Meanwhile a solemn deliberation was going on in Jordan's room. He rose, struck the table with a ruler, and went on to state that a colleague having, as they all knew, left the business, a vacancy had occurred, which Mr. Schroeter himself wished should be filled by Wohlfart; but as his case would thus be made exceptional—he having been an apprentice only two years instead of four—the principal kindly referred the decision to the body of the clerks.

An imposing silence succeeded to these words, which was at length interrupted by Mr. Pix proposing punch, and that they should order in the kettle for the tea-drinkers.

The other gentlemen preserved a dignified silence, looked with solemnity at the preparations going forward, and each felt his responsibility and his importance as a man and a clerk.

The next question was, "How shall we vote?"

It was decided that the youngest should begin.

Specht was the youngest. "First of all, I have to remark that Herr von Fink is not present," said he, looking around in some excitement.

A general murmur arose, "He does not belong to us; he is a volunteer."

"In that case," continued Specht, somewhat taken down by this universal opposition, "I am of opinion that Anton ought, according to custom, to remain an apprentice for four years; but, as he is a good fellow, and likely to prove useful, I am also of opinion that an exception should be made in his favor; while I propose that, in order to remind him of his former position, he be appointed to make tea for us during a year, and to mend a hundred pens for each of his colleagues."

"Stuff and nonsense!" muttered Pix; "you have always such overstrained notions."

"What do you mean by overstrained notions?" inquired Specht, angrily.

"I must call you to order," said Mr. Jordan.

The rest of the colleagues proceeded to give in their adherence to the plan. Baumann did so with enthusiasm. At last it came to the turn of Pix. "Gentlemen," said he, "what is the use of much talking? His knowledge of business is fair, considering that he is but a young fellow; his manner is pleasant—the servants respect him. According to my notions, he is too tender and considerate; but it is not given to all to manage others. He is a poor hand at cards, and can make little or nothing of punch—that's about what he is. But, as these last peculiarities have nothing to do with the present proposal, I see no reason why he should not, from the present date, become our colleague."

Then came Purzel and Liebold, who each gave his vote in his own characteristic way, and the affair was settled. Baumann was about to rush off and call Anton, when Specht insisted upon the solemnity of a deputation, and Liebold and Pix were appointed to escort the astonished youth, who could not conceive what it all meant, till Jordan, advancing to meet him, said, with the utmost cordiality, "Dear Wohlfart, you have now worked with us two years; you have taken pains to learn the business, and have won the friendship of us all. It is the will of the principal, and our united wish, that the term of your apprenticeship should be abridged, and that you should to-morrow enter upon your duties as a clerk. We congratulate you sincerely, and hope that, as our colleague, you will show us the same friendly regard that you have hitherto shown." So said worthy Mr. Jordan, and held out his hand.

Anton stood for a moment as if stupefied, and then there followed an amount of hand-shaking and congratulation never witnessed before in that apartment. Next came toasts, speeches, and, after an evening of most hearty enjoyment, the colleagues separated at a late hour.

Anton could not go to bed, however, without imparting his good fortune to his friend Fink. So he went to meet him on his return home, and told him the important event in the bright moonlight. Fink made a grand flourish in the air with his riding-whip, and said, "Bravo! bravo! I should not have given our despot credit for such contempt of precedent. You will be launched a year the sooner into life."

The following day the principal called the new clerk into his own sanctuary, and received his thanks with a smile.

Last of all, at dinner, the ladies congratulated the new official. Sabine even came down the whole length of the table to where Anton stood, and greeted him in the kindest terms. A bottle of wine was placed beside each cover; while the merchant, raising his glass, and bowing to our happy hero, said, with earnest kindness, "Dear Wohlfart, we drink to the memory of your excellent father."



CHAPTER X.

One winter morning Anton was reading diligently the "Last of the Mohicans," while the first snow-flakes were dancing down outside his window, when Fink came in hurriedly, saying, "Anton, let me have a look at your wardrobe?" He opened the different drawers, examined their contents, and, shaking his head, said, "I will send my tailor to measure you for a new suit."

"I have no money," replied Anton, laughing.

"Nonsense!" cried Fink; "the tailor will give you as much credit as you like."

"I do not, however, choose to buy on credit," said Anton, settling himself upon the sofa to argue the point with his friend.

"You must make an exception in this case. It is high time that you should see more of society, and I am going to introduce you."

Anton started up, blushed, and exclaimed, "It won't do, Fink; I am quite a stranger, and have no position to give me confidence."

"That's the very reason why you must go into society," replied Fink, severely. "You must get rid of this miserable timidity as soon as possible. Can you waltz? Have you any remote conception of the figures of a quadrille?"

"A few years ago I had some dancing-lessons in Ostrau."

"Very well; now you shall have some more. Frau von Baldereck informed me yesterday that a few families purposed instituting a private assembly, where their half-grown chickens might learn to spread their wings, secure from birds of prey. It is to be held in her house, as she has a chicken of her own to bring up for the market. It's the very thing for you, and I will introduce you."

"Fink," said our hero, "this is another of your mad adventures. Frau von Baldereck belongs to the aristocratic set; you would only occasion me the mortification of being rejected, or, worse, treated with hauteur."

"Is he not enough to put a saint out of patience?" cried Fink, in dudgeon; "you and your class have more reason to hold your heads high than half of those here assembled. And yet you are the very people, with your timidity and subserviency, to keep up their foolish pretensions! How can you suppose yourself their inferior? I should never have expected to have found such meanness in you."

"You mistake me," replied Anton, angry in his turn. "I am not wanting in self-respect; but it would be foolish and unbecoming to intrude into a circle where I am not wished for, and where a man would be despised for being in a counting-house."

"Nonsense! you are wished for. There is a paucity of gentlemen. The lady of the house (I am a favorite—no honor, mind you) has asked me to introduce three young men of my acquaintance, and so nothing can be more simple. You pay for your lessons like another; and whether you whirl round a countess or a young bourgeoise, what matters it?"

"It won't do," replied Anton, shaking his head; "I have an inward conviction that it is unbecoming, and wish to be guided by this."

"Well, then," said Fink, impatiently, "I have one other proposal to make. You shall this very day call with me upon Frau von Baldereck. I will introduce you as Anton Wohlfart, one of the clerks in the firm of T. O. Schroeter. Not a word shall be said of these dancing-lessons, and you shall see that she herself will invite you. If she does not, or if she shows the very least hauteur, you can stay away. This you can not object to."

Anton demurred. The case seemed by no means so clear as Fink made it out, but he was no longer able to weigh it dispassionately. For years past he had yearned for the free, dignified, refined life of the upper circles. Whenever he heard music—whenever he read of the doings of the aristocracy, the turreted castle and the noble maiden rose before him in the golden light of poetry. He consented to the proposal of his experienced friend.

An hour later came the tailor, and Fink himself determined the cut of the new suit with a technical precision which impressed the tailor no less than it did Anton.

That afternoon, as the November sun melted away the snow, Fink, with a large bundle of papers in his hand, loitered down the most unfrequented streets, evidently on the look-out for some one or other. At last he crossed over, and encountered, apparently to his surprise, two elegantly-dressed gentlemen who were sauntering, on the opposite side.

"Ah! Fink."

"Oh, how do you do?"

"Where are you wandering to in this absent mood?" inquired young Von Toennchen.

"I am looking," replied Fink, in a melancholy voice, "for two good fellows who will come and drink a bottle of wine with me this gloomy afternoon, and assist me in a little matter of business beforehand."

"What! a duel?" inquired Herr von Zernitz.

"No, fair sir," replied Fink; "you know that I have forsworn all evil ways, and am become a hard-working man of business, a worthy son of the firm of Fink and Becker. I only want two witnesses to a legal document, which must be executed at once. Will you accompany me for a quarter of an hour to the notary—for the rest of the evening to Feroni's?"

The two gentlemen were only too happy. Fink took them to a well-known lawyer, to whom he delivered a long and important-looking document, written in English, and setting forth that Fritz von Fink was the lawful proprietor of the territory of Fowling-floor, in the State of New York. This, he explained to the lawyer, he now wished to make over to Anton Wohlfart, at present clerk in the house of T. O. Schroeter, imploring the man of business, at the same time, to keep the matter secret, which he duly promised; and the two witnesses attested the deed. As they left, Fink earnestly besought them never to reveal the circumstance to Mr. Wohlfart. They both gave him their word of honor, evincing, however, some degree of curiosity as to the whole transaction.

"I can not explain it to you," said Fink, "there being about it a political mystery that is not quite clear even to myself."

"Is the estate large that you have just ceded?" inquired Von Toennchen.

"An estate!" said Fink, looking up to the sky; "it is no estate. It is a district, mountain and vale, wood and water—but a small part, certainly, of America. But then, what is large? On the other side of the Atlantic we measure things by a very different scale to that used in this corner of Germany. At all events, I shall never again call the property mine."

"But who is this Wohlfart?" asked the lieutenant.

"You shall make his acquaintance," answered Fink. "He is a handsome youth from the heart of the province, over whom a remarkable destiny hovers—of which, however, he knows, and is to know, nothing. But enough of business. I have a plan for you this winter. You are old boys, it is true; but you must take dancing-lessons."

And, so saying, he led the way into Feroni's, where the three were soon deep in a bottle of port wine.

Frau von Baldereck was one of the main supports of the very best society, consisting as it did of the families of the county nobility, the officers, and a few of the highest officials. It was difficult to say what had given this lady her social importance, for she was neither very well connected, nor very rich, nor very elegant, nor very intellectual. Perhaps it was this absence of all marked superiority which accounted for it. She had a very large acquaintance, was rigidly conventional, valued every one according to a social standard, and, therefore, her estimate was always attended to. She had a young daughter who promised to be very like her, and she inhabited a suite of large rooms on a first floor, where for many years dramatic representations, tableaux vivants, rehearsals, etc., had been constantly held.

This influential lady was deep in consultation with her mantuamaker as to how the new dress of her daughter could be best made so as to display her faultless bust without exciting comment at the dancing-lesson, when her favorite, Fink, was announced. Dismissing a while the weighty consideration, she hurried down to give him a most gracious reception.

After a few introductory remarks upon the last evening party at which they had met, Fink began:

"I have obeyed your orders, lady patroness, and shall bring you three gentlemen."

"And who are they?"

"First, Lieutenant von Zernitz."

"A great acquisition," was the reply, for the lieutenant was considered an accomplished officer. He made neat verses, was great in the arrangement of tableaux vivants, and was said to have written a tale in some annual or other. "Herr von Zernitz is a delightful companion."

"Yes," said Fink; "but he can not bear port wine. The second is young Von Toennchen."

"An old family," observed the mistress of the house; "but is he not a little—just a little—wild?" added she, modestly.

"By no means," said Fink; "though sometimes, perhaps, he makes other people so."

"And the third?" inquired the lady.

"The third is a Mr. Wohlfart."

"Wohlfart!" returned she, somewhat perplexed; "I do not know the name."

"Very likely not," said Fink, coolly; "Mr. Wohlfart came here from the country two or three years ago, to get an insight into the mysteries of business; he is now in Schroeter's office, like myself."

"But, my dear Fink!" interposed the lady.

Fink was by no means taken aback. Comfortably reclining in his arm-chair, he went on: "Mr. Wohlfart is a striking and interesting person. There are some singular circumstances connected with him. I think him the finest fellow I ever met with. He comes from Ostrau, and calls himself the son of an accountant there, now dead. But there hangs a mystery over him, of which he himself knows nothing."

"But, Herr von Fink," said the lady, anxious to be heard.

Fink looked intently at the cornice, and went on. "He is already the possessor of certain lands in America. The title-deeds have passed through my hands confidentially; but he must know nothing of it for the present. I myself believe that he has every prospect of more than a million some future day. Did you ever see the late archduke?"

"No," said the lady, with some curiosity.

"There are people," continued Fink, "who maintain that Anton is strikingly like him. What I have said is a secret, however, of which my friend knows nothing. One thing is certain, that the late emperor, on the occasion of his last journey through the province, stopped at Ostrau, and had a long conversation with the pastor there."

Now this last circumstance was true, and Anton had chanced to mention it to Fink among other of his childish recollections. He had also stated that the pastor in question had been an army-chaplain in the last war, and that the emperor had asked him in what corps he had served.

Fink, however, did not think it necessary to descend to such minutiae. Frau von Baldereck declared herself ready to receive Mr. Wohlfart.

"One word more," said Fink, rising; "what I have confided to you, good fairy"—the fairy weighed upward of ten stone—"must remain a secret between us. I am sure I may trust to your delicacy what, were it to be spoken of by others, I should resent as a liberty taken with me and my friend, Mr. Wohlfart." He pronounced the name so ironically that the lady felt convinced that this gentleman, now under the disguise of a clerk, would soon burst upon the world as a prince.

"But," said she, as they parted, "how shall I introduce him to my acquaintance?"

"Only as my best friend; for whom I will answer, in every respect, as a great addition to our circle."

When Fink found himself in the street, he muttered irreverently enough, "How the old lady swallowed all my inventions, to be sure! As the son of plain honest parents, they would have given the poor lad the cold shoulder; now, however, they will all behave with a courtesy that will charm my young friend. I never thought that old sand-hole and its tumble-down hut would turn out so useful."

The seed that Fink had sown fell on fruitful soil. Frau von Baldereck, who had a maternal design upon him, was only too glad to have a chance of him as her daughter's partner in these dancing-lessons, which she had not expected him to attend. The few hints that she ventured to throw out about Anton being confirmed by certain mysterious observations made by two officers, a rumor became current that a gentleman of immense fortune, for whom the Emperor of Russia had purchased extensive possessions in America, would make his appearance at the dancing-lessons.

A few days later, Anton was taken by Fink to call upon Frau von Baldereck, from whom he received the most gracious, nay, pressing invitation to join their projected reunions.

The visit over, Anton, tripping down stairs on his Mentor's arm, remarked, in all simplicity, that he was surprised to find it so easy to converse with people of distinction.

Fink muttered something, which might or might not be an assent, and said, "On the whole, I am satisfied with you. Only you must, this winter, get over that confounded habit of blushing. It's bad enough in a black neckcloth, but what will it be in a white one? You will look like an apoplectic Cupid."

Frau von Baldereck, however, thought this modesty exceedingly touching; and when her daughter announced decidedly that she liked Fink much the best of the two, she shook her head, and smiling, replied, "You are no judge, dear; there is a nobility and natural grace in every thing the stranger does and says that is perfectly enchanting."

Meanwhile the great day of the opening lesson arrived, and Fink, having superintended Anton's toilette, carried him off to the scene of action.

As they went down stairs, the door of Jordan's room softly opened, and Specht, stretching out his long neck to look after them, cried out to those within, "He is gone. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Why, there are only the nobility there! A pretty story it will make."

"After all, why should he not go, since he is invited?" said the good-natured Jordan. To this no one knew exactly what to answer, till Pix cried angrily, "I do not like his accepting such an invitation. He belongs to us and to the office. He will learn no good among such people."

"These dancing-lessons must be curious scenes," chimed in Specht; "frivolous in the extreme, mere love-making and dueling—for which we know Wohlfart has always had a turn. Some fine morning we shall have him going out with pistols under his arm, and not returning on his feet."

"Nonsense!" replied the irritable Pix; "they don't fight more than other people."

"Then he will have to speak French?"

"Why not Russ?" asked Mr. Pix.

At which the two fell into a dispute as to what was the medium of communication in the great lady's salon. However, all the colleagues agreed in considering that Wohlfart had taken an exceedingly bold and mysterious step, and one pregnant with calamitous consequences.

Nor was this the only discussion on the subject. "He is gone!" announced the cousin, returning from an interview with some of the domestics.

"Another trick of his friend Fink," said the merchant.

Sabine looked down at her work. "I am glad," said she at length, "that Fink should use his influence to give his friend pleasure. He himself does not care for dancing, and I am sure that to attend these lessons is in him an act of self-denial; and I am also truly glad that Wohlfart, who has hitherto led such a solitary life, should go a little into society."

"But into such society as this? How is it possible!" cried the cousin.

Sabine tapped the table with her thimble. "Fink has spoken highly of him, and that was good and kind. And, in spite of the grave face of my dear brother, he shall, as a reward, have his favorite dish to-morrow."

"Ham, with Burgundy sauce," added the cousin.

Meanwhile Fink and Anton were entering Frau von Baldereck's lighted rooms, and Fink, whispering, "Come, summon all your courage; you have nothing to fear," led his unresisting friend up to the lady of the house, by whom they were most graciously received, and who, saying at once to Anton, "I will introduce you to Countess Pontak," led him off to a gaunt lady of uncertain age, who sat on a slightly-elevated seat, surrounded by a small court of her own. "Dear Betty, this is Mr. Wohlfart." Anton saw at once that "dear Betty" had a nose of parchment, thin lips, and a most unpleasing countenance. He bowed before her with the resigned air of a prisoner, while she began to cross-examine him as to who he was and whence he came, till his shyness was fast changing into annoyance, when Fink stepped in.

"My friend, proud lady, is half Slavonic, though he passionately protests against any doubts cast upon his German origin. I recommend him to your kindness. You have just given a proof of your talent for investigation, now give my friend the benefit of the gentle indulgence for which we all admire you." The ladies smiled, the gentlemen turned away to hide their laughter, and Betty sat there with ruffled feathers, like some small bird of prey whom a larger has robbed of its victim.

As for Anton, he was hurrying away into a corner to recover, when he felt a light tap on his arm, and heard a fresh young voice say, "Mr. Wohlfart, do you not remember your old friend? This is the second time that I have been obliged to speak first."

Anton turned, and saw a tall, slight figure, with fair hair, and large dark blue eyes, smiling at him. The expression of delight on his face was so unmistakable that Lenore could not help telling him how glad she too was to see him again. Soon they were in full conversation; they had met but three times in their lives, and yet had so much to say. At last the young lady reminded him that he must now speak to others, told him to join her when the music began, and, with the majesty of a queen, crossed the room to her mother.

Anton was now hardened against all social terrors, and his embarrassment over and gone. He joined Fink, who introduced him to a dozen gentlemen, not one of whose names he remembered, caring for them no more than for poplars along a high road.

But this audacious mood vanished when he approached the baroness. There were the delicate features, the unspeakable refinement, which had so impressed him when he saw her first. She at once discovered that he was unaccustomed to society, and looked at him with a curiosity not unmingled with some misgiving; but Lenore cut the interview as short as she could by saying that it was time to take their places in the dance.

"He waltzes tolerably—too much swing, perhaps," muttered Fink to himself.

"A distinguished-looking pair," cried Frau von Baldereck, as Anton and Lenore whirled past.

"She talks too much to him," said the baroness to her husband, who happened to join her.

"To him?" asked he; "who is the young man? I have never seen the face before."

"He is one of the adherents of Herr von Fink—he is alone here—has rich relatives in Russia or America; I do not like the acquaintance for Lenore."

"Why not?" replied the baron; "he looks a good, innocent sort of youth, and is far better suited for this child's-play than the old boys that I see around. There is Bruno Toennchen, whose only pleasure is to make the girls blush, or teach them to leave off blushing. Lenore looks uncommonly well to-night. I am going to my whist; send for me when the carriage is ready."

Anton heard none of these comments upon him; and if the hum of the company around had been as loud as that of the great bell of the city's highest steeple, he would not have heard it better. For him the whole world had shrunk to the circle round which he and his partner revolved. The beautiful fair head so near his own that sometimes they touched, the warm breath that played on his cheek, the unspeakable charm of the white glove that hid her small hand, the perfume of her handkerchief, the red flowers fastened to her dress—these he saw and felt; all besides was darkness, barrenness, nothingness.

Suddenly the music stopped, and Anton's world fell back into chaos. "What a pity!" said Lenore, as the last note died away.

"I thank you for this bliss!" said Anton, leading her back to her place.

As he moved to and fro in the crowd like a rudderless ship amid the waves, Fink took him in tow, and said, "I say, you hypocrite, you have either drunk sweet wine, or you are a quiet sort of Don Juan. How long have you known the Rothsattel? You have never spoken of her to me. She has a lovely figure and a classical face. Has she any sense?"

At that moment how unspeakably Anton despised his friend! Such an expression as that could only proceed from the most degraded of human beings.

"Sense!" exclaimed he, casting on Fink a look of deadly enmity; "he who doubts it must be utterly devoid of sense himself."

"Well, well!" exclaimed Fink, in amazement; "I am not in that melancholy plight, for I think the girl, or rather the young lady, uncommonly lovely; and, had I not some small engagements elsewhere, I might feel constrained to choose her for the mistress of my affections. As it is, I can only admire her afar off."

"You are right," said Anton, squeezing his arm.

"Really," returned Fink, in his usual careless tone, "you begin well, it must be allowed; go on, my son, and prosper."

And Anton did go on, and did his Mentor honor. He was indeed intoxicated, but not with wine. The music, the excitement of the dance, the gay scene around, inspired him; he felt self-confident, nay, daring; and, one or two trifling solecisms excepted, behaved as if he had been surrounded by waxlights and obsequious domestics all the days of his life. He was a good deal remarked—made, indeed, quite a sensation; while dark hints of a mystery attached to him spread from corner to corner of the spacious rooms.

At length came the cotillon. Anton sought out Lenore, who exclaimed, "I knew that you would dance it with me!" This was to both the happiest part of the whole happy evening.

As to all that followed, it was a mere indistinct vision. Anton was dimly conscious of walking about with Fink, of talking and laughing with him and others, of bowing before the lady of the house, and murmuring his thanks; of having his paletot reached him by a servant, and of putting something into his hand; but all this was shadowy and unreal. He only saw one thing clearly: a white cloak, with a silk hood and a tassel—oh, that tassel! Once more the large eyes shone full upon him, and he heard the whispered words, "Good-night!" Then came an uninteresting dream of going up stairs with Fink, and but half hearing his jesting comments; of entering a small room, lighting a lamp, and wondering whether it was really here he lived; of slowly undressing, and at length falling asleep.



CHAPTER XI.

Since the important evening above described, the dancing-lessons had gone on regularly, and Anton, having got over the purgatory of the first introduction, began to feel perfectly at home. Indeed, he became a useful member of the association, and was a pattern of assiduity and punctuality, and a striking contrast to Fink, who horrified the dancing-master by declaring that the galop step was fitted for every and all dances alike, and by waltzing in the most eccentric orbits conceivable.

The fact was, Anton was so happy that his transfigured aspect struck both the young and the old ladies, confirming the former in their conviction that he was good and true-hearted, and the latter in theirs, that he was a prince in disguise. He himself best knew the secret of his bliss. Every thought of his loyal heart revolved around its absolute mistress. All dances or conversations with others he looked upon as more flourishes surrounding her name; neither was he without his reward. She soon treated him like an old friend; and, whenever she entered the room, it was not till she had discovered his brown curls among the circle that she felt at home in the brilliant assembly.

It is, however, a melancholy fact, that destiny never long permits a child of earth to feel his whole nature and circumstances strung up to their utmost sweetness and power. It invariably contrives to let down some string while winding up another. Hence arises a discord, such as Anton was now called upon to experience.

It was plain that the gentlemen of the counting-house looked with critical eye upon the change in his way of life. There existed every possible diversity among them, it is true; but all were unanimous in pronouncing that, since he had attended these dancing-lessons, our hero had greatly changed for the worse. They declared that his increased silence was pride, his frequent absences in an evening tokens of unbecoming levity; and he who had once been a universal favorite was now in danger of being universally condemned. He himself considered the colder bearing of his colleagues very unkind; and so it came to pass that, for several weeks, he lived almost exclusively with Fink, and that the two formed, as it were, an aristocratic section in opposition to the rest.

Anton was more depressed by this state of things than he chose to confess: he felt it every where—at his desk, in his room, nay, even at dinner. If Jordan wanted a commission executed, it was no longer to him, but to Baumann, that he turned; when Purzel, the cashier, came into the office, he no longer accepted Anton's seat; and though Specht addressed him oftener than ever, it was no comfort to have questions like these whispered in his ear, "Is it true that Baron von Berg has dapple-gray horses?" or, "Must you wear patent leather boots, or shoes, at Frau von Baldereck's?" But Pix, his former patron, was the severest of all. Excessive toleration had never been one of this gentleman's weaknesses, and he now, for no very definite reasons, looked upon Anton as a traitor to himself and the firm. He was in the habit of keeping his birth-day in a most festal manner, surrounded by all his friends, and, knowing this, Anton had purposely refused an invitation of Herr von Zernitz; yet, when the day came, Fink and he were not included among the birth-day guests.

Anton felt this deeply; and, to make matters worse, Specht confidentially told him that Pix had declared that a young gentleman who associated with lieutenants, and frequented Feroni's, was no companion for a plain man of business. As he sat alone and heard the merry laughter of his colleagues, he fell into a melancholy mood, which none of his ball-room recollections had the power to dispel.

For, truth to tell, he was not satisfied with himself—he was changed. He was not exactly negligent of business, but it gave him no pleasure—his work was a task. Sometimes, in writing letters, he had forgotten the most important clauses; nay, once or twice he had made mistakes as to prices, and Jordan had handed him them back to re-write. He fancied, too, that the principal had not noticed him for some time past, and that Sabine's greeting had grown colder. Even the good-natured Karl had asked him, ironically he thought, whether he, as well as Fink, had a pass-key. It was in this mood that he now sat down to look over his own accounts, which of late he had omitted to keep punctually. He was horrified to find that his debts amounted to more than he could pay without mortgaging his little inheritance. He felt very unhappy and out of tune; but fate willed that the discord should increase.

Two or three evenings later, the merchant, returning early from his club, answered Sabine's greeting dryly, and paced up and down the room.

"What is the matter, Traugott?" asked she.

He threw himself into a chair. "Would you like to know how Fink got his protege introduced into Frau von Baldereck's circle? You were so ready to admire this proof of his friendship! He has concocted a whole system of lies, and made the inexperienced Wohlfart play the part of a mere adventurer." And he went on to narrate all that we already know.

"But is it certain that Fink has done this?"

"Not a doubt of it. It is exactly like him. It is the same reckless, unscrupulous spirit, that neither heeds the life nor the reputation of a friend."

Sabine fell back in her chair, and again her heart swelled with indignation. "Oh, how sad it is!" cried she; "but Wohlfart is innocent, that I am convinced of. Such falsehoods are not in his nature."

"I shall know to-morrow," said the merchant; "for his own sake, I hope you are right."

The next day the principal summoned Anton to his own apartment, and telling him the rumors that had arisen, asked him what he had done to contradict them.

Anton replied in much amazement, "That he knew nothing of such rumors as these; that sometimes, indeed, he had been joked with as to his means, but that he had always avowed how small they were."

"Have you spoken decidedly?" asked the merchant, severely.

"I believe that I have," was the honest reply.

"These idle tales would not signify," continued the principal, "but that they expose you to the charge of having sought, by unworthy means, to gain a position to which you are not entitled, and also that they tend to degrade your parents' reputation, for it is given out that you are the son of a man of very high rank."

"Oh my mother!" cried Anton, wringing his hands, and the tears rolling down his cheeks. As soon as he could control his emotion, he said,

"The most painful part of all this is, that you should have supposed me capable of circulating these falsehoods. I implore you to believe that I never knew of them till now."

"I am glad to believe it," said the merchant; "but you have done much to substantiate them. You have appeared in a circle and incurred expenses which were alike unsuited to your position and your fortune."

Anton felt that he would greatly prefer the centre of the earth to its surface. At length he cried, "I know it—you are right—nay, I knew it all the time; and especially since I found that I had run into debt"—here the merchant smiled almost imperceptibly—"I have felt that I was on the wrong road altogether, though I did not know how to retrace my steps. But now I will lose no more time."

"Was it not Fink who introduced you to that circle? Perhaps," said the merchant, "he may be able to throw some light on the affair."

"Allow me to call him," said Anton, "and let him be witness as to whether I knew of this."

"Certainly, if it be any satisfaction to you;" and Fink was summoned. On entering, he looked with astonishment at Anton's excited aspect, and cried, without particularly heeding the principal's presence, "The devil! you have been weeping!"

"Over calumnies," said the merchant, gravely, "which affect his own character as a respectable man of business, and the honor of his family." And he proceeded to state the whole affair.

"He is quite innocent," said Fink, good-naturedly: "innocent and harmless as the violet that blows in the shade. He knew nothing of this ridiculous affair; and, if any one be to blame, it is I, and the babbling fools who have spread the story. Don't torment yourself, Anton; since it annoys you, we will soon set it all to rights."

"I shall go once more," declared Anton, "to Frau von Baldereck, and tell her that I can no longer attend the dancing-parties."

"As you like," said Fink. "At all events, you have learned to dance, and to hold your hat like a gentleman."

Before dinner, the merchant said to his sister, "You were right, Wohlfart had nothing to do with it; it was all Fink's invention."

"I knew it," cried Sabine, drawing out her needle vehemently.

Anton worked hard all day, said little, and, when evening came, went up stairs to dress, like a man whose mind is made up.

If Fink could have seen into his heart, he would have been shocked at the sorrow there. It was not alone wounded self-love, mortification, shame, but the anguish of bidding farewell to Lenore. As it was, "I say," cried he, "I have a notion that you take this nonsense a great deal too tragically. Are you angry with me?" holding out his hand.

"Neither with you nor with any one else; but let me for once act for myself."

"What are you going to do?"

"Do not ask me. I have but one thing to do."

"So be it, then," was the good-humored reply; "but do not forget that any thing like a scene would only amuse those people."

"Trust me," said Anton, "I shall make none."

It happened to be a very gay meeting, and there were more gentlemen present than usual. Anton at once went up to Lenore, who came to meet him more lovely than ever, in her first ball-dress, saying, "How late you are! Come, papa is here, and I want to introduce you to him. But what is the matter, you look so grave?"

"Dear lady," returned Anton, "I do indeed feel sad. I can not dance the next dance with you, and am only come to apologize to you, and to the lady of the house, for my abrupt departure."

"Mr. Wohlfart!" cried Lenore, clasping her hands.

"Your good opinion is more to me than that of all others," said he, blushing; and proceeded rapidly to state the whole story, assuring her that he had known nothing of it.

"I believe you," said Lenore, cordially; "and, indeed, papa said that it was all most probably an idle tale. And because of this you will give up our dancing-parties!"

"I will," said Anton; "for, if I do not, I run a risk of being considered an intruder or an impostor."

Lenore tossed her little head. "Go, then, sir!" and she turned away.

Anton stood like one annihilated. Had he been ten years older, he might have interpreted her anger more favorably. As it was, a bitter pang thrilled through him. But the thought of what was still to be done nerved him to overcome it, and he walked steadily, nay, proudly to where Frau von Baldereck was doing the honors. All the most distinguished members of the party were around her. The gaunt old countess sat drinking a cup of tea. The baroness was there; and near her a tall, handsome man, whom Anton knew instinctively to be Lenore's father. As he advanced to make his bow to the lady of the house, his glance took in the whole scene at once. Years have passed since then; but still he knows the color of every dress, could count the flowers in the bouquet of the baroness, ay, and remembers the gilt pattern on the countess's tea-cup. Frau von Baldereck received his obeisance with a gracious smile, and was about to say something flattering, when Anton interrupted her, and in a voice that shook a little, perhaps, but was audible throughout the room, began his address, which was soon listened to in profound silence. "Madam, I have this day heard that a rumor has been spread of my possessing lands in America, and exciting an interest in certain high quarters. I now declare that this is all false. I am the son of a late accountant in Ostrau, and I inherit from my parents hardly any thing beyond an unsullied name. You, madam, have been kind enough to invite me, an insignificant stranger, to take part in your reunions this winter. After what I have just heard, I dare do so no longer, lest I should thus substantiate the idle reports I have mentioned, and be suspected of imposing upon your hospitality. Therefore I have only to thank you sincerely for your past kindness, and to take my leave."

The whole party was struck dumb. Anton bowed, and turned to go.

Just then there flew out from the paralyzed circle a brilliant form, and taking both his hands in hers, Lenore looked at him with tearful eyes, and said, in a broken voice, "Farewell!" The door closed, and all was over.

When life returned in the room he had left, the first words audible were the baroness's whisper to her daughter, "Lenore, you have forgotten yourself."

"Do not blame her," said the baron, aloud, with great presence of mind; "the daughter only did what the father should have done. The young man has behaved admirably, and we can not but esteem him."

A murmur, however, began to arise from different groups. "Quite a dramatic scene," said the lady of the house; "but who then said—"

"Ay, who was it that said," interposed Von Toennchen. All eyes turned to Fink.

"It was you, Herr von Fink, who—" Frau von Baldereck majestically began.

"I, my dear lady!" said Fink, with the composure of a just man unjustly accused. "What have I to do with the report? I have always contradicted it as much as possible."

"Yes," said several voices; "but then you used to hint—"

"And you certainly did say—" interpolated Frau von Baldereck.

"What?" coldly inquired the imperturbable Fink.

"That this Mr. Wohlfart was mysteriously connected with the Czar."

"Impossible!" cried Fink, earnestly; "that is a complete misunderstanding. In describing the appearance of the gentleman, then unknown to you, I may possibly have mentioned an accidental likeness, but—"

"But the American property," chimed in Herr von Toennchen; "why, you yourself made it over to him, and requested us to keep the transaction a profound secret."

"As you have kept my secret so well," replied Fink, "as to tell it every where, and now in my presence, before all assembled here, you and Zernitz are evidently answerable for the whole foolish rumor. And now listen, gentlemen; my friend Wohlfart having once expressed a playful wish to have land in America, I amused myself by making him a Christmas-box of a certain possession of mine on Long Island, near New York, which possession consists of a few sand-hills and a tumble-down hut, built for wild-duck shooting. It was natural that I should ask you not to mention this, and I am very sorry that, from such a trifle, you should have spun a web that excludes a delightful man from our circle." And then a cold irony spreading over his features, he went on: "I rejoice to see how strongly you all share my feeling, and despise the low snobbishness of soul which could consider a man more fitted for society because a foreign potentate had evinced an interest in him. And, since we have begun this evening's dance with explanations, let me further explain, that Mr. Anton Wohlfart is the son of a late accountant in Ostrau, and that I shall consider any further allusion to this misunderstanding as an insult to my most intimate friend. And now, my dear lady, I am engaged to your daughter for the first quadrille, and can positively wait no longer."

In the course of the evening Lieutenant von Zernitz came up and said, "Fink, you have made fun of us, and I am sorry to be under the necessity of demanding satisfaction."

"Be rational, and do nothing of the kind," replied Fink. "We have shot together so often, it would be a pity now to take each other for a mark."

Fink being by far the best shot in the room, Herr von Zernitz allowed himself to be convinced.

Anton had vanished from the fashionable circle like a falling star, and he never reappeared therein. True, it did occur to Frau von Baldereck, rather late in the day, that it would be proper occasionally to invite the young man, to prove that he had not been tolerated merely as—what he was not, and some other families thought the same; but as these invitations came, as before said, rather late, and as Anton declined them, his fate was that of many a greater man—society forgot him. For a short time the two chief hatchers of the grand report, Messrs. von Toennchen and von Zernitz, spoke to him when they met him in the street; for a whole year they bowed, then they too knew him no more.

The following day Anton told the merchant all that had passed, begged him to forgive his late remissness, and promised greater attention in future.

"I have no fault to find," replied the merchant, kindly. "And now let me see the amount of your debts, that we may get your affairs in order." Anton drew a slip of paper from his pocket, the cashier was called, the sum paid, and put down to Anton's account, and that was settled.

In the evening Fink said to Anton, "You went off with flying colors; the oldest man there declared aloud that you had behaved admirably."

"Who said that?" Fink told him it was the Baron Rothsattel, and did not appear to remark his deep blush. "It would have been better," continued he, "if you had not taken such a decided step. Why avoid the whole circle, in which there are some who have a strong personal regard for you?"

"I have done what my own feelings prompted," said Anton; "perhaps one older and more experienced might have managed better; but you can not blame me for not taking your advice in this matter."

"It is singular," thought Fink, as he went down stairs, "what different events teach different men to have and exert wills of their own. This boy has become independent in one night, and whatever Fate may now have in store for him, he is sure to acquit himself well."

It spoke highly, both for Anton and his friend, that their intimacy was by no means decreased by the circumstances just related. On the contrary, it was deepened. Fink behaved with more consideration, and Anton gained more freedom, both of opinion and action. The influence of the younger of the friends weaned the elder from many an evil habit. Anton being more than ever zealous in his office duties, and more obliging to his colleagues, Fink insensibly accustomed himself to greater application and punctuality. There was only one subject that he never touched upon, though he well knew that it was always uppermost in Anton's mind, and that was the lovely young girl who had shown so much heart and spirit on the occasion of his last dancing-lesson.



CHAPTER XII.

Never had the flowers bloomed so gorgeously, never had the birds sung so gayly, as they did this summer on the baron's estate. The season spent in town had greatly extended the family acquaintance, and the castle was, in consequence, almost always full of guests. Dances, rides, acted charades, amusements of every kind, filled up the laughing hours.

What happy days these were to Lenore! True, she still remained something of an original, and her mother would at times shake her head at some daring freak or over-emphatic speech. It came naturally to her to play the gentleman's part whenever there was a lack of gentlemen. She was the leader in every expedition, delighting to carry off all her young female friends to some distant spot whence there was a fine view, to force them into some little village inn, where they had only milk and black bread for supper, and then to carry them all home dead-tired in a wagon, which she herself would drive standing. She had a way of treating young men with a sort of motherly kindness, as though they were still little bread-and-butter-eating urchins; and on the occasion of a certain dramatic representation, she horrified her mother by appearing in a male character, with a riding-whip and a little beard, which she twisted about in the most fascinating way. But she looked so wondrously lovely, even thus attired, that her mother could not chide in earnest.

If, however, there was any one not entirely satisfied with this way of life, it was the baroness. A certain preoccupation and restlessness had stolen over her husband—the cloudless serenity of former years was gone. It was but a slight change, visible only to the wife's eyes; and even she owned to herself that she was hardly justified in grieving over it.

Just at this time, too, a great joy awaited her. Eugene had passed his examination, and promised them a visit to show them his epaulettes. His mother had his room newly fitted up, and his father placed some first-rate guns and a new hunting-dress in it as a present for him. On the day of his arrival he rode out to meet him, and it was a pleasant sight to see the two noble-looking men embrace, and then ride home together.

"We will surprise the ladies," said the baron, and soon the baroness clasped her son in her arms. This was the climax of happiness at the castle. Both parents' eyes glistened whenever they rested on their son. True, some of his expressions and gestures savored of the riding-school, but the baroness only smiled at them all. From time immemorial, indeed, the stable has been for the young cavalier the ante-chamber of the saloon. Eugene soon became supreme among the band of young ladies; he paid visits all around, invited friends in return; in short, one gayety succeeded another.

To all this there was only one drawback of which the baron was conscious. He could no longer live within his income. What had been possible for twenty years now became manifestly an utter impossibility. The winter residence in town, the epaulettes of his son, Lenore's gauzes and laces—even the additional interest of his promissory notes, all tended to embarrass him. The returns from his property were eagerly expected, and already in part forestalled; nor were they increased. Nay, many a projected improvement of former years remained unaccomplished. He had once meant to plant a sandy waste at the extremity of his estate, but even that small outlay was inconvenient, and the yellow sand still glistened in the sun. Again he was obliged to open the inlaid casket, and take out some of the fair parchments, and again his brow grew clouded and his mind troubled; but it was no longer the same agony of anxiety as before: he had had a little practice, and looked at things with a calmer eye. Something would turn up—there would be some way or other of becoming freed from these embarrassments; at most, he need only spend two more winters in town till Lenore's education should be quite completed, and then he would devote himself energetically to the care of his property. Meanwhile, he resolved to talk matters over a little with Ehrenthal, for, on the whole, he was an honorable man, that is, as far as a tradesman could be so; and, what was more, he knew the baron's circumstances exactly, and it was easier to discuss them with him than with a stranger.

As usual, Ehrenthal appeared just when wanted. His diamond breast-pin shone as usual, his obsequious compliments were as ludicrous as ever, and his admiration of the property as boundless. The baron took him all over the farm, and good-humoredly said, "You must give me some advice, Ehrenthal."

Only two or three years had passed since a similar walk over this farm, and how the times had changed! Then, Ehrenthal had to insinuate his advice to the proud baron, and now the baron himself asked him for it.

In the lightest tone that he could assume, he went on to say, "I have had greater expenses than usual this year. Even the promissory notes do not yield enough, and I must therefore think of increasing my income. What would you consider the best means of doing this?"

The usurer's eyes brightened; but he answered, with all due deference, "The baron must be a better judge of that than I can be."

"None of your bargains, however, Ehrenthal. I shall not enter into partnership with you again."

Ehrenthal replied, shaking his head, "There are not, indeed, many such bargains to be made, which I could conscientiously recommend. The baron has five-and-forty thousand dollars' worth of promissory notes. Why do you keep them when they pay so small an interest? If you were, instead, to buy a good mortgage at five per cent, you would pay four per cent to the Joint-stock Company, and one per cent. would be your own; in other words, a yearly addition of four hundred and fifty dollars. But you might make a better thing of them than that. There are many safe mortgages which are offered to sale for ready money, at a great profit to the purchaser. You might, perhaps, for forty thousand dollars, or even less, get a mortgage that would bring you in five per cent. on forty-five thousand dollars."

"I have thought of that," replied the baron; "but the security for such mortgages as these, which come into the hands of you brokers, is exceedingly poor, and I can not rely on it."

Ehrenthal waived off this reproach, and said, in a tone of virtuous indignation against all dealers in insecure mortgages, "For my own part, I am very shy of mortgages altogether, and such as are in the market are not fit for the baron, of course. You must apply to a trustworthy man; your own lawyer, for instance, may be able to procure you a good mortgage."

"Then you really know of none?" said the baron, secretly hoping that he did.

"I know of none," was the positive reply; "but if you wish, I can inquire; there are always some to be had. Your lawyer can tell you what he would consider good security; only you would have to pay down the sum total in case you procured it from him, whereas, if you could get one from a commercial man, you might make a profit of some thousands."

Now this profit was a most important point to the baron, and his mind was made up to realize it if possible. But he only said, "There is no hurry; should you hear of any thing desirable, you can let me know."

"I will do all I can," was the cautious reply; "but it will be well that the baron should also make inquiries himself, for I am not accustomed to deal in mortgages."

If this assertion were not strictly true, it was, at all events, politic, for the cool indifference of the tradesman increased the baron's confidence in him tenfold. The following day he went to town, and had a consultation with his lawyer, who strongly advised him to give up the idea of making any such profit as he contemplated, because such a mortgage would infallibly prove insecure. But this good advice only confirmed the baron in his intention of taking his own way in the matter.

A few days later, a tall stout man, with a shining red face, called upon the baron—a Mr. Pinkus, from the capital. He had heard, he said, that the baron wished to invest, and he knew of a remarkably safe and desirable mortgage, on a large property in the neighboring province, belonging to the rich Count Zaminsky, who lived abroad. This property had every possible advantage, including two thousand acres of magnificent natural wood. The mortgage was at present in Count Zaminsky's own hands. It was possible, Pinkus mysteriously hinted, to purchase it for ninety per cent.; in other words, for thirty-six thousand dollars. Certainly, it was a pity that the property lay in another province, where agriculturists had many primitive peculiarities. But it was only six miles from the frontier—the neighboring town was on the high road—the estate was princely. In short, the drawbacks were so small, and the advantages so great, that Pinkus never could have made up his mind to let a stranger purchase it, had he not been such an example of human perfection as the baron.

The baron received the compliment in a dignified manner, and before his departure Pinkus laid down a heavy roll of parchment, that the question of the security might be carefully investigated.

Early the next morning the baron took the deeds to his man of business, and himself ascended the dirty staircase that led to the white door of Ehrenthal, who was overjoyed to hear of his visit—dressed himself with the utmost rapidity, and insisted upon the baron doing him the infinite honor of breakfasting with him. The baron was not cruel enough to refuse, and accordingly he was ushered into the state apartment, where the contrast between splendor and shabbiness amused him not a little, as did also that between the gorgeous attire of the beautiful Rosalie, and the sneaking, crouching manner of her father.

During breakfast the baron asked Ehrenthal whether he happened to know a Mr. Pinkus.

At this business-like inquiry Rosalie vanished, and her father sat bolt upright. "Yes, I do know him," said he; "he is in a very small way, but I believe him an upright man. He is in a very small way, and all his business is with Poland."

"Have you mentioned to him my wish to buy a mortgage?"

"How should I have thought of mentioning it to him? If he has offered you a mortgage, he must have heard of it from another dealer, of whom I did make inquiries. But Pinkus is in a small way; how can he procure a mortgage for you?" And Ehrenthal indicated by a gesture how small Pinkus was, and by a look upward how immeasurably great his guest.

The baron then told him all particulars, and asked about the property and circumstances of the count.

Ehrenthal knew nothing; but he bethought himself that there was then in town a respectable tradesman from that very district, and promised to have him sent to the baron, who soon after took his leave, Ehrenthal accompanying him down stairs, and saying, "Be cautious about the mortgage, baron; it is good money, and there are many bad mortgages. To be sure, there are good mortgages too; and, of course, people will say a good deal to recommend their own. As to Loebel Pinkus, he is in but a small way of business; but, so far as I know, a trustworthy man. All you tell me about the mortgage sounds well, I own; but I humbly entreat you, baron, to be cautious—very cautious."

The baron, not much enlightened by this worthy address, went to his town house, and impatiently awaited for the arrival of the stranger, who soon came. His name was Loewenberg, and his appearance was a sort of medley of that of Ehrenthal and Pinkus, only he was thinner. He gave himself out as a wine-merchant, and appeared intimately acquainted with the count and his property. He said that the present possessor was young, and lived abroad; that his father had been rather a bad manager; but that, though the estate was burdened, it was not in the very least endangered. The land was not in high cultivation, therefore was susceptible of improvement, and he hoped the young count was the very man to see to it. On the whole, his report was decidedly favorable; there was no exaggeration about it—all was sensible and straightforward. The baron's mind was very nearly made up, and he went off straightway to one of his acquaintance, who knew the Zaminsky family. He did not hear much from him certainly, but still it was rather favorable than otherwise. On the other hand, Ehrenthal called to inform him that the wool of the sheep of that district was seldom fine, and to beg that he would consult his lawyer before he decided.

Ehrenthal's little office was on the same floor as the rest of the apartments, and opened out upon the hall. It was evening before he returned to it, in a state of great excitement. Itzig, who had been sitting before a blank book, wearily waiting for his master, wondered what could be the matter, when Ehrenthal eagerly said to him, "Itzig, now is the time to show whether you deserve your wages, and the advantage of a Sabbath dinner in good society."

"What am I to do?" replied Veitel, rising.

"First, you are to tell Loebel Pinkus to come here, and then to get me a bottle of wine and two glasses. Next go and bring me word to whom in Rosmin, Councilor Horn, who lives near the market-place, has written to-day, or, if not to-day, to whom he writes to-morrow. In finding this out you may spend five dollars, and if you bring me back word this evening you shall have a ducat for yourself."

Veitel felt a glow of delight, but replied calmly, "I know none of Councilor Horn's clerks, and must have some time to become acquainted with them."

He ordered the bottle of wine, and ran off into the street like a dog in scent of game.

Meanwhile Ehrenthal, his hat still on, his hands behind his back, walked up and down, nodding his head, and looking in the twilight like an ugly ghost who once has had his head cut off and can not now keep it steadily on.

As Veitel went on his way, his mind kept working much as follows: "What can be in the wind? It must be an important affair, and I am to know nothing about it! I am to send Pinkus. Pinkus was with Ehrenthal a few days ago, and the next morning he went to Baron Rothsattel's place in the country; so it must have something to do with the baron. And now, as to these letters. If I could catch the clerk who takes them to the post, and contrive to read the directions, I should save money. But how manage this? Well, I must find out some way or other." And, accordingly, Veitel posted himself at the door, and soon saw a young man rush out with a packet of letters in his hand. He followed him, and, turning sharply round a corner, contrived to meet him. Touching his hat, "You are from Councilor Horn's office?"

"Yes," said the clerk, in a hurry to get on.

"I am from the country, and have been waiting for three days for an important letter from the councilor; perhaps you may have one for me."

"What is your name?" said the clerk, looking at him mistrustfully.

"Bernhard Madgeburg, of Ostrau," said Veitel; "but the letter may be addressed to my uncle."

"There is no letter for you," replied the clerk, hurriedly glancing at the directions.

Do what he would, Veitel's eyes could not follow this rapid shuffling, so he seized the packet, and while the enraged official, catching hold of him, exclaimed, "What are you about, man! how dare you?" he devoured the directions, gave back the letters, and touching his hat, coolly said, "Nothing for me; do not lose the post; I am going to the councilor," turned on his heel and made his escape.

Spite of this bold stroke, he could only remember two or three of the addresses. "Perhaps I have made my money," thought he; "and if not, there's no time lost." So he went back, and, creeping to the office door, stood and listened. The worthy Pinkus was speaking, but very low, and Veitel could make little of it. At last, however, the voices grew louder.

"How can you ask such a large sum!" cried Ehrenthal, angrily; "I have been mistaken in thinking you a trustworthy man."

"I am trustworthy," replied Pinkus; "but I must have four hundred dollars, or this affair will fall through."

"How dare you say it will fall through? What do you know about it?"

"I know this much, that I can get four hundred dollars from the baron by telling him what I know," screamed Pinkus.

"You are a rascal! You are a traitor! Do you know who it is that you use thus? I can ruin your credit, and disgrace you in the eyes of all men of business."

"And I can show the baron what sort of a man you are," cried Pinkus, with equal vehemence.

At this the door opened, and Veitel plunged into the shadow of the staircase.

"I will give you till to-morrow to consider," were Pinkus's parting words.

Veitel coolly stepped into the office, and his patron hardly noticed him. He was pacing up and down the little room, like a wild beast in its cage, and exclaiming, "Just heavens! that this Pinkus should turn out such a traitor! He will blab the whole matter; he will ruin me!"

"Why should he ruin you?" asked Veitel, throwing his hat on the desk.

"What are you doing here? What have you overheard?"

"Every thing," was the cool reply. "You have both screamed so as to be heard all over the hall. Why do you keep the affair a secret from me? I could have compelled Loebel to give you better terms."

Ehrenthal stared in utter amazement at the audacious youth, and could only bring out, "What does this mean?"

"I know Pinkus well," continued Veitel, determined henceforth to take a part in the game. "If you give him a hundred dollars, he will readily sell you a good mortgage for the baron."

"How should you know any thing about the mortgage?"

"I know enough to help in the matter," replied Itzig; "and I will help you, if you trust me."

Ehrenthal continued to stare and stare, till at last it dawned upon him that his assistant had more coolness and decision than himself. Accordingly, he said, "You are a good creature, Veitel; go and bring in Pinkus; he shall have the hundred dollars."

"I have seen the directions of the councilor's letters: there was one to Commissary Walter."

"I thought so," cried Ehrenthal, with delight. "All right, Itzig; now for Loebel."

"I have to pay five dollars to the councilor's clerk," continued the youth, "and I am to have a ducat for myself."

"All right! you shall have the money; but first I must see Pinkus."

Veitel hastened to his lodgings, and found Pinkus still much excited, and revolving all Ehrenthal's injurious speeches.

In a few decided words, he gave him to understand that he was quietly to accept a hundred dollars, and to help Ehrenthal in this matter, else he, Veitel, would give the police a hint of the mysterious chamber in the next house, and of the smuggling guests; and further, that henceforth he must have a comfortable room on reasonable terms, and be treated no longer like a poor devil, but an equal. The result of which address was, that, after a good deal of useless fuming and fretting, Pinkus accompanied Veitel to Ehrenthal's house, where both worthies shook hands and came to terms; soon after which Veitel opened the door for Loewenberg, the wine-merchant, and was politely dismissed. This time he did not care to listen, but returned to enjoy his supper in his new apartment.

Meanwhile Ehrenthal said, over a glass of wine, to Loewenberg, "I have heard that Councilor Horn has written for information respecting this mortgage to Commissary Walter, in your town. Is there any thing to be made of him?"

"Not by money," answered the stranger, thoughtfully, "but possibly by other means. He does not know that I have been authorized by the count's attorney to sell this mortgage. I shall go to him, as if on business of my own, and take some opportunity of praising the property."

"But if he knows it himself, of what use is that?" said Ehrenthal, shaking his head.

"There will still be some use; for, after all, those lawyers must trust to us traders for details. How can they know, as we do, how wool and grain sell on estates? At all events, we must do what we can."

Ehrenthal sighed, "You can believe, Loewenberg, that it makes me anxious."

"Come, come," said the other, "it will be a profitable concern. The buyer you have in view pays ninety per cent., and seventy is sent to the count in Paris; of the twenty per cent. remaining, you pay the count's attorney five, and me five for my trouble, and you keep ten. Four thousand dollars is a pretty profit where no capital has been risked."

"But it makes me anxious," said Ehrenthal. "Believe me, Loewenberg, it excites me so much that I can not sleep at night; and when my wife asks me, 'Are you asleep, Ehrenthal?' I have always to say, 'I can not sleep, Sidonie; I must think of business.'"

An hour later a carriage with four horses rolled away from the door. The following morning Commissary Walter received a business call from Loewenberg, and was convinced, by the cool, shrewd manner of the man, that the circumstances of the Count Zaminsky could not be so desperate as was commonly believed.

Eight days after, the baron received a letter from his legal adviser, containing a copy of one from Commissary Walter. These experienced lawyers both agreed in thinking that the mortgage in question was not positively undesirable; and when Ehrenthal next called, he found the baron's mind made up to the purchase. The irresistible inducement was the making a few thousand dollars. He was resolved to think the mortgage good, and would perhaps have bought it even had his lawyer positively dissuaded him.

Ehrenthal, having a journey to take to that part of the country, most unselfishly offered to complete the purchase for the baron, who was pleased with this arrangement.

In about a fortnight he received the deeds. All were well contented with their share in the business, but Veitel Itzig with most reason, for he had by it got a hold over his master, and was now friend and confidant in the most secret transactions. The baron took out his richly-inlaid casket, and, in place of the fair white parchments, put in a thick, dirty bundle of deeds. Having done this, he joined the ladies, and gave a humorous account of Ehrenthal's bows and compliments.

"I hate that man," said Lenore.

"On this occasion he has behaved with a certain disinterestedness," replied her father. "But there is no denying that people of his class have their absurdities of manner, and it is difficult to help laughing at them."

That evening Ehrenthal was so cheerful in his family circle that his wife asked him whether he had settled the affair with the baron.

"I have," he gayly replied.

"He is a handsome man," remarked the daughter.

"He is a good man," rejoined Ehrenthal, "but he has his weaknesses. He is one of those who require low bows and civil speeches, and pay others to think for them. There must be such people in the world, or what would become of people of our profession?"

About the same time Veitel was relating to his friend, the ex-advocate, the whole particulars of the affair. Hippus had taken off his spectacles, and sat on a corner of the four-cornered chest Mrs. Pinkus was pleased to call a sofa, looking like a sagacious elderly ape who despises the race of men, and bites his keeper when he can. He listened with critical interest to his pupil's narrative, and shook his head or smiled, according as he dissented or approved.

When Veitel had done, Hippus cried, "Ehrenthal is a simpleton. He is up to nothing great; he is always trying half-measures. If he goes on thus, the baron will throw him overboard yet."

"What more can he do?" asked Veitel.

"He must give him anxieties—the anxieties of business, extensive business, ceaseless activity, daily cares—that's what the baron could not stand. That class is accustomed to little work and much enjoyment. Every thing is made easy to them from their childhood. There are few of them who may not be ruined by having some great care always boring at their brains. If Ehrenthal wishes to have the baron in his power, he must entangle him in business."

So said the advocate, and Veitel understood him, and looked with a mixture of respect and aversion at the ugly little imp gesticulating before him. At last Hippus took out the brandy bottle, and cried, "An extra glass to-day. What I have just told you, you young gallows-bird, is worth more than a bottle of brandy."



CHAPTER XIII.

"I am eighteen years old to-day," said Karl to his father, who was sitting at home one Sunday morning, never weary of contemplating the handsome youth.

"So you are," replied the father; "there are eighteen tapers round the cake."

"Therefore, father," Karl went on, "it is time that I should turn to, something, and make some money. I will be a porter."

"Make some money!" repeated old Sturm, looking at his son in amazement. "Do I not make as much, and more than we want? Why, you are going to turn a miser!"

"I can't always hang to your apron," said Karl; "and if you were to earn a thousand dollars, would that make an active, useful man of me? Or, if I were to lose you, what would become of me?"

"You will lose me, boy," said the giant, nodding, "in a few years, perhaps, and then you may become what you like, so it be not a porter."

"But why should I not be what you are? Do not be unreasonable."

"You know nothing about the matter. Do not be covetous; I can not bear covetous people."

"But, father, if I am not to be a porter, I must learn something," cried Karl.

"Learn!" exclaimed his father; "how much learning have you not had stuffed into your little head already! Two years at the infant school, four at the city school, two at the industrial. Why, you have had eight years' schooling, and you know the different goods as well as a clerk. Why, you are an insatiable youth."

"Yes; but I must have a calling," replied Karl. "I must be a shoemaker, tailor, shopkeeper, or mechanic."

"Don't tease yourself about that," said his father; "I have provided for all that in your education. You are practical and honorable too."

"Yes; but can I make a pair of boots? can I cut out a coat?"

"You can," replied old Sturm; "try, and you'll succeed."

"Very well; to-morrow I'll buy you some leather, and make you a pair of boots: you shall feel how they'll pinch. But, once for all, I can't go on as I am, and I'll set some one at you who will tell you the same."

"Don't be covetous, Karl," said his father, "or spoil this day for me. Give me the can of beer, and be a good boy."

Karl placed the great can before his father, and soon took up his cap and went out. Old Sturm sat still a while, but his comfort was destroyed, and the house seemed dull without his son's cheerful face. At length he went into the next room, and drew out a heavy iron chest from under the bed. He opened it with a little key that he took out of his waistcoat pocket, lifted one bag after another, began a long mental calculation, then pushed the chest under the bed again, and returned to his can of beer with a calmer aspect.

Meanwhile Karl had hurried off to the town, and soon made his appearance in Anton's apartment. After the kindly greeting on both sides, he began:

"I am come, sir, to ask your advice as to what is to become of me? I can make nothing of my father. He won't hear of my being a porter; and if I speak of another calling, he comforts me with saying that he shall not live long. A pretty comfort that! Would you be so good as to speak to him about me? He has a high opinion of you, and knows that you are always kind to me."

"That I will, gladly," replied Anton; "but what do you think of becoming?"

"It's all one to me," said Karl, "so that it's something regular. Here I turn my hands to all sorts of things, but that's different to regular work."

The next Sunday Anton went to old Sturm's. The home of the head porter was a small house near the river, distinguished from those of his neighbors by its red-washed walls. Anton opened the low door, and wondered how the giant could possibly live in so small a space. It must have required constant patience and forbearance; for, had he ever drawn himself up to his full height, he would infallibly have carried off the roof.

"I am delighted to see you in my house, sir," said Sturm, taking Anton's hand in his immense grasp as gently as he could.

"It is rather small for you, Mr. Sturm," answered Anton, laughing. "I never thought you so large as I do now."

"My father was still taller," was the complacent reply; "taller and broader. He was the chief of the porters, and the strongest man in the place; and yet a small barrel, not half so high as you are, was the death of him. Be seated, sir," said he, lifting an oaken chair, so heavy that Anton could hardly move it. "My Karl has told me that he has been to see you, and that you were most kind. He is a good boy, but he is a falling off as to size. His mother was a little woman," added Sturm, mournfully, draining a quart of beer to the last drop. "It is draught beer," he said, apologetically; "may I offer you a glass? It is a custom among us to drink no other, but certainly we drink this the whole day through, for our work is heating."

"Your son wishes to become one of your number, I hear," said Anton.

"A porter!" rejoined the giant. "No, that he never shall." Then laying his hand confidentially on Anton's knee, "It would never do; my dear departed wife besought me against it on her death-bed. And why? Our calling is respectable, as you, sir, best know. There are not many who have the requisite strength, and still fewer who have the requisite—"

"Integrity," said Anton.

"You are right," nodded Sturm. "Always to have wares of every kind in immense quantities under our eyes, and never to touch one of them—this is not in every body's line. And our earnings are very fair too. My dear departed saved a good deal of money, gold as well as silver. But that is not my way. For why? If a man be practical, he need not plague himself about money, and Karl will be a practical man. But he must not be a porter. His mother would not hear of it, and she was right."

"Your work is very laborious," suggested Anton.

"Laborious!" laughed Sturm; "it may be laborious for the weak, but it is not that. It is this," and he filled his glass; "it is the draught beer."

Anton smiled. "I know that you and your colleagues drink a good deal of this thin stuff."

"A good deal," said Sturm, with self-complacency; "it is a custom of ours—it always has been so—porters must be strong men, true men, and beer-drinkers. Water would weaken us, so would brandy; there is nothing for it but draught beer and olive oil. Look here, sir," said he, mixing a small glassful of fine oil and beer, stirring plenty of sugar into it, and drinking off the nauseous compound; "this is a secret of ours, and makes an arm like this;" and he laid his on the table, and vainly endeavored to span it. "But there is a drawback. Have you ever seen an old porter? No; for there are none. Fifty is the greatest age they have ever reached. My father was fifty when he died, and the one we lately buried—Mr. Schroeter was at the funeral—was forty-nine. I have still two years before me, however."

Anton looked at him anxiously. "But, Sturm, since you know this, why not be more moderate?"

"Moderate!" asked Sturm; "what is moderate? It never gets into our heads. Twenty quarts a day is not much if you know nothing of it. However, Mr. Wohlfart, it is on this account that my dear departed did not choose that Karl should be a porter. As for that, few men do live to be much more than fifty, and they have all sorts of ailments that we know nothing about. But such were my wife's wishes, and so it must be."

"And have you thought of any other calling? True, Karl is very useful in our house, and we should all miss him much."

"There it is," interrupted the porter; "you would miss him, and so should I. I am alone here; when I see my little lad's red cheeks, and hear his little hammer, I feel my heart glad within me. When he goes away, and I sit here by myself, I know not how I shall bear it." And his features worked with strong emotion.

"But must he leave you at present?" inquired Anton; "perhaps he may remain on for another year."

"Not he; I know him; if he once thinks of a thing at all, he thinks of nothing else. And, besides, I have been considering the matter these last days, and I see I have been wrong. The boy did not come into the world merely to amuse me; he must turn to something or other; so I try to think of what my dear departed would have liked. She had a brother, who is my brother-in-law, you know, and who lives in the country; I should like my boy to go to him. It is far away, but then there's kinship."

"A good thought, Sturm; but, since you are resolved, keep your son no longer in uncertainty."

"He shall know at once; he is only in the garden." And he went and called him in stentorian tones.

Karl hastened in, greeted Anton, and looked expectantly first at him and then at his father, who had seated himself, and now inquired, in his usual voice, "Little mannikin, will you be a farmer?"

"A farmer! that never occurred to me. Why, I should have to leave you, father."

"He thinks of that," said the father, nodding his head to Anton.

"Do you then wish that I should leave you?" asked Karl, in amazement.

"I must, my little man," said Sturm, gravely; "I must wish it, because it is necessary for your dear departed mother's sake."

"I am to go to my uncle!" cried Karl.

"Exactly so," said his father; "it's all settled, provided your uncle will have you. You shall be a farmer, you shall learn something regular, you shall leave your father."

"Father," said Karl, much downcast, "I do not like leaving you. Can't you come with me to the country?"

"I go to the country! Ho, ho, ho!" Sturm laughed till the house shook again. "My mannikin would put me into his pocket, and take me to the country." Then wiping his eyes: "Come here, my Karl," said he, holding the youth's head between his two great hands; "you are my own good lad; but there must be partings on this earth, and if it were not now, it would be in a couple of years."

And thus Karl's departure from the firm was arranged.

As the time drew near, he tried in vain to conceal his emotion by a great deal of cheerful whistling. He stroked Pluto tenderly, executed all his various odd jobs with intense zeal, and kept as close as he could to his father, who often left his barrels to place his hand in silence on his son's head.

"Nothing heavy in farming!" said the paternal Sturm to Anton, looking anxiously into his face.

"Heavy!" replied Anton; "it will be no light matter to learn all connected with it."

"Learn!" cried the other; "the more he has to learn the better, so it be not very heavy."

"No," said Pix, who understood his meaning, "nothing heavy. The heaviest are sacks of corn—hundred and eighty; beans—two hundred pounds. And those he need not lift; the servants do it."

"If that's the case with farming," cried Sturm, contemptuously rearing himself to his full height, "it's all one to me whether he lifts them or not. Even my mannikin can carry two hundred pounds."



CHAPTER XIV.

Anton was now the most assiduous of all the clerks in the office. Fink was seldom able to persuade him to accompany him out riding or to the shooting gallery, but, on the other hand, he made diligent use of his friend's book-shelves, and having, after arduous study, gained some insight into the mysteries of the English language, he was anxious to exercise his conversational powers upon Fink. But the latter proving a most irregular and careless master, Anton thought it best to put himself in the hands of a well-educated Englishman.

One day, looking up from his desk as the door opened, he saw, to his amazement, Veitel Itzig, his old Ostrau schoolfellow. Hitherto they had but seldom met, and whenever they did so, Anton had taken pains to look another way.

"How are you getting on?" asked he, coldly enough.

"Poorly," was the reply; "there is nothing to be made in our business. I was to give you this letter, and to inquire when Mr. Bernhard Ehrenthal may call upon you."

"Upon me!" said Anton, taking the letter and a card with it.

The letter was from his English master, asking whether he would join young Ehrenthal in a systematic course of some of the older English writers.

"Where does Mr. Bernhard Ehrenthal live?" asked Anton.

"At his father's," said Itzig, making a face. "He sits in his own room all the day long."

"I will call upon him," rejoined Anton; and Itzig took his departure.

Anton was not much inclined to agree to the proposal. The name of Ehrenthal did not stand high, and Itzig's appearance had not conferred any pleasant associations upon it. But the ironical way in which he had mentioned his master's son, and something Anton had heard of him besides, determined him to take the matter at least into consideration.

Accordingly, one of the next days he mounted the dingy staircase, and was at once ushered into Bernhard's room, which was long and narrow, and filled with books great and small.

A young man came toward him with the uncertainty of manner that short-sight gives. He had fine features, a fragile frame, brown curling hair, and deep, expressive gray eyes. Anton mentioned the reason of his visit, and inquired the terms for the course. To his astonishment, young Ehrenthal did not know them, but said that, if Anton insisted upon sharing the expense, he would inquire. Our hero next asked whether Bernhard was in business with his father.

"Oh no," was the reply; "I have been at the University, and as it is not easy for a young man of my creed to get a government appointment, and I can live with my family, I occupy myself with my books." And, casting a loving glance at his book-shelves, he rose as if to introduce his guest to them.

Anton looked at their titles, and said, "They are too learned for me."

Bernhard smiled. "Through the Hebrew I have gone on to the other Asiatic languages. There is much beauty in them, and in their Old-World legends. I am now engaged upon a translation from the Persian, and some day or other, when you have a few idle minutes, I should like to inflict a short specimen upon you."

Anton had the politeness to beg to hear it at once. It was one of those countless poems in which a votary of the grape compares his beloved to all fair things in heaven and earth. Its complicated structure impressed Anton a good deal, but he was somewhat amazed at Bernhard exclaiming, "Beautiful! is it not? I mean the thought, for I am unable to give the beauty of language;" and he looked inspired, like a man who drinks Schiraz wine, and kisses his Zuleika all day long.

"But must one drink in order to love?" said Anton; "with us the one is very possible without the other."

"With us, life is very commonplace."

"I do not think so," Anton replied, with fervor. "We have the sunshine and the roses, the joy in existence, the great passions and strange destinies of which poets sing."

"Our present time is too cold and uniform," rejoined Bernhard.

"So I read in books, but I do not believe it. I think that whoever is discontented with our life would be so still more with life in Teheran or Calcutta, if he remained there long enough. It is only novelty that charms the traveler."

"But how poor in vivid sensations our civilized existence is," rejoined Bernhard. "I am sure you must often feel business very prosaic."

"That I deny," was the eager reply; "I know nothing so interesting as business. We live amid a many-colored web of countless threads, stretching across land and sea, and connecting man with man. When I place a sack of coffee in the scales, I am weaving an invisible link between the colonist's daughter in Brazil, who has plucked the beans, and the young mechanic who drinks it for his breakfast; and if I take up a stick of cinnamon, I seem to see, on the one side, the Malay who has rolled it up, and, on the other, the old woman of our suburb who grates it over her pudding."

"You have a lively imagination, and are happy in the utility of your calling. But if we seek for poetry, we must, like Byron, quit civilized countries to find it on the sea or in the desert."

"Not so," replied Anton, pertinaciously; "the merchant has just as poetical experiences as any pirate or Arab. There was a bankruptcy lately. Could you have witnessed the gloomy lull before the storm broke, the fearful despair of the husband, the high spirit of his wife, who insisted upon throwing in her own fortune to the last dollar to save his honor, you would not say that our calling is poor in passion or emotion."

Bernhard listened with downcast eyes, and Anton remarked that he seemed embarrassed and distressed.

Changing the conversation, he proposed that they should both walk together to the English master, and make the final arrangements. They left the house like two old acquaintances; Anton surprised that Ehrenthal's son should be so little of a trader, Bernhard delighted to find a man with whom he could discuss his favorite subjects.

That evening he joined the family circle in a cheerful mood, and placing himself behind his sister, who was practicing a difficult piece on a costly piano, he kissed her ear. "Do not disturb me, Bernhard," said she; "I must get this piece perfect for the large party on Sunday, when I shall be asked to play."

"Of course you will be asked," said her mother. "There is no company that does not wish to hear Rosalie play. If you could only be persuaded to come with us, Bernhard—you are so clever and so learned. It was but the other day that Professor Starke, of the University, spoke of you to me in the highest terms. It is so pleasant for a mother to feel proud of her children! Why will you not join us? The society will be as good as any in the town."

"You know, mother, that I am not fond of strangers."

"And I desire that my son Bernhard should have his own way," cried Ehrenthal from a neighboring room, having chanced, during a pause in Rosalie's practice, to hear the last sentence, and now joining his family: "our Bernhard is not like other people, and his way is sure to be a good one. You look pale, my son," stroking his brown curls; "you study too much. Think of your health. The doctor recommended exercise. Will you have a horse, my son Bernhard? I will get the most expensive horse in the town for you, if you like."

"Thank you, dear father; but it would give me no pleasure," and he gratefully pressed the hand of his father, who looked sorrowfully at his pale face.

"Do you always give Bernhard what he likes to eat? Get him some peaches, Sidonie; there are hot-house peaches to be had. You shall have any thing you like; you are my good son Bernhard, and my delight is in you."

"He will not have any thing of the kind," interposed his mother. "All his joy is in his books. Many a day he never asks for Rosalie and me. He reads too much, and that's why he looks like a man of sixty. Why will he not go with us on Sunday?"

"I will, if you like," said Bernhard, mournfully; adding soon after, "Do you know a young man of the name of Wohlfart, in Schroeter's house?"

"No," said his father, decidedly.

"Perhaps you do, Rosalie. He is handsome and refined-looking; I think you must have met him."

"Hardly, if he is in an office."

"Our Rosalie dances chiefly with officers and artists," explained her mother.

"He is a clever and a delightful man," continued Bernhard; "I am going to study English with him, and rejoice to have made his acquaintance."

"He shall be invited," decreed Ehrenthal; "if he pleases our Bernhard, he shall be welcome to our house. Let us have a good dinner on Sunday, Sidonie, at two o'clock. He shall come to all our parties; Bernhard's friend shall be the friend of us all."

The mother gave her consent, and Rosalie began to ponder what dress she should wear, so as to make the greatest impression.

But whence came it to pass that Bernhard did not communicate to his family the subject of the conversation that had so much interested him? that he soon relapsed into silence and returned to his study? that, when there, he bowed his head over his old manuscripts, while large drops rolled down on them, erasing the much-prized characters unobserved? Whence came it that the young man, of whom his mother was so proud, whom his father so loved and honored, sat alone, shedding the bitterest tears that an honest man can, while in another part of the house Rosalie's white fingers were flying over the keys, practicing the difficult piece that was to astonish the next soiree? From that day dated a friendship between Anton and Bernhard which was a source of pleasure and profit to both. Anton described the studious youth to the free and easy Fink, and expressed his wish to bring about a meeting between the two by a tea-drinking in his rooms.