PROBATIONER LEONHARD;
OR, THREE NIGHTS IN THE HAPPY VALLEY.

CHAPTER I.

OUR HERO.

Young Mr. Leonhard Marten walked out on the promenade at the usual hour one afternoon, after a good deal of hesitation, for there was quite as little doubt in his mind as there is in mine that the thing to do was to remain within-doors and answer the letters—or rather the letter—lying on his table. The brief epistle which conveyed to him the regrets of the new female college building committee, that his plans were too elaborate and costly, and must therefore be declined, really demanded no reply, and would probably never have one. It was the hurried scrawl from his friend Wilberforce which claimed of his sense of honor an answer by the next mail. The letter from Wilberforce was dated Philadelphia, and ran thus:

"DEAR LENNY: Please deposit five thousand for me in some good bank of Pennsylvania or New York. I shall want it, maybe, within a week or so. I am talking hard about going abroad. Why can't you go along? Say we sail on the first of next month. Richards is going, and I shall make enough out of the trip to pay expenses for all hands. You'll never know anything about your business, Mart, till you have studied in one of those old towns. Answer. Thine,

"WIL."

When I say that Leonhard had, or had had, ten thousand dollars of Wilberforce's money, and that he was now about as unprepared to meet the demand recorded as he would have been if he had never seen a cent of the sum mentioned, the assertion, I think, is justified that his place was at his office-table, and not on the promenade. What if the town-clock had struck four? what if at this hour Miss Ayres usually rounded the corner of Granby street on her way home? But, poor fellow! he had tried to think his way through the difficulty. Every day for a week he had exercised himself in letter—writing: he had practiced every style, from the jocular to the gravely interrogative, and had succeeded pretty well as a stylist, but the point, the point, the bank deposit, remained still insurmountable and unapproachable.

Once or twice he had thought that probably the best thing to do was to go off on a long journey, and by and by, when things had righted themselves somehow, find out where Wilberforce was and acknowledge his letter with regrets and explanations. He was considering this course when he destroyed his last effort, and went out on the promenade to get rid of his thoughts and himself and to meet Miss Ayres. The present contained Miss Ayres; as to the future, it was dark as midnight; for the past, it was not in the least pleasant to think of it, and how it had come to pass that Wilberforce trusted him.

The days when he and Wilberforce were lads, poor, sad-hearted, all but homeless, returned upon him with their shadows. It was in those days that his friend formed so lofty an estimate of his exactness in figures and his skill in saving, and thus it had happened that when the engine constructed by Wilberforce began to pay him so past belief, he was really in the perplexity concerning places of deposit which he had expressed to Marten. Leonhard chanced to be with this young Croesus—who had begun life by dipping water for invalids at the springs—when the ten thousand dollars alluded to were paid him by a dealer; and the instant transfer of the money to his hands was one of those off-hand performances which, apparently trivial, in the end search a man to the foundations.

What had become of the money? Seven thousand dollars were swallowed up in a gulf which never gives back its treasure. And oh on the verge of that same gulf how the siren had sung! A chance of clearing five thousand dollars by investing that amount presented itself to Leonhard: it was one of those investments which will double a man's money for him within three months, or six months at latest. The best men of A—— were in the enterprise, and by going into it Leonhard would reap every sort of advantage. He might give up teaching music, and confine himself to the studies which as an architect he ought to pursue; and to be known among the A—- landers as a young gentleman who had money to invest would secure to him that social position which the music-lessons he gave did no doubt in some quarters embarrass.

It was while buoyed up by his "great expectations," and flattered by the attentions which strangely enough began to be extended toward him by some of the "best men"—who also were stockholders in the new sugar-refining process—that Leonhard took a room at the Granby House, and began to manifest a waning interest in his work as a music-master.

This display of himself, modest though it was, cost money. Before the letter quoted was written Leonhard had begun to feel a little troubled: he had been obliged to add two thousand dollars to his original investment, and the thought that possibly there might be a demand for a yet further sum—for some unforeseen difficulty had arisen in the matter of machinery—had fixed in his mind a misgiving to which at odd moments he returned with a flutter of spirits amounting almost to panic.

On the promenade he met Miss Ayres. She stood before the window of a music-dealer's shop, looking at the photograph of some celebrity—a tall and not too slightly-formed young lady, attired in a buff suit with brown trimmings, and a brown hat from which a pretty brown feather depended. On her round cheeks was a healthy glow, deepened perhaps by exercise on that warm afternoon, and a trifle in addition, it may be, by the sound of footsteps advancing. Yet as Leonhard approached, she, chancing to look around, did not seem surprised that he was so near. Not that she expected him! What reason had she for supposing that from his office-window he would see her the instant she turned the corner of Granby street and walked down the avenue fronting the parade-ground? No reason of course; but this had happened so many times that the meeting of the two somewhere in this vicinity was daily predicted by the wise prophets of the street.

A rumor was going about A—— in those days which occasioned the mother of our young lady a little uneasiness. When Leonhard came to A—— it was to live by his profession—music. He was an enthusiast in the science, and the best people patronized him. He might have all the pupils he pleased now, and at his own prices, thought Mrs. Washington Ayres, who had herself taught music: why doesn't he stick to his business? But then, she reminded herself, they say he has money; and he is so bewitched about architecture that he can't let it alone. Too many irons in the fire to please me! Perhaps, though, if he has money, it makes not so much difference. But I don't like to see a young man dabbling in too many things: it looks as if he would never do anything to speak of. It is the only thing I ever heard of against him; but if he can't make up his mind, I don't know as there could be anything much worse to tell of a man.

She was not far wrong in her thinking, and she had seen the great fault in the character of young Mr. Marten. It was his nature to take up and embrace cordially, as if for life, the objects that pleased him. Perhaps the tendency conduced to his popularity and reputation as a music-master, for his acquaintance with the works of composers was really vast; but the effect of it was not so hopeful when it set him to studying a difficult art almost without instruction, in the confidence that he should soon by his works take rank with Angelo, Wren and other great masters.

At the music-dealer's window Mr. Leonhard stood for a moment beside Miss Marion, and then said with a queer smile, "How cool it looks over yonder among the trees! I wish somebody would like to walk there with an escort."

"Anybody might, I should think," answered the young lady. "I have waded through hot dust, red-hot dust, all the afternoon. Besides, I want to ask you, Mr. Marten, what it means. Everybody is coming to me for lessons. Are you refusing instruction, or are you growing so unpopular of late? I have vexed myself trying to answer the question."

"They all come to you, do they? Yes, I think I am growing unpopular. And I am rather glad of it, on the whole," answered Leonhard, not quite clear as to her meaning, but not at all disturbed by it.

"I know they must all have gone to you first," she said. "Of course they all went to you first, and you wouldn't have them."

Leonhard smiled on. Her odd talk was pleasant to him, and to look at her bright face was to forget every disagreeable thing in the world. "You know I have been thinking that I would give up instruction altogether," said he; "but I suppose that unless I actually go away to get rid of my pupils, I shall have a few devoted followers to the last. The more you take off my hands the better I shall like it."

"But how should everybody know that you think of giving up instruction?" Miss Marion inquired.

"Oh, I dare say I have told everybody," he answered carelessly.

"Ah!" said she; and two or three thoughts passed through the mind of the young lady quite worthy the brain of her mother. "I am half sorry," she continued. "But at least you cannot forget what you know. That is a comfort. And I am sure you love music too well to let me go on committing barbarisms with my hands or voice without telling me."

Leonhard hesitated. How far might he take this dear girl into his secrets? "My friend Wilberforce is always saying that I ought to study abroad in the old European towns before I launch out in earnest," said he finally.

"As architect or musician?" asked the "dear girl."

"As architect, of course," he answered, without manifesting surprise at the question. "He is going himself now, and he wants me to go with him."

"Why don't you go?" The quick look with which he followed this question made Miss Marion add: "It would be the best thing in the world for—for a student, I should think. You said once that your indecision was the bane of your life. I beg your pardon for remembering it. When you have heard the best music and seen the best architecture, you can put an end to this 'thirty years' war,' and come back and settle down."

"All very well," said he, "but please to tell me where I shall find you when I come home."

"Oh, I shall be jogging along somewhere, depend."

"With your mind made up concerning every event five years before it happens? If you had my choice to make, you think, I suppose, that you would decide in a minute which road to fame and fortune you would choose." Mr. Leonhard used his cane as vehemently while he spoke as if he were a conductor swinging his baton through the most exciting movement.

"I don't understand your perplexity, that is the fact," said she with wonderful candor; "but then I have been trained to do one thing from the time I could wink."

"It was expected of me that I should rival the greatest performers," said Leonhard with a half-sad smile. "If I go abroad now, as you advise—"

"Advise? I advise!"

"Did you not?"

"Not the least creature moving. Never!"

"If you did you would say, 'Keep to music.'"

"I should say, 'Keep to architecture.' Then—don't you see?—I should have all your pupils."

"That would matter little: you have long had all that I could give you worth the giving, Miss Ayres."

Were these words intent on having utterance, and seeking their opportunity?

In the midst of her lightness and seeming unconcern the young lady found herself challenged, as it were, by the stern voice of a sentinel on guard. But she answered on the instant: "The most delicious music I have ever heard, for which I owe you endless thanks. I have said architecture; but I never advise, you know."

"She has not understood me," thought Leonhard, but instead of taking advantage of that conclusion and retiring from the ground, he said, "Perhaps I must speak more clearly. I don't care what I do or where I go, Miss Marion, if you are indifferent. I love you."

What did he read in the face which his dark eyes scanned as they turned full upon it? Was it "I love you"? Was it "Alas!"? He could not tell.

"You are pledged to love 'the True and the Beautiful,'" said she quite gayly, "and so I am not surprised."

Leonhard looked mortified and angry. A man of twenty-two declaring love for the first time to a woman had a right to expect better treatment.

"I have offended you," she said instantly. "I only followed out your own train of thought. You may have half a dozen professions, and—"

"I am at least clear that I love only you," he said. "I hoped you would feel that. It is certain, I think, that I shall confine myself to the studies of an architect hereafter. I will give no more lessons. And shall you care to know whether I go or stay?"

Miss Ayres answered—almost as if in spite of herself and that good judgment for which she had been sufficiently praised during her eighteen years of existence—"Yes, I shall care a vast deal. That is the reason why I say, 'Go, if it seems best to you'—'Stay, if you think it more wise.' I have the confidence in you that sees you can conduct your own affairs."

"If I go," he cried in a happy voice, in strong contrast with his words, "it will be to leave everything behind me that can make life sweet."

"But if you go it will be to gain everything that can make life honorable. I did not understand that you thought of going for pleasure." Ah, how almost tender now her look and tone!

"Say but once to me what I have said to you," said Leonhard joyfully, confident now that he had won the great prize.

"Now? No: don't talk about it. Wait a while, and we will see if there is anything in it." What queer lover's mood was this? Miss Marion looked as if she had passed her fortieth birthday when she spoke in this wise.

"Oh for a soft sweet breeze from the north-east to temper such cruel blasts!" exclaimed Leonhard. "Was ever man so treated as I am by this strong-minded young woman?"

"Everybody on the grounds is looking, and wondering how she will get home with the intemperate young gentleman she is escorting. Did you say you were going to talk with your friend Mr. Wilberforce about going abroad with him for a year or two?"

"I said no such thing, but perhaps I may. I was going to write, but it may be as easy to run down to Philadelphia."

"Easier, I should say."

So they talked, and when they parted Leonhard said: "If you do not see me to-morrow evening, you will know that I have gone to Philadelphia. I shall not write to let you know. You might feel that an answer was expected of you."

"I have never been taught the arts of a correspondent, and it is quite too late to learn them," she answered.

Miss Marion will probably never again feel as old as she does this afternoon, when she has half snubbed, half flattered and half accepted the man she admires and loves, but whose one fault she clearly perceives and is seriously afraid of.

The next day Leonhard sat staring at Wilberforce's letter with a face as wrinkled as a young ape's in a cold morning fog. After one long serious effort he sprang from his seat, and I am afraid swore that he would go down to Philadelphia that very afternoon. Therefore (and because he clung to the determination all day) at six o'clock behold him passing with his satchel from the steps of the Granby House to the Grand Division Dépôt. He was always going to and fro, so his departure occasioned no remark. He supposed, for his own part, that he was going to talk with his friend Wilberforce, and his ticket ensured his passage to Philadelphia; and yet at eight o'clock he found himself standing on the steps of the Spenersberg Station, and saw the train move on. At the moment when his will seemed to him to be completely demoralized the engine-whistle sounded and the engine stopped. Utterly unnerved by his doubts, he slunk from the car like an escaping convict, and looked toward the narrow moonlit valley which was as a gate leading into this unknown Spenersberg. The path looked obscure and inviting, and so, without exchanging a word with any one, he walked forward, a more pitiable object than is pleasant to consider, for he was no coward and no fool.