A RICH MAN’S WHIMS.

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BY THE AUTHOR OF “FANNY AND FRANCIS.”

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“Well, Arthur, what next!” said a grave-looking young man of twenty-five, to his friend.

“What next; upon my word I cannot answer that question at this moment, in fact, I am not quite released from my last undertaking. One must be off with the old love before they are on with the new, you know.”

“It appears to me,” said Abram Snow, “that you had better remain where you are till times improve a little. I do not make enough to pay my board, yet it is better to remain than to do worse.”

“I suppose you are right,” said Arthur; “but I see no difference between your career and mine as it respects money affairs, excepting that you have a thousand dollars at interest, and I have a thousand dollars in odds and ends. Yes, there is a difference, Snow, for when business is brisk again you will get a good salary, for the world considers you as a prudent, steady fellow, and an excellent book-keeper, while I shall think myself fortunate in being sent to the West Indies as supercargo.”

Arthur Hazarelle was led on orphan when quite young, and his little patrimony was just sufficient to educate and support him till he was fourteen years of age. From that time until his twenty-fifth year he had changed from one occupation to another, sometimes twice in a year, and it could not be said that he had a particular talent for any branch of business. He certainly was ambitious, and he exerted himself to the utmost for every employer he was with; but though useful and exemplary in his conduct, yet some unforeseen event set him adrift. It was impossible almost to count up the number of places he filled during the ten years before our little story commences, the last one was about as promising as any in which he had been engaged, but in one week from the time he had this conversation with Abram Snow, the auctioneer with whom he was engaged took it into his head to die, and even the thousand dollars worth of odds and ends died with him.

Poor Arthur! after paying his week’s board and his washerwoman he had not more than a dollar in his pocket, and he was honest enough to tell this to his landlady.

Women are tender-hearted, and Mrs. May was as weak as the rest of her sex; so she pitied Arthur, and talked over her feelings before one of her boarders, a surly, ugly old man, who never opened his lips without finding fault, and who was always watching Arthur from the corner of his eye.

“Good enough for him—better than he deserves, Mrs. May,” said Mr. Crosbie, “a rolling stone gathers no moss; why, the wealth of the Indies would not stick to such a squib—here, there and every where. To my knowledge he has changed places twice or thrice a year ever since he was fourteen years old.”

“That may all be true, Mr. Crosbie; but from what I know of him it was none of his fault. I am quite unhappy about him, for I know very well that he will not stay one moment in my house unless he can get money enough to pay his board.”

Mr. Crosbie made no answer but—“humph”—and left the room. He was a man apparently well advanced in years, ugly in face, and all over out of joint, he meddled with no man’s business, and in return, prevented others from interfering with his. But of all the eyes that were ever set in mortal head his were the most keen and piercing—he seemed to read the bottom of your soul at a glance.

As he left the room he met Arthur Hazerelle with a small traveling trunk in his hand, and on Mrs. May coming out, he shook hands with her cheerfully, and wished her a good-morning. He had often felt uneasy before the searching expression of Mr. Crosbie’s eye, and it made him actually shudder at this moment. He seemed to have lost the power of will.

“Which way are you bound?” said the old gentleman, fixing his eye still more firmly on Arthur’s face. “If you are going to Berrydale, back of the granite hills, here is a letter for you.”

Arthur stared at him not only with astonishment but dismay, for he had but the moment before decided on going there, and had not communicated his intention to any one.

“If you are going, say so,” growled out the man, “for the cars start at nine, and you have no time to lose.”

Arthur mechanically took the letter, put it in his pocket, and raising his hat, walked out of the house, feeling certain that Mr. Crosbie was staring at him from the street door, Mrs. May from the green blinds in the parlor, and the servants from the basement window.

On his way he stopped to say good-bye to Abram Snow, who was hard at work at his desk. He was not at all surprised at the flitting, but there was one excellent trait in his character, he never intruded his advice upon any one. He wrote down his friend’s address—Berrydale—and thrusting a cigar in Arthur’s hand, they parted.

“The cars,” thought Arthur, “no cars for me, I must walk the whole distance, for a dollar will not pay the fare even.” So he stepped lightly along, no way discouraged, for he never yet had left a place—or rather, a place had never left him without his having the prospect of another. He had not gone more than two miles before he was overtaken by a singular looking man, dressed in a brown linen frock-coat and pantaloons, with a brown cap, a brown umbrella and a brown carpet-bag. He wore spectacles, had a remarkably long nose and chin, and when he came up with Arthur begged him not to walk so fast.

Arthur turned hastily to see who had accosted him so unceremoniously, and the man smiled. It was a pleasant smile certainly, but it did not accord with the peculiar style of his face, at any rate Arthur took no notice of him, and walked on.

“Why did not you put your trunk in the cars?” said the man, “you would walk much more to your satisfaction if you were not so weighed down—here, give me one end of it, and let us trudge on together; my carpet-bag is not heavy enough to incommode me.”

So saying, he caught up one end of Arthur’s trunk and on they went together; the stranger whistling carelessly, and the young man very much surprised, and somewhat amused at the oddness of the stranger’s manner and appearance.

“It is very kind in you,” said Arthur, laughing out loud, “but my little trunk is not heavy, as you perceive; I dare say your carpet-bag is of twice the weight.”

“Four times,” said the man, “but I am more used to carry heavy parcels than you are. How far are you going?”

Arthur told him, and then they fell into the common chat of strangers, and thus they proceeded till two o’clock, when both, weary enough, entered a small tavern to rest and take a luncheon. They had exchanged names on the road, and Arthur found that his new acquaintance was called Galton Springle, and that he was a schoolmaster on his way to a small school now vacant near Drizzletown. As this place lay in Arthur’s route, and the man was not offensive in his manners, our young friend was quite willing that they should proceed together.

Ham and eggs and an apple-pie made up their dinner, and as this was soon provided and soon dispatched, they still lingered on the sofa, or wooden settle rather, when Galton Springle proposed smoking. He had about a dozen cigars, in a box at the bottom of his bag, and offered one to Arthur, who refused, recollecting that his friend, Abram Snow, had given him one at parting—he took it from his pocket, but what was his surprise on opening the little roll of stiff brown paper, to find instead of a cigar, a roleau of ten cent pieces!

Galton Springle looked at the opening of this little paper from the corner of his eye and smiled to himself, for he saw that the contents were unknown to the young man. He made no observation, however, but calling for a candle, lighted his cigar and began to smoke. As he made no further offer of one to Arthur, the latter pocketed his roleau and leaned back against the wall, thinking over the past and hoping brightly for the future. There could not be more than three dollars, he thought, in the roll, but even this sum was a great deal for Snow to give, and it was so delicately given that Arthur felt truly grateful and promised thousands in return. When the cigar was finished and the reckoning paid, they proceeded on their journey till evening, when they rested again, but this time it was on a bench near the tavern door.

“If we rest awhile,” said Springle, “we shall be fresh enough to reach Drizzletown by ten o’clock, and you can then share my room, or have one to yourself if you like. There is a very decent tavern there and the charges are very moderate, so let us remain together for the night, at least.”

In half an hour they took up their baggage and went on, though poor Arthur began to flag, for he was unaccustomed to such severe exercise, whereas Springle seemed as light of foot as when they first met. By ten, however, they reached Drizzletown, and as the moon was at the full, Arthur saw a few scattered houses, without any attempt at regularity as it respected their position, and no appearance of a street at all.

Arthur saw that Springle was as much a stranger to the host of the little inn as he was himself, so he presumed that this was his first visit to the place, and yet the man knew the road so well, and spoke of the people residing there in so particular a manner, that he could not suppose this was his first visit. A bowl of bread and milk constituted their supper, and as Arthur preferred a room to himself, they were shown to separate chambers and retired for the night.

The young man slept soundly till eight o’clock, and when called to breakfast saw that he was alone. He was told that his companion had left the house at daylight, leaving his carpet-bag and a letter. The tavern-keeper said that in lounging about the door he had seen an acquaintance and had gone off with him. After breakfast the letter was brought, and to his surprise it was directed to himself, it ran thus—

“An unforeseen circumstance has occurred which obliges me to return to the city whence I came, and as I have plenty of clothing there, I make you a present of the carpet-bag and its contents. Do not part with the bag, however, let your necessities be ever so great, as I value it very highly, though I part with it to you. When you are settled to your liking leave your address in this house, and the man, Mr. Somers, will forward it to me.

Yours,

Galton Springle.”

“Do you know this man, this Galton Springle?” said Arthur to the landlord. “He is a stranger to me, and yet he makes me a present of this bag and all that it contains.”

The landlord did not know him, had never seen him before, and thought him the ugliest hound that ever lived—evidently envious of Arthur’s good luck, and tormenting himself with the probability of his possessing the bag himself had he known that the owner was not to return.

There was still ten miles to walk before Arthur could reach Berrydale, and what was worse, the road wound round a mountain, so that there was an ascent of three miles before he could reach the railroad that ran through the village to which he was going. Being now encumbered with more baggage, and having money enough to indulge himself, he hired a wagon to take him to Berrydale, where he arrived just as the dinner was smoking on the table of a small inn.

Mr. Green, the landlord, knew Arthur, and of course gave him a landlord’s welcome. In a few minutes, after washing the dust from his face and hands, he was seated at the table with his host and family, and two strangers.

“And what brought you here Mr. Hazerelle?” said the landlord, good-humoredly, “I hope whatever it is, you are to stay some time with us—I presume you are on a shooting frolic.”

“My stay depends upon yourself and your neighbors, Mr. Green. I see by the papers that you are in want of a teacher, and feeling myself competent, I intend to offer myself as a candidate.”

The landlord looked at him with astonishment.—“What! you, you a country schoolmaster! why times have fallen heavily upon you I fear!—But really, if you are disposed to teach, I will answer for it you shall have the preference.”

As he said this, his eye lighted on one of his guests, and there was such an expression of malignity in the man’s face, that he started. This man had only arrived a few minutes before Arthur. He came, with two heavy, uncouth looking trunks, and two ugly looking dogs; ordered a bed-room for himself, a kennel for his dogs, and then took his seat at the table.

“I intend to offer myself as candidate too,” said this man to Arthur, “so we start fair, young man; I will set my acquirements and recommendations against yours, and then wait the issue.”

“If it depend upon letters of recommendation,” said Arthur, “you will surely succeed, for I did not bring one, and I am but slightly known to my good friend here.”

The landlord turned round and winked slyly at his wife, for the idea of such a gnarled, old hickory knot, as this man, with his spiteful eye and face, pretending to compete with Arthur was too ridiculous. Mr. Green was a landholder, and a justice of the peace, he was in high request as a politician, had money at interest, and had four children to educate.

When dinner was over, the stranger whose name was Godfried Darg, drew near to Arthur, and in a sort of snuffling voice, breathing hard through the nose between his sentences, he “begged to box the compass with him.” Arthur smiled, and said “he had no objection; he might be questioned on any subject which came within the reach of the advertisement, and perhaps something further.” So the rough man began to spout Latin. Arthur acquitted himself very well, and to the satisfaction of the other stranger, who had taken dinner with them, and who now drew near also, to listen.

There are very few persons who would have indulged this queer-looking old fellow in this whim, but as we observed, Arthur was good-natured, and being indifferent about the issue, he let the man draw out the little learning he possessed. Mr. Conway, the other stranger had been in France, and understood the language well, and in a short time he found that Arthur left his antagonist far behind in that language. Darg said nothing at the end of the French trial, but proceeded at once to the German, he was foiled here too, and so they went on from one branch to another, Mr. Conway deciding in his own mind that the young man was an excellent scholar, and would suit his own purpose exactly.

Godfried Darg having ‘boxed the compass’ without tripping up his rival, now descended to the minor points.—“Can you mend pens as quickly as I can?” said he, cutting up and making half-a-dozen pens in a shorter time than ever pens were made before.

“There you beat me over and over,” said Arthur, “for I never made a decent pen in my life, I use steel pens, or rather a gold pen altogether.”

“Can you teach the children to dance?” said Darg:—“Here,” said he, getting up, and cutting two or three of the old fashioned pigeon wings,—“can you do this?”

Arthur and all present laughed heartily, and the young man acknowledged that he had the advantage there too, “for he did not teach dancing.”

“Let him take the situation,” said Conway, as the old man left the room to feed his dogs, “I am looking out for a teacher, and you are just the one to suit me. Here you will only get one hundred and fifty dollars a year, and very plain board; whereas, with me you shall have three hundred, and live upon the fat of the land.”

Of course, this offer was better than the one Arthur came to seek; and he told Mr. Conway that he should talk the matter over with Mr. Green, and then give him an answer. But Mr. Green shook his head; he had no great opinion of Conway, who was the principal of the grammar-school in Drizzletown, and had about forty boys under his care. They knew little of him, and for his part, he said, he did not care to know more. He advised Arthur to rough it with them until something better offered, and promised to give him board for a very moderate sum.

This decided Arthur—for he longed for rest and ease of mind; and if he remained here, he should be with a man who felt a friendly interest in his welfare. The next morning at ten o’clock the trustees of the school were to meet—and there were already nine candidates even for so humble a situation. The good-hearted landlord told Arthur not to be cast down, for, according to his judgment, the trustees would decide in his favor unanimously. His only wonder was, that such an ill-looking fellow as Darg, though he might have a pocket-full of letters, should presume to expect an acceptance.

One by one the candidates were examined, and one by one they departed. Godfried Darg requested to be questioned last—and Arthur’s turn now came. He could not help smiling as he saw the solemn pomposity of the committee, not one of whom were judges of the real merits of a candidate—and he felt that before them he had no chance. All at once he recollected the letter given to him by Mr. Crosbie; and stepping up to the gentleman at the head of the table, whose name he learned was Barnes, asked if that letter were for him.

Mr. Barnes took the letter, nodded his head gravely, and opened it—he read it—passed it to his neighbor, who in his turn read it—and so it went around the table. When they had all finished it, Mr. Barnes said, “I believe, gentlemen, I can anticipate your sentiments—and so, with your leave, I shall beg Mr. Hazerelle to retire.”

“What is there in that letter,” said Arthur, to Mr. Barnes, “which refuses me a hearing? I came here by the invitation of your advertisement; and as to the letter which has given you, as I perceive, an unfavorable opinion of me, the writer of it has no more knowledge of me than I have of any gentleman here present—not so much, in fact.”

“We are not bound to answer questions, young gentleman,” said Mr. Barnes; “we are sorry if you are disappointed, but you must leave us just now, as there is another person to examine, and our time is short.”

Arthur could not help laughing, in spite of his chagrin; and yet his fingers tingled with a desire to box the speaker’s ears. He made his bow, however, and told his kind friend, Mr. Green, how cavalierly he had been used. Mr. Green was too much surprised to make a remark; and his wife observed, with much anger, that old Crosbie ought to be tarred and feathered, for taking away the character of an innocent man. Arthur told them that he must get sight of the letter, for until he knew what had been alledged against him, he could not defend himself. And while they were yet speaking, Godfried Darg entered with his dogs, to say that he had been found worthy, and should enter on his duties the beginning of the week. He nodded impudently to Arthur, and observed as he went to the kennels, that it was a pity the young gentleman had not been accepted, as he had too much learning to be allowed to starve for the want of employment.

Martha Green, the landlord’s daughter, whispered something in her father’s ear, and he shook his head. She spoke to her mother, who listened with more complacency, for she beckoned her husband out of the room.

“I shall just say a few words to you, Mr. Hazerelle,” said the landlord, as he returned, “and they are this: there is your room, and here is your table; and in my house you remain until you can get some employment. I did hope that what I said to those ninnies yonder would have been sufficient to satisfy them; as it is, however, they can employ this rough old fellow if they choose, but they shall have no child of mine—and that will worry them a little. After dinner, I shall propose something to you which I hope will suit you better than to torment yourself with young children.”

At dinner Godfried Darg conducted himself quietly and respectfully—the very reverse of his conduct before he was chosen schoolmaster, at which the little party were surprised—for they expected he would be a perfect nuisance. He ate in silence, and as soon as he finished, got up, took the bones from his own, and, in fact, from all the plates at table, and went to the kennel to feed his dogs—Howler and Barker, as he called them.

“Now, come here, Mr. Hazerelle,” said the landlord; “let us sit on this bench, and enjoy our cigar, while I tell you of a plan suggested by my daughter, Martha. Over yonder,” pointing to a forest about a mile distant, “hidden from our sight though, is a fine old stone building, and in that old stone building—a perfect castle it is—lives a fine old woman, proud as Lucifer though, who has a fine young girl under her care. This lady has a son, as proud as herself, who has continued single to this day—being well-nigh to fifty years of age—because he could not find any one good and high enough for him. There the family has lived for thirty years. We cannot make Mr. Herman out exactly, for he never comes frankly and cheerily amongst us; so we have to guess a great deal—and perhaps we sometimes guess wrong. At any rate, some people say that he wants to marry his mother’s beautiful ward; and some say she is his daughter—and so we go on and know nothing certain, but that there they are, and there they will remain till they die. Sometimes we see Mr. Herman”—Arthur started—“every day for weeks together, and then he is absent for one, two, and three months at a time. Madam Herman, as the folks call her, has never been seen on this side of that forest; but that pretty creature, Grace Gordon, comes to our village-church, and sometimes rides about the country on horseback with Mr. Herman, or an old groom.”

“What sort of a looking man is this Mr. Herman?” said Arthur. “I once knew a gentleman of that name, and he interested me exceedingly.”

“Oh! he could not have been our Mr. Herman, for he is not an interesting man at all. His personal appearance is well enough, but the expression of his face is unpleasing; and he is so wrapt up in his own conceit, that he scorns to talk. I don’t think he ever asked me a question in his life, not even such questions as people ask out of pure good-fellowship—as what do you think of the weather, or how will the crops turn out?”

“It cannot be the one I know,” said Arthur, “for he was quite a talker, and interested himself in every thing that was going on—but let me not interrupt you.”

“Well, this young lady, Miss Grace, wants to learn the German language; and they have advertised far and near for a teacher, one who would give two lessons a day, an hour each time, for six months. Now my daughter hinted, that as you were disappointed about the school, you might be more fortunate if you applied to Madam Herman.”

“I certainly should have no objection,” said Arthur; “but I fear that they would require better references than I could give. You see that even my superiority over Mr. Darg was of no use.”

“Oh, you forget the letter; it was that which decided your fate—we must get hold of it somehow. But what I was going to observe is this, you can write a note to Mr. Herman, and offer yourself as a teacher of the German. You can but try—faint heart, the proverb says, never won fair lady; and Grace Gordon is worth the winning. You see, my young friend, that we have sprung over the fence to get sight of a wedding before you have seen the bride.”

So the kind-hearted innkeeper and his family talked the little plot over, and dropped a few words of assurance now and then to Arthur, and when bedtime came he had made up his mind that he would make the attempt, giving such references as were in his power. He had been twice to Berrydale on shooting excursions, and quite won the hearts of Mr. Green’s family, the boys in particular, two of whom accompanied him each time—they were his sworn friends, and were loud in their praises of his good-nature in breaking off his sport to teach them some of the mysteries of the art. Mrs. Green knew Mrs. May, the lady with whom Arthur had boarded for several years, and of course she was well acquainted with every particular of the young man’s life.

“If he has chopped and changed about in out-door business,” said Mrs. May, “he has been constant to me, and when he is not to be found at my house it is because there is not money enough in his purse to pay his board. How he lives till I see him again, I cannot tell, but I ask no questions, and he asks no favors.”

Arthur looked around his peaceful, quiet little room, and at the gentle, harmonious prospect spread before his window, and thought how pleasant it would be to live there forever. He was weary of change—no fault of his, poor fellow—and thought that no office would be beneath him, if there was a possibility of securing a humble retreat like this. And yet Arthur was ambitious in the true sense of the word.

When they sat down to breakfast Mr. Darg was not there, the hostler said he whistled to his dogs at break of day, and walked off with them toward the brook. The horn was sounded and search made, but he came not, and they finished their breakfast without him. Mrs. Green told the girl to keep the coffee hot as he would no doubt soon come in from his ramble, and she went up stairs to attend to her duties. In a few minutes she returned, with a letter directed to Arthur, it had been found under the old man’s pillow, and she stood by while Arthur read it.

“Well,” said he, “this is as singular an adventure as the one at Drizzletown,” and he read out as follows:

“Sir,—I am heartily tired of keeping school already, though I have not yet begun, and so vacate in your favor. If any of your pupils turn out clever fellows, tell them how much cleverer they would have been if I had been their master. I consulted my dogs this morning at break of day, and I am pretty sure they thought the confinement of a kennel quite as irksome and unwholesome as I should teaching thick-headed boys in a forlorn, comfortless school-house. When you go to the city during vacation, you can hear of my whereabouts of Mrs. May, for an old fellow living there, by the name of Crosbie, knows all my concerns. Meantime I ask your acceptance of my shaving-apparatus, it is rather too good for you, but as I heard you ask the innkeeper for a razor, I concluded the present would be acceptable. If you ever get a chance I wish you would spit in the face of that solemn ass Barnes, and call Mr. Herman a fool, for me, will you?

Yours till death,

Godfried Darg.”

They laughed very heartily at this strange epistle, and one of the boys rushed up stairs for the shaving-box. It was indeed a beautiful affair, and all the articles were of the very finest quality; but what created great surprise was the contents of a note found on the top of a little steel-box which fitted nicely in one of the divisions. The note ran thus:

“Within the little steel-box is the miniature of the lady you are destined to marry, this box you are not to open till you see my two dogs, Howler and Barker, and then by consulting them you will find out the way to open the box, for it has a curious fastening, and cannot be opened but by their connivance unless it is broken, and if broken, the miniature will be destroyed. I think you can depend on yourself in this particular, but be sure to spit in Barnes’ face, and if you could add a tweak of the nose and a kick, you would greatly oblige me.

G. D.”

Of course it was agreed on all sides that the little box should remain quietly untouched just where it now lay, but they made themselves very merry over the letter and note. As to applying again for the school not one of the family would listen to it, not even if Mr. Barnes came in person to make the offer.

“No!” said Davie, the youngest boy; “not if he were to fall down on his knees and beg you to go.”

This created a laugh again, and this good-heartedness was very soothing to poor Arthur.

Not one of the children would take the letter to Herman Hall, and the hostler was too shabby a looking fellow to be sent on such an errand to so grand a place, so Martha’s lover, Garry Lovel, a young man who worked Mr. Green’s farm on shares, undertook to deliver it himself. There need not have been such confabulations on the subject, for Garry did not get farther than the porter’s lodge, an awful gloomy looking place, Garry said, and the porter was as awful-looking and gloomy as the lodge. He was told that an answer would be sent in the course of the day, and he therefore need not wait, and the young man said he put wings to his feet and a quarter of a mile between him and the porter before he got to an ordinary walk.

“If I were you, Mister Arthur,” said Garry, “I never would set foot in yon hall, for there is something wrong there. I can’t believe that honest people would shut themselves up in that dull, musty sort of way, unless they had something to conceal. You had far better turn farmer, here is a fine chance, for neighbor Fielding wants to go West, and he would rent his farm for a trifle.”

“Do take it,” said Mrs. Green.

“No,” said Martha, blushing; “let him take father’s farm on shares, that will be easier, for I want Garry to take the next farm.”

Then there was a merry shout of laughter, and the boys declared she was right, and that Arthur should stay with them, and they would plough and reap for him while he tinkered about, shot birds, and caught fish.

Toward evening the answer to his letter came, he was requested to call at Herman Hall at ten o’clock the next day, and then he might decide whether the terms would suit him.

At ten o’clock he was at the porter’s lodge, where the solemn-looking personage who had so awed Garry stood ready to receive him. A low, garden-chaise, with a pair of handsome ponies, was waiting for him, into which he seated himself. The ride was enchantment. No fairy dream could have conjured up the beautiful scenery which opened to his view at every turn of the road. Arthur was lost in rapture, he forgot his humble circumstances and his slender fortunes, for his whole soul was filled with lofty thoughts, he seemed elevated to the companionship of angels, and he gloried that he was a man after God’s own image. “Angels,” thought he, as the carriage moved slowly along, “could not feel happier, nor have purer emotions than I enjoy this moment. I have had the fear of God before me and have reverenced Him always, but here I love Him—these are His glorious works. Cities are made by men.”

Arthur had lived in cities always, and his little excursions, hastily made, and very limited in duration, were for the purpose of fishing or shooting, and always with a dull companion, like Snow, who fished and shot in the same way that he kept books—pursuing the one act, the one thought which he proposed doing.

Herman Hall had been in the possession of the family for more than a century; it was originally selected on account of its beauty and fine prospects, and art had assisted nature in embellishing it. Arthur entered the mansion-house a far different man than he was an hour before. A new sense—a new feeling had been given to him.

His name was announced by the footman, and the man who received it passed it to another, who opened a parlor door, and then came forward to request him to walk in. With his mind filled with such a blaze of glory as that through which he had passed, the petty formalities of a common man, better in external gifts than himself, seemed as nothing, so that when Mr. Herman waved his hand to a chair, Arthur seated himself with as much ease as if he had been worth a million.

“This is your letter I presume,” said Mr. Herman. Arthur bowed. “You are competent to teach the German language”—another bow,—“and what are your terms?”

Arthur smiled, for the truth is he never thought of terms, he concluded there was a set price, and that there would be no difficulty on that score.

“You shall name your own terms, sir,” said he, “I have never taught, but I understand the method of teaching, and therefore leave the minor consideration to you.”

“We shall say a dollar an hour, if that sum suits you,” said Mr. Herman, and Arthur was quite satisfied. He was to begin in the course of an hour, and until the young lady was ready, he was requested to walk in the library.

A library! A private library! Arthur had seen several of them, and had been in the city, and in circulating libraries, but he never, even in works of history and fiction had read of any to equal the extent and magnificence of this one. This library occupied the whole ground floor of a wing of what might be called a castle, and no book was beyond the reach of the hand. The roof or ceiling was supported by forty columns, the base of each being ten feet square, five feet high, and filled with books. There was just space enough between each column for a person to pass with ease, and there were lounges and chairs scattered about in every direction. This curious library contained all that was valuable and rare, and not an author of note was omitted. One column was devoted to Shakspeare alone, with every commentator from the earlier to the present time, and here, as if by instinct, Arthur seated himself. He was soon buried in the charms of the author’s fancy, and when the servant announced that the ladies requested to see him, he had some difficulty to bring his thoughts down to a level with a dollar an hour.

After walking through an interminable suite of apartments—all to impress him with the wealth and consequence of the owners, he was ushered into a small room, such as ladies are fond of calling a boudoir, here sat two ladies, the younger of whom rose as he entered.

“Pray be seated,” said Madam Herman, waving her hand in the same gracious manner as her son,—“Sit here, and let me request you to listen to certain preliminaries before you begin your duties.—If you dislike them, we can part at once?”

“Oh, let the preliminaries suit yourself!” said Arthur, “and I shall make no objection, provided I may spend one hour a day, or even less, in that glorious library, why, madam, I shall never dream of remuneration, there is food and raiment, and every thing that can delight the soul, at the foot of one column alone—the one devoted to Shakspeare!”

Mrs. Herman stared at him with perfect amazement. He heard a clear ringing laugh as if in the next room, and on glancing his eye toward the window, there sat the young lady, brimful of smiles and blushes, with her head bending over a piece of embroidery.

The young man came down from his stilts at once. Shakspeare—the library—the glorious scenery—all vanished, and there he sat a humble teacher of the German language, for one dollar an hour.

“The preliminaries, young man,” said the old lady, stiffly, not regarding his rhapsody, or subsequent embarrassment—“are few, but must be complied with strictly.—Hear them out without interruption, and then decide for yourself.”

“At ten o’clock precisely you are to be in this room, there is your seat, and there is the lady who is to receive instruction.” Arthur rose, and bowed to this lady, who half rose and blushed exceedingly. “I shall remain in the room, and give notice when the hour expires. There is to be no conversation excepting what relates to the language you are teaching, and when the hour is expired you can go to the library, or ride out, or amuse yourself on the grounds, till the servant announces to you that it is time to dress for dinner. You are to dine with us.” Arthur did not like this part of the arrangement, and sat uneasily in his chair.—“Go to your room as soon as the dessert is removed, and be your own master till five o’clock, when another hour of your time will be required; I shall be in the room as before, and give you notice when the hour is up, and the family then sees you no more till ten the next day, excepting that this lady will preside at the breakfast and tea table. You are to remain with us until the lady is sufficiently grounded in the language to proceed in it by herself, and you are neither to leave the place, nor see any one till that time arrives.”

The same clear laugh was heard in the next room, and with a glance of his eye, he saw that the young lady held a handkerchief to her face.—Arthur rose;—

“I had no idea madam that I was to be the happy inmate of this paradise, but as it is your pleasure, I agree to the terms excepting, that once a week I must have the privilege of seeing one or two of my humble Berrydale friends. The porter’s lodge can be our place of rendezvous, and all that they shall ever hear from my lips is, that I am happy beyond my hopes. I think it is the desire to remain unknown to the people in the neighbourhood, which gives rise to your request that I hold no communication with them.”

Mrs. Herman made no reply—she pointed to the table where books, paper, and pens lay, and began to knit with dignified solemnity.

He took his seat opposite to the young lady, (whose name had not been mentioned by Mrs. Herman,) but drew his chair so that his face was partly hidden, for he wanted to catch glimpses of his pupil’s face, unseen by Mrs. Herman. He took up the books, examined them, and selecting one, began to read.

“The language must appear harsh to you,” said he, “but as soon as you have acquired the pronunciation, you will like it exceedingly.—I was acquainted with a gentleman who had a great desire”—

“No anecdotes, if you please, Mr. Hazerelle,” said Mrs. Herman,—“Please to recollect.” Arthur really was “struck all in a heap,” particularly as he again heard the laugh in the next room. The young lady pitied his confusion, but the laugh was irresistible, and she joined in it. What could Arthur do better than to laugh also? Instead of ordering him to leave the house as he expected, the old lady begged them to proceed, as “minutes made up hours.”

He got through the first lesson without further remark, though the young lady could scarcely keep her countenance, and when the hour had expired, Mrs. Herman rang a little table bell, and the servant who came in was requested to show Mr. Hazarelle his chamber.

As soon as Arthur had shut his room door, he threw himself on the sofa and laughed heartily, but what was his amazement when he heard the same clear ringing laugh as before.

“Upon my word,” thought he, “this is a queer place. All solemn nonsense on one side—all puerile formality on the other—and harlequinism in the centre.—Truly, I am curiously hemmed in, and can scarcely hope to steer clear among such an odd set.—Who can that merry laugher be?—I certainly have heard that clear bell voice before!—Where can I have heard it?”—

“But the more he thought,” as the children say, “the more he could not tell;” so he looked round his chamber, and there, to his surprise, was his trunk, his carpet-bag, and his dressing-case. Really this is taking things for granted, thought he; why these articles must have been sent for the moment I entered the house; they thought I should be a fool to refuse compliance with their terms, which, in fact, they might safely infer had I hesitated.

Now our readers must not suppose that Arthur was a sorry fellow, and willing to put up with insult. On the contrary, he was high-minded and brave, and from an equal would receive no provocation. But he was forbearing to the weak and nervous; and in the present case, it would be absurd to resent either the folly of Mrs. Herman, or the impertinence of the laugher, even could he find him out. Besides, there was an air of mystery and enchantment around the people and place, which was very captivating to a young man.

The hours slipt away at the column of Shakspeare, and a servant informed him that it was time to dress for dinner, which business did not take him many minutes to accomplish, as he was one of those rare persons whose dress is never out of order. “Dust never sticks to him,” as homely Mrs. May used to tell her friends—a saying which Mrs. Green was fond of repeating to her friends whenever his name was mentioned.

Now for an extraordinary scene, thought Arthur, as the servant bowed him down to the dining-room. I shall see a magnificent service of plate and a royal dinner. But he was disappointed in one respect—for though the dinner-service was splendid, yet the dinner itself was simple beyond all imagination. The table was set for four persons, Mrs. Herman was at the head, her son at the foot, and Arthur and Grace Gordon opposite to each other. Fricasseed chickens and boiled ham constituted the meat part of the dinner; but there was a number of dishes of delicate vegetables, delicately cooked, and a variety of fine fruit for dessert.

There was neither wine nor ale, but pitchers of ice-water in abundance—and all seemed to eat with an appetite. Madam Herman helped liberally, but talked sparingly. Mr. Herman uttered not a syllable, Grace Gordon was in high spirits, and laughingly asked a few questions in German, such as she had learned in the morning, Arthur answered her gravely, according to contract—and thus the first dinner passed.

As the library was a great novelty, Arthur betook himself to the Shakspeare column again, and there he remained until five o’clock, when he was summoned to the study. He found Madam Herman seated in her rocking-chair, and Grace Gordon at the table, with a smile on her face of dubious meaning, and her handkerchief more than once raised to hide it.

If the lesson was a dry matter-of-fact business, he was fully rewarded by the quickness of the young lady’s apprehension; she perfectly comprehended what Arthur had taught her in the morning, and he feared her progress would be so rapid, that he should not remain in this enchanted castle very long. He turned round to Madam Herman, when she rung the little bell for the servant to bow him out, and observed that Miss Gordon had made great progress already. The old lady made no reply, but drew up with quiet dignity, and there was scorn on her features. Miss Gordon blushed and held down her head, pitying the young man’s embarrassment, and again, from the half-open door the same clear laugh was heard.

Arthur stood for a moment irresolute, he had half a mind to quit the house at once; for the disagreeable manners of the old lady, the cold formality of her son, and the laugh, which seemed as if in mockery, were more than a counterpoise to the great benefits and pleasures of his situation. But the young lady was unexceptionable in her manners; she was not, to be sure, familiar, or even social, as is always the case between teacher and scholar; but there was nothing offensive—and it was a pleasure to look at her beautiful face. He stood irresolute, however, and probably would have made his parting bow, had not his eye glanced at the following words, evidently written that moment—never take offense where none is meant.

A grateful bow and a deep blush convinced the young lady that she should not lose her teacher. Arthur was bowed out of the room as before, and jumping in the chaise which the servant said was waiting for him, he rode down to the lodge to see his friends, who were to meet him there at six o’clock. The four boys, Mr. Green, and Garry, were all clustering in the room waiting for him, and his heart warmed with joy on receiving their honest, hearty greeting. Garry asked if he might tell Mrs. Green and Martha to come the next day—and the boys declared that they would be there also. There was a delicacy about these unsophisticated people which prevented them from asking questions, as soon as they heard the terms of his contract at Herman Hall. Arthur told them, however, that he was quite happy, and that his pupil would not want his assistance more than a month, as she learned very quickly.

The servant presented himself at the door, and Arthur found it was time to bid his honest friends adieu, promising to see them once a week at that hour—and so they reluctantly parted. On his return to the house, he was shown to a small room adjoining the library, and on the table was the tea equipage. The man asked if he would like to go to his chamber before taking tea; and Arthur, supposing this part of the etiquette, followed him up stairs, where, as usual, the door was opened for him, and, with a low bow, the servant retired. After arranging his hair and dress, he sat at the casement enjoying the beautiful prospect, and regretting that it would, like a dream, so soon fade away—for he was quite certain that the lady would master the most difficult part of the language in less than six weeks.

How strangely are we constituted, and how little do we know of what the mind is capable. In a few hours Arthur was a changed man. The petty anxieties of a business life, all originating in the necessity of providing for daily wants, were cast aside, never to be resumed again—for new feelings, new hopes filled his whole soul. He never before understood the greatness, the goodness of God; he never comprehended His power over creation, and that all things, all that was beautiful, was the work of His hand. It was in this magnificent solitude that his heart opened to all this glory; and it seemed as if a film had fallen from his sight. Men cannot know God in cities!

New faculties have been given to me, thought he, on descending to the tea-room. I am in communion with a holy and chaste spirit, which will, I know, sustain me; and the future, so dreaded, I now look forward to with a certainty of success. My heart is made up of love and charity—and every human being shall have a claim upon my tenderness. Even the weak and infirm of purpose I shall endeavor to comfort and advise; and as to this beautiful girl, so far, so infinitely my superior—why may I not love her as a dear sister, love her in secret and—

He was by this time in the room, and there, at the head of the table, sat the beautiful girl, who had just passed through his mind in such near relationship. Wholly unprepared for her presence—for he had forgotten that she was to preside at the breakfast and tea-table—he started back in the fear that the servant had made a mistake.

Grace Gordon half rose, smiled, and bid him take a seat. Instead of the silence and reserve of the dinner-table, Arthur found himself in animated conversation, and he was pouring out his feelings, when he heard the same clear, loud laugh as before.

Relieved from restraint, for the absence of Madam Herman left him at liberty, he arose as if to see who it was that had thrown an air of ridicule on his conversation. Grace Gordon put her finger to her lip and pointed to his chair, and this, at once, subdued the anger which was fast rising, and determined him to wait for a more suitable opportunity to gratify his curiosity.

“You are good-tempered I hear, Mr. Hazerelle, and good-temper is a gift which few possess. Perhaps, however, you have not been severely tested. Many people pass for good-tempered who are irritable and irascible when thwarted.”

“It depends altogether upon the person who provokes me,” said Arthur. “A woman, for instance, is always sure of forbearance, be she ever so disposed to find fault, and a man walks untouched, though he might insult me, if I consider him as an inferior. So, you perceive, I am good-tempered with a qualification, and it depends upon the character of our friend in ambush whether I am to take offense at that clear, ringing laugh. If he is in any way connected with you, he may indulge his risible propensities to the utmost, for I am certain that I can submit to such gaucheries for the very short time I am to be honored by your kindness.”

“Short time, Mr. Hazerelle! Well, if you call a twelvemonth short, be it so,” said she. “Why, did you suppose I could thoroughly understand the German language in less time than that?”

“In less than a twelvemonth! Yes, in less than three months you will be able to speak and read fluently; there is no fear of your being a dull scholar. It would be my interest to find you obtuse of intellect, for to live and breathe in this atmosphere is a happiness I never expected to enjoy—the library itself is full compensation for more of my time than I so freely give to you.”

Here followed another laugh, and as there was now a perfect understanding between the young lady and himself, he resolved to take no notice of it. He arose, however, and shut the door, but he might have spared himself the trouble for it was opened in an instant.

Arthur smiled good-humoredly, and observed that the merry gentleman was no doubt a privileged person, one who had a control over the destinies of the house, or such an eccentric way of amusing himself would not be allowed.

Miss Gordon colored, and was about to make reply, when the laugh commenced again and continued so long that there was an end of further conversation; the lady rose with much embarrassment, said she hoped to meet him there at breakfast, and then departed through the door whence the laugh came.

Arthur found it amounted to this—he must do one of three things—to ask no questions, enter into no conversation with Miss Gordon or any of the family—request to take his meals by himself—or quit the house. It was very irksome, certainly, to sit in perfect silence when there was one person, at least, who had conversational powers; it was likewise irksome to see people moving about him all day, to know that they all had communion with one another, and that he alone should stalk about the house and grounds in utter silence, save the two hours when he was engaged in teaching. He walked out to consider of it in the open air, and after an hour’s ramble through groves and walks, breathing delicious perfumes, he returned with the determination to bear with the eccentric humor of the family and remain with them until the winter set in.

It certainly was very disheartening to meet no pleasant voice on his entering the house, and to go to his solitary chamber without a kind good-night from a living soul, yet Arthur did not murmur. If he were always thankful for “small benefits,” he had reason to be grateful now, for here all the comforts and luxuries of life were in abundance, and there were two great pleasures added to all this—the library and the beautiful face and pleasing manners of his pupil.

He took a long walk, and returned more elevated, more grateful and humble than ever, it was a perfect fairy-land all around, and why should the foolish manners of the inmates of the house disturb his tranquillity. He strove to keep the thought uppermost that it was to these very eccentric people he owed his happiness, so he was shown to the breakfast-room with feelings disposed to submit to what, under other circumstances, would be so difficult to bear.

Miss Gordon was already there, and to Arthur’s surprise and confusion, she held out her hand with a kind good-morning and a pleasant smile. The conversation was trifling, he kept a rein over his thoughts and let none but such as were mere commonplace go forth to excite the merriment of the person in the next room, for Arthur presumed he was there, as the door was still half open. Just at parting he made the unlucky observation, that as he had taken sufficient exercise for the morning he should go again to the library, for there he should find friends—friends who had always cheered and consoled him.

He might, to be sure, have omitted the speech, simple as it was, yet how could one so entirely alone avoid feeling this loneliness—it was no cause of mirth to others, certainly, and yet the man in the next room laughed merrily.

“What a magnificent mind it was that planned this library,” said Arthur, pointing to it, as the lady and he left the room.

She smiled faintly, however, and as they separated, replied that “it was planned—as well as the house and grounds—by the laugher in the next room.”

“Alas!” thought Arthur, when alone in the library, “he is undoubtedly insane; he is, perhaps, Miss Gordon’s father, or some near relative, and being harmless, is allowed to amuse himself in any way he likes. I see it all now, and his laughter shall annoy me no longer; but where have I heard it before?”

All at once the truth flashed upon him, in Mr. Graham’s office, where he studied law for a year, he often saw a gentleman by the name of Herman, who certainly resembled the one who was the owner of this estate. He was a great talker, and a great laugher—the very clear, bell-like, musical laugh he had heard so frequently.

The present Mr. Herman was grave, taciturn, frivolous and formal, with gray hair and broken teeth; whereas the one he formerly knew was much younger looking, with dark hair and perfect teeth. Mr. Graham took great pleasure in his society, for he was full of anecdote and had been a traveler; Arthur, also, was much amused with his gay and easy manners, and it was quite a regret to them all when Mr. Herman left the city. Arthur had often inquired after him, but Mr. Graham heard nothing from or of him, and so he faded away from their memory. It seemed, therefore, almost a certainty that he was in some way connected with the family of the Hermans where Arthur now was.

Day after day Arthur went through the same routine, the young lady making great progress in German, and he making great progress in love, for could it be expected that he was to sit in earnest conversation for two hours every day, and be at the same table with her at all times, without losing his heart. Whether Grace Gordon loved him in return, was another matter; no one could judge if she did, for her attentions were only those of a lady to a gentleman, and even the haughty old lady, Madam Herman, could find no fault.

What puzzled Arthur more than any thing else was this, Mr. Herman was never seen excepting at dinner, where he went or what he did was a mystery; he certainly never was in the library, for there Arthur went at irregular times, so that he would of course have been seen. He never was about the grounds, and Arthur had no stated times of walking or riding there; he might, however, take an airing with Madam Herman, for she went out regularly, and he sometimes met the carriage. He never questioned the servants, for his honor and pride prevented that, and Grace Gordon never alluded to her family at all. Yet it must be presumed that the young man had curiosity, and if he had not, there were his friends at the inn, they were dying to know what was going on within that wide extent of high stone wall. The old schoolmaster of Berrydale, who had read something of China in a geography book, called it the Celestial City, and ardently longed to enter the gates to take a peep there, he did make one attempt, but the porter at the lodge knew better what his place was worth than to let a stranger enter.

Arthur had now been there two months, and had never left the place, his friends paid their evening visits about once a week, for there had been a wedding to occupy them, and Martha and Garry were now man and wife. The winter was at hand, and not a word was said of the period when his instructions were to cease. Grace Gordon and he were on the most friendly footing imaginable, and could now converse very well in German, but though her progress was astonishing, yet Madam Herman never opened her lips to wonder or praise.

Deep, deeper in love did poor Arthur get every day—a hopeless love he knew it to be, and yet he would not have given up the tormenting pleasure for the world; he wished, and dreamed his wishes over and over again, that Grace Gordon was as poor as himself, for he thought there was a possibility then of winning her affections. For any thing he knew to the contrary, she might be poor, but how was he to find it out, unless the embargo on words was taken off. At every turn he met a domestic, but he knew them not even by name, all his wants were supplied in the most exact and liberal manner, but he asked no questions, and their respect for him prevented any approach toward familiarity.

He had walked and ridden over every part of the estate with the exception of an inclosure, which he was given to understand, in the very beginning, was appropriated to the use of the domestics, and into which visitors never entered. A road from the next market-town reached this inclosure, and every thing wanted for the family was brought here in carts and wagons. A dense hedge of cedar, eight feet in height, which extended to the right and left, prevented any one from seeing what was passing on the other side, and Arthur thought that this was all in good taste and good keeping with the general plan. It was impossible to guess at the extent of this inclosure, for the hedge, or fence made a number of circuitous bends, and thus rendered it deceptive to the eye.

One morning he strolled out as usual, and took the path that led to the cedar-hedge, for the ground there was well-beaten and very pleasant to the feet. He walked leisurely, his mind occupied with the one object of the deepest interest to him—Grace Gordon. Starting from his day-dream he looked at his watch, and found it time to return, that he might prepare for breakfast. He quickened his pace, therefore, and endeavored to retrace his steps, but he made a mistake in one of the turnings and went backward instead of forward. The error was not discovered until he reached an immense iron-bound gate, which at that moment was slowly opened by some one on the other side. He waited until the man who was opening the gate, and whose voice he heard, should make his appearance, for he really was at a loss to know which way to proceed. What was his surprise to find that the gate-opener was Mr. Herman himself, and that following him closely was a troop of young people, all in high spirits, and apparently on the most familiar terms with him. A second glance assured him that it was not the Mr. Herman of yesterday, gray-headed and formal, but the Mr. Herman he formerly knew, with the same merry, clear, ringing laugh which he recollected so well.

The gentleman started on seeing Arthur, but appeared not to know him, he raised his hat however, and then turned to his young companions, who were as much amazed as himself at the rencontre. He could see at a glance that Grace Gordon was not among them, but they evidently must be her friends. They all walked briskly away, and as he turned to look at them, saw that Mr. Herman was running at full speed, and the whole party after him. He stood at the open gate and for the first time saw the inside of the hedge, and to his astonishment found that he was in the rear of the mansion, for there, about a quarter of a mile off, was the back-court, and several of the domestics whom he recognized, passing to and fro.

One of the men who stood near the gate, came forward as Arthur was about entering, and said that Miss Gordon was waiting breakfast for him, and “that the chaise should be brought round in an instant.”

“This is very curious,” thought Arthur, “why not enter the house this way? Here I shall not have to walk more than two or three hundred yards, whereas it will be half an hour’s ride to reach the front.”

However, the chaise was brought to the gate, and after riding fast for twenty or thirty minutes, Arthur was brought to the front of the house, and as quickly as possible he made his toilet, and was ushered to the breakfast table.

“You are welcome back,” said Miss Gordon, blushing deeply, “I thought you had left us never to return. We sent scouts after you in every direction, fearing at first you had lost your way, but Madam Herman thought that would be impossible.”

“But it was possible,” said Arthur, “for I did lose my way, and I hope you will pardon my having kept breakfast waiting so long, I do not deserve such kindness.”

“Oh, as to that,” said Grace Gordon, “there is no one injured but yourself, for I breakfasted an hour ago!”

Arthur was on the point of speaking of the troop of young people that he met coming out of the gate, but he stopped, for this was infringing on the rules—rules which he never forgot one instant. Miss Gordon seeing him about to speak, waited for a moment, and then proceeded to pour out his tea.

“And you really lost your way, Mr. Hazarelle, it is no wonder when you recollect how many windings and turnings there are. If I were to follow the cedar-hedge, I should undoubtedly be puzzled, for that doubles and winds about in every direction. Did you not meet any one in your walk?”

“Yes, several; I blundered along till I reached a gate,—”

“Indeed!” said Miss Gordon, “and was the gate open?”

“No, the gate was opened when I reached it, I saw one of the domestics, or rather he saw me, and it was from him I learned that the breakfast was waiting. Miss Gordon,—I never was placed in so awkward a position in my life. I have submitted to conditions, which, to one of my nature, are very painful and mortifying,—for you must yourself despise me for submitting to them.”

“You have acted honorably, Mr. Hazarelle,” said she, with much feeling, “and an honorable man must always be respected. You may be assured that I deeply feel for the mortification and privations you endure, and would lessen them if I could. One day or other—very soon perhaps—you will learn why you have been thus bound down to rules which must at least appear strange, if not ridiculous. You will find us grateful for the service you have rendered me, and I hope to be under obligations to you for several months to come.”

“Grateful!—Miss Gordon,—it is for me to speak of gratitude, for there has been as much happiness crowded in the few months of my residence here as would spread over the whole of an ordinary life. I shall leave my heart, and all that life is worth in this beautiful retreat, and that I may not be utterly miserable by incurring your hate, it is better for me to go as soon as possible.”

“Oh! you must not talk of leaving us yet,” said she, pretending not to understand him, “for how shall I get on with the German? I am not so well grounded in the language, as that I can study by myself.”

“You can improve without assistance, I assure you, and you will have opportunities this winter of meeting with many who speak the language. As to me, though I shall be near you when you are in the city, yet the difference in our prospects will prevent our meeting,—I shall be nothing there but a humble clerk; or perhaps, a humble teacher.”

Tears came in the young lady’s eyes, but she did not dare to trust her voice, and Arthur proceeded.

“There is not a more solitary being in the world than myself, for I do not know that I have a relation, and yet there is no one that so ardently desires the love and sympathy of kindred. With a heart thus alive to tender emotions, judge, therefore, dear Miss Gordon, how impossible it is not to admire the beauty, talent, and excellence of the lovely being who honors me with her confidence. I have awakened from this bright dream, and must go while I have the power.”

Miss Gordon rose, but trembled so much that she was compelled to sit again. Arthur approached to bid her farewell, for he now found that it was impossible to remain near her after making this confession, but seeing her distress he drew back, and said in a low voice, he would write a few lines of thanks before he left the house. Just as he was leaving the room, he had the glimpse of a gentleman, who appeared to come from the library, and it occurred to him that it must be Mr. Herman. He was too much agitated, however, to dwell on so trifling a circumstance, yet he could not help wondering which of the two gentlemen it was. When in his chamber, he wrote to Mr. Herman, thanking him for all his kindness and attention to his pleasures and comforts, and regretting that it was not in his power to remain longer. He gave his respectful compliments to Madam Herman and Miss Gordon, and said that he should send for his effects in the course of the afternoon.

The servant took the letter to Mr. Herman, who by note requested Arthur to meet him in the library before he departed. After writing a few lines to Miss Gordon, our hero left his pleasant chamber,—and no one can imagine with what regret,—and entered the library. Mr. Herman as usual, waved his hand to a chair.

“You are leaving us, Mr. Hazerelle,” said he, “I presume you think Miss Gordon is sufficiently advanced in her studies to get on without a teacher.—Is that your reason for going at this time?”

“Miss Gordon has made great progress,” said Arthur, “and if she could meet with a few clever Germans now and then, she would soon be master of the language.”

“Do you leave us because you think she has no further need of your assistance, or have you other reasons; we have no wish to part with you for a month or two, if convenient for you to remain?”

“Mr. Herman,” said Arthur, rising, his face crimsoned all over, “have you never been young—do you forget that I am but twenty-four, and that my heart is as susceptible as if I were heir to all this estate? Do you think it possible to be in the society of so lovely a woman as Miss Gordon without becoming attached to her? I assure you, sir, that this was unforeseen by me. Had I been aware of her excellencies, I should not have placed myself in a situation which I know is to render me unhappy for life. You ask for my reasons, I tell them to you frankly—good-morning.”

In the midst of all the agitation which this avowal called forth, Arthur could not avoid observing the effect it had upon Mr. Herman. He rose slowly, his eyes were opened to the utmost, and his hands were outspread, but he spoke not; in fact, the boldness and honesty of the speech took him completely by surprise—and Arthur had walked out of the house before he recovered his recollection.

As Arthur had not made known his intention to the servants, for the whole was the impulse of the moment, no carriage was in waiting; but before he had proceeded a mile, the chaise and ponies overtook him, and on entering it, he saw his carpet-bag, trunk, and dressing-case in the bottom of the carriage. As he was now released from all obligations, he asked the coachman whether Mr. Herman had a brother. The man said he had not. He then inquired whether the gentleman who came through the gate where he stood, in the morning, was any relation of the family? The answer was, he did not know. As it was evident that the fellow had instructions not to be communicative, Arthur forbore further question—and they rode on at a rapid pace.

Our hero had at that moment vague thoughts of rising in the world, penniless though he was, having an indistinct hope, too, that Miss Gordon would listen to his suit, if he had an independence to offer her. As to the old lady or her formal son, he did not trouble himself about their approbation; in fact, he knew that, as far as their approval went, the thing was entirely out of the question. He had, however, given Mr. Herman a good fright about it, and this amused poor Arthur in the midst of his painful feelings—and he wondered what Madam Herman would say when told of it.

But they did not reach the porter’s lodge, and yet they drove fast, and nearly half an hour had elapsed. On looking round—for he had been so absorbed in thought as not to observe the road they were going—he saw that they were riding in an easterly direction, and presently they entered a thick woods. He told the coachman that he was taking him the wrong road, and that he must turn back; but the man said they would come out right in a few minutes; that he thought it would be a pleasant ride this way, as Mr. Hazerelle had never been there before.

After leaving the woods they got on a common wagon road, and then making a circuit of half a mile, they reached the lodge; and the porter stood there ready to assist in taking out the luggage. As soon as it was placed on the floor of the room, the coachman jumped on the seat, and was out of sight in a moment.

“Step this way,” said the porter; “please to go down these steps, and then walk to the end of that long passage, and you will see a white door, through which you are to pass; you will there meet with a friend, who will conduct you safely to Berrydale.”

“Why not go out at this door, my friend? This is the one leading to the stage-road—I prefer going this way.”

“So should I, too,” said the porter, “if I thought there was any harm in going a pleasanter road. You will not repent going to the end of the long passage. You have only to descend six steps.”

“Often as I have been here,” said Arthur, “I never saw that dark passage before.”

“For a very good reason,” said the porter; “the door was always locked, and Mr. Herman had the key. He came here this morning and opened it himself. You perceive that this door is locked, and that the windows are grated—so that, in truth, there is no way of getting out but down through that narrow passage.”

“Well, if that is the case,” said Arthur, good-humoredly, “I must go that way. This is, however, the oddest of all odd things; but it is of a piece with the rest,” continued he to himself—respect for Grace Gordon preventing him from speaking lightly of the family. He descended and walked through the long passage which was only lighted at the end by a small window, or loop-hole, giving just light enough to see the white door, a flight of seven or eight steps leading to it. On opening it, he entered a handsomely-furnished parlor, with a table in the centre, on which was some fine fruit. He did not stop, however to taste it, but went to a folding-door opposite, and to his surprise, found himself in a lady’s boudoir—for there, on the table, were books, needle-work, and embroidery. What can all this mean, thought Arthur; surely the Herman family are a little deranged. Pride and wealth have caused them to act thus strangely. Heaven grant that Grace Gordon has none of their blood in her veins.

As this thought passed through his mind, he heard the clear, gay laugh of his old acquaintance. For he now was convinced that it was the Mr. Herman he formerly knew, and whom he had seen that morning. He sprang to a door, which stood partly open, and there, to his surprise, he saw, not Mr. Herman, but Godfried Darg, and his two dogs, Barker and Growler.

“Ah! are you here, my good friend,” said Arthur, shaking hands with him. “You gave us the slip in an odd way; and I have to thank you for a very valuable present.”

“Did you spit in old Barnes’ face, and give him a kick, as I requested?”

“No,” said Arthur, laughing, “I had no chance; for instead of becoming teacher to a score or two of village children, I had the honor of—”

“Yes, yes, I know it; Herman told me all, and told me of your fine speech this morning.”

“Why who are you, that can be so familiar with so reserved a gentleman as Mr. Herman?”

“Who am I? Why plain Godfried Darg. But are you not a pretty fellow, to fall in love with a lady so entirely out of your reach. Did I not give you a dressing-case, in which lay the miniature of the pretty little girl that is to be your wife? Did not my note tell you that you were not to open the box till Barker and Growler gave you leave?”

“And have I not obeyed your directions?” said Arthur, smiling; “if you take the trouble to go to the porter’s lodge, you will see the case, and find that the box is untouched. Confound all this mystery—what does it mean? Why am I singled out for such necromancy; and why am I here in this singular place, when my wish is to be with my quiet, honest friends of Berrydale?”

“And so you took me at my word, and never opened the little box?”

“I had two very good reasons for not doing it—the first was that you requested me not to do it until I had consulted your dogs, if you remember; and the second reason was, that the picture which you said the box contained, would be broken if I attempted it—at least so you said in your note.”

“Did you ever read the letter which old Crosbie told you to hand to Barnes?”

“No—it was destroyed, I heard; but I shall insist on hearing the contents the moment I see Mr. Crosbie.”

“You need not ask him; here is the letter—I persuaded the old ass, Barnes, to give it to me—there, read it.”

“Upon my word,” said Arthur, laughing; “I do not wonder at my dismissal; I am only surprised that I was not complimented with the kick which you requested me to bestow upon Barnes.”

“To Mr. Barnes,—Sir, The bearer of this letter is a pert jackanapes, and is full of conceit. He boasts that he will rule you, and all the gentlemen in the neighborhood, with a rod of iron. He is going to make you pull down the old school-house, and oblige you to dress the boys in uniform. In short, he promises himself that he will turn every thing upside down, and leave you and your four respectable colleagues out when it is time to elect new trustees. He is so daring, that you must be cautious how you act; and above all things, do not let him know the contents of this letter—just dismiss him coolly when he presents himself.

Yours,

P. Herman.”

Arthur read this curious epistle aloud, and started when he saw the signature. “Surely,” said he, “Mr. Herman, the solemn, grave, upright owner of Herman Hall, never could have written this letter—if he did, he is crazy!”

“He did write it, and he is not crazy; but why do we sit talking nonsense here when so much is to be done.”

“I do not know what your business may be, Mr. Darg, but mine is to get away from Herman Hall as quickly as possible; will you accompany me to Berrydale?”

“Not I; why there is a great deal going on here; for instance, there are a number of pretty girls in the house, and there is to be a wedding. Ah, you start, yet I tell you the truth, there is to be a wedding here this very evening; instead of going to Berrydale you had better remain here and get a peep at the bride.”

“If it is Miss Gordon—but that is impossible.”

“And why is it impossible? she is very beautiful and very accomplished; so that it is the most likely thing in the world. Why, I would take her without a cent to her portion, if she would have me.”

Arthur now determined to find his way out of this mysterious place, and he was the more anxious as it was barely possible that what Darg said respecting Miss Gordon might be true, so he walked to the door opposite and opened it, and there lay his carpet-bag, his trunk and dressing-case—he turned to express his surprise, but Darg had disappeared.

“I will open the case now,” said Arthur, “and trust to luck not to break the miniature. I am the sport of some one, and I will put an end to it.”

So saying, he opened the dressing-case, and was just in the act of breaking open the little steel-box, when Galton Springle stood before him.

“I have found you at last,” said the man, “why how closely you have kept yourself. Did I not tell you to leave your address at the inn?”

Arthur was stooping over the case when Springle entered, and on raising up suddenly, he struck the man in the face and crushed the spectacles; instead of letting Arthur assist him, he rushed into the adjoining room and shut the door.

“I do believe the fellow had a mask on his face,” thought Arthur, “for I heard something crackle and crush as my head struck him. What brings such a man in a house of this kind; and if he has a mask, why may not Darg be disguised also?—and old Crosbie, it always struck me that his eyes were too deeply set. If I come in contact with them again I will soon find out.”

He had scarcely touched the dressing-case to recommence his attempt, when in came the identical Mr. Crosbie.

“Oh, you are there, my friend, are you!” said Arthur, seizing him; “you gave me a letter to Mr. Barnes, did you; I shall take the liberty of tweaking your nose for the compliment.”

Off came the nose, and off went Mr. Crosbie, and after him rushed Arthur; but being unacquainted with the intricacies of the place he lost sight of him, and on opening a door what was his surprise to find himself in a large parlor, surrounded by a number of persons, and Mr. Herman in the midst of them, laughing merrily.

“Walk in, walk in, Mr. Hazerelle,” said Mr. Herman; “what, you found out that old Crosbie had a paper nose, were you not ashamed to expose the poor fellow?”

But Arthur had no ear nor eye for him—in the centre of the group stood Grace Gordon, holding in her hand the little steel-box, which a servant had that moment put there. By her side was Abram Snow, looking just as quiet and grave as when in the counting-house.

After shaking hands, Arthur turned again to Grace Gordon, for she seemed to be the most sane among them.

“Where are Barker and Growler?” said she, laughing. “Godfried Darg, call your dogs.”

Mr. Herman whistled, and both dogs came racing into the room.

“Now, Arthur,” said Mr. Herman, “here are Barker and Growler, set down the steel-box and let them open the case.”

“I have no desire to see the face of any other lady than this one,” said Arthur, approaching Miss Gordon and taking her hand. “There is some mystery here which I cannot fathom, but with her I am safe; whatever may be the plans and manœuvres of others, here there is no guile.”

“There,” said Mr. Herman, “the dogs have opened the box with one bite.”

“Or rather, you pressed a spring and opened it,” said Grace, laughing, “for I saw you. Now let Mr. Hazerelle see the miniature.”

“Come here, Arthur,” said Mr. Herman, “stand behind Miss Gordon while she opens the box; now look over her shoulder and see the lady you are to marry.”

Arthur looked over the shoulder of Grace, and he saw her lovely face reflected from the little mirror in her hand—it was the most natural thing in the world to kiss the cheek which was so near his lips, and there was a laugh from every one in the room, the clear, musical laugh of his old tormentor being heard above the rest.

“Well,” said Mr. Herman, “we did not intend to have the ceremony performed till evening, but as Arthur has pulled off old Crosbie’s nose, and crushed Springle’s face, the plot cannot go on, so we will ask the clergyman to walk in—he is in the library—and put poor Arthur out of suspense. Welcome Mr. Green, and you, too, good lady—ah, there comes Garry Lovel and his wife, and all the boys. Yes, Arthur, I know how to appreciate the kindness of your friends, and see—there is good Mrs. May, too—am I not a good manager?”

Every thing was ready, and before Arthur could ask for an explanation of what had occurred, he stood up and became the happy husband of Grace Gordon.

“Now step in this room,” said Mr. Herman, after the ceremony was over, “and let me tell you how this has happened.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Arthur; “I care not how it has been brought about, for the sole wish of my heart has been gratified.”

“But Grace Gordon has no fortune, and as you have none, what are you going to do?”

“Arthur,” said Grace, “bear with him just now, he is jesting. Mr. Herman, did you not promise me that all mystery should cease the moment we were married?”

“Well, well, I submit. And now be as happy as you both deserve—after this I must act like other folks, I presume, but I shall never enjoy myself thoroughly again.”

Mr. Herman became his own master and heir to a large estate at twenty-one. He began to build immediately, and the plan of the house and grounds was a type of his character. He was full of plots and contrivances, and there were, therefore, long passages under ground and labyrinths at every turn. Arthur Hazerelle was his intimate friend, and prevented him from ruining himself by taking the management of his pecuniary affairs, so that at the end of five years the house and grounds were finished to suit the whimsical fancy of the owner, and his income was not diminished.

Unfortunately, Mr. Hazerelle loved the same lady on whom his friend had placed his affections—but this did not disturb the friendship of the young men. Mr. Hazerelle was accepted by the young lady, and his friend withdrew from the world, determined never to marry. In the course of a few years, Mr. Hazerelle and his wife both died, leaving one son to the guardianship of Mr. Herman. Aware of his own faults, faults which he considered as having arisen from an early knowledge of the great wealth to which he was heir, he determined upon bringing up his friend’s child in ignorance of what he intended to do for him.

He was one of the most active men in the world, and luckily his means were excellent, so that he could execute all the romantic schemes that he planned. He took no one into his confidence, but through the means of his great wealth he had the power of accomplishing whatever he wished. Every thing which happened to Arthur was in consequence of his agency. He had him educated in the most eccentric manner, giving him an insight into law, medicine and commerce. Every change in the young man’s prospects which appeared the result of accident, was owing to him, and that he might learn something of Arthur’s real character, he frequently lived in the same house with him.

When he found that Arthur was humble and good-tempered, and that he struggled hard against his fate, he thought it was high time to make him amends. He was sure that prosperity would not undo the work of years, and that he had acted his part as a guardian well.

One of his gardeners lost his wife, leaving a child a few weeks old—it was a girl, and her father did not live long after the death of his wife. Mr. Herman took the child, and determined, if she had a good intellect, to educate her for Arthur. She was both intelligent and beautiful, so that he waited with impatience for the time when Arthur should be twenty-four, as that, according to his notion, was the age of discretion.

Grace Gordon had been in his confidence from the time she could comprehend it, and from dwelling upon the plan so long had learned to like it. Many and many a time had she seen Arthur when in the city with Mr. Herman, but she could not persuade him to bring Arthur to what might be considered his own home.

Mr. Herman never left off his love of mystery and plotting, and when little children hung round him he would turn himself into a gypsy and tell their fortunes, which made them laugh; or he would be a shipwrecked sailor, and tell a melancholy story, and make them weep; but he seldom told them a sad tale, for he loved to hear them laugh, and he was the greatest laugher of them all.