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.
* * * * *