[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

From all this confusion, noise, and merriment, Barry
had soon disappeared, with that shrinking sensitiveness
which characterized his timid temperament. But on this
evening something unusual seemed to agitate him, and
make him afraid of his own thoughts, even. Sitting,
bent down, in one of the large wicker chairs beside the
door, he gazed now at the calm white stars, now at the
moon, which just rising kindled the eastern trees, agitated,
nervous, starting at every sound.

Within, all went merry as a marriage bell, and the contrast
between those gay moving figures in the background,
and in the foreground the form of the boy bent down,
trembling, frightened, might have struck a painter.

Suddenly the old clock struck slowly and sonorously
nine. At the first stroke Barry started, at the last he
rose up shuddering.

“It is time!” he murmured.

“What is it time for?” asked the voice of Nina, behind
him; the violent exercise in dancing had heightened
her color unbecomingly, and she came to moderate her
roses in the cool evening.

Barry drew back, shaking his head.

“What are you shaking your head so wisely for,
Barry?” said Nina.

Barry trembling and pale, removed her hand from his
arm.

“Where are you going?” asked Nina.

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

“I can not tell you, cousin Nina.”

“Barry you must, or I will be angry.”

“I am sorry, cousin Nina; please let go my arm,”
Barry said, trembling; “I must go.”

Nina was struck with the profound terror expressed in
the boy's voice, and released his arm.

Barry, without further parley, glided into the deep
shadow of the oaks and disappeared—himself a moving
shadow—in the direction of the bridge. Nina hearing
herself called by the young girls, dismissed the subject of
the child's strange conduct from her mind, and entered
the house—just, however, as father Von Horn and his
son-in-law to be, came forth—at which Miss Nina was
observed to pout.

These gentlemen had abandoned the gay company
within, to come and talk politics in the open air, which
was pleasantly cool, not at all unpleasantly, however.

At no time was Mr. Lyttleton an agreeable companion;
but his conversational powers were displayed to much
greater advantage in the society of a reasonable, unimaginative,
sensible man, than with merry girls, and young
men addicted to gay laughter. The merriment was well
in its way, no doubt, but he had seen enough on this
occasion, for one evening, he reflected; and so reflecting,
he took his seat in the large wicker chair, which afforded
a luxurious resting-place for the head, the arms, and the
feet. Let it not be supposed, however, that Mr. Lyttelton
was the man to profit by these advantages. No; he
was accustomed to hard, upright court benches, or chairs,
and he sat perfectly erect in his comfortable and capacious
seat, disdaining to rest his head, his arms, or his feet, on
aught connected with it.

Then commenced a rather sleepy discussion, which confined
itself to politics and law; and which the reader will
readily pardon our not recording here. Mr. Lyttleton
held in his hand the last number of the Martinsburg

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

Gazette, and discoursed upon its editorial matter, which
he took for text, with great solemnity and emphasis. But
in the midst of this harangue, when the speaker's feelings
were becoming aroused, and his latent fire began to glimmer
and flicker, gradually growing brighter and warmer,
he was suddenly arrested by a circumstance so novel in
its nature, that he very nearly uttered an exclamation.

Darting from the shadow like a flash of light, knocking
the paper from Mr. Lyttelton's hand, and nearly overturning
that gentleman, seat and all, Barry rushed into
the house, stumbled on the door sill, and fell forward on
his knees among the dancers, with frightened eyes,
trembling limbs, white cheeks down which ran a cold
sweat in streams, and on both hands marks of dust and
blood.

The whole company crowded round him in dismay,
and the music died away like a wail. Father Von Horn
hastened to the child with affectionate solicitude, and
raised him.

“What under heaven is this about, Barry,” he asked
with great astonishment, “what has frightened you?”

Barry passed his hand across his forehead, and murmured
something, shuddering.

“Speak, Barry!”

The boy trembled so violently that he could not speak,
scarcely stand. His face was as white as a ghost's, and
with under lip between his teeth, and round, awe-struck
eyes, he seemed to behold something, which no one around
him could see.

Father Von Horn took him by the arm, and supported
him into the next room;—Nina alone following, with a
hurried excuse to the company for leaving them. The
door was closed, and the old man quietly smoothing Barry's
hair, gently asked the meaning of his heat, agitation
and fright. Barry gradually became more calm; and
Nina, with a wet cloth washed the dust and blood from

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

his hands; Barry then in broken sentences explained
matters.

That evening, he said, at about dusk, as he was passing
under the large willows by the run—already nearly
steeped in darkness—he had heard a voice at his elbow
in the gloom, which bade him go that night at the hour
of nine, to the grave of Courtlandt Von Horn, or some
misfortune would happen to the family. This appointment
he was not to mention to any one, or the same evil
would fall upon his uncle. While the voice was speaking
to him his foot had struck against a stone, and he had
stumbled and fallen. He rose and looked around—he
saw no one. Though terribly frightened, he had determined
to go, and did go to the church-yard. On approaching
the wall he had observed a figure of large size, clothed
in white, standing upon the tomb of Courtlandt Von
Horn—

The old man started back.

“On the tomb of Courtlandt the Tall!” he cried, catching
Barry by the arm.

“On the very slab,” said Barry, trembling.

“Barry, you are deceived,” said the old man, turning
pale, “or you are telling me an untruth.”

“Never, uncle. I never told a falsehood—I saw it!”

Father Von Horn passed his hand across his forehead,
to wipe away the cold sweat which had gathered in large
beads there. Nina's trembling arm was round his neck.

“My mind wanders,” said he “what more, Barry.
Said it any thing?”

Barry resumed his account. The white figure of the
spectre had risen taller and taller, and suddenly had
glided toward him. Affrighted, he had fled pursued, as
he thought; and as he fled, he heard thundered in his
ears, the words, “Courtlandt the Tall forbids this marriage!—
Courtlandt the Tall forbids this marriage!” He
had then run faster, and had fallen and hurt his hands,

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

but rose again, and had not stopped—as they knew—
until he reached home.

The old man's head sank, and he looked mournfully at
his daughter. Nina was pale, and her eyes were slowly
filling with tears. She knew too well the family tradition,
and her father's immovable resolution.

He took her by the hand, and muttering, “But one
course remains, daughter,” entered the room where the
guests were assembled.

“Friends,” said father Von Horn, “you have been
invited, I believe, to witness the ceremony of my daughter's
marriage, two days from this time. I am sorry to
say, it is put off for the present—for good and sufficient
reason. Enough, that it must be deferred.”

The company received this address with profound astonishment.
They looked at father Von Horn's firmly resolved
face, at Nina's tearful eyes, bent down head, and
twitching lips, at Mr. William Lyttelton's profoundly
incredulous physiognomy, framed—a striking and original
portrait—by the framework of the door. Nowhere any
information, any satisfactory indication of the meaning of
this mystery. A boy's fright to break off a marriage!
To Mr. Lyttelton, even, father Von Horn gave no satisfactory
answer, requesting him to call in the morning.

And so the company dispersed with long faces and
astonished looks, knowing not what to think, to believe,
to imagine even. They were nonplused. Last of all,
Mr. Lyttelton went away;—the gentleman who, above
all others, was affected by this strange occurrence. He
left father Von Horn's, not knowing whether to bring an
action for a novel breach of promise, or whether he should
not doubt his own, and the general sanity.

Previous section

Next section