. Hans Huddleshingle's
feelings toward herself—Nina experienced a
sentiment of pity for her unhappy admirer.
“What a very beautiful evening it is, Mr. Hans,” she
said kindly, “look at the sunset.”
“Yes—yes, beautiful,” said Mr. Huddleshingle starting
and blushing: this kind speech had nearly changed his
purpose. But an unlucky incident just then occurred
which had much effect upon after events.
This incident was the appearance of Mr. William Lyttelton
at the end of the street, leisurely approaching in
travel the circuit.
Nina jumped up, clapping her hands and crying, “Oh,
father—there he is—back already!” and without any
apology to Mr. Huddleshingle she ran into the house to
smooth her disordered dress and hair, before meeting her
solemn lover.
Mr. Huddleshingle looked once at the approaching
vehicle, ground his teeth audibly, and bidding father
Von Horn good-evening, went away, drawing in his
breath, and clenching his hands just as Mr. William
Lyttelton solemnly checked his steed before the door.
His resolution was taken—fixed.
27. CHAPTER XXVII.
A MODEL LOVER.
Mr. Lyttelton descended slowly from his curricle and
inclosed father Von Horn's fingers in his iron grasp—by
which excess of cordiality he may have intended to supply
the place of a smile: no such exhibition of gladness
appeared upon his rigid features. At the same moment
Nina appeared at the door.
Nina—but so metamorphosed, so wholly different, so
radiantly beautiful, with her fair, neatly-bound hair, her
tasteful costume, her tiny feet filling miraculous baby-slippers,
that she was scarcely recognizable. Her listless,
ill-humored air had changed to one of the greatest liveliness
and vivacity. Her eyes danced: her lips were
smiling: her whole manner was so altered that had Mr.
Huddleshingle been present no one can tell to what transports
of jealousy and ire he would have been driven.
“And how have you been, William—and did you have
a pleasant ride—and was the day warm—and did you
see any acquaintances in Alexandria—and did you gain
your cause in Winchester?—and—tell us all about it.”
These were some of the numerous, almost innumerable
questions which Nina poured forth upon the solemn
gentleman in black, who bore the infliction with much
equanimity. It is true he disapproved of such a style of
cross-examination on legal grounds, as calculated to embarass
the witness: but for once he relaxed in his professional
strictness.
He therefore informed Nina—whose affectionate salute
(that was the phrase then fashionable), he had received
with much apparent indifference—that his ride had been
a pleasant one; that the weather had been reasonably
pleasant, he thought he might even venture to say excellent
for traveling; that he had seen many friends in Alexandria;
that he had tried his case in Winchester, and
after a close contest got a verdict; and that he had, on
the whole, nothing to complain of.
“And now you want some supper after your ride, William,”
said Nina, affectionately, spite of her solemn lover's
indifferent manner, “you have not been to supper, of
course.”
“No matter,” said Mr. Lyttelton.
“But it does matter. Just wait, and you shall have
it in a few minutes—”
“Thank you, Nina; I must go home.”
“Stay by all means. Nina will be put to no trouble,”
said father Von Horn; “besides, daughter,” he added,
“Barry has not been to supper, and you must not neglect
him.”
“Oh, Barry can—” began Nina, indifferently; but
checking herself:
“Certainly it is no trouble, father,” she said; “in ten
minutes every thing would be ready. Come now, William,
remember you have been away for a week, nearly.”
“Well, Nina,” said Mr. Lyttelton, “I must go home
for a while; but I'll come back in half an hour.”
With which words he returned solemnly to his vehicle.
“Oh, by-the-by,” he said to the young girl, who was
at his elbow, “here are some small matters for you; silks
and things, I believe; I did not select them; I suppose
though, they are all right.”
And Mr. Lyttelton handed out a dozen large bundles
which had completely filled the bottom of the vehicle.
“Thank you, dear William,” said Nina gratefully, and
casting a timid glance at her grave admirer.
“It was no trouble,” he said.
And taking the reins, he placed his foot upon the step
of the carriage. A thought seemed suddenly to strike him.
“Nina,” said he, turning round with a smile which
somewhat relaxed his solemn physiognomy.
“William!”
“Come Nina, a kiss before I go. I love you very much,
Nina!”
And after this extraordinary speech, having received
the salute, Mr. William Lyttelton drove slowly away.
28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
BARRY.
Nina ran into the house nearly borne to the ground by
the weighty bundles she carried; and soon the whole
establishment was in an uproar. She herself saw to
every thing;—the presents were unwrapped; the supper
was ordered on a royal scale; and messages were sent by
Nina to all her friends in the neighborhood to come (with
their brothers, cousins, or other escort), and sup with her.
The presents Nina thought magnificent;—such beautiful
silks and laces, and such slippers, fitting admirably!
Then the earrings, and breastpins, and bracelets—the ribbons,
and handkerchiefs, and gloves! Surely such a lover
would be a model of a husband—such as the world rarely
saw!
The presents once laid out to the best advantage for
the inspection of her female friends, and the gentlemen
too, if they wished to see them—Nina applied herself to
the supper, which she determined should be worthy of
such a guest. The servants were soon flying about like
startled lapwings;—that unfortunate Sallust, who earlier
in the evening had been in horrible doubt whether his
head or feet were uppermost, now gave himself up for
lost, and obeyed, or endeavored to obey, with the silence
of despair;—and aunt Jenny thought that if such a clatter
was made about a simple supper, the wedding preparations
would deprive her of the small remnant of senses
which she yet possessed.
Father Von Horn, to escape all this hurry, bustle, and
noise, lit his meerschaum, and took his former position at
the door, where he sat in quiet meditation, smoking like
a bashaw, and gazing pleasantly at the red flush of sunset
on the western mountain, now almost overthrown and
obliterated by the fast-coming night.
Hearing a footstep toward Queen-street, he turned his
head and saw Barry. The boy looked pale and startled,
and sunk in thought.
“Well, Barry, my boy,” said father Von Horn, “what's
the matter?”
Barry raised his head with a frightened look, evidently
brought back to the real world around him by the old
man's hearty greeting.
“Oh, sir—nothing,” said Barry, blushing at the thought
that he was telling a falsehood.
“My child,” said his uncle, “you ought not to think
and walk about dreaming so much; no active, energetic
man dreams his time away. I know you have the poetic
and imaginative temperament, which exalts reverie into
an improper delight; but check it, check it, Barry—now,
while you are young.”
Barry sat down, returning no reply, upon the grass at
the old man's feet. Father Von Horn smoothed his long
dark hair with his hand.
“Courtlandt the Tall himself,” he muttered; “the
child is the very image of the old man, and the portrait.”
“What did you say, uncle?” asked Barry, rousing from
his abstraction.
“I said you were like Courtlandt the Tall—my father.”
Barry smiled; his preoccupation, for a moment, seemed
to have disappeared.
“Am I much, uncle?”
“Very much.”
“Was he a good man?”
“As good and brave a man as ever drew breath.”
“Then, uncle, I am very glad I am like him in my
face,” said Barry, “maybe, after a while I shall be like
him in my character.”
“You will, my boy, I am sure; you will be a good
man, Barry—for you are a good boy.”
“Uncle, you don't know how glad you make me feel by
saying I will be good. I only want to be good—I don't
want to be a great, rich man, for I am afraid it would
harden me, you know; make me look down on poor people.
Oh, uncle, I hope I will be good, and you will always love
me.”
“Bless your heart, my boy,” said father Von Horn,
cheerily, “every body loves you. Don't fear I ever will
stop loving you. Well, all this talking with Nina and
you, has made me forget Burt; I must see to him. No,”
continued father Von Horn, as Barry was about to rise
and go in his place, “I must look to the old horse myself.”
And he entered the house. As he went in Nina came
out, clad in her most graceful manner, and radiant with
happiness and expectation. At first she did not perceive
Barry, from the lowness of his seat. But he rose, and
Nina seeing him, called the boy to her and smoothing his
hair, kissed him affectionately.
“Barry, you are very handsome,” said Nina, laughing;
“but you must fix yourself nice for the supper.
Recollect every body in the neighborhood is coming; and
now I think of it, why don't you go and bring Sally.”
Barry blushed: then almost trembled with a sudden
recollection.
“I can not, cousin Nina,” he said in a low voice; “I
must go—”
Then suddenly checking himself, he sunk into one of
the chairs shuddering. Nina did not observe this strange
conduct: her whole attention was given to a gay party
of young persons who rapidly approached; these were the
bore down in one compact body—of laughing rosy faces,
and manly forms—upon Nina, and (prospectively) her
supper. Ladies at that day were not ashamed to eat
heartily, and were guilty of no trifling with dainty confections,
when good substantial edibles were at hand:—the
gentlemen too, were fond of those night-dinners called
suppers; and both the ladies, and the gentlemen, had
repeatedly partaken of this pleasant meal in great perfection
at the old German's mansion. Thus the feast and
flow of other things than reason and the soul, were agreeably
looked forward to.
Mr. Lyttelton arrived just as Nina was shaking hands
with her male friends, and kissing the young girls of the
party—a practice to which young girls for some mysterious
reason are much addicted—and all having entered
the hospitable doors, they were welcomed honestly and
heartily by the old man; and the merry laughter and
gay talk commenced, with many admiring looks at the
rich presents—Nina receiving every compliment with
wonderfully elegant composure: and so in due course of
time came, “the supper and the dance.”
In the midst of this uproar, of clinking glasses, merry
voices, and gay laughter, Nina's face became suddenly
overcast by something like a cloud. The thought of Max
had occurred to her; and this thought made her melancholy
even in the very whirl of the revelry.
29. CHAPTER XXIX.
BARRY KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT.
From all this confusion, noise, and merriment, Barry
had soon disappeared, with that shrinking sensitiveness
which characterized his timid temperament. But on this
evening something unusual seemed to agitate him, and
make him afraid of his own thoughts, even. Sitting,
bent down, in one of the large wicker chairs beside the
door, he gazed now at the calm white stars, now at the
moon, which just rising kindled the eastern trees, agitated,
nervous, starting at every sound.
Within, all went merry as a marriage bell, and the contrast
between those gay moving figures in the background,
and in the foreground the form of the boy bent down,
trembling, frightened, might have struck a painter.
Suddenly the old clock struck slowly and sonorously
nine. At the first stroke Barry started, at the last he
rose up shuddering.
“It is time!” he murmured.
“What is it time for?” asked the voice of Nina, behind
him; the violent exercise in dancing had heightened
her color unbecomingly, and she came to moderate her
roses in the cool evening.
Barry drew back, shaking his head.
“What are you shaking your head so wisely for,
Barry?” said Nina.
Barry trembling and pale, removed her hand from his
arm.
“Where are you going?” asked Nina.
“I can not tell you, cousin Nina.”
“Barry you must, or I will be angry.”
“I am sorry, cousin Nina; please let go my arm,”
Barry said, trembling; “I must go.”
Nina was struck with the profound terror expressed in
the boy's voice, and released his arm.
Barry, without further parley, glided into the deep
shadow of the oaks and disappeared—himself a moving
shadow—in the direction of the bridge. Nina hearing
herself called by the young girls, dismissed the subject of
the child's strange conduct from her mind, and entered
the house—just, however, as father Von Horn and his
son-in-law to be, came forth—at which Miss Nina was
observed to pout.
These gentlemen had abandoned the gay company
within, to come and talk politics in the open air, which
was pleasantly cool, not at all unpleasantly, however.
At no time was Mr. Lyttleton an agreeable companion;
but his conversational powers were displayed to much
greater advantage in the society of a reasonable, unimaginative,
sensible man, than with merry girls, and young
men addicted to gay laughter. The merriment was well
in its way, no doubt, but he had seen enough on this
occasion, for one evening, he reflected; and so reflecting,
he took his seat in the large wicker chair, which afforded
a luxurious resting-place for the head, the arms, and the
feet. Let it not be supposed, however, that Mr. Lyttelton
was the man to profit by these advantages. No; he
was accustomed to hard, upright court benches, or chairs,
and he sat perfectly erect in his comfortable and capacious
seat, disdaining to rest his head, his arms, or his feet, on
aught connected with it.
Then commenced a rather sleepy discussion, which confined
itself to politics and law; and which the reader will
readily pardon our not recording here. Mr. Lyttleton
held in his hand the last number of the Martinsburg
he took for text, with great solemnity and emphasis. But
in the midst of this harangue, when the speaker's feelings
were becoming aroused, and his latent fire began to glimmer
and flicker, gradually growing brighter and warmer,
he was suddenly arrested by a circumstance so novel in
its nature, that he very nearly uttered an exclamation.
Darting from the shadow like a flash of light, knocking
the paper from Mr. Lyttelton's hand, and nearly overturning
that gentleman, seat and all, Barry rushed into
the house, stumbled on the door sill, and fell forward on
his knees among the dancers, with frightened eyes,
trembling limbs, white cheeks down which ran a cold
sweat in streams, and on both hands marks of dust and
blood.
The whole company crowded round him in dismay,
and the music died away like a wail. Father Von Horn
hastened to the child with affectionate solicitude, and
raised him.
“What under heaven is this about, Barry,” he asked
with great astonishment, “what has frightened you?”
Barry passed his hand across his forehead, and murmured
something, shuddering.
“Speak, Barry!”
The boy trembled so violently that he could not speak,
scarcely stand. His face was as white as a ghost's, and
with under lip between his teeth, and round, awe-struck
eyes, he seemed to behold something, which no one around
him could see.
Father Von Horn took him by the arm, and supported
him into the next room;—Nina alone following, with a
hurried excuse to the company for leaving them. The
door was closed, and the old man quietly smoothing Barry's
hair, gently asked the meaning of his heat, agitation
and fright. Barry gradually became more calm; and
Nina, with a wet cloth washed the dust and blood from
matters.
That evening, he said, at about dusk, as he was passing
under the large willows by the run—already nearly
steeped in darkness—he had heard a voice at his elbow
in the gloom, which bade him go that night at the hour
of nine, to the grave of Courtlandt Von Horn, or some
misfortune would happen to the family. This appointment
he was not to mention to any one, or the same evil
would fall upon his uncle. While the voice was speaking
to him his foot had struck against a stone, and he had
stumbled and fallen. He rose and looked around—he
saw no one. Though terribly frightened, he had determined
to go, and did go to the church-yard. On approaching
the wall he had observed a figure of large size, clothed
in white, standing upon the tomb of Courtlandt Von
Horn—
The old man started back.
“On the tomb of Courtlandt the Tall!” he cried, catching
Barry by the arm.
“On the very slab,” said Barry, trembling.
“Barry, you are deceived,” said the old man, turning
pale, “or you are telling me an untruth.”
“Never, uncle. I never told a falsehood—I saw it!”
Father Von Horn passed his hand across his forehead,
to wipe away the cold sweat which had gathered in large
beads there. Nina's trembling arm was round his neck.
“My mind wanders,” said he “what more, Barry.
Said it any thing?”
Barry resumed his account. The white figure of the
spectre had risen taller and taller, and suddenly had
glided toward him. Affrighted, he had fled pursued, as
he thought; and as he fled, he heard thundered in his
ears, the words, “Courtlandt the Tall forbids this marriage!—Courtlandt
the Tall forbids this marriage!” He
had then run faster, and had fallen and hurt his hands,
until he reached home.
The old man's head sank, and he looked mournfully at
his daughter. Nina was pale, and her eyes were slowly
filling with tears. She knew too well the family tradition,
and her father's immovable resolution.
He took her by the hand, and muttering, “But one
course remains, daughter,” entered the room where the
guests were assembled.
“Friends,” said father Von Horn, “you have been
invited, I believe, to witness the ceremony of my daughter's
marriage, two days from this time. I am sorry to
say, it is put off for the present—for good and sufficient
reason. Enough, that it must be deferred.”
The company received this address with profound astonishment.
They looked at father Von Horn's firmly resolved
face, at Nina's tearful eyes, bent down head, and
twitching lips, at Mr. William Lyttelton's profoundly
incredulous physiognomy, framed—a striking and original
portrait—by the framework of the door. Nowhere any
information, any satisfactory indication of the meaning of
this mystery. A boy's fright to break off a marriage!
To Mr. Lyttelton, even, father Von Horn gave no satisfactory
answer, requesting him to call in the morning.
And so the company dispersed with long faces and
astonished looks, knowing not what to think, to believe,
to imagine even. They were nonplused. Last of all,
Mr. Lyttelton went away;—the gentleman who, above
all others, was affected by this strange occurrence. He
left father Von Horn's, not knowing whether to bring an
action for a novel breach of promise, or whether he should
not doubt his own, and the general sanity.
30. CHAPTER XXX.
NINA SETS HER WITS TO WORK.
When the last guest had disappeared, father Von Horn
went to his daughter, and tenderly took her by the hand.
Nina covered her eyes with the other hand, and shed a
flood of tears—of disappointment, mortification, and sorrow.
Father Von Horn was unmoved.
“Know you not, daughter,” he said in a low tone,
“that this is a fatal augury in our family—an ancestor
haunting his grave on the occasion of a wedding?”
Nina only sobbed.
“The roof tree would fall and crush us,” continued the
old man, solemnly, “were we to persist! Barry has never
yet told an untruth; but his woeful plight is evidence
enough. Courtlandt the Tall has arisen! The marriage
is broken!”
“Forever, father?” sobbed Nina.
“Forever, daughter!” the old man replied much
agitated, “it can not be. I could consent to your leaving
me, though I have nursed you from your mother's
death to the present hour, and seen your infant face merge
itself into childhood, childhood change gradually to girlhood,
womanhood lastly come to place its stamp upon
your forehead. Well! though I have watched you
through all these changeful and happy years, living most
on this earth for you, I could give you to one you loved,
I could part with my jewel to one who seemed to prize it
consent to—that parting is the eternal parting on this
earth; your death!”
“My death, father!”
“Yes, Nina; were this marriage to take place, how
know I that my daughter would not be the victim of my
weakness. Her death would be the death of two persons
—the old worn body would no longer hold to earth, the
poor heart—it is getting very old and weary—would
wear away its prison before many days of such a grief
had passed. No, daughter, it must not be. Courtlandt
the Tall has arisen!” the old man solemnly said, “the
marriage is broken off, and will not be written in the
Red Book! Enough.”
Nina, much touched by her father's words made no
reply—only sobbed. Suddenly, however, she was observed
to start.
“Father,” she said, “I know Barry has seen something;
but could not this have been a trick played on
him?”
“A trick?”
“An imposition, by some one; just think, father!”
“Who could think of it? Who would presume!”
cried the old man.
“Many would, father.”
“To trifle with my family matters, and practice on
my feelings!”
“Father,” cried Nina, “the more I think, the more I
am convinced there is some deception in the matter. Just
think.”
Father Von Horn was incredulous; but slowly the
idea seemed to gather weight and probability in his
mind.
“Father,” said Nina, “before you break off forever
this marriage, in which my heart is engaged, grant me
one favor—but one, father.”
“What is it, daughter?”
“That you will send invitations for the wedding, for
the day after to-morrow, as before—”
“Well—”
“Then you might go to the church-yard—I know it is
an imposition, father;—and find—”
“I?—to the church-yard!”
“Father, I know it is an imposition,” cried Nina;
“and I think I know who it is. If it is a deception, it
will be repeated—if it is not, sir, and you see—see—what
Barry saw, then I will never again mention the subject
of my marriage.”
This seemed plausible to father Von Horn; he feared
the responsibility to his own conscience, too, which he
had incurred, by so abruptly on a child's report, breaking
off the intended marriage. The old man was exceedingly
superstitious—this is his excuse—far more so than Nina.
Nina was not superstitious at all;—and so forcible
were her arguments on this occasion, that she won her
father's consent to every thing. The invitations were to
be sent out again, every preparation for the wedding was
to be made for the second evening; and on the next evening—the
wedding eve—her father was to ascertain for
himself, the truth of Barry's relation.
“Donner and Blitzen!” swore father Von Horn, “if it
is a trick!” When Nina heard this famous oath, she
knew that she need say no more
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
FATHER VON HORN ENCOUNTERS COURTLANDT THE TALL.
The afternoon slowly waned, the sunset died away,
and nine o'clock approached on that fatal night when
father Von Horn was to go forth to meet the shade, or not
the shade, of his ancestor.
Father Von Horn, the more he reflected, the more decidedly
came to agree with Nina. He was almost certain
now, that some trick had been played upon him, or, which
was far worse, on his name. He accordingly determined
to prepare himself for an encounter with an earthly power,
not, however, going unprepared for unearthly visitants.
Around him pale faces and trembling hands looked on,
and obeyed his bidding. First came an old rusty sabre
which had hung for nearly half a century on the walls,
and being about to see some service in all probability,
was buckled around the old man's waist by its antique
band. It had belonged to Courtlandt the Tall himself,
and now it was to be used, in a possible contingency,
against his derider or deriders. Then a dark lantern
attached to the end of a stick was produced—the lantern
to see by, and the stick to be used on the back of the
person or persons who had taken such unwarrantable
liberties with the Von Horn name; if indeed the liberty
were not taken by one whose right was unimpeachable—
old Courtlandt Von Horn himself.
Thus equipped father Von Horn called Barry and bade
him keep by his side, mounted his horse, the coal black
dark night.
It was very dark and threatening—heavy thunder
clouds having slowly gathered overhead sweeping from
the western mountains. The moon, struggling through
them like a storm-beaten ship, over whose lights waves
incessantly break, glimmered and disappeared, and rode
forth again, as the wind swept it onward to the west.
The ravine was flooded. The little tinkling rivulet
was becoming a mountain torrent, each moment growing
larger and larger. The freshet caused by the heavy rains
in the mountains, beat full and tumultuous against the
stone work of the bridge. This stone work trembled and
shook, as the large waves which had bowed huge trees
above, struck against it, rebounding covered with foam
like furious war-steeds in the shock of battle.
Father Von Horn and Barry crossed the bridge slowly,
and bent their way toward the church-yard. No sound
was heard but the mutterings of thunder far away in the
western mountains, and the heavy footsteps of Burt, or
his uneasy snort as he snuffed up the coming storm.
They approached the church-yard through the profound
darkness, which was only relieved by a few flashes of
lightning and the fitful glimmering of the moon; the
lantern had been closed securely.
The whole neighborhood was wild and lonely: the
wind sighed in the tall melancholy trees which bowed
and bent toward each other like courteous giants, and
across the waste moor by which they drew near the
church-yard, the tall tombstones gleamed like spectres.
Suddenly father Von Horn caught Barry by the arm.
“I have seen something,” he said in a whisper, “I
will conceal myself here behind this bush; show yourself.”
Barry obeyed trembling; and indeed he had no sooner
advanced with faltering steps into the open space in full
father Von Horn's terrified sight a gigantic figure standing
with uplifted arms upon the grave of Courtlandt
the Tall! The flash of lightning, however, had another
effect; it revealed the old German to the spectre. The
consequence was that the white figure leaped the stone
wall with remarkable agility, and—the moon just then
sailing slowly forth—was seen scudding across the common
toward a clump of bushes at the distance of some
hundred yards.
Father Von Horn's superstitious fears disappeared like
magic, and full of wrath he put spurs to Burt, and sweeping
like a substantial whirlwind toward the ghost would
have immediately overtaken him—but for a very simple
but also very unlucky circumstance. There grazed near
the clump of bushes mentioned, quietly and peacefully, a
noble mare, milk white and fleet as a deer, which every
body in the borough was well acquainted with; the ghost
already imagined himself in the clutches of his enemy
when this chance of escape presented itself.
Burt, with fiery nostrils, which emitted clouds of vapor
in the chill air, heavy breathing, and energetic gallop was
sweeping toward him; on Burt's back a gentleman whose
name had been trifled with, whose family traditions ridiculed,
and whose superstitious ideas had been made a
laughing stock of by the ghost.
The ghost was naturally averse to any encounter with
this personage at the moment in question; so wrapping
about him his sheet, he leaped with one vigorous bound,
on the back of the startled and neighing animal and
clasping him round the neck, took to the open road at
lightning speed.
32. CHAPTER XXXII.
THE DEAD GO FAST.
Behind the spectre father Von Horn came on wrathfully.
His metal was completely aroused, and he determined
that the comedy should end definitely then, if not
there.
He therefore spurred Burt to his topmost speed, and
thus kept up with the fugitive if he did not gain ground.
They ran thus for nearly two miles, the ghost doubling
and winding in the numerous cross roads, endeavoring
without success to throw his pursuer off the scent. It
was all in vain. Father Von Horn followed him by the
noise of his steps, and the occasional moonlight, without
difficulty. By one of those numerous doubles in the road
the ghost—either advisedly, or from not perceiving the
bearing of surrounding objects, which was very natural in
one so agitated—bore down again upon Martinsburg.
Behind him his pursuer rode as swiftly. Through the
fitful moonlight, over hills, down rocky descents, up rugged
ascents, into Queen-street, toward the bridge, they
came revealed to view only by the occasional lightning
flashes, breaking with the roar of thunder. Behind,
father Von Horn with streaming hair, swinging lantern,
and rattling sabre, bore on like a tornado.
Before, another sight was seen. There was the ghost
wrapped in his sheet, clinging like a vice to his horse's
mane, or rather neck, for he was lying on the animal
with one arm round his neck, ever and anon casting
horse and horseman—like one of those singular figures
which Retzsch delighted to outline for the German ballads.
Suddenly a terrific roar was heard, louder than wind,
thunder, or torrent. The bridge had given way with a
crash, and horrible to relate, the ghost and father Von
Horn, before they could check their horses, were precipitated
into the raging current.
The spectre horseman and his steed sunk, then rose
again. Looming above the waves like a rising sun, father
Von Horn tried to save his horse, but poor Burt seemed
to have gone down, and a gigantic surge swept over the
glimmering lantern. Within two yards of the shore the
ghost redoubled his exertions, and soon the mare raised
her forelegs, and clinging to the bank like a dog, emerged
from the water. A large wave behind them suddenly
took the form of a man and horse, the old German rose
from the wave, and by a desperate effort followed. Both
then, pursuer and pursued, swept on, the white mare
turning into the German quarter.
The race had been close, but the spectre of Courtlandt
the Tall might even then have achieved his escape, at the
pace he was going, and so returned quietly to lie down in
his tomb, but for an unfortunate accident. Just when
their speed had begun once more to mend, and when they
had reached the open space before father Von Horn's door,
the mare stumbled in the darkness, rolled her rider on the
ground, and frightened at the quick gathering lights and
faces, disappeared like a spectre steed, leaving the spectre
jockey to his fate.
The whole household ran out—father Von Horn drew
near, and in the midst of all the ghost rose, and throwing
the sheet on the ground, looked with a mixture of phlegm
and defiance on the crowd. The ghost was no other than
Mr. Hans Huddleshingle.
“Sir,” said father Von Horn gravely, “you have done
a most unworthy thing. It is neither graceful or becoming
for one so well descended as yourself, to thus trifle
with the traditions of an honest family. Go, sir, you are
sufficiently punished; there is no enmity between us!”
And giving Burt to a servant, father Von Horn turned
his back on Mr. Huddleshingle, who returned homeward,
devoured with rage, mortification, and despair.
Nina threw her arms round her father's neck, and joyfully
kissed him.
“Did I not tell you so, father,” she cried, “I knew
that odious man was the person, yesterday; I was almost
certain, at least, for he heard us talking about the Red
Book and grandfather.”
“You were right, my daughter,” said the old man,
panting with his violent ride, “now the marriage may
take place, I hope, in peace.”
And they all entered the house.
33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
MR. LYTTELTON IS MADE TO UNDERSTAND.
The household were seated discussing the strange
incident which had just occurred, when the face of Mr.
William Lyttelton was seen at the door; and that gentleman
gravely stalked in, shaking the rain drops from his
hat.
“You mentioned the hour of ten, I believe, sir,” he said
to father Von Horn, taking out his watch, “and then you
promised me an explanation of this most extraordinary
occurrence.”
“Be seated, Mr. Lyttelton,” said the old man, who had
changed his dripping clothes, but was still panting, “I
shall get my breath again very soon.”
Mr. Lyttelton sat down, betraying as much astonishment
as his face was capable of expressing. As yet he
was wholly ignorant of what we have narrated for the
reader in detail—namely, the family tradition of the Von
Horns, the explanation of Barry's fright on the previous
evening, and the catastrophe related in the last chapter.
The solemn gentleman was completely at a loss; he was
wandering about in the mazes of conjecture, like a blind
man in the night time, like a huge learned-looking owl in
the day time. He understood nothing; and now called
by appointment to hear the statement of the case, from
his intended father-in-law.
“You were, no doubt, very much astonished yesterday,”
father Von Horn said after a pause of some minutes, “at
sir, you had, I confess, some right to be surprised. Listen,
and you shall judge for yourself.”
The old German then related to Mr. Lyttelton the whole
affair from beginning to end, making no mystery of his
family superstition, but offering for it no apology. Mr.
Lyttelton stretched his eyes to their greatest possible
width; solemnly rubbed one side of his nose with his
long finger; shook his head with an oracularity which
expressed folio volumes; and in one word, exhibited all
those signs of astonishment which men are accustomed
to exhibit, on hearing a strange and unaccountable circumstance
narrated. Father Von Horn with a mixture
of amusement and indignation, concluded by detailing
the final catastrophe and signal overthrow, in a double
sense, of Mr. Huddleshingle.
“And now,” said he, “you have the whole matter,
and may comprehend these singular events completely.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Lyttelton gravely, “This
gentleman—Mr. Huddleshingle I think you call him—
well deserves a severe punishment at my hands.”
“No, no,” said father Von Horn, regaining his cheerful
good-humor, “his father and myself were friends. I
must not disgrace him more than he has disgraced himself.”
“Hum!” muttered Mr. Lyttelton, “but I was not his
father's friend, sir.”
“You?” said the old man, laughing.
“No; and I hold it to be my right and my duty to
take notice of this insult to—”
“To whom, friend William?”
“To Nina.”
“Why, you are too fast!” said father Von Horn, merrily,
“Nina is not your wife yet. Until then—”
Mr. Lyttelton smiled.
“She soon will be, I hope, sir. To-morrow evening,
I believe, is fixed upon for the wedding.”
“See, Nina,” said father Von Horn, shaking with
laughter, “if you allow him to take things into his own
hands so completely now before your marriage, what will
you do when he is your lord and master?”
Nina blushed, and glanced at the solemn face of her
lover. That gentleman considered himself, possibly, very
well repaid for the banter which had given him that loving
glance.
“Well, sir,” he said gravely to the old man, “I suppose
now the wedding may take place without further
difficulty. I am ready, and so is Nina, I believe; I am
naturally anxious,” added Mr. Lyttelton, with as much
diffidence as his profession had left him master of, “to
have the ceremony over; if Nina, therefore, throws no
obstacle in the way—”
“Oh!” said Nina, much embarrassed.
“To-morrow evening will be our wedding-day.”
“Or wedding-evening: I don't think you will be further
troubled by insolent triflers, like Mr. Huddleshingle,”
said father Von Horn. “The wedding will take
place; and friend William, I wish you all happiness.
We all do. We are all here now, and all are pleased
that Nina has chosen so worthy a gentleman as yourself
for her husband; all of us—with the exception of my
wild nephew, Max, who appeared some time since you
recollect, in the character of Romeo, on the evening of
Mrs. —'s examination. He is off in the mountains
with hunter John, and no doubt will be much surprised
when he receives the message I sent him. I am afraid
he has wandered deeper into the mountains, though—to
Mr. Emberton's, or other of his friends; and will not
return until the marriage is over. Max is a wild dog,
but we all love him; I hope he will be in time.”
At that moment the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard
ceased—and a footstep was distinguished upon the graveled
walk leading to the door. The door opened, and the
figure of Max appeared upon the threshold, his clothes
soiled with dust, his face agitated, one hand pressed upon
his heart as if to still its tumultuous beating.
34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
MAX APPEARS AGAIN UPON THE SCENE.
Max closed the door and came in, bowing with gloomy
embarrassment to the company.
“Welcome, my boy,” said father Von Horn, kindly
offering his hand to the young man, “why did you force
us to send you word of Nina's wedding? You ought, besides,
to have been back long since to your law. Ah!
the mountain winds are a bad thing for students—unless
students are sick from too much study, which I take it
is not the case with Mr. Romeo. Why, what's the matter,
Max?” continued father Von Horn, “your hand is
cold and trembles. Are you sick?”
“No, sir—nothing—” stammered Max, sitting down
moodily, “I rode very fast.”
“Why so?”
“I wished to arrive in time,” said Max, bitterly; “I
thought cousin Nina might be married, as she has been
courted and won, while I was absent.”
Nina saw the storm she had feared, rapidly approaching;—not
only in the unusual address of the young man
—he had called her formally cousin Nina—but in his
moody and agitated looks and tones, so different from that
merry and joyous manner habitual with him. There
was a bitterness in his voice, too, which jarred upon her
heart. The old man also noticed this change in Max's
usual bearing, and said:
“Married while you were absent say you, nephew?
not returned? Nina could not tell Mr. Lyttelton
that you were off on a hunting expedition, and appoint
the day after your return for her wedding-day. Come,
come! you are weary and out of humor; get Max some
supper, Nina.”
“I am not hungry, sir,” said Max, his eyes filling with
tears of sorrow and mortification, “and I could not eat.”
“Riding usually gives me an appetite,” said Mr.
Lyttelton, phlegmatically.
“It has not me,” said Max coldly.
Mr. Lyttelton saw an opening for a joke; he caught at
it with the energy of an advocate who sees a weak point
in his opponent's case.
“Perhaps you are in love,” said he smiling; “that I
believe is fatal to the appetite.”
Max's eye suddenly blazed; and he met Mr. Lyttelton's
glance with one of such defiance that that gentleman
was profoundly astonished.
“In love, sir?” said the young man sternly. “What
do you mean?”
Father von Horn rose and laid his hand on the young
man's shoulder.
“Max,” he said, “you must really be unwell, or something
has put you out of humor. You speak to Mr.
Lyttelton as if he were your personal enemy!”
Max uttered not a syllable in denial of his uncle's
hypothesis.
“I am not aware that I have said any thing impolite,
sir,” said Mr. Lyttelton.
“Oh father!” said Nina, coming forward with tears in
her eyes; “don't speak harshly to Max; I know he is
unwell and irritable—you know like me so often.”
“Why daughter,” said the old man, “I had no intention
of speaking harshly to Max. He is not a child for
me to rate for ill-behavior. Come, my boy, throw off your
and sit down. You must have some supper, it is nearly
eleven o'clock; and you must be hungry.”
“Nearly eleven?” interrupted Mr. Lyttelton looking
at his watch; “so it is, sir. Well I must go, as I have
a record to study to-night. Good-night, sir,” he added
shaking by the hand father Von Horn, who endeavored to
prevail on him to stay longer, alleging with great politeness
the earliness of the hour, “and good-night, Nina.
Be ready to-morrow.”
Having said good-by, Mr. Lyttelton might have very
properly retired, but he waited as usual for the sound of
Nina's voice, beseeching him to stay; perhaps for the
conjugal kiss which she usually bestowed upon his oracular
lips. If Mr. Lyttelton lingered for such a purpose he
lingered in vain. Nina neither asked him to remain, nor
seemed at all disposed to grant him a “salute,” or made
any movement forward even to press his hand before his
departure. And if the reader fails to comprehend the
rationale of this phenomenon we are quite sure we could
not, in a whole volume, convey to him any accurate idea
upon the subject. Mr. Lyttelton, therefore, departed
with scarcely any recoguition of the fact on the part
of Nina; he knew not what to think, but decided upon
the propriety of jealousy, in which the handsome face of
Max entered and played a distinguished part.
Father Von Horn came back holding the candle with
which he had lit his guest out, and unmistakably yawned;
then declared he felt exceedingly sleepy—and then, having
told Nina and Max good-night, without a trace of ill-humor
toward the young man in his manner, retired to
bed. Nina got up to follow him. Max with his head
turned away took no notice of the movement.
Nina went up to him, and took his hand.
“Max,” she said in a low tone, “are you angry with
me?”
“No,” said the young man turning away.
“Why are you so cold to me, then?” said Nina.
Max raised his head, and a profound sigh, which
seemed to relieve his heart, broke from him.
“Am I cold to you?” he said, “I did not mean to be
cold to you; indeed it would be very ridiculous in me to
be giving myself airs as if I was some important person.
I hope you will forgive me, if I have annoyed you.”
Nina was much moved at the profoundly sad tones in
which these words were uttered.
“No, you have not annoyed me, Max; but you called
me when you came in cousin Nina, and I thought you
were angry with me.”
“I am not angry with you,” Max said, in a low voice.
“But, Max! something is the matter with you! Max
you distress me; I am ready to cry and I will cry in a
minute if you don't tell me what you are so distressed
about. Is it—can it be—Max, can it be!—” stammered
the young girl blushing.
“Yes!” said Max, rising.
For a moment their agitated glances met; Max leaning,
pale and statue-like, against the tall mantle-piece,
Nina standing upright without the power of moving. For
a moment they stood thus silent, and motionless; then
Nina sank into a chair, and covered her face which was
full of tears and blushes.
“Nina,” said the young man, a passionate sob tearing
its way from his breast, “I loved you! I love you
now more than ever. I left you without dreaming of
this—and when I received the intelligence I raved
awhile as unfortunate people always have done, and always
will do. I thought your heart—that wealth more
vast than earth could give me—was at least half my
own. I was mistaken, and for a time my breast was
a storm, which tore it and blackened for the moment
every thing around me. Well, well! the storm has subsided—will
curb this foolish agitation which is only food for laughter—”
“Oh, Max—Max!—” sobbed Nina.
“You are right, Nina. This is very foolish in me I
know,” he said, “and I will trouble you no more. This
thing came on me like a thunder-clap, and I was surprised,
that is all. Don't let my gloominess disturb you; and
now I will not stand here groaning and sighing. Good-night!”
And leaving Nina in tears, Max went up to his room.
Once more alone his feelings, softened no longer by the
pleading face of Nina, were lashed again into tumultuous
waves. He recalled those ironical words of Mr. Lyttelton—such
he supposed them to be—“perhaps you are in
love;” he treasured up that gentleman's cool smile, and
at the end of half an hour had made up his mind that he
had insulted him. What to do? That was the question.
This question tormented him through all the long
hours of that weary night. Striding up and down the
room, agitated by a thousand thoughts, Max could, after
hours of thought, determine upon nothing.
The dawn found him still pacing up and down. He
took his hat and descended, meeting in the dining-room
with aunt Jenny. Aunt Jenny immediately unfolded
the events of the last two days; the spectre—the night
ride—the catastrophe.
Max caught at this with sombre pleasure; and smiling
scornfully left the house; on what errand we shall discover.
35. CHAPTER XXXV.
M. PANTOUFLE'S LAST LESSON AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
At eleven in the forenoon of the eventful day, on the
morning of which we have seen Max leave his uncle's,
and on the evening of which Nina was to give her hand
away to Mr. Lyttelton, M. Pantoufle Xaupi, or as we
have elected to call him—therein sustained by general
usage—M. Pantoufle simply, called to give the young
girl her last lesson in music.
M. Pantoufle made much capital, so to speak, out of
this event. He was profuse in his bows and congratulations—paid
his pupil many sly compliments on her good
looks—and made more than one courteously-worded, paraphrased
allusion to the happy event.
It might with truth be said that M. Pantoufle, on this
occasion, not for one instant kept an upright position in
the young girl's presence. He had brought with him a
magazine of bows, smiles, shrugs, grimaces, from which
he drew those graceful weapons in profusion, and shot
them at his lovely pupil with prodigal politeness. His
hand never once released the richly-laced eocked hat;
the richly-laced cocked hat but rarely left the owner's
heart; the owner of the heart had apparently but one
desire on earth—to bow to the lady's very feet.
Nina took her seat at the harpsichord, and struck the
keys.
“What divine touch!” cried M. Pantoufle in an
ecstasy.
“Come, M. Pantoufle,” said Nina, “you are in a complimentary
vein this morning. I am not in a laughing
humor. My lesson please.”
“The last—ah, ma'mselle, the last.”
“What do you mean?”
“'Tis the last lesson.”
“Well!”
“Before the happy event.”
“My marriage, you mean?”
“Yes, ma'mselle.”
“Well—come now.”
“I could teach ma'mselle no more.”
“Teach me no more? pshaw!”
“'Tis true, ma'mselle.”
“Why I play very badly.”
“Badly! mon Dieu!”
“You know it.”
“You play divinely, ma'mselle!”
“Pshaw! come let us begin.”
“With pleasure.”
“Which piece?”
“This, ma'mselle.”
And Monsieur Pantoufle took from his port-folio a piece
of music.
“'Tis new,” he said.
“And pretty?”
“Oh, charming!”
“Strike it.”
Monsieur Pantoufle, with polite ease, sat down and ran
his fingers over the instrument.
“Why, it is not pretty,” said Nina.
“That is the prelude—seulement.”
“Well, go on.”
Monsieur Pantoufle commenced the piece with a brilliant
flourish, and then ran through it, the music rattling
like miniature thunder, and glittering, so to speak, like
and turned round. Nina's eyes were full of tears.
“'Tis pretty, is it not?” said Monsieur Pantoufle, not
observing her emotion.
“Very,” said Nina, turning away, “I have heard Max
humming it a great deal within the last month:—no, before
that;” Nina added, mournfully.
“I teach him,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, with a polite
grimace.
“Have you seen him to-day?”
Monsieur Pantoufle looked mysterious.
“Yes, ma'mselle,” he said.
“Did he look well?”
“Well?”
“I mean in good spirits—bien aise—he was sick last
night.”
“Sick, eh?” said Monsieur Pantoufle, evading the question.
“Malade: was he well, I say, to-day?”
“Why, ma'mselle, I must confess, he look badly.”
“What was he doing?”
“Writing,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, innocently.
“What, pray?”
“Ah, you must ask him, ma'mselle,” replied Monsieur
Pantoufle, laying his hand carefully upon the inside of
his cocked hat, and bowing politely.
“Well, sir—now we will go on, if you please,” said
Nina, listlessly; and she again took her seat at the harpsichord.
Monsieur Pantoufle betook himself to his duty,
with elegant ease.
The lesson lasted half an hour, at the end of which
time the music-master rose to take his departure. This
was not, however, as easy a matter as many persons may
suppose. First he gathered up his music, and placed it
carefully in his port-folio; then he carefully tied the
strings of the port-folio, and placed it under his left arm.
of the room, and from the young girl's presence, without
turning his back. Then was made apparent Monsieur
Pantoufle's elegance and grace; his masterly attainments
in ball-room science. He ambled, he sidled, he trod
mincingly on his toes, he bowed, grimaced, shrugged his
shoulders, and retreated gradually, accompanying every
step backward with a compliment. At his third polite
speech, he had reached the old clock, at his fifth the bible
stand, at his seventh the threshold of the door. There
with his cocked hat pressed devotedly on his heart, his
head inclined over the right shoulder, his feet artistically
fixed together, he made Nina a most profound bow, and
so took his leave, smiling—serenely happy.
He had not observed the fact that a note elegantly
folded had fallen from his hat upon the floor.
36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE LAST OF MAX COURTLANDT IN MARTINSBURG.
It was not until half an hour after Monsieur Pantoufle's
departure, that Nina chanced to see the note lying on the
floor. Thinking it was one of the invitations which she
had dropped, she picked it up and opened it. Running
her eye hastily over it—or rather over both, for there
were two notes folded for the sake of convenience together,
she started and turned pale.
“Oh, me!” cried Nina, in an agonized tone, “how could
Max—”
“Why, daughter,” said the voice of father Von Horn,
behind her, “what pray, has moved you so? I should
imagine that this note you are reading, was your sentence
of death. I heard you say `Max:' what has he to do
with it?—a real mystery!”
Nina placed the notes in her father's hands, with an
expression of anxious terror. Father Von Horn ran his
eye over them.
“Where did these come from?” he said, indignantly,
“I see Mr. Pantoufle's name here!”
“He must have dropped them.”
“Dropped them?”
“He has just gone, father; he came to give me my
music lesson.”
Father Von Horn again read the notes with a frowning
brow.
“I'll see to this!” he cried, “where is Max—my
nephew—ho, there!”
“Here I am, sir,” said the young man, gravely entering;
his hair disordered like his dress; his face pale and
sombre.
“Do you know this writing?” said father Von Horn,
angrily striking the paper with his finger, and holding it
up before his nephew's eyes.
The young man looked at it, and betrayed some emotion.
“I ask you if you know it?”
“Yes, sir,” Max replied, gloomily, “I know it, for I
wrote it myself; though I do not know how you could
have procured it.”
“Mr. Pantoufle, sir—”
“Mr. Pantoufle has degraded himself,” said the young
man, scornfully. “If he has brought it to you, sir, I can
not understand how you consented to open it.”
“He did not bring it—he dropped it. But I should, in
any event have read it without hesitation.”
The young man remained silent and gloomy, standing
motionless.
“Yes, without hesitation,” repeated father Von Horn,
working himself into a passion, “I hold it to be my right,
as well as my duty, to prevent so unchristian and bloody
an encounter. This, sir, is a challenge—”
“Yes, sir—two challenges.”
“And to whom, in heaven's name, but the intended husband
of my daughter.”
Nina fell sobbing into a chair.
“Yes, sir,” said Max, with gloomy composure, “to
Mr. William Lyttelton, and to the worthy gentleman who
yesterday played a disgraceful trick upon your family.
Uncle!” cried the young man, losing his calmness, and
speaking in a voice of great bitterness, “this thing
went too far! Last night, this Mr. Lyttelton scoffed at
cruel and unmannerly jests at my expense! I could have
forgiven that, though my blood is none of the coolest,
when a man deliberately does me wrong. I went to my
chamber—I recalled every word, every look, every insulting
accent, and in spite of all, I determined to do nothing,
to pass by all these insults, because Nina, Nina—loved
this man!” Max said, through his teeth. “In the morning,
I heard of the infamous trick Mr. Huddleshingle had
been guilty of. He, at least, was a proper object for me
to spend my anger upon, and I went straight to write
him a defiance. On the way, I met Mr. Lyttelton, who
bowed superciliously, and a second time insulted me! I
added his name to Mr. Huddleshingle's;—he was in
worthy company.”
The young man stopped, mastered by his agitation—
and overwhelmed with rage, jealousy, and despair.
“Sir,” said father Von Horn, “you have been guilty
of an unchristian and criminal act!”
“Yes, sir, and ridiculous! I know that—all. Mr
Lyttelton, I suppose, will refuse to fight with his wife's
cousin! A mere boy, too! Yes, sir, I know I am ridiculous;
but I have been wronged, and I will right my
wrong!”
“You are mad! I forbid your keeping this appointment.
I will go at once to this miserable dancing-master,
who is your second forsooth in this unholy matter!
Nephew, I forbid your stirring one step further: I forbid
your leaving the house until I return. You have been
guilty of a criminal and most unchristian act!” repeated
the old man, laboring under great excitement. “There is
Nina, almost in a fainting fit on the day of her marriage!
Here am I, an old gray-headed man, with a heart lacerated
by your conduct! I forbid your leaving this house, sir,
till my return—and were you twice as old as you are, I
would still forbid you. To your room, sir!”
And father Von Horn angrily putting on his hat hurried
off to Monsieur Pantoufle's.
Max stood overcome with a thousand emotions; anger,
jealousy, mortified pride, and bitter sorrow by turns raged
in his heart. His eye fell upon Nina, whose bosom was
shaken with a storm of sobs.
“Great God!” cried the young man, “is it possible
that this hell should have come into the place I was so
happy in before. Can you be so changed, Nina! Answer
me not; I am going; but not to meet your—husband.
No! that is all over. But I go; were I to stay the roof
tree would fall and crush me!”
And Max hurried to his chamber. Closing the door,
he sat down in great agitation; and for a moment strove
to collect his bitter and wandering thoughts. Then
seizing a pen he commenced writing.
As he wrote his agitation changed slowly into a sombre
melancholy. Then a few tears gathered in his eyes and
ran down upon the paper. In a quarter of an hour he
rose, leaving the sheet open upon the table.
He looked for some minutes around him, at the old
familiar objects; a profound sigh or rather a groan, burst
from his heart: and he went out slowly. Descending to
the stable he saddled his horse—the gift of his aunt—
mounted, and just as dusk began to fall upon the quiet
town went forth toward the south.
37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
NINA'S WEDDING AND MAX'S LETTER.
Father Von Horn found Monsieur Pantoufle “not at
home”—which circumstance was perhaps attributable to
the fact that that gentleman had seen him approaching
and, quietly instructing his servant what to say to his
visitor, had ensconced himself in his chamber.
Immediately upon his return father Von Horn asked
for Max and was informed that he had gone to his chamber.
After a moment's reflection the old man determined
to leave him undisturbed for a time, hoping that after an
hour or two his agitation and excitement would cool down,
and that this most unpleasant affair would be ended by a
frank explanation between himself and the young man.
Besides the wedding guests before very long began to
assemble, and his attention was attracted for the moment
to this more urgent matter.
The wedding was as gay as weddings usually are—
music, dancing, and feasting were the order of the evening,
and Nina never had looked prettier her friends informed
her, albeit there lingered in her pensive eyes some
evidence of the agitating scenes through which she had
so lately passed. But Nina's mind was now comparatively
relieved; her father had assured her that the whole
matter had blown over like a wind without injuring any
one; and lastly, the young girl saw there before her the
gentleman whose valuable life had been so lately threatened,
solemn and grave as usual it was true, but undeniably
young girl stood up to be married, blushing and timid as
young girls will be on such interesting occasions, she
looked radiantly beautiful and joyful.
They were married: and then commenced anew the
feasting and revelry which were made such hearty affairs
of by our valiant and great forefathers—valiant as
trenchermen as in other ways; and those fair ladies we
look back upon with so much admiration and affection.
The stately minuet bowed itself through its complicated
part, the gay reel whirled merry couples through its joyous
mazes; the merriment and uproar was complete.
Then it was that father Von Horn, having heard nothing
of Max, determined to go and seek him.
He found the room empty; nowhere any trace of the
young man. His eye fell on the letter Max had written;
and foreboding something, with that instinct of the heart
whose wonderful power so often displays itself, the old
man took it, and read it hurriedly, with many heavy
sighs and mournful shakings of the head.
The letter was written very hastily, with evident agitation
on the writer's part, and many portions were blotted
with his tears.
It ran as follows:
“I must leave you, uncle; I ask your pardon for this
act, because you have always been most kind to me,
much kinder and more affectionate than I deserved, I
know. Just now I was angry, my blood was hot and I
uttered words which I should not have uttered. Pardon
this, too—for my brain is still heated, and my hand trembles
with agitation. I am going away, because I feel
that I can not remain; not on account of your harsh words
which irritated me at the moment; I no longer feel any
irritation. It is not on account of those words, but because
I should be miserable, a mere walking automaton,
has been so cruelly torn—not by any one's fault—no!—
by my destiny.
“I can write down here, what I should utter with difficulty—I
loved Nina more than as a mere cousin, too much
to hear of her marriage with equanimity. My heart is
even now, painfully affected by the despair I felt, on
receiving the intelligence of her engagement—though I
have done all in my power to curb this feeling. I did
not know how much I loved her until I lost her; so be
it! But I can not prevent this tear from falling on the
paper. I can not calm my feelings. Oh, I loved her so
much, sir! She was my playmate, my friend, my cousin,
and I thought that she would be my wife. This is, I
know, ridiculous; you will think it more so still, when
you reflect how mere a child I have always seemed, even
to the present hour—so light, so boyish;—but I loved
Nina as no man else could, and love her still. May every
blessing be hers and yours, sir!
“I do not know where I am going—any where. I only
know I can not stay here. My heart feels dead or burns;
my brain is by turns apathetic and feverish; it would
continue; I should be a shadow—mournful and sombre
—stalking in your way. Different scenes may change
me, and restore that thoughtless gayety which I had once.
Now, I must go.
“You have been a father to me, uncle; God bless you!
Pardon me for leaving you thus; I must; my brain is
unsettled, but steady enough to show me that this departure
is necessary. Again, for all your kindness to me
may God bless you. I loved you dearly, sir—and will
always. It racks my heart to write these lines; my hand
trembles, my eyes flush with fever and passionate tears.
All is dark before me; I am in a dream; my thoughts
wander.
“Heaven bless you—and Nina, sir. My going will
take care of him, uncle! Tell Nina good-by, for me; I
hope she will be happy, and not be too angry with me.
God bless her and all, and do not think too hard of me.
Take care of Barry, uncle. Farewell.
“Alas!” murmured the old man, raising his head, sorrowfully,
with a deep sigh. That sigh was answered by
another behind him; Nina had stolen from the company,
on the same errand which had drawn her father away.
“He is gone, Nina,” said the old man, “and here is his
letter.”
Nina read it, sobbing.
“There is no help for it, daughter,” said father Von
Horn; “but may Heaven guide the boy.”
The merry music floated to them; below all was joyous
uproar; above, in the solitary chamber, all anxiety
and gloom. Then were heard merry voices calling Nina,
and drying her eyes, she went down. The old man's
head sank, and again he murmured sadly that mournful
word, “alas!”
| Leather stocking and silk, or, Hunter John Myers and his times | |