“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.