THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF P. Lennox Tierney LEATHER AND SILK, BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE, AUTHOR OF "SuRRY OF EAGLE'S NEST," " MOHUN," "FAIRFAX," " HILT TO HILT," ETC., ETC. NEW YORK: COPYRIGHT 1891, BY 0. W. DILLINQHAM. G. IV. Billing ham Co., Publishers. MDCCCXCVI. ps TO THE READER. IN this little tale the writer has attempted to sketch in outline, some of the personages, and modes of life and thought in Virginia, at the commencement of the present century. The chief character, who gives his name to the book, and around whom the other actors group them selves, had like many of the rest a real existence, and is drawn with as near an approach to life in personal and characteristic traits, as the writer found it possible. One who knew him well, testifies to the accuracy of the delineation in all its material points. It is only necessary to add, that the story is sunny rather than gloomy comedy rather than tragedy ;- dealing rather with peculiarities and humors, than with those profound passions of the soul which excite so ter rible an interest in the reader. If the book be found entertaining, and (above all else) the spirit of it pure, the writer will be more than satisfied. 937-131 LEATHER AND SILK. PART I. THE TOWN OF MAR/TINSBURO. CHAPTER I. OLD MARTINSBURG. THE antique character implied by the term old haa passed away from Martinsburg. It is now a busy, bus tling 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 un paved 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 dis tance. The stone arch for it could scarcely be called o 8 LEATHER AND SII.K. bridge spanned a broad ravine which in the summer and fall was bright with waving corn, and ta'J 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 rest* ing place to many stately characters of long past genera tions : 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 trav elers 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 wil lows, 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 in tervals, made the stony street resound with hoof-strokes ; no cur ran barking at the pedestrian's heels. Such horse men 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 E ah !" ' Well, what is so strange in that V " Oh, nothing." " It is a very pretty coat." "Very!" * The finest lace I ever saw." Yes, it is," said Max. LEATHER AND SILK. 31 " 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 depriv ing 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. Huddle shingle 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 preser',." " 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 Ly ttelton. He is booked for a great speech to day." 12 LEATHEB AND SILK. " 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 Gen lan "ed the way into the court bouse. CHAPTER VIII. HUTTTER JOHN MYKR3. 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 Martins- burg 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, orig inally 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 disa greeable, 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 hifi iron grasp. * S4 LKATIin: A NH slf.K. " How i* it with you, Max ?" he said. "ThanU you, sir, I am very well," said Max, respect, fully, " 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 recicon. He was telling me of your and Sally's play though 1 don't know %s yet what that is." " It's from Shakspeare, sir " " Anan ?" said the hunter, inclining his ear. " It is part of a play from Shakspeare, sir c 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 jmbarrassment. 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 thoso 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 rid this many a day. We I/FATHER ANT) SILK. 8ft old fellows are fond of running on about the old times 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 ad ventures !" 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 girla play." " I must go and make her tell me all about the play you are going to have. I know it's right though, be- cause neighbor Von Horn said it was." 36 LEATHER AND SILK. "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. Como Max ; they don't see us." And they left the court-house just as that legal gentle man, Mr. Lyttelton, compared by Max to a solemn >wl, began to shake the walls with his indignant thunder. CHAPTER 11. TYPES OF THE PAST ANi> 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 he on excellent terms, laughing and talking about a thou sand 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 sud denly 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 admiring ly, " 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 geared !" " What is it, darling *' M LKATIIKR AND SILK. 4 *' 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. " Fm 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 x>u 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 crows 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 busi ness. 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 \v. II hy ilii^ evening. Have you your white dress ?" "Oh yes, Mr. Max!" mi ol "And that remind n l<-avr you, Juliet) LEATHER AND SILK. 19 though your beauty makes this street a * feasting presence full of light.' I must go and see my friend, Mrs. Court- landt, 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. Oourtlandt. 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 span ning 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 open- handed, 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 LEATHER AND SILKV 4 neatly dressed servant girl, her face composed into a prim and grave expression, replied to his summons ; but at sight of Max this primness disappeared, and the grava 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 ques tion." " 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" "J'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 j you know you meant Miss Josephine." 42 LEATHER AND SILK. "Prudence, you belie your name. Miss Prudence, your proper designation would be Miss Mischief. I re quest Miss Prudence, that you will at once tell my re- apected 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 en tered 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. Court landt was one of those persons whose real characters are wholly concealed by their outward appearance, an who consequently have the reputation, with the thought less and surface-judging world, of being just what they abhor and are the most removed from. In ordinary soci ety, 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 broad cloth ; 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 --haps there really was LEATHER AND SILK. 4& some foundation for the charge : we shall see. Magnifi. sent 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 per son 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 recol lect. 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 duenna 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 te in that than in the other -li 14 LEATHER AND SILK. " 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 al most 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 consid ered 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. CHAPTER XL 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 deli cate 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 40 LEATHER AND SILK. no longer a child, and among his childish tilings had put away algebras and geographies. Mrs. Courtlandt looker at the electrical machines as if they were trusty friends well beloved. She turned a handle, and with a dis charging 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. "Yon certainly came to see some of my scholars most probably Josephine instead of an old woman, lik* myself." "Yon an old woman! My dear aunt, you itnow you" " No flattery, Max recollect it is thrown away on me ; how can you be so foolish/' " I was only going to say \vhat every body says, aunt, that yen are lovely ; you know 1 think you are, and if I did wa it to see Josephine, I came to see you to-day in deed I did. And Mor.3ler Pantoufle powdered rny hair, LEATHER AND SILK. 47 because I said I was coming to see you how obliging in him !" said Max, laughing. " Did the dancing-master himself powder your hair ?" " Monsieur Pantoufle himself." " Why, you must have given him love-powders ne 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-mas ter 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 minuets 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 courte- sying 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 t'io No, no I am very eo- 46 LEATHER AND SILK. centric and odd, I suppose, but I am no enemy to inno cent 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. CHAPTER XII. MAX PROPOSES A BUSINESS ARRANGEMENT TO MISS JOSEPH' INE 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 thank ing me, I think." " No, ma'am." " Because I did not set my face against dancing Mon- eieur Pantoufle the dancing-master, wishes to give lessom here," said Mrs. Courtlnndt. moving away. 50 LEATHER AND SILK. " Oh, how delightful it will be !" said Josephine, clasp ing her hands. " Would be, Miss Josephine, you . k hould say," Max replied ; " the thing is not arranged so nicely yet as you eem 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 gentle man ! 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 rne 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 interrupt me whenever I speak." LEATHEJB AND SILK. 5 "Really!" * r v ou spoke of my acting, Josie what a tongue 1 have . Miss Josephine, I should say. Now, to act Romeo it is absolutely necessary I should have a dress M " 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 sub scription 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, " Sub scribers." " 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, bend ing over him. " In earnest about what ?" asked Mrs. Courtlandt, behind them. Josephine drew back, and the young man said, laugh ing : " 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. Goou-oy, nephew ; you must not stay." 52 LEATHER AND SILK. "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. CHAPTER XIII MAX MORALIZES ON THE VANITY OF FASHIONS W COSTUME MAX looked at his aunt and sighed, which ceremony very naturally excited the lady's curiosity. "Well, nephew," she hegan, "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. Court- landt, 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 my self?" " Certainly, my dear aunt, and that is precisely what I have often had occasion to say. Yon 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." 04 LEATHER AND SILK. " Offended, did you say, nephew T' " Yes, yes, aunt." " Why, what is offensive in my costume ?" continued Mrs. Courtlanilt, looking at herself. " There it is, aunt nothing at all. Even if you do wear boots I have often said are boots unfeminine, are Hoots 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 leath er 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 inten tion in the depths of his heart. " It is a shoe I have worn for years, to prevent the stir rup from rubbing my ankle," said Mrs. Courtlandt calm ly, " and I shall wear it as long as J 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 engage ment 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 ?M LEATHER ANI SILK. AS " 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 dre^ ? 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 arn 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 M LEATHER AND 8ILX. no security," continued the lady, taking the fifteen dol* lars 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 ap peared in the framework of the door. " Miss Julia is ready, ma'am," she said to Mrs. Court landt. " 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 ques tion," 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 satis faction of a man who has made a stately and graceful gpeeoa, and perfo-med at great self sacrifice a most disin terested action. 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 upor possessing a thing which thing, is open for emulation's " thousand sons" he had imagined, that the object of hia 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 distrust- ful lover, so with Max. Nothing was improbable. He counted out to Mr. Barlow the fifteen dollars, re ceived 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 him self : 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 lam concealed. This gentleman was no other than that Mr. William Lyttelton, whose legal tbundei had assailed Max's ears when he left 58 taATTTKR AN1> SII.K. the court-house. Mr. Lyttolton was emphatically a man 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, wiih the fair damsels of Martinsburg, who, like many damsels, o/ many other places, then and now, were not averse to what is called high reputation. Mr. Lyttelton. it is true, waa solemn, and rather dull ; but he was a man of irreproach able 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 Boon 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 deposi tion." " 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 summon? served upon Mr. Von Horn by the proper officer " he said: " 0, that is not necessary sir," broke in Max in a busi ness tone, " you know it is left entirely to " " Pardon me for interrupting you, sir," said Mr. Ly ttel ton with the ghost of a smile, " what you say is very just." "I an studying law, Mr. Lyttelton," said Max con- BequentiaJy " and we of the profession " " Max, you are detuiuiug Mr. Lyttelton," said Nina laughing. LEATHER AND SILK. . A9 " Oh, not at all," observed that gentleman smiling and although he had taken his hat, he lingered a moment, " Hum !" said Mr. Lyttelton, gravely. Nina smiled politely, as much as to say, " Did you speak, sir?" " Hum !" repeated Mr. Lyttelton, looking out of the window, " we have a very fine day, madam." And after 'his uncommon observation for Mr. Lyttel ton, that rigid business man, most extraordinary the visitor took his leave. Max burst into a laugh as soon as the door had fairlj 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 hon or 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 Lyttelton. 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 \exatious interruption to his studies, when bending over his dusty papers he hears their singing; he does not "eel in his stony heart a* 60 LEATHER AND SILK. emotion of pleasure, even at gazing on your lovely fao, 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 I" 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, charm ing Nina." " On your honor now, Max ?" " On my honor, madam," said Max, bowing and lay- ing his hand on his heart. " Well, you do coax people ! I suppose Monsieur Pan toufle 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 ihe 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 CHAPTER XV. JANS 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 gen tleman, 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 necessaiy. Mr. Hud dleshingle 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 expe rience a feeling of resentment at Mr. Huddleshingle's repeated visits that gentleman having either not per ceived, or declining to perceive, the light in which his attentions were regarded. Her dislike was attributable to the fact, that Mr. Hud- illeshingle perseveringly monopolized her society at the social gatherings in the neighborhood, thereby excluding from her, all the more agreeable beaux who found it diffi cult 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 2 .LEATHER AND SILK. this, that her father had remonstrated with her for treat ing him so contemptuously, and the reasons for Nina's 'islike of her visitor will be completely understood. " It is a very fir" Jay," said Mr. Huddleshingle, "and ] have been up at the court-house all the morning attend- ing 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 point?, sir," said Nina, impatiently. " But this is very plain. It began with " " Mr. Huddleshingle, I have a headache to-day ; 1 hope yon 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 man ner, I suppose that wise-looking Mr. Lyttelton, who went 1 *ay 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 !" 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. Ho\v 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 un tied." " 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 t honestly?" 114 LEATHER AND SILK. " 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 rny boyish days, my dear Nina when 1 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 ! Tourt 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." -nid what?" " That the female character matures sooner than that I the lords the lords of creation." ' Pray, where did you get your fine ideas, Mr. Philoso pher?" " "Experience, all experience, my dear Nina; I really lender at times on these mysterious matters so deeply, iii.it I feel at least sixty- five and look in the glass to see if J am not turning gray. You girls are like flowers LEATHER AND SILK. fl we men," continued Max, with easy nonchalance, " are like trees. Long before we have arrived at our full de velopment, 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, pre varicating, " 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 inter est 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 charac ter in Romeo and Juliet, where, as you say, little Sally Myers already fills the chief female part; you should 66 LKATIIKU \M> >n K. not, by-thft-by, deride my choice of h r, my Nina, for you know what strange stories are told of her mimieini: |>\v- ers, even in the nursery. That induct-. 1 me to select her ; and, I assure you, nothing is more wonderful than the hiuh dramatic talent the child conceals under her infantile man ner. 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. 1'he play of Romeo and Juliei 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 coulc 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 ?" LEATHER AND SILK. 67 "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 annoy ed 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 jf 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. w " I can fix all that." " Nina, you are the dearest, sweetest girl in the uni verse !" 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 tntered with a pile of dishes. 8 LKATIIEB AND SILK. "Have done. Max!" crit-d Nina, flushed with th* rapid evolution * there ! you liked to have thrown down all the tiling.* ; and then, sir, you should have had no dinner." "I'm plu'l 1 ili-l not," said Max, "for I am getting very hungry. <'"mo, Nina if there is any one place where you run-j i uously shine, it is at the foot of the table." * " Y, fa ther ? 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 1 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 hang ing 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 ?" 44 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. 44 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 tho child. 44 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 r -ad to be seen any where, and now you have a regular stage r-> t!; \vatrr; and yon have your letters; !<,! *he hunter, laugb- LEATHER AND SILK. 7i ing, " I should like some body to write me a letter, though I just can read." " Could he read ?" asked the child, pointing to the por trait. " 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 ques tion 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, helas ! very much !" " You did not bring me that pretty minuet you prom ised me, Monsieur Pantoufle." said Nina, 'you promised it to-day." J2 l.KAIIIKU AM. MI.K. "Oh, pardon Ma'mselle," replied the gentleman, smil ing 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 a word 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 Rounding 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, how- ever, between these two men. Hunter John was com pletely 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 gur,- tural, and suitable for the difficult iclCs and diphthongs of LfeATHER AND SILK. J| Fatherland. There was great dignity, however, united with this bluff person and no gentleman in the land was more refined, or better bred, than Jacob Yon 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 beei* ten min utes 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 tho hunter. " Yes, neighbor Myers, I wanted to get down and see you all. "Where's Max?" 44 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. D CHAPTER XVIII THE RED BOOK. AND now who should come in, clad in his visiting tnit, and showing on his stolid countenance no trucje 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 oid man, with his mouth full, " there you are, behind the cups and saucers, like a veri table 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 grand- father Courtlandt up there, would stop any such thing : we should see his ghost," rrplir.l the young girl, laughing. LEATHEB AND SILK. f| Father Von Horn's face became serious. " Don't jest about such things daughter," said he, ' 1 pray you do not." " Livre rouge? ah, what is that?" asked M. Pan- toufle, with a polite smile. "It is our family record, Mr. lantoufle," father Von Horn replied "i^ it are written ali the marriages of th<# family : it contains jur genealogical tree, on both sides of the house, far back into the past." "Possible!" ejaculated M. Pantcufle, "but, Ma'm- Belle 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, inquir ingly. " Well, I see no harm in telling any one. The dead men haunt their graves, and so forbid it. Let any ona disregard that warning ! Ruin and sorrow, fall upon their roofs !" Hunter John, listened to these words with gloomy in terest. " I have known that thing to happen to German fami lies," said he, in a low tone, and very thoughtfully. A dead silence followed these words : father Von He rn rose from the table. "Come neighbors!" he sii-1, " let ns not talk on such subjects : they are not ch-i ;' Friend Hans, what are ?6 LEATHER AND SII.K. yrn thinking of- come, a penny for your thoughts, as the childien say !" "Nothing, nothing," said Mr. Huddleshingle, .c great confusion. " Weil : now daughter Sal./ what are you thinking of?" asked the old man of the little girl, " I am sure, ol your play, daughter. What a pretty Juliet ^he will make, neighbor Myers." " They said something about her killing herself, neigh- bor," 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 oice fun, isn't it, Sally ?" " Oh, yes, sir I know how to kill myself very well QOW. Mr. Max, has shown me how." "What a wild dog that Max is," said the old man, M the idea of his selecting you : why not take Nina 9 " " 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. Hud dleshingle 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 ar ranged, 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 he's going to kill herself in earnest." " Never fear well, you shall come and stay with u. LEATHER AND SILK. 77 No refusal ! we can make you more comfortable here, 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 scientific ally backward: Mr. Huddleshingle in unwonted abstrac tion : 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 arran ged, that the child should stay for the night, with Nina ; with whom sh? was a favorite. CHAPTER XIX, MAX DREAMS OF BOOTS, AND YIELDS TO THE TEMFTEI, " 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. Certain ly," 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 LEATHER AND SILK., 79 elegant, and slender foot in fact an exceedingly aristo cratic 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 re flect. In this singular world many persons can well do without what they, nevertheless, set great store by, think ing the thing wholly indispensable. Were they asked to part with it they would refuse : were they deprived cf it, little inconvenience would result. Let me see then. What would be the consequence if I yielded to this tempt ation 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 de- scended to breakfast. CHAPTER XX. MRS. COURTLANDT PLAYS A MINUET FOR THE YOUNG PECPLE, 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." LEATHER AND SILK. 81 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, thai 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 " G-lobe." " 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 Shaks- peare 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, " yoij always think ] come to see you." D* 12 LEATHER AND SILK. ""Well, Miss Josephine," said Max, "we will not qnar- rel" (indeed, it was necessary, as the reader will perceive that he should remain on the very best terms with Misa 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 per- buade 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 utep 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 condescen sion, and a ceremonious " with pleasure, sir !" consented, giving him her hand. LEATHER AND SILK. 83 Then commenced that royal dan^e, which we in our day laugh at calling it "stiff," and " odd," and "ridic ulous." 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 ri 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 les sons in the minuet." Josephine laughed, and blushed. g| LEATHER AND SILK. " N >r to Max. I oWrvod elegance with which h n;|trii(iches and gives his hand n " < >h, my dear aunt " * And how elegantly you, Josephine, receiva it. Now chi!Jr;;n I must spend no more time in trifles I have my duties Good-morning, nephew." Max with terrible doubts upon the subject of hw- note, felt that this was a dismissal from the convent. He therefore took his leave, with many misgivings, aod re turned 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 follow ing: "You are very foolish Max. Why did you take all the trouble to write that note ? Besides, I disapprove of LEATHER AND SILK. 85 such things. You must not write to n.y scholars. I know it was a jest, but it was wronvr. 1 saw you in the mirror over the harpsichord, and J .-*. phiue gave me the note. I send my boots, as you call t!i in. Why did you not ask for them ? Always ask n:- for what you want. If it is in my power I will refuse you nothing that I can Droperly grant. You are very welcome to the shoes- " Your affectionate, "AUNT CoURTLANDT." " 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, bat answered to perfection. Max sat down admiring them. " Seriously though, aunt Courtlandt is an excellent wo man," 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 asham ed 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 ! M 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 occa sion 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 stand ing 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. LEATHER AND siLtf. 87 All Martinsburg had assembled at the announcement legantly dressed ladies, radiant with rich falling laoe, and supporting on their white foreheads curiously fashioned towers of hair ; gracefully attentive gentlemen with pow dered locks, stiff-collared coats, and silk stockings and knee-buckles ; shop-keepers, countrymen, and in the ob scure distance, behind all, no slight sprinkling of laugh ing 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, Bar ry, who waited, trembling, for the moment when little Sally must appear before that vast assemblage of expect ant 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 daugh ters, 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, as tronomy, and algebra, "rounded with flawless demonstra tion." The " young Norvals" detailed the occupations ol 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 "very 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 ! B8 LEATHER AND 8II.K. The examination was decidedly successful, and scarcol) any scholar missed getting his or her silver medal with " MERIT" graven oil it which very naturally delighted their fond parents, and mad* them think that Mrs. was the princess of school-mistresses, and then and there 5 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 vat;t 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 cur tain should reveal to them the "gentle Romeo." Well might little Barry hold his breath, and think how ha would feei I CHAPTER XXH. 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 coax ing persons into doing what at the moment he desirea 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 audi ence. He seemed careless, thoughtless, light in tempera ment 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 ut tered with a laugh, sad truths. He was no mere wheed- ler 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-admir ing heart could not be found. Our readers, therefore, have too lightly rated the character of *jiis young man if seeing him impressible anur after the dispersion of the company, the of lather Von Horn, were gathered around his broad board, up.^n which was spread an excellent meal. Actors (even acto/s 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 grie/, in his character of Romeo. Little Sally, who sal demurely by her pleased father's side, divided the honors if the evening, with our hero. " How well she did pbiv !" cried Max, with his mouth ful, " I was astonished, tx/ hear her speak her part so well ; the best of it is, too, iiat the whole was her own, I did not teach her. Why feally 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 per formance 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 chivalrio conduct." " Chivalric, sir ? " Certainly : did he not think the child had killed nerself?" " I most nigh thought so myself," said hunter John, laughing : " and I was near doing as much as Barry." E fg LKATHER AND SII.K. " How well she did it !" said Nina. "And Mr. Max most scared me, when he was fight ing, 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 be ginning." " 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 tha< mischievous young lady, Miss Josephine smiling at me : .nit 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 m r lips,' as the play says to get some of the poison wr 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 tell* stories." " By-the-by, Nina/' said Max, "Well, sir?" LEATHER AND SILK. 9* " 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 w^re going through your part." " Yawning !" said Nina, indignantly. " Max, you joke eternally," said father Von Horn, who listened to this jesting conversation with great amuse ment ; " I say Nina, that you played excellently quite as well as my nephew." " Well, neighbor," said hunter John, " I don't repent nomin' down to the play. I didn't know even what that was, till I saw 'em at it but I soon made out the mat ter 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 it 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 liv ing 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, pirate 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 100 LEATHER AND SILK. in the world to go and hunt a few days with you, 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 Black stone 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. IhnMleshingle and Lyttelton are both Bmitten with yon. Miss Nina. While you were acting I saw them you knmv I was in the green-room, peeping through the curtain, thore was a hole " " What diil \ou ST, you goose?" said Nina, smiling. "I saw tin* liol'or.-mentioned gentlemen devouring my amiable and luind ome cousin with their glances. I really thought H:III.- 1 1 ii Mfeshingle was going to make his fat, pinky <)'. into ^nicers " An-! us 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 favor- LEATHER AND SILK.- 101 able authority in one of his cases, and was gloating over 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 ov.-n when the 'garish day' is bright, and you are surrounded ly the most gallant cavaliers the sprightly l.yih-hon. an,! gay Huddleshingle. I am not afraid, my Nina ; I have no fear that you will espouse a walking \n\\ l>io'<, or ever write your name Nina Huddleshingle ! l?nt st:l', 1 pray you, think of me of me, your most devoted, your most loving " The closing of Nina's door, clipped off th remainder of this most eloquent speech. Max al. u retired. On the next day, hunter John, immediately after breakfast, had his horse brought, sui-l declared that he must set out though Meadow Branrh 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 wh- have experienced their fascination. Hunter John, had been less than a week in Martinsburg, but was already cou/t fry-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 temper- 102 LEATHER AND SILK. ament, saw for the moment nothing but guns, and hunt- ing knives, ana powder-flasks : heard but the barking of the dogs, which frisking and wagging their tails, anj leaping about, uttered at intervals, sonorous bayings, elo quent 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 rrdeal 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 blossorr so light was she and again the old, gray, storm-beaten brow, rested on the bright rippling gold, and the red, tender oheek. 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 dr '" CHAPTER XXIV. MR. HUDDLESHINGLE CONCEIVES AN IDEA : WITH THE CIRCUJI- STANCES WHICH LED TO THAT PHENOMENON. THE individual who monopolizes the whole conversation \n 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 or nis 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 " Gr/obe :" Mr. Lyttelton, that solemn devotee of legal lore, and prospective rival of our hero in the affections of Ninft, will have due attention paid to his wise words and looks: all the 4 neglected per- onages' finding the coast clear, and the silence no longer 104 '-BATHER AND SILK. invaded, by that merry laughter, full of joyous pride, will take their rightful stations usurped no longer in our somedy. 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 radian', with something which nearly approached a smile, called at father Von Horn's scarcely half an hour after the de parture of the young man and hunter John. He came, he said, to compliment Miss Nina on her admirable vi vacity and grace in the part of Lydia, which he had the pleasure of seeing her perform, on the last evening at -the " Grlobe." 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. Lyt telton, that solemn admirer ; but we have given a tolera bly accurate transcript of his remarkable and uncommon speech on this occasion. That he had prepared him self 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 ind captivating tone** Tt was Mr. Lyttelton's object to LEATHER AND SILK. i;5 make a profound impression on this occasion :- -and he so far succeeded, that when he f ook his leave Nina ac knowledged to herself, with a sentiment of self condemna tion, that in heretofore regarding this gentleman as a de cidedly 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 re ported 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 tjfiti 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 undeni ably most intelligent, was of good " estate," by no means ill-looking, and was almost certain to be returned for Con gress in a year or two. Is it wonderful, therefore, that 106 LEATHER AND SILK. Mr. William Lyttelton should be reg&rtleu as an eli gible 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 poli tician 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 awk wardness 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 mar riage 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. Lyttelton had paid the young lady such deli cate attentions, had made himself so agreeable, had min istered t*o pleasantly to her vanity, by attending her to LEATHER AND SILK. 10} svery festival far and near he, the austere basmess man transformed, for the nonce, into a gay lady's man that Nina's heart was won ; and so, one morning when Mr. Lyttelton asked the delicate question, which is to so many men a stumbling-block, Nina without hesitation gave him her hand. Mr. Lyttelton solemnly kissed the hand, and as he would doubtless have expressed it, the " pleadings" were through, and the " issue" was made up. Soon the interesting fact was made known by Nina, \o her relations and friends ; father Yon Horn would not have forced his daughter to marry the marquis of Carra- bas ; 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 sho 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 Hud- dleshingle, who, as we know, was one of Nina's most per severing admirers, and who never for a moment had doubted his ultimate success backed by the evident par tiality 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 bear ing on the subject of the marriage, and the means of preventing its consummation. One morning he heard that the day for Nina's mar riage 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. 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 sun light, 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 ^ 4> been pardoned for concurring in the above-mentioned gen eral 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 rmall 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 quettishly through the window to an acquaintance, who LEATHER AND SILK. 101 at the moment chanced to pass: when Nina had dis patched 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 meer schaum 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 ovei the fire place, distinctly visible from the place where he was sit ting 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 Hitter tak ing 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 Yon Horn to his daughter, " come, read me a shapter 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- sharacters of orange and gold in the blue sky were so much more attractive. 4 What is it, father?" she asked. " { Nicholas Margraf.' Jean Paul's last work : as fai 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 du.l, daughter v 110 LEATHER AND SILK. "Oh me! I'm mighty tired!" groaned Ni:ia, "thesa 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 *he 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 set ting sun. It was amusing too, to witness the difficulty with which Nina only half comprehending the meaning enunciated the guttural diphthongs of that strange lan guage 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 read ing 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 ap proaching visitor. " If we are amiable and contented, daughter, and love Dur neighbor," said father Von Horn, " we are not only living a more holy and God-fearing life, but are happier here below." LEATHER AND SILK. 11; Nina's good humor began to return ; she was a some- what 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; "lut you know, father, how aunt Jenny and Sallust try me. They almost drive me crazy !" This was said with a In ugh. Fathei Von Horn's schoed it. " Pshaw ! these are trifles, he said, lr 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 re turn?" " 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, see ing a gentleman approach whom she did not care to see ; but her father laughingly restrained her. The gentleman was Mr. Huddleshingle. CHAPTER XXVI. THE LAST INTERVIEW BUT ONE BETWEEN *INA AN1> H/.X8 HUDDLESHINGLE. IT can not be said that Nina received Mr. Huddleshin- gle 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. Huddleshin- gle. "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 astonish ment, so phlegmatically self-possessed was her visitor on ordinary occasions, " to be sure, it is nothing more than 1 might look for health and happy looks 1 mean on the eve of your marriage." Nina bowed coldly. "It's a very agreeable time generally," said her vis itor. " Agreeable, sir ? I do not understand." " I thought I had a right to think so," said Mr. Huddle- shingle, " having seen so many couples married. Ladies LEATHER AND SILK. 11 S generally look in good spirits on the day before their mar rying." "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 thougli : 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 shoul der, and saying : " That's right, Hans ! always leave the choice to them. I should, if I had fifty daughters : my father, old Court- landt 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 wiih his eyes fixed on her, his gaze wandered to the portrait, and his eyes almost blazed. Misunderstanding his agitation, and attributing it to dis appointment for she knew very well Mr. Hans Huddle- shingle'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 Lyt- telton at the end of the street, leisurely approaching in 114 LEATHER AND SIT.K. his old worn out curricle, in which he was accustomed to 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 fathei Von Horn good-evening, went away, drawing in hia breath, and clenching his hands just as Mr. William Lyttelton solemnly checked his steed before the door His resolution was taken fixed. 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 sup ply 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 live liness 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 tran sports 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 innumera ble 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 em- barass the witness : but for once he relaxed in his profes sional strictness. 116 L-ATHKR AND SII.K. He thrn-f >rr informed Nina whose affectionate salute (that \va> tin- | linioO then fashionable), he had received with luiii-li jij'i'iin-nt indifference that his ride had been a plrusuut !!: that the weather had been reasonably pluasuut. h.' iliitiight he might even venture to say excel- I. nt i'nr trav. ling; that he had seen many friends in Al- i'.\;iii,!ria : that he had tried his case in Winchester, and alter a c lo.se contest got a verdict; and that he had. on the \vh"!r, nothing to complain of. * And now you want some supper after your ride, Will iam," said Nina, affectionately, spite of her solemn lover's indirtorent manner, " you have not been to supper, of cour.se." " 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, Will iam, 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 vehi cle. " 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 ; T 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. Axt> SII.K. 115 " Thank you, dear William," said Nina gratefully, and 3asting 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. CHAPTER XXVIIL 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 beauti ful silks and laces, and such slippers, fitting admirably ! Then the earrings, and breastpins, and bracelets the rib bons, 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 clat ter was made about a simple supper, the wedding prepar ations would deprive her of the small remnant of senses which she yet possessed. LEATHER AWT) STLtf. 119 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 sun set on the western mountain, now almost overthrown and obliterated by the fast-coming night. Hearing a footstep toward Q,ueen-street, he turned hia 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 1110 . LEATIIKU AN'D SILK, " Then, uncle, I am very glad I am like him in rn> 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 1 am afraid it would harden me, you know ; make me look down on poor people. Oh, unole, 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 my self." And he entered the house. As he went ip. 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, laugh- ing; "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 rapid Iv approached ; these were the LEATHER AND SILK. Hi guests who had chanced to meet each other, and who 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 con fections, 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 perfec tion at the old German's mansion. Thus the fea o * and flow of other things than reason and the soul, were agree ably looked forward to. Mr. Lyttelton arrived just as Nina was shaking hands with her male friends, and kissing the young girls of the '^arty a practice to which young girls for some mysteri- ms 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 melan- oholy even in the very whirl of the reveln '. F :HAPTER xxix. B.FRY KEEPS fflS APPOINTMENT. all this confusion. noi?e, 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 con trast between those gay moving figures in the background, tnd 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, be hind 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, LEATHER AND SILK. 1{9 " I can not tell you, cousin Nina." " Barry you must, or I will be angry." " I am sorry, cousin Nina ; please let go my artn, n 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 ip.to 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 Yon Horn and hia 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. Lyttelton an agreeable companion ; but his conversational powers were displayed to much greater advantage in the society of a reasonable, unim aginative, 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. Lyttel. ton 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 con fined itself to politics anj law; and which the reader will readily pardon our not recording here. Mr. Lyttelton held in his hand the last umbor of the Martinsburg 124 1.1 ATI1KR AND SILK. Gazette , and discoursed upon its editorial matter, which ne 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 glim mer 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, knock ing the paper from Mr. Lyttel ton's hand, and nearly over turning 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," ho asked with great astonishment, " what has frightened you ?" Barry passed his hand across his forehead, and mur mured 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 Bar ry's hair, gently asked the meaning of his heat, agitation and fright. Barry gradually became more calm ; and , with a wet cloth washed the dust and blood from LEATHER AND SILK.. 186 his hands ; Barry then in broken sentence* explained matters. That evening, he said, at about dusk, as lie was pass ing 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 appoint ment 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 determ ined to go, and did go to the church-yard. On approach ing 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, catch- ing 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, aa he thought ; and as he fled, he heard thundered in his ears, the words, " Courtlandt the Tall forbids this mar riage ! Courtlandt the Tall forbids this marriage !" He bad then run faster, and had fallen and hurt his hands, 126 LEATHER AND PII.K. but rose again, and had not stopped as they kn>iw 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 tradi tion, and her father's immovable resolution. He took her by the hand, and muttering, "But one course remains, daughter," entered the room where tiie guests were assembled. " Friends," said father Von Horn, " you have been invited, I believe, to witness the ceremony of my daugh ter'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 aston ishment. They looked at father Von Horn's firmly re solved face, at Nina's tearful eyes, bent down head, and twitching lips, at Mr. William Lyttelton's profoundly incredulous physiognomy, framed a striking and origin al 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. Lytteltou, even, father Von Horn gave no satisfac tory 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 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 sor row. 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. Court! andt 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 leav ing 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 girl hood, womanhood lastly come to place its stamp upon your forehead. Well ! though I have watched you through all these changeful ar d 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 128 LEATHER AND SILK. aright But there is another parting which I can not 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 ob served to start. " Father," she said, " I know Barry has seen some thing ; 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 ope favor but one, father." LEATHER AND SILK. f lit "What is it, daughter?" " That you will send invitations for the weauing, for the day after to-morrow, as before " Well" " Then you might go to the church-yard I know it iff an imposition, father ; and find " I ?_to the church-yard !" " Father, I know it is an imposition," crtad Nina ; " and I think I know who it is. If it is a deception, ; t 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 wat 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 even ing 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 n Hum's superstitious fears disappeared like magic, and ;'ull nf wrath he put spurs to Burt, and sweep ing like a Mihstutitial whirlwind toward the ghost would have immediately overtaken him but. for a very simple but a!.>o \vrv unlucky circumstance. There grazed in ar the clump of hughes mentioned, quietly and peacefully, a n"hle mare, milk white and fleet as a deer, which ev< iy l*xly in tht; borough was well acquainted with ; the ghost already inm^iii'-d himself in the clutches of his enemy v In n this chance of escape presented itself. Hurt, with fiery nostrils, which emitted clouds of vapor in the ehill air, heavy breathing, and energetic gallop was sw.-epin^ toward him ; on Burt's back a gentleman whose name had been trifled with, whose family traditions ridi culed, 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 ueck, took to the open road at lightning speed. CHAPTER XXXII. THE DEAD GO FAST. BEHIND the spectre father Von Horn came on wrath- fully. His metal was completely aroused, and he determ ined 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 rug ged ascents, into Queen-street, toward the I ridge, they came revealed to view only by the occasional lightning flashes, breaking with the roar of thunder. !> h tul, father Von Horn with streaming hair, swirging lantern, and rattling sabre, bore on like a tornado. Before, another sight was seen. There \vns tli i_ r li<>.& tone, " are you angry with me?" LEATHER AND SILK. 14. "No," said the young man turning away. " Why are you so cold to me, then ?" said Nria. 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 lean ing, 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 tear ing its way from hi? 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 al ways 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 sub- .44 LEATHER AND SILK. sided will subside in time, I hope, wholly ; I will try , he bowed, grimaced, shrugged his shoulders, and rctrfnt^d gradually, accompanying every step backward \v,th a compliment. At his third polite speech, he had reached the old clock, at his fifth the bible stand, at his sn-viitli the threshold of the door. There with his << :ked I. at pressed devotedly on his heart, his head inclined \vr the right shoulder, his feet artistically fixed tnrith>T. In- iuade Nina a most profound bow, and so took hi.- Ifiiv. , smiling serenely happy. Ho luul i. nt observed the fact that a note elegantly folded had lulieii from his hat upon the floor. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE LAST OF MAX COURTLANDT IN MAR TINSBURO. IT was not until half an hour after Monsieur Pantoufle's departure, that Nina chanced to see the note lying on the floor. Thinking 4 was one f the invitations which she had dropped, she picked it up and opened it. Running her eye hastily over it or rather over hoth, 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 coula 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 n.y music lesson." Father Von Horn again read the notes >vii! frowning brow. 150 LEATHER AND SILK. ' I'll see to tliis !" he cried, " where is Max my nephew ho, there I" " Here I am, sir," said the young man, gravely enter ing ; his hair disordered like his dress ; his faoe pale and sombre. "Do you know this writing?" said father Von Horn, angrily striking the paper with his finger, and holding it op before his nephew's eyes. The young man looked at it, and betrayed some emo tion. " I ask you if you know it ?" " Yes, sir," Max replied, gloomily, " I know it, for 1 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 yoc, 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, stand ing 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 hus band of my daughter." Nina fell sobbing into a chair " Yes, sir," said Max, with gloomy composure, " to \f r. 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 LEAtflEft AND SlLtf. J$l my agitation upon meeting Nina ; laughed at me, uttered 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 insult ing 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 morn ing, 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 ridic ulous; but I have been wronged, and I will right my wrong !" " You are mad ! I forbid your keeping this appoint ment. I will go at once to this miserable dancing-mas ter, 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 beeo 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 I" IflJ LEATHER AND SILK. And father Von Horn angrily putting on his hat hut ried 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 tcwn went forth toward the south. CtiAPTEft XXXVIL 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 ask :d for Max and was informed that he had gone to his cham ber. 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 even ing, and Nina never had looked prettier her friends in formed 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 compara tively 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 threat ened, solemn and grave as usual it was true, but undeni- 154 LEATHER AND SILK. ably enjoying excellent health and spirits. So when the young girl stood up to be married, blushing and timid as young girls will be tm 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 joy ous 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 agita tion 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 trem bles 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 irritacion. It is not on account of those words, but be cause I should be miserable, a mere walking automaton LEATHER AND SILK. . 15fc if I were to remain longer in the place where my heart has been so cruelly torn not by any one's fault no ! by my destiny. "I can write down here, what I should utter with diffi culty 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. 1 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 de parture 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 156 LKATHKR AND SILK. not hurt Barry, sir : Barry is so dear to me, you know ; take care of him, uncle ! Tell Nina good-by, for me ; I hope she will be happy, and not be too angry with me God bless her and all, and do not think too hard of me. Take care of Barry, uncle. Farewell. " MAXIMILIAN COURTLANDT." "Alas !" murmured the old man, raising his heud, sor rowfully, 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 b gone, Nina," said the old man, " and here is hia 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 joy ous 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 .Viead sank, and again he murmured sadly that mournful word, "alas!" PART II. IN THE VALLEY OF MEADOW BBJLNCE C1J AFTER I. A NEW AND AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. IT was just at sunset of a fine September day ij. the year of grace 181, nearly five years after the events we have narrated, that a traveler coming from the east, that is to say from the direction of Martinsburg, stopped upon the " Third Hill Mountain" some miles to the west of that town, to rest his horse for a moment before descend ing into the little valley beneath. " Sleepy Creek Mount ain" stretched just in front of him across the narrow glen, and the round red orb, about to disappear, had kindled the tall pines upon its summit into a blaze, and like a bonfire threw the long shadows of tree and rock and knoll, down the declivity into " Meadow Branch Valley." The traveler was much struck by the fair picture, so quiet and so lovely ; but after gazing upon it for a few moments, he touched his magnificent sorrel with the spur and went on again, down the mountain, breasting the full red rays which lit up radiantly his rich dress, and Irown closely trimmed hair and beard, and his fine smiling face. His object was apparently to reach some friendly shelter before the cool September breeze made the open air uncomfortable. Besides he seemed to have ridden far and naturally looked about him now for a night's resting-place. Ho had nearly reached the base of the mountain, and, 158 . LEATHER AN'H SII.K. seeing no habitation near, had begun to look with forlorn interest on a large Dutch barn and dwelling-house far to the south, when coming out from a clump of pines which, just in his front obscured the view, he found himself close to a mountain-dwelling. "Ah," murmured the stranger, "where were my thoughts wandering ? Might I not have expected to find precisely at this spot what I now see !" And with a well-satisfied smile he approached the nouse. at the door of which was seated a tall powerful mountaineer. The mountaineer was apparently above sixty, with hair nearly white with age ; not wholly, for many dark threads still remained relieving the silver sheen of the rest. He was very plainly the owner and lord of the mansion, and at the moment when the stranger drew near, was caress ing with his vigorous hand a tall deer-hound, who sub mitted with evident pleasure to this agreeable ceremony. The traveler courteously saluted him, dismounting as he spoke ; then in a voice, open and frank, but slightly French in accent, he said " May I crave a night's lodging, sir ? I see no houses of entertainment any where, and find myself somewhat at a loss for a night's rest." " You are very welcome, sir," said the mountaineer, rising, " make my house your own ; such as it is." " I thank you, sir," replied the stranger, "but will not my horse embarrass you ?" " We'll see to him we'll see to him. A fine animal he is too. He shall stand by my own, and feed as well." " Thanks, sir many thanks for your hospitality," the traveler said with a smile. " There's no thanks owing to me, sir. I'm a poor man, but would think myself not doing my duty to turn away a guest. Wife," added the mountaineer, turn ing toward the house from ivhich came the busy hum of LEATHER AND SILK. 15 a spinning-wheel, "here is a friend who will stop with us. My wife, sir Mrs. Myers. My own name is John Myers at your service." The old dame came to the door and courtesied, smiling cheerfully : then betook herself to preparing the supper. " My own name," the traveler said, " is Doctor Thomas ; and while supper is getting ready, my good sir, I will with your leave see to my horse. We are old friend?; I must not slight him." " I like you the better for that, guest," the mountaineer replied in his hearty voice, " and I'll go with you, and lei you see that all's right." Thereupon the mountaineer led the way to a rude, but well constructed shed, some few paces behind the house; and opened the door. It was already occupied by a large black horse, who might have borne Goliah upon his broad back ; but at his side was a vacant stall, and here the traveler saw his steed, comfortably housed, with a plen tiful feed. They then returned toward the house. Thia was a building of some size, of logs hewn smooth with the ax, the spaces between carefully plastered to exclude rain and wind. The roof was of clapboards, held down by long poles fixed across them, and the chimneys one at each end were of large brown stone. In front was an antique "hominy sweep," with its heavy pestle, and at a little distance, a scaffolding, where, to judge by the pile of wood-dust, the " whip-saw" of former days, was still made to do duty. There was about this house, little that did not remind you of that picturesque past, of our Virginia border, which has scarcely left any trace of its habitudes and peculiari ties in our own day. Every thing spoke of former days the hominy sweep, the whip-saw, the clap-boards of the roof and all this the traveler seemed to gaze on, with a loi ing eye, for its very antique rudeness. They entered. CHAPTER II. THE HUNTER'S DWELLING. INSIDE, all was quite as old-fashioned as without. The fireplace was broad and large ; and in addition to the long rifle, there hung above it, fishing-rods, almanacs, and bundles of pepper pods : and in the middle an old Dutch clock ticked cheerfully. The chairs were of wicker-work, and the table of heavy oak. In one corner a flight of stairs wound up to the small rooms above ; beyond this flight of stairs, a half opened door permitted a glimpse of an apart ment, which, from its great neatness and simplicity, was inhabited by a child apparently, most probably by a young girl, since taste was every where very evident in its deco rations; a taste of that refined and elegant description which it is never the good fortune of the ruder sex to pos sess. The very arrangement of the simple furniture, the light in which the few cheaply-framed pictures were hung, the small hanging shelves of books, all neatly in their places, the chair, with its pretty calico covering, the lit tle table, the lingering flowers so gracefully trained around the window all gave the traveler good reason to believe that the occupant of the small chamber was a female. The large apartment in which he found himself, had a wholly different character ; and just as plainly with its large chair, and guns, and hunting-horns was the mountaineer's ; though, certainly, not his sleeping- room, which adjoined it. The traveler seemed to be satisfied, with the single LEATHEB AND SILK. 16i glance he had cast upon these objects. His eye, trained to observe quickly and thoroughly, after completing its survey of the apartment, no longer fixed itself upon these material surroundings. " Sit down, Doctor," said the mountaineer, " we are all very plain people in this neighborhood, but you are wel come to all we have. From foreign parts, I judge ?" " Why do you judge so, host ?" " From your way of talking," said the hunter, laugh ing silently, " and " "Why do you stop?" the traveler said, smiling too, 1 from what else ?" " From your dress, guest." "Ah!" said thoughtfully the stranger, "there it is. Why dress what is dress, that people should judge so much from it of the individual's character. 'Tis the fault of the age externals, externals." Then seeing that his host had not followed him in his musings. " You are right so far, sir," he said, " I am from for eign countries ; but I trust that my heart is what it always was silk stockings and velvet have not changed me, Grod be thanked !" There was so much frankness in the stranger's voice, and his face, ornamented by its light colored beard and mustache, assumed spite of those martial appendages an expression so mild and gentle, that the mountaineer, yielding to the fascination of his manner, stretched out his arm} and cordially shook his guest by the hand. " We'll be good friends, I see, guest," he replied, " and now, I know you will be satisfied with our rough fare. Come, supper is on the table." The supper was spread upon the broad table, and the cheerful and smiling old dame, did the honors at its head, pouring out for the traveler goblets of foaming milk, and huge cups of coffee a great luxury at the time and 168 LEATHER AND fUF.K. forcing him to te^t in turn the flavor of half a dozen dif ferent sorts of bread. The traveler thought he had nevel tasted richer butter, or finer venison. They allowed him to finish his supper before again speaking ; and then his host led the way to the grassplat, which ornamented the knoll in front of the house. There setting seats, he invited his guest to smoke with him ; which Doctor Thomas very readily assented to; but plead ing the force of habit, took from his pocket a cigar. The mountaineer admitted the validity of this excuse, light ing his old pipe made of a corn-cob, with a stem of reed ; and so they sat in pleasant converse ; the hunter, with a calm, quiet smile on his old rugged face, stroking from time to time his favorite stag-hound lying at his feet the stranger with a thoughtful, musing manner, which terminated many times in revery ; but not a mournful re very it was plain rather well-pleased and hopeful. His eyes were fixed admiringly on the broad belts of pines, now in deep shadow, and the rosy flush slowly dying away on the top of the mountain, when his host said quietly, but much more gently than he had yet spoken. " There is my daughter." At the same moment, a young girl came singing up the knoll from the banks of the brook. CHAPTER III. IHTRODUCES ANOTHER OF OUR HEROINES. AT sight of the young girl, one of the half dozen tall stag-hounds rose from the grass, where he had been lying with outstretched forelegs, and thoughtful eyes, and hast ened if the word may be applied to movement so digni fied as his toward her. Sally Myers was not quite seventeen, but she was the acknowledged beauty of the valley. Her pretty, round face, was lit up with a merry smile, and her arms, entirely bare almost from the shoulder, were models of beauty. The stranger was much struck with her he who had seen so much female excellence and he felt well satisfied that the character which belonged to this smiling face, could not be other than excellent. He did Miss Sally Myers no more than justice. It was not her face alone that overcame the hearts of all the young men of the neighborhood ; for that matter, she was not so beautiful as some ; but when her warm constant heart, and never- ceasing cheerfulness and vivacity, were thrown into thp balance, the merits of any other young lady of the coun try side, were as nothing. So thought the mountain youths, at least. Sally came up in company with the deer hound and courtesied to the stranger. He had risen on her approach, and now made a low and courtly inclination laying his hand in foreign fashion on his heart. Sally laughed at 164 LEATHER AMD BILK. this, and plainly could not help it; the traveler toe seemed to feel that his ceremonious bow was a little out of place. So, resolving like a sensible man to retrieve his error, he approached the girl smilingly and shook her cordially by the hand. " You were laughing at me, I perceive,'' said he, " and you were right." " I couldn't help it," the young girl replied, coloring, "excuse me, sir!" The traveler laughed. " Ah !" he said, " I have been far, and seen strange people, and I have come back not much improved, I am afraid. But may I ask what song you were singing?" " Flowers of the Forest,' sir." The stranger threw a piercing glance upon the girl, and then stroking the large hound, who had by this time become acquainted, and submitted very quietly to his caresses : " Do you like that song?" he said. " Yea, sir very much." " For whom do you sing it ?" The girl blushed and laughed. " For any one," she said. " Please sing it for me, then," he replied with a smile, and offering her his seat. But Sally had become very nervous under the stran ger's fixed, and penetrating look, and she felt wholly un able to command her voice. She therefore murmured an inaudible excuse, and ran rather than walked by the stranger, into the house, and to her chamber. The stranger took his seat again with a smile, muttei* ing, " Oh yes ! he must have seen her, and if he has seen her" He was interrupted by the mountaineer, who had fol lowed his daughter with his eyes, and now turned to him happy and proud. tEATfTER AND SILK. Nto "There's the little witch," he said, "you ought to have heard her sing, sir." " I hope I shall yet have that pleasure." " You stay long in these parts, do you ?" " You know when you arrive you know not when you go." " Oh, you're at your proverb-sayings !" " T mean that I may leave hero in a few days, or stay for years." "You ! where are you hound, Doctor?" " For Mrs. Courtlandt's somewhore down the valley here." " For where !" cried the mountaineer, starting and turning full upon his guest- CHAPTER IV. HOW HUNTER JOHN'S RIFLE WAS BEWITCHED AND BY WHOM. A LONG pause followed this expression of astonishment on the part of the mountaineer. He seemed to doubt the seriousness of his guest he, apparently, could not be lieve he was in earnest. " Mrs. Courtlandt's !" said he. " Certainly my friend !" " Down the valley here ?" "Why, somewhere in the neighborhood. I can't say precisely where." " And why are you going there, sir ?" asked the old hunter. " I have business," said the traveler with the air of a man whose private affairs are invaded by idle curiosity. The mountaineer shook his head. " No good will come of it," said he. "How so?" "Mrs. Courtlandt, sir, don't stand well in these parts ; and I'm free to say I don't like her myself, though her brother is my good friend." " You ! do you know her ?" " I've been to her house off and on these five years, and I never missed seeing some deviltry there." The traveler bent a steady grave look upon his host " What do you mean by deviltry ?" he said. *' She's good friends with one I won't name," said the LEATHER AND SILK. .67 hunter, dropping his voice; "there's all sorts cf things there that oughtn't to he. Don't ask me ahout it." " And why don't you like her ?" The mountaineer with a great effort, replied shortly, " She spelled my rifle !" "What is Spelled?'" " Bewitched some people call it." The traveler did not smile this timo ; but fixing him self calmly in his seat, and quietly smoking: " Tell me how that was, my friend," said he. " Well, that I'll do soon," his host replied. " There's a buck about here, in these mountains, half as big and strong again as any deer they ever run in these parts. We call him Old Satan] you see that name was given him because the rifle ball has never touched him, or," and the hunter lowered his voice, " passed through him and not given him any hurt. / don't believe that myself, but old father Brant, one of the best beads in the hills here, says it's so and only the other day coming along here, he told me he was done hunting the varmint. He couldn't stand it." " Have you hunted him ?" "I'm going to tell you. Yes I have, and I'm most nigh wearied out; I thought I had strong legs and pretty good wind, but that buck has tired out me and Elkhorn knocked us both up." "Who is Elkhorn?'- " My horse." " Well about your rifle and the rest." " I'm coming to that. I hunted the buck I've been telling you about till I was tired, and I had never yet got a shot at him. I thought if I could draw a clear bead on him he was gone. The other morning I passed by Mrs. Courtlandt's early and was so thirsty that I nigh gave up. 1 went in to get a drink, and she was up that early, fixing some plants or other in a big book and writ- 168 LEATHER AND SILK. ing under 'em. The room was full of things I hadn'l any liking for strange outlandish jars and mach.ues and I most repented coming. She gave me the water very polite, and took my rifle to look at, and asked me if I had killed the buck- I told her no, and then she laughed, and begun turning something, and said she would fix my gun so I couldn't miss. She made me rest my right hand on the table, and touch my gun to the top of a bottle. I did it ! and I felt as if the lightning struck me ! I dropped the gun and stood there without know ing where I was, and the first thing I knew I was in the path outside, and she closed the door. All she said to me was, laughing, ' Go on, hunter John ! go on, hunter John!'" The mountaineer put up his sleeve to wipe the perspi ration from his brow. " And you think your gun was bewitched ?" " Sure as you're there," he said in a low voice, " I have had three shots at that buck, and I've missed him every time. I had a clear bead and shot steady. It was no use. The ball went crooked !" The stranger mused. " And you are still hunting that buck ?" " I'm going to hunt him till one of us is dead." "And you think I had better not go to Mrs. Court- landt's do you, my friend ?" " You know best." " I do ; and I must go and see her : but I shall see you all here again." " Why," cried the mountaineer hospitably, " I just re member now. Wife and Silly are going to have a merry making here to-morrow evening, and you must come. Sally !" he called aloud. " Here I am father," the girl replied. She was at hii elbow and heard the conversation. " Tell doctor my poor old memory." LEATHER AND SILK. 169 "Doctor Thomas!" said the stranger, addressing his reply to the young girl. " Well, tell Doctor Thomas," said the hunter to his daughter, " that we'll be mighty glad to see him." " Indeed, I will, sir we all will be mighty glad. It is to-morrow evening about sundown." The traveler was about to repeat his low bow, when remembering himself he said, " I'll certainly be here, Miss Sally." " And now," said hunter John, " to bed !" CHAPTER V. STRANGER AND SALLY BY THE BROOK 8IDB. THE traveler was shown into one of the small upper rooms of the hunter's dwelling, where he found a com fortable and very clean bed prepared for him. Without delay he threw off his clothes and soon forgot in deep slumber the fatigue and the incidents of the day. He was aroused at a very early hour by the barking of dogs and the winding of a horn, under the little window of his chamber. Then the hoofstrokes of a horse were heard ; and finally the notes of the horn and the yelping of the dogs, receded from him and died away gradually in the distance. He rose, and looking through the win dow saw the tall form of hunter John, mounted on his enormous steed, and followed by his dogs, disappearing among the pines of the mountain side. He was going to hunt his buck. The traveler dressed and descended. At the foot of the stairs he met his hostess who gave him a fair good- morning, and busily set about preparing breakfast, in which she was assisted by a small negro girl. Her guest strolled down toward the brook. He was standing on its bank and admiring the fresh morning light scattered upon the waves, the mountain pines, and the green-topped knolls of the glen, when all at once he perceived the daughter of his host beneath him in a little green nook which a large mossy rock separa led LEATHER AND SILK. l7l fron^ the more open part of the banks. She was seated on a part of this rook which projected over the stream, and with bare feet, was playing with the water, and ap parently lost in thought. Beside her lay two small thoes and a pair of stockings which she had, it seemed, just re moved from her feet. The traveler walking on the soft moss approached her iilently and touched her shoulder. The girl started up, coloring and hiding her feet. " My goodness, sir ! how you frightened me !" she said. " I am not such an awful personage am I ?" he asked, fmiling. "No, sir," the girl replied with a laugh, while she busied herself turned away from the stranger in put ting on her shoes and stockings, "but you came so sud den." " You were washing your feet, were you ?" She looked down. " I'm sorry I disturbed you in such a praiseworthy em ployment." " Oh, it's no matter," she replied pouting, "I wasn't washing my feet. I just came down here." " Come now we won't quarrel, Miss Sally," said the stranger dropping his sarcastic tone, " I was only joking, and you'll find I never mean any thing, as I shall, I hope, see you often." " Are you coming to our frolic, sir ?" " Oh, yes." " It is this evening, remember." " How can I forget it but excuse me, I am again at my foolish ceremony. Come, let us go back to breakfast. Will you take my arm -or here is my hand." The young girl took the proffered arm, and they returned toward the house. " It is a beautiful morning," the stranger said, " those tall pines in the bright sun are grander than any thing 172 LEATHER AND SH.K. of Poussin's, and the air is as pure and delightful as possi* ble. v^nly one thing is needed, Miss Sally a song." " Well, sir," said the girl, who had by this time become more familiar with her father's guest, and less embarrassed in his presence, " I will sing for you, if I can. What do you like ?" " Do you sing Scottish songs ? I prefer them to all others." " And so do I, sir. Oh, they are so sweet !" " Sing me * Auld Robin Gray.' " " I'll try, sir ; that is one of my favorites," said Sally ; and in a clear, birdlike voice, she went through the bal lad. " An excellent soprano," muttered the stranger to him self, with a smile, " he's gone beyond hope. Very well" " What did you say ?" " This is such a beautiful song." "Very, sir." "And it is so true. Now tell me," he said, laughing, " would you like to marry an Auld Robin of that sort ? n "No, never," said Sally Myers, with uncommon em phasis, " I'd never marry such a person, as long as I lived !" The stranger laughed. " And pray, what sort of a person would you marry ?" he said. " That is my business," she replied, coloring and laugh ing, with a bright glance at the stranger. " What do you think of light hair and beard ?" " I prefer dark hair, sir." The stranger laughed so heartily at this, that he could not for several minutes command his voice. " No personal reflections, I hope, Miss Sally," he said ; " now my hair and beard are light !" In this strain they ran on in merry talk, until they reached the house Sally's natural gayety and ease hav- LEATHER AND SILK. 17 ing by this time entirely returned, under the genial effect of the stranger's hearty and good-humored n anner. They found breakfast nearly ready, and the table be ing set in a trice by the girl, who blamed herself for idling at the brook " though he had made her stay," she said, laughing, and pointing to the stranger they soon sat Jown to an excellent and plentiful meal. Half an hour afterward, Doctor Thomas was again mounted, and on his way down the valley. He would cer tainly return to the merry-making that evening, he said. CHAPTER VI. SHE WAS A WITCH! THE traveler continued his way down the valley, along the banks of the brook, in a very cheerful and contented mood. He seemed to be much amused at something, and at times a gay laugh would escape from his lips ; or mut tering " parbleu !" or " ma foi," he would give his splen did sorel the rein, and scour along in pure merriment of heart. The beautiful morning, it is true, was partly the cause of this singular conduct on the part of Doctor Thomas. There is nothing so inspiriting, as a ride on a magnificent, morning in October, just after a comfortable breakfast, and through a fair land such as our traveler was travers ing. The Virginia mountains are at all times beautiful and commanding, but their attractions are greatly en hanced by the " fall days." The sun, by this time, had climbed above the heights of the " Third Hill," and was flooding the whole valley, with fair bright light, and laughing in the waves of the little streamlet, and scattering his fire-tipped arrows into the obscurest depths of the old, close-set pines, which clothed the " Sleepy Creek" mountain side, until every mossy rook, and fallen trunk was visible. Moreover, it. flashed from the myriad colors of the autumn leaves the purple of th; maple, the yellow of the little alder-tree, end the crimson berries of the dogwood. These beautiful mountain dwellers seamed to rejoice in the warm, pure LEATHER AND SILK. If* light, and through them ran gay breezes, that like inert Jly- flying children, scattered behind them a rustling mirth and laughter. Half an hour's ride brought the stranger in sight of a small dwelling, situated on the western slope of the valley, and surrounded with dark-waving, slender-trunked pines. The roof was thatched, and many little ornaments about the gate, and door step, and windows seemed to denote that it was the residence of a female. The stranger hastened on joyfully, and throwing him self from his horse, which he secured to a bough, ran to the door, and knocked. It was opened by a tall, elderly female, of refined appearance, and with a very calm man ner. She was clad, however, in a very singular dress. She wore a man's collar secured by a black cravat, some thing enveloped her figure from the waist up, not un like an ordinary boy's roundabout, and her feet coming out plainly from her short skirt were cased in elegant moccasins of deer-skin, ornamented with beads, and fringe. Behind this singular figure, a table was visible, on which a host of jars and retorts, and small machines were heaped, and the air of the room was very strongly per fumed with sulphur. The stranger saw all this at a glance, and smelling the sulphur, thought of hunter John and his superstition. But he had no time for further thought ; the elderly female looked at him a moment with great astonishment apparently, then seemed to struggle with her recollections, then when the stran ger's face assumed its ordinary pleasant smile came forward and fell upon his neck, crying and smiling through her tears. " Welcome, welcome," said she, " I got your letter and have waited long for you. Come in." And kissing the stranger affectionately, with tears of joy in her eyes, she drew him into her dwelling. The door closed behind them. CHAPTER VII. ^ MERRY-MAKING IN THE MOUNTAINS. PUNCTUAL to the time mentioned by his host, Doctor Thomas as we shall in future call him, arrived at the abode of the hunter. A large crowd had already assembled or we should rather say a goodly number of the valley dwellers. In our day a " large crowd" at a festival of any sort suggests several hundred persons; and there were scarcely several dozen here. Doctor Thomas entered and was soon on good terms with every one ; for faithful to his promise to Sally he had abandoned entirely his "set up" air as sho called it to herself, and was a very model of good-hu mored frankness and ease. The supper was to come after the dancing and other amusement, and just as the Doctor entered, they had commenced a Virginia reel. The fiddler high perched above the guests upon a lofty eminence provided for the purpose struck up in- spiringly a gay heart-enlivening strain ; the rude, l>nt frank and pleasant looking mountain "boys and girls" commenced flying through the dance, and a buzz of voices, at times almost a shout, rose to the ceiling, and scattering itself through the windows, died away in the pine trees of the mountain side. All was merriment and laughter, joy and uproar. Then commenced a jig. It is possible our readers are not familiar with the nature of this ancient pastime. It was danced in this manner. Two persons male and female entered the circle cleared as for LEATHER AND SILK. 177 an ordinary dance, and standing opposite each other com menced a slow and measured movement which they ac companied with many bows, smiles, and complimentary words. The gentleman's duty was to compliment in every possible manner the execution of his companion if any portion of her toilet became disordered, or awry, to politely inform her of that fact, and during all these ceremonious observances never for a moment to cease keeping perfect time to the music, whose duty was to gradually grow more rapid, until one of the dancers un able to keep up with it or overcome by fatigue acknowl edged him or herself vanquished. Doctor Thomas was looking at the dancers with great interest, and at times laughing heartily at their odd movements, when his host came up to him. " Well here you are," said hunter John with his placid smile, "how did you spend the day whereabouts J mean ?" " Why, at Mrs. Courtlandt's." " Really now ?" " Really, my friend ; I did not find her the terrible per sonage you made her out. You must know I have come here to look about me ; who knows but I may settle." The hunter shook his head. " Did you see nothing strange?" he asked. " Why yes some singular things, I confess." " And what did she say to you ?" " There you are too much for me. I believe she ob served that it was a fine day." " I see that you don't mean to let out on the matter and you may be right. It's none of my business. But I went again to-day and missed that buck." " You were away I know when I left here this nc ruing." " I was after him, and chased the buck from one end of the mountain to t'other, but it was no use. I'll die hunting that buck." H* J78 LEATHER AND SILK. At this moment a noise at the door attracted every body's attention and turning round, Doctor Thomas saw descending from a small carry-all a party of guests who had just arrived. The hunter went to welcome them, and the Doctor's eyes were immediately riveted upon them as they entered and received the merry greeting. The party was composed of an old fine-looking German father Von Horn he was called by every one a beau tiful woman of twenty-one or two, and a young man of nineteen with long dark hair, and dressed in the usual garb of mountain hunters, as indeed were almost all the male guests of the company. A few minutes afterward the signal for supper was given, and the orowd flocked into the adjoining room CHAPTER VIII. THE DOCTOR OVERHEARS A PRIVATE CONVERSATION. THE large table was spread with every variety of eat' ables, and the repast seemed to be a general commingling of breakfast, dinner and supper. Meats of every sort venison, bear, ham, fowls, vegetables as for a dinner, coffee, Jamaica rum, great flagons of thick creamy milk these were the components of the profuse mountain supper. Every one hastened to help himself and his partner, and it was refreshing to see with what gusto the young damsels applied themselves to the rich ham and venison, and how little " shamefacedness" they exhibited at eating before their sweethearts. The supper was a merry one and as the old fiddler on his perch in the next room had been plentifully supplied the first thing, and his heart enlivened with a huge cup of rum, music was not wanting to add to the universal mirth. Two persons formed the only exceptions to the general merriment they alone did not add to the terrible uproar by the sound of their voices. These persons were Sally Myers who was clad in a pretty white dress which set off charmingly the fresh happy beauty of her face and the young man who had entered with father Von Horn. They were whispering. " I have not seen you for so long nearly three days," said the girl. The young man replied to this tender reproach more by his look than his words. But, speaking in the saint) tone; 180 LEATHER AND SILK. " 1 have been kept away, darling," he said. " By what, Barry ?" " Oh, I could not tell you all now," he rep'ied with a long happy look, " but if you could walk out to-morrow morning " " Oh yes, I could." " Say to the Moss Rock on the Sleepy Mountain," said the young man. " Indeed, I will, dear Barry." "At sunrise then, dear." " And at the Moss Rock." "Yes." It was plain that the conversation was becoming very itupid, but the lovers made up for this by their looks. "You didn't know I am at the branch now nearly ly morning did you, Barry early I mean." '* Down at the branch ?" " Yes. I go down there very often nearly every day : i.he place is so pretty, and I think of you, you know." " Of me, dear ?" " Yes, and I am very happy ; I was down there this morning, and what do you think happened to me ?" " Happened to you ?" " Just as I had my feet in the cool water with my shoes off, down came Doctor Thomas, the gentleman who came yesterday " " And frightened you nearly to death ; eh, Miss Sally ! w Baid the voice of the doctor behind the lovers. The girl started, and the young man turned round, with a face flushed and a little angry. " I did not know you were so near, sir," said Barry, coldly. "Oh, my friend it is my place; I am a doctor. Now you know the French proverb or rather you probably don't know it, so I say nothing more." The young man seemed both angry and embarrassed. LEATHER AND SILK.. 181 A. singular smile passed across the face of Doctor Thomaa and turning to Sally : " You returned me good for evil, however," he said, ; ' how sweetly you do sing, and how soon you sang at my solicitation." Sally pouted and looked annoyed ; the young man angry. But at that moment one of the young girls ran up and catching the doctor by the arm cried to him : " Oh sir, come if you please ! Nina Lyttelton says she has half cut her hand off and won't have any one but you to fix it." Doctor Thomas chuckled to himself, and with a low bow turned to follow his conductress. At the other end of the room the lady with the cut hand was seated on a wicker bench calling for the doctor, and wringing her pretty hand. " I am here, madam," said the doctor, with a low bowj and he smiled. CHAPTER IX. THE DOCTOR COMMENCES A MILD FLIRTATION. THE hand was not badly cut, but it was a very pretty hand, and the arm attached to it quite as beautiful. It was not long before the fair lady was once more smiling. "Aie these cuts ever dangerous, doctor," asked Mrs. Nina Lyttelton with a languid smile. " Not very, madam. We doctors are very unwilling tfl confess that any thing is dangerous. That would imply that there was a possibility of losing our patients which we never admit until they are so unfortunate as to die." Mrs. Lyttelton laughed. " And you care every hurt, do you ?" "All but heart wounds, madam," the doctor replied with a bow to the fair widow. " Those you can not cure T 1 11 Wholly unsuccessful, madam. I have seen many scales of physicians 1 fees but never such a clause as: 4 To curing one young person crossed in love,' so much. No, that is beyond our skill." ** Heigho !" sighed Mrs. Lyttelton, " I believe it is true, nothing can cure some things." " A profound remark," said the doctor laughing. "As long as the heart is not touched in both senses doctor the patient may recover." " The inmost heart yes." " What do you mean ?" ' I mean that often grief is a fancy sorrow a chimera." LEATHER AND SILTt. 18* Mrs. Lyttelton became unaffectedly grave. She had just thought of her husband who had died about two years before. But the light and merry nature of her character soon banished this fleeting regret, and she tnrned again to the smiling cavalier before her. " But do you not believe that persons often die of love when they are crossed ?" " I do, I confess, madam though I have heard it asserted that such a thing is folly mere imagination." " And what medicine do you administer to such people? You may not be able to cure, but you attempt the cure, do you not ?" " Why yes, madam." u Well suppose Mr. or Mr. in Martinsburg were to complain to you of melancholy, loss of appe tite, depression, and utter dislike of every thing around them" " I would ask the origin of all this." ' ' Well suppose they assured you that the cruelty of some young girl had plunged them into this state of mind ; what would you prescribe ?" " I should prescribe a visit to Meadow Branch Valley, madam, and the acquaintance of Mrs. Lyttelton," replied Doctor Thomas with a smile and a low bow. " You are very gallant, doctor !" said his companion, laughing. OfiAPTER I. A CHALLENGE PASSES. AFTER supper the company again returned to the dancing-room, and again betook themselves to the merry reel, and wearying jig with new ardor. Sally Myers and her friend Barry were still talking, though now more reservedly since the doctor had surprised them ; and seemed disposed to withdraw themselves as much as pos sible from the gay crowd. Doctor Thomas soon surrendered Mrs. Lyttelton to some one else, and approaching a number of young men who were assembled at the door, he listened with much inward mirth to their critical comments on the figures, dress, and general appearance of the young gentlemen and ladies then engaged in dancing. Still the doctor's eye dwelt with profound interest through all, upon the young man Barry, who was talking with Sally Myers in a corner a few feet off. The smile would at times dis appear from the stranger's face, and a look of love and tenderness impossible to describe, light up his counte nance and soften every feature ; then he would mutter to himself, and his old sarcastic smile would return. The young men after praising or abusing all the young girls of the company, came to Sally herself who was de clared by universal acclamation, the beauty and darling of the mountains; now by "darling" much more was expressed than by the former word. Beauty was a good thing, and the " beauty" was naturally a much-desired personage by all, for dancing, berry-hunt: ng, and riding ; LEATHER AND SILK. jgj bnt the "darling" was the loved one, the admired one, the dear of every body, and privileged to drive every one to distraction. When Sally was therefore called the "darling" of the valley, a very high compliment was intended to be paid her. We were wrong in saying that she was universally praised. One young man said that she was " the silliest looking girl he had ever seen," a " mere child" and " not worth making a fuss about." The stranger saw Barry's head turn like lightning, and his large brilliant eye directed its glance toward the group of men. Five min utes afterward he had left the girl, and was at the young man's side. " You were not abusing Sally Myers, gentlemen," he said calmly, " I hope I did not hear right just now ; but I thought some one spoke of her as ' silly' and ' childish.' " There was nothing threatening in this address no anger in the young man's face ; and the person who had uttered the words in question hesitated for a moment ; had Barry spoken threateningly he would have gloried ia repeating them. In the midst of the pause Doctor Thomas' voice was heard : " You address all here I believe, sir," said he, " and as that is the case, I reply for myself." " Well, sir," said Barry, his face flushing. " Not knowing whether you mean or do not mean to insult me equally with the rest, I would say " " You may understand my words as you fancy, sir," said the young man with flashing eyes, and lowering his voice. The doctor smiled. " Then of course there is no insult, sir," he replied ; and turning round he commenced an indifferent conversa tion with one of the guests. Barry went out to cool his flushed forehead, and to - LEATHEB AND SILK. gaze at the calm quiet moon, though he saw nothing bu\ the face of the young girl. While thus sunk in thought lie felt a hand upon his shoulder. He turned and saw Doctor Thomas. " You insulted me just now, sir," said that gentleman, " and if I did not resent it then, I have not forgotten it.' Barry's face flushed then turned pale. " Did you dare to say that Sally Myers was silly or childish ?" As he spoke the young man advanced a step, his form trembling with passion. " One moment, sir," said the doctor, calmly ; " I am a professional man, and I do not wish to fight on small provocation. Your insult to me, your tone of voice, all, was much more serious than any criticism of a young girl could " " I ask you if you said it ?" " Suppose I did." " Then one of us shall leave this place forever." "You are determined then to fight me, are you, sir?* 1 said Doctor Thomas. " Yes, I will fight you in any way !" " Be cool ! this red-hot way of talking answers no pur pose. Well, you have insulted me or I have insulted you no matter which. We'll fight. What weapons ?" The young man, with flashing eyes and passionate voice, replied to the doctor's cool words, with a single word "Any !" " Pistols then. I brought a pair with me, luckily." "You thought it probable you would be called on to insult a young girl, I suppose?" said Barry with a sneer. The doctor muttered something to himself, and looked admiringly at the young man. "No," he said, "I did nit But we are losing time; the place is the next thing." ' Any where !" said Barry. LEATHER AND SILK. 1S7 " Well, say to-morrow morning then, about sunrise, at the ' Moss Rock,' on the side of the Sleepy Creek Mount- am eh ?" " Or, here and now!" said the young man, grinding his teeth; "you spy and eaves-drop very well for a profes sional gentleman, sir !" The doctor winced, and a slight smile flitted across hia countenance. "It is true I heard your appointment with your sweet heart," said he, " but I assure you it was unintentional, sir wholly." " Assure me on your word of honor, sir," said the young man, " and perhaps I shall believe you !" " The devil take him," muttered the doctor, laughing, to himself. Then he said to his companion : " We lose time in all these recriminations, sir, and should be arranging our affair. I am a good shot, and shall kill you, I know let it be at an early day." " I shall consider my life well lost, sir," said the young man coldly and suddenly recollecting how useless his anger was " well lost, if lost defending a young girl from insult." The doctor seemed to be carried away by admiration of this sentiment, and was about to hold out his hand, when he suddenly recollected himself. *' Well, sir," he said, " we will arrange this matter satisfactorily within the next few days. These affairs will always keep ; though I remember at Paris but we are in Virginia, a much better place, by-the-by. .We wil) defer, if you please, our arrangements. But remember, I am the challenged party, and have !,he choice of weapons." Then politely saluting his companion, who scarcely deigned to move lis head in return for the profound conge of his adversary, the doctor took his ^ay again to ward the house. CHAPTER XL THE DOCTOR MEDITATES BY MOONLIGHT. IT was nearly midnight when father Von Horn, that worthy and much-beloved German patriarch gave the signal for separating. He rose and called to him his daughter Nina, and Barry. But it was some time before Barry could be found, inasmuch as he and Sally Myers had stolen away from the company (now uproarious and extravagant with their blindman's buff, and boot-binding and other rough games), and in the quiet moonlight were gazing into each other's eyes and talking the usual non sense of lovers alone and by moonlight. The company we said was uproarious ; some of the young men, it must be confessed, had paid too exclusive devotion to tjie great bowl of purich which, with arms akimbo and smiling countenance, stood ready to welcome all comers on a side table. The consequence of this in discretion was deplorable. Many maidens on that niirlit quarreled with their sweethearts for their want of atten tion, and many more declared that this was the last party they would ever attend riding behind their chosen cava liers. It was afterward, however, observed that these complaints ended in nothing, and that the next party was as well attended, and in the same fashion as this one at Hunter John's ; and this leads us irresistibly to the con clusion that beaux are indispensably necessary to young ladies every where ; and that young ladies, where a merry- LEATHER AND SILK. Igd making is in question, have much Christian charity and forgiveness. It was a gay scene the parting of the company ; and only the pencil of some artist-humorist could convey an adequate idea of the strange mountain vehicles which drew up to the door to receive their guests. The young ladies experienced much difficulty in mounting gracefully behind their swains the moonlight being so very clear. and ankles cased in white stockings so painfully visible : but at last the guests were all mounted, or snugly en sconced in their carryalls and light wagons, and began to take their departure with many good-by's and many part ing words. Old father Von Horn lingered last that worthy father Von Horn who, shaking his broad chest with internal laughter waited patiently for Barry, and would not see or laugh at Sally's blushes, when coming in with the young man she found the old man and Nina waiting for him ! Doctor Thomas had made himself very officious in assisting the young ladies to their seats behind their cavaliers and we are bound as faithful historians, to say that he was much more ready and polite when young and pretty girls needed his services. His officiousness was not, however, by any means disagreeable to the damsels who had to endure it. There was much grace, and un bounded politeness in the doctor's manner and tone ; and the young ladies in question had rather neglected their ordinary beaux throughout the evening for the handsome stranger. More than one small hand grasped his own with friendly warmth ; and more than one voice at parting emphasized the first syllable of " good-by" at parting. These the sarcastic stranger greeted with a suppressed chuckle as they disappeared. He found at last that no lady but Mrs. Nina Lyttelton remained, and he assisted her to her vehicle, or rather her father's with extraordi nary attention ; the reward for which was an urgent invi 90 LEATHER AND SII.K. hit ion to visit her at her father's, "just up where the mountains came together." The doctor bowed and prom ised. As he turned, his quick eye pierced the deep shadow of the doorway, and he saw Barry and the young girl exchange a tender kiss. "Where's Barry?" cried father Von Horn, shaking with merriment. " Here, Uncle," said the young man ; and bidding his host and hostess good-by, he took his piacf the table, with his wife at the foot and Sally at his side, you should have seen him ! He was clad like all his guests Doctor Thomas only excepted in the orna mented hunting shirt of the mountaineers, leggings, stockings, and high-buttoned vest ; an enormous collar sawed his ears, confined by a narrow ribbon, bound around his broad muscular throat ; and his iron-gray hair was gathered in a queue behind. But no one saw his dress, or dreamed of the existence of the queue; the smile of joy and pride, illuminating gloriously the broad bright-eyed face, alone was visible ; and when the hunter stood up with a mighty cup raised in his right hand and drank " to the young people's happy times," all the company rose as if on springs, and a shout broke from them which was heard far off upon the mountain side, and made the house vibrate with very joy, and wholly drowned the merrily-laughing fiddle which was perched in the corner, over the revelers' heads, with standing orders never to stop a moment to take breath, but do its best to drown the clatter of plates, and silence every voice ' It was not long before the scramble for the slipper of the bride commenced. This new or rather very old mode of " hunting the slipper," was simply to obtain by LEATHER AND SILK. 221 tratagem or other means while she sat at table, the slipper of the bride, and he who succeeded in gaining possession of it spite of her struggles, and of the efforts of the groomsmen in her defense, was entitled to two sisses, and a bottle of wine declared by long established ind well-known usage his appropriate reward. First, one of the young men would come behind her ;hair, and commence an indifferent conversation then bend down to admire the new ring upon the fair hand of the bride ; then suddenly the meaning of all this man oeuvring would betray itself in a quick dart at the little shoe firmly fixed on the little foot beneath the table. But the shoe was not so easily captured and mos 4 proj- ably the adventurous wight was caught by the attentive roomsmen, jand thrown staggering back ; or w r orse still, a ringing sound was heard, and he retreated with tingling r-heek from the offended bride. Every stratagem possible was used, every effort made to get possession of the slip per, and we may assert with perfect safety that the bottle of wine was not the prize so warmly struggled for by the young mountaineers. Sally was too honest and reason able to dispute the right acquired by the fortunate person, and she made every exertion to preserve herself from the threatened kisses. At last the struggle for a moment ceased ; they were taking breath. " Brave girl !" cried old father Von Horn who sat at her side, and had watched the romping with vast delight; " I know she's a match for you all, boys ! no kisses for you here ! You will have to confine your embraces to your own sweethearts;" here the old man looked mis chievously around on the young girls. They all tossed their heads. "Pshaw!" he cried, "you know I am joking, my daughters. But I was savin:/ that this little shoe here was safe still, and in how long is it, friend Myers" 222 LEATHER AND SII.K. " Tn ten minutes it'll be out," said hunter John, looking at a Dutch clock over the mantle-piece. " The time will then be up, and we'll get to the dancing, girls." " Oh, yes !" they all exclaimed, " let us have the dancing soon !" " I love so much to dance !" " I'm your partner, recollect !" " No, you are not for the first reel ! w " What a merry fiddle !" In the midst of this burst of talk, Sally turned to father Von Horn with a beseeching look. The old man laughed significantly. " Do you want any of these youngsters to get the shoe ?" he said. " Oh, no ! father Von Horn," with great energy. "Eh? not one?" "Indeed I wouldn't let a single one touch it if I could help it. But I can't ! I don't think I can keep it on my foot," said the girl, laughing ; " I thought that last pull of Doctor Thomas would certainly bring it off." " Come now, is there no one here you have less objec tion to kiss ?" " I hate to think of kissing any." " Why, what a cruel little chit !" "Oh, father Von Horn!" said Sally, laughing, "to think that some one of these rough boys should take off Barry's kiss ;" her voice sank at these last words and she blushed and smiled. " To say nothing of the bottle of good old wine." " Oh, any body may have that there it is on the mantle-piece," she said ; and then in the softest and most caressing tone of voice : " Do yon like Madeira wine, father Von Horn !" askod Ihe little witch. The old man laughed loudly. * Why, yea 1" said he, " but I'm afraid I shall get noi .9 LEATHER AND SILK. 223 }f it to-night, as you won't let any one take the slipper ; a pretty little shoe it is," said the old man, glancing at the small foot, "the doctor there, says it's so small he can't grasp it with his hand !" " Oh, he's a great flatterer, father Yon Horn ! But I didn't say I wouldn't let any one take my slipper, as you say " "What!" " Not in the least, father Von Horn," said the girl with a sly and confidential smile, " I said none of the boys ! of course I wouldn't care if some nice old gentleman could " " Treason !" cried father Yon Horn ; " was the like ever seen ! Come here, boys !" " Oh, please don't betray me !" said Sally, beseechingly, " please, father Yon Horn. They would laugh at me till I cried ; and then you know," she said smiling, " there would be no dancing !" " What are you talking about, father Yon Horn?" the young men asked. " Why, I wished to say to yon, my young friends, that in five minutes the time for getting the slipper off is out then good-by to the kisses and the wine." The young men approached the bride carelessly. " Oh ! we have given it up." " Wholly." " It's no use." " Miss Sally has got the fairies to work her a slipper and it is put on with a spell.". But these careless laughing words only masked a more violent attack than ever ; and with such vigor and skill was the onset made that the young girl only kept her slipper on by the closest pressure of her foot. Suddenly, father Yon Horn cried : " The bottle, boys ! the bottle ! see to it !" All heads were turned to the mantle-pieoe, thinking to 224 LEATHER AND SILK. see it fall ; when the merry old man stooped down, and with a quick jerk drew off the slipper and held it up in triumph ! " The slipper ! the slipper !" " Father Von Horn, indeed !" "It ain't fair!" " I believe you let him take it, Miss Sally !" " How can you say so !" she replied, laughing ; " Tould I think of it while I was looking at the bottle ?" But spite of this ingenious defense, we are obliged to express our serious doubts of its sincerity. It was after ward stated that Miss Sally, when all eyes were turned away, had slyly bent back father Von Horn's stalwart thumb ; and that in obedience +o the signal, the slipper had been sei2ed. However it may have been, one thing is certain, that the old man claimed the penalty ; and the bottle gayly decked out with ribbons was handed to him. He filled the bride's cup, then passed it round ; so it was emptied. The rest of the penalty was more ceremoniously claimed by the fortunate possessor of the slipper. CHAPTER XXI. THE RECLAIMING OF THE SLIPPER. THE party all rose from table, and the table itself -vrai borne with the rapidity of magic from the room. Thus the floor was cleared for dancing; but first the ceremony we have alluded to was to be gone through with. The company scattered back to the walls, where rang ing themselves in close columns they looked on in silence. Then forth into the open space came father Von Horn, and with a profound bow, and a sign to the music, said : " Here am I where is the bride ?" " Here am I I am the bride," said the merry voice of the young girl, as she came into the open space, from the opposite side, with a slight irregularity in her gait for the old man held gayly in his hand the captured shoe. Father Von Horn bowed again. "Is this the bride's shoe? look at it well," said he. rt I am the bride the slipper is mine," said Sally blushing and laughing. " I found the slipper the little white slipper." " Do you wish a reward ?" " Yes." " What shall it be ?" " The slipper is pretty, and worth two kisses." " Kisses, sir ?" " Two of them !" " Here are my lips." As they repeated these words, they slowly approached each other, and father Von Horn kneeling on one knee, ?26 LEATHKK AND SII.K. with the most profound respect, put the sapper upon th girl's foot, and then rising, placed his arms round her neck and kissed her twice, exciting thereby dreadful enmity among the young men against him. At the same moment, the whole company commenced gayly singing, " Put your shoe on To keep your foot wann, And two little kisses will do you no harm.*' The fiddle changing its tone from the wild outrageous merriment which before characterized it, to a thought- ful and subdued measure, here glided in, so to speak, and interpreted the words. The whole was wound up with, " heigho ! heigho !" sung as a chorus, but these " heighos' were much more like laughter than sighing. Then the fiddle, as if ashamed of falling into a fit of musing, and being absent in company, struck up a merry reel, and the bride, the groom, the whole joyful party ommenced gayly dancing. CHAPTER XXII THE DOCTOR REMINDS BARRY OF HIS ENGAGEMENT. THE happy company took no thought of the rolling hours, but acting on the ancient and respectable maxim, that no time is like the present moment for enjoyment, entered into the dancing with a spirit, which for the time made them lose sight of every thing else in the world. It was part of their teaching this wild abandonment to mirth and laughter. But a few years before, within the memory at least of many, the savage had often inter rupted such sport with the yell of onset ; and the recol lections or the traditions of those former years still dwelt in the minds of all, and impressed upon them the import ance of the moment for enjoyment. Alone in the background, Doctor Thomas looked on with silent pleasure ; his eyes following incessantly the forms of Barry and Sally and Nina as they ran through the dance. Barry was entirely happy, perhaps for the first time in his life, for his was a nature which de manded the extremes of emotion always ; and now in the extreme happiness of his union with the young girl, he forgot all the sad days that had gone before and gave himself up to unreserved delight. He left the room, just as the mountains and the sky were darkening, to commune with his own thoughts in silence and obscurity. The sound of an approaching foot step interrupted him. He turned round. " Ah, sir," said he, " you are here ; I thought I was alone." " Which means that my presence is an intrusion, eh ?" said Doctor Thomas. 128 LEATHER AND BILK. " The world is free, sir." " Pardon me, that is a fallacy ; bul I came, sir, to arrange our little matters; you no duuot understand to what I allude." Barry's face flushed. " We are to fight then are we, sir ?" " Why certainly ; you challenged me, I think." "No sir not challenged you," said Bany coldly, and repressing his agitation by a powerful effort, "you in tuited a lady and I resented it." "Well, well, words convey ideas; and I think you offered, on the occasion to which I allude, to fight me ' with any Weapons ' Those were your very words, were they not?" "And I am ready to hold to my words," said Barry with an icy sensation at his heart. Doctor Thomas threw a piercing glance upon the yonng man's agitated but resolute face his pale but firm lips, his cheeks filled with blood, his large glowing eyes. "Splendid diagnosis," he muttered with a smile. Then he said aloud : " It is no child's play we are about, sir ; this will be - -should we fight a matter of life and death." ' So be it !" said the young man " I am sorry." " Be sorry on your own account, sir ! you have not thn satisfaction of feeling that you fight in a good cause. I have i ' "E so?" " Y ' pretend not to understand me. Well, sir, -hat is you vn business." "I understand that we must fight, and that >ou are iui arried." Ban lip curled with scorn. " An yr that reason you have pressed the matter now." " Co.u> come" T ad ire your great delicacy, sir " LEATHER AND SILK. 289 might have ?ery reasonably fearec a personal encounter then and there. The doctor only smiled, and his smile was bright and unaffected. "Why, we are enemies are we not?" he asked. " Yes, sir ; we are." " "Well, when you have an enemy what do you do ?" " Say what you have to say, sir." "May the devil take me, you are crusty, my friend, it is not etiquette to reply to me in this way." " I don't mean to use ceremony." "It is, however far more comme il faut pardon my rudeness. In Paris, the centre of European refinement so they say at least a challenge necessitates courtesy, between the principals. You may kill, but you must kill with politeness and kindness." To these coolly uttered words, Barry replied, with flash ing eyes, " I do not take pattern from others, sir, when I am insulted !" " Well, I was about to ask you, just at the moment you interrupted me, what your course toward an enemy would be under the present circumstances. I meant to say that my revival of our quarrel at this moment is not so heinous an offense against good breeding as you would make it. Granted I hate you, does it not follow that my proposal at this moment is the most rational, philosophi cal and consistent I could make ? You are at the height of felicity I would plunge you into the depths of de spair, by saying to you, 'Come now and give me youi life ; you owe it to me !' " Barry turned pale. 4 ' I am ready," he said, with one hand on his heart. "Pistols?" " Any thing." " Now ? They are not far off." Barry's head sank and his lip quivered. Oh ! to aban don so much happiness just as he had grasped it to yield op the prize iust when it was his own ! to die sso LEATHER AND STI.K. hav commence! a long life of unalloyed y- " Well, God bless us," said father Yon Horn, " it has been a long weary time you have been away, my boy. My heart was very sore at your going away from us my fault all my fault " " Dear uncle " " Don't say me nay : I never should have ohid you so rudely. You were not a child, and had no cool, aged blood in your veins. But all that is gone !" " To think it !" said hunter John, " that this fine Doc- ior I have been talking to so much of late, was nobody 240 LEATHER AND SILK. but wild Max, after all. I'm most nigh unbelieving yet in spite of what he says." Nina laughed. * Are you as bad as ever, Max ?" she said, " is e^ery thing as much a jest as ever with you." "As much as ever," he replied, "no, one thing is not. That is earnest." At which speech Mrs. Nina was observed to blush-- which was remembered afterward. " How long it seems since you and Sally acted Romeo and Juliet ! brother," said Barry in his soft earnest voice. " It seems years to me." " When you first displayed your chivalric devotion to this young lady here. Do you remember, mon garfon /"' " Oh, perfectly," said Barry, laughing. " And you, my Juliet ?" "Yes oh, yes," said Sally, blushing, "how could I forget it ?" ' True ; let's see, what says Romeo ?" And with solemn intonation he repeated : " He told me Paris should have married Juliet ; Said he not so ! or did I dream it sot Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, To think it was so !" Sally blushed again. " Paris on that occasion resuscitated," said the doctor, " but did not marry Juliet. Barry is a tolerable substi tute, however, Sally." " What a joker you still are, Max," Nina said. " Yes, yes. I shall never get to accustom myself to the professional air solemn and wise; but my folly never wounds. You are not angry now, are you, Sally?" " Oh, no." " Well come give me an affectionate kiss I'm brother Max now. After which I may say : 44 Thou knowest my lodging : get me ink and paper, And hire poet horses ; I will hence to-night." LEATHER AND SILK. 841 To Mrs. Courtlandt's, I mean. That lady knew what was coming, a ad having heard my adventures already, very naturally accompanied homeward a party who went by her dwelling." The kiss was very tremulously, but willingly and lov ingly granted to her new brother by the young girl ; and then he and father Von Horn and all took their leave the Doctor riding very gallantly by Nina's side, until they reached their mountain home. Spite of the pressing invitation to remain, the Doctor returned homeward, lost in thought: he could not ex plain to his own satisfaction why he had not taken ad' vantage of the invitation, but determined to pay a visit to Nina on the next day. Consoling himself with this resolution, he went quietly along, and soon reached Mrs. Courtlandt's. On the next day he paid the visit he had determined on : and on that very day he asked Nina a most tender question. We kijow not what the reply was in exact words ; but Doctor Courtlandt went home overwhelmed with joy that fierce, sarcastic Doctor Thomas. L CHAPTER XXVI. A MERRY CHRISTMAS. THE merry yule-tide came with jest and laughter and abundant cheer ; and joyful gatherings of how many friends ; and earnest blessings on the absent loved ; and charity toward all men, every where. Most merry was it there in Meadow Branch Valley with roaring logs, and great foaming bowls, and roasted turkeys, such as never yet walked through the dreams of epicures, and all gay adjuncts of the festal season. " Festival" was very " high" in every house even at Mrs. Courtlandt's that good Catholic, who never betrayed her connection with the church, but on such festive days. The days were bright ; the snow was covered over with a mantle of sunlight; the frost upon the window panes reared its grand fairy palaces for merry children. Mirth and gay-hearted laughter reigned undisputed, and every where Saint Nick came visiting with most capacious valises, holding fabulous amounts of good things. Christmas was kept with great joy and heartiness, at father Von Horn's and hunter John's. And here we will record an historical fact of some interest. Father Von Horn first introduced the Christmas Tree, a German custom, now so universal in our land. Upon his hospita ble board was raised for the first time in Virginia that evergreen pine which now is every where the emblem of the season which rains on children's heads such magical fruit ; which has wholly routed and put to flight the old English " Christmas-box." Saint Nick for the first time deviated from his route and came to Meadow Branchi ani hung his presents on the fairy pine. LEATHER AND SILK. 24b But where are we wandering? Shall we describe those Christmases, and bring our musty historic disquisi tions as a sauce to our description ? Why should we at tempt to catch some of the aroma of the jubilant festival, when the whole record lies untranslatable on every heart- tablet ? Is it not all written in the Book of the Chroni cles of Christmas kept safely in those loving memories ? But we must not pass by one circumstance which made the merry yule-tide merrier, in Meadow Branch. This was the marriage of Nina with the gentleman whose name has appeared so often in this history ; Mr. now Doctor Maximilian Courtlandt. That happy event came in due time, and father Von Horn's measure of joy was full. The old man now was satisfied; he could die in peace he said, with Max to take care of his dear daughter ; and should we never again in this brief history recognize that cheerful face, or listen to that hearty loving voice, we may at least be sure that that true loyal soul, was now once more most happy. Max was again the son indeed of his fond uncle ; and Nina gave her whole heart to him Nina so merry but so earnest in her tender love ; so changeable but ah ! so close-bound now with golden chains by her true love ; her love for that much- wept companion of her youth : lost to them all so long, her own at last. PART III. ON THE SLEEPY CREEK MOUNTAIN. CHAPTER I. THE TWO STRANGERS. ON a bright afternoon in the month of October, nearly twenty years after the events we have just related, twc men got out of the cars at Martinsburg. The cars ! this single word will convey to the reader more completely than a volume of description, the new scenes he is now about to be introduced to. He has witnessed if indeed he has followed us through the incidents of our brief chronicle the peculiar modes of life of the past in tho then border town : he has been present at a veritable " running for the bottle," he has found in the strongest intellects, those traits of credulity and superstition which advancing civilization, with its ever increasing radiance, puts to rout. The new age had inaugurated itself with literature for its pass word, science for its battle-cry. Steam had revo lutionized the past : newspapers and journals were show- ered down like a beneficent rain from heaven, on the long parched earth : the land every where glowed and bloomed with the new light and heat infused into its veins ; in one word (type of this great change), the cars had come, arousing with their shrill scream, the long dormant echoes of the quiet country side. The two travelers we have mentioned, came from thn east ; and standing on the platform of the depot now . quietly at the long train as it sped on toward the west. LEATHER AND SILK. 245 The first was a man 01 about forty, manly and pleasing in face, form, and carriage. A dark auburn beard very full but carefully trimmed, covered his cheeks and joined his short hair of the same color. A high forehead, pierc ing eyes, and firm lips gave to his countenance great force and elegance ; but a buoyant, well-pleased smile re moved all traces of student-character from this face, so sug gestive of reflection and profound mental toil. Thought had paled the forehead, and closed the firm lips ; but health had made the thinker cheerful and full of life. His companion was a contrast to himself, in every par ticular. In the first place he was young : apparently not more than eighteen or nineteen, and his figure had none of that well-knit strength and activity in every movement, which that of the elder possessed. His hair long and very fair, fell around a face almost feminine in its delicacy ; blue eyes, thoughtful, and vailed by heavy lashes, com pleted the contrast; for those eyes, like the whole face, were full of sadness and quiet melancholy. The cheerful manly countenance of the elder, attracted and invited all who approached its possessor : the dreamy and retiring thoughtfulness of the young man's face repelled. But one idea seemed to possess his mind, to the exclusion of all other objects and reflections. Now to be an agreeable person in society, above all to be " popular," it is abso lutely necessary to have more than one idea. They were both clad in the ordinary manner of gentle men at the period the young man somewhat more ele gantly than the elder, whose form was enveloped in a brown surtout with frogged buttons. While the young man was calmly looking round him, his companion with all the presence of mind of an old traveler, was attending to his baggage, which consisted of a pile of enormous trunks, bound heavily with iron bands, such as are made use of by those who travel on the sea. Nothing was missing, and soon two or three bus- 846 LEATHER AND SILK. tling porters were busy in rrm ivinir tht-in, to the "Globe.* 1 The Globe was now a hotel and had it* />/>//>/.<<. " Come, Max," said the elder traveler, cheerfully, " let as get on. I am hungry, which is no doubt owing to the fact that I have had no dinner." " So am I, sir," said the young man, " I had very little breakfast." " Eat heartily ! eat heartily ! it is a good rule, if not car ried too far. You are thin, I think, and don't look well." The young man sighed. " I am very well though, sir," he said. " How are the spirits ?" " Excellent, sir," said the young man, with a sad smile. His companion shook his head ; and looking at the young man with great tenderness, sighed. Then taking his arm, the traveler led the way on foot toward the hotel. Every thing in Martinsburg had changed ; the old things had passed away, and all had become new. New blood was in her veins, her streets were bustling; storea gayly decked with rich carpets, and all descriptions of bright-colored stuffs to attract the passer by, stood now where once low dingy dwellings crouched, apathetic and poverty stricken. The streets were thronged with way farers ; the bright October afternoon had, moreover, brought forth the fairer portion of the community, and the warm pleasant sunlight poured its joyful splendor upon throngs of young girls and children, clad in a myriad rainbow colors, and gamboling like variegated tulip blos soms, shaken together by some merry summer's wind. " Pretty," said the elder traveler, " are they not, Max ?'' " Yes, sir ; I am fond of them." "Of what? The girls?" " No, sir," Max said, smiling gently, " of children." " Who is not? The man who dislikes them is worse than the music-hater: and you know Shakspeare says twch are not to ' 'je trusted.' Children well behaved LEATHER AND SILK. 24 ohes and flowers, and poetry, and music, are among tht purest and most innocent recreations we have, my boy They are all recreations when they are good !" " I can't bear some music, sir." " How so ?" " It affects me too much ; I mean, makes me nervous.' " Nervous ?" " The association is so strong," murmured the young man, bending down his head. His companion looked at him a second time with that tender yet piercing glance we have described, but made no reply. " I know this is wrong, sir ; but I can not help it," the young man added, " I am too weak." "In (rod's name my child," said the elder, "banish this haunting memory. It is too exaggerated, too un reasonable ; have I no cause like yourself? Come, come! let us dismiss the subject of music which afflicts you so : though every thing you touch is food for your irrational melancholy. Here we are at the Globe my good old Globe." And smiling cheerfully, he entered. CHAPTER IL IMAGES AND VOICES OF THE PAST. AT supper, the elder of the two travelers seemed mu^h preoccupied ; and this profound thought in one usually so joyous and full of entertaining talk, excited the young man's surprise. The traveler apparently heard nothing of the conversation of those around him ; the bustle, the clatter, the thousand noises of a hotel meal, made no impression on him, on his ears or mind. Sunk in a smil ing, wistful reverie, his eyes bent on the walls of the large apartment, he seemed to have lost the consciousness of any outer world, living for the moment in that brighter universe his memory. At last he roused himself and looking round, saw tho young man's eyes fixed inquiringly on him. "Ah!" he said, smiling, "you have caught me in a reverie, my boy ; and I see from your eyes I always judge from the eyes of people's thoughts that you are curious to know what thoughts are chasing each other through my mind. Ah, I have made a plunge far back into the bright waters of the past, as some one says : and I am refreshed by my plunge ! Memory is a grand endow ment, and one of our purest earthly enjoyments though sometimes, it is true, very saddening." " But your memories were not. sir, to judge from your smiling face." " No, no ! you are right." " Happy memories happy memories they must be a rery great delight, sir," murmured the young man. LEATHER AND SILK. 249 " It lies in a great degree with the individual, inde pendent of the character of his past, to make them ^leas-. ant or sombre, Max," his companion said. " How is that, sir ?" " I will tell you. You saw me just now, abstracted from all this bustle, dead to all 1his confusion of clatter ing cups, and plates, and more clattering conversation. I was thus abstracted because in this very room, long years ago, a scene took place which impresses me even now with all the force of reality. Now, from that scene I might have derived either bitter or pleasant thought. I had the election, and chose the pleasant. Did you not see me smiling?" " Yes, sir ; may I ask what was the scene you allude to ?" " Ah, one of the merry diversions of my youth. Enough ! that is all gone gone with my youth. To rake in the cold ashes for names and images and gayly-uttered words," the traveler said, sadly, a cloud passing across his fine fore head, " would be lost labor. Let them rest ; I have had my moment's pleasant thought I have heard again those joyous and heart-moving words I have caught again the echoes of that merry laughter! Now let them die away for me ; those beautiful forms may disappear, for they have performed their part. Come ! let us go." And the traveler rose from the table, and, followed by his young companion, left the room. Then leaving the young man, who complained of fatigue, he took his way down Queen Street, glancing thoughtfully around him. Standing on the bridge, his eyes fixed upon a stone house which crowned the slope beyond, the traveler mused and sighed. Then, as if mastered by a sudden impulse, he ascended the slope, the setting sun lighting up radi antly his erect muscular form, and going to the door of this house, knocked at it. A servant appeared and in formed the traveler that his master was absent ; this aeemed, however, to be scarcely a disappointment to the 250 LEATI1EK AND SILK. visitor : and a piece of money slipped into the negro's hand speedily smoothed all obstacles to his entrance. Standing in that fine apartment we have entered so often in past times, the stranger looked around him with his old thoughtful smile. There were the panels and wainscoting and cornice, all elaborately carved with flowers and birds and satyr-faces, those objects much affected by our noble ancestors ; there were the large andirons with Minerva's head still stately on their tops ; there was the very vine around the window ; and yes ! for a wonder the very harpsichord so well known in old days, and eloquent of mincing minuets and merry maidens ! The stranger's eyes grew dreamy ; and absorbed, ap parently, in other scenes and objects than those around him, he stood motionless there in that room, whose ver) atmosphere seemed to have steeped his senses in for- getfulness of the real world ; arousing for him, however all the long-dormant splendor, and gay utterances of the golden past. The stranger really thought he saw there before the harpsichord that stately form, upright and stiff, but full of tender charity and affection, with the silk net upon her deep black hair ! And there upon her feet ! The stranger uttered a slight laugh, which died away ir the dim sunset chamber. He really thought he heard that gliding minuet again roll to him, freighted with all the life and joy and freshness of his sparkling youth ; ho thought he saw that young fair form, a star, a moonbeam, something bright and rare, glide through the royal dance ! Did he only think he saw that young fair form ? Cold word to express the power of memory ! There she was plainly, courtesying with the merry smile, and shaking her beautiful head at him till the curls rippled round her child-face like bright April clouds ! There were the white jeweled hands, lost in the falling lace yellow, in truth, as then was the fashion, but yellower by the contrast ! There was the little slipper when she made the courtesy LEATHER AND SILK. 251 There plainly was, moreover, a young man who made most graceful bows, who amb.ed, sidled, nearly touched the floor when, pressing to his heart the hat with its broad streaming ribbon, he inclined profoundly to his fairy partner : there was that young man now again approach ing that bright child ; there he was plainly with his wicked smile and in his hand ! there plainly ! The stranger laughed aloud. " Ah, what a dreamer I am becoming," he said, " here I have been guilty of just what I have berated Max for ; I have engaged in irrational melancholy musings abou* things and scenes gone into the far past which might an well be gone into oblivion ' What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba?' Come, come, I must not indulge this fit sf musing any longer ; the sun has set." And the stranger left the house. CHAPTER III. THE STRANGER FINDS THE YOUNG MAN WHERE HE HAD l: PECTED TO FIND HIM. As he drew near the " Globe," again the stranger cast a mournful look down the long street leading to, or rather running through the former " German quarter," which, edged with tall golden-foliaged trees autumn was coming fast lost itself in the distance toward the western, sun- flushed mountain. He stopped a moment evidently hesi tating whether he should bend his steps in that direction, and so exhaust his memories with an exploration of those long-loved and sorrowfully-remembered localities, as he had just done in the old house upon the hill. Here, he reflected, was little food for merriment or laughter, such as he had but now indulged in at the freaks of his imagination in the old stone mansion yonder. Here was no provocation to laughter, rather tears ; no gay re collections, only griefs. Why stir up those slowly dying sparks why blow upon that brand, and thus with a breath, dispelling the white crumbling ashes, fan again into a burning coal that gradually expiring ember? It was well perhaps, to revisit again the scenes of joy and merriment the spirit was refreshed by those bright and happy memories, which threw, even yet, some rays of the old splendor on the path now sterile, once so full of flowers and velvet-grasses. Would these other weful memories in the same manner revive again the brightness of the past ? No much more all the sorrow of the past, the agony, the yearning, the fond tears. Why visit scenes, then, full of those influences ? " No, no," the strangoi LEATHEB AND SILK. 253 muttered, " I must go and comfort one who already feels too much of this." And he entered the " Globe." The young man was not there; he had gone out, they said; and, upon dili gent inquiry, the stranger discovered that the direction he had taken was toward the German quarter. The traveler sighed, and again putting on his hat, and drawing his sur- tout around him, took his way toward the place indicated. A walk of ten minutes brought him in front of a large low dwelling, covering much ground, and overshadowed by two enormous oaks, reddened by the near approach of autumn. The house looked desolate and uninhabited ; moss grew upon the stones before the door, and upon the low drooping eaves ; the windows had more than one broken pane, and the heavy shutters turned slowly in the melancholy wind upon their rusty hinges. The traveler's heavy-heeled boot rung on the flag stones, arousing mournful echoes in the old walls, now touched by the light of the rising moon. An old dog chained to the door-post rose suddenly as if to bay, but as suddenly commenced whining and wagging his tail. He had plainly recognized a friend or an acquaintance in the stranger, who caressed him mournfully, fearing almost to enter the house, though the door stood ajar, ready to yield to the slightest push. The traveler entered and found himself, as lie had feared, in the presence of the young man who, however, did not see him, so deeply was he moved, and so unconscious of all now around him. Seated in a broad leathern chair, his head lying on his arms, which were folded upon the ponderous table, he seemed a prey to the most agonizing grief. The moonlight streaming through the open win dow revealed to the stranger this mournful figure, motion less but for the suppressed agitation of the head with its long fair hair, silent but for the passionate sobs which from time to time shook the slight form, and forced their way through the trembling lips. 4 LEATHER AND SII.K. The traveler seemed much moved, and for a few mo. stood looking at this sorrowful picture in silence Then he laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and said, in a low tone, " My child !" The young man started with terror, and rose to his feet, shuddering, his face pale, his eyes full of tears, his lips agitated by a nervous tremor. Recognizing the stran ger he fell again in his seat, pressing one hand on his heart. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "you frightened me so, sir!" 1 Frightened you, my child ?" " Yes, sir ; I am nervous lately, and the time this place oh, I have been so wretched here !" And covering his face with his hands, the young man burst into a passionate flood of tears. The stranger standing calm and silent, looked at him, making no effort as yet to check these tears. He was too well acquainted with human nature and with physiology not to know that they would somewhat relieve the full heart and brain. " Max," he said, at length, " you have much distressed me by again yielding to these feelings. I had hoped that after my request, you would struggle against them, know ing as you do know how much your affliction afflicts me M Oh, sir how could I " " How could you help it ? You were going to say that ; were you not ?" " Yes, sir," sobbed the young man. " I wiU tell you. By following the advice I gave you ; do you not remember that advice my child ? First, to never seek occasions for such outbursts, and you have sought such an occasion to-night; never to listen to music which arouses memory ; not to visit places which revive again all those saddening recollections which affect so powerfully your fragile constitution. I have more than once impressed upon you the importance of these things, and I am grieved to find that you have oo LEATHER AND SILK. 255 little confidence in my judgment ; I will not say, pay so little attention to my wishes, for I know you love me." " Oh, indeed I do, sir," cried the young man, " Grod is my witness !" "Why then, have you caused me so much distress? You know you are not well you are as delicate as pos sible, though not, strictly speaking, unhealthy, since proper care will in a short time establish your health firmly ; and now, with all this delicacy of temperament and constitution, ready to be turned into disease, or into robust strength, you come to this melancholy place, where every breath of air you draw is poison, where you feel the oppressive sense of a death," the stranger by a powerful effort commanded his agitated voice, and spoke with firmness, " you come here and I find you in what state 9 Why, God preserve me ! so unmanned that you start and shudder at my entrance, and sink down with your hand upon your heart a bad sign, very bad saying you are frightened ! unnerved !" " I was terrified, sir," groaned the young man ; " I have done wrong in coming." " Why why did you come, my child ?" said the stran ger, gazing with profound love on the pale, wan face. " I could not help it, sir," murmured the young man " My feet moved here against my will ; I could not resist the influence which brought me. I was drawn both ways by the recollection of your commands, and my feelings. My brain was heated, my heart cold. What could I do? I hardly saw where I was going, through the mist before my eyes and the first thing I was conscious of was Bugle's jumping up and licking my hand. I found the door unlatched and no one was here, and so I sat down and was thinking and got nervous and when you came in 1 thought it was ! I always was superstitious ! I was n The young man stopped, powerfully agitated, and wiped his eyes. The stranger took his hand tenderly. 256 LEATHER AND BILK. "Enough, Max," he said, "come, we will leave this place, for you are really unwell. Come, come! my child, you must never leave me again I have but you." At the same moment a noise was heard on the steps at the back of the house, and a stick hastily clashing on the floor as the walker approached, seemed to indicate age. An old negro woman, bent down with years entered, crying in the cracked voice of extreme age : " Who's there 1 who's there ? who's in the house ?" " I and Max, aunt Jenny," said the stranger, taking her hand, " we have come back." The old woman stood in great amazement for a mo ment, her thin form lit up by the weird moonlight, then burst into a flood of joyful exclamations which she inter spersed with tears. " Massa Max come back 'gin ; glory ! The ole woman's eyes is rejoice once more a-seein' of him : same face, same eyes ! and young massa Max he's a handsome chile, the Lord help me ! and growed so tall, and look so han'some! He's a han'some one, the Lord help me! every body always say he was a han'some chile ! young missis eyes agin for all the world ! How tall he is done growed ! I 'blige to look up when I'm a speakin' to him; he's a han'some chile, yes he is. I always said he was a pretty chile ; and like his mother. A settin' one day with him on my knee he was playin' with his little brass candlestick, you know, Massa Max, with the red flannel rag aroun' it and his mother a blessed saint in the glory of the Lord, my massa says his mother, ' what a pretty chile he is, mammy,' a look in' so beautiful and sc lovin' at the boy ; and says I, ' you right Miss Neeny, and he's jest like you for all the world.' That made her laugh, you know, Massa Max, and she say, ' no, no,' and she tooked him and chucked him up, and he laughed too this very blessed young massa, now growed so tall, yes' A.nd he was a good chile mighty han'some 'chuck .LEATHER AND SILK. 2i chuck !' sez she, and he laughed, Massa Max so you did, young Massa Max you laughed ; and when she ask you if you was much lovin' of her, and if you wasn't so much more han'somer than she was, you stop laughin 1 and nod your head jest so and say * um ! um !' the Lord take me to glory ! for all the worl' like you knovved what she was a sayin'. Well he's a-growed so tall and han'some and the ole woman is goin' mighty fast she nussed him he was a good chile so was you, my massa," addressing the stranger, " but you was frolick- somer, and mighty bad ! for I nussed you too yes I did ! Well the old woman's a-goin', but the blessed Lord done let her see her massa once agin ! Massa come to take care of his own agin, I spose. Hard times when he ain't here : is you got a little change for the ole woman for to buy sugar and coffee ? Mighty hard times ! well the Lord 'sarve you, Massa Max, and bless you ! and my pretty child done give the old woman something too ! I 'blige to pay that lazy good-for-nothin' Jake, who stays 'long with me here. He's growed so han'some ! Yes he laugh and say ' um ! um !' and then he was soon a-playin' on the carpet. Missus is gone to glory the Lord do so to me also. She never see the pretty chile since he growed so tall ! But he look sorry, mighty sorry," mut tered the old woman, wistfully ; " why he's cryin'." " Come, my child," said the agitated stranger, " too much of this. Aunt Jenny, I have come back for good, and don't fear not being taken care of: I never desert my friends I will come soon again very soon. See that all is closed after us." And taking the weeping young man by the arm, the stranger led him from the house, himself silent and gloomy. The effect of this last scene upon the young man had shocked him profoundly he began to have something more than vague presentiments of evil. On the next morning the stranger sallied forth at an 258 LEATHKK AND SILK. early hour, intent on procuring two horses. These ho found without difficulty, no further off than the stables of tho Globe itself: and they were soon ready for tho journey, which the stranger seemed to have determined on for himself and his younger companion. The young man came out, pale and worn with weeping, and slowly mounted. The stranger threw upon him his habitual look, piercing but tender, and then with one vigorous movement got into his saddle. "My baggage and my son's," he said to the landlord, " can remain I suppose, until I send for it. My name is upon it Doctor Maximilian Courtlandt." And with these words the stranger set forward toward the west in the bright sunlight, followed by his son. CHAPTER IV. THE LOCK, AND WHO AWAITED THE TRAVELERS THERE. THE horses of the travelers were fine and spirited, and they made such good speed that a little after noon, the north mountain having been crossed some time before, they came in sight of " The Lock" so father Von Horn, now gathered to his fathers, had named his mountain farm, because the Sleepy Creek and Third Hill mountain " locked" there. The travelers ascended the steep road, and soon drew up before the door of the mansion. It was one of those broad, wandering, stone-built houses which the original German population of the region scattered throughout the Virginia valley ; wholly for use, somewhat for defense against Indians, scarcely in any particular constructed with an eye to ornament. The porch in front was large, the windows small and well secured by heavy oaken shutters, and those of the second floor looked out immediately from beneath the eaves. A servant ran to take their horses, overwhelmed, it seemed, with joy to see his master come back to the old house, and at the door Doctor Courtlandt was received by no less a personage than Mrs. Courtlandt, the severe, the stately " Aunt Courtlandt" of his youth. The gray-haired old lady received her nephew with extreme delight, clasp ing him in her arms and affectionately kissing him with a thousand inquiries after his health and spirits which latter subject elderly ladies usually place much stress upon then she turned and welcomed the young man with equal pleasure and affection. Doctor Courtlandt and his son had been absent for a 260 LEATHER AND SILK. long time ; in fact they had left Virginia soon after Mrs. Nina Courtlandt's death, which had taken place s, me years before. The chief reason for this expatriation on the part of Doctor Courtlandt and his son, will appear in the course of our narrative. The old lady had willingly acceded to her nephew's desire that she should keep his house from rusting in his absence ; and the doctor now felt that he had gained more than he had expected Long tossed about among strangers unknowing and un- sympathizing the affectionate welcome of his auut was 7ery pleasant to him. True, that stout heart was suffi cient in all things for itself, but this was far more pleas ant than the respectful greeting of the servants only. The old lady, having cried over Max, and given him several very affectionate kisses and embraces which he re turned as affectionately, busied herself about their dinner " I got your letter from New York, nephew," she said, " saying that you had returned, but I did not expect you so soon." " And have you not been troubled very much, aunt, with my affairs ? I thank you a thousand times." " They have troubled me somewhat, especially that overseer you left. He almost insisted upon following his own crop system instead of mine ; now you know 1 have always been a capital farmer, and I would not yield. The consequence has been one-fourth more in the crop." The doctor laughed. " I never should have stood out half an hour against you," he said. " Your dinner will soon be ready." " Are you hungry, Max ?" asked the doctor, " I think you look better after your ride." " I do feel better, sir," the young man said, sadly. Mrs. Courtlandt, standing behind him, shook her head at the doctor ; who sighed wearily. Then he roused fcimsolf and assuming a gay tone, said : LEATHER AND SILK. 261 " Oh, you'll ae ae strong as an ox here in the mount ains, soon, my boy : what news, aunt ? you wrote me very lately that Barry and all were well. Hew singular for Barry to turn minister. Does he preach regularly ?" " Yes ; and they are all well. Alice and Caroline are much improved ; they are thought very pretty." " Why, they were children when we went to Europe." " But you have been gone a long time a very long time, nephew." " And is hunter John well ?" " Not so well ; he is very old, you know. We are all getting old passing away." " Why, my dear aunt, you are younger than you were ten years ago. Ts she not, Max ? Come, pay a compliment." Max smiled. "You know I always thought aunt was young-look ing, sir," he said. "Well done, ma foil aunt, you will find my boy very much improved an excellent scholar and an elegant cavalier. It will be a pleasure to have him about you." " Max and myself were always great friends," said Mrs. Courtlandt, " and now dinner is ready." " I confess I am hungry," said Doctor Courtlandt ; " come, Max." Max took scarcely any thing ; the consequence was, the doctor, spite of his manful declaration of hunger, could swallow nothing. It was plain that all this gay banter ing was a mask which concealed some painful emotion. They rose from the table and went out upon the porch, where the pleasant October sun made the red forest blaze. Far off, between the two mountains, stretched Meadow Branch Valley, dotted now by more than one white dwelling, from whose distant chimney light smoke wreaths curled upward against the thick foliage. On Mis slope of the eastern mountain, " Hunter John's," cottage was plainly visible. 163 I.KATIIKR AM) SII.K. "How!" cried the doctor, taking a seat in one of the wicker chairs upon the portico, " is not there some change down there, aunt?" " What, nephew ?" " In hunter John's house." ;< It is newly plastered." " Possible ?" " I thinfc it an improvement." " Oh, certainly ; but he is such an old-fashioned character, such a stickler too, for things of the olden time." " True ; he is. You must ask him, however, why he has altered his house. You know, Mrs. Myers died some years ago." " Yes, yes ; just after I went away. You mentioned it. And Barry and dear Sally live with the old man." " He is very proud of having a real minister in the house." " Oh, I must go at once and see them ! I can not rest. Come, Max, my boy ; again en route" The young man rose listlessly. At the same moment, the hoof-strokes of a galloping horse were heard, and a negro mounted on a powerful black horse, from whose back it seemed no time had been permitted him to remove the wagon harness, approached the Lock at full speed. The main road over the mount ain led by the door. " Ho ! my friend," cried the doctor, " why all thin hurry, pray ?" " Miss'is sick, sir." " Who is your mistress T " Miss Emberton, sir." " What ! at the Glades " " Yes, sir I must go on into town for the doctor." " I am a doctor. Is your mistress very sick ?" "Mortal sick, sir." LEATHER AND SILK. 263 " I will then go myself," said Doctor Courtiandt, " bu< go on : do not turn back on that account. Go !" The negro again pressed his horse into a gallop, and went down the steep road at full speed. " This interferes with our ride, Max," said Doctor Courtiandt : and raising his voice, " my horse !" he said. A horse, fresh and spirited, was soon led to the door, and Doctor Courtiandt, having rapidly but quietiy rilled his valise with medicines, mounted and rode roundly in the direction from which the servant had made his ap pearance. He descended the western slope of the Sleepy Creek Mountain, and in an hour of rapid riding arrived at the Grlades, whence he was destined to find not only a patient but an old friend. This was Josephine Emberton. CHAPTER V. THE DOCTOR PAYS A PROFESSIONAL VISIT TO AN OLD AC QUAINTANCE. DOCTOR COURTLANDT scarcely threw a glance on the quiet, silent mansion, embowered in the many-colored foli age of the bright fall. Yet that mansion had in its very outward appearance and surroundings, much to indicate to the quick, traveled eye of such a man as Doctor Courtlandt, the character of its occupant. There was a quiet elegance in every detail, in the neatly arranged yard with its plats of autumn flowers the marigold and late primrose and wild-growing golden rod and aster in the tasteful garden with its gravel walks, in the white railing, the vine-woven shutters, and plain wicker benches on the portico. It was plain that this house was inhabited by a woman or a man of extraordinary elegance and refinement The doctor rapidly approached the door, and let the large bronze knocker fall upon the plate. A servant came to the door. 11 Miss Emberton," said Doctor Courtlandt briefly, and passing as he spoke into the drawing-room. " She's sick, sir : she can't see any body." " Go and tell her that Doctor Courtlandt has come to see her. I know your mistress is sick. Come, hasten !" The servant a neatly dressed girl went out and al most immediately returned, and said that her mistress would see Doctor Courtlandt. The doctor entered the sick chamber, and approached his patient. Josephine Emberton scarcely resembled in any par fcicular, the merry yr ung girl we have seen in her school LEATHEB AND SILK. 265 days at Mrs. Courtlandt's. She was now raore gentle, more quiet, more feminine in all things, and her cheeka had lost much of that healthful color which then ran riot in them. True, this was no more than one might have expected in a sick person, it may be said ; hut the patient never wholly loses the characteristics of the same individ ual when in health, and it was very plain that the gentle, subdued woman who now lay wan and pale, but still beautiful, before the physician, was not the little terma gant we have met with in her girlhood, full of mischief and a very Beatrice with her tongue. The messenger whom Doctor Courtlandt had stopped riding post haste, had somewhat exaggerated his mis tress's sickness. It was not at all critical, but amply sufficient to need the services of a physician. Doctor Courtlandt very soon made his diagnosis of the malady, and told Miss Emberton that she would be well in three days. She smiled faintly. " You seem to be very confident, doctor. I confess I was very much frightened," she said, " but I was alwaya a coward on the sick bed ; it is my great weakness. When did you return, however ? I had not heard of it." " To-day, madam," said Doctor Courtlandt, " and I had scarcely seen one of my friends when I heard of your indisposition." " You were very kind " " To oome and prescribe ?" "Yes." Th doctor shrugged his shoulders. a It j plain you do not comprehend our code, madam," hf! replied. " To meet a servant galloping at full speed for medical assistance to be told that a patient is lying dangerously ill after this for a physician to shake his head and say, * 'Tis none of my business, but Dr. BlaakV it would be infamous." n 166 I.K \THKR AXD SILK. " Jane frightened Cato very much. I suppose ; she is a good girl, and said what she thought, no doubt." " It would have been unpardonable in me to consult my convenience at any time," said Doctor Courtlandt, "if you really needed me for any matter however slight. We have been friends a long time. But you had better re main quiet, madam. We may interchange our ideas very well next week. Where is your brother? Ke should not leave you." " He went to Bath last week. I have sent for him to return, as I am alone here since my father's death, you know." " Yes, madam, I was informed of it ; your brother will come back, then ?" " Yes ; Robert loves me very much ; and though he is a great beau with the ladies he is nineteen, nearly twenty he will hurry back, I know." " Well ; I will now take my leave. Should you feel nervous symptoms, take two spoonfuls of this but only until your physician comes. It will be for him then to prescribe different from myself, should it please him." And bowing, Doctor Courtlandt left the room, promis ing to return on the next day. He mounted his horse, and slowly took his way back to the Lock, admiring the beautiful sunset and the splen did autumn woods, which, like an army with a thousand glittering spear points and many-colored banners, proudly reared aloft, stood waiting for the wind's loud trumpet- blast the signal for dire conflict with old winter. Every where the leaves had warped and reddened, and a few, become deep brown now, whirled from time to time from the boughs to the thick carpet underneath the trees. The whole landscape was softened, and much beautified by the light haze of autumn drooping like a rosy cloud above the mountains, as above the lowland ; and Doctor Conrt- lam It gazed upon the fair scene with pensive admiration LEATHER AND SILK. 867 Then his thoughts, for a moment thrown oack on his past, returned to the patient he had just left. "Ah," he murmured, "what a wondrous thing is life ! how full of mysteries the simplest scene the very light est matter ! Men take no heed of the philosophic side ot life, lost as they are in a thousand absorbing pursuits of love and glory, and mere money, very often moreover custom has staled all for them, but not for me ? Yet I may well doubt if this penetrating eye I arrogate to my self is a blessing any thing to felicitate myself upon ! Why should I curl my lip and say, '. I am Sir Oracle' I am a profouqd thinker you are only men ? The lover sighs and follows beauty like her shadow, and may well be said to dream, since he is absorbed by his passion, and lives in another world, above the earth a grand empyrean full of joy and splendor. He lives his life, though he is a thousand times undone ; though harshness, coldness, and contempt remind him feelingly how much sad truth those words, the ' pangs of despised love' contain ! He lives his life, rapt for a time above the ground, in the blue, joyful air of the mid-heaven and though he falls, and his poor heart is dashed to death upon the rocks of hate still he has all that glorious happy past ! His heart for a time has beat far faster than his race's he has little to complain of there is in his woeful plight but little food for philosophic scorn. " And he too who rules, and breasts the flood of enmi ty and eternal opposition in the high places of this world, has little to complain of if the dark day comes, and he is huiled from the full sunlight to oblivion. He has lived hi life ; as he who toils for wealth, and satisfies his orav- in^s, and dies destitute after a long splendid glittering ca reer, has also in truth lived. *' They all have been absorbed in toil of the brain or tr- heart, and have not slept a moment like the dull weed f. k ich hugs itself at ease and slowly rots contented, care- 268 LEATHER AND SILK. less. Why then should I despise these men, an \ arrogata to myself so much more lofty a philosophy, a brain so much more free from mist and passion? / boast a cool, calculating brain seeing through all things, love and ambition and all human passions, unmoved by any of them !" The Doctor's head fell mournfully on his breast; his memories had overwhelmed him for the moment. " /," he murmured, " who have loved so much, and though I put on dissimulation like a mask so profoundly always ! / jest at love, when so many dear dead ones have wrung tears from my heart long yearg, until I thought the very fountains of my soul were dry ! Grod forgive me, I am weaker and more arrogant than a petted and be- praised child, who knowing nothing, thinks he has ex- hausted all human erudition ! / laugh at men for yielding to their passions with my thirst for love and glory though now my heart is growing very cold ; yes, very, very cold ! " Well, this perhaps explains my musings upon the mysteries of life. The heart of the poor son was chilled by the unearthly visitor, before he gave up all the joys of youth, and love, and station, to moralize upon the skull of the dead jester ! Life was the mystery only after he had seen the ghost ; his heart was cold then reason took her throne ; though but a poor brainsick reason." The Doctor went on slowly, gazing listlessly at the grand landscape. " Now who could have imagined that this beautiful and well-proportioned nature would so change though I am, perhaps, wrong in thinking that the change is for the worse. Who could recognize in the gentle, somewhat apathetic woman lying yonder calmly and thoughtfully, the sparkling child I danced with in my boyhood, jested with, and so often encountered in wit-combats, when she always drove me from the field ! Who would imagine that thu glittering star which sparkled so brightly above LEATHER AND SILK. 869 my boyhood long ago, could have so changed ! If I were a poet," the Doctor mused with a sad smile, " I might say she shines upon the front of the fair past, like a bright jewel on a lady's brow ! What fire, what splendor, what vivacity and wit ! And now it is most melancholy what an apathetic lip and eye and voice; so calm, so spiritless, so changed in every thing. " But all things change a profound, but not an orig inal remark. All these leaves so gayly dancing in the wind will soon be gone they had their youth and ripe ness ; now they grow old and change. Poor human na ture it is melancholy ! most melancholy ! But one word concludes and answers all," the Doctor murmured, " the word which has escaped with irresistible emphasis from the lips of mightest conquerors, from the hearts of the most subtle casuists when their last hour tolled in their dull, hardened ears ; the word which the poor dying boaster and swash-buckler, overcome like his loftier brothers, uttered, when dying he ' babbled of green fields.' One word elucidates the mystery, fixes the bourne of thought that word ia God V " CHAPTER VI. THE DOCTOR SUGGESTS TO MAX AN OFFICIAL VISIT TO RICH MOND. ON the next morning Doctor Courtlandt descended to breakfast buoyant and smiling, and gayly rubbing his hands. He bade Mrs. Courtlandt and Max, who were already down, a hearty and cheerful good-morrow. " Why, Max !" he said, " you already show the mount ain air. Ah ! 'tis almost indispensable to one who has drawn it in with his first breath been 'brought up to it,' as the phrase goes. The lowlands yonder don't get the finest quality, as the merchants say. That is for us the merry mountaineers. Come, excellent Mrs. Court landt, some breakfast, if you please !" Max received his father's congratulations on his good looks with a listless smile, but replied, that he thought he was quite well. " You are somewhat delicate, my boy," Doctor Court landt cheerfully said, " but that is owing to our annoying sea voyage. You can not imagine what horrible weather we had, aunt," he continued, turning to Mrs. Courtlandt who was superintending the arrangement of the break fast table, " and as you never were at sea, I believe, you can not form any idea of that most disagreeable rolling of the vessel. Why, our cabin was half the time standing on its head nearly literally, for the vessel was on her beam-ends, and it was hard to say which was the floor, which the oeiling. See this pearl colored coat I have on : it was the pride of a Parisian tailor La Fere, rue Gre noble, you recollect, Max well, the water we shipped gave it these pleasantly variegated tints : see on the shoulder." LEATHER AND SILK. 27* " Had you a storm ?" " Yes, yes, my dear aunt ; and Max stood it like a hero a real hero delicate as he is. I believe his heroio bearing, though, was somewhat owing to the fact that he had to keep up the spirits of a nice young lady ho met with on board." Max smiled sadly. " He was a great beau on board, aunt," the Doctor con tinued, " but I see breakfast is ready ; let us sit down come, my boy !" ""What a fine day it is," said Mrs. Courtlandt, ''you have not ridden over the farm yet, nephew. But you will have a fine morning for it now." " Man proposes but God disposes," said the Doctor, " I had intended to do so to-day, but must really go and see Barry and the folks over there since they won't come to see me. Besides I must make another visit to Miss Em berton." " Is she dangerously indisposed ?" " Oh, no : very slightly." " An old friend of yours, nephew long ago," said Mrs. Courtlandt. " Yes, yes," said the Doctor, " and I find her much altered. Once she was all vivacity and merriment, you recollect : now she is decidedly tame tamed I suppose is a politer word. Time ! time ! how it changes us all." " It has changed you little." " I am naturally buoyant constitutionally, but I am older, older, aunt ; I begin to feel it." "Very little in temperament, nephew." " Much, much, my dear aunt." "You are as merry as ever.* "All forced, aunt," Doctor Courtlandt replied, sadly smiling, with a covert glance at Max, " but speaking of merriment, I am going to have a dinner do you feel equal to it?" 272 MIA I HI K AND SILK. " A dinner, nephew ?" " Yes ; I must formally announce my return. I have fixed on next Friday, does that suit you." " Hum," said Mrs. Courtlandt, " yes, nephew, certain ly : let me see ; oh ! yes, we can get ready very well by that time." " You shall write the invitations you are much better acquainted than I am. Undertake all that for me, dear aunt ; but I will give you such names as occur to rne Have you any friends, Max, you would like to see? Indicate them." " I don't know that I have, sir," said Max, " I was so young when I went away, and lived so much at home and in town, that " " Well, well ; in future /ou will mix more with the world. A man must not live ' like his grandsire carved in alabaster,' you know. I intend you to study law, be a politician, run for the county go to Richmond ; the family expects much of you, my youngster." Max smiled. " I don't think I could ever make a speech, sir," he answered. " Not make a speech ?" " A political speech." " Why not ? 'Tis the easiest thing in life ! But half-a- dozen ideas are necessary. 'Resolutions of '98 crisis in the affairs of the nation the Proclamation state rights strict construction,' there is your speech made up at once !" " I have no taste for politics, sir." " But still would you not like to go to Richmond that centre of civilization, that paragon of cities ?" " You are laughing, sir." " Did you not like Richmond ?" " Yea, sir it is a pretty place ; but I would rather live here." LEATHER AND SILK. 27* " Here in the backwoods ?" " I like the backwoods better than Paris, sir," said Max, imiling. " Ah ! now I see your objections to Richmond. It is too elegant, too brilliant. You fear its attractions ; but I ought not to laugh at our capital, which is after all a fine place and I have many good friends there. I think you would enjoy yourself much if you represented us in the Legislature there, my boy." '' Why I am not nineteen, sir." " Quite old enough to rule the world but there is time enough for all that. To-day I do not ask you to devote your thoughts to politics but to society. What say you shall we go at once to see the folks at hunter John's?" " Yes, sir certainly." " Do you remember them ?" " Not very well, sir. I was too young." " Not even your nice little cousins, Alice and Caroline?" * Very slightly, sir ; we were all children, and I was ink dress might not be soiled, Caroline with one quick spring took her place behind Doctor Courtlandt, and the party set forward toward the Parsonage. As for Max, he promised to ride over in the afternoon. The day was splendid, as our October days nearly always are, with their brilliant sunlight, invigorating breezes, and variegated trees and grasses. The smal 1 streams ran merrily in the full fair light; the blue sky without a cloud, but shadowed by a tender delicate haze drooped like a magical curtain over the far azure head lands of the green valley sea the Sleepy Creek and Third Hill mountain peaks ; and the whole air seemed to be alive with happiness and joy. " Oh, uncle Max," cried Caroline, " how glad we all nre you have come back again ! But I believe I am more delighted than any one else for you know I always was your pet : wasn't I ?" " By no means not a bit more than Alice, you little rogue not a bit," 286 LKATIIKlt AND SILK. " You will call me ' little.' " "And are you not?" " No." " How, pray ? Are you so very huge, mademoiselle?" " Yes, monsieur. I am seventeen, and at that ago young ladies are not little things." " I suppose then you have already made up your mind to get married." " No, I have not." " Will you be an old maid ?" "Yes." "What will you do?" " Keep house for Alice and Robert Emberton." " Hum !" said the Doctor, " is that all arranged, eh ?" " By no means ; but he is the only beau in the neigh borhood, and Alice is a great deal prettier than I am." " Are you jealous of her ?" " No, I am not but I would be, if it was not for one thing." " What is that, pray ?" " Max's coming." "What has the arrival of Max to do with your jeal ousy ?" " Max shall be my beau." The Doctor sighed and smiled. "That is all very well," he said, "but there is an old proverb, mademoiselle, which is somewhat applicable here." "What is it?" " That it takes two to make a bargain." Caroline laughed. " Oh, Max likes me well enough," she said, " and aa he is a much nicer person than Mr. Robert Emberton I will have him for my cavalier." The Doctor sighed. "Ma* is not very well," he said, ''but you have it in LEATHER AND SILK. 281 your power, Carry dear, to be of very great service to him." " How, uncle Max ?" " By coaxing him out of his reserve and melancholy If Max was happy he would be as stout as a plowman." "Is he unhappy, uncle?" asked Caroline. " Very, my dear Carry ; very unhappy, and this is what afflicts me so much. It would make a new .nan ol me were Max to grow gay and cheerful try now and amuse him." " Indeed I will, dear unc.e," said Caroline, tenderly, " and on your account, for I dearly love you, uncle Max." The doctor took the little hand which clung to his waist and affectionately pressed it. " That is a good girl," he said, " you and Alice too. We are to have a dinner in three or four days, and this, with your society will, I trust, wean Max from his melan choly thoughts. He requires to be interested employed ; if he is idle and has not congenial society he is gloomy We met little such abroad, and I am afraid our long resi dence in Italy was scarcely a benefit to him." " Oh, how I should like to go to Italy," cried Caroline, " what a beautiful country it must be, uncle." " Yes very beautiful." " But it could not be much prettier than our mount ains here. Look how grand they are leaves of all pos sible colors ! and then see how pretty the Parsonage is, coining out from the trees, on the side of the hill. It is the nicest little house in the valley." " Yes ; it is much changed, however. Ah, how fami liar every thing is !" said the Doctor. " Time ! time ! time is a dreadful but very instructive thing, Carry Come, we are at the end of our ride. Your father is out of the carriage ; and Alice what a little fairy she is !" Hunter John Myers, that stalwart mountaineer of old iays, carne out to meet them. He wai no longer stalwart 288 LEATHER AND SILK. but bent down with years those heavy stones which fali. ing slowly one by one upon the shoulders of the strongest bend them to the earth, their resting-place. The old man's head was snow-white, and his eye dimmed. It was many years since it had flashed, as was its wont in the past. His strong stride was now a feeble walk ; his gait had changed like all the rest. A venerable landmark of the past, he stood on the confines of the two eras, like an historical monument separating widely different lands. He was still clad in his old hunting shirt which had seen so much service in the woods, now waning before his eyes ; his head was still crowned with its regal otter skin. At his feet a number of veteran deer hounds crouched, whose days of activity and strength, like his own, were slowly dropping into past days. Never would they tear the throat of the deer brought to bay any more ; never again hear the hunter's horn, unless their old worn out master, in melancholy jest, should take it from its nail, and startle their old ears as they lay dreaming in the sunshine. The hunting days of the old man were over ; he was on the verge of the grave painfully dragging along his fee ble limbs which he supported with a knotty stick. But for all this his spirits had not left him. He was Mill cheerful and hopeful ; and came to meet his visitors now with hearty pleasure in his old face. " Welcome, Doctor," he said, " my old eyes are blessed to see you back safe and sound once more. I'd most nigh given you up 'way off in foreign parts ; but here you are back again. Back strong and hearty, not like me, old and weak and poorly. Welcome welcome." "You are not so bad as you say, my good old friend," replied the Doctor, clasping the honest hand with kindly warmth, " I bless heaven yon are so well." " I am not long for this world," said the old man, " soon the mortal part of the man who went by the name o' Hunt* LEATHER AND 6ILE. 28 er John Myers on this earth, will be in the dust; lut oray God his soul will return to that all-wise and loving Creator who has been so good to him, through a long nappy life." "Pray Grod!" returned the Doctor, holding down his head, and much affected by the old man's changed and feeble voice. " That's all I ask," said the hunter, looking thought fully out on the beautiful landscape, " I have iived my life, and it was not so easy and well-doin' in the old Inj^n times ; but I never could complain of any thing, and I've had more 'an my deserts. I'm most nigh gone away now to the other country ; when the Lord calls me, I hope I will be ready." Then leading the way, they entered the house. Mrs. Sally Courtlandt received them the same tender, earnest loving face of old times the same soft voice which had filled the long past years, for many there, with music. She was little changed ; the girl had become a woman that was all. She was happy in possessing so good and tender a husband, in being able to minister to the wants of the old man in having dutiful and affectionate chil dren. Those blessings which had followed the "darling" of the valley long ago into the new land of matrimony, had not been uttered in vain, it seemed. The house inside was little changed, but some additions had been made, and some improvements introduced Sally's little chamber was now that of the sisters. " The house has been plastered," said hunter John, " and they've put up a porch in front none of my doings, Doctor, you may be sure. I wanted them, though, to beau tify the place when my son was minister. They most nigh refused, but had it done ; so you see it ain't my doin' but they did it because 1 wanted 'em to." " It's much nicer, I think, grandfather," said Alice sit ting down by him and affectionately resting her head on 190 LEATFTKR A NO STT.K. his shoulder, " the vines too improve it in front, yon know." The old man, with an expression of great affection on his placid features, patted the little hand which clasped his own. "Yes, yes, Alice darling," he said, "the new things are prettier than the old the young fairer than the aged. But what is Oscar growing about?" The old stag hound rose to his feet and looked toward the door, evidently moved to this unusual demG/istre.ion by the approach of some visitor. At the same moment the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard, and mingled with this measured sound a young man's voice humming a merry song. " Who is that ?" asked Doctor Courtlandt, "some visit- or, Carry ?" " Not mine !" said Caroline indifferently. " But who is it ? he has dismounted apparently." " It is Robert Emberton," said Alice, rising from her teat, " you know, the brother of Miss Josephine, uncle." At the same moment the young man entered the room, bowing to the company. \ CHAPTER X. MR. RCBERT EMBERTON : THE RISING GENERATION. IF hunter John Myers, with his gray hair, old fashioned dress, and rude plain dialect, was a type of the venerable and moving past, the young man who now entered, grace ful, smiling, ready in speech, and clad in the very latest fashion, presented a tolerably accurate specimen of the " new men" and the changed world which had taken the place of the old rugged times gone by. Robert Emberton was a handsome young man of nine teen, with bright eyes, erect carriage, and graceful person. There was little of the boy about him, in feature, figure, or manner. He was perfectly easy and self-possessed ; carried his head, as the phrase goes, elegantly ; and seemed to look upon society and human existence as a rather amusing comedy... which every one had tacitly consented to act as well as possible for the moment with a perfect understanding, however, that it was all for amusement and had no particle of reality at bottom. He was ele gantly dressed, as we have said, and in the very latest fashion. From his fingers dangled a light whalebone cane with a deer's foot at its top, and in the other hand he carried easily a well smoothed beaver hat. The young man's easy negligence of manner somewhat changed when he perceived Doctor Courtlandt's piercing eye fixed upon him, and he bowed to that gentleman pro foundly. Certainly he had not paid the same compliment to any other person for a long time, and this unusual cir cumstance may be accounted for, on the ground that Mr. Robert Emberton had n.ever yet met with so distinguished a man in countenance and manner, as the individual who *92 LEATHER AND SIT.K. now stood before him with such a noble face such brilliant eyes full of intelligence and mental power such a forehead where thought sat enthroned in quiet majesty. But perhaps the young man's unusual respect wars more still to be attributed to the accounts he had heard of Doctor Courtlandt from his sister more than all, possibly, to the long travel of his new acquaintance in distant lands ; for Mr. Robert Emberton had but one ambition, which uinli- tion was to visit that centre of civilization Paris He fancied that the very coat the silent and grave gentleman who stood there wore, was redolent of Parisian elegance. So Mr. Emberton, with much less easy negligence than was his custom, replied to the courteous words vouchsafed him by the Doctor. The Doctor was pleased, he said, to make Mr. Ember- ton's acquaintance since he had had that pleasure when Mr. Emberton was exceedingly young; was glad to see him now, on his return, so much improved. The young man had intended on that morning he said, to call on the Doctor, both because he was sure he should have a very pleasant visit, and because his sister had commissioned him to say that she was now very nearly quite well. " Which I hope," the Doctor said, " is not to forbid my carrying out my promise to call on her to-day ?" " Oh, no, sir," the young man said, " on the contrary, she desired me to say that she would be much pleased to see you, as your visit was very short when you called yesterday." " I will then go this morning as I had intended, though now Miss Emberton will have only an ordinary visitor in place of a professional one." Having settled this matte/ so satisfactorily, the Doctor left the young man to pay his addresses to the ladies, which he however seemed in no haste to do; perhaps because he had seen a great deal of them, and very little LEATHER AND SILK. 29? of the Doctor, whom he had heard so much of. His society was. however, by no means so attractive as to make Doc tor Courtlandt choose it in preference to that of his old friends and his brother ; and so Mr. Robert Emberton was obliged to content himself with the ordinary conver sation of the young ladies. They strolled out on the hill side, followed negligently by their cavalier, who dangled his cane and yawned. " Do you feel unwell to-day ?" said Caroline, turning her head carelessly over her shoulder, and fixing her bright eyes satirically upon him. " Unwell ?" yawned the gentleman, somewhat sur prised. " Why, not at all ; why did you ask ?" " I thought from your manner that you were not well." " My manner ; what is peculiar in that, Miss Caroline?" " It is so listless ; one would think you were 'bored' to death, as you are fond of saying." " The fact is, I am bored ; I was, I mean, before I had the delight of gazing on your fair countenance. But I was not conscious that my ennui displayed itself so un mistakably." " It does." "In my conversation, eh? That is dull, yon mean? My ennui is betrayed there ?" " In every thing." " Ah, there it is ! The young ladies of the present day are becoming the most extraordinary creatures. You can not yawn or complain of any thing in the whole uni verse, but, by Jove ! excuse me, fairest Miss Caroline they are offended That is not so important, however, for ladies soon recover from their i\'i humor; but it really is annoying to a man of sense, that he is expected on all occasions to be in raptures, to smile, and simper, and exhaust the vocabulary of compliments and pretty speschts. I can't ; it bores me." " Are you ever any thing but ' boied,' sir ?" asked Caroline, 194 I.KATIIHU AND SII.K. "Very seldom any thing else I have just ooiue frou Bath, up there, you know. You've heard of Bath, I sup pose." " Heard of Bath, Mr. Emberton !" said Alice, quietly " why it is just over the mountain, and is the most fash ionable watering-place in the valley." " Well, I was about to say when you interrupted me, Miss Alice," the young man replied negligently, "that 1 have been bored to death there lately." " By what, pray ?" said Alice, smiling. " By every thing ; and the dreadful part of it was, that I could not escape it." "You were not obliged to talk to the ladies, were you?" " Oh, I did nothing of the sort. The very evening If arrived, an event happened to me which stopped all that." " What event ?" "A young lady very nearly made a declaration to me; it was shocking though it ts Leap Year." " I declare you are too bad !" said Alice, laughing, "and if you were not so affected and meant half you say, I would" "Cut me?" " Yes, sir, and Carry too ; I know she would." "Without hesitation," said Caroline, pouting. This expression upon Caroline's face seemed rather to amuse Mr. Emberton. " That would be dreadful," he said carelessly, " but I was going on with my account of the kingdom of boredom np there or down there, as you please. It was not the female society shocking phrase that, but one must use it, it is so fashionable not the ladies who bored me. One can always decline being victimized by them, and I did decline, after waltzing to that dreadful music for one whole evening; but I could not escape the rest." "What else wearied Mr. Emberton? I hate the word bored t " said Caroline, " and beg you will not use it again." LEATHER AND SILK. 295 " "With pleasure. My tribulation arose then from thfi awful dressing of the company. Never have I seen any thing so horrible as the taste of those young ladies and gentlemen ; it was enough to give one a chill. I became depressed, I was overcome I was in doubt whether I was present at a social meeting of the South Sea Island ers, or the inhabitants of Nova Zembla. I camo away immediately and shall not return." " You came because your sister sent for you, di^ you not?" asked Alice, laughing. " Yes ; but I was coming without her request. I saw no new faces, no pretty girls all passees, regular old stagers. By-the-by, speaking of new faces, you have a cousin who has just arrived have you not, my dear Miss Alice ?" " Yes ; cousin Max." " Nice fellow ?" " Very nice, I suppose ; he is Caroline's beau, not mine," said Alice, laughing and blushing slightly. " Handsome ?" continued Mr. Emberton. " Exceedingly." " Dress well ?" " I did not observe." " Is he comme il faut, I mean?" " At least he is just from Paris." " Then he dresses well ; and as he dresses well, is ex ceedingly handsome, a very nice fellow, and above all your cousin," said Mr. Emberton, summingup, " I have no doubt you will fall in love with him at once, Miss Caroline." " I believe I shall," the young girl replied. This answer made the gentleman, strange to say, some what moody ; he had too high an opinion of persons who >iad been to Paris to despise them. " He is an admirer of yours, I believe ?" asked M Emberton, with affected nonchalance. " Oh, indeed he is," said Alice, with some constraint, " he and Carry are excellent friends already." " Keep a little corner for me in vour heart, Miss Carry.* We LEATHER AND SII.K. the young gentleman said, resuming his drawl, " iven if I should be called on to dance at your wedding." Caroline made no reply. " It is not arranged entirely yet, is it ?" he asked. " No, sir ! it is not !" " Why, Miss Caroline I really feel some trepidation you will not eat me, will you ?" " No, sir ; you are not to my taste." " Not to your taste ! Good ! That reminds ae of a friend of mine down at Bath. After half an hour's devo tion to the ice cream, he said to me pathetically, ' I've eaten so much of this thing that I've got through; but it's not to my taste.' Now to apply my anecdote. You ean not eat me, my dear Miss Caroline, but you can im> bibe my discourse. I hope under these circumstances you have not imbibed so much of it on the present occa sion that you wish you had got through with it." " I am never guilty of impoliteness, sir," said Caroline, half offended, half ready to burst out laughing at this ridiculous reply. "And I am sure," the young man said with a courtly bow, "/would not have alluded to your engagement with your cousin, had I imagined such an illusion would be thought ' impolite.' " " I am not engaged." A well satisfied smile lit up Mr. Robert Emberton's face at these negligent words, and the whole party hav ing once more recovered their good humor, continued the jesting conversation, until after making the circuit of the hill, they returned to the Parsonage. The Doctor was mounting his horse ; the young man. hastened up. " Will you permit me to accompany you, sir," he ar ked, very deferentially. " I will be very glad to have your company, sir," the Doctor replied ; and taking leave of the family, they set forward toward the " Glades.*' - T*. CHAPTER XL AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. AFTER a pleasant ride of two hours they arrived at th Grlades, where the young man's multitudinous questions addressed to the Doctor, for a moment ceased to stun that gentleman's ears. At the gate stood a large lean horse champing his bit, and this caused Mr. Robert Emberton to surmise that "his dancing-master had come to give him a lesson." The Doctor smiled ; for this word " dancing-master," threw him back to former days when the art of dancing was so excellently represented in Martinsburg, by that worthy offshoot of the days of the Grand Monarque Monsieur Pantoufle Xaupi. But what was his astonish ment on entering the mansion to see approach him, no less a personage than that very Monsieur Pantoufle, twenty-five years older, and needing now no white powder on his thin elegantly dressed hair ; but still supple, still bowing, ambling, smiling, still full of the thousand en gaging amenities of look and manner which characterized him in those long past days, to which the Doctor's thoughts had just flown back. Monsieur Pantoufle ran to the Doctor and embraced him enthusiastically. ' My dear friend !" cried the dancing-master, " is it jurHble I now see you in person, so well, so excellent- looking ! Is it possible I see my much cherished friend Monsieur Max !" " In person ;" said the Doctor, smiling and cordially eturning the pressure of the old man's hand, "I am H* MS LEATHER AND SILK. as much surprised as yourself, Monsieur Pantoufle but delighted to see you !" " Ah, you charm me !" " You are as gay as ever ?" " Not so gay ;" said the old dancing-master, shaking nis head, "age come on very fast ; je suis veillard, Mon sieur Max" " Mais vous etes bien aise ?" " Non, mon cher. I grow old. The times pass it is long since I fence, I dance, I play upon the harpsichord, the violin, as I used to in the old time." " You look very well and almost as young as ever," replied the Doctor. The old man shook his head. "I have but the spirits," he said, "the spirits never leave me." That is much." " Yes, yes very much. I often tell my young friend here, Monsieur Robert, to keep up the spirits; always keep up the spirits." " He needs it little, I think ; but really I am delighted to see you," said the kind hearted Doctor, " you recall to me a great many pleasant reminiscences of the past, though some are unpleasant, too. You, recollect that I bought your coat, eh ?" * My grand monarque coat !" said the old man, shrug ging his shoulders, and laughing. " Yes, the Louis XIV." " I nevare can get such now," said Monsieur Pantou/le " The present mode is abominable." " I am just from Paris." " From Paris; est il possible?" " Direct." "My friends send me any message? But I have nc friends now," added the old man shaking his head, " they all pass away, they all go like the autumn leaf, in the wind ; they send me any message, eh ?" T/EATTTTR AtfD STT/K. 299 " I was there but a short time and made very few ac quaintances." " You meet the Due de Montmorenci ?" " No your friend ?" " My cousin, my blood cousin : it is an homme ff esprit f But he has forgot the poor dancing-master sans doute" " Well, at least I have not ; for I retain too pleasant an impression of you, my dear Monsieur Pantoufle ; and I wish sincerely that you may never have a day of trouble or ill health. " I have had much ; but the spirits have not leave me. T come, Monsieur Robert," he added, turning to the young man, " to give you your dancing lesson ; I was grieve to hear of Mademoiselle's sickness, and was going back to Bath, but she send me word she would come see me I must wait ; a la bonne heure. She is here." Miss Josephine Emberton entered, still pale and look ing feeble, but evidently not otherwise unwell. She greeted the Doctor with manifest pleasure, and expressed her great satisfaction at seeing him back again, very gracefully. " I scarcely exchanged three words with you yester day," she said, " and now, Doctor, you must give me leave to make rny speech out, you know. It really looks like old times to see you and Monsieur Pantoufle face to face ; it reminds me of the happy days of my girlhood in Martinsburg, when 1 was so young and merry." " Ah," said Monsieur Pantoufle, with a very engaging bow, " you jest Mademoiselle: you are very young not twenty years, I think, indeed." " You are very gallant, Monsieur Pantoufle," Miss Emberton replied, languidly, but smiling kindly on the old man, " and I always know what to expect from you when I make any allusion to my age." " Permit me, madam, also to reiterate Monsieur Pan- toufle's compliment," said Doctor Courtlandt, " I find you changed, it is true, from the merry school-girl you wer 300 LEATHER AND SILK. formerly, when a very pert and impudent boy used li come and visit you at his aunt's: he also is changed but like yourself, Q-od be thanked, still retains his love of old friends and holds in hia heart, as a sacred treasure, the recollections of those times you allude to." " They are very far off, Doctor," said Miss Emberton, with a smile and a sigh. " But very vivid to me, madam," replied the Doctor. *' they were happy times very happy. The memory of them even now when long years have gone by, each touching my forehead with a wrinkle, my hair with a snow flake, even now my recollections when they go back to the times we speak of, are full of pleasant regret." " Is regret ever pleasant, Doctor ?" " Often very often." " How is that ?" "It is very simple. We naturally regret all that splendor and joy which has flown away ; the present is not equal to the bright past in any thing ; from our pro clivity to love the ' good old times,' whether those times were good or not. That is human ; therefore we ever sigh for them back again. But with the regret is mingled the consciousness of having once been happy grand and most affecting recollection ! and so the regret is often swallowed up in joyful satisfaction." " CTcst vrai!" said Monsieur Pantoufle, wisely and thoughtfully shaking his head. The lady smiled. " Well, I confess there is very often some such feeling in my own mind," she said, " but I am still very child-like in my character though I am becoming an old woman which probably accounts for it." " Child-like, madam ? 1 find you paying yourself a very high compliment." " How so ?" " The child character is my beau ideal the most per fect" LEATHER AND SILK. 301 " 'Tis true, 'tis true," said Monsieur Pantoufle, mourn fully shaking his head ; " helas /" " Why, Doctor ?" asked Miss Emberton. " Because it is the purest. Carping men may exhaust their rhetoric in scoffing at the idea, but my experience tells me that the child-mind, unfettered as it is with con ventionality and custom, unobscured and unaffected by worldly fallacy, that this first virgin tablet takes truer as well as more beautiful impressions than the adult mind. Thus I have ever loved children." " There is much truth in what you say, Doctor ; I think I should like to possess some enchanter's wand for a mo ment. I would transport myself back to Mrs. Court- landt's in Martinsburg, and for a time live again in the midst of my child-friends there as I used to. But they have grown up, married, and I believe quite forgotten me; the world is real, not enchanted." " Alas," said the Doctor, " no truer word could ba spoken. But the other day I visited that very house collecting my memories, you will understand, madam," said the Doctor, smiling. "The old school?" * Yes ; and I stood in the room just where I so often stood in the old days listening to the merry laughter of the girls. I thought I heard it again ringing joyfully through the passages and out under the broad garden trees ! I was mistaken ; it was all gone, and the place only made me melancholy." " So you came away sighing, Doctor, did you ?" asked Miss Emberton, with a languid smile. " No, no. For one memory rescued me from thia prison house of tears," said Doctor Courtlandt, laughing. " What memory ?" " Do you recall the occasion of Mrs. 's exhibition, or examination, rather ?" Perfectly." 302 LEATHER AND SILK. "When I played Romeo you recollect, madam?" Yes yes !" " Well I recollected, as I stood there in the old room, that foolish act of mine the note I gave you." The doctor and the lady both laughed. " When we were dancing the minuet ?" she said, " oh yes, I recollect perfectly." " So now, madam ; there is one of those plea < *ant resrreta I spoke of." " True it is such." "I have my Romeo coat still," said the Doctor. " What a curiosity !" " A curiosity indeed ; and how singular that Monsieur Pantoufle should be here now so long after, just as we are speaking of those times. That was his coat, my dear madam." " Oh, I recollect ; you seem to have forgotten the ' sub scription' you proposed !" The Doctor laughed heartily ; and after some more pleasant conversation arose to take his leave. *' I hope I shall havo the pleasure of seeing your sister and yourself at the Lock ti;>on Friday," he said to the young man, "some friends come to dw*-with me." " With great pleasure, Doctor, should I be well enough. Call again when you find it convenient : we should not neglect old friends." Twenty years before the Doctor would have made his departure glitter with a speech replete with gallantry ; but time had affected him equally with Monsieur Pan toufle. He therefore, simply bowed, and requesting Mon sieur Pantoufle to accompany the party, wrapped his sur tout around him, and returned homeward, thinking of Max. CHAPTER XII. HOW THE WORLD WAGS. THE day for tl.e dinner came, and Doctor Courtlandt stood at the door of his open, hospitable mansion, wel coming every one, as the vehicles of every description, from the large family coach to the light one-seated cur ricle, deposited their freights before the door. The large carriages, roomy and luxuriously swung upon low-bend ing springs, were affected by the elderly ladies and those old " squires," to use the rustic designation, whose figures for long years nursed into corpulence and rotundity by generous viands and an ample modicum of sherry daily, would not consent to be incarcerated in narrower and less spacious vehicles. But the young gentlemen and ladies of the neighborhood, whose graces on the contrary courted observation, made their appearance on fine and spirited horses. The Doctor was " all things to all men ;" as perfectly agreeable with his ready jests to the young damsels, as he was with his cordial, neighborly bearing to the elderly ladies and gentlemen. For a time nothing was distin guishable but the incessant clatter of hoofs, and rattle of wheels, mingled with the hum of voices then the " ar rivals were complete" and the company was marshaled into the great dining-room, wherein that worthy old gen tleman, father Von Horn, had often received his neigh bors in long past years. The return of Doctor Courtlandt and his son, was quite an event in the neighborhood and to >?very one a pleas ant event. The reader may have observed in former portions of this true chronicle, that Doctor Courtlandt 304 LEATHER AND SILK. oven as a wild, headstrong boy, managed to conciliate the goodwill of every person with whom he was thrown in contact. Throughout his life this was certainly a very observable circumstance ; and now his retnrn was hailcil by all those friendly hearts as a most welcome event. There was much to interest a mere stranger even, in the noble looking gentleman now seated at the head of his broad board, and dispensing around him smile." and con gratulations. Intellect had written in unmi.r and ordered his horse. In a quarter of an hour he was in the saddle, and on his way to Miss Emberton's. He returned in the afternoon, and on again seeing Mrs. Courtlandt, smiled. " What was the business the ' annoying matter,' I mean, nephew ?" asked the old lady. " Guess.'' " I can not." " To tell her if a man who offered himself for an over- eer, was capable or not." LEATHfcli AND SILK* 32} " Could not her brother ?" " Oh ; Mr. Robert has not studied farming ; I have, jrou know but still, Miss Emberton should havs sent for you ; you are a much better one than myself." " Pshaw !" " But that was not the most striking part of the affair " " What do you mean ?" " Can you imagine who the man was who uesired to fill the position of overseer at the Grlades ?" " No ; I never could guess." " Mr. Huddleshingle." " What ! he who in old times whom Brother Jacob" "Yes the very same!" " And how did you arrange it ; is he Miss Emberton's overseer ?" " No, no upon seeing me he became very embarrassed and angry, and refused to live at the Glades, saying ho had changed his mind. He will go to the West, he says, to-morrow ; and I feel little commiseration for him. He never was an honest man." " That was a most scandalous trick of his." " Yes, yes, aunt ; but this entails on me the discovery of another overseer for Miss Emberton. Well, I must go and consult her on the subject. She is a most agreeable person, aunt," said the Doctor, thoughtfully, " and less changed than I imagined." " I always tol 1 you Josephine was an excellent girl. She is little altered in character, though much more sedate." " I returned some of her property an old bracelet ; and we had a very hearty old time laugh. Really she is a very agreeable woman, excellent Mrs. Courtlandt! Bu where is Max ?" " There he is coining," said Mrs. Courtlandt --*.' CHAPTER XVI. COMFORT AND HELP TO THE WEAK- HEARTED. MAX came in looking ill-humored and melancholy : liut there was in this expression of disquietude nothing resem bling his habitual sombre and listless apathy. Plainly his moodiness was the result of some direct tangible circum stance which had lately occurred ; and that, the watchful eye of Doctor Courtlandt discerned as usual at the first glance. Thus the young man's low spirits did not afflict him in the least ; very evidently it did not lie very deep beneath the surface, and thus would easily pass away. Max saluted his father and aunt, and after a few list less words again put on his hat, and carelessly walked out upon the hill. He bent his way to the spot whoie they had wandered along on that beautiful evening himself his cousins, and Mr. Robert Emberton and reaching tho moss-covered rock upon which Alice and her companion had seated themselves, stopped moodily. The evening was very fine ; the sun, just about to set, filled the air with its warm rosy light, and the whole universe seemed to be at rest. The perfume of the autumn leaves floated hither and thither borne along by the soft breeze, and there was in every feature of the fair landscape, vailed as it was by the slight haze, that thoughtful, melancholy grace, which inclines the heart and memory to dreamy reverie. The young man seated himself upon the rock where Alice had sat, and fell into this dreamy species of reverie. But there was little inclination for pleasant thought in his mind. That visit from which he had anticipated so much delight, had by one of those unlucky circumstances LEATHER AND SILK. 32 which seem to spring up in the path of all men like an adverse fate, been turned into a bitter trial. He had gone from home on that morning, happy, joyful, full of an "unaccustomed spirit," which had "lifted him above the ground with cheerful thoughts." Alice, he said to himself, would be there to meet him, and in her dea* company he would spend a long happy day, in ib r bright sunshine, wandering in search of flowers, directing his steps to every pretty knoll and forest glade, drinking in the music of her voice, the soft light of her tender thoughtful eyes. All this the young man had promised himself, and all this had been reversed by the simple presence of Mr. Robert Emberton, who like a Satan entered his Paradise and threw every thing into confusion. Mr. Emberton throughout the whole day Max re flected with bitter enmity had attached himself to Alice, and this on the avowed ground that Caroline had quarreled with him, and for the time had declined to accept hia overtures of friendship. That this was all a pretense on Mr. Emberton's part, merely a ruse to cover his preference for Alice, was perfectly plain to the young man ; and this view was completely substantiated by the simple fact that Caroline had plainly not " fallen out" with Mr. Emberton. He, Max, had attached himself perforce to that young lady, and in consequence a drama was enacted, of which the former scene upon the spot he now occupied was but the rehearsal ; a drama full of mistakes, misunderstandings, explanations, and complaints. So the day passed, and four persons who undeniably took pleasure in each other's society, had separated with ill-concealed bad-humor. It was perfectly plain to the young man that Alice did not care for him, whether she felt a very lively affection foi Mr. Emberton, or not. This possibility made Max at the same time wrathful and wretched. If such were the case what right had he to complain, he asked himself! "30 LEATHER AND STt.TT. If Alice preferred the society of Mr. Emberton to his own, was not such a preference perfectly proper and rational ? What was he, with his melancholy face and abstracted manner, the young man thought his proud lip curling sorrowfully that the young girl should abandon for his society so very elegant a gentleman so full of amusing anecdote, and sparkling repartee, so easy, gracff.il, so calculated to please the taste of women with his pleasant humor ! The consequence of this train of thought was Inat gradually the young man's mind like a cup held be neath a rock, dripping with brackish water filled with harsh and poisoned thoughts. Anger, jealousy, love, chased each other incessantly through his moody brain, and wrapped in this reverie so full of anguish, he lost sight of the fair scene around him, as completely as if it nad no real existence ; his feverish eyes fixed alone on the scene* his brain had conjured up. Suddenly he felt a hand upon his shoulder ; and turn ing round, saw his father who had approached without his perceiving it, so profoundly had he been absorbed in this bitter and agitating reverie. " You are melancholy, my child," said Doctor Court- landt, tenderly, " come, drive away these thoughts which follow you like hounds ; yield to them and they will tear you down and kill you." The young man, troubled and gloomy, made no reply. " I do not ask you the occasion of your melancholy," continued the Doctor, "but I offer you a medicine which will prove a panacea, whatever your malady may be. Plainly something annoys and agitates you. Well, take my advice, and banish this something from your mind." "I can not, sir; I confess I am annoyed," the young man added, in a low voice, "more than annoyed." " Well, rid yourself of this annoyance ; for you can. Youth is so credulous, so pnjr^r in every thing; all LEATHER AND SILK. 331 things loom large and threatening through the mist of inexperience. The shadows long and enormous, it is true, but shadows still are, in your eyes, giants armed with wrath and destruction. Laugh at them ! laugh at your annoyances ! they are but shadows." " Yes, sir," murmured Ma* " shadows for they darken my heart." " My son," said Doctor Courtlandt, taking the young man's arm and pointing to the setting sun, " what see you there ?" " Sunset, sir night is coming." "Nothing more?" " Darkness and wind." " More, more is coming, Max, than darkness and cold and the chill biting wind ! The morning also comes ! the morning full of warmth, and light, and joy; filled with the music of gay birds, instinct with hope and hap piness '- You believe as much from faith, since you see no trace now of any such thing ; well, bring your faith to bear upon the world ! If God obscures the heart with shadows, He can also again illuminate it with joy ; if you are unhappy, you may still be very happy. I have never yet despaired ; and because I have seen in every event of my checkered life the hand of God. He does every thing for the besl, and lets no sparrow fall unheeded. Re member that ! The misery of His poor creatures here is not pleasing to that merciful and omnipotent God ; enough ! remember this, my child ! Let us return." And accompanied by his son Doctor Courtlandt re- tui aed to the house. CHAPTER XVII. BY THE FIRESIDE. THE autumn passed with all its joyful splendor and its dreamy beauty ; its singing birds, and many-colored forests, and its tender flowers glittering like jewels in the crevices between mossy rocks, and on the sunny hillsides. The winter wind had come ; and it sighed mournfully through the tall bare trees which bent before it now so stormy was it but then sprang up again like giants, and catching it in their gaunt hands, made it sue loud for mercy. Ah ! very unlike those soft breezes, were these stormy winter blasts, which had dispelled with a single breath, the tender haze of autumn from the woods and hills. They rolled like thunder through the lofty pines, or like a great organ peal so "musical" was this "dis cord ;" so " sweet" this " thunder" of the winter wind. Then the sky became obscured as if some enormous flock of wild pigeons, such as once were wont to pass here in Virginia, were flying over the mountain land ; then one morning when the mountaineers arose, they saw pass by their windows myriads of downy flakes, which any one of imaginative temperament might have said, were in truth the feathers, soft and very white, of those flying pigeon-nations, scattered from those mid-air-flying- breasts, by the great stormy artillery of Heaven. The autumn was, thus, dead ; wild geese no longer were seen flying southward far up in the clouds, from which their faint cry floats so clearly to the ear ; the carol of the robin was no longer heard ; tho flowers had perished, even the golden-rod, last lingerer on the hill? ; in one word, winter had set in in earnest, there it. the mountain- LEATHER AND SILK. S3 land, and one of those good, honest, old-time snows, which scorned to lie less than a foot or two in depth, now wrapped the whole landscape in its bridal vail. In the houses, diligent preparation had been made to meet the enemy ; and every where he was routed by blaz ing wood fires, and by furs such as fair ladies wrap them selves in, when the merry sleigh-bells tinkle at t^e door. But more than all did the cold dismal winter night yield up its power for evil before the merry laughter of the happy-hearted children in the long evenings playing their thousand games as " Blind man's buff," " 'Tis oats, peas, beans, and barley grow," and many others by the bright, roaring fire. At the houses where these scenes were enacted, this merry laughter heard, the grim old Winter dared not show his nose, but peeping through the window furtively, passed on slowly, otherwhither ! We have thought it unnecessary to chronicle all the sayings and doings of the personages of this brief history ; since the few scenes we have attempted to trace, have we hope, served to indicate sufficiently for the purposes of the narrative up to the present moment, the characters and surroundings of those personages. Doctor Courtlandt had become now quite a regular visitor at the Grlades, and indeed Miss Emberton had found the little whist parties, which were gotten up by him for her amusement, a very acceptable substitute for the usual listUss "reading aloud" of her brother, in the long winter evenings. Mr. Robert Emberton cherished for his sister a very devoted affection, but reading he con sidered a great bore much more, reading aloud. Doctor Courtlandt's whist arrangement, therefore, met with the hearty approbation of both the brother and sister : and Mr. Emberton's opinion of the elegant traveled gentleman, spurred by self-interest, vastly increased. He had, how. ever, deferred in all things to Doctor Courtlandt, from the first moment of their acquaintance. M. Pantoufle even, 534 LEATHER AND SILK. now domiciled at the Glades, gained a new interest from his former acquaintance with such a man. At the Parsonage, Mr. Robert Emberton and Mr. Max Courtlandt were very constant visitors. The Comedy of Errors had been repeated so often, that it might have heen justly considered a great favorite with the actors and the audience on this occasion, one and the same. The young men often drove over to ride the ladies out in their sleighs ; and this tacit rivalry had in a .eat degree served to remove Mr. Emberton's listlessness, and Max's melancholy. Thus more than a month had passed rapidly, and Christ mas began to hint of its approach, in the diligent attention paid by Mrs. Courtlandt to her larder, in the busy em ployment of the young girls on their various " Christmas gifts" to be but more than all in the joyful anticipation plain in every eye. The sunshine sparkling on the scow, waa not half aa brilliant as those joyful eyes. CHAPTER XVIII. COMEDY OF ERRORS: ACT v. ONE fine morning two gayly caparisoned sleigls were standing before the door of the Parsonage, the horses of which tossed their heads impatiently, and spurned with their shaggy-fetlocked feet, the glittering snow. At every movement of their heads, the sleigh-bells attached to their harness gave out a merry jingling ; at each pawing with their impatient feet, the snow flew around like a cloud of pearly powder. Within, in the comfortable dining-room, roared cheer fully a huge wood fire, and round this fire were grouped, the old mountaineer, Mrs. Courtlandt (her husband was absent on a pastoral visit), Alice, and Caroline. The young girls were wrapping themselves up in that mountain of shawls, and furs, and comforts, which young ladies will always continue to wrap themselves up in, to the end of the world. Caroline's merry face and dancing eyes were already half buried in a huge " nubia," and she overflowed with joy and laughter at every word which was uttered ; Alice, more quiet and sedate, but full of anticipation, had already put on her wrapping. Max and Mr. Robert Emberton, enveloped in their comfortable surtouts, leaned opposite each other against the mantle-piece. Old hunter John looked at his grandchildren with affectionate pride. " There you are," he said, his old face lit up with a happy smile, " all wrappin' up and fixin' yourselves as if you were going to the end of the world, instead of takin' a little jaunt to town ! Cheeks as red as roses, I declare." 336 LEATHER AND SI I K. " Thank you for the compliment, grandfather," said A.lice, demurely. "I'm a poor hand at payin' compliments," said the old mountaineer, smiling. " When I was a youngster T did a deal of it, though ; and I always found it best to pile 'em up pretty strong ; the girls liked it all the better, if I don't disremember." " Take warning, gentlemen !" cried Caroline. u thtn-e is a great deal of truth in what grandfather says." " Yes !" said the old man, with a cheerful and thought ful look, " I was a wild youngster, and many's the time I have spent the whole night shaking my heels to the music of the fiddle ! The times then were most nigh uproarious, and the girls thought nothing of dancin' reels from sundown to sunrise. Merry times ! merry times !" sighed the old man, " but all gone many a long day into the dust. They were like wild geese flyin' 'way off to the south, and never comin' back again ; but I don't mourn over 'em. The Lord has been very good to me, and the old time was bright enough for me considerin'. Now I am mighty feeble, and most nigh gone to the other country ; I begin to think the horn is goin' to sound for me 'fore long ; and when it does sound, I'm in hopes I'll be able to say, ' Come, Lord Jesus, I've been a waitin' for you tong.' " Alice put her arms round the old man's neck, and kissed him. " Don't be gloomy, dear grandfather," she said, with a tremor in her voice. " I ain't gloomy, darlin'," the old man said, " no, no, I ain't gloomy ! Why should I be gloomy ? I might 'a been once. When I was a young strong man I lived my life like the rest, without thinking or caring for any thing but the fun and frolic of the time. My heart was full of blood, and I never knew what it was to be weary in the ld days then not if I hunted for days and nights togeth- LEATHER 'AND SILK. 337 9T, or was on the Injun trail 'way off in the backwoods 3ho' the woods here were far enough back from the Ridge. If you had 'a told me then I was soon goin' to die and leave all the fine world, and have no more fine times a-dancin', an.l huntin', and frolickin' with the boys, you might 'a made me gloomy ; it would be too much to ex pect the young people to give up their life, when they enjoy every thing so much, 'thout feelin' as if they would like to stay in the grand, beautiful world. No, no! the young love life, and the merciful God wisely made it so. They have nothing to do with sighin', and moanin', and thinkin' of the other world, though I don't deny they had oetter be givin' some thought to the time when the trumpet '11 sound. I might 'a felt gloomy then, if some body had 'a told me, ' Hunter John, you're goin' to die.' But now I look on this world as my tarryin' place for a little while only. My heart ain't got much blood in it, and my body's gettin' mighty poorly and feeble, and 'foro long, Alice dear, the time will come when the old man, your grandfather, will lay with his forefathers in the dust out o' which God made him. No, no!" the old man said cheerfully, " I'm a lookin' forward to the time with hope. The old weak body is nigh parted from the spirit, but the spirit don't want to stay. It's bound home, my darlin'." Alice turned round to wipe her eyes. " Go on now, children," said hunter John, " you are in the spring time. Daughter Sally a-knitting and smiling yonder is the summer, and I am the winter ; but you are the spring ; go, children.'' " We are going to bring Saint Nio up, dear grand father," said Caroline, " he's a good old man, and I know you'll like him." " I never did see him yet," replied hunter John, smiling and kissing the young girl, " but I've heard of him ofteq- tjmes. Come, you're a-losin' time." 13* LEATHER AND SILK. The girls kissed their mother, for young ladies nevei omit this ceremony in the presence of gentlemen, and ran to the door. Mr. Emberton's sleigh was the nearest, and Alice happened to reach the door before Caroline. The consequence was that the fifth act of the comedy of errors was inaugurated by Mr. Emberton's politely helping Alice into his sleigh. Not one of the party looked at any other member of it, and Max assisted Caroline into his sleigh without betraying his disappointment. The heavy furs were thrown over them, and the two sleighs darted from the door like flashes of light, leaving behind them as a ship leaves in her wake a trail of foam a long "dying fall" of merry bell-chime music, on the froftty air. CHAPTER XIX. IN THE FIRST SLEIGH : OR PROPERLY THE SECON1 MR. Emberton and Alice, inasmuch as their sleigh was before that of Max and Caroline, took the lead ; and in a few moments so rapid was their flight the whole party arrived at and commenced the ascent of the Third Hill mountain, cutting through the heavy snow drifts, darting along on the hard frozen portions of the road, and every moment rising higher above the little valley which they could already, from their elevated position, overlook throughout its entire length and breadth. The morning was bright and beautiful, but bracing and cold. The cool wind brought roses into the cheeks of the young girls, and the sunlight flooded their bright faces and laughing eyes with its full golden splendor. Nestling under her furs, Caroline bent her eyes on the sleigh which glided rapidly, with its merry bells some distance on before them. She seemed to be somewhat annoyed at the unlucky mistake which had thrown her with her cousin. Not that Caroline disliked Max ; on the contrary she was very fond of him ; but only in that cousinly degree which is so far removed from any softer feeling. She had set her heart on riding with Mr. Em berton that day ; and had arranged an agreeable little series of teasings for his especial benefit ; and she was much disappointed at not being able to carry into effect these amiable intentions. Max's eyes, if the truth must be told, were also fixed upon the sleigh in advance of them, much more frequent ly than upon the beautiful girl at his side. We know his secret at least if that of other persons is not SQ WO LEATHER AND SILK. plain ; and it must be confessed the young man had felt a very acute disappointment, at the accident which had prevented him from having the charming ride he had promised himself with Alice by his side. Mr. Emberton did not improve in his opinion, for his own agency in the matter. " See what a glorious day. cousin Caroline." said Max, "here we are on the mountain top, and yonder is the North Mountain which we must also cross before we nan swoop down on Martinsburg." 4< Yes, yes, a lovely day !" cried Caroline, " but the arind is very cold." " Oh, you must expect that " " In a sleigh ride, I know. I rather enjoy the cold." "Wrap up well fix the bear skin over your feet securely," said the young man, bending down and arrang ing the fur around the young girl's delicate ankles. " Oh, they feel much warmer now ! Thank you. How fast we are going !" " Do you like sleigh bells ?" " Oh, I delight in them." "And I ; I think they are very merry." " Very merry." This entertaining dialogue was gone through with somewhat absently, the eyes of the interlocutors In -in^ fixed on the sleigh before them, which was flying like a awallow over the smooth descent of the mountain, its merry bells supplying pleasantly the place of echoes to their own. " What music !" said Caroline. " Delightful," replied Max. " And at this rate we will swoop down on Martinsburg in a little while, as you say, cousin Max. You don't intend to carry off any body, do you ?" "How?" LEATHER AND SILK. 341 " Hawks only, swoop and hawks carry off chickens," aid Caroline, philosophically. " There are no chickens in town equal to our mountain ones," said Max, laughing. " Come, Mr. Flatterer !" " You are welcome to your portion, cousin Carry," said Max, absently. " My small portion I know : for you can not deny that Alice takes up the greater part." " Certainly, I deny it," said Max, slacking his rein and thereby increasing the speed of the already flying sleigh. " Deny what?" said Caroline, looking mischievously at her cousin. " Why, deny your accusation !" said Max, turning round with some embarrassment and fixing his eyes on his cousin's laughing face. " What accusation ?" " The one you made." " What was it ?" Max laughed and colored slightly with the conscious- ness that Caroline had fathomed his abstraction ; Caroline burst out laughing. " You were not thinking of me, cousin Max," she said, " you were thinking of Alice. Upon my word I believe you are in love with her, and now I come to think of it to remember to put this and that together yes I'd take my oath you are in love with sister !" cried the young girl clapping her hands and laughing merrily. Max blushed and turned away his head from his cousin. "What folly!" he muttered. " Do you deny it ?" " Certainly," said Max, smiling and regaining confi dence. " You ought to reply, Certainly I deny it,' " said Caroline, archly, " then you would use the very words you did just now, when I charged you with allowing 348 .lEATHFR AXT> *TT.K. Alice a larger portion of your regard than myself, and when you did not hear me because you were so intently gazing at her in the sleigh before us !" The young girl's laugh rang out loud and merry. Max adroitly turned the conversation. " We are coming to the stream," said he, ' I suppose the ice will bear us It is quite deep, and T should not fancy giving you a wetting, my charming cousir." " See ! they are nearly on the ice." " Heaven send it don't break !'' The sleigh of Mr. Emberton darted across the frozen stream like a sunbeam, throwing the light coating of snow which lay upon it, up in brilliant clouds. Just as they reached the other side, Mr. Robert Emberton, by a sudden movement pressed his lips to Alice's cheek. This manoeuvre was distinctly perceived by Max and Caroline, and without thinking of the conversation they had just had, they both uttered an indignant exclamation. " It is too bad really too bad !" said the young man, his brow flushing with anger. " It is outrageous !" said Caroline. " On what pretense ! " " I should like to know !" " For this person " muttered Max, throwing a wrath ful glance at Mr. Emberton's sleigh. " For Alice " said Caroline ; and then stopped. " It was not Alice's fault," said Max. " It certainly was wrong in her to submit to it, cousin !" said Caroline. " The wrong is from him and he shall " The young man stopped, half from indignation, half from a feeling of propriety. Caroline was not the per son to inform of his intention to call Mr. Emberton to account. " It certainly is not a bridge !" said the young girl. "And is it well settled tlm 4 ladies are kissed on bridges?" LEATHEK AND SILK. 343 " "When they are sleighing at least they would not be Justified in feeling offended." " But this is not a bridge," said Max. " I just said so," said Caroline. 'Why then ?" "Certainly; why then?" And Caroline burst ont aughing. " You are in love with Alice," said she, merrily, " you are too indignant for any thing but a lover." Max turned full upon his laughing cousin, and smiled satirically. " You were quite as indignant as myself!" he said, with a meaning look. Caroline blushed to the roots of her hair. " Come, dear cousin Carry," said Max, " don't let us quarrel ; I never mean to hurt any one's feelings." The young girl pouted, and replied : "My feelings are not hurt." u Then let us strain a point, and turn the ice into a bridge ;" said Max, as they darted at full speed on the smooth surface, " a cousinly kiss to make friends !" The frozen stream was crossed, and they fled onward like the wind. IN THE SECOND SLEIGH : OR PROPERLY THE FIRST. " MR. EMBERTON !" exclaimed Alice, indignantly, " yon nad no right to kiss me ! and I request as a favor, sir, that you will not repeat the offense !" Mr. Emberton looked surprised. " Offense ?" he said. " Yes, sir ! It was an offense !" " You astonish me, Miss Alice upon my word you do." " If other young ladies permit gentlemen to take such liberties," replied the young girl, in an offended tone, " I, at least do not, sir." " I was not aware that I had been guilty of taking liberties, Miss Alice," said Mr. Robert Emberton, tran quilly. " 1 looked upon the thing as a matter of course ; quite mathematical ! and I reduce the thing to an algr- braic equation thus a sleigh ride plus a young lady and a bridge, equal to one kiss ; or more scientifically stated, x + y = z." But seeing that these bantering words were very far from removing the young girl's ill-humor: " Seriously speaking, Miss Alice," continued the young man, " I do not think my conduct dreadful word that, always means mischief has been so outrageous. Things are proper or improper as they are regarded in the light of abstract propriety, or conventional propriety. Now I maintain that convention mighty and terrible force as the philosophers say absolves me for my conduct; yes, I repeat that terrible word ; absolves me from any blame. And why ? 4 The why is plain as way to Parish Church.' LEATHER AND SILK. 349 as Jacques! says ; excuse me, I don't often quote Shaka peare it bores me." " Mr. Emberton, you make every thing ridiculous." " Ridiculous ? every thing is ridiculous ! Ridiculous ? It is the essence of life the staple of our being ridicu lousness folly. I am exceedingly ridiculous myself, Miss Alice, confidentially speaking; don't mention it, since I would say as much only to you. Bat let me achieve by one bold stroke my pardon. I was about to say that convention, among many other things, has decided that a gentleman may, while waltzing, clasp a lady in his arms with fraternal affection, although he may be a perfect stranger to the said lady ; it has also quite settled the propriety of kissing when bridges are crossed in sleighs " " It was not a bridge !" interrupted Alice, recovering from her ill-humor somewhat. " Not a bridge ! not a bridge which we crossed some moments since ?" exclaimed Mr. Emberton, with well counterfeited surprise. " Certainly not, sir !" " It certainly was !" " Thank you for contradicting me, sir," said Alice. " Contradicting you !" " I said it was not a bridge you say it is ; pray is not that a contradiction, sir ?" "By no means." "Why not?" " Because the spirit of contradiction is wanting," replied Mr. Emberton, with ready and nice philosophic discrim ination. " If you say, * I think it is not a bridge,' and I reply with all deference, ' I think, madam, it is an excel lent one' the simple question arises, which of us is mis taken. If you say, ' It is a bridge,' and I reply, ' It is not,' then there is some opening for a charge of contradic tion to be decided in due course by the duello. A bridge 346 LEATHEB AND SILK. is a very good thing to fight on at Lodi, for instance But I see I am boring you, and I begin to feel the approach of the foe myseV, evoked, which is worse, by myself. I will therefore state that there formerly was a bridge at the point we crossed, and that bridge is no doubt now beneath the current. I believe you are not doing me thr honor of listening very attentively to my profound philo sophical remarks, Miss Alice," continued Mr. Emberton, with great equanimity ; " what are you looking at?'* " The mountains ; they are very beautiful. Are the} not?" " Oh, charming," replied Mr. Robert Emberton, wel! content that Alice had regained her good-humor, " not equal to Mont Blanc, however, I imagine." " No, I suppose not ; Max could tell us." It now became Mr. Emberton's turn for complaining. " You are no doubt, somewhat disappointed at oui arrangement to-day," he said, "are you not?" " What arrangement, pray ?" " Mr. Courtlandt with Miss Caroline, and yourself con sequently bored by your humble servant ?" " I am never bored, sir," said Alice, unconsciously turning round to look at Caroline and her cousin. " Which is as much as to say you are not bored on this occasion, simply from the fact that the feeling is un known to you, eh ?" " No, sir." "You are pleased with my society then?" asked Mr. Emberton with logical deduction. " Delighted, sir !" said Alice, smiling. " Consider yourself profoundly saluted," said Mr. Em- berton, inclining. " And what do you say to my society ?" asked Alice, laughing. " It is charming, as it always is, my dear Miss Alice." " You are sure you would not prefer Caroline's ?" LEATHER AND SILtf. 347 "Oh, perfectly sure !" " Caroline with her vivacity and delightful flow of spirits " " I like you best!" " And s much prettier than I am," said Alice, looking wistfully back. "Who could imagine such a thing?" " Then," said Alice, " you can not complain of the ' ar rangement ?' " "No, no; but you can. There is that elegant young traveled gentleman, Mr. Courtlandt, whom you have missed ; your cousin too cousins are so agreeable, you know," said Mr. Emberton with some gloom. " He could tell you, as you said, all about Mount Blanc and Italy." " He does not talk much." " He seems to be tolerably well engaged in conversa tion now," muttered Mr. Emberton. " He is fond of cousin Caroline," said Alice, in the same tone. " Yes ?" said Mr. Emberton, frowning like Bombastes Furioso. " And she of him," said Alice. " No !" exclaimed Mr. Emberton. " Indeed I am in earnest of course I mean Carry thinks him agreeable." " She thinks me very disagreeable." " And Max thinks as much of me," said Alice, turning away her head. Mr. Emberton suddenly remembered himself, and again assumed his languid petit maitre manner. " Likes and dislikes are a great bore," he yawned. " The only good thing in life is a fast horse ; you do feel then as if you had blood in your veins. A spanker, eh ?" continued Mr. Emberton, languidly pcinting to his flying animal. " Oh, certainly," said Alice. CHAPTER XXI BUYING CHRISTMAS-GIFTS. THE North Mountain was passed that giant reposing at full length upon the margin of the pretty stream, murmuring over such beautiful mossy rocks in its pil grimage to the Potomac a huge bulk unmoved by wars or rumors of wars, unaffected by the changes in all hu man things, indifferent equally to the snows of winter falling on his brow, and summer sunlight flooding with its joyful radiance all his supine length ever silent and uncomp.aining, ever patiently biding his time, through pieasant days when birds sing merrily in the blue mid air above, through winter nights when the chill wind sighs through the evergreens, bowing their lofty heads in wonder at its tidings of far distant lands ! A moment's pause on the high-raised summit, to gaze upon the wide Lowland, wrapped in its bridal garment and flashing in the sunlight, and the sleighs sped on. They passed down the steep road carefully, fled by the old Tuscarora meeting-house, whose walls, could they !e LE AT LEATHER AND SILK.3 ILK. 351 and the tender beauty of her little face outdid himself in the rapidity with which he complied with her demands Alice commenced as Caroline had done, by purchasing with the greater part of her money those things which were destined to form presents for her mother, father, and grandfather. These she selected with great care, and had wrapped up in a separate bundle. "Grandfather will be pleased I know, cousin Max,' said the young girl, " with what I have for him thL time Now I must not neglect my other friends." Max, looking tenderly but anxiously at his cousin, made no reply. Alice said something to the shopman in a low tone which Max did not catch ; and the overwhelmed and confounded knight of the yard-stick the most gallant and disinter ested of men hurried to obey. He took down a roll of silk. " Yes, that is very pretty." " Here is the price, Miss it is not dear, Miss " No not at all." " But we can sell it to you cheaper you are our regu lar customers, Miss." " Thank you, sir ; please cut me off enough for the pattern." " What is that, cousin Alice ?" asked Max, taking up the handsome piece of stuff. " Silk," said Alice, smiling. " I know it is silk ; but what for? A present?" " Yes a present," said Alice, blushing like a rose. " For whom, may I ask." " Yes ; you may ask ! though that answer is far more .ike sister, who is so merry, than myself you know I am so quiet," replied Alice, with a sparkle of her soft merry eye;. The polite shopman heaved a deep sigh he was a cap tive forever. *' You mean I may ask, but that you will not tell m<,*' eaid Max. 152 LEATHER AND SILK. " Yes ; I can not tell you," said Alice. " At least you can tell me what is to lie made of this nandsome silk." " No, indeed I can not." " Why ?" "That would be half of the joke, you knoWj" replied Alice, her lovely face lit up radiantly. The poor knight of the stick put his hand upon his heart, where, at that moment, a heavy load seemed to rest. " I'm afraid it's no joke to me," said Max, laughing. " But give me some guesses, as the children say." " No, I can not." " Not for a dress ?" " I can not answer." " What -is it for do tell me." " You quoted the children just now," Alice said, laugh ing too, " well, 1 will answer as the children do it ia for laroes to catch meddlers, cousin Max." " Oh, how unfriendly you are, cousin." " Unfriendly ?" said the young girl, softly. "Yes; you will not tell me; let me think !" Max glanced round, and his eyes fell on Mr. Emberton. That gentleman was clad in black plain and elegant, though rather dandified the only exception being his waistcoat, which was a bright scarlet, in the latest mode. " Yoursilkis for a waistcoat, cousin Alice,"said Max. In- merriment suddenly changing to mortification and gloom. Alice blushed and looked furtively at her cousin ; and without thinking, said : " How could you guess ?" " It is for a waistcoat, then ?" asked Max, in a morti fied tone. " Yes, cousin Max," said Alice, in a low voice. Max gently bowed his head, tnaking no reply ; then he turned away without heeding the hurt and embarn expression on Alice's lovely face, for she had with those LEATHER AND SILK. 353 jealous eyes of hers, noted his mortified tone and sadden gloom. Nothing could be more lovely than the young girl's face at the moment. The knight before mentioned heaved a sigh so piteous and profound, that " it did seem to shatter all his bulk." He was afterward heard to declare, that he would win that young lady for his bride, or perish in the attempt. The whole party left Mr. Barlow's and oiice more en tered their sleighs Mr. Robert Emberton and Max ex changing moody glances, Alice and Caroline scarce know ing what to think. A ride of a hundred yards brought them to the jeweler's. The jeweler's was not less brilliantly decked out than Mr. Barlow's ; or rather it as much exceeded in splendor that more useful establishment, as rich gold and silver vessels, and rings, and breastpins, and bracelets exceed the brightest silks, and the most richly woven cloths. The shopman here seemed to be not less gallant than that unfortunate knight at Mr. Barlow's. He had the eyes of Argus and the hands of Briareus ; but to set off these attractions, he was as huge as the giant Enceladus, and as ugly as Iras, the poorest of the Greeks. He had long ago cast his eyes on Alice, that bright saint so far above him ; not matrimonially ; he never dreamed of that; but with the despairing adoration of a Chaldean priest, pouring forth his love and worship for some bright par ticular star glittering in the far golden Orient. But it will not be necessary for the purposes of our tale, to dwell upon the private feelings of this gentleman. We will, however, add, before dismissing him and his passion, that the mysterious affair which soon after con vulsed the borough with curiosity and dr.eadfulest sus pense, was owing to the fact that he and the knight at Mr. Barlow's had come to a mutual knowledge of each other's feelings. A bloody duel was anticipated, and tvery number of the " Martinsburg Gazette" was care- 354 LEATHER AND Slt.K. fully scanned by the breathless community the editoi of that paper having acquired a high reputation for skill in getting at the " latest news" of every description. Tho whole atlair, however, was finally endod by a " corre spondence" in that paper in which the friends of the two parties, over their signatures, " were gratified to inform the public that the misunderstanding, etc., etc., had oeen amicably arranged in a manner satisfactory to both gen tlemen" after which the subject was dismissed, and no longer afforded a topic for tea-table gossip. But we digress ; the young gentlemen and their fair companions made their purchases duly the ladiea not looking at the gentlemen, the gentlemen not looking at the ladies. But the unfortunate comedy, of which we have carefully traced a number of scenes, had not yet run its full complement of nights, or rather days. Max bought an elegant bracelet. " It is for sister ;" said Alice to herself, " she has one on her arm which just matches it." And Alice looked very low-spirited . Mr. Emberton purchased a very pretty pair of ear-rings. " They are for Alice ;" said Caroline to herself, with a most engaging pout, " I know they are ; she said the other day, and he heard her, that she was about to bore her ears. Mr. Emberton might have accomplished that painful object without buying ear-rings for her." And Caroline sighed. Then, the jewels being carefully wrapped in their snowy cotton wrappings and put away securely in their small boxes, the party once more commenced their rounds. Early in the afternoon their purchases were completed, and with the merry jingle of those never-quiet bells the sleighs fled back toward the mountains. This time Max and Caroline were in advance CHAPTER XXII THE UPSET, THEY approached the steep side of the North Mountain, whose ten thousand stalwart pines bent down beneath the heavy snow-burden resting on their branches ; and commenced the ascent, lost in admiration of the scene, so still, so desolate, but so replete with beauty. The top of the mountain was reached, and behind them the entire valley from east to west from the Blue Ridge to the spot which they had now reached was visible. They gazed for a moment on the snow-clad Lowlands followed pensively the light curling wreaths of smoke with admiring eyes ; then with the ever-merry tinkling of the bells went rapidly down the western slope toward the Third Hill Mountain and the little valley it embraced in its shaggy snow-clad arms. " It is near sunset," said Alice, "and we have some way to go yet, Mr. Emberton. How much time we have lost." " I can but felicitate myself." " For what reason ?" " I have had so much more of your society," said Mr. Emberton tranquilly, in a matter-of-course tone. * You seem in a complimentary humor." " I am, my dear Miss Alice," replied Mr. Emberton, yawning, " the fact is, I am this evening in quite excel lent spirits ; are not you ?" " Not unusually," replied Alice. "Are you uncomfortable? I am afraid you are not wrapped up as well as Miss Caroline, who has for her cavalier a much more elegant man than myself." " Which means," replied Alice, " that I am expected to say that such is not the fact." J5 LEATHER AMD SILK. "No, no, my dear Miss Alice; these little convention alities may suit ordinary young gentlemen very well ; jut not me. I am indifferent wholly to all that. In fact I'm exhausted ; I would say blast, but for the undeserved contempt into which that expressive word has fallen. No, no on my honor, I had no intention of fishing for a com- pliment. I meant simply to say, that considering riding out a bore except with a few of my lady friends, ai>'l consequently being somewhat unused to it, I had proba bly neglected to wrap you up securely from the cold." " I am plenty warm, thank you except my hands, which I have in the hurry unaccountably neglected. They are cold ; but I will get my gloves out of my reticule." In performing this manoeuvre, Ali'ce also drew from the reticule with the gloves, a piece of paper, which fell open upon the bear-skin before Mr. Emberton's eyes. This paper contained some verses, and what was more un usual a rose bud had been wrapped in it. "Poetry, by Jove!" said Mr. Emberton. "Excuse me, Miss Alice, that shocking expression will escape me in spite of my most careful attention. But who wrote these verses pardon me for having already unconsciously read a portion of the first." Alice looked annoyed ; then indifferent " They were written by cousin Max," she said, " and I have no objection to your seeing them, as you have already read a part." " It was unconscious, I assure you." " Unconscious indeed !" "Purely," said Mr. Emberton, taking the paper and reading the verses with a languid expression: " ' The sunset died In regal pomp and pride' purely unconscious, I assure you, Miss Alice, and did you know my utter indifference to poetry in general, you would at onoe admit my excuse. My eyes fell upon the LEATHER AND SILK. 35" page without any intention on my part 01 reading what was thereon written. MS. is such a bore." Alice had already restored the rose bud to her reticule feeling some dread of Mr. Emberton's bantering. Thai gentleman, however, either had not seen it, or did noi think it worth his while to take notice of the faofc. He continued reading" the verses : " ' The sunset died In regal pomp and pride ; I should have died Before I left my mountain side.' pretty, but the accent is not indicated by italicizing the 'I;' you will observe the author's meaning is, that he, like the sunset, should have shuffled off this mortal coil before leaving the mountain side !" "You are very critical." "By no means. I am in an excellent humor which is very natural, since our sleigh is making good time. Rapid motion always invigorates me except the waltz, which is an awful bore dreadful." " We are going very rapidly." " Yes, Miss Alice ; and the bells ; nice music, eh?" " I Ifke it very much." " Then Selim knows his points ; a spanker, is he not?" " I don't know what you mean by a * spanker,' " said Alice, tranquilly, " but he is well broken to the harness." " You are fond of sleighing, Miss Alice?" "Exceedingly." " Yes ?" And after this compendious monosyllable, Mr. Ember- ton fixing his reins securely in one hand, betook himself again to reading Max's verses. He had just reached. the lines, *' The trees were dyed In evening's crimson tide, Rolled far and wide Along the merry mountain id" 358 I-KATIIF.R AND SII.K. when an exclamation of affright from Alice made him drop the paper, and grasp suddenly the loose rein he had allowed to slack too much. The cause of the young girl's exclamation was apparent. Max and Caroline in passing over the ice, now rendered unsafe by the gradual thawing it had throughout the day been subjected to, had almost broken through the bend ing crust, near the very centre of the stream. They were .now plainly visible on a little knoll beyond, making signs to the second sleigh not to cross at the same spot. It was too late. Mr. Emberton's horse thundered down the bank and rushed upon the smooth surface. The con sequence was that the animal's forelegs broke through the ice, and the sleigh was in a moment nearly submerged. Max whirled his horse round and hurried back to the res cue cf the party, just as Mr. Emberton, by a violent blow of his whip, forced his horse, the sleigh, and all through the icy water, and the broken ice, to the bank. Caroline received the trembling Alice in her arms, turn ing pale at her sister's narrow escape. Had the water been deeper, a most serious accident might have been tho consequence. " Oh, Alice !" cried Caroline, wiping her eyes. " I'm not hurt, sister," rejoined Alice, recovering her lost color. "Are you sure?" " Yes." " And you, Mr. Emberton?" said Caroline, turninground suddenly to that gentleman, who was almost covered with ice. " Thank you," said Mr. Emberton, " perfectly sound arrived safe. My luck was always execrable, you know." " We made signs, sir," said Max, austerely, " you might have seen them." " I did not, sir." " You might have seriously injured Miss Courtlandt, sir.' LEATHER AN!) SILR. ^59 Mr. Emberton's eye flashed at the haughty tone of the young man's voice. "Miss Courtlandt was under my charge, sir," h". re plied, endeavoring to assume his habitual coolness. " I beg that you will have more care when such shall be the case in future, sir," said Max, indignant at Mr. Emberton's coolness and indifference. Mr. Emberton, by a powerful effort, suppressed the angry reply which rose to his lips, and said satirically : " You are I suppose, Miss Alice's knight as well as Miss Caroline's, and I have no right to quarrel with you. But I would respectfully suggest that you were oartly the occasion of our accident." " I, sir !" " Certainly: but for being busily engaged reading some agreeable verses of yours, I should doubtless have seen the signs which were used, it seems, in such profusion to warn me." Alice blushed, and looked at Max timidly. " I do not understand you, sir," said the young man, coldly. " He was reading your verses, * The Mountain-side,' cousin Max," said Alice, softly, " they happened to" "Is it possible you allowed them to be made a laugh ing stock in your presence, cousin Alice," said Max, in a tone of profound mortification, "and by Mr. Emberton? Cousin Alice !" Alice opened her lips to refute this charge on the young man's part; but Mr. Emberton interrupted her. " A laughing stock, sir ?" he said, " by no means ! I was admiring the said verses, and really was not bored more than I am usually by poetry ; I think I may ven ture to say even less than usual. I particularly admired one of the stanzas which I chanced to read just as I went beneath the ice devilish cold day for a bath; excuse me adies ! I was reading your verses rery attentively when 360 LEATHER AND SILK. aur accident happened, and to prove to you that th.,y made a deep impression on me, I will repeat the lines in question. They were ' The trees were dyed In evening's crimson tide, Rolled far and wide Along the merry mountain ride !' Fine verses, expressive verses : very expressive ! For you will observe that not only the sunset but Miss Alice and myself were very nearly : 4 Rolled far and wide Along the merry mountain ride.' And that reminds me that my arm hurts like thunder ; really ladies I shall never break myself of this dreadful habit. Pardon, pardon !" Mr. Emberton having achieved this explanation, which served the double purpose of affording him a safety valve for his satirical humor, and of turning the whole affair into a jest, carefully wrapped his companion's feet in the warm bear-skin, and touching his panting and foaming animal with the whip, again set forward toward the Par sonage beyond the mountain. They arrived without further accident, just as the last light of sunset fading away like a rosy blush before the approach of night, waned slowly from the western sky ; and to Mr. Emberton's great satisfaction and delight, the young ladies made quite a jest of the accident. In truth Alice had scarcely received a wetting, wrapped as she had been in her thick bear-skin ; Mr. Emberton, on thuiii'_r his way through the deep snow to Martin&burg, there to take the cars for New York CHAPTER XXVI DOCTOR COURTLANDT AND MR. ROBERT EMBERTON. MAX had no sooner departed, than Doctor Courtlandt ordered his horse preferring that conveyance to the more oomfortable sleigh and took his way toward the Grlades, the note to Mr. Emberton in his pocket. The Doctor's face betrayed much pain and anxiety. That kind and affectionate heart was liable at all times to be wounded through others, and now, when there was imminent danger of a mortal encounter between the per son he was going to visit, and that other person most dear to him in the world that world from which had passed successively so many who had been the light and joy of his existence Doctor Courtlandt's heart was full of gloom and anxiety, and his brow overshadowed. He was welcomed ceremoniously though with some embarrassment, by Mr. Robert Emberton, and so was ushered into the drawing-room. "My sister is not at home, sir," said Mr. Emberton, striving to speak with his usual coolness and sang-froid, but finding it excessively difficult to return calmly the piercing glance of Doctor Courtlandt. "Your sister?" said Doctor Courtlandt. " Yes, sir ; she is to-day out on a visit. mention it Because you generally call to see her rather than myself." " That is true," said Doctor Courtlandt. "I do not complain, sir," replied Mr. Robert Emberton, uneasily. The Doctor looked at the young man long and fixedly. Mr. Emberton was much embarrassed by this acute look, nd began to color. 374 LEATHER AND SII.K. "Is my presence disagreeable?" asked the Doctor, in a tone full of softness and courtesy. " Disagreeable, sir ! how could you think it?" " You seemed put out." The young man blushed. " I am out of sorts to-day, sir," he replied, " you must excuse me." " That is a polite speech ; and I only find fault with it because it is not very sincere," replied Doctor Courtlanat. "Not sincere, sir?" "Not the whole truth, I mean." The clear glance again flashed to Mr. Robert Emberton and embarrassed him. "I am really out of sorts, as I said," he replied. " That is not the only cause for your absence of spirits however you who are generally so gay." "Well, no, sir; it is not," said Mr. Emberton, in a formal tone. " Therefore you did not tell the whole truth though what you said was true. Mr. Emberton," said Doctor Courtlandt, rising and speaking in a noble and courteous tone, " I find myself playing at cross purposes with you and I dislike cross purposes. I will therefore speak more plainly, and say to you that I know of the hostile message you have sent my son, and that I have been much pained by it ; very much pained by it." " It is not my fault, sir," Mr. Emberton replied, in a sombre voice. " Still you sent it ?" " Mr. Courtlandt forced me to send it." " Forced you ! he so gentle, so observant of all tho courtesies of life?" " I find no fault with his temper, sir, or his breeding though I had a very disagreeable specimen of them yes terday." " Max insult you !" LEATHKTt AtfD SILK. 3ti "Yes, sir ; an unmistakable insult." " For what reason ?" " An accident I was so unfortunate as to meet with afforded him the occasion." " On your ride ?" " Yes, sir." The Doctor looked much pained. " And you would kill him, or force him to kill yon foi a hasty word ?" Mr. Emberton bent his head gloomily, making no reply " Young man," said Doctor Courtlandt, " permit on* who has passed through more vicissitudes than most men, and thus lived more than men do usually in forty years permit me to tell you that the man who rashly takes hu man life, for a word, for a gesture, for a tone of the voice too high or too low to suit him, that man corr> raits a most criminal and unchristian act. Your blood is hot with youth curb it ; your eyes fill with anger at the very glance of enmity be calm! We live hoie but three Hcore years and ten at best; is it worth 'Alrile to bicker, and quarrel, and fight with your humsft brethren your brother worms ?" " For honor yes, sir !" " Honor ! grand trumpet blast preluding all the wars that have desolated the world ! Honor, young sir, is a great and invaluable treasure the Christian gentleman will guard it with his life. But this honor must be very frail if it is endangered by an ill-humored word!" " I might have passed by Mr. Courtlandt's harsh words, sir," murmured the young man, gloomily, and applying to his particular case the general principle of his inter locutor, " but we are rivals ! There is the word. It has torn my breast it is out !" Doctor Courtlandt looked inexpressibly pained, tad pressed his hand upon his breast " Rivals !" he said -nou-nfully if6 LEATHER AND 8II.K. " Yes, sir , there is the cause of this thing which you complain so of; not those trifling words he uttered." "And you both love Alice ?" "Alice, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Robert Emberton. " Yes," said the Doctor. "Alice !" repeated Mr. Emberton, springing toward the Doctor, " does your son love Alice not Caroline ?'' The Doctor looked at the young man curiously. " I think so," he said, " I never spy, under any circum stances ; and I ask no confidences." Mr. Emberton fell back gloomily, murmuring, " But Caroline loves him." " There seems to be a misunderstanding here," said the Doctor, astonished, "and if you can not solve it, I can not." " Could it be "said Mr. Emberton, in profound thought ' What ?" asked Doctor Courtlandt. "Could she all this time " Who what ?" repeated the Doctor. " Doctor Courtlandt," said Mr. Emberton, suddenly, " if you will be courteous enough to excuse me, I will take the liberty of leaving you for a short time. I trust you will pardon this very discourteous act but I feel that this moment is the turning point of my life. It makes or mars me. There is my sister returning just in good time, and Monsieur Pantoufle who accompanied her. With your leave, sir, I shall expect to see you here on my return." " Your return ?" said the puzzled Doctor. " Here is Josephine," said Mr. Emberton ; and scarcely saying good-day to his sister, he left the hall, and ran to the stable. He saddled his horse in a moment, mounted and galloped at full speed toward the Parsonage. In two hours Mr. Robert Emberton returned to the Glades overwhelmed with joy almost ecstatic in his delight. He burst into the room where the three persona LEATHER AND SILK. 371 he had left were assembled, and running to his sistei saluted her with a hearty kiss. " Do pray ! what is the matter, Robert," said Miss Emberton, looking very pretty and good-humored. " Behold one who will soon be a married man !" cried Mr. Robert Emberton, "a reformed Benedick, a most respectable individual of the married species, my dear Miss Josephine ! You must excuse my extravagance, Doctor," continued the young man turning to Doctor Courtlandt, with some color, "but I am so completely happy that my habitual spirits have been exaggerated into boisterous hilarity. And in the first place please to consider the foolish note I wrote to you know, sir con sider it burned." " What note to whom and what in the world does all this mean ?" cried Miss Emberton, amazed. Explanation upon all points ensued, but with these explanations we will not trouble the reader ; simply tracing the main events of the day. Mr. Robert Emberton, first gaining Mrs. Courtlandt's consent, had with the bluntness of despair come directly to the point with Miss Caroline, and the result was precisely what the reader has no doubt anticipated. The cap was most assuredly for him, and Caroline for once ost her wit and humor, and did not talk brilliantly at all. But there is reason to suppose that her lover was not in the least displeased with this circumstance, but when she murmured, blushing radiantly, " My ear-rings! my ear-rings !" liked her all the better for her charming and novel confusion. Doctor Courtlandt was sincerely pleased, and this satis faction caused Mr. Robert Emberton very nearly to em brace that gentleman. After those thousand exhausting emotions the Doctor returned placidly home, thinking of his son who was borne every moment further from him. Was he to meet with such a happy issue too ? CHAPTER XXVII. ALICE. IT was on a pleasant sunny morning toward Christmas that Max, having performed his father's business in New York, again returned to the Lock. The young man was weary and exhausted, but more weary in heart than body. That ever present thought which he had carried away with him had paled his cheek, and filled his large blue eyes with settled abiding gloom. Never for an hour had the image of Alice left his heart of Alice to whom he was now nothing of Alice forever lost to him. He could have endured all the spites of for tune he thought, had this one arrow not been buried in his breast. He never knew how much he loved her until he had lost her, he now felt ; never had his heart been so overcome, so absorbed by gloomy and despairing thoughts. The sunshine, sparkling on the bright snow, was black the sky, so clear and pure, was but a " pestilent congre gation of vapors ;" from all things the light and joy of life had passed and gone. No more love, no more happiness, never more lightness of the eye or heart. All that was over now. The Doctor and Mrs. Courtlandt had driven over that morning to see Miss Emberton, a servant said, and would spend the day at the Glades. Max sat down motioning to the servant to leave him. That name had opened his wounds anew, and now hatred was added to his other mental excitement. That abhorred rival had for a time vanished from his mind from his heart so overwhelmed with one thought, that Alice could not be his own ; she bad preferred that man, she had slighted him, she had LEATHER AND SILK. 37* anghed at his verses, had met with contemptuous calm- ness his love and affliction ; it was on his despair that he had fed, not his- hatred. Now the name of his rival aroused this new hell in him, and for a time he suffered a. new torment of jealousy and rage. All things, however, spend themselves in time love, hatred, jealousy, despair ; otherwise the over-fraught heart would break. After an hour's gloomy silence the young man rose and looked around him wearily. Then he collected his thoughts ; he would go at once and make arrangements for his meeting with Mr. Emberton ; that at least should not be neglected or deferred. He took from his pocket the bracelet he had selected for her, and looked at it long and in silence. A sigh which sounded like a sob, shook for a moment his breast and agitated his nervous lips. " I will go and see her for the last time," he murmured, " yes, yes ! I will go and feed on my own heart. No thing worse than I have felt can touch me now !" He mounted and set forward rapidly toward the Par sonage, as though he feared his own resolution. Cover ing his face with one hand he cast not a single glance upon any thing around him ; he knew that however beautiful the fair sunlight might be, however grand the mountain heights, however calm the white silent land scape, they could bring no light, or calmness to his heart. Still these objects had their usual effect ; he felt their influence spite of his incredulity. When he arrived at the Parsonage he was more subdued, and even found himself smiling mournfully at his own wretchedness. On a mossy rock, which the snow had disappeared from, at the distance of two hundred yards from the house, Max saw Alice seated and busily engaged at some work. He dismounted, tied his bridle t a bough of one of the waving evergreens, and approached her. The young girl's back was turned to him, and so completely had the 380 LKATIIElt AND SILK. soft snow muffled the hoof-strokes of his horse that she had not heard them, and was plainly not aware of his approach. Alice was clad with her usual simplicity and taste, and was singing lowly to herself, while busily plying hei needle. The song was thoughtful but very sweet and musical, and her pure clear voice, gave to it an inex- ible charm. Max thought that he had never seen a more angelic vision, a more radiant embodiment of purity, and youth, and innocence ; the very sunlight seemed to linger on the beloved head, bent down so earnestly ; and when the feeling words of her song floated to him like the low warble of a bird those feeling words of Motherwell: " Oh, dear, dear Jeannie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music of your tonjjue " when Max caught the dying fall of the exquisite music, and the more exquisite words, his very heart was melted within him, and two large tears gathered in his eyes arid rolled down his cheeks. " Alice," he said softly, " that is a pretty song." The young girl started, and turned round. A deep blush suffused her face at sight of her cousin, and she half rose. " Do not mind me, cousin Alice," said Max, passing his hand over his brow, " sit down." " I did not know you had returned," said Alice in a low voice, and glancing timidly at the young man. " I only got back an hour or two ago," said Max. Alice stole a pitying look at him. " I am afraid you will be surprised to hear what has happened in your absence," she murmured, with some agitation. " What has happened ?" echoed Max. Alice turned away. Oh, how can I tell him, thought LEATHER AND SILK. 38 she ; he certainly loves Caroline, and her marriage wil distress him dreadfully. " You said something had happened, cousin Alice,' ; said Max, pressing one hand on his throbbing heart, ant with the other taking the hand of the young girl. " Yes," murmured Alice. Max's brow flushed, and his lips trembled. " What mean you ?" he said. " It will distress you to hear it." " I am used to distress," said the young man, raising his head with gloomy calmness, " it will prove no new guest with me." Alice turned away with her eyes full of tears. " How can I tell you ?" she said, without looking at him. Max felt his heart grow as chill as though it were sur rounded suddenly by ice. " Speak," he said, coldly. But recollecting himself he turned away, and said in a low, suffocating voice : "Do not mind me speak; tell me all, as though I were an indifferent person. I can bear it yes, yes ; I can bear it." For a moment his voice died away in his throat. He continued : " I have borne much ; I can bear this also, doubtless, though it goes near to tear my heart-strings what I think, nay, know. Why conceal it now, Alice ? 'tis a lost .^abor ! Think you I saw nothing all these weary days think you I could fail to see ? But do not misunderstand me ! I blame no one no one ! My wretchedness is of my own making. Why did I love so; why stake all my heart and life upon this chance ! to lose it !" The young man's head sank down, and covering his face with his hands, he tried to strangle in its passage the passionate sob which shook his bosom. " Cousin Max," said Alice, " I pity you from the hot- 381 LEATHER AND SILK. torn of my heart. I can't tell you how distressed I am at your grief," she added, wiping away her tears. Max turned away. "Pity me!" he said, "you pity me great God, she pities me /" Alice looked startled. " What do you mean, cousin ?" she said, " indeed I do sincerely feel for you." "Away with your pity!" said the young man, rising with bloodshot eyes. But sinking back he muttered : " Forgive me, cousin ; I am not well. Bear with me my brain is hurt." Alice took his hand with a radiant blush. " I pitied you because I loved you," she said, in a fal tering voice. " Loved me ?" " Yes loved you very much ; as my cousin," stam mered Alice. He turned away, and by a powerful effort controlled his agitation. " You were speaking of what had happened in my ab sence," he said, in a low, gloomy tone, " tell me all." " It will distress you." "No no." " I fear it will." "Speak, cousin Alice. " You know we shall have a wedding here soon, then ?" said Alice, calmly " If you will make me speak, I must. You knew that?" " I guessed as much," said Max, in the same low voice. " All look forward to it soon." " Do they ?" said the young man, averting his face. Alice thought she had overrated the affection Max felt f.r Caroline, so calmly were these words uttered; and this idea we, are bound to say made her heart leap. '* It will be a very merry wedding, considering that LEATHER AND SILK. 383 father is a minister," she said, with a laugh of affected Dheerfulness. "Will it?" " It should be a happy time." "Yes." " Mr. Emberton has much improved already." "Hai he?" murmured the young man, his long hail vailing his face. " And he is much more of a man than before." "Is he?" " Don't you think him intelligent ? I do, cousin." " Do you ?" " And handsome ; is he not ?" " Very." " Then he has a good heart." " I suppose you think so." " Indeed I do." " Naturally." " Why naturally of course, cousin," said Alice, " and I ought to assuredly." " Assuredly." " You speak very strangely, cousin," said Alice, blush ing. " I am sorry I displease you.*" " Oh, you do not displease me you displease me ! No body thinks I am worth it. But really I am scmewhat put out at Mr. Emberton's selection." " Put out ?" " Yes ; he is a man of taste. " Of great taste." " Of intelligence, too." " Yes ; of intelligence." "Well," said Alice, attempting to laugh, "he should have exercised those qualities in his selection of a wife." Max turned with gloomy astonishment toward hi* oousin. 384 LEATHER AND SII.K. *' He has thought hest, however, to mortify me by fol lowing his own judgment, in choosing " Max half rose. " In choosing? "What do you mean, Alice !" " In choosing Caroline !" said Alice. " Caroline !" cried Max. " Of course." " Caroline ! not you !" " Me, indeed ; is it possible you thought all this time that I" Alice stopped, blushing deeply. Max could hardly believe his ears ; he looked around incredulous. " Caroline !" he repeated. " Yes certainly " "Robert Emberton!" " Certainly ; they are to be married before New Year." " Not you, Alice !" cried the young man, devouring her face with his passionate glances. Alice blushed more deeply. "How could you imagine such a thing?" she mur mured. " And that silk was not for Robert Emberton ? That waistcoat !" " Here it is. I have just sewn on the last button," said Alice, holding up the waistcoat, with a faint laugh, " I will not say who it is intended for, until you tell me for whom you bought the bracelet it is not a gentleman's ornament, you know." Max with radiant countenance drew out the bracelet and clasped it on her wrist. "For you!" he said, "oh, heaven is my witness I would clasp my heart thus were it in my power !" " Was it for me ?" murmured Alice, smiling and blush ing, with averted face "And the waistcoat!" LEATHER AND SILK. 385 Alice blushed to the very roots of her hair ; and with a hesitating movement of the hand gave it to the young man. " Was it always intended for me !" said Max. " Always !" murmured Alice. " Alice, dear Alice," said the young man overwhelmed with joy, " I gave you more than that bracelet on your arm." " More?" the girl murmured. " I gave you my heart. My heart, darling do not take your hand away ! all my heart, my life, my being ! will you give me as much ?" That tender little hand remained in his, and no fine eloquent speech was needed to make him understand that the long train of errors was exploded, and the heart so faithful to him, his forever. The sunlight poured its joy ful and most loving radiance on that fair picture the maiden's head on her true lover's bosom. The port was reached, his bark was safe from storms; ,he anchor of his hope lay on his heart. R CHAPTER XXVIII. A BOUT WITH TONGUES. MAX returned in the afternoon to the Look, just a? Doctor Courtlandt and his aunt drove up to the door, in their comfortable sleigh. The worthy Doctor was over joyed to see his son looking no well, and welcomed him with great affection. "When did you return, my boy," he said, "on my word, you are, it seems to me, in excellent spirits." " I am, sir," said Max, with a smile. "You found us absent; how have you passed the morning riding out?" " Yes, sir." The Doctor's piercing eye detected some embarrass- riH-iii in the young man's countenance ; but not a very painful embarrassment. " To the Parsonage?" he asked. " Yes, sir," Max said. " And whom did you see?" " E very body, sir, but Caroline. Where is she to-day ?" "Riding out with Mr. Emberton," said Mrs. Court landt, " and I believe here they come." In fact a sleigh at that moment made its appearance at the bottom of the knoll coming from the direction of Martinsburg. In this sleigh were seated Caroline and Mr. Emberton, laughing and talking. " You have heard the news, I suppose, Max," said Mrs. Courtlandt. " The news, aunt ?" "^bout Caroline and Robert Bmberton. Since you have been away he has addressed her " LEATHER AND SILK. 387 "And " began Max laughing. " They are engaged." " I knew it," said Max. "Who told you?" " Alice." " Ah," said Doctor Courtlandt, with a sudden suspicion, and looking intently at the young man, "she told you, did she ?" " Yes, sir," Max said with a blush, avoiding the laugh ing eye of Doctor Courtlandt. " Alice is making a very nice waistcoat for you, Max," said his aunt, " she has put a great deal of work on it." Max was glad of this diversion. "How did she get rny measure, aunt?" he asked. " I gave her one of yours to cut it by ; on the very day you left us." Max suddenly recollected that he had seen Alice o'i that day, from his elevated position on the Third Hiil Mountain, leave the Parsonage and take the road to the Lock. " It was very kind in her," he said, smiling. The sleigh drove up to the door, and Mr. Emberton helped Caroline out. " Oh, there's my elegant cousin, as I live !" cried the young girl. " How d'ye do, cousin," said Max, going up and taking her hand. " Come, don't be so formal," said Doctor Courtlandt, mischievously. " He shan't kiss me." "By your leave, mistress," said the young man, press* ing his lips to her cheek, " that is good Shakspeare." " And bad manners." Mr. Emberton approached Max and courteously offered him his hand. That young gentleman returned the friendly grasp with great good feeling. 188 LEATHER AND SILK. " I hope you will consider my note to you unwritten," said Mr. Emberton. " What note ?" said Max. " It seems to me that this observation should come from me. I regret the hasty words I wrote to you." " What words ?" said Mr. Emberton. Doctor Courtlandt began to laugh; and taking the young men aside explained the whole matter. ** I am sure we are good friends now, however," eaid Max, laughing, " and I offer you my hand and my friend- ship. Take both." " With all my heart." And so these belligerent gentlemen sealed their newly agreed on amity by pressing each the other's hand. This dreadful matter was arranged to suit all parties ; but we are bound to say that the bright eyes of the sisters had perfected this sudden friendship, as they had caused the former quarrel. Both Mr. Robert Emberton and Max were much too happy, to feel the least desire to drink each other's blood a ceremony they had felt a violent desire to perform a week or two before. They returned to the spot where Mrs. Courtlandt and Caroline stood talking. "Have you seen your nice waistcoat, cousin Max?" said Caroline " Yes, my charming cousin." " * Charming,' indeed ! you are very witty all at once." " Your presence inspired me." "Yes ; as it did just now to be very presuming, sir." "What do you mean?" " In kissing me !" " Kissing goes by favor," said Max, laughing." " If favor went by kissing you would never reacn me. 11 "Why?" " You are not a favorite with me," said Caroline; " which I think is a very good reason" LEATHER AND SILK. x 389 " Excellent ; but you might tolerate my presence on one ground." " What, pray ?" " My awkwardness is such an excellent foil to your grace." " I have never heard a gentleman praise another, espe cially a lady, at his own expense, and thought him in earnest ; mere irony, sir." " Ma foi /" said Max, " there is no irony about it. You are a very elegant and charming young woman, I a very ordinary young man." " Yes you think so doubtless with your fine curls, and your nice mustache to be!" added Caroline laugh ing and pointing at her cousin. " Exactly," said Max, " old people always spy out the weak points in an inexperienced and unsophisticated youth " " You won't dare to call me old, sir." "No, no did I not just now say that you were an excellent foil, with your thousand graces, to myself? Now if I am so elegant as you say, it necessarily follows that you are so much the more beautiful and graceful, since I am but a foil to you, mademoiselle." " Foil ! a fencing term." " Yes, of some significance." "What, pray?" " It suggests riding caps." " Oh, you have not forgotten my ill-luck I have not lest sight of your want of gallantry." " Forgotten it ! no, you looked much too charming on that day with those beautiful flowing locks, my belle cousin, for me to possibly forget." " Oh, a fine compliment !" " I make you a present of it free, gratis." " I do not accept." " It was in return, cousin Caroline." 390 LEATHER AND sir.K. " In return for what ?" " Your present to me." " What present ?" " The present of yourself, when you ran forward and threw yourself into my arms deign to recollect, if you please." This repartee of Mr. Max caused Doctor Courtlandt, who well remembered the fencing scene we have related, to burst into a laugh and cry " bravo !" Caroline, for a moment discomfited, turned round and said to him : " Uncle, you shall not take Max's part against me." " Against you, my heart's delight !" oried Doctor Court landt, " never !" " I knew you would not; you are such a nice old beau." " Thank you." " Besides I have quite as good a joke on you," said Caroline, with a merry and significant laugh which evi dently startled the worthy Doctor. " Humph !" he said, suspiciously. " I have indeed." " Bless my heart," said Doctor Courtlandt, " this is a most extraordinary young lady. But come, let us go in; no more wit-combats, no more clashing of foils and that sort of thing, my children." "Nice old fellow !" said Caroline, lacing her arm round the Doctor's waist and leaning her head on his shoulder, "Aunt Courtlandt, did you ever see a more excellent and amiable old man : so handsome too, so much handsomer than Max ! There's my hand ; forgive me, cousin !" Max took the hand, laughing. " Oh, uncle," whispered Caroline, " somebody told me you were going to be married ! Is it true ?" " Humph," said Doctor Courtlandt, and he led the way into the house. CHAPTER XXIX. THE WING OF THE ANOEL. THE merry Christmas came ; Christmas so full of re joicing and gay-hearted laughter which men looked for ward to in the old time as to a blessed day of mingled joy and thanksgiving ; which rose in every heart like an incarnate laugh like a great snow-clad giant bearing on his stalwart shoulders all good cheer, as brawn, and mighty rounds of beef, and foaming tankards, and flag ons full of ale and " sack and sugar" (no " fault" in any quantity) and rolling from his bearded lip shaken with merriment, tidings of joy, and merry jests and quips ; tidings of love and peace, and hopeful words for old and young, in cabin and in stately hall ; and still again in every pause of the full-handed laughter, tidings of joy and love, tidings of love and peace ! The organs rolled aloft their blessed promise of the peaceful other world. The lips of young singing maidens uttered that promise in the pauses of the storm ; the great music-storm which clashed and roared along the fretted roofs of mightiest cathedrals, drowning every sound but that low silent voice which ever floated in like some enchanting murmur, louder than thunder, stiller than the whisper of the lightest wind, the voice which soared, a divine harmony above the whole, and said to every heart "Peace and good-will, peace and good-will, peace and good- will to all mankind !" Children were merry every where, and old men glad. Relations gathered once more round the board at which they had sat, little boys and girls once ; all were for the time quite other men and women than those scheming 398 LEATHER AND SILK. ones, whom the great surges of the w^rld had swept away from all their youth and innocence, to struggle in the sea of bitter thoughts, and never-ceasing yearnings and desires. Christmas, in one word, once again had come to shower blessings on the earth ; the poor cold earth, weary and very sick ; and at his approach the snow-clad lowlands and the mountain land alike, smiled with new joy and youth. At Doctor Courtlandt's hospitable board all his old neighbors who would leave their homes were assembled. Miss Emberton and her brother and Monsieur Pantoufle from the Glades were there ; and Mr. and Mrs. Court- landt from the Parsonage the girls too and even the old worn out hunter John had come, well wrapped up in furs, to welcome again, surrounded by his friends, the advent of the time. Hunter John was very feeble and tottering ; his sands of life were well-nigh run, and he seemed to see the hour plainly now was at hand when his old body must return to dust, and his soul to him who gave it. They all took their seats round the hospitable board ; and then commenced the merry laughter, and the friendly wishes for health and happiness, which those good hon est people were accustomed to utter on such occasions. Caroline and Mr. Robert Emberton were very merry, and Mr. Emberton seemed all at once to have lost his unhappy feeling of ennui and lassitude ; he was not heard to complain of being bored once during the whole day. Max and Alice, tranquilly happy, conversed with their eyes alone that eloquent and most expressive lan guage which needs no tongue to utter it. Doctor Court landt's intended marriage with Miss Emberton was now no secret, and the friendly voices round them, told them plainly that myriads of good wishes would accompany them to church. LEATHER AND SILfc. 393 Why should we attempt to catch those merry accents, trace those gayly uttered words, petrify litre with a cold pen those bursts of laughter, circling and crossing round from side to side ; why try to describe a Christmas din ner? All know the original; the portrait would find many critics. When the poor chronicler has told how they attacked the viands, and emptied willingly many full cups, how every moment laughter exploded in the air, and how the merry jest went round, or better still the health to absent friends ; when this is said, he has told all, and for his pains has written a few lifeless words. Much better leave the subject unattempted leave the scene purely to the imagination. Old hunter John looked on with cordial eyes, but very dim eyes ; these merry sounds seemed to remind him of his youth, floating to him not from the real lips around him, but from the far land of dreams, and from those lips, cold now so long, so long! As he listened, all the past revived for him ; the merry scenes ; the border rev elry of old ; the life and joy of that old time dead long, long ago. He listened as in a dream ; he heard again those joyous youthful voices ; his youth returned to him, with its rubicund faces, and gay-dancing eyes, and jubi lant jests and laughter. The old man raised his feeble head, venerable with its gray locks now nearly blown away by the chill wind of age, and sought to erect his drooping shoulders. But overcome by weakness he sank down, his forehead on his arm, murmuring, " The arrows of the Almighty are within me ; blessed be the name of the Lord." They raised him, and bore him in the midst of a great show of sympathy, to a chamber ; a mist seemed to ob scure his eyes, which he sought with a motion of the hand to dispel. Stretched comfortably on a soft bed, he revived however, and seemed to regain his strength, and would have risen. ** 494 LEATHER AND Ml K. Doctor Courtlandt forbade this, and advisei him to M main quiet. The old man smiled, and shook his head. " I believe you are right, neighbor," heaid, "I'm goin' most nigh given out. But tell 'em not to be uneasy on my 'count. I'm only migkty weak." "You are no worse, my good old friend," the Doctor replied, " than you have often been of late. This was only a sudden weakness which you will get over. It was vertigo." " Anan ?" said hunter John. "Your head was full of blood from the riding. You'll soon recover." The old man smiled faintly. 44 Well, Doctor," he said, " go down and cheer 'em up. 'Seems to me they ain't laughin'." The Doctor after giving some directions went out, leav ing Mrs. Courtlandt a famous nurse, and one who de lighted in doing all a nurse's offices with him. Hunter John turned his face to the wall, and remained silent. Suddenly he felt an arm round his neck. He turned, and a tear dropped on his old wan cheek. " Alice !" he said. The child she was scarcely more clung closer around hJs neck ; and thus locked in a close embrace, the old man and his darling Alice, rested happily. CHAPTER XXX. THE HAND OF THE ANGEL. CHRISTMAS passed away with its misletoe be ughs to kiss bnder, and its stockings hung up for Saint Nic, and its Christmas trees shaken by chirping children. It had been a very merry Christmas in the mountain land, for none of the old adjuncts of the festive season had been wanting ; the same joyous Yule it was which cheered those English hearts in cabin and in hall, in the fine open-hearted times of old. May it ever live a deathless legend, ever to be shaped in act with each recurring year; may modern innovation never lay its cold prosaic hand on the true-hearted habitudes, so long the wont of our old ancestors, from the days of Arthur and the sage Merlin. So Christmas, honored with high revelry and song, passed onward like a word of comfort, like a trumpet- blast of hope to fearful souls. The New Year marched in also, and passed onward blithe and joyous ; crowned with Borne early flowers, and emptying, with laughing, youthful lips, great beakers to the time ! Then the ten der days of spring began to hint of their approach, though snow still covered the ground. Still hunter John was no better. He had been carefully removed to the Parsonage, after the scene we have briefly traced in the last chaptet but only to retire again to his bed, overcome with weak ness. The old mountaineer was very ill, and soon all hia old neighbors and friends flocked round him their horses standing in a long row tied to the fence before the house. They assembled in the dining-room, shaking their heads and whispering he was too old, they said, his life too feeble much longer to cling to him. Then one by one 196 LEATHER AND SILK. they went into his chamber, and gave him cheerful, hearty words, and cheered him up, making a jest of his sickness. The spring was coming ! they said, the spring would see him strong and well again. The spring was coming truly ; the cold winter waned away before the approach of vernal winds, unbinding the lowland and the mountain streams, and whispering to the little fearful flowers upon the grassy knolls to raise their heads and not be afraid. The spring said it would soon be coming, though other snow-storms might delay for a time its onward march. Soon it would marshal its bright crocuses, and primroses, and its tender violets and eglantine, and sending forward over the sunny hills its couriers to spy out the land, would give the signal with its merry winds, and make its inroad on the forces of the haughty winter-time. Still hunter John remained very ill ; ttill his old neigh bors came to see him, cheering him with hopeful words. Alice and Caroline would never leave him ; those tender hearts were struck by the same blow which smote the grandfather. Alice would read to him often from the Bible, which was his favorite book he could bear indeed to hear no other ; and Caroline would hang upon his lips, ready to do his bidding. The young girls left scarcely any thing to Mr. Courtlandt and his wife. And so the winter slowly passed away, and hunter John grew weaker. His Md neighbors now came oftener, and shook their heads and whispered more than ever ; Doctor Courtlandt was never absent now, having taken up his residence very nearly at the Parsonage ; his presence was a great relief, and a great hope to all and never had the worthy Doctor so taxed his brain for what he had observed and learned ; never had science so battled with the grim enemy who defied it. And so the winter very nearly went away, ani spring LEATHER AND SILK. 397 grew every moment stronger and more gay. But winter rose up like a giant for the last struggle, and one morn ing the dwellers in the mountains found the earth again wrapped in snow. The old hunter grew more faint and weak ; tne long day waned, and the sun slowly sloped to the red west. With Mrs. Courtlandt on one side, the Doctor and hia brother at the foot of the bed, and Alice and Caroline by his side he had thrown his feeble arm around their necks old hunter John rested quietly, gazing wistfully at his old stag hound stretched upon the floor, or looking through the window at the snow. " I think I'm goin','' he murmured, " I think the Lord's a caTlin' me, children. Keep still, old Oscar," he con tinued, looking at the hound who had risen, " poor old fool ! your master will never hunt any more upon the earth never any more, old Oscar!" " Oh, grandfather !" Alice sobbed, "don't talk so! please don't!" The old man smiled. " J ain't complainin' darlin'," he said cheerfully but feebly, "you know I ain't complainin'. No, no! the Lord's mighty good to me he's been mighty good to me these many long years and he's a smilin' on me now when I'm most nigh gone." He gazed through the window, dreamily ; the sun was on the mountain top : and the shadow of the " Moss Rock" ran over the snow clad valley toward the Parsonage. " The Lord's been merciful to me," murmured the old man. "I'm rememberin' the time now, when he turned aside my gun I didn't cut down my liltle blossom, darlin'," he said turning to Mrs. Courtlandt, who was weeping, " the Lord was mighty good to me : glory and worship be his, evermore : Amen." His thoughts then seemed to wander to times more deeply sunken in the pasi than that of the event hia 198 LEATHER AND SILK. words touched on. Waking ho dreamed; and the large eyes melted or fired with a thousand memories which came flocking to him, bright and joyous, or mournful and sombre, but all now transmuted by his almost ecstasy to one glowing mass of purest gold. He saw now plainly much that had been dark to him before ; the hand of God was in all, the providence of that great almighty being in every autumn leaf which whirled away ! Again, with a last lingering look his mental eyes sur veyed that eventful border past, so full of glorious splen dor, of battle shocks, and rude delights ; so full of beloved eyes, now dim, and so radiant with those faces and those hearts now cold ; again leaving the present and all around him, he lived for a moment in that grand and beauteous past, instinct for him with so much splendor and regret. But his dim eyes returned suddenly to those much loved faces round him ; and those tender hearts were overcome by the dim, shadowy look. The sunset slowly waned away, and falling in red splendor on the old gray head, and storm-beaten brow, lingered there lovingly and cheerfully. The old hunter feebly smiled. " You'll be good girls," he murmured wistfully, draw ing his feeble arm more closely round the children's necks, " remember the old man, darlin's !" Caroline pressed her lips to the cold hand, sobbing. Alice did not move her head which, buried in the counterpane, was shaken with passionate sobs. The old man gazed wistfully on the little head, and gently smoothed down the curls with his rugged hand. Then he felt one of those strange sensations which dart through the mind at certain times, and have so singular an effect upon us. The old dying mountaineer was cer tain that he had lived all this before ; those faces were around him in that identical arrangement, ages ago; A-lice was sobbing then- : '- 'yes were growing dim; he LEATHER AND SILK. 39J, had lain dying there as he now lay a century ago . It was so plain that heaven itself seemed to have plunged a beam of supernatural light into his heart, a beam which .it up all the mysterious hidden crypts of memory, reveal ing to him as he lay there on the border of two worlds, the secret of humanity ! " Yes, yes !" he murmured, " she has cried for me before I have died before blessed Saviour you were mine before !" Then he became very calm ; his eyes no longer wandered, but dwelt with looks of deep affection on those tender faces grouped around him, as he was about to fall into his last sleep on this earth ; that sleep from which he must awake in another world. The Doctor felt his pulse and turned with a mournful look to his brother. Then came those grand religious consolations which so smooth the pathway to the grave ; he was ready always Grod be thanked, the old man said ; he trusted in the Lord. And so the sunset waned away, and with it the life and strength of the old storm-beaten mountaineer so grand yet powerless, so near to death yet so very cheerful. "I'm goin'," he murmured as the red orb touched the mountain, " I'm goin', my darlin's ; I always loved yon all, my children. Darlin', don't cry," he murmured feebly to Alice, whose heart was near breaking, " don't any of you cry for me." The old dim eyes again dwelt tenderly on the loving faces, wet with tears and on those poor trembling lips. There came now to the aged face of the rude mountaineer, an expression of grandeur and majesty, which illumined the broad brow and eyes like a heavenly light. Then those eyes seemed to have found what they were seeking; and were abased. Their grandeur changed to humility, their light to shadow, their fire to softness and unspeak able love. The thin feeble hands, stretched out upon ths oover were agitated slightly, the eyes moved slowly to the 400 LEATHER AND SILK. window and thence returned to the dear faces weeping round the bed ; then whispering: "The Lord is good to me! he told me he was comin 1 'fore the night was here ; come ! come Lord Jesus' come !" the old mountaineer fell back with a low sigh ; a igh so low that the old sleeping hound, dreameo on. The life strings parted without sound ; and hunter John, that so long loved and cherished soul, that old strong form which had been hardened in so many storms, that tender loving heart ah, more than all, that grand and tender heart had passed as calmly, as a little babe from the cold shadowy world to that other world ; tho world, we trust, of light, and love, and joy. The family fell on their knees sobbing, and weeping. The calm voice of Mr. Courtlandt that calm tender voice which sounded like a benediction rose in prayer for the soul which had thus passed ; and so the night came down upon them with shadowy wing, but could not take from them the light of hope. A silent voice whis pered good tidings for their weary hearts, and in the lery stillness of the dusky chamber was the calm promise of * brighter, grander world. CHAPTER XXXI. MONSIEUR PANTOUFLE. OUA tale is nearly finished. That stalwart mount- aineer, the living type of the old border past, having gone away to another world, what remains for the chronicler to say ? His inspiration is dead, the history wound up, the hero has fought his last battle and succumbed to fate. But we will trespass for a brief space still upon the reader's time, since those other personages who have en tered into, and taken a prominent part in our history whose claims to attention are based on the latter clause of the title of these pages now demand a few words, in conclusion, at our hands. The autumn following that spring whose near approach we have adverted to, saw three marriages in the mount ains around Meadow Branch. Miss Emberton gave her hand willingly, most willingly, to the playmate of her youth the noble heart whose image had never left her memory from first to last. With the bracelet in his hand the worthy Doctor had made his first approaches, and never did royal signet work so powerfully on some rebel lious town, as that simple circlet of sandal-wood on the heart of its mistress. It had called up old scenes, fresh and radiant once more, with all the light and joy of youth; it had wakened memories slowly fading away into the dim past ; it had, in a word, so strongly stirred that tender heart of the still girlish lady, that when the hero of those happy scenes of her youth laid siege more vigorously than ever to the town, the town surrendered. So they were married duly ; and soon after Caroline and Alice pledged rv)J LEATHER AND SILK. their troth to Mr. Robert Emberton and Max, the details of whose courtships we have given very fully. Monsieur Pantoufle was a welcome guest on these fes tive occasions, and the old man's face was a pleasure to the Doctor and his wife. He had given them dancing lessons in their childhood now he saw them happily united, and rejoiced to see it. * I shall give lesson in the dance to your children, Mon sieur Max," he said, playing with his old cocked hat and ruffles, " ah ! you are very happy !" " How, my old friend," said the Doctor. "You have good wife; whoever have good wife is happy." The old man sighed. " Were you ever married, my good Monsieur Pantoufle ?" asked the Doctor ; " you speak very feelingly." The old man bent his head, and something like a tear glistened in his eye. "Yes! yes!" he said. " You seem grieved ; pardon my thoughtlessness." " No ; 'tis friendly. I had wife, I had n The old man paused. " I had children," he continued, in a trembling voice " I lose them all on board ship wreck coming from St. Domingo you understand, Monsieur Max all, all my little chicks." "Your children?" " Yes ; all, all ! three little ones and my poor wife. I have no heart, no home now !" With these words two tears rolled down Monsieur Pan- toufle's cheeks, and he turned away with a sob. The Doctor went to him and took his hand. " You must be lonely, my old friend," he ?aid, in hia noble and courteous voice, " and my friends, especially the friends of my youth, who have ever cherished my memory and loved me, shall not want for any thing I can LEATHER AND SILK. 403 furnish them. You must come and live with us here whenever you are not engaged giving lessons in Bath or Martinsburg. You are now growing very old, and you will find the country far more pleasant than the town You can play your violin here, and be sure you will ever be welcome most welcome." Monsieur Pantoufle raised his thin wistful face, and made the Doctor one of his old courtly bows. " Too happy you make me too happy, Monsieur Max," he said, " I can not so trouble you, though ; no." " I insist you positively shall, my old friend," said the Doctor. Monsieur Pantoufle smiled and pressed his hat on his heart. " Well, you make me ver happy, Monsieur Max," he said, a hearty expression diffusing itself over his old face, " mos happy. Yes, yes ; and no one but the old man shall teach the young Courtlandts to dance the minuet ; you recollect the good old minuet or play the piano ah ! the harpsichord gone out of fashion ! Who would have said when we fence together in old times, I should give my lesson to the second generation." Doctor Courtlandt laughed and took up a foil. " Do you fence still ?" he said. "No, no I am old, I am stiff; my hands grow white and weak my ruffles are now of use, not for the looka only. My hand like a ghost's !" With which melancholy, but not bitter or complaining witicism, Monsieur Pantoufle, bowing with his old ele gance, took his departure. The poor old man had now a home at last. " Poor cousin of the Duke de Montmorenci ! I will not abandon you in your age," said the Doctor, thoughtfully smiling. " This world is a strange place but what mat ters it ? 'Tis all right in the end." CHAPTER XXXII. WON OMNIS MORIAR. THE sun was about to set on one of those fine evenings in the latter fall, those evenings which seem to blend to gether whatsoever is bright and youthful in the spring, all that is luxuriant in the mature and rich beauty of the flower-crowned summer, all that is thoughtful and full i f melancholy attraction in the full golden-handed autumn. The rich crimson light was rolled like a royal banner, ttained with blood, down the rough side of the Sleepy Creek Mountain ; and so across the little valley to the eastern pines, where it melted away into the fast gather ing gloom. The Moss Rock stood out against the sky like a giant's shoulder, and the tall pines growing at its feet, just fringed the outline of the lofty rock with flame for they were kindled now by the red fires of sunset. Near the foot of the great rock on whose summit a gnarled fir tree still shook to the storms, or spread its rugged arms on summer days for little singing birds on a round grassy knoll just under the shadow of the mass of rock, a newly made grave, with its white headstone, was settling into gloom. On this stone a young girl, standing erect, was resting her arm, while her long hair falling down vailed her face, and hid the expression wholly. She had just planted some autumn flowers in the sod, and now she gazed at the round grassy knoll which defined the lofty form which rested below, with heaving bosom. Alice raised her head, and poshed back her hair from her face ; her eyes were full tEATHEtt AND SILK. 40* of tears, and she was mastered by one of those fits of sobbing, whose influence is so irresistible. That tender heart was overcome by the sight of the grave of her dear grandfather thus stumbled on in her walk and she felt again all the bitter grief she had ex perienced on the day of his death. Again she saw tho old forehead so thin and blanched ; the feebly smiling iip.s ; the tender eyes ; again she heard those loving and much-loved accents of the honest voice. Her head again sank down, vailed by the long sweeping hair, and she gave herself up to grief, weeping and sobbing bitterly. A hand was laid upon her shoulder ; and turning round she saw Doctor Courtlandt gazing tenderly upon her. So great had been her abstraction that she had not been con scious of his approach. The Doctor took her hand and said in his soft noble voice, full of tenderness and sympathy : " You seem much afflicted, my child I do not think you heard my horse's hoof-strokes." Alice bent down her head murmuring : " Oh, he was so good he loved me so I can't help crying, uncle he loved me so !" This broken, sobbing answer went to the strong man's heart. " Yes, yes," he said, " I know you loved him, my child ; I know it well, and you had reason. His was a true brave soul a heart which fought manfully the life battle he was summoned to upon this earth ; and when the bolt from heaven struck him down, he went to death in hope not fear calmly and tranquilly. 'Tis fit you should lovo him, Alice." " He loved me so," repeated the tender heart, sobbing and weeping, and bending over the stone, " and I loved him so dearly, uncle !" " All loved him," said the Doctor, smoothing the little bead which nestled against his shoulder gently and ton* 406 LEATHER AND derly, " and I do not blame you, darling, for lamenting him; no, no! 'twas a true brave soul an honest heart which dwelt here with us for a time which is now gone hence, we trust, to joy and glory !" Alice replied with a deep sob : from her eyes, vailed with their long lashes, tears rolled down, and her lips were tremulous with agitation. The doctor soothed her gently ; thoughtfully caressing the little head. " This man who lies here now a mere clod, a memory, wad dear to us," he said, his eyes wandering, it seemed, to other times, " most dear to many as a link of pure virgin gold which bound the present to the past. History will have no word to say of him ; a mere borderer, he can not hope to live in the long drawn annals of the land, in battles, sieges, world-losing combats ! No, this is not for him, 'tis true no cloth of gold blazoned his deeds to men's wondering eyes ; no shouts of the loud populace, clinging to his chariot wheels, rung to the sky in praise of his bold deeds. But a few years ! and he will be a myth, a dream, a mere figure more or less misty of the doubtful past." Those noble eyea grew dim and thoughtful ; the words escaping from the lips of the speaker, were mere broken links of the chain of meditation. " Yet he shall live in many a border tale," the Doctor murmured, " in many a chronicle of the old border past; he fought her battles, was a large part of the stirring life and deeds of thos rugged times; he did his part like others and his memory shall not wholly die into oblivion." The Doctor's thoughtful brow was raised again ; the young girl gazed silently on the grave. " I have planted a flower there, uncle," she said, " it will soon bloom." The Doctor, with a look of great affection, took the little hand, and gazing on the agitated face, bent down and pressed his lips to the disordered locks LEATHER AND SILK. 46? "I had forgotten, poor rude reasoner that I am," he laid, "I had forgotten what was more than all ah, far more consoling than these mournful consolations I have called up now. The soul which rests so calmly here cares nothing for the loud voice of history, for any 'cun ning of the supple herald's art; what is it to him now whether he lives or dies in the mere annals of the land ' He lives in loving hearts he lies in peace after a long, rough life with many mourners : among them he would rejoice to find his child you, darling. Your prayers and tears still follow him your blessings sanctify hia memory ; could the cold spirit feel any thing, I know these tears would move him. He lives in most loving memories : grand consolation may I have it on my dying bed! " Many would say the wish is idle, but I should love to think my own grave was decked with flowers. The human soul clings to its habitudes of thought, whatever cold reason says ; the hopes, the wishes, the aspirations of the soul run ever in the old well worn channels. I think that I should lie in peace if children came without fear to my grave, and flowers grew round it, perfuming the pure air, and symbolizing the grand beautiful heaven above ! Is the wish vain and childish ? Well, God has bid us grow like little children in our thoughts, and so I will not be ashamed of my instinct. Come, darling ; the sun has set, and you should return. It is not fit that you should indulge so much your grief though this was an eminent soul you weep for. He was, I am sure, prepared to die, and lived a long happy life happy in many true hearts, all his own happy in a good conscience, and a tranquil end. Thanks be to (rod for turning the strong man's heart to Him in these latter days ; may he do as much for you and me and all !" The Doctor put back the hair, and kissed the tender forehead which rested on hia Ureas*, 461 r.KATIIKR AND SILK. " We are all puppets, more or less, Alice," he said " and we can not grasp, with all our boasted powers, seemingly the most open and palpable significance of our human life. All is most wondrous youth, manhood, age, the seasons, the growing trees, the grass ; a divine mystery lifs in them all, and ever escapes us. You ar .ike a spring bud, I am in the mature summer of my life, the form which rests in peace there, after so many piled up years, so many tempests, was the snowy haired win ter of man. "Well is it for us if we come to that winter with so little soil upon our hearts if we accept thu human life, so mysterious and strange with the like child like earnestness and trust. He was a brave true soul, a most honest heart hia epitaph is written in most loving memories !" And kneeling down the Doctor wrote upon the tomb stone of the old hunter : " Thou shalt come to thy grave in a full age, like aa a shock of corn cometh in, in his season." Then after a moment's thought he added those pious words of the Psalmist : " Blessed be the name of the Lord from this time forth, and forevermore." He felt an arm encircle his neck, the young girl's hair crushed against his forehead, and two tears from those tender eyes fell on the letters he had written. They turned and left the place. T H E END. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-32m-8,'57 (8680(4) 444 PS Cooke - 1332 Leather and silk L78 ..SOUTHERN f f(XflAL UB >;""