Chapter VIII: Part 8

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.

* * * * *

TE LAUDAMUS.

BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.

“The darkness and the light are both alike to thee.”
Oh, Christ! thou very Christ! not as a God,
One and eternal, treading with thy feet
The rounded worlds, which, with a ruby glow,
Give back the touch in music breathing roll,
Till all the azure dome bows to the light,
Flushed with exultant joy, and sings aloud
To harps of sapphire, amethyst and pearl.
Not as the leader of embannered hosts
That wait thy bidding; the glowing seraph,
Bright cherub, or the archangelic throng,
Grave in the virtue of eternal years—
Fair in the beauty of eternal truth—
Sublime and joyful in eternal youth—
Not all thy goings forth with level eyes,
And even tread, harmonious, self-involved—
Thyself Love, Beauty, Truth, and seeing these
In all, through all, from angel’s anthem tone
To feeblest pulsing in poor human heart:—
Not all thy earth-love mission, thy deep prayers
On Olivet, and all thy weary grief
Until Gethsemane beheld thee bleed
At every pore, o’er faith betrayed, and love
That wearied, though its watch was but an hour—
Thy breaking bread to hungry lips—thine eye
That pitied every shape of wo—thy tears
For Lazarus—thy more than love for her,
The loving Mary, unrebuked, though frail—
Thy scornings of hypocrisy and wrong—
Thy goings up and down for good to earth,
And writing on its forehead a new name,[2]
Even as incarnate Evil walked the earth,
And branded on its face the mark of Cain,[3]
So did thy loving hand efface the mark,
Thy footsteps leave a blessing for the curse—
For this I bless thee, and all this would take
Into my soul of souls, and walk with Thee;
Yet not for these do I so much adore;
. . . . . . . But thou didst go.
Down to the very grave—like unto ours
Thy death-pang—thy effulgent limbs did lie
“In cold obstruction.” Oh! pitying soul of Man!
For this I praise thee—worship and bow down,
Sing with the evening stars and morning light.
When the great glory of the sun walks forth,
I shout the resurrection and new life;
For thou with light didst penetrate the dark,
Thy footsteps waked “old chaos and dim night.”
Legions of melancholy shapes that wailed
Their being, mourning they should be a blot
Upon the garments of enrobed light,
Their voice a discord when the swelling hymn
In God’s majestic dome rolled through all space,
In silence saw thy foot the barrier press
Of their uncheered vault, with a strong tread,
Itself a light, till downward more and more
The inverted arch recoiled, and thou didst stand,
Amid their ghostly and distorted shapes
Serene and fair, thrice beautiful and calm.
Death and Hell—Darkness and Pain! Oh, my God!
We see their marks, we know not what they are,
But Thou, oh Christ! didst walk the dread abysm,
And from thyself a permeating light
Made darkness day. The adamantine bond
Broke from its clasp, and knew itself no more;
The jangling chord, that its own discord wailed,
Slid into music with a heavenly song,
Chaotic shapes, that slunk from light, behold
Thy beauty and upsprung to perfect grace;
The shadow was no more a shadow left—
Deformity no more could find a place—
Evil had turned itself unto the Good,
For Light and Love had breathed themselves again
Upon our earth, unto the very depths
Where Death and Darkness reigned; and God had said,
As when Creation woke, “Let there be light”—
Oh Christ! dear Christ! for this I worship Thee.
Thou didst tread through all man’s fearful pathway,
And we go down unto the grave in trust,
For we behold thy footstep there, a light,
And catch the trailing of thy robe, as on
We go in our dim way through death to Thee;
And not without a hope, thus shadowed forth,
That in God’s universe shall cease to be
The Blackness and the Sorrow and the Wrong!

-----

[2] “Jesus stooped down and wrote upon the ground.”

[3] “And the Lord said unto Satan, ‘Whence comest thou?’ Then Satan answered the Lord and said, ‘from going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.’”

* * * * *

* * * * *

TRUE ROMANCING.

In a large, pleasant garden, laid out in the old fashioned style, two young friends were walking together one summer evening. Sometimes they would sit down on a grassy slope, looking at the bright clouds in the western sky; then rising together in the most friendly manner, they would walk beneath the arching trees, stopping often to pluck flowers, and many-patterned leaves, from the low hanging boughs, but ever and anon they talked busily together, and their conversation soon turned upon their early recollections.

“I remember well the first time I ever saw you, Magdalene,” commenced the younger one. “It was a still summer day, soon after we first moved here. Every thing at home was in confusion. Our scanty load of furniture had been tossed into our neglected old house, apparently to arrange itself. Our one girl, with noisy undirected zeal, went stumbling about, falling over chairs, and breaking crockery; while my poor father, sick and irritable, lay upon a bed, fuming at every thing. Unnoticed and wondering, I sat in a corner, amused for a time by the chaos by which I was surrounded. But at length I grew very weary at the voices of displeasure and vexation, that grated so harshly upon my ears. Looking up at the window, I saw how brightly the sun was shining upon the green waving trees in the avenue beyond; and with a sudden longing for quiet I slipped out at the door. Our own garden, a square of bare ground was by no means inviting; but beyond grew a row of tall, beautiful trees, that seemed to bound a large flower-garden, and farther still, a little wood with a low stile, enchanted my fancy, and promised me an easy entrance. Oh! I cannot tell you how beautiful it looked, to a child brought up in the close dismal streets of a large city. I felt as if I stood in Fairy-land. Every thing seemed to have a marvelous light,—a mysterious shading cast over it, which gave me a sensation, as if something strange and wonderful were hidden behind every bush, or at every corner around which I passed. As I went on, my childish attention was attracted by the pretty iron railings which bounded the garden, and looking between them, I saw a well-kept lawn, and smooth walks, winding around mounds of green turf. On one of these mounds, you were sitting, reading with a calm air, perfectly in keeping with the scene around. I thought you much older than you really were, for you were tall for your age. You seemed to me so striking in your dark blue dress, with your beautiful features, that I immediately ran over in my mind all the heroines I had ever read of, but as I could not find one that exactly resembled you, I thought of a name for you, and had commenced to connect a long story with it, when a voice from the house called you, and to my great disappointment, you went in. I continued for awhile to look in upon the wide garden, but I felt as if the life of the scene, and the heroine of my story had departed with you.”

“Ah! yes, Franzchen,” answered her companion, “from the first, you were romantic and fanciful. But I remember well, with what childish superiority I at first looked down upon you. When Aunt Katrine told me one day, that she was going to bring little Franzchen Deshalbens to see me,—I cried contemptuously—What, Aunt!—That girl, with such a little unwashed face, and such great black eyes to see me!—I don’t like babies for play-fellows! But before you had been with me long, I learned to like you well enough, and think I might possibly find pleasure in the companionship of one younger than myself. You remember, we went into the garden, and as we sat upon the mound, you told me the story of ‘the fair lady and the genii.’ I soon forgot my disdain, and besought you to continue, until the moon rose upon your endless and enchanting recitals.”

“Yes, indeed! Magda. I too remember with what dignity you received me. But that only pleased me, because it corresponded with the character I had drawn out for you, of a great princess. But I think I should have been a little overawed, if Aunt Katrine had not spoken so kindly to me. Then when I commenced to speak of my favorite stories, you seemed to think such things so far beneath you, that I did not expect the interest with which you afterward listened.”

“And then, Franzchen, I used to come to the fence at the foot of the garden, to see you sitting on the ground, building a castle with small sticks, and you, little muddy thing, would look up with your great dark eyes, to tell me of some new tale you had been reading, and you would fix upon a character in it for each of us. Sometimes you were the hero or heroine of the piece, and would tell the whole in the first person. What a changeful, chameleon-like creature you made yourself out to be. Now you were the brave knight, Sir George, and rode fighting for Christendom; and now as the sorrowful Griselda, you told me of your cruel, task-exacting aunt, until the tears came into my eyes; or you spoke of yourself as ‘the fair one with the locks of gold,’ while all the time your curling black hair fell over your face. Do you know, Franzchen, I often envy you those curling dark locks? Stay now, while I arrange these white jasmins in your hair. Flowers never look so well in mine.”

“Dear Magda, how can you envy me, with your beautiful, light, braided hair? Do you know, last night, I thought you looked like an old Grecian statue, with your fine features, and tall, fine figure; and you spoke to every one with so much ease and self-possession.”

“There, now! Franzchen. You are running away again from all common sense, into the crazy region of your imagination. Do not try to make a heroine of me, I beseech you, or expect me to take all your fancies for realities. But it is growing late. I hope you are not too romantic to eat any supper.”

As they returned to the house, they were met by Aunt Katrine. “Here, girls! come quickly,” she cried. “I have a letter for Magdalene, from her father’s sister, the high and mighty Baroness of Radgardin.”

Now this aunt of Magda’s,—a pretty, foolish, ambitious woman, had married a nobleman of high birth, and great wealth, whose sister was a margravine. Great indeed, was the dignity of the noble Baron of Radgardin, and great was the elation and self-consequence of his baroness. Had not Magda grown up uncommonly beautiful and striking in appearance, it may well be doubted whether she would have taken so much interest in her, as she now seemed to. But as it was, she liked to have her handsome niece with her, and had already many ambitious designs connected with her. Her darling scheme at present, was to marry her to the young Count Hugo, the son of an old friend of the baron’s, and she constantly remarked that Magda, a beauty, and somewhat of an heiress, should hold up her head, and remember, that she was the niece of the Baroness of Radgardin, and the grand-daughter of the Baron of Roderkamp. She had now written to invite her to pay her a visit, as she expected to have much noble company at her house, to whom she was anxious to introduce her.

Among the rest, she was to be honored by the presence of Count Hugo, and she went so far as to hint that her family were always remarkable for beauty, and as some of them had already done so well in the world, Magda also, under her guidance, might do equally so. At the close, she added, “My dear child, you must come. I have seen your father, and he said that the only obstacle that would prevent your coming was, that you had a friend staying with you, whom you had promised to accompany on a visit. You must prevail upon your friend to delay this visit, and come with you. My carriage shall be at your door next Tuesday—so be sure and be ready.”

Magda laughed heartily as she read the letter. “But we will go, Franzchen,” she said, “for we shall have a fine time no doubt, and besides that, I have seen this Count Hugo, and like him very much. So does my father. I have often heard him speak very highly of him.”

But Franzchen looked upon the matter very seriously, and never doubting but that Magda had only to appear to conquer the whole world, she cried,—“But Carl Engleford, Magda, what is to become of poor Carl Engleford?”

“Oh, never mind Carl Engleford! I tell you, Franzchen, I’m very ambitious, and I want to see Count Hugo again. But we must write to your cousin and delay our visit there.”

This cousin of Franzchen’s whom they spoke of visiting, was a good-natured, but high-tempered woman, who had never been able to bear with Monsieur Deshalbens’ perverse and irritable temper; but at his death she would gladly have taken charge of her little cousin; Magda however would never consent that she should be separated from her, and they compromised the matter by going often to pay her a long visit, but this might easily be delayed on so important an occasion as the present.

“We shall want a good many things,” said Magda, with a prudent and business like air, after a few minutes consideration; “I shall go at once to my father and get a draft for each of us. Shall I manage every thing myself?”

“Pray do,” said Franzchen, who was still thinking of Carl Engleford.

Magda found plenty to occupy her, and busied herself with preparing and packing; but at length the eventful day arrived, and with it the baroness’s carriage.

“Is Lisette to go with us?” asked Franzchen, as she saw the girl descending the stairs, bonnet on and band-box and parcel in hand.

“Certainly. We must have a waiting-maid at Radgardin castle,” answered her companion.

They set off in high spirits. After a long and somewhat wearisome ride they approached the castle.

It was a magnificent building, situated upon a winding river, which swelled out into a little lake before it. The commencement of the water was hidden from view by deep, dark woods, terminated by a distant range of blue mountains. Franzchen was fairly enchanted, as the coachman, exciting the spirited horses, whirled them at full speed along the smooth, level road entering the extensive pleasure-grounds.

“Oh, Magda, look, look!” she cried, “what beautiful glimpses we catch of the water as we pass among the trees, and how finely the road winds down to the river!”

Magda had been there before, but she now joined heartily in her friend’s admiration. Soon they drew up at the gate of the castle, were ushered up stairs, and received in the vestibule by the baroness.

“Oh, my dear Magda, how delighted I am to see you—I knew you would come. Although I am rusticating here in the country just now, we shall not be very dismal, I can assure you. I have a delightful party coming to see me. The Margrave and Margravine of Baralt, the Landgrave of Durathor, the Dowager Countess of Hinkle, Baron Logrum, and better than all—”

Here she was interrupted by her niece, who drew Franzchen forward to introduce her to her aunt, who immediately drew herself up—“was much gratified at the honor Mademoiselle Deshalbens had done her in accompanying her niece to her little country-house”—“hoped she was not fatigued by the journey,” and so on.

After the usual inquiries and compliments had been gone through with, they were conducted to a handsome room, opening on a balcony overlooking a modern flower-garden behind the castle. The baroness left them to rest and refresh themselves. She was soon followed by a servant bearing fruits and refreshments on a gilded waiter.

But Franzchen thought not of eating as she stood at the window looking out upon the terrace. So looking doubtfully at her companion, who was busily engaged directing Lisette to unpack the trunks, she began:

“Oh, Magda, how pleasant it would be to run down and look at the river. We could so easily descend these steps and pass through that gate.”

“No, indeed, Franzchen. You must lie down immediately and go to sleep.”

“What! I go to sleep! It isn’t night yet!”

“But we have been traveling all day, and to-night we are to be introduced to a great party. If we do not rest now we shall be horribly weary when evening comes, and look frightful and stupid.”

“But, Magda, I’m not sleepy at all. It will be of no use to lie down.”

“But you must, Franzchen; you must eat and sleep, or you will look thin and pale, and I don’t want you to look like a scarecrow.”

“I don’t want to look like a scarecrow, either. Do you think I shall?”

“Of course you will if you don’t lie down. Now do, dear Franzchen.”

“Well, then, if I must,” said Franzchen, sighing as she turned away from the window.

Magda smiled as she saw her lie down and in a few minutes fall fast asleep, but without thinking of following her example, she was turning again to Lisette, when the baroness looked in.

“Do you not want to rest, my dear?”

“No, aunt; I never sleep in the day time.”

“Well, then, leave Lisette and come with me a moment, I want to have a talk with you.” So saying, she led the way to the balcony, and after a few compliments on her manners and appearance, she began. “Now, my dear child, who is this friend of yours, this Mademoiselle Deshalbens?”

“She is an orphan,” answered Magda. “Her father came to our neighborhood when she was very young, and purchased a house near to ours. When he died he left her, with a moderate fortune, to the guardianship of my father, who had taken a great deal of interest in her.”

“Who was her father? Were you acquainted with him before?”

“No, they were perfect strangers, but we liked Franzchen so much, that we would gladly have had her with us always. Monsieur Deshalbens was French. His health was very poor from the time we first became acquainted with him; his wife, who was a German, had died some time before.”

“A Frenchman! and nobody I suppose. My dear Magda, you must be careful what acquaintances you form. At your time of life it is very important. Now, don’t look so indignant, my dear, I’m not finding fault with your friend in the least, you know, for she seems to be a harmless little creature, and her manners are very pretty, only wanting in style of course. But how much better it would be if all your acquaintances were selected from high-life, and your intimate friend should be a baroness, or a lady something, at least.”

“If all she wants is a little mann—”

“There, now, my dear, why should you take offense at what I have said? It was only meant to guide your conduct in future. Do not let us speak of it any more now. I want you to give me your opinion about a little walk I am having made down here. Come, let us go and see it.” So saying, she descended from the balcony with a smiling countenance, and Magda followed, to hear that Count Hugo was expected every moment—was such a handsome young man—so brave, so distingué, etc.

When Franzchen opened her eyes, it was quite evening. The room was brightly lighted by a chandelier from the ceiling, and Magda was standing beside her, waiting for her to awaken. She jumped up, wondering that she had forgotten herself for so long a time, and asking how her companion had slept.