"How true the old adage, that evil communications corrupt good manners!" said I.

"There must be some radical weakness in a case of such sudden deterioration as this," replied my wife. "Some latent vanity and love of the world. I cannot believe that one sensible young woman in ten would be spoiled to the degree that Delia is spoiled, if you passed her through like temptations."

I saw Delia myself, on the next day. She was dressed in New York, not in S——, style; and so, naturally, appeared to disadvantage in my eyes. I found her very bright and animated; and to my questions as to her new city life, she spoke warmly of its attractions. At times, in the intervals of exciting talk, her countenance would fall into its true expression, as nearly all countenances will when thought ceases to be active—that expression, in which you see, as in a mirror, the actual state of mind. It revealed far more than came into her consciousness at the time, else would she have covered it with one of the rippling smiles she had already learned to throw, like a spangled veil, over her face.

Mrs. Dewey spent nearly a month in S——and then went back with her husband to New York. I saw them several times together during this period. He had grown more pompous in manner, and talked in a larger way. Our little town was simply contemptible in his eyes, and he was at no pains to conceal his opinion. New York was everything; and a New York merchant of passable standing, able to put two or three towns like S——in his breeches pocket.

The only interest I felt in this conceited young man was as the husband of my young friend; and as touching their relation to each other, I observed both of them very closely. It did not take me long to discover that there was no true bond of love between them. The little fond attentions that we look for in a husband of only six months' standing; and the tender reciprocations which are sure to follow, were all wanting here. Constance spoke of this, and I answered, lightly, to cover the regret the fact occasioned—

"It is not fashionable in good society, you know, for husband and wife to show any interest in each other."

She laid her hand suddenly upon my arm, and looked lovingly into my face.

"May we never make a part of good society, then!"

I kissed her pure lips, and answered,

"There is no present prospect of it, my Constance. I am not ambitious of social distinction. Still, our trial in this direction may come, for you know that I am not without ambition professionally. A chair in one of the medical schools might tempt me to an Atlantic city."

Constance smiled, as she still rested her hand upon my arm. Then looking from my face to our little ones, two of whom were playing on the floor, while the third slept like a vision of innocence in the cradle, she said:—

"I shall not need the glitter of diamonds—these are my jewels."

Turn your eyes away, good society reader, lest they be offended at sight of a husband's kiss. Could I do less than breathe my tender love upon her lips again?

"And richer jewels were never worn in the diadem of a queen," said I. "As a mother, woman attains her highest glory."

"As wife and mother," Constance answered quickly. And now she leaned against me, and I drew my arm tenderly around her.

"And all this," she said, "a good society woman must give up; and for what? God help them in the time of life's bitter trials and painful experience, which all must endure in some degree!" She spoke with strong feeling. "On what arm can a woman lean, who has no husband in the true sense? Is she strong enough, standing alone, for life's great battles? What has she to sustain her, when all the external support, received from pride, is swept away? Alas! Alas! Is there a blinder folly than the pageantry of fashionable society? It is the stage on a grander scale, glittering, gorgeous, fascinating to the senses—but all a mere show, back from which the actors retire, each with an individual consciousness, and the sad words pressing to tremulous lips—'The heart knoweth its own bitterness.'"

Like ourselves, most of Delia's best friends were disappointed, and when she returned to New York, no hearts followed her with tender interest, except those of her own family. She had carried herself with an air of too much self-consequence; or, if she came down to the level of old friends and companions, it was with too evident a feeling of condescension.

I happened to fall into the company of Squire Floyd and Judge Bigelow, not very long after the return of Delia and her husband to New York. The conversation turned upon business, and I learned that the Squire had thought of enlarging his mill, and introducing steam—the water power being only sufficient for its present productive capacity. Judge Bigelow was very much interested, I found, in the particular branch of manufacture in which his neighbor was engaged, and inclined to embark some capital with him in the proposed extension of the works. They frequently quoted the Judge's nephew, Mr. Ralph Dewey, as to the extent to which goods could be put into market by the house of Floyd, Lawson, Lee & Co., who possessed, it was conceded, almost unlimited facilities.

I listened to their conversation, which involved plans of enlargement, statistics of trade, home and foreign production, capital, and the like, until I began to feel that I was moving in a narrow sphere, and destined, in comparison with them, to occupy a very small space on the world. And I will confess it, a shade of dissatisfaction crept over my heart.

A few months later I learned that my two neighbors were jointly interested in the mill, and that early in the ensuing spring steam-power would be introduced, and the capacity of the works increased to more than double their present range.

It was December when Wallingford returned from England. He brought back with him all the evidence required to prove the identity of Mrs. Montgomery. Up to this time only three persons knew of the existence of a will—Mrs. Montgomery, Blanche, and myself; and we formed a council on the question of what was now to be done. I gave it as my opinion, that, as Judge Bigelow was one of the executors, and must in consequence cease to act for Mrs. Montgomery, that we had better call in Mr. Wallingford, and get his view of the case before placing the will in Judge Bigelow's hands. The mother and daughter agreed with me. So a time of meeting was appointed, and a note sent to the young lawyer desiring his presence at the house of Mrs. Montgomery. He seemed very much gratified at the successful result of his visit to England, and referred to it with something of pardonable pride in his manner.

"We have every reason," said Mrs. Montgomery, in response to this, "to be satisfied with the manner in which you have executed an important mission. Since you left America, however, a document has come into my hands, which, had it reached me earlier, would have saved you a long and tedious search among mouldy and moth-eaten papers. It was nothing less than Captain Allen's will."

And she gave him the paper. He looked surprised, and for a moment or two bewildered. Then opening the will, he read it through rapidly. I saw the color leave his face as he progressed, and his hand move nervously. It was plain that his mind took in, at a grasp, the entire series of consequences which the appearance of this document involved.

"This is a serious matter," he said, looking up at Mrs. Montgomery.

"It is," she answered, calmly. "The will appears to be in legal form."

"Yes."

"And must go into the hands of those who are named as executors."

"And be by them entered in the office of probate," added Wallingford.

"I would have placed it in their hands immediately on its discovery, but have, acting under advice from my kind friend here, waited until your return from England. No interest has suffered, I presume, by this delay?"

"None."

Wallingford bent his eyes to the floor, and sat for some time as if half-confounded by the discovery.

"What step will the executors probably take?" I inquired.

"It will be their duty to assume possession of the estate, and hold it for the heirs of Mrs. Allen, if any are in existence," he replied.

"And it will be their duty to take all proper means for discovering these heirs?" said I.

"Yes. That follows, of course."

"And if none are found within a reasonable time?" I asked.

"The phrase, a reasonable time, is very indeterminate," said Wallingford. "It may include one, or ten years, according to the facts in the case, the views of the executors and the courts."

"But, finally?"

"Finally," he answered, "if no heirs come forward to claim the estate, it will revert to the old line of descent through the blood relations of Captain Allen."

"And come into the possession of Mrs. Montgomery?"

"Yes, if the courts are satisfied with the evidence which can be presented in her favor."

There followed a long silence, which Mrs. Montgomery was first to break.

"I believe," she said, firmly, "that I am prepared for the final issue of this matter, whatever it may be. I shall still require legal advice, Mr. Wallingford."

The young man bowed assent.

"And, as Judge Bigelow is one of the executors—"

"I do not think, madam," said Wallingford, interrupting her, "that the fact of his executorship will make him any the less a safe adviser for you. He is a man of the highest integrity of character, clear-seeing, and of impartial judgment."

"I believe in his judgment and integrity," she replied. "Still, I do not think it well to have these two interests represented by the same man. You are his associate, if I understand correctly the relation between you."

"I am, in a certain sense."

"Do you have a share in all of his business?"

"Not in all."

"So he can be independent of you in any special case if he deems it desirable."

"Yes."

"And this is also true as regards yourself?"

"Yes."

"Then, Mr. Wallingford, I shall consult you, individually, in future."

He bowed low in acquiescence.

"And let me say to you, once for all, that I want only my rights, if I have any, protected. I do not wish any impediments thrown in the way of a proper search for the heirs of Mrs. Allen; but desire to see the fullest notice given, and in channels by which it is most likely to reach them. At the same time, it is but just to me and mine that all right steps should be taken to protect my interests, in case no heirs should be found. And I have faith in you, Mr. Wallingford."

"You shall never have cause to regret your confidence, madam," he replied, in a tone so full of manly integrity, that I could not but gaze upon his fine countenance with a feeling of admiration.

"Will you place this will in the hands of Judge Bigelow?" asked Mrs. Montgomery.

"It will be best for you to do that yourself, madam," replied Wallingford.

"I will be guided by your judgment in the case, sir. This very day I will send him a note asking an interview."

"After that, madam," said Wallingford, rising, "I will be at your service."

We retired together.



CHAPTER XV.



Both Judge Bigelow and Squire Floyd were discreet men, and did not, at the outset of their executorship, do more in the way of giving publicity to the fact, than probating the will, and entering into bonds for the faithful performance of the trust. For the present they decided to let Mrs. Montgomery remain in occupancy of the old mansion, and she accepted this concession in her favor.

The property left by Captain Allen was large. The grounds upon which the old house stood, embraced nearly twenty acres, and as the town had grown in that direction, its value might now be estimated by the foot, instead of the acre, as houses had grown up on all sides. Moreover, the stream of water upon which the mill of Squire Floyd stood, ran through these grounds, in a series of picturesque rapids, giving a fall of over twenty feet. The value of this property, including a mill site, was estimated at sixty thousand dollars. Then there were twenty thousand dollars in stock of the County Bank, the interest of which Mrs. Allen had drawn since the death of her husband, regularly, as administratrix of the estate. Besides this property, there were several pieces of unimproved land in and around the town, the value of which could not fall much below twenty thousand dollars. In addition to all this, was a coffee estate on the island of Porto Rico. But as to its extent, or value, no evidence appeared. It might now be richly productive, or a mere tropical wilderness. If productive, no evidence of any return since Captain Allen's death appeared.

The winter passed without any apparent movement on the part of the executors looking to the discovery of Mrs. Allen's heirs. Young Dewey came up from New York every few weeks, to hold business interviews with his uncle and Squire Floyd, touching the mill-extension which was fully determined upon; Judge Bigelow agreeing to invest twenty thousand dollars, and the nephew ten thousand. All these matters were talked of in the beginning, freely, before Wallingford, who still had his office with his old preceptor, and shared in his business. After a while, he noticed a growing reserve on the part of Judge Bigelow and Squire Floyd, when he was by, touching their private affairs; and then they ceased entirely all reference thereto.

Dewey came up as frequently as usual, but avoided any remark in relation to business while in the presence of Wallingford. During his stay in S——, the Judge spent but little time at the office; being, for the most part, at the mill with his nephew and the Squire.

In the spring, a large force of men was set to work on the extension of Squire Floyd's mill; and as Judge Bigelow had become largely interested in the new enterprise, he gave a great deal more attention to what was going on in that direction, than to the business of his office, the heaviest part of which devolved upon Mr. Wallingford. Still, no steps were taken to discover the heirs of Mrs. Allen. Once or twice Mr. Wallingford had approached the subject, but the Judge made no response. At last, he put the question direct, as to what had been done. The Judge seemed a little annoyed; but said, in a hurried way that was unusual with him,

"I must, and will attend to this matter immediately. I have had so much on my mind that it has been neglected."

But the spring months passed—summer glided by—and still there was no advertisement for heirs, nor any steps taken, so far as Wallingford could learn, to ascertain their existence.

Mrs. Montgomery still occupied the old mansion, waiting patiently the issue whatever it might be. Her health, I regretted to find, was not firm. She suffered a great deal from nervous debility; and I saw, plainly, that she had failed considerably during the past few months. Blanche, on the contrary, after recovering from the illness which followed immediately on her arrival in S——, had continued in excellent health; and was growing daily more matured and womanly both as to mental development and personal bearing.

The mill improvements went on all summer, exciting no little interest in our town, and occasioning no small amount of talk and speculation. It was some time in the fall of that year, that I was permitted to hear this brief conversation between a couple of townsmen. Mr. A——had made some query as to the source of all the money expended on the new mill of Squire Floyd, which was now standing forth, under roof, in most imposing proportions, compared with the old works. Mr. B——shrugged his shoulders, and replied,

"Floyd and the Judge are joint executors of old Allen's estate, you know."

"What does that signify?" inquired Mr. A——.

"It may signify a great deal. They have trust funds in their possession to a large amount, I am told."

"They are both honorable men, and would not violate their trust," said A——.

"I will not gainsay that," answered Mr. B——. "Still, they may use these funds temporarily, and wrong no one."

Nothing more was said in my presence, but I turned their remarks over and over again, feeling less satisfied the more I pondered them. A day or two afterwards I met Mr. Wallingford, and said to him,

"How comes on the search for the heirs of the Allen estate?"

The question caused him to look grave.

"No progress has been made, so far as I can learn," he answered.

"Isn't this indifference on the part of the executors a little extraordinary?" I remarked.

"I must confess that I do not understand it," said the young lawyer.

"There is personal, as well as real estate?"

"Yes. Stocks worth twenty thousand dollars."

"I have heard it suggested, that trust funds in the case are going into Squire Floyd's mill."

Wallingford started at the suggestion, and looked for some moments intently in my face; then dropped his eyes, and stood lost in thought a good while.

"Where did you hear the suggestion?" he at length inquired.

I repeated the conversation just mentioned, and named the individuals with whom it had occurred.

"And now, Henry," said I, "put this hint, and the singular neglect of the executors to search for the heirs to the Allen property, together, and tell me how the matter shapes itself in your mind. We speak confidentially with each other, of course."

"I don't just like the appearance of it, that is all I can say, Doctor," he replied in a half absent manner.

"As you represent the interests of Mrs. Montgomery," said I, "is it not your duty to look a little closer into this matter?"

"It is; and I shall give it immediate attention."

He did so, and to his surprise, found that all the bank stock had been sold, and transferred. It was now plain to him where at least a part of the funds being so liberally expended on the mill property of Squire Floyd came from. On venturing to make some inquiries of Judge Bigelow bearing on the subject, that individual showed an unusual degree of irritation, and intimated, in terms not to be misunderstood, that he thought himself competent to manage any business he might undertake, and did not feel disposed to tolerate any intermeddling.

From that time, Wallingford saw that a separation from his old preceptor was inevitable; and he so shaped events, that in less than three months he made the separation easy and natural, and took an office to himself alone.

Still there was no movement on the part of the executors in regard to the valuable estate in their hands. Summer and fall passed, and Christmas saw the splendid improvements of Squire Floyd completed, and the new mill in operation, under the vigorous power of steam. The product thus secured was almost fabulous in the eyes of the half asleep and awake people of S——, many of whom could hardly imagine people enough in the country to consume the miles of cloth that came streaming out from the rattling looms. And yet, we were informed, that more than quadruple this product could be sold by the extensive house of Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co.; and that all that stood in the way of creating a magnificent fortune out of cotton bales, was the lack of productive facilities.

During this winter I saw more than usual of Mrs. Dewey. She came up from New York with her nurse and child, a babe not quite a year old, and spent over six weeks with her parents. She had lost, in the two years which had passed since her marriage, nearly all those beautiful traits of character which made her once so charming. Fashionable city life seemed to have spoiled her altogether. Her mind had not grown in the right direction. She had wholly abandoned that tasteful reading through which intellectual refinement comes; and to all appearance, no longer cared for anything beyond the mere sensuous. Nothing in S——had any interest for her; and she scarcely took the pains to conceal her contempt for certain sincere and worthy people, who felt called upon, for the sake of her parents, to show her some attention. She was not happy, of course. When in repose; I noticed a discontented look on her face. Her eyes had lost that clear, innocent, almost child-like beauty of expression, that once made you gaze into them; and now had a cold, absent, or eagerly longing expression, as if her thought were straining itself forward towards some coveted good.

Her conversation was almost always within the range of New York fashionable themes; and barren of any food upon which the mind could grow. There was not even the pretence of affection between her and her husband. The fairest specimen of well bred indifference I had yet seen was exhibited in their conduct to each other. Their babe did not seem to be a matter of much account either. Delia took no personal care of it whatever—leaving all this to the nurse.

It happened one day that I was called in to see the child. I found it suffering from some of the ill effects of difficult dentition, and did what the case required. There was an old friend of Delia's at the house—a young lady who had been much attached to her, and who still retained a degree of her old friendship. They were talking together in a pleasant, familiar way, when I came down stairs from my visit to the sick child—the mother had not shown sufficient interest in the little sufferer to attend me to the nurse's room. A word or two of almost careless inquiry was made;—I had scarcely answered the mother's queries, when her friend said, in a laughing way, looking from the window at the same time,

"There, Delia! see what you escaped."

I turned my eyes in the same direction, and saw Mr. Wallingford walking past, on the opposite side of the street, with his head bent down. His step was slow, but firm, and his air and carriage manly.

Delia shrugged her shoulders, and drew up the corners of her lips. There was an expression very much like contempt on her face.—But she did not make any reply. I saw this expression gradually fade away, and her countenance grow sober. Her friend did not pursue the banter, and the subject dropped.

What she had escaped! It was a dark day in the calendar of her life, when she made that escape; and I think there must have been times when a consciousness of this fact pressed upon her soul like a suffocating nightmare.



CHAPTER XVI.



Spring opened again, and the days glided swiftly on towards summer; and yet, so far as the movements of the executors could be traced, nothing had been done in the work of searching for the heirs. One day, early in June, Mrs. Montgomery sent for Mr. Wallingford. On attending her, she placed in his hands a communication which she had just received. It was from the executors, giving notice in a kind and respectful way, that, for the interest of the legal heirs, and their own security, it would be necessary for them to assume full possession of the mansion and grounds, unless she felt willing to pay a rental that was equivalent to the interest on their value.

"I have expected this," said the lady; "and, so far from considering myself aggrieved, feel grateful that a quiet residence here has been so long accorded me."

"You will remove?"

"There is no other course left. My income will not justify a rent of some three thousand dollars."

"As the property is unproductive, no such rent as that will be required."

"The letter says, 'a rental equivalent to the interest on their value.'"

"I will see Judge Bigelow this morning, and ascertain precisely what views are held in regard to this matter."

They were sitting near one of the parlor windows that looked out upon the portion of the grounds that sloped away towards the stream, that threw its white folds of water from one rocky ledge to another in graceful undulations. As Mr. Wallingford ceased speaking, Mrs. Montgomery turned her head quickly and looked out. The sound of voices had reached her ears. Three men had entered the grounds, and were passing the window at a short distance.

"Who are they?" asked Mr. Wallingford. Then, answering his own question, he said, "Oh, I see; Judge Bigelow, Squire Floyd, and Ralph Dewey, his son-in-law."

The three men, after going a few hundred rods in the direction of the stream, turned and stood for some minutes looking at the house, and talking earnestly. Dewey appeared to have the most to say, and gesticulated quite freely. Then they moved on to that portion of the stream where the water went gliding down the mimic rapids, and remained there for a considerable time. It was plain that some scheme was in their heads, for they took measurement by pacing off the grounds in various directions; drew together in close conference at times; then separated, each making some examination for himself; and again stood in close deliberation. At last, as if satisfied with their investigations, they returned by way of the mansion, and passed out without calling.

"Put that and that together, and there is a meaning in this procedure beyond the simple rental of the place," said Wallingford.

"What is your inference?" asked Mrs. Montgomery.

"I have made none as yet," he replied. "But I will see Judge Bigelow, and have some talk with him. Of course, I can have nothing to say, adverse to a requirement of rent. Executors are responsible for the right use of property in their hands, and must see that it produces an interest, if in a position to pay anything. You do not, of course, wish to occupy the whole of these grounds. It may be, that the use of the house, garden, lawn, and appurtenances, may be secured at a moderate rent. If so, do you wish to remain?"

"I would prefer remaining here, if the rent is within a certain sum."

"Say three hundred dollars?"

"Yes. If not beyond that sum, I will remain," replied Mrs. Montgomery.

The interview which Mr. Wallingford held with Judge Bigelow a few hours afterwards, was not satisfactory. The proposition to let Mrs. Montgomery and her daughter occupy the house, separate from the extensive grounds, would not be entertained. It finally came out, that an offer to purchase had been made by the firm of Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co., with a view to the erection of extensive mills, and that the executors were going to ask the Court for power to sell, as a handsome sum could now be obtained. It further came out, that in case this power was granted, Mr. Dewey was to reside in S——, to superintend the erection of these mills, and afterwards to join Squire Floyd in the management of both establishments—a consolidation of interests between the mercantile and manufacturing branches being about to take place. The old mansion was to undergo a thorough revision, and become the domicile of the resident partner.

With these plans in view, the executors insisted upon the removal of Mrs. Montgomery; and notice as to time was given, which included three months. Formal application was made to the Court having power in the case, for authority to sell and re-invest. The reasons for so doing were set forth in detail, and involved plausible arguments in favor of the heirs whenever they should be found.

Mr. Wallingford had personal reasons for not wishing to oppose this application. The executors had been his friends from boyhood. Especially towards Judge Bigelow did he entertain sentiments of deep gratitude for his many favors and kindnesses. But his duty, as counsel to Mrs. Montgomery, left him no alternative. She was heir prospective to this property, and he did not believe that the plans in view were best for her interests, in case no other heir was found. So, he went before the Court, and opposed the prayer of the executors. In doing so, he gained their ill-will, but did not succeed in preventing a decree authorizing a sale of the property. Dewey was present, a deeply interested listener to the arguments that were advanced on both sides. After the decision, as Wallingford was passing from the court-room, Dewey, who stood near the door, talking with a gentleman, said, loud enough for the young lawyer to hear him.

"The hound! He got on the wrong scent that time!"

A feeling of indignation stirred in Wallingford's bosom; but he repressed the bitter feeling, and moved on without giving any intimation that the offensive remark had reached him.

As soon as this decree, authorizing a sale of the property, was made, Mrs. Montgomery began to make preparation for removal. At first she seemed inclined to favor a return to England; but after repeated conferences with Mr. Wallingford, she finally concluded to remain in this country.

Nearly three years had woven their many colored web of events, since Mrs. Montgomery had dropped down suddenly among us like a being from cloudland. The friendly relation established between us in the beginning, had continued, growing more and more intimate. My good Constance found in her a woman after her own heart.

"The days I spend at the Allen House," she would often say to me, "are days to be remembered. I meet with no one who lives in so pure and tranquil an atmosphere as Mrs. Montgomery. An hour with her lifts me above the petty cares and selfish struggles of this life, and fills my mind with longings after those higher things into which all must rise before that peace comes to the soul which passeth all understanding. I return home from these interviews, happier in mind, and stronger for life's duties. I do not know any term that so clearly expresses my idea of this lady, as Christian philosopher."

Occasionally Mrs. Montgomery would pay us a visit; and these also were times treasured up in my wife's remembrance. I always observed a certain elevation of feeling, a calmer spirit, and a more loving sphere about her after one of these pleasant seasons.

The daughter came very often. Our children loved her almost as much as they did their mother, and she seemed as happy with them, as if they were her own flesh and blood. Agnes, our oldest, now in her eighth year, almost lived at the Allen House. Blanche never came without taking her home with her, and often kept her for two or three days at a time.

Blanche had developed into a young woman of almost queenly beauty; yet her manners retained the easy grace and truthfulness of a child. She did not seem conscious of her remarkable personal attractions, nor of the admiration her presence always extorted. No one could meet her, as a stranger, without feeling that she stood removed from ordinary contact—a being of superior mould with whom familiarity was presumption.

The companion of such a mother, who had with tender solicitude, from childhood upwards, guarded all the avenues of her mind, lest false principles or false views of things should find entrance; and as carefully selected her mental food, in order that there might be health of mind as well as health of body—it was not surprising to find about her a solidity and strength of character, that showed itself beneath the sweet grace of her external life, whenever occasion for their exhibition arose. From her mother she had imbibed a deep religious sentiment; but this did not manifest itself so much in language, as in dutiful acts. I had often occasion to notice, how, almost instinctively, she referred all things to a superintending Providence; and looked into the future, veiled as it is to all eyes, with a confidence that every thing would come out right, beautiful to contemplate. What she meant by right, was something more than is usually included in the words; for she had learned from her wise teacher, that God's providence disposes the things of this world for every individual in a way that serves best his eternal interests; therefore, what was best in this sense, could not fail to be right.

To our deep regret, Mrs. Montgomery decided to change the place of her residence from S——to Boston. All the reasons that led her to this decision, I was not able to discover. Her life at the Allen House had been quite secluded. She had been courteous to all the people with whom she was brought into any degree of contact, and had reciprocated all friendly visits; but there was a certain distance between her and them, that it seemed impossible for either to pass over. One of my inferences was, that, in removing from the retired old mansion, and taking a modern house, she would stand out more prominently before all eyes than was agreeable to her. Be this as it may, she was in earnest about removing to Boston.

I happened to be present when the announcement of this purposed removal was made to Mr. Wallingford. He had called in, during one of my visits to Mrs. Montgomery, for the transaction of some business.

"To Boston?" he said, in a tone of surprise, and, I thought, disappointment. At the same time I saw his eyes turned towards Blanche.

"Yes; I think it will be best," she replied. "If I have any interests here, I feel that they are safe in your hands, Mr. Wallingford."

She leaned a little towards him, and I thought her voice had in it a softer tone than usual. Her eyes looked steadily into his face.

"I will do all that is right, madam." He spoke a little lower than usual.

"And the right is always the best in any case, Mr. Wallingford," said she with feeling.

"How soon do you think of removing?" the young man inquired.

"In three or four weeks."

"So soon."

Again I noticed that his eyes wandered towards Blanche, who sat close to her mother, with her face bent down and turned partly away.

"There is no reason why we should linger in S——, after all things are ready for removal. It would have suited my feelings and habits of mind to have remained here; but as this cannot be, I prefer going to Boston on more than one account."

"You will leave behind you many sincere friends," said Wallingford.

There was more feeling in his voice than usually showed itself; and I again observed that Mrs. Montgomery, in responding to the remark, fixed her eyes upon him steadily, and with, I thought, a look of more than usual interest.

The few weeks of preparation glided swiftly away, and then we parted from friends who had won their way into our own hearts; and whose memory would ever be to us like the fragrance of holy incense. I learned from Mrs. Montgomery, before she left us, during a more confidential talk than usual, that her income was comparatively small, and that the chief part of this, a pension from Government in acknowledgment of her husband's services, would cease at her death. There was a momentary failure in her voice as she said this, and her eyes turned with the instinct of love towards Blanche.

At her desire, Mr. Wallingford attended them to Boston, and remained away for three or four days. He then returned to S——, bringing with him kind words from the absent ones. The old routine of life went on again, each of us taking up the daily duty; yet I think there was not one of the favored few who had known Mrs. Montgomery and her daughter intimately, that was not stronger to do right in every trial for the memory of these true-hearted strangers—no, friends!



CHAPTER XVII.



It was in October when Mrs. Montgomery, after a residence of three years in the Allen House, went from among us. Old "Aunty," and another colored servant who had lived with Mrs. Allen, remained in charge of the mansion. There was, of course, no removal of furniture, as that belonged to the estate. Mrs. Montgomery had brought with her three servants from England, a coachman, footman, and maid. The footman was sent back after he had been a year in the country; but the coachman and maid still lived with her, and accompanied her to Boston.

The large schemes of men ambitious for gain, will not suffer them to linger by the way. Ralph Dewey had set his mind on getting possession, jointly with others, of the valuable Allen property; and as the Court had granted a decree of sale, he urged upon his father-in-law and uncle an early day for its consummation. They were in heart, honorable men, but they had embarked in grand enterprises with at least one dishonest compeer, and were carried forward by an impulse which they had not the courage or force of character to resist. They thought that spring would be the best time to offer the property for sale; but Dewey urged the fall as more consonant with their views, and so the sale was fixed for the first day of November. Notice was given in the country papers, and Dewey engaged to see that the proposed sale was duly advertised in Boston and New York. He managed, however, to omit that part of his duty.

On the day of sale, quite a company of curious people assembled at the Allen House, but when the property was offered, only a single bid was offered. That came from Dewey, as the representative of Floyd, Lawson, Lee & Co., and it was awarded to them for the sum of thirty-five thousand dollars, a little more than half its real value.

From that time until spring opened, all remained quiet. Then began the busy hum of preparation, and great things for our town foreshadowed themselves. A hundred men went to work on the site chosen for a new mill, digging, blasting, and hauling; while carpenters and masons were busy in and around the old mansion, with a view to its thorough renovation, as the future residence of Mr. Ralph Dewey. That gentleman was on the ground, moving about with a self-sufficient air, and giving his orders in a tone of authority that most of the work people felt to be offensive.

The antiquated furniture in the Allen House, rich though it was in style and finish, would not suit our prospective millionaire, and it was all sent to auction. From the auctioneers, it was scattered among the town's people, who obtained some rare bargains. An old French secretary came into my possession, at the cost of ten dollars—the original owner could not have paid less than a hundred. It was curiously inlaid with satin wood, and rich in quaint carvings. There seemed to be no end to the discoveries I was continually making among its intricate series of drawers, pigeon holes, slides, and hidden receptacles. But some one had preceded me in the examination, and had removed all the papers and documents it contained. It flashed across my mind, as I explored the mazes of this old piece of furniture, that it might contain, in some secret drawer, another will. This thought caused the blood to leap along my veins, my cheeks to burn, and my hands to tremble. I renewed the examination, at first hurriedly; then with order and deliberation, taking out each drawer, and feeling carefully all around the cavity left by its removal, in the hope of touching some hidden spring. But the search was fruitless. One drawer perplexed me considerably. I could not pull it clear out, nor get access above or below to see how closely the various partitions and compartments came up to its sides, top, and bottom. After working with it for some time, I gave up the search, and my enthusiasm in this direction soon died out. I smiled to myself many times afterwards, in thinking of the idle fancy which for a time possessed me.

In May, the furnishing of the renovated house began. This took nearly a month. Every thing was brought from New York. Car loads of enormous boxes, bales, and articles not made up into packages, were constantly arriving at the depot, and being conveyed to the Allen House—the designation which the property retains even to this day. The furniture was of the richest kind—the carpets, curtains, and mirrors, princely in elegance. When all was ready for the proud owners to come in and enjoy their splendid home, it was thrown open for examination and admiration. All S——went to see the show, and wander in dreamy amazement through parlors, halls, and chambers. I went with the rest. The change seemed like the work of magic. I could with difficulty make out the old landmarks. The spacious rooms, newly painted and decked out in rich, modern furniture, looked still more spacious. In place of the whitewashed ceilings and dingy papered walls, graceful frescoes spread their light figures, entrancing the eyes with their marvelous semblances. The great hall received you with a statelier formality than before; for it, too, had received also its gift of painting, and its golden broideries. As you passed from room to room, you said—"This is the palace of a prince—not the abode of a citizen."

The grounds around the mansion had been subject to as thorough a renovation as the mansion itself. The old gate had given place to one of larger proportions, and more imposing design. A new carriage-road swept away in a grander curve from the gate to the dwelling. Substantial stone-stabling had been torn down in order to erect a fanciful carriage-house, built in imitation of a Swiss cottage; which, from its singular want of harmony with the principal buildings, stood forth a perpetual commentary upon the false taste of the upstart owner.

I hardly think that either Mr. Dewey or his wife would have been much flattered by the general tone of remark that ran through the curious crowds that lingered in the elegant rooms, or inspected the improvements outside. Nobody liked him; and as for his wife, fashionable associations had so spoiled her, that not a single old friend retained either affection or respect. It was sad to think that three years of a false life could so entirely obliterate the good qualities that once blossomed in her soul with such a sweet promise of golden fruitage.

Early in June, the family of Mr. Dewey took possession of their new home, and the occasion was celebrated by a splendid entertainment, the cost of which, common rumor said, was over two thousand dollars. We—Constance and I—were among the invited guests. It was a festive scene, brilliant and extravagant beyond anything we had ever witnessed, and quite bewildering to minds like ours. Mrs. Dewey was dressed like a queen, and radiant in pearls and diamonds. I questioned her good taste in this, as hostess; and think she knew better—but the temptation to astonish the good people of S——was too strong to be resisted.

After the curtain fell on this brilliant spectacle, Mrs. Dewey assumed a stately air, showing, on all occasions, a conscious superiority that was offensive to our really best people. There are in all communities a class who toady to the rich; and we had a few of these in S——. They flattered the Deweys, and basked in the sunshine of their inflated grandeur.

I was not one towards whom Mrs. Dewey put on superior airs. My profession brought me into a kind of relation to her that set aside all pretence. Very soon after her removal to S——, my services were required in the family, one of her two children having been attacked with measles. On the occasion of my first call, I referred, naturally, to the fact of her removal from New York, and asked how she liked the change.

"I don't like it all, Doctor," she replied, in a dissatisfied tone.

"Could heart desire more of elegance and comfort than you possess?" I glanced around the richly decorated apartment in which we were seated.

"Gilded misery, Doctor!" She emphasized her words.

I looked at her without speaking. She understood my expression of surprise.

"I need not tell you, Doctor, that a fine house and fine furniture are not everything in this world."

I thought her waking up to a better state of mind, through the irrepressible yearnings of a soul that could find no sustenance amid the husks of this outer life.

"They go but a little way towards making up the aggregate of human happiness," said I.

"All well enough in their place. But, to my thinking, sadly out of place here. We must have society, Doctor."

"True." My voice was a little rough. I had mistaken her.

"But there is no society here!" And she tossed her head a little contemptuously.

"Not much fashionable society I will grant you, Delia."

She pursed up her lips and looked disagreeable.

"I shall die of ennui before six months. What am I to do with myself?"

"Act like a true woman," said I, firmly.

She lifted her eyes suddenly to my face as if I had presumed.

"Do your duty as a wife and mother," I added, "and there will be no danger of your dying with ennui."

"You speak as if I were derelict in this matter."

She drew herself up with some dignity of manner.

"I merely prescribed a remedy for a disease from which you are suffering," said I, calmly. "Thousands of women scattered all over the land are martyrs to this disease; and there is only one remedy—that which I offer to you, Delia."

I think she saw, from my manner, that it would be useless to quarrel with me. I was so much in earnest that truth came to my lips in any attempt at utterance.

"What would you have me do, Doctor?" There was a petty fretfulness in her voice. "Turn cook or nursery-maid?"

"Yes, rather than sit idle, and let your restless mind fret itself for want of useful employment into unhappiness."

"I cannot take your prescription in that crude form," she replied, with more seriousness than I had expected.

"It is not requisite to a cure," said I. "Only let your thought and purpose fall into the sphere of home. Think of your husband as one to be made happier by your personal control of such household matters as touch his comfort; of your babes as tender, precious things, blessed by your sleepless care, or hurt by your neglect; of your domestics, as requiring orderly supervision, lest they bring discord into your home, or waste your substance. Every household, Delia, is a little government, and the governor must be as watchful over all its concerns as the governor of a state. Take, then, the reins of office firmly into your hands, dispose of everything according to the best of your judgment, and require orderly obedience from every subject. But act wisely and kindly. Do this, my young friend, and you will not be troubled with the fashionable complaint—ennui."

"That is, sink down into a mere housekeeper," she remarked; "weigh out the flour, count the eggs, fill the sugar bowls, and grow learned in cookery-books. I think I see myself wandering about from cellar to garret, jingling a great bunch of keys, prying into rubbish-corners, and scolding lazy cooks and idle chambermaids!"

She laughed a short, artificial laugh, and then added—

"Is that the picture of what you mean, Doctor?"

"It is the picture of a happier woman than you are, Delia," said I, seriously.

The suggestion seemed to startle her.

"You speak very confidently, Doctor."

"With the confidence of one who makes diseases and their cure his study. I know something of the human soul as well as the human body, and of the maladies to which both are subjected. A cure is hopeless in either case, unless the patient will accept the remedy. Pain of body is the indicator of disease, and gives warning that an enemy to life has found a lodgment; pain of mind is the same phenomenon, only showing itself in a higher sphere, and for the same purpose. If you are unhappy, surrounded by all this elegance, and with the means of gratifying every orderly wish, it shows that an enemy to your soul has entered through some unguarded gateway. You cannot get rid of this enemy by any change of place, or by any new associations. Society will not help you. The excitement of shows; gauds, glitter, pageants; the brief triumphs gained in fashionable tournaments, will not expel this foe of your higher and nobler life, but only veil, for brief seasons, his presence from your consciousness. When these are past, and you retire into yourself, then comes back the pain, the languor, the excessive weariness. Is it not so, Delia? Is not this your sad experience?"

I paused. Her eyes had fallen to the floor. She sat very still, like one who was thinking deeply.

"The plodding housekeeper, whose picture you drew just now—humble, even mean in your regard though she be—sinks to peaceful sleep when her tasks are done, and rises refreshed at coming dawn. If she is happier than your fine lady, whose dainty hands cannot bear the soil of these common things, why? Ponder this subject, Delia. It concerns you deeply. It is the happiest state in life that we all strive to gain; but you may lay it up in your heart as immutable truth, that happiness never comes to any one, except through a useful employment of all the powers which God has given to us. The idle are the most miserable—and none are more miserable in their ever-recurring ennuied hours, than your fashionable idlers. We see them only in their holiday attire, tricked out for show, and radiant in reflected smiles. Alas! If we could go back with them to their homes, and sit beside them, unseen, in their lonely hours, would not pity fill our hearts? My dear young friend! Turn your feet aside from this way—it is the path that leads to unutterable wretchedness."

The earnestness of my manner added force to what I said, and constrained at least a momentary conviction.

"You speak strongly, Doctor," she said, with the air of one who could not look aside from an unpleasant truth.

"Not too strongly, Delia. Is it not as I have said? Are not your mere society-ladies too often miserable at home?"

She sighed heavily, as if unpleasant images were forcing themselves upon her mind. I felt that I might follow up the impression I had made, and resumed:

"There was a time, Delia—and it lies only three or four short years backward on your path of life—when I read in your opening mind a promise of higher things than have yet been attained—you must pardon the freedom of an old but true friend. A time when thought, taste, feeling were all building for themselves a habitation, the stones whereof were truths, and the decorations within and without pure and good affections. All this"—I glanced at the rich furniture, mirrors, and curtains—"is poor and mean to that dwelling place of the soul, the foundations for which you once commenced laying. Are you happier now than then? Have the half bewildering experiences through which you have passed satisfied you that you are in the right way? That life's highest blessings are to be found in these pageantries? Think, think, my dear young friend! Look inwards. Search into your heart, and try the quality of its motives. Examine the foundation upon which you are building, and if it is sand, in heaven's name stop, and look for solid earth on which to place the corner stone of your temple of happiness."

"You bewilder me, Doctor," she said, in reply to this. "I can't think, I can't look inwards. If I am building on a sandy foundation, God help me!—for I cannot turn back to search for the solid earth of which you speak."

"But—"

She raised her hand and said,

"Spare me, Doctor. I know you are truthful and sincere—a friend who may be trusted—but you cannot see as I see, nor know as I know. I have chosen my way, and must walk in it, even to the end, let it terminate as it will. I had once a dream of other things—a sweet, entrancing dream while it lasted—but to me it can never be more than a dream. There are quiet, secluded, peaceful ways in life, and happy are they who are content to walk in them. But they are not for my feet, and I do not envy those who hide themselves in tranquil valleys, or linger on the distant hill-slopes. The crowd, the hum, the shock of social life for me!"

"But this you cannot have in S——. And is it not the part of a wise woman—"

"Again, Doctor, let me beg of you to spare me." she said, lifting her hands, and turning her face partly away. "I only half comprehend you, and am hurt and disturbed by your well-meant suggestions. I am not a wise woman, in your sense of the word, and cannot take your admonitions to heart. Let us talk of something else."

And she changed the subject, as well as her whole manner and expression of countenance, with a promptness that surprised me; showing the existence of will and self-control that in a right direction would have given her large power for good.

It was the first and last time I ventured to speak with her so freely. Always afterwards, when we met, there was an impression of uneasiness on her part, as if she had an unpleasant remembrance, or feared that I would venture upon some disagreeable theme.



CHAPTER XVIII.



Steadily, under the busy hands of hundreds of workmen, the new buildings arose, stretching their far lengths along, and towering up, story after story. Steam, in addition to water power, was contemplated here also, for the looms and spindles to be driven were nearly twice the number contained in the other mill.

Disappointments and vexatious delays nearly always attend large building operations, and the present case formed no exception. The time within which everything was to be completed, and the mill to go into operation, was one year. Two years elapsed before the first bale of goods came through its ample doors, ready for market.

Of course there was a large expenditure of money in S——, and this was a great thing for our town. Property rose in value, houses were built, and the whole community felt that a new era had dawned—an era of growth and prosperity. Among other signs of advancement, was the establishment of a new Bank. The "Clinton Bank" it was called. The charter had been obtained through the influence of Judge Bigelow, who had several warm personal friends in the Legislature. There was not a great deal of loose money in S——to flow easily into bank stocks; but for all that the shares were soon taken, and all the provisions of the charter complied with. Judge Bigelow subscribed freely; so did Squire Floyd and Mr. Dewey. Other townsmen, to the number of twenty or thirty, put down their names for a few shares. It was from New York, however, that the largest subscriptions came; and it was New York shareholders, voting by proxy, who elected the Board of Directors, and determined the choice of officers. Judge Bigelow was elected President, and a Mr. Joshua King, from New York, Cashier. The tellers and book-keepers were selected from among our own people.

The Clinton Bank and the new mills went into operation about the same time. Years of prosperity followed. Money was plenty in our town, and everybody was growing better off. Dewey was still the manufacturing partner of the large house in New York, whose demand for goods it seemed impossible to satisfy. He was a great man in S——. People spoke of him as possessing vast mental as well as money resources; as having expansive views of trade and finance; as being a man of extraordinary ability. I listened to all these things as I passed around among our citizens, plodding along in my profession, and managing to grow just a little better off each year; and wondered within myself if I were really mistaken in the man—if there was a solid basis of right judgment below all this splendid seeming.

And what of our friend Wallingford, during those busy years? Like myself, he moved so quietly through his round of professional duties, as to attract little attention. But he had been growing in all this time—growing in mental stature; and growing in the confidence of all just men. Judge Bigelow's interest in the mills, and in the new Bank, drew his attention so much away from his law cases, that clients began to grow dissatisfied, and this threw a great deal of excellent business into the hands of Wallingford, who, if not always successful in his cases, so managed them as to retain the confidence and good will of all who employed him. He got the character in our town of a safe adviser. If a man had a difficulty with a neighbor, and talked of going to law with him, in all probability some one would say—

"Go to Mr. Wallingford; he will tell you, on the spot, if there is any chance for you in Court."

And he bore this character justly. A thorn in the side he had proved to the three great mill owners, Judge Bigelow, Squire Floyd, and Ralph Dewey. The two former failed entirely, in his view, as to the right steps for discovering the heirs to the large property in their hands, all of which had been changed from its original position; while the latter showed ill-feeling whenever Wallingford, as he continued to do, at stated intervals, filed interrogatories, and required answers as to the condition of the trust, and the prospects of finding heirs.

Ten years had elapsed since the discovery of Mr. Allen's will, and yet no heirs had presented themselves. And now Mr. Wallingford took formal issue in the case, and demanded the property for his client, Mrs. Montgomery, who was still living in Boston with her daughter, in a retired way. Nearly one-half of her income had been cut off, and her circumstances were, in consequence, greatly reduced. Her health was feeble, having steadily declined since her removal from S——. An occasional letter passed between her and my wife; and it was in this way that I learned of her health and condition. How free was all she wrote from repining or despondency—how full of Christian faith, hope, and patience! You could not read one of her letters without growing stronger for the right—without seeing the world as through a reversed telescope.

A time was fixed for hearing the case, which, now that it assumed this important shape, excited great interest among the people of S——. When the matter came fairly into court, Mr. Wallingford presented his clearly arranged documentary evidence, in proof of Mrs. Montgomery's identity as the sister of Captain Allen, and claimed the property as hers. He covered, in anticipation, every possible ground of objection; bringing forward, at the same time, such an array of precedents and decisions bearing upon the case, that it was clear to every one on which side the decision would lie.

At this important juncture a letter, post-marked in New York on the day before, was offered in court, and a demand, based on its contents, made for a stay of proceedings. It came from the Spanish Consul, and was addressed to Abel Bigelow and John Floyd, executors of the late Captain Allen, and notified them that he had just received letters from San Juan De Porto Rico, containing information as to the existence of an heir to the estate in the person of a boy named Leon Garcia, nephew to the late Mrs. Allen. The case was immediately laid over until the next term of court.

In the meantime, steps were promptly taken to ascertain the truth of this assumption. An agent was sent out to the island of Porto Rico, who brought back all the proofs needed to establish the claim, and also the lad himself, who was represented to be in his fourteenth year. He was a coarse, wicked-looking boy, who, it was plain, had not yet fully awakened to a realizing sense of the good fortune that awaited him.

A resolute opposition was made by Wallingford, but all the evidence adduced to prove Leon Garcia's relationship to Mrs. Allen was too clear, and so the court dismissed the case, and appointed Ralph Dewey as guardian to the boy, who was immediately placed at school in a neighboring town.

So ended this long season of suspense. Immediately on the decision of the case, Wallingford went to Boston to see Mrs. Montgomery, and remained absent nearly a week. I saw him soon after his return.

"How did she bear this final dashing of her hopes to the earth?" I asked.

"As any one who knew her well might have expected," he answered, with so little apparent feeling that I thought him indifferent.

"As a Christian philosopher," said I.

"You make use of exactly the right words," he remarked. "Yes, as a Christian philosopher. As one who thinks and reasons as well as feels. I have seen a great many so-called religious people in my time. People who had much to say about their-spiritual experiences and hopes of heaven. But never one who so made obedience to the strict law of right, in all its plain, common-sense interpretations, a matter of common duty. I do not believe that for anything this world could offer her, Mrs. Montgomery would swerve a hair's breadth from justice. I have been in the position to see her tempted; have, myself, been the tempter over and over again during the ten years in which I represented her claims to the Allen estate; but her principles were immovable as the hills. Once, I shall never forget the incident—I pressed her to adopt a certain course of procedure, involving a law quibble, in order to get possession of the property. She looked at me for a moment or two, with a flushing face. Then her countenance grew serene, almost heavenly, and she gave me this memorable reply—'Mr. Wallingford, I have a richer estate than this in expectancy, and cannot mar the title.' And she has not marred it, Doctor."

"How did her daughter receive the news?" I inquired. I thought he turned his face a little away, as he answered.

"Not so well as her mother." I knew his voice was lower. "When I announced the fact that the claims of young Garcia had been admitted by the court, tears sprung to her eyes, and a shadow fell upon her countenance such as I have never seen there before."

"She is younger and less disciplined," said I.

"Few at her age," he answered, "are so well disciplined"

"Will they still remain in Boston?" I asked.

"Yes, for the present," he answered, and we parted. A few months after this, my wife said to me one day,

"Did you hear that Mr. Wallingford had bought the pretty little cottage on Cedar Lane, where Jacob Homer lived?"

"Is that true?"

"It is said so. In fact, I heard it from Jane Homer, and that is pretty good authority."

"Is he going to live there with his mother?"

"Jane did not know. Her husband went behind hand the year he built the cottage, and never was able to get up even with the world. So they determined to sell their place, pay off their debts, and find contentment in a rented house. Mr. Homer said something to Mr. Wallingford on the subject, and he offered to buy the property at a fair price."

A few days afterwards, in passing along Cedar Lane, I noticed a carpenter at work in the pretty cottage above referred to; and also a gardener who was trimming the shrubbery.

Good morning, William, "I spoke to the gardener with whom I was well acquainted. This is a nice cozy place."

"Indeed and it is, Doctor. Mr. Homer took great pride in it."

"And showed much taste in gardening."

"You may well say that, Doctor. There isn't a finer shrubbery to any garden in S——."

"Is Mr. Wallingford going to live here, or does he intend renting the cottage?"

"That's more than I can answer, Doctor. Mr. Wallingford isn't the man, you know, to talk with everybody about his affairs."

"True enough, William," said I smiling and passed on.

"Did you know," said my wife, a few weeks later, "that Mr. Wallingford was furnishing the cottage on Cedar Lane?"

"Ah! Is that so?"

"Yes. Mrs. Dean told me that Jones the cabinet maker had the order, which was completed, and that the furniture was now going in. Everything, she says, is plain and neat, but good."

"Why, what can this mean, Constance? Is our young friend about to marry?"

"It has a look that way, I fancy."

"But who is the bride to be?" I asked.

"Mrs. Dean thinks it is Florence Williams."

"A fine girl; but hardly worthy of Henry Wallingford. Besides, he is ten year her senior," said I.

"What is the difference in our ages, dear?" Constance turned her fresh young face to mine—fresh and young still, though more than thirty-five years had thrown across it their lights and shadows, and laid her head fondly against my breast.

I kissed her tenderly, and she answered her own question.

"Ten years; and you are not so much my senior. I do not see any force in that objection. Still if I had been commissioned to select a wife for Mr. Wallingford, I would not have chosen Florence Williams."

"Her father is well off, and growing richer every day."

"Worth taking into the account, I suppose, as one of the reasons in favor of the choice," said my wife. "But I hardly think Wallingford is the man to let that consideration have much influence."

There was no mistake about the matter of furnishing Ivy Cottage, as the place was called. I saw carpets going in on the very next day. All the shrubbery had been trimmed, the grounds cleared up and put in order, and many choice flowers planted in borders already rich in floral treasures.

Curiosity now began to flutter its wings, lift up its head, and look around sharply. Many arrows had taken their flight towards the heart of our young bachelor lawyer, but, until now, there had been no evidence of a wound. What fair maiden had conquered at last? I met him not long after, walking in the street with Florence Williams. She looked smiling and happy; and his face was brighter than I had ever seen it. This confirmed to me the rumor.

Mrs. Wallingford was not to be approached on the subject. If she knew of an intended marriage, she feigned ignorance; and affected not to understand the hints, questions, and surmises of curious neighbors.

A week or two later, and I missed Wallingford from his office. The lad in attendance said that he was away from the town, but would return in a few days.

"I have a surprise for you," said my wife on that very afternoon. She had a letter in her hand just received by post. Her whole face was radiant with pleasure. Drawing a card from the envelope, she held it before my eyes. I read the names of Henry Wallingford and Blanche Montgomery, and the words, "At home Wednesday evening, June 15th. Ivy Cottage."

"Bravo!" I exclaimed, as soon as a momentary bewilderment passed, showing more than my wonted enthusiasm. "The best match since Hymen linked our fates together, Constance."

"May it prove as happy a one!" my wife answered, with a glance of tenderness.

"It will, Constance—it will. That is a marriage after my own heart; one that I have, now and then, dimly foreshadowed in imagination, but never thought to see."

"It is over five years since we saw Blanche," remarked Constance. "I wonder how she looks! If life's sunshine and rain have produced a rich harvest in her soul, or only abraded the surface, and marred the sweet beauty that captivated us of old! I wonder how she has borne the shadowing of earthly prospects—the change from luxurious surroundings!"

"They have not dimmed the virgin gold; you may be sure of that, Constance," was my reply to this.

"At home, Wednesday evening, June fifteenth."

And this was Tuesday. Only a single day intervened. And yet it seemed like a week in anticipation, so eager did we grow for the promised re-union with friends whose memory was in our hearts as the sound of pleasant music.

It was eight o'clock, on Wednesday evening, when we entered Ivy Cottage, our hearts beating with quickened strokes under their burden of pleasant anticipation. What a queenly woman stood revealed to us, as we entered the little parlor! I would hardly have known her as the almost shrinking girl from whom we parted not many years before. How wonderfully she had developed! Figure, face, air, manner, attitude—all showed the woman of heart, mind, and purpose. Yet, nothing struck you as masculine; but rather as exquisitely feminine. It took but one glance at her serene face, to solve the query as to whether there had been a free gift of heart as well as hand. My eyes turned next to the pale, thin face of Mrs. Montgomery, who sat, or half reclined, in a large cushioned chair. She was looking at her daughter. That expression of blended love and pride, will it ever cease to be a sweet picture in my memory? All was right—I saw that in the first instant of time.

The reception was not a formal one. There was no display of orange blossoms, airy veils, and glittering jewels—but a simple welcoming of a few old friends, who had come to heart-congratulations. It was the happiest bridal reception—always excepting the one in which my Constance wore the orange wreath—that I had ever seen. Do you inquire of Wallingford, as to how he looked and seemed? Worthy of the splendid woman who stood by his side and leaned towards him with such a sweet assurance. How beautiful it was to see the proud look with which she turned her eyes upon him, whenever he spoke! It was plain, that to her, his words had deeper meanings in them, than came to other ears.

"It is all right, I see." I had drawn a chair close to the one in which Mrs. Montgomery sat, and was holding in mine the thin, almost shadowy hand which she had extended.

"Yes, it is all right, Doctor," she answered, as a smile lit up her pale face. "All right, and I am numbered among the happiest of mothers. He is not titled, nor rich, nor noble in the vulgar sense—but titled, and rich, and noble as God gives rank and wealth. I came to this land of promise ten years ago, in search of an estate for my child; and I have found it, at last. Ah, Doctor"—and site glanced upwards as she spoke—"His ways are not as our ways. And if we will only trust in Him, He will bring such things to pass, as never entered into the imagination of our hearts. I did not dream of this man as the husband of my child, when I gave my business into his care. The remote suggestion of such a thing would have offended me; for my heart was full of false pride, though I knew it not. But there was a destiny for Blanche, foreshadowed for me then, but not seen."

"It is the quality of the man," I said, "that determines the quality of the marriage. She who weds best, weds the truest man. The rank and wealth are of the last consideration. To make them first, is the blindest folly of the blindest."

"Ah, if this were but rightly understood"—said Mrs. Montgomery—"what new lives would people begin to live in the world! How the shadows that dwell among so many households—even those of the fairest external seeming—would begin to lift themselves upward and roll away, letting in the sunlight and filling the chambers of discord with heavenly music! I have sometimes thought, that more than half the misery which curses the world springs from discordant marriages."

"The estimate is low," I answered. "If you had said two-thirds, you would have been, perhaps, nearer the truth."

Blanche crossed the room, and came and stood by her mother's chair, looking down into her face with a loving smile.

"I am afraid the journey has been too much for you," she said, with a shadow of concern in her face.

"You look paler than usual."

"Paler, because a little fatigued, dear. But a night's rest will bring me up even again," Mrs. Montgomery replied cheerfully.

"How is the pain in your side, now?" asked Blanche, still with a look of concern.

"Easier. I scarcely notice it now."

"Blanche is over anxious about my health, dear girl!" said Mrs. Montgomery, as the bride moved to another part of the room. "She thinks me failing rapidly. And, without doubt, the foundations of this earthly house are giving way; but I trust, that ere it fall into ruin, a house not made with hands, eternal, in the heavens, will be ready for my reception."

There was no depressing solemnity in her tones, as she thus alluded to that event which comes to all; but a smiling cheerfulness of manner that was contagious.

"You think of death as a Christian," said I.

"And how else should I think of it?" she replied. "Can I not trust Him in whom I have believed? What is it more than passing from a lower to a higher state of life—from the natural to the spiritual world? When the hour comes, I will lay me down in peace and sleep."

She remained silent for some moments, her thoughts apparently indrawn. The brief, closing sentence was spoken as if she were lapsing into reverie. I thought the subject hardly in place for a wedding occasion, and was about starting another theme, when she said—

"Do you not think, Doctor, that this dread of dying, which haunts most people like a fearful spectre—the good as well as the bad—is a very foolish thing? We are taught, from childhood, to look forward to death as the greatest of all calamities; as a change attended by indefinable terrors. Teachers and preachers ring in our ears the same dread chimes, thrilling the strongest nerves and appalling the stoutest hearts. Death is pictured to us as a grim monster; and we shudder as we look at the ghastly apparition. Now, all this comes from what is false. Death is not the crowning evil of our lives; but the door through which we pass, tranquilly, into that eternal world, which is our destined home. I hold in my thought a different picture of Death from that which affrighted me in childhood. The form is one of angelic beauty, and the countenance full of love. I know, that when I pass along the dark and narrow way that leads from this outer world of nature, to the inner world from which it has existence, that my hand will rest firmly in that of an angel, commissioned of God to guide my peaceful footsteps. Is not that a better faith?"

"Yes, a better and a truer," said I.

"It is not the death passage that we need fear. That has in it no intrinsic evil. It is the sleep of mortality, and the rest is sweet to all. If we give place to fear, let it be for that state beyond the bourne, which will be unhappy in the degree that we are lovers of self and the world—that is, lovers of evil instead of good. As the tree falls, so it lies, Doctor. As our quality is at death, so will it remain to all eternity. Here is the just occasion for dread."

She would have kept on, but her attention was drawn away by the remark of a lady who came up at the moment. I left her side and passed to another part of the room; but her words, tone, and impressive manner remained with me. I turned my eyes often during the evening upon her pale, pure face, which seemed like a transparent veil through which the spirit half revealed itself. How greatly she had changed in five years! There had been trial and discipline; and she had come up from them purer for the ordeal. The flesh had failed; but the spirit had taken on strength and beauty.

"How did Mrs. Montgomery impress you?" said I to my wife, as we sat down together on our return home.

"As one ready to be translated," she answered. "I was at a loss to determine which was the most beautiful, she or Blanche."

"You cannot make a comparison between them as to beauty," I remarked.

"Not as to beauty in the same degree. The beauty of Blanche was queenly; that of her mother angelic. All things lovely in nature were collated, and expressed themselves in the younger as she stood blushing in the ripeness of her charms; while all things lovely in the soul beamed forth from the countenance of the elder. And so, as I have said, I was at a loss to determine which was most beautiful."

I was just rising from my early breakfast on the next morning when I received a hurried message from Ivy Cottage. The angel of Death had been there. Tenderly and lovingly had he taken the hand of Mrs. Montgomery, and led her through the gate that opens into the land of immortals. She received her daughter's kiss at eleven o'clock, held her for some moments, gazing into her face, and then said—"Good-night, my precious one! Good-night, and God bless you!" At seven in the morning she was found lying in bed with a smile on her face, but cold and lifeless as marble! There had been no strife with the heavenly messenger.



CHAPTER XIX.



No;—there had been no strife with the heavenly messenger. As a child falls asleep in its mother's arms, so fell Mrs. Montgomery asleep in the arms of an angel—tranquil, peaceful, happy. I say happy—for in lapsing away into that mortal sleep, of which our natural sleep is but an image, shall the world-weary who have in trial and suffering grown heavenly minded, sink into unconsciousness with less of tranquil delight than the babe pillowed against its mother's bosom? I think not.

As I gazed upon her dead face, where the parting soul had left its sign of peace, I prayed that, when I passed from my labors, there might be as few stains of earth upon my garments.

"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, Yea, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them."

I found myself repeating these holy words, as I stood looking at the white, shrunken features of the departed.

It was not until the next day that I saw Blanche. But Constance was with her immediately after the sad news jarred upon her sympathizing heart.

"How did you leave her?" was my anxious query, on meeting my wife at home.

"Calm," was the brief answer.

How much the word included!

"Did you talk with her?"

"Not a great deal; she did not seem inclined to talk, like some who seek relief through expression. I found her alone in the room next to the one in which the body of her mother was lying. She was sitting by a table, with one hand pressed over her eyes, as I entered. 'Oh, my friend! my dear friend!' she said, in a tone of grief, rising and coming a step or two to meet me. I drew my arms around her, and she laid her head against me and sobbed three or four times, while the tears ran down and dropped upon the floor. 'It is well with her!' I said.

"'Oh, yes, my friend, it is well with her,' she answered, mournfully, 'well with her, but not with me. How shall I walk onward in life's difficult ways, without my mother's arm to lean upon? My steps already hesitate.'

"'You have another arm to lean upon,' I ventured to suggest.

"'Yes, a strong arm upon which I can lean in unfaltering trust. In this God has been good to me. But my wise, patient mother—how shall I live without her?'

"'She is only removed from you as to bodily presence,' said I. 'Love conjoins your souls as intimately as ever.'

"'Ah, yes, I know this must be. Too many times have I heard that comforting truth from her lips ever to forget it. But while we are in the body, the mind will not rest satisfied with any thing less than bodily presence.'

"I did not press the point, for I knew that in all sorrow the heart is its own best comforter, and gathers for itself themes of consolation that even the nearest friend would fail to suggest. We went in together to look at the frail tabernacle from which the pure spirit of her mother had departed forever! How sweetly the smile left upon the lips in the last kiss of parting, lingered there still, fixed in human marble with more than a sculptor's art! There was no passionate weeping, as we stood by the lifeless clay. Very calm and silent she was; but oh, what a look of intense love went out from her sad eyes! Not despairing but hopeful love. The curtain of death hid from her no land of shadows and mystery; but a world of spiritual realities. Her mother had not gone shrinking and trembling into regions of darkness and doubt; but in the blessed assurance of a peaceful reception in the house of her friends.

"How a true faith," said I, strongly impressed by the images which were presented to my mind, "strips from death its old terrors! When the Apostle exclaimed, 'Oh, grave, where is thy victory? oh, death, where is thy sting?' his mind looked deeper into the mystery of dying, and saw farther into the world beyond, than do our modern Christians, who frighten us with images of terror. 'I will lay me down in peace and sleep,' when the time of my departure comes, should be the heart-language of every one who takes upon himself the name of Him who said, 'In my Father's house are many mansions. I go to prepare a place for you, that where I am, ye may be also.'"

"Since I knew Mrs. Montgomery, and felt the sphere of her quality," said Constance, "my perceptions of life and duty here, and their connection with life and happiness hereafter, have been elevated to a higher region. I see no longer as in a glass darkly, but in the light of reason, made clear by the more interior light of Revelation."

"And the same is true with me," I replied. "We may well say that it was good to have known her. She was so true, so just, so unconscious of self, that truth, justice, and unselfishness were always lovelier in your eyes for having seen them illustrated in her person. And there was no pious cant about her. No parade of her unworthiness; no solemn aspects, nor obtrusive writings of bitter things against herself. But always an effort to repress what was evil in her nature; and a state of quiet, religious trust, which said, 'I know in whom I have believed.'"

"Ah," said Constance, "if there was only more of such religion in the world!"

"It would be a happier world than it is," I answered.

"By the impress of a life like hers, what lasting good is done!" said my wife. "Such are the salt of the earth. Cities set upon hills. Lights in candlesticks. They live not in vain!'"

I did not see Blanche until the day of burial. Her beautiful face was calm, but very pale. It bore strongly the impress of sorrow, but not of that hopeless sorrow which we so often see on these mournful occasions. It was very plain that her thoughts were not lingering around the shrouded and coffined form of what was once her mother's body, but were following her into the world beyond our mortal vision, as we follow a dear friend who has gone from us on a long journey.

And thus it was that Blanche Montgomery entered upon her new life. Death's shadow fell upon the torch of Hymen. There was a rain of grief just as the sun of love poured forth his brightest beams, and the bow which spanned the horizon gave, in that hour of grief, sweet promise for the future.

These exciting events in the experience of our young friends had come upon us so suddenly, that our minds were half bewildered. A few weeks served, however, to bring all things into a right adjustment with our own daily life and thought, and Ivy Cottage became one of the places that grew dearer to us for the accumulating memories of pleasant hours spent there with true-hearted ones who were living for something more than the unreal things of this world.

How many times was the life that beat so feverishly in the Allen House, and that which moved to such even pulsings in Ivy Cottage, contrasted in my observation! Ten years of a marriage such as Delia Floyd so unwisely consummated, had not served for the development of her inner life to any right purpose. She had kept on in the wrong way taken by her feet in the beginning, growing purse proud, vain, ambitious of external pre-eminence, worldly-minded, and self-indulgent. She had four children, who were given up almost wholly to the care of hirelings. There was, consequent upon neglect, ignorance, and bad regimen, a great deal of sickness among them, and I was frequently called in to interpose my skill for their relief. Poor little suffering ones! how often I pitied them An occasional warning was thrown in, but it was scarcely heeded by the mother, who had put on towards me a reserved stateliness, that precluded all friendly remonstrance.