LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
TWENTY YEARS AGO, 
 
 AND NOW. 
 
 BY T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 G. G. EVANS, PUBLISHER, 
 
 No. 439 CHESTNUT STREET. 
 1860. 
 
Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by 
 T. S. ARTHUR, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 WE point to two ways in life, and if the young man 
 and maiden, whose feet are lingering in soft green 
 meadows and flowery walks, will consider these two 
 ways in sober earnest, before moving onward, and 
 choose the one that truth and reason tell them leads 
 to honor, success, and happiness, our book will accom 
 plish its right work for them. It is a sad thing, after 
 the lapse of twenty years, to find ourselves amid 
 ruined hopes ; to sit down with folded hands and say, 
 " Thus far life has been a failure !" Yet, to how 
 many is this the wretched summing up at the end of a 
 single score of years from the time that reason takes 
 the helm ! Alas ! that so few, who start wrong, ever 
 succeed in finding the right way; life proving, even to 
 its last burdened years, a miserable failure ! 
 
TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 * THE rain had poured in torrents all day, and now, 
 for the third time since morning, I came home, wet, 
 uncomfortable and weary. I half dreaded to look at 
 the slate, lest some urgent call should stare me in the 
 face. 
 
 " It must indeed be a case of life and death, that 
 takes me out again to-night," said I, as my good wife 
 met me in the entry, and with light hands, made active 
 by love, assisted in the removal of my great coat and 
 comforter. 
 
 "Now come into the sitting-room," she said, "your 
 slippers are on the rug, and your dressing-gown warmed 
 and waiting. Tea is ready, and will be on the table 
 by the time you feel a little comfortable. What a 
 dreadful day it has been!" 
 
 "Dreadful for those who have been compelled to 
 face the storm," I remarked, as I drew off my boots, 
 and proceeded to take advantage of all the pleasant 
 
6 TWENTY TEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 arrangements my thoughtful wife had ready for my 
 solace and delight. 
 
 It was on my lip to inquire if any one had called 
 since I went out, but the ringing of the tea-bell sent 
 my thought in a new direction ; when, with my second 
 self leaning on an arm, and my little Aggy holding 
 tightly by my hand, I moved on to the dining-room, 
 all the disagreeable things of the day forgotten. 
 
 "Has any one been here ?" I asked, as I handed 
 my cup for a third replenishing. Professional habit 
 was too strong the query would intrude itself. 
 
 "Mrs. Wallingford called to see you." 
 
 "Ah! Is anybody sick?" 
 
 " I believe so but she evaded my inquiry, and said 
 that she wished to speak a word with the Doctor." 
 
 "She don't want me to call over to-night, I hope. 
 Did she leave any word?" 
 
 " No. She looked troubled in her mind, I thought." 
 
 "No other call?" 
 
 " Yes. Mary Jones sent word that something was 
 the matter with the baby. It cried nearly all last 
 night, her little boy said, and to-day has fever, and 
 lies in a kind of stupor." 
 
 " That case must be seen to," I remarked, speak 
 ing to myself. 
 
 " You might let it go over until morning," suggested 
 my wife. " At any rate, I would let them send again 
 before going. The child may be better by this time." 
 
 "A call in time may save life here, Constance," I 
 made answer ; the sense of duty growing stronger as 
 the inner and outer man felt the renovating effects of 
 
STERN COMMANDS OF DUTY. 7 
 
 a good supper, and the brightness and warmth of my 
 pleasant home. " And life, you know, is a precious 
 thing even a baby's life." 
 
 And I turned a meaning glance upon the calm, 
 sweet face of our latest born, as she lay sleeping in 
 her cradle. That was enough. I saw the tears spring 
 instantly to the eyes of my wife. 
 
 " I have not a word to say. God forbid, that in the 
 weakness of love and care for you, dear husband, I 
 should draw you aside from duty. Yes yes ! The 
 life of a baby is indeed a precious thing !" 
 
 And bending over the cradle, she left a kiss on the 
 lips, and a tear on the pure brow of our darling. Now 
 was I doubly strengthened for the night. There arose 
 at this instant a wild storm-wail, that shrieked for a 
 brief time amid the chimneys, and around the eaves of 
 our dwelling, and then went moaning away, sadly, dy 
 ing at last in the far distance. The rain beat heavily 
 against the windows. But I did not waver, nor seek 
 for reasons to warrant a neglect of duty. " I must 
 see Mary Jones's baby, and that to-night." I said this 
 to myself, resolutely, by way of answer to the intimi 
 dating storm. 
 
 Mrs. Jones was a widow, and poor. She lived full 
 a quarter of a mile away. So in deciding to make 
 the visit that night, I hardly think a very strong 
 element of self-interest was included in the motives 
 that governed me. But that is irrelevant. 
 
 "As there is no prospect of an abatement in the 
 storm," said I, after returning to our cosy little sit* 
 ting-room, " it may be as well for me to see the baby 
 
8 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 at once. The visit will be over, so far as I am con 
 cerned, and precious time may be gained for the pa 
 tient." 
 
 " I will tell Joseph to bring around the horse," said 
 
 Tny wife. 
 
 No I w iH walk. Poor beast! He has done 
 
 enough for one day, and shall not be taken out again," 
 
 " Horse-flesh is not so precious as man-flesh," Con 
 stance smiled entreatingly, as she laid her hand upon 
 my shoulder. " Let Tom be harnessed up ; it won't 
 hurt him." 
 
 " The merciful man is merciful to his beast," I made 
 answer. " If horse-flesh is cheaper than man-flesh, 
 like most cheap articles, it is less enduring. Tom must 
 rest, if his master cannot." 
 
 " The decision is final, I suppose." 
 
 " I must say yes." 
 
 " I hardly think your great coat is dry yet," said 
 my wife. " I had it hung before the kitchen fire. Let 
 me see." 
 
 " You must wait for ten or fifteen minutes longer," 
 she remarked, on returning from the kitchen. " One 
 sleeve was completely wetted through, and I have 
 turned it in order to get the lining dry." 
 
 I sat down and took Agnes on my lap, and was just 
 getting into a pleasant talk with her, when the door 
 bell rung. A shadow fell across my wife's face. 
 
 "People are thoughtless of Doctors," she remarked, 
 a little fretfully, " and often choose the worst weather 
 and the most untimely seasons to send for them." 
 
 I did not answer, but listened as the boy went to 
 
MRS. WALLINGFORD. 9 
 
 the door. Some one was admitted, and shown into 
 the office. 
 
 "Who is it?" I enquired, as Joseph came to the 
 sitting-room. 
 
 "Mrs. Wallingford." 
 
 My wife and I exchanged glances. She looking 
 grave and curious ; hut no remark was made. 
 
 " Good-evening, Mrs. Wallingford," said I, on enter 
 ing rny office. " This is a very bad night for a lady 
 to come out. I hope no one is seriously ill." 
 
 " I wish you would come over and see our Henry, 
 Doctor." 
 
 There was a choking tremor in her voice ; and as I 
 looked in her face, I saw that it was pale and dis 
 tressed. 
 
 "What's the matter?" I inquired. 
 
 "I can't say what it is, Doctor. Something's 
 wrong. I'm afraid yes, I'm afraid he's going out of 
 his senses." 
 
 And she wrung her hands together with a nervous 
 uneasiness in singular contrast with her usual quiet 
 exterior. 
 
 " How is he affected ?" 
 
 " Well, Doctor, he came home last evening looking 
 as white as a sheet. I almost screamed out when I 
 saw the strange, suffering expression on his colorless 
 face. My first thought was that he had fallen some 
 where, and been hurt dreadfully. He tried to pass 
 me without stopping ; but I put both hands on him, 
 and said * Oh, Henry ! what does ail you ?' ' Nothing 
 of any account,' he answered, in a low, husky tone. 
 
10 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 ' I don't feel right well, and am going to my room to 
 lie down/ And saying this, he brushed right past me, 
 and went up stairs. I followed after him, but when I 
 tried his door it was fastened on the inside. I called 
 three times before he answered, and then he said 
 Mother, I'm not sick; but I feel bad and want to be 
 alone. Please don't disturb me to-night.' I don't 
 think I would have known the voice if it hadn't been 
 just then and there. Knowing his disposition, anxious 
 and troubled as I was, I felt that it would be best for 
 the time being to let him alone. And I did so. For 
 an hour or more all in his room was as still as death, 
 and I began to grow very uneasy. Then I heard his 
 feet upon the floor moving about. I heard him walk 
 to his bureau my ears served me for eyes then to 
 the mantlepiece, and then to the window. All was still 
 again for some minutes. My heart beat like a hammer, 
 as one vague suggestion after another floated through 
 my mind. Then he crossed the room with a slow step ; 
 turned and went back again ; and so kept on walking 
 to and fro. I listened, waiting for the sound to cease ; 
 but he walked on and on, backwards and forwards, 
 backwards and forwards, tramp, tramp, tramp, until it 
 seemed as if every jarring footfall was on my heart. 
 Oh, Doctor ! I never had anything to affect me so be 
 fore in my whole life. An hour passed, and still he 
 walked the floor of his room. I could bear it no 
 longer, and went and called to him. But he seemed 
 deaf, and made no reply. I rattled at the lock and 
 called again and again. Then he came close to the 
 door, and said, speaking a little impatiently for him 
 
HENRY WALLINGFORD. 11 
 
 6 Mother ! Mother ! For Heaven's sake don't trouble 
 me ! I don't feel just right, and you must let me 
 alone for the present.' 
 
 " Well, he kept on walking for an hour longer, and 
 then everything was still in his room for the night. 
 This morning on trying his door it was unfastened. 
 I went in. He was lying in bed wide awake. But, 
 oh ! such a change as I saw in his face. It was color 
 less as on the evening before ; but less expressive of 
 emotion. A dead calm seemed to have settled upon 
 it. I took his hand ; it was cold. I pressed his fore 
 head ; it was cold also. ' Henry, my son, how are 
 you?' I asked. He did not reply ; but looked in my 
 face with a cold, steady gaze that chilled me. < Are 
 you sick, my son ?' He merely shook his head slowly. 
 6 Has anything happened ? What has happened ?' I 
 presse d my question upon him ; but it was of no use. 
 He would not satisfy me. I then asked if he would 
 not rise. ' Not yet,' he said. ' Shall I bring you 
 Borne breakfast ?' ' No no 1 cannot eat.' And he 
 shook his head and shut his eyes, while there came 
 into his face a look so sad and suffering that as I 
 gazed on him I could not keep the tears back. 
 
 " And it has been no better with him all the day, 
 Doctor," added Mrs. Wallingford, heaving a long sigh. 
 " Oh, I am distressed to death about it. Won't you 
 come and see him ? I'm afraid if something isn't done 
 that he will lose his senses." 
 
 "Have you no conjecture as to the cause of this 
 strange condition of mind?" I asked. 
 
 "None," she replied. "Henry is a reserved young 
 
12 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 man, you know, Doctor; and keeps many things 
 hidden in his mind even from me that should be out 
 spoken." 
 
 " Has he no love affair on hand?" 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 " Hasn't he been paying attention to Squire Floyd's 
 daughter?" 
 
 "Delia?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I believe not, Doctor." 
 
 "I've seen him at the Squire's." 
 
 "Nothing serious, or I should have known of it. 
 Henry is rather shy about the girls." 
 
 "And you wish me to see him to-night?" 
 
 " Yes. Something ought to be done." 
 
 "What is his condition just now?" I inquired. 
 "How did you leave him ?" 
 
 " He's been in bed nearly all day, and hasn't 
 touched a mouthful. To all my persuasions and en 
 treaties he answers ' Please, mother, let me alone. I 
 will be better after a while.' ' 
 
 " I think," said I, after musing on the case, " that, 
 may be, the let-alone prescription will be the best one 
 for the present. He is prostrated by some strong men 
 tal emotion that seems clear ; and time must be given 
 for the mind to regain its equipoise. If I were to 
 call, as you desire, it might annoy or irritate him, and 
 so do more harm than good. No medicine that I can 
 give is at all likely to reach his case." 
 
 Mrs. Wallingford looked disappointed, and demurred 
 strongly to my conclusion. 
 
THE OLD ALLEN HOUSE. 13 
 
 " I'm sure, Doctor, if you saw him you might sug 
 gest something. Or, may be, he would open his mind 
 to you." 
 
 " I'll think it over, 7 ' said I. " Mrs. Jones has sent 
 for me to see her baby to-night. I was just about 
 starting when you called. On my way back, if, on 
 reflection, it seems to me advisable, I will drop in at 
 your house." 
 
 " Call at any rate, Doctor," urged Mrs. Walling- 
 ford. " Even if you don't see Henry, you may be able 
 to advise me as to what I had better do." 
 
 I gave my promise, and the troubled mother went 
 back through storm and darkness to her home. By 
 this time my overcoat was thoroughly dried. As Con 
 stance brought it forth warm from the fire, she looked 
 into my face with an expression of inquiry. But I 
 was not ready to speak in regard to Mrs. Wallingford, 
 and, perceiving this at a glance, she kept silence on that 
 subject. 
 
 As I opened the front door, the storm swept into my 
 face ; but I passed out quickly into the night, and 
 shielding myself with an umbrella, as best I could, 
 bent to the rushing wind, and took my solitary way in 
 the direction of Mrs. Jones's humble dwelling, which 
 lay quite upon the outskirts of our town. To reach 
 my destination, I had to pass the Old Allen House, 
 which stood within a high stone enclosure, surrounded 
 by stately elms a century old, which spread their great 
 arms above and around the decaying mansion, as if to 
 ward off the encroachments of time. As I came op 
 posite the gate opening upon the carriage way, I 
 
14 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 stopped suddenly in surprise, for light streamed out 
 from both windows of the north-west chamber, which I 
 knew had been closed ever since the death of Captain 
 Allen, who passed to his account several years before. 
 
 This Allen House was one of the notable places in 
 our town ; and the stories in circulation touching the 
 Allen family, now almost extinct, were so strongly 
 tinctured with romance, that sober-minded people gen 
 erally received them with a large measure of incredu 
 lity. 
 
 The spacious old two-story mansion, with its high- 
 pitched roof and rows of dormer windows, was built by 
 the father of Captain Allen, who had also followed the 
 sea, and, it was said, obtained his large wealth through 
 means not sanctioned by laws human or divine. Men 
 and women of the past generation, and therefore con 
 temporaries, did not hesitate to designate him an " old 
 pirate," though always the opprobrious words were 
 spoken in an undertone, for people were half afraid of 
 the dark, reserved, evil-looking man, who had evidently 
 passed a large portion of his life among scenes of peril 
 and violence. There were more pleasing traditions of 
 the beautiful wife he brought home to grace the luxu 
 rious dwelling he had fitted up in a style of almost 
 princely splendor, compared with the plain abode of 
 even the best off people in town. Who she was, or from 
 whence she came, no one knew certainly. She was 
 very young almost a child when the elder Captain 
 Allen brought her to S -. 
 
 Very little intercourse, I believe, passed between the 
 Allen family and the town's-people, except in a 
 
CAPTAIN ALLEN. 15 
 
 business way. The first regular entry made into the 
 house beyond the formal drawing-room, was on the 
 occasion of a birth, when the best nurse and gossip in 
 town was summoned to attend the young mistress. A 
 son was born. He was called John ; though not under 
 the sign of Christian baptism John Allen; after 
 wards Captain Allen. The old sea-dog, his father, was 
 absent at the time ; but returned before the infant 
 was four weeks old. The nurse described the meeting 
 of husband and wife as very lover-like and tender on 
 his part, but with scarcely a sign of feeling on hers. 
 She did not repel him, nor turn from him; but re 
 ceived his caresses with the manner of one in whom all 
 quick emotion had died. And so it continued between 
 them he thoughtful and assiduous, and she cold, and 
 for the most part silent. But, to her babe, the young 
 mother was passionate at times in her loving demon 
 strations. The pent up waters of feeling gave way in 
 this direction, and poured themselves out, often, in a 
 rushing flood. Towards all others she bore herself 
 with a calm, sweet dignity of manner, that captivated 
 the heart, and made it sigh for a better acquaintance 
 with one around whom mystery had hung a veil that 
 no hand but her own could push aside and that hand 
 was never lifted. 
 
 The next event in the Allen House, noted by the 
 people, was the birth of a daughter. The same nurse 
 was called in, who remained the usual time, and then 
 retired; bearing with her a history of the period, 
 which she related, very confidentially, at tea-tables, 
 and in familiar gossip with choice spirits of her own. 
 
16 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 Those who knew her best, were always something in 
 doubt as to which of her stories contained truth and 
 which romance. The latter element mingled largely, 
 it is presumed, in all of them. 
 
 A great change had taken place in the Captain's 
 manner. He no longer played the lover to a cold and 
 di&tant mistress, but carried himself haughtily at times 
 captiously at times and always with an air of indif 
 ference. All affection seemed transferred to his boy, 
 who was growing self-willed, passionate, and daring. 
 These qualities were never repressed by his father, but 
 rather encouraged and strengthened. On learning 
 that his next heir was a daughter, he expressed impa 
 tience, and muttered something about its being strangled 
 at birth. The nurse said that he never deigned even 
 to look at it while she was in the house. 
 
 The beautiful young wife showed signs of change, 
 also. Much of the old sweetness had left her mouth, 
 which was calmer and graver. Her manner towards 
 Captain Allen, noted before, was of the same quiet, 
 distant character, but more strongly marked. It was 
 plain that she had no love for him. The great mystery 
 was, how two so wholly unlike in all internal qualities, 
 and external seeming, could ever have been constrained 
 into the relationship of man and wife. She was, 
 evidently, an English woman. This was seen in her 
 rich complexion, sweet blue eyes, fair hair, and quiet 
 dignity of manner. Among the many probable and 
 improbable rumors as to her first meeting with Captain 
 Allen, this one had currency. A sailor, who had seen 
 
THE ENGLISH MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 a good deal of service in the West Indies, told the 
 following story : 
 
 An English vessel from Jamaica, richly freighted, 
 had on board a merchant with his family, returning 
 from a residence of a few years on the island, to the 
 mother country. 
 
 They had been out only a day, when a pirate bore 
 down upon them, and made an easy capture of the 
 ship. The usual bloody scenes of that day followed. 
 Death, in terrible forms, met the passengers and crew, 
 and the vessel, after being robbed of its costliest trea 
 sures, was scuttled and sent down into the far depths 
 of the ocean, from whence no sign could ever come. 
 
 But one living soul was spared so the story went. 
 An only child of the English merchant, a fair and 
 beautiful young girl, whose years had compassed only 
 the early spring-time of life, flung herself upon her 
 knees before the pirate Captain and begged so piteous- 
 ly for life, that he spared her from the general 
 slaughter he had himself decreed. Something in her 
 pure, exquisitely beautiful face, touched his compassion. 
 There were murmurs of discontent among his savage 
 crew. But the strong-willed Captain had his way, 
 and when he sailed back with his booty to their place 
 of rendezvous, he bore with him the beautiful maiden. 
 Here, it was said, he gave her honorable protection, 
 and had her cared for as tenderly as was possible 
 under the circumstances. And it was further related, 
 that, when the maiden grew to ripe womanhood, he 
 abandoned the trade of a buccaneer and made her his 
 wife. The sailor told this story, shrugged his shoul- 
 2 
 
18 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 ders, looked knowing and mysterious, and left his 
 auditors to draw what inference they pleased. As they 
 had been talking of Captain Allen, the listeners made 
 their own conclusion as to his identity with the buc 
 caneer. True to human nature, in its inclination to 
 believe always the worst of a man, nine out of ten 
 credited the story as applied to the cut-throat looking 
 captain, and so, after this, it was no unusual thing to 
 hear him designated by the not very flattering so 
 briquet of the "old pirate." 
 
 Later events, still more inexplicable in their char 
 acter, and yet unexplained, gave color to this story, 
 and invested it with the elements of probability. As 
 related, the old gossip's second intrusion upon the 
 Aliens, in the capacity of nurse, furnished the town's- 
 people with a few additional facts, as to the state of 
 things inside of a dwelling, upon whose very walls 
 seemed written mystery. In the beginning, Mrs. Allen 
 had made a few acquaintances, who were charmed with 
 her character, as far as she let herself be known. Visits 
 were made and returned for a short season. But 
 after the birth of her first child, she went abroad but 
 rarely, and ceasing to return all visits, social inter 
 course came to an end. The old nurse insisted that 
 this was not her fault, but wholly chargeable upon the 
 Captain, who, she was certain, had forbidden his wife 
 to have anything to do with the town's-people. 
 
ARRIVAL OF A STRANGER. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ONE day, nearly two years after the birth of this 
 
 second child, the quiet town of S was aroused 
 
 from its dreams by a strange and startling event. 
 About a week before, a handsomely dressed man, with 
 the air of a foreigner, alighted from the stage coach 
 at the "White Swan," and asked if he could have a 
 room. A traveler of such apparent distinction was 
 
 a rare event in S ; and as he suggested the 
 
 probable stay of a week or so, he became an object of 
 immediate attention, as well as curiosity. 
 
 Night had closed in when he arrived, and as he was 
 fatigued by his journey in the old lumbering stage 
 coach that ran between the nearest sea-port town and 
 
 S , he did not show himself again that evening 
 
 to the curious people who were to be found idling about 
 the " White Swan." But he had a talk with the 
 landlord. That functionary waited upon him to know 
 his pleasure as to supper. 
 
 " The ride has given me a headache," the stranger 
 said, " which a cup of tea will probably remove. 
 Beyond that, I will take nothing to-night. Your name 
 is" 
 
20 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 "Adams, sir. Adams is my name," replied the 
 landlord. 
 
 " And mine is WilloughbyCol. Willoughby." And 
 the Englishman bowed with a slight air of condescen 
 sion. 
 
 "I am at your service, Col. Willoughby," said the 
 landlord in his blunt way. " Just say what you want, 
 and the thing is done." 
 
 "A cup of tea will serve me to-night, my friend. 
 Let it be good and strong ; for my head is a little 
 unsettled with this throbbing pain. That stage coach 
 of yours would be something better for a pair of new 
 springs." 
 
 " It's seen service, and no mistake. But people in 
 these parts don't calculate much on easy riding. 
 Springs are no great account. We look to the main 
 chance." 
 
 " What is that ?" 
 
 " Getting over the ground." 
 
 The traveler smiled to himself in a quiet way, as 
 if the landlord's answer had touched some memory or 
 experience. 
 
 Nothing further being remarked, Mr. Adams retired 
 to order a cup of tea for his guest. Something about 
 the Englishman had stimulated his curiosity ; and, so, 
 instead of sending the cup of tea by his wife, who did 
 most of the waiting, he carried it to the room himself. 
 
 " Sit down, Mr. Adams," said the traveler, after 
 the tea had been put before him. 
 
 The landlord did not wait for a second invitation. 
 
 "I hope the tea is to your liking, sir." 
 
COLONEL WILLOUGHBY. 21 
 
 "Excellent. I've not tasted better since I left 
 London." 
 
 The traveler spoke blandly, as he held his cup a 
 little way from his lips, and looked over the top of it 
 at his host with something more than a casual glance. 
 He was reading his face with an evident effort to gain 
 from it, as an index, some clear impression of his 
 character. 
 
 " My wife understands her business," replied the 
 flattered landlord. " There is not her equal in all the 
 country round." 
 
 " I can believe you, Mr. Adams. Already this 
 delicious beverage has acted like a charmed potion. 
 My headache has left me as if by magic." . 
 
 He set his cup down ; moved his chair a litle way 
 from the table at which he was sitting, and threw a 
 pleasant look upon the landlord. 
 
 " How long have you been in this town, Mr. 
 Adams?" The question seemed indifferently asked ; 
 but the landlord's ear did not fail to perceive in the 
 tone in which it was given, a foreshadowing of much 
 beyond. 
 
 "I was born here," he replied. 
 
 " Ah ! Then you know all the people, I imagine ?" 
 
 " I know all their faces, at least." 
 
 "And their histories and characters?" 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 Something in this "perhaps," and the tone in which 
 it was uttered, seemed not to strike the questioner 
 agreeably. He bent his brows a little, and looked 
 more narrowly at the landlord. 
 
22 
 
 " I did not see much of your town as I came in this 
 evening. How large is it?" 
 
 "Middling good size, sir, for an inland town," was 
 the not very satisfactory answer. 
 
 "What is the population?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know can't just say to a certainty." 
 
 "Two thousand?" 
 
 "Laws ! no sir ! Not over one, if that." 
 
 "About a thousand, then?" 
 
 " Maybe a thousand, and maybe not more than six 
 or seven hundred." 
 
 " Call it seven hundred, then," said the traveler, 
 evidently a little amused. 
 
 " And that will, in my view, be calling it enough." 
 
 There was a pause. The traveler seemed in doubt 
 as to whether he should go on with his queries. 
 
 " Not much trade here, I presume?" He asked, at 
 . length. 
 
 "Not much to boast .of," said Adams. 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 " Any well-to-do people? Gentlemen who live on 
 their means?" 
 
 " Yes ; there's Aaron Thompson. He's rich, I guess. 
 But you can't measure a snake 'till he's dead, as thev 
 say." 
 
 " True," said the traveler, seeming to fall into the 
 landlord's mood. " Executors often change the public 
 estimate of a man as to this world's goods. So, Aaron 
 Thompson is one of your rich men?" 
 
 " Yes, and there's Abel Reeder a close-fisted old 
 
WILLOUGHBY'S QUESTIONS, 23 
 
 dog, but wealthy as a Jew, and no mistake. Then 
 there is Captain Allen." 
 
 A flash of interest went over the stranger's face, 
 which was turned at once from the light. 
 
 " Captain Allen ! And what of him?" The voice 
 was pitched to a lower tone ; but there was no appear 
 ance of special curiosity. 
 
 "A great deal of him." The landlord put on a 
 knowing look. 
 
 "Is he a sea captain?" 
 
 "Yes;" and lowering his voice, "something else 
 besides, if we are to credit people who pretend to 
 know." 
 
 " Ah ! but you speak in riddles, Mr. Adams. What 
 do you mean by something more?" 
 
 " Why, the fact is, Mr. Willoughby, they do say, that 
 ho got his money in a backhanded sort of fashion." 
 
 "By gambling?" 
 
 " No, sir ! By piracy !" 
 
 Col. Willoughby gave a real or affected start. 
 
 " A grave charge that, sir." He looked steadily at 
 the landlord. "And one that should not be lightly 
 made." 
 t " I only report the common talk." 
 
 " If such talk should reach the ears of Captain 
 Allen ?" suggested the stranger. 
 
 " No great likelihood of its doing so, for I reckon 
 
 there's no man in S bold enough to say 'pirate' 
 
 to his face." 
 
 " What kind of a man is he ?" 
 
 "A bad specimen in every way." 
 
24 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " He's no favorite -of yours, I see ?" 
 
 " I have no personal cause of dislike. We never 
 had many words together," said the landlord. " But 
 he's a man that you want to get as far away from as 
 possible. There are men, you know, who kind of 
 draw you towards them, as if they were made of load 
 stone ; and others that seem to push you off. Captain 
 Allen is one of the latter kind." 
 
 " What sort of a looking man is he ?" 
 
 " Short ; thick-set ; heavily built, as to body. A 
 full, coarse face ; dark leathery skin ; and eyes that 
 are a match for the Evil One's. There is a deep scar 
 across his left forehead, running past the outer corner 
 of his eye, and ending against the cheek bone. The 
 lower lid of this eye is drawn down, and the inside 
 turned out, showing its deep red lining. There is 
 another scar on his chin. Two fingers are gone from 
 his left hand, and his right hand has suffered violence." 
 
 "He has evidently seen hard service," remarked 
 the stranger, and in a voice that showed him to be 
 suppressing, as best he could, all signs of interest in 
 the landlord's communication. 
 
 " There's no mistake about that ; and if you could 
 only see him, my word for it, you would fall into the 
 common belief that blood lies upon his conscience." 
 
 " I shall certainly put myself in the way of seeing 
 him, after the spur you have just given to my curi 
 osity," said Col. Willoughby, in a decided manner, as 
 if he had an interest in the man beyond what the 
 landlord's communication had excited. 
 
 "Then you will have to remain here something 
 
QUESTIONS ANSWERED. 25 
 
 more than a week, I'm thinking," replied the land 
 lord. 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Captain Allen isn't at home." 
 
 There was a sudden change in the stranger's face 
 that did not escape the landlord's notice. But whether 
 it indicated pleasure or disappointment, he could not 
 tell ; for it was at best a very equivocal expression. 
 
 " Not at home !" His voice indicated surprise. 
 
 "No, sir," 
 
 " How long has he been absent ?" 
 
 "About a month." 
 
 " And is expected to return soon, no doubt ?" 
 
 " As to that, I can't say. Few people in this town 
 I apprehend, can speak with certainty as to the going 
 and coming of Captain Allen." 
 
 " Is he often away ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; but oftener of late than formerly." 
 
 " Is his absence usually of a prolonged character?" 
 
 " It is much longer than it used to be never less 
 than a month, and often extended to three times that 
 period." 
 
 Colonel Willoughby sat without further remark for 
 some time, his eyes bent down, his brows contracted 
 by thought, and his lips firmly drawn together. 
 
 "Thank you, my friend," he said, at length, look 
 ing up, "for your patience in answering my idle 
 questions. I will not detain you any longer." 
 
 The landlord arose, and, bowing to Jiis guest, re 
 tired from the apartment. 
 
26 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ON the next morning Colonel Willoughby plied the 
 landlord with a few more questions about Captain 
 Allen, and then, inquiring the direction of his house, 
 started out, as he said, to take a ramble through the 
 town. He did not come back until near dinner time, 
 and then he showed no disposition to encourage fam 
 iliarity on the part of Mr. Adams. But that individu 
 al was not in the dark touching the morning wherea 
 bouts of his friend. A familiar of his, stimulated by 
 certain good things which the landlord knew when and 
 how to dispense, had tracked the stranger from the 
 " White Swan" to Captain Allen's house. After 
 walking around it, on the outside of the enclosure once 
 or twice, and viewing it on all sides, he had ventured, 
 at last, through the gate, and up to the front door of 
 the stately mansion. A servant admitted him, and 
 the landlord's familiar loitered around for nearly three 
 hours before he came out. Mrs. Allen accompanied 
 him to the door, and stood and talked with him earnest 
 ly for some time in the portico. They shook hands in 
 parting, and Colonel Willoughby retired with a firm, 
 slow step, and his eyes bent downwards as if his 
 thoughts were sober, if not oppressive. 
 
VILLAGE CONJECTURES. 27 
 
 All this Mr. Adams knew ; and of course, his 
 curiosity was pitched to a high key. But, it was all 
 in vain that he threw himself in the way of his guest, 
 made leading remarks, and even asked if he had seen 
 the splendid dwelling of Captain Allen. The hand 
 some stranger held him firmly at a distance. And not 
 only on that day and evening, but on the next day and 
 the next. He was polite even to blandness, but suf 
 fered no approach beyond the simplest formal inter 
 course. Every morning he was seen going to Captain 
 Allen's house, where he always stayed several hours. 
 The afternoons he spent, for the most part, in his own 
 room. 
 
 All this soon became noised throughout the town 
 of S , and there was a little world of excite 
 ment, and all manner of conjectures, as to who this 
 Colonel Willoughby might be. The old nurse, of 
 whom mention has been made, presuming upon her 
 professional acquaintance with Mrs. Allen, took the 
 liberty of calling in one afternoon, when, to her cer 
 tain knowledge, the stranger was in the house. She 
 was, however, disappointed in seeing him. The ser 
 vant who admitted her showed her into a small recep 
 tion-room, on the opposite side of the hall from the main 
 parlor, and here Mrs. Allen met her. She was " very 
 sweet to her " to uso her own words sweet, and 
 kind, and gentle as ever. But she looked paler than 
 usual, and did not seem to be at ease. 
 
 The nurse reported that something was going wrong ; 
 but, as to its exact nature, she was in the dark. It 
 certainly didn't look right for Mrs. Allen to be re- 
 
28 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 ceiving daily the visits of an elegant looking stranger, 
 and her husband away. There was only one opinion 
 on this head. 
 
 And so it went on from day to day for nearly a 
 W eek Colonel Willoughby, as he had called himself, 
 spending the greater part of every morning with Mrs. 
 Allen, and hiding himself from curious eyes, during 
 the afternoons, in his room at the "White Swan." 
 Then came the denouement to this exciting little 
 drama. 
 
 One day the stranger, after dining, asked Mr. 
 Adams for his bill, which he paid in British gold. 
 He then gave directions to have a small trunk, the 
 only baggage he had with him, sent to the house of 
 Captain Allen. 
 
 The landlord raised his eyebrows, of course ; looked 
 very much surprised, and even ventured a curious 
 question. But the stranger repelled all inquisition 
 touching his movements. And so he left the " White 
 Swan," after sojourning there for nearly a week, and 
 the landlord never saw him again. 
 
 The news which came on the following day, created 
 
 no little sensation in S . Jacob Perkins, who 
 
 lived near Captain Allen's, and often worked for him, 
 told the story. His relation was to this effect : About 
 ten o'clock at night, Mrs. Allen sent for him, and he 
 waited on her accordingly. He found her dressed as 
 for a journey, but alone. 
 
 " Take a seat, Jacob," she said. "I wish to have 
 some talk with you." The man noticed something 
 unusual in her talk and manner. 
 
JACOB PERKINS. 29 
 
 "Jacob," she resumed, after a pause, bending to 
 wards Mr, Perkins, " can I trust you in a matter re 
 quiring both service and secrecy ? I have done some 
 kind things for you and yours ; I now wish you to re 
 turn the favor." 
 
 As she spoke, she drew out a purse, and let him 
 see something of its golden contents. 
 
 " Say on, Mrs. Allen. You may trust me. If you 
 ask anything short of a crime, it shall be done. Yes, 
 you have been kind to me and mine, and now I will 
 repay you, if in my power to do so." 
 
 Jacob Perkins was in earnest. But, whether grati 
 tude, or that apparition of golden sovereigns, had 
 most influence upon him, cannot at this remote period 
 be said. 
 
 "Can you get a pair of horses and a carriage, or 
 light wagon, to-night ?" 
 
 "I can," replied Jacob. 
 
 " And so as not to excite undue curiosity ?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Very well. Next, will you drive that team all 
 night?" 
 
 And Mrs. Allen played with the purse of gold, and 
 let the coins it contained strike each other with a mu 
 sical chink, very pleasant to the ear of Jacob Per 
 kins. 
 
 " You shall be paid handsomely for your trouble," 
 added the lady, as she fixed her beautiful blue eyes 
 upon Jacob with an earnest, almost pleading look. 
 
 "I hope there is nothing wrong," said Jacob, as 
 
30 
 
 some troublesome suspicions began turning themselves 
 over in his mind. 
 
 "Nothing wrong, as God is my witness!" And 
 Mrs. Allen lifted her pale face reverently upwards. 
 
 " Forgive me, madam ; I might have known that," 
 said Jacob. "And now, if you will give me your 
 orders, they shall be obeyed to the letter." 
 
 " Thank you, my kind friend," returned Mrs. Allen. 
 " The service you are now about to render me, cannot 
 be estimated in the usual way. To me, it will be far 
 beyond all price." 
 
 She was agitated, and paused to recover herself. 
 Then she resumed, with her usual calmness of 
 manner 
 
 "Bring the carriage here driving with as little 
 noise as possible in half an hour. Be very discreet. 
 Don't mention the matter even to your wife. You can 
 talk with her as freely as you choose on your return 
 from Boston." 
 
 " From Boston ? Why, that is thirty miles away, 
 at least!" 
 
 " I know it, Jacob ; but I must be in Boston early 
 to-morrow morning. You know the road ? " 
 
 "Every foot of it." 
 
 " So much the better. And now go for the car 
 riage." 
 
 Jacob Perkins arose. As he was turning to go, 
 Mrs. Allen placed her hand upon his shoulder, and 
 said 
 
 "I can trust you, Mr. Perkins?" 
 
 "Madam, you can," was his reply; and he passed 
 
PERKINS' DOUBTS. 31 
 
 from the quiet house into the darkness without. The 
 night was moonless, but the stars shone down from an 
 unclouded sky. When Jacob Perkins found himself 
 alone, and began to look this adventure full in the 
 face, some unpleasant doubts touching the part he was 
 about to play, intruded themselves upon his thoughts. 
 He had seen the handsome stranger going daily to 
 visit Mrs. Allen, for now nearly a week, and had lis 
 tened to the town talk touching the matter, until his 
 own mind was filled with the common idea, that some 
 thing was wrong. And now, to be called on to drive 
 Mrs. Allen to Boston, secretly, and under cover of 
 the night, seemed so much like becoming a party to 
 some act of folly or crime, that he gave way to hesita 
 tion, and began to seek for reasons that would justify 
 his playing the lady false. Then came up the image 
 of her sweet, reverent face, as she said so earnestly, 
 " Nothing wrong, as God is my witness ! " And his 
 first purpose was restored. 
 
 Punctually, at half-past ten o'clock, the team of 
 Jacob Perkins drove noiselessly in through the gate, 
 and up the carriage-way to the door of the Allen man 
 sion. No lights were visible in any part of the house. 
 Under the portico were two figures, a man and a 
 woman the man holding something in his arms, which, 
 on a closer observation, Jacob saw to be a child. Two 
 large trunks and a small one stood near. 
 
 "Put them on the carriage," said Mrs. Allen, in a 
 low, steady voice ; and Jacob obeyed in silence. When 
 all was ready, she got in, and the man handed her the 
 sleeping child, and then took his place beside her. 
 
32 
 
 " To Boston, remember, Jacob ; and make the time 
 as short as possible." 
 
 No other words were spoken. Jacob led his horses 
 down the carriage-way to the gate, which he closed 
 carefully after passing through ; and then mounting to 
 his seat, drove off rapidly. 
 
 But little conversation took place between Mrs. Allen 
 and her traveling companion ; and that was in so low 
 a tone of voice, that Jacob Perkins failed to catch a 
 single word, though he bent his ear and listened with 
 the closest attention whenever he heard a murmur of 
 voices. 
 
 It was after daylight when they arrived in Boston, 
 where Jacob Perkins left them, and returned home 
 
 with all speed, to wake up the town of S with a 
 
 report of his strange adventure. Before parting with 
 Mrs. Allen, she gave him a purse, which, on examina 
 tion, was found to contain a hundred dollars in gold. 
 She also placed in his hand a small gold locket, and 
 said, impressively, while her almost colorless lips qui 
 vered, and her bosom struggled with its pent up 
 feelings 
 
 "Jacob, when my son he is now absent with his 
 father reaches his tenth year, give him this, and say 
 that it is a gift from his mother, and contains a lock 
 of her hair. Can I trust you faithfully to perform this 
 office of love?" 
 
 Tears filled her eyes ; then her breast heaved with a 
 great sob. 
 
 "As Heaven is my witness, madam," answered 
 Jacob Perkins, "it shall be done." 
 
THE MOTHER'S GIFT. 33 
 
 " Remember," she said, " that you are only to give 
 this to John, and not until his tenth year. Keep my 
 gift sacred from the knowledge of every one until that 
 time, and then let the communication be to him 
 alone." 
 
 Jacob Perkins promised to do according to her 
 wishes, and then left her looking so pale, sad, and 
 miserable, that, to use his own words, " he never could 
 recall her image as she stood looking, not at him, but 
 past him, as if trying to explore the future, without 
 thinking of some marble statue in a grave-yard." 
 
 She was never seen in S again. 
 
 3 
 
34 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE excitement in the little town of S , when 
 
 Jacob returned from Boston, and told his singular 
 story, may well be imagined. The whole community 
 was in a buzz. 
 
 It was found that Mrs. Allen had so arranged mat 
 ters, as to get all the servants away from the house, 
 on one pretence or another, for that night, except an 
 old negro woman, famous for her good sleeping quali 
 ties ; and she was in the land of forgetfulness long be 
 fore the hour appointed for flight. 
 
 Many conjectures were made, and one or two rather 
 philanthropic individuals proposed, as a common duty, 
 an attempt to arrest the fugitives and bring them back. 
 But there were none to second this, the general senti 
 ment being, that Captain Allen was fully competent to 
 look after his own affairs. And that he would look 
 after them, and promptly too, on his return, none 
 doubted for an instant. As for Jacob Perkins, no one 
 professed a willingness to stand in his shoes. The 
 fire-eating Captain would most probably blow that 
 gentleman's brains out in the heat of his first excite 
 ment. Poor Jacob, not a very courageous man, was 
 almost beside himself with fear, when this view of the 
 
RETURN OF CAPTAIN ALLEN. 35 
 
 case was confidently asserted. One advised this course 
 of conduct on the part of Jacob, and another advised 
 that, while all agreed that it would on no account be 
 safe for him to fall in the Captain's way immediately 
 on his return. More than a dozen people, friends of 
 Jacob, were on the alert, to give him the earliest intel 
 ligence of Captain Allen's arrival in S , that he 
 
 might hide himself until the first fearful outbreak of 
 passion was over. 
 
 Well, in about two weeks the Captain returned with 
 his little son. Expectation was on tip-toe. People's, 
 hearts beat in their mouths. There were some who 
 would not have been surprised at any startling occur 
 rence ; an apparition of the scarred sea-dog, rushing 
 along the streets, slashing his sword about like a mad 
 man, would have seemed to them nothing extraordi 
 nary, under the circumstances. 
 
 But expectation stood so long on tip-toe that it grew 
 tired, and came down a few inches. Nothing occurred 
 to arouse the quiet inhabitants. Captain Allen was 
 seen to enter his dwelling about two o'clock in the after 
 noon, and although not less than twenty sharp pairs 
 of eyes were turned in that direction, and never abated 
 their vigilance until night drew down her curtains, no 
 one got even a glimpse of his person. 
 
 Jacob Perkins left the town, and took refuge with a 
 neighbor living two miles away, on the first intimation 
 of the Captain's return. 
 
 The next day passed, but no one saw the Captain. 
 On the third day a member of the inquisitorial com 
 mittee, who had his house under constant observation, 
 
36 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. . 
 
 saw him drive out with his son, and take the road that 
 went direct to the neighborhood where Jacob Perkins 
 lay concealed in the house of a friend. 
 
 Poor Jacob ! None doubted but the hour of retri 
 bution for him was at hand. That he might have 
 timely warning, if possible, a lad was sent out on a 
 fleet horse, who managed to go by Captain Allen's 
 chaise on the road. Pale with affright, the unhappy 
 fugitive hid himself under a hay rick, and remained 
 there for an hour. But the Captain passed through 
 without pause or inquiry, and in due course of time 
 returned to his home, having committed no act in the 
 least degree noteable. 
 
 And so, as if nothing unusual had happened, he was 
 seen, day after day, going about as of old, with not a 
 sign of change in his deportment that any one could 
 read. In a week, Jacob Perkins returned to his home, 
 fully assured that no harm was likely to visit him. 
 
 No event touching Captain Allen or his family, wor 
 thy of record, transpired for several years. The only 
 servants in the house were negro slaves, brought from 
 a distance, and kept as much as possible away from 
 others of their class in town. Among these, the boy, 
 John, grew up. When he was ten years old, Jacob 
 Perkins, though in some fear, performed the sacred 
 duty promised to his mother on that memorable morn 
 ing, when he looked upon her pale t statuesque coun 
 tenance for the last time. A flush covered the boy's 
 face, as he received the locket, and understood from 
 whence it came. He stood for some minutes, wholly 
 abstracted, as if under the spell of some vivid memory. 
 
. DEATH OF THE OLD CAPTAIN. 37 
 
 Tears at length filled his eyes, and glistened on the 
 long fringed lashes. Then there was a single, half- 
 repressed sob and then, grasping the locket tightly 
 in his hand, he turned from Jacob, and, without a 
 word, walked hastily away. 
 
 When the boy was sixteen, Captain Allen took him 
 to sea. From that period for many years, both of 
 them were absent for at least two-thirds of the time. At 
 twenty-five, John took command of a large merchant 
 man, trading to the South American coast, and his 
 father, now worn down by hard service, as well as by 
 
 years, retired to his home in S , to close up 
 
 there, in such repose of mind as he could gain, the last 
 days of his eventful life. He died soon after by 
 apoplexy. 
 
 Prior to this event, his son, the younger Captain 
 Allen, had brought home from Cuba a Spanish woman, 
 who took the name of his wife. Of her family, or 
 antecedents, no one in our town knew anything ; and 
 it was questioned by many whether any rite of marriage 
 ha'd ever been celebrated between them. Of this, 
 however, nothing certain was known. None of the 
 best people, so called, in S paid her the hospi 
 table compliment of a visit ; and she showed no dispo 
 sition to intrude herself upon them. And so they 
 stood towards each other as strangers ; and the Allen 
 house remained, as from the beginning, to most people 
 a terra incognita. 
 
 Neither Captain Allen nor his Spanish consort, to 
 whom no children were born, as they advanced in 
 years, "grew old gracefully," Both had repulsive 
 
38 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 features, which were strongly marked by passion and 
 sensuality. During the last two years of his life I was 
 frequently called to see him, and prescribe for his 
 enemy, the gout, by which he was sorely afflicted. 
 Mrs. Allen also required treatment. Her nervous 
 system was disordered ; and, on closer observation, I de 
 tected signs of a vagrant, imagination, leading her away 
 into states verging upon insanity. She was fretful 
 and ill-tempered; and rarely spoke to the Captain 
 except complainingly, or in anger. The visits I made 
 to the Allen house, during the lifetime of Captain 
 Allen, were among the most unsatisfactory of all my 
 professional calls. I think, from signs which met my 
 eyes, that something more than bitter words passed 
 occasionally between the ill-matched couple. 
 
 Late in the day, nearly five years anterior to the time 
 of which I am now writing, I was summoned in haste to 
 visit Captain Allen. I found him lying on a bed in 
 the north-west chamber, where he usually slept, in a 
 state of insensibility. Mrs. Allen received me at the 
 door of the chamber with a frightened countenance. 
 On inquiry as to the cause of his condition, she in 
 formed me that he had gone to his own room about an 
 hour before, a little the worse for a bottle of wine ; 
 and that she had heard nothing more from him, until 
 she was startled by a loud, jarring noise in his cham 
 ber. On running up stairs, she found him lying upon 
 the floor, insensible. 
 
 I looked at her steadily, as she gave me this relation, 
 but could not hold her eyes in mine. She seemed 
 more uneasy than troubled. There was a contused 
 
SUSPICIOUS DEATH OF CAPTAIN ALLEN. 39 
 
 wound just below the right temple, which covered, 
 with its livid stain, a portion of the cheek. A cursory 
 examination satisfied me that, whatever might be the 
 cause of his fall, congestion of the brain had occurred, 
 and that but few chances for life remained. So I in 
 formed Mrs. Allen. At the words, I could see a 
 shudder run through her frame, and an expression of 
 something like terror sweep over her face. 
 
 "His father died of apoplexy," said she in a hoarse 
 whisper, looking at me with a side-long, almost stealthy 
 glance, not full and open-eyed. 
 
 " This is something more than apoplexy," I re 
 marked ; still observing her closely. 
 
 " The fall may have injured him," she suggested. 
 
 " The blow on his temple has done the fearful work," 
 said I. 
 
 There was a perceptible start, and another look of 
 fear almost terror. 
 
 "For heaven's sake, doctor," she said, rousing her 
 self, and speaking half imperatively, " do something ! 
 Don't stand speculating about the cause ; but do some 
 thing if you have any skill." 
 
 Thus prompted, I set myself to work, in good ear 
 nest, with my patient. The result was in no way 
 flattering to my skill, for he passed to his account in 
 less than an hour, dying without a sign. 
 
 I shall never forget the wild screams which rang 
 awfully through the old mansion, when it was an 
 nounced to Mrs. Allen that the Captain was dead. 
 She flung herself upon his body, tore her hair, and 
 committed other extravagances. All the slumbering 
 
40 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 passions of her undisciplined nature seemed quickened 
 into sudden life, overmastering her in their strong ex 
 citement. So it would have seemed to a less suspi 
 cious observer ; but I thought that I could detect the 
 overacting of pretence. I may have done her wrong ; 
 but the impression still remains. At the funeral, this 
 extravagant role of grief was re-enacted, and the im 
 pression was left on many minds that she was half 
 mad with grief. 
 
 Occasionally, after this event, I was summoned to 
 the Allen House to see its unhappy mistress. I say 
 unhappy, for no human being ever had a face written 
 all over with the characters you might read in hers, 
 that was not miserable. I used to study it, some 
 times, to see if I could get anything like a true reve 
 lation of her inner life. The sudden lighting up of 
 her countenance at times, as you observed its rapidly 
 varying expression, made you almost shudder, for the 
 gleam which shot across it looked like a reflection 
 from hell. I know no other word to express what I 
 mean. Remorse, at times, I could plainly read. 
 
 One thing I soon noticed; the room in which Cap 
 tain Allen died the north-west chamber before men 
 tioned remained shut up ; and an old servant told 
 me, years afterwards, that Mrs. Allen had never been 
 inside of it since the fatal day on which I attended 
 him in his last moments. 
 
 At the time when this story opens the old lady was 
 verging on to sixty. The five years which had passed 
 since she was left alone had bent her form consider 
 ably, and the diseased state of mind which I noticed 
 
INSANITY OF MRS. ALLEN. 41 
 
 when first called in to visit the family as a physician, 
 was now but a little way removed from insanity. She 
 was haunted by many strange hallucinations ; and the 
 old servant above alluded to, informed me, that she 
 was required to sleep in the room with her mistress, as 
 she never would be alone after dark. Often, through 
 the night, she would start up in terror, her diseased 
 imagination building up terrible phantoms in the land 
 of dreams, alarming the house with her cries. 
 
 I rarely visited her that I did not see new evidences 
 of waning reason. In the beginning I was fearful 
 that she might do some violence to herself or her ser 
 vants, but her insanity began to assume a less excita 
 ble form ; and at last she sank into a condition of tor 
 por, both of mind and body, from which I saw little 
 prospect of her ever rising. 
 
 "It is well," I said to myself. "Life had better 
 wane slowly away than to go out in lurid gleams liko 
 the flashes of a dying volcano." 
 

 42 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 . CHAPTER V. 
 
 AND now, reader, after this long digression, you 
 can understand my surprise at seeing broad gleams of 
 light reaching out into the darkness from the windows 
 of that north-west chamber, as I breasted the storm on 
 my way to visit the sick child of Mary Jones. No 
 wonder that I stood still and looked up at those win 
 dows, though the rain beat into my face, half blinding 
 me. The shutters were thrown open, and the curtains 
 drawn partly aside. I plainly saw shadows on the 
 ceiling and walls as of persons moving about the room. 
 Did my eyes deceive me? Was not that the figure of 
 a young girl that stood for a moment at the window 
 trying to pierce with her eyes the thick veil of night ? 
 I was still in doubt when the figure turned away, and 
 only gave me a shadow on the wall. 
 
 I lingered in front of the old house for some minutes, 
 but gaining no intelligence of what was passing within, 
 I keptjon my way to the humbler dwelling of Mary 
 Jones. I found her child quite ill, and needing atten 
 tion. After doing what, in my judgment, the case re 
 quired, I turned my steps towards the house of Mrs. 
 Wallingford to look into the case of her son Henry, 
 who, acording to her account, was in a very unhappy 
 condition. 
 
MATERNAL DISTRESS. 43 
 
 I went a little out of my way so as to go past the 
 Allen House again. As I approached, my. eyes were 
 directed to the chamber windows at the north-west 
 corner, and while yet some distance away, as the old 
 elms tossed their great limbs about in struggling with 
 the storm, I saw glancing out between them the same 
 cheery light that met my astonished gaze a little while 
 before. As then, I saw shadows moving on the walls, 
 and once the same slender, graceful figure evidently 
 that of a young girl came to the window and tried to 
 look out into the deep darkness. 
 
 As there was nothing to be gained by standing there 
 in the drenching storm, I moved onward, taking the 
 way to Mrs. Wallingford's dwelling. I had scarcely 
 touched the knocker when the door was opened, and 
 by Mrs..Wallirigford herself. 
 
 " Oh, Doctor, I'm so glad you've come !" she said in 
 a low, troubled voice. 
 
 I stepped in out of the rain, gave her my dripping 
 umbrella, and laid off my overcoat. 
 
 "How is Henry now?" I asked. 
 
 She put her finger to her lip, and said, in a whisper, 
 
 " Just the same, Doctor just the same. Listen ! 
 Don't you hear him walking the floor overhead? I've 
 tried to get him to take a cup of tea, but he won't 
 touch any thing. All I can get out of him is ' Mo 
 ther dear mother leave me to myself. I shall come 
 right again. Only leave me to myself now.' But, 
 how can I let him go on in this way? Oh, Doctor, I 
 am almost beside myself ! What can it all mean ? Some 
 thing dreadful has happened." 
 
44 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 I sat listening and reflecting for something like ten 
 minutes. Steadily, from one side the room overhead 
 to the other, went the noise of feet ; now slowly, now 
 with a quicker motion : and now with a sudden tramp, 
 that sent the listener's blood with a start along its 
 courses. 
 
 "Won't you see him, doctor?" 
 
 I did not answer at once, for I was in the dark as 
 to what was best to be done. If I had known the 
 origin of his trouble, I could have acted understand- 
 ingly. As it was, any intrusion upon the young man 
 might do harm rather than good. 
 
 " He has asked to be let alone," I replied, " and it 
 may be best to let him alone. He says that he will 
 come out right. Give him a little more time. Wait, 
 at least, until to-morrow. Then, if there is no change, 
 I will see him." 
 
 Still the mother urged. At last I said 
 
 " Go to your son. Suggest to him a visit from me, 
 and mark the effect." 
 
 I listened as she went up stairs. On entering his 
 room, I noticed that he ceased walking. Soon came 
 to my ears the murmur of voices, which rose to a sud 
 den loudness on his part, and I distinctly heard the 
 words : 
 
 " Mother ! you will drive me mad ! If you talk of 
 that, I will go from the house. I must be left alone !" 
 
 Then all was silent. Soon Mrs. Wallingford came 
 down. She looked even more distressed than when 
 she left the room. 
 
 " I'm afraid it might do harm," she said doubtingly. 
 
MATRIMONIAL CONVERSATION. 45 
 
 "So am I. It will, I am sure, be best to let him 
 have his way for the present. Something has dis 
 turbed him fearfully ; but he is struggling hard for the 
 mastery over himself, and you may be sure, madam, 
 that he will gain it. Your son is a young man of no 
 light stamp of character ; and he will come out of this 
 ordeal, as gold from the crucible." 
 
 " You think so, Doctor ?" 
 
 She looked at me with a hopeful light in her 
 troubled countenance. 
 
 "I do, verily. So let your heart dwell in peace.'* 
 
 I was anxious to get back to my good Constance, 
 and so, after a few more encouraging words for Mrs. 
 Wallingford, I tried the storm again, and went through 
 its shivering gusts, to my own home. There had been 
 no calls in my absence, and so the prospect looked 
 fair for a quiet evening -just what I wanted ; for the 
 strange condition of Henry Wallingford, and the sin 
 gular circumstance connected with the old Allen 
 House, were things to be conned over with that second 
 self, towards whom all thought turned and all interest 
 converged as to a centre. 
 
 After exchanging wet outer garments and boots, for 
 dressing gown and slippers ; and darkness and storm 
 for a pleasant fireside ; my thoughts turned to the 
 north-west chamber of the Allen House, and I said 
 
 " I have seen something to-night that puzzled me." 
 
 "What is that?" inquired my wife, turning her 
 mild eyes upon me. 
 
 " You know the room in which old Captain Allen 
 died ?" 
 
46 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " Yes.' 7 
 
 " The chamber on the north-west corner, which, as 
 far as we know, has been shut up ever since ?" 
 
 " Yes, I remember your suspicion as to foul play on 
 the part of Mrs. Allen, who, it is believed, has never 
 visited the apartment since the Captain's death." 
 
 "Well, you will be surprised to hear that the shut 
 ters are unclosed, and lights burning in that chamber." 
 
 "Now!" 
 
 "Yes or at least half an hour ago." 
 
 " That is remarkable." 
 
 My wife looked puzzled. 
 
 " And more remarkable still I saw shadows moving 
 on the walls, as of two or three persons in the room." 
 
 1* Something unusual has happened," said my wife. 
 " Perhaps Mrs. Allen is dead." 
 
 This thought had not occurred to me. I turned it 
 over for a few moments, and then remarked, 
 
 " Hardly probable for, in that case, I would have 
 been summoned. No ; it strikes me that some 
 strangers are in the house ; for I am certain that I 
 saw a young girl come to the window and press her 
 face close up to one of the panes, as if trying to pene 
 trate the darkness. 
 
 " Singular !" said my wife, as if speaking to her 
 self. " Now, that explains, in part, something that I 
 couldn't just make out yesterday. I -was late in 
 getting home from Aunt Elder's you know. Well, as 
 I came in view of that old house, I thought I saw a 
 girl standing by the gate. An appearance so unusual, 
 caused me to strain my eyes to make out the figure, 
 
DELIA FLOYD. 47 
 
 but the twilight had fallen too deeply. While I still 
 looked, the form disappeared ; but, through an opening 
 in the shrubbery, I caught another glimpse of it, as it 
 vanished in the portico. I was going to speak of the 
 incident, but other matters pushed it, till now, from my 
 thoughts when you were at home." 
 
 " Then my eyes did not deceive me," said I; "your 
 story corroborates mine. There is a young lady in the 
 Allen House. But who is she ? That is the question." 
 
 As we could not get beyond this question, we left the 
 riddle for time to solve, and turned next to the singu 
 lar state of mind into which young Henry Wallingford 
 had fallen. 
 
 "Well," said my wife, speaking with some empha 
 sis, after I had told her of the case, " I never im 
 agined that he cared so much for the girl !" 
 
 "What girl?" I inquired. 
 
 " Why, Delia Floyd the silly fool ! if I must speak 
 so strongly." 
 
 " Then he is really in love with Squire Eloyd's 
 daughter?" 
 
 "It looks like it, if he's taking on as his mother 
 says," answered my wife, with considerable feeling. 
 " And Delia will rue the day she turned from as true 
 a man as Henry Wallingford." 
 
 "Bless me, Constance ! you've got deeper into this 
 matter, than either his mother or me. Who has been 
 initiating you into the love secrets of S ?" 
 
 " This affair," returned my wife, " has not passed 
 into town talk, and will, I trust, be kept sacred by 
 those who know the facts. I learned them from Mrs. 
 
48 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 Dean, the sister of Mrs. Floyd. The case stands thus : 
 Henry is peculiar, shy, reserved, and rather silent. 
 He goes but little into company, and has not the tak 
 ing way with girls that renders some young men so 
 popular. But his qualities are all of the sterling kind 
 such as wear well, and grow brighter with usage. 
 For more than a year past, he has shown a decided 
 preference for Delia Floyd, and she has encouraged 
 his attentions. Indeed, so far as I can learn from 
 Mrs. Dean, the heart of her niece was deeply inter 
 ested. But a lover of higher pretensions came, 
 dazzling her mind with a more brilliant future." 
 
 "Who?" I inquired. 
 
 " That dashing young fellow from New York, Judge 
 Bigelow's nephew." 
 
 " Not Ralph Dewey ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Foolish girl, to throw away a man for such an 
 effigy ! It will be a dark day that sees her wedded to 
 him. But I will not believe in the possibility of such 
 an event." 
 
 " Well, to go on with my story," resumed Constance. 
 "Last evening, seeing, I suppose, that a dangerous 
 rival was intruding, Henry made suit for the hand ' of 
 Delia, and was rejected." 
 
 "I understand the case better now," said I, speak 
 ing from a professional point of view. 
 
 " Poor young man ! I did not suppose it was in 
 him to love any woman after that fashion," remarked 
 Constance. 
 
 " Your men of reserved exterior have often great 
 
MORALIZING. 49 
 
 depths of feeling," I remarked. " Usually women are 
 not drawn towards them ; because they are attracted 
 most readily by what meets the eye. If they would 
 look deeper, they would commit fewer mistakes, like 
 that which Delia Floyd has just committed." 
 4 
 
50 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DELIA FLOYD was a girl of more than ordinary 
 attractions, and it is not surprising that young Walling- 
 ford was drawn, fascinated, within the charmed circle 
 of her influence. She was, by no means, the weak, 
 vain, beautiful young woman, that the brief allu 
 sion I have made to her might naturally lead the 
 reader to infer. I had possessed good opportunities 
 for observing her, for our families were intimate, and 
 she was frequently at our house. Her father had 
 given her a good education not showy ; but of the 
 solid kind. She was fond of books, and better read, I 
 think, in the literature of the day, than any other 
 
 young lady in S . Her conversational powers 
 
 were of a high order. Good sense, I had always given 
 her credit for possessing ; and I believed her capable of 
 reading character correctly. She was the last one I 
 should have regarded as being in danger of losing a 
 heart to Ralph Dewey. 
 
 In person, Delia was rather below than above the 
 middle stature. Her hair was of a dark brown, and so 
 were her eyes the latter large and liquid. Her com 
 plexion was fresh, almost ruddy, and her countenance 
 animated, and quick to register every play of feeling. 
 
SQUIRE FLOYD. 51 
 
 In manner, she was exceedingly agreeable, and had 
 the happy art of putting even strangers at ease. It 
 was no matter of wonder to me, as I said before, that 
 Henry Wallingford should fall in love with Delia Floyd. 
 But I did wonder, most profoundly, when I became 
 fully assured, that she had, for a mere flash man, such 
 as Ralph Dewey seemed to me, turned herself away 
 from Henry Wallingford. 
 
 But women are enigmas to most of us I don't in 
 clude you, dear Constance ! and every now and then 
 puzzle us by acts so strangely out of keeping with all 
 that we had predicated of them, as to leave no expla 
 nation within our reach, save that of evil fascination, 
 or temporary loss of reason. We see their feet often 
 turning aside into ways that we know lead to wretched 
 ness, and onward they move persistently, heeding 
 neither the voice of love, warning, nor reproach. 
 They hope all things, believe all things, trust all 
 things, and make shipwreck on the breakers that all 
 eyes but their own see leaping and foaming in their 
 course. Yes, woman is truly an enigma ! 
 
 Squire Floyd was a plain, upright man, in mode 
 rately good circumstances. He owned a water power 
 on the stream that ran near our town, and had built 
 himself a cotton mill, which was yielding him a good 
 annual income. But he was far from being rich, and 
 had the good sense not to assume a style of living 
 beyond his means. 
 
 Henry Wallingford was the son of an old friend of 
 Squire Floyd's. The elder Mr. Wallingford was not 
 a man of the Squire's caution and prudence. He was 
 
52 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 always making mistakes in matters of business, and 
 never succeeded well in any thing. He died when his 
 son was about eighteen years of age. Henry was at 
 that time studying law with Judge Bigelow. As, in 
 the settlement of his father's estate, it was found to 
 be wholly insolvent, Henry, unwilling to be depend 
 ent on his mother, who had a small income in her own 
 right, gave notice to the Judge that he was about to 
 leave his office. Now, the Judge was a man of pene 
 tration, and had already discovered in the quiet, re 
 served young man, just the qualities needed to give 
 success in the practice of law. He looked calmly at 
 his student for some moments after receiving this 
 announcement, conning over his face, which by no 
 means gave indications of a happy state of mind. 
 
 "You think you can find a better preceptor?." said 
 the Judge, at last, in his calm way. 
 
 "No, sir! no!" answered Henry, quickly. "Not 
 in all this town, nor out of it, either. It is not that, 
 Judge Bigelow." 
 
 " Then you don't fancy the law ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, there is no other calling in life 
 that presents to my mind any thing attractive," replied 
 Henry, in a tone of despondency that did not escape 
 the Judge. 
 
 " Well, if that is the case, why not keep on ? You 
 are getting along bravely." 
 
 "I must support myself, sir must do something 
 besides sitting here and reading law books." 
 
 "Ah, yes, I see." The Judge spoke to himself, as 
 if light had broken into his mind. "Well, Henry," 
 
A SALARIED LAW STUDENT. 53 
 
 he added, looking at the young man, " what do you 
 propose doing?" 
 
 " I have hands and health," was the reply. 
 
 " Something more than hands and health are re 
 quired in this world. What can you do ? " 
 
 "I can work on a farm, if nothing better offers. 
 Or, may be, I can get a place in some store." 
 
 " There's good stuff in the lad," said Judge Bigelow 
 to himself. Then speaking aloud 
 
 " I'll think this matter over for you, Henry. Let 
 it rest for a day or two. The law is your proper call 
 ing, and you must not give it up, if you can be sus 
 tained in it." 
 
 On that yery day, Judge Bigelow saw Squire Floyd, 
 and talked the matter over with him. They had but 
 one sentiment in the matter,- and that was favorable 
 to Henry's remaining where he was. 
 
 " Can he be of any service to you, in your office, 
 Judge such as copying deeds and papers, hunting 
 up cases, and the like?" asked the Squire. 
 
 " Yes, he can be of service to me in that way ; and 
 is of 'service now." 
 
 " You can afford to pay him something ?" suggested 
 Squire Floyd. 
 
 " It is usual," replied the Judge, " to get this kind 
 of service in return for instruction and office privi 
 leges." 
 
 " I know ; but this case is peculiar. The death of 
 Henry's father has left him without a support, and he 
 is too independent to burden his mother. Unless he 
 
54 
 
 can earn something, therefore, he must abandon the 
 law." 
 
 "I understand that, Squire, and have already deci 
 ded to compensate him," said the Judge. "But what 
 I can offer will not be enough." 
 
 " How much can you offer ?" 
 
 "Not over a hundred dollars for the first year." 
 
 " Call it two hundred, Judge," was the ready an 
 swer. 
 
 The two men looked for a moment into each other's 
 faces. 
 
 " His father and I were friends from boyhood," said 
 Squire Floyd. " He was a warm-hearted man ; but 
 always making mistakes. He would have ruined me 
 two or three times over, if I had been weak enough to 
 enter into his plans, or to yield to his importunities in 
 the way of risks and securities. It often went hard 
 for me to refuse him ; but duty to those dependent on 
 me was stronger than friendship. But I can spare a 
 hundred dollars for his son, and will do it cheerfully. 
 Only, I must not be known in the matter ; for it would 
 lay on Henry's mind a weight of obligation, not 
 pleasant for one of his sensitive disposition to bear." 
 
 "I see, Squire," answered Judge Bigelow to this; 
 " but then it won't place me in the right position. I 
 shall receive credit for your benevolence." 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself on that score," answered 
 the Squire, laughing. "It may be that I shall want 
 some law business done though heaven forbid ! In 
 that case, I will call on you, and you can let Henry 
 
HENRY A PARTNER. 55 
 
 do the work. Thus the equilibrium of benefits will be 
 restored. Let the salary be two hundred." 
 
 And so this matter being settled, Henry Walling- 
 ford remained in the office of Judge Bigelow. The 
 fact of being salaried by the Judge, stimulated him 
 to new efforts, and made him forward to relieve his 
 kind preceptor of all duties within the range of his 
 ability. There came, during the next year, an unu 
 sually large amount of office practice preparing deeds, 
 making searches, and drawing up papers of various 
 kinds. In doing this work, Henry was rapid and re 
 liable. So, when Squire Floyd tendered his propor 
 tion of the young man's salary to his neighbor, the 
 Judge declined receiving it. The Squire urged ; but 
 the Judge said 
 
 " No ; Henry has earned his salary, and I must pay 
 it, in simple justice. I did not think there was so 
 much in him. Business has increased, and without 
 so valuable an assistant, I could not get along." 
 
 So the way had opened before Henry Wallingford, 
 and he was on the road to a successful manhood. At 
 the time of his introduction to the reader, he was in 
 his twenty-third year. On attaining his majority, he 
 had become so indispensable to Judge Bigelow, who 
 had the largest practice in the county, that no course 
 was left for him but to offer the young man a share in 
 his business. It was accepted ; and the name of Henry 
 Wallingford was thenceforth displayed in gilt letters, 
 in the office window of his preceptor. 
 
 From that time, his mind never rested with any 
 thing like care or anxiety on the future. His daily 
 
56 TWENTY YEAKS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 life consisted in an almost absorbed devotion to his pro 
 fessional duties, which grewsteadily on his hands. His 
 affection was in them, and so the balance of his mind was 
 fully sustained. Ah, if we could all thus rest, without 
 anxiety, on the right performance of our allotted work ! 
 If we would be content to wait patiently for that suc 
 cess which comes as the orderly result of well-doing in 
 our business, trades, or professions, what a different 
 adjustment would there be in our social condition and 
 relations ! There would not be all around us so many 
 eager, care-worn faces so many heads bowed with 
 anxious thought so many shoulders bent with bur 
 dens, destined, sooner or later, to prove too great for 
 the strength which now sustains them. But how few, 
 like Henry Wallingford, enter with anything like 
 pleasure into their work ! It is, in most cases, held as 
 drudgery, and regarded only as the means to cherished 
 ends in life wholly removed from the calling itself. 
 Impatience comes as a natural result. The hand 
 reaches forth to pluck the growing fruit ere it is half 
 ripened. No wonder that its taste is bitter to so many 
 thousands. No wonder that true success comes to so 
 small a number that to so many life proves but a 
 miserable failure. 
 
MORNING AFTER THE STORM. 57 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE morning which broke after that night of storm 
 was serene and beautiful. The air had a crystal clear 
 ness, and as you looked away up into the cloudless 
 azure, it seemed. as if the eye could penetrate to an 
 immeasurable distance. The act of breathing was a 
 luxury. You drew in draught after draught of the 
 rich air, feeling, with every inhalation, that a new vi 
 tality was absorbed through the lungs, giving to the 
 heart a nobler beat, and to the brain a fresh activity. 
 With what a different feeling did I take up my round 
 of duties for the day! Yesterday I went creeping 
 forth like a reluctant school boy ; to-day, with an up 
 lifted countenance and a willing step. 
 
 Having a few near calls to make, I did not order my 
 horse, as both health and inclination were better served 
 by walking. Soon after breakfast I started out, and 
 was going in the direction of Judge Bigelow's office, 
 when, hearing a step behind me that had in it a fa 
 miliar sound, I turned to find myself face to face with 
 Henry Wallingford ! He could hardly have failed to 
 see the look of surprise in my face. 
 
 " Good morning, Henry," I said, giving him my 
 hand, and trying to speak with that cheerful interest 
 
58 TWENTY TEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 in the young man which I had always endeavored to 
 show. 
 
 He smiled in his usual quiet way as he took my hand 
 and said in return, 
 
 " Good-morning, Doctor." 
 
 "You were not out, I believe, yesterday," I re 
 marked, as we moved on together. 
 
 "I didn't feel very well," he answered, in a voice 
 pitched to a lower key than usual ; " and, the day 
 being a stormy one, I shut myself up at home." 
 
 " Ah," said I, in a cheerful way, " you lawyers have 
 the advantage of us knights of the pill box and lancet. 
 . Rain or shine, sick or well, we must travel round our 
 parishf" 
 
 "All have their share of the good as well as the 
 evil things of life," he replied, a little soberly. 
 " Doctors and lawyers included." 
 
 I did not observe any marked change in the young 
 man, except that he was paler, and had a different 
 look out of his eyes from any that I had hitherto 
 noticed ; a more matured look, which not only indi 
 cated deeper feeling, but gave signs of will and endu 
 rance. I carried that new expression away with me 
 as we parted at the door of his office, and studied it 
 as a new revelation of the man. It was very certain 
 that profounder depths had been opened in his nature 
 opened to his own consciousness than had ever 
 seen the light before. That he was more a man than 
 he had ever been, and more worthy to be mated with 
 a true woman. Up to this time I had thought of him 
 more as a boy than as a man, for the years had glided 
 
RALPH DEWEY. 59 
 
 by so quietly that bore him onward with the rest, that, 
 he had not arisen in my thought to the full mental 
 stature which the word manhood includes. 
 
 "Ah," said I, as -I walked on, "what a mistake in 
 Delia Floyd ! She is just as capable of high develop 
 ment as a woman as he is as a man. How admirably 
 would they have mated. In him, self-reliance, reason, 
 judgment, and deep feeling would have found in her 
 all the qualities they seek taste, perception, tender 
 ness and love. They would have grown upwards into 
 higher ideas of life, not downwards into sensualism 
 and mere worldliness, like the many. Alas ! This 
 mistake on her part may ruin them both ; for a man 
 of deep, reserved feelings, who suffers a disappoint 
 ment in love, is often warped in his appreciation of 
 the sex, and grows one-sided in his character as he ad 
 vances through the cycles of life. 
 
 I had parted from Henry only a few minutes when 
 I met his rival, Ralph Dewey. Let me describe him. 
 In person he was taller than Wallingford, and had the 
 easy, confident manner of one who had seen the world, 
 as we say. His face was called handsome ; but it was 
 not a manly face manly in that best sense which 
 includes character and thought. The chin and mouth 
 were feeble, and the forehead narrow, throwing the 
 small orbs close together. But he had a fresh com 
 plexion, dark, sprightly eyes, and a winning smile. 
 His voice was not very good, having in it a kind of 
 unpleasant rattle ; but he managed it rather skillfully 
 in conversation, arid you soon ceased to notice the 
 peculiarity. 
 
60 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 Ralph lived in New York, where he had recently 
 been advanced to the position of fourth partner in a 
 dry goods jobbing house, with a small percentage on 
 the net profits. Judging from the air with which he 
 spoke of his firm's operations, and his relation to the 
 business, you might have inferred that he was senior 
 instead of junior partner, and that the whole weight 
 of the concern rested on his shoulders. 
 
 Judge Bigelow, a solid man, and from professional 
 habit skilled in reading character, was, singularly 
 enough, quite carried away with his smart nephew, and 
 really believed his report of himself. Prospectively, 
 he saw him a merchant prince, surrounded by palatial 
 splendors. 
 
 Our acquaintance was as yet but slight, so we only 
 nodded in passing. As we were in the neighborhood 
 of Squire Floyd's pleasant cottage, I was naturally 
 curious, under the circumstances, to see whether the 
 young man was going to make a visit at so early an 
 hour ; and I managed to keep long enough in sight to 
 have this matter determined. Ralph called at the 
 Squire's, and I saw him admitted. So I shook my 
 head disapprovingly, and kept on my way. 
 
 Not until late in the afternoon did I find occasion to 
 go into that part of the town where the old Allen 
 house was located, though the image of its gleaming 
 north-west windows was frequently in my thought. 
 The surprise occasioned by that incident was in no way 
 lessened on seeing a carriage drive in through the gate 
 way, and two ladies alight therefrom and enter the 
 house. Both were in mourning. I did not see their 
 
STRANGE VISITORS. 61 
 
 faces ; but, judging from the dress and figure of each, 
 it was evident that one was past the meridian of life, 
 and the other young. Still more to my surprise, the 
 carriage was not built after our New England fashion, 
 but looked heavy, and of a somewhat ancient date. It 
 was large and high, with a single seat for the driver 
 perched away up in the air, and a footman's stand and 
 hangings behind. There was, moreover, a footman in 
 attendance, who sprung to his place after the ladies 
 had alighted, and rode off to the stables. 
 
 "Am I dreaming?" said I to myself, as I kept on 
 my way, after witnessing this new incident in the series 
 of strange events that were half-bewildering me. But 
 it was in vain that I rubbed my eyes ; I could not 
 wake up to a different reality. 
 
 It was late when I got home from my round of calls, 
 and found tea awaiting my arrival. 
 
 "Any one been here?" I asked my usual question. 
 
 " No one." The answer pleased me for I had many 
 things on my mind, and I wished to have a good long 
 evening with my wife. Baby Mary and Louis were 
 asleep : but we had the sweet, gentle face of Agnes, 
 our first born, to brighten the meal-time. After she 
 was in dream-land, guarded by the loving angels who 
 watch with children in sleep, and Constance was 
 through with her household cares for the evening, I 
 came into the sitting-room from my office, and taking 
 the large rocking-chair, leaned my head back, mind 
 and body enjoying a sense of rest and comfort. 
 
 "You are not the only one," said my wife, looking 
 up from te basket of work through which she had 
 
YKIKS Afflo JDO 
 
 .. 
 
 sa T 
 
 :: : ;- i .-: v L - 
 
SICKNESS AT THE ALLKS HOUSE, 63 
 
 u Tbe stories about her reception of the strangers 
 do not agree. According to one, the old lady was all 
 resistance and indignation at this intrusion ; according 
 to another, she gave way, passively, as if she were no 
 longer sole mistress of the house/' 
 
 Constance ceased speaking, for there came the usual 
 interruption, to our evening tete-a-tete the ringing of 
 my office belL 
 
 " You are wanted up at the Allen House, Doctor," 
 said my boy, coming in from the office a few moments 
 afterwards. 
 
 " Who is sick ?" I asked. 
 
 "The old lady/' 
 
 " Any thing serious ?" 
 
 " I don't know, sir. But I should think there was 
 from the way old Aunty looked. She says, come up 
 as quickly as you can." 
 
 " Is she in the office ?" 
 
 " No, sir. She just said that, and then went out in 
 a hurry. 
 
 u The plot thickens," said I, looking at Constance. 
 
 " Poor old lady !" There was a shade of pity in 
 her tones. 
 
 " You have not seen her for many years T ' 
 
 No." 
 
 "Poor old witch of Endor ! were better said." 
 
 " Oil !" answered my wife, smiling, " you know that 
 the painter's idea of this celebrated individual has 
 been reversed by some, who affirm that she was young 
 and handsome instead of old and ugly like modern 
 witches." 
 
64 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " I don't know how that may be, but if you could 
 see Mrs. Allen, you would say that i hag' were a bet 
 ter term for her than woman. If the good grow beau 
 tiful as they grow old, the loving spirit shining like a 
 lamp through the wasted and failing walls of flesh, so 
 do the evil grow ugly and repulsive. Ah, Constance, 
 the lesson is for all of us. If we live true lives, our 
 countenances will grow radiant from within, as we ad 
 vance in years ; if selfish, worldly, discontented lives, 
 they will grow cold, hard, and repulsive." 
 
 I drew on my boots and coat, and started on my 
 visit to the Allen House. The night was in perfect 
 contrast with the previous one. There was no moon, 
 but e*very star shone with its highest brilliancy, while 
 the galaxy threw its white scarf gracefully across the 
 sky, veiling millions of suns in their own excessive 
 brightness. I paused several times in my walk, as 
 broader expanses opened between the great elms that 
 gave to our town a sylvan beauty, and repeated, with 
 a rapt feeling of awe and admiration, the opening 
 stanza of a familiar hymn : 
 
 " The spacious firmament on high, 
 With all the blue ethereal sky, 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 Their great Original proclaim." 
 
 How the beauty and grandeur of nature move the 
 heart, as if it recognized something of its own in every 
 changing aspect. The sun and moon and stars the 
 grand old mountains lifting themselves upwards into 
 serene heights the limitless expanse of ocean, girdling 
 
THE DOCTOR'S VISIT. 65 
 
 the whole earth rivers, valleys, and plains trees, 
 flowers, the infinite forms of life to all the soul gives 
 some response, as if they were akin. 
 
 I half forgot my interest in old Mrs. Allen, as my 
 heart beat responsive to the pulsings of nature, and 
 my thoughts flew upwards and away as on the wings 
 of eagles. But my faithful feet had borne me stea 
 dily onwards, and I was at the gate opening to the 
 grounds of the Allen House, before I was conscious 
 of having passed over half the distance that lay be 
 tween that and my home. I looked up, and saw a 
 light in the north-west chamber, but the curtains were 
 down. 
 
 On entering the house, I was shown by the servant 
 who admitted me, into the small office or reception 
 room opening from the hall. I had scarcely seated my 
 self, when a tall woman, dressed in black, came in, and 
 said, with a graceful, but rather stately manner 
 
 " The Doctor, I believe ? " 
 
 How familiar the voice sounded ! And yet I did 
 not recognise it as the voice of any one whom I had 
 known, but rather as a voice heard in dreams. Nor 
 was the calm, dignified countenance on which my eyes 
 rested, strange in every lineament. The lady was, to 
 all appearance, somewhere in the neighborhood of 
 sixty, and, for an elderly lady, handsome. I thought 
 of my remark to Constance about the beauty and 
 deformity of age, and said to myself, "Here is one 
 who has not lived in vain." 
 
 I arose as she spoke, and answered in the affirma 
 tive. 
 5 
 
66 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " You have come too late," she said, with a touch of 
 feeling in her voice. 
 
 "Not dead?" I ejaculated. 
 
 "Yes, dead. Will you walk up stairs and see 
 her?" 
 
 I followed in silence, ascending to the chamber 
 which had been occupied by Mrs. Allen since the old 
 Captain's death. It was true as she had said; a 
 ghastly corpse was before me. I use the word ghastly, 
 for it fully expresses the ugliness of that lifeless face, 
 withered, marred, almost shorn of every true aspect 
 of humanity. I laid my hand upon her the skin was 
 cold. I felt for her pulse, tut there was no sign of 
 motion in the arteries. 
 
 "It is over," I said, lifting myself from my brief 
 examination, "and may God have mercy upon her 
 soul!" The last part of the sentence was invo 
 luntary. 
 
 "Amen!" 
 
 I felt that this response was no idle ejaculation. 
 
 "How was she affected ? " I asked. " Has she been 
 sick for any time ? Or did life go out suddenly? " 
 
 "It went out suddenly," replied the lady "as 
 suddenly as a lamp in the wind." 
 
 "Was she excited from any cause ? " 
 
 " She has been in an excited state ever since our 
 arrival, although every thing that lay in our power has 
 been done to quiet her mind and give it confidence 
 and repose." 
 
 She spoke calmly, as one who held a controlling 
 position there, and of right. I looked into her serene 
 
SUDDEN DEATH. 67 
 
 face, almost classic in its outlines, with an expression 
 of blended inquiry and surprise, that it was evident 
 did not escape her observation, although she offered no 
 explanation in regard to herself. 
 
 I turned again to the corpse, and examined it with 
 some care. There was nothing in its appearance that 
 gave me any clue to the cause which had produced this 
 sudden extinguishment of life. 
 
 "In what way was she excited?" I asked, looking 
 at the stranger as I stepped back from the couch on 
 which the dead body was lying. 
 
 She returned my steady gaze, without answering, 
 for some moments. Either my tone or manner affected 
 her unpleasantly, for I saw her brows contract slightly, 
 her full lips close upon themselves, and her eyes 
 acquire an intenser look. 
 
 " You have been her physician, I believe ? " There 
 was no sign of feeling in the steady voice which made 
 the inquiry. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I need not, in that case, describe to you her un 
 happy state of mind. I need not tell you that an 
 evil will had the mastery over her understanding, and 
 that, in the fierce struggle of evil passion with evil 
 passion, mind and body had lost their right adjust 
 ment." 
 
 "I know all this," said I. " Still, madam, in view 
 of my professional duty, I must repeat my question, 
 and urge upon you the propriety of an undisguised 
 answer. In what way was she excited ? and what was 
 
68 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 the cause leading to an excitement which has ended 
 thus fatally?" 
 
 " I am not in the habit of putting on disguises," she 
 answered, with a quiet dignity that really looked 
 beautiful. 
 
 " I pray you, madam, not to misunderstand me," 
 said I. " As a physician, I must report the cause of all 
 deaths in the range of my practice. If I were not to 
 do so in this case, a permit for burial would not be 
 issued until a regular inquest was held by the Coroner." 
 
 " Ah, I see," she replied, yet with an air of inde 
 cision. " You are perfectly right, Doctor, and we 
 must answer to your satisfaction. But let us retire 
 from this chamber." 
 
 She led the way down stairs. As we passed the 
 memorable north-west room, she pushed the door 
 open, and said, 
 
 " Blanche, dear, I wish to see you. Come down to 
 the parlor." 
 
 I heard faintly the answer, in a very musical voice. 
 We had scarcely entered the parlor, when the lady 
 said 
 
 " My daughter, Doctor." 
 
 A vision of beauty and innocence met my gaze. A 
 young girl, not over seventeen, tall like her mother, 
 very fair, with a face just subdued into something of 
 womanly seriousness, stood in the door, as I turned at 
 mention of her presence. 
 
 A single lamp gave its feeble light to the room, only 
 half subduing the shadows that went creeping into 
 corners and recesses. Something of a weird aspect 
 
INSANE CONDUCT OP MRS. ALLEN. 69 
 
 was on every thing ; and I could not but gaze at the 
 two strangers in that strange place to them, under such 
 peculiar circumstances, and wonder to see them so calm, 
 dignified, and self-possessed. We sat down by the table 
 on which the lamp was standing, the elder of the two op 
 posite, and the younger a little turned away, so that 
 her features were nearly concealed. 
 
 "Blanche," said the former, "the Doctor wishes to 
 know the particular incidents connected with the death 
 of Mrs. Allen." 
 
 I thought there was an uneasy movement on the 
 part of the girl. She did not reply. There was a 
 pause. 
 
 " The facts are simply these, Doctor," and the 
 mother looked me steadily in the face, which stood out 
 clear, as the lamp shone full on every feature. "From 
 the moment of our arrival, Mrs. Allen has seemed like 
 one possessed of an evil Spirit. How she conducted 
 herself before, is known to me only as reported by the 
 servants. From the little they have communicated, I 
 infer that for some time past she has not been in her 
 right mind. How is it ? You must know as to her 
 sanity or insanity." 
 
 " She has not, in my opinion, been a truly sane 
 woman for years," was my answer. 
 
 " As I just said," she continued, " she has seemed 
 like one possessed of an evil spirit. In no way could 
 we soften or conciliate her. Her conduct resembled 
 more nearly that of some fierce wild beast whose den 
 was invaded, than that of a human being. She would 
 hold no friendly intercourse with us, and if we met at 
 
70 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 any tf me, or in any part of the house, she would fix 
 her keen black eyes upon us, with an expression that 
 sent a shudder to the heart. My daughter scarcely 
 dared venture from her room. She so dreaded to 
 meet her. Twice, as she flew past me, in her restless 
 wanderings over the house, muttering to herself, I 
 heard her say, as she struck her clenched hand in the 
 air, ' I can do ft again, and I will !' ' 
 
 A cold chill crept over me, for I remembered the 
 death of Captain Allen ; and this was like a confirma 
 tion of what I had feared as to foul play. 
 
 " There is no trusting one wholly or even partially 
 insane. So we were always on our guard. Not once, 
 but many times during the few nights we have spent 
 here, have we -heard the door of our chamber tried 
 after midnight. It was plain to us that it was not 
 safe to live in this way, and so we had come to the 
 reluctant conclusion that personal restraint must be 
 secured. The question as to how this could best be 
 done we had not yet decided, when death unraveled 
 the difficulty." 
 
 The speaker ceased at this part of her narrative, 
 and lifting from the table a small bell, rung it. A 
 maid entered. I had never seen her before. 
 
 " Tell Jackson that I want him." 
 
 The girl curtsied respectfully, and withdrew. 
 
 Nothing more was said, until a man, whom I recog 
 nized at a glance to be a regularly trained English 
 servant, presented himself. 
 
 " Jackson," said the lady, " I wish you to relate, 
 
DEATH OF MRS. ALLEN. 71 
 
 exactly, what occurred just previously to, and at the 
 time of Mrs. Allen's death." 
 
 The man looked bewildered for a moment or two ; but 
 soon recovering himself, answered without hesitation. 
 
 " Hit 'appened just in this way, ma'am. I was a 
 comin' hup stairs, when I met the hold lady a tearin' 
 down like a mad cat. She looked kind o' awful. I 
 never saw anybody out of an 'ospital look that way in 
 all my life before. She 'eld an hiron poker in 'er 'and. 
 As my young lady " and he looked towards Blanche 
 " was in the 'all, I didn't think it safe for 'er if I 
 let the hold woman go down. So I just stood in 'er 
 way, and put my harms across the stairs so" 
 stretching his arms out. " My ! but 'ow she did fire 
 up ! She stood almost a minute, and then sprung on 
 me as if she was a tiger. But I was the strongest, 
 and 'olding 'er in my harms like as I would a mad 
 kitten, I carried 'er hup to 'er room, put 'er hin, and 
 shut the door. My young lady saw it hall, for she 
 followed right hup after me." 
 
 He looked towards Blanche. 
 
 " Just as it occurred," she said, in a low, sweet 
 fluttering voice. 
 
 " I heard the strife," said her mother, " and ran up 
 to see what was the matter. I reached the door of 
 Mrs. Allen's room just as Jackson thrust her in. He 
 did not use any more violence than was needed in a 
 case of such sudden emergency. He is strong, and 
 held her so tightly that she could not even struggle. 
 One wild, fierce scream rent the air, as he shut the 
 door, and then all was silent as death. I went in to 
 
72 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 her instantly. She was on the floor in a convulsion. 
 You were sent for immediately ; but it was too late 
 for human intervention. Jackson, you can go." 
 
 The man bowed with an air of deferential respect, 
 and retired. 
 
 "Now, sir," she added, turning tome, "you have 
 the facts as they occurred. I have no wish to give 
 them publicity, for they are family matters, and these 
 are always in their degree, sacred. If, however, you 
 think it your duty as a physician, to make the matter 
 one of official investigation, I can have nothing to say." 
 
 I thought for some minutes before answering. The 
 story, as related by the servant, I fully credited. 
 
 "Let me see the body again," said I, coming at 
 length to a conclusion. 
 
 We went up stairs, all three together ; but only two 
 of us entered the chamber of death. As we neared the 
 door, Blanche caught at her mother's arm, and I heard 
 her say, in a whisper : 
 
 " Dear mamma ! spare me that sight again. It is 
 too horrible !" 
 
 "The presence of your daughter is not needed," 
 said I, interposing. " Let her retire to her own room." 
 
 "Thank you!" There was a grateful expression in 
 her voice, as she uttered these brief words, and then 
 went back, while we passed in to the apartment where 
 the dead woman was still lying. 
 
 As I looked upon her face again, it seemed even 
 more ghastly than before ; and I could hardly repress 
 a shudder. My companion held a lamp, while I made 
 as careful an examination as was possible under the 
 
DOCTOR'S EXAMINATION. 73 
 
 circumstances. I did not expect to find any marks of 
 violence, though I searched for them about her head, 
 neck, and chest. But, under the circumstances, I felt 
 it to be my duty to know, from actual search, that no 
 such signs existed. In every aspect presented by the 
 corpse, there was a corroboration of the story related 
 by the serving man. It was plain, that in a fit of half 
 insane, uncontrollable passion, the nice adjustment of 
 physical forces had been lost. 
 
 " I am fully satisfied, madam," said I, at length, 
 turning from my unpleasant task. 
 
 She let her calm, earnest eyes dwell on mine for a 
 few moments, and then answered, with a softened tone, 
 in which there was just a perceptible thrill of feeling 
 
 " If I were a believer in omens, I should take this 
 sad incident, following so quickly on our removal to 
 a new country and a new home, as foreshadowing evil 
 to me or mine. But I do not so read external events." 
 
 "Between a life like hers, and a life like yours, 
 madam, there can be no possible nearness ; nor any 
 relation between your spiritual affinities and hers. The 
 antipodes are not farther apart," said I, in return; 
 " therefore, nothing that has befallen her can be omi 
 nous as to you." 
 
 " I trust not," she gravely answered, as we left the 
 room together. 
 
 To my inquiry if I could serve her in any way, in 
 the present matter, she simply requested me to send a 
 respectable undertaker, who would' perform what was 
 fitting in the last rites due to the dead. 
 
 I promised, and retired. 
 
74 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE appearance, manner, and bearing of the two 
 strangers impressed me strongly. The elder had evi 
 dently moved in refined and cultivated society all her 
 life. There was about her the air of " a lady, born 
 and bred" dignified, calm, easy, and courteous. The 
 daughter was a lovely blossom on this stately stem 
 delicate, beautiful, sweet with the odors of innocence. 
 I see her now as I saw her on that first night of . our 
 meeting to my eyes a new born vision of loveliness. 
 
 I found Constance awaiting, with curious interest, 
 my return. I was going right into the heart of this 
 new wonder, and could not fail to bring back some re 
 velation that would satisfy, in a measure, the excite 
 ment of mind produced by so singular an intrusion of 
 strangers upon our quiet town. I answered her first 
 look of inquiry by the words : 
 
 " It is over. Another book of life is sealed up here 
 to be opened in eternity." 
 
 "Dead! Not dead?" 
 
 " Yes, Constance, Mrs. Allen is dead. Her spirit 
 had passed away before my arrival." 
 
 "How did she die? from what cause?" 
 
 " From what I can learn she died in a fit of pas 
 sion." I then related all that I had seen and heard. 
 
MYSTERY AT THE ALLEN HOUSE. 75 
 
 "But who can they be?" This query came as a 
 natural sequence. "What right have they in the 
 Allen House?" 
 
 "Whoever they may be," I replied, "they act, or, 
 at least, the elder of the two ladies acts as if her right 
 there was not even open to a question. And, perhaps, 
 it is not." 
 
 "But what can they be to the Aliens?" 
 
 " I will give you," said I, " the benefit of my guess 
 ing on the subject. You recollect the story told about 
 Captain Allen's mother; how she went off a great 
 many years ago with a stranger an Englishman." 
 
 Constance remembered all about this family history, 
 for it was the romance of our town. 
 
 " My conclusion is that this lady is the sister of 
 Captain Allen the child that his mother took with , 
 her when she fled from her husband's house. I am 
 strengthened in this belief from the first impression 
 of her voice, as if the tones had in them something 
 familiar." 
 
 We talked this matter over, looking at it in every 
 way, until we satisfied ourselves that my conjectures 
 must be true. The quiet manner in which they had 
 intruded themselves, and taken possession of the house 
 unheralded as far as we knew could not but 
 present itself to our minds as a matter of special wonder. 
 The more we conned it over the more we were puzzled. 
 Before coming home I had called at an undertaker's, 
 and notified him that his services were wanted at the 
 Allen House. Early on the next day I took the 
 liberty of calling there myself. I sent up my name. 
 
76 
 
 and awaited, with some interest, my reception. The 
 visit might be regarded as an intrusion, and I was pre 
 pared to receive a message from the lady asking to be 
 excused. Not so, however. I had been seated only a 
 few moments, when I heard the rustle of her garments 
 on the stairs. My first glance at her face assured me 
 that I was no unwelcome visitor. 
 
 "Thank you, Doctor," she said, as she extended 
 her hand, " for this early call. Our meeting last night 
 for the first time can hardly be called a pleasant one 
 or the associations connected with it such as either 
 of us might wish to recall." 
 
 " Our control over events is so slight," I made 
 answer as I resumed my seat, " that we should separate 
 unpleasant feelings as far as possible from any 
 memories connected with them." 
 
 A faint, sad smile just lightened up her placid face 
 as she said, in reply to the remark. 
 
 " Ah, Doctor, that may not be. Lives are too in 
 timately blended here for any one to suffer or do 
 wrong without leaving a burden of sadness on other 
 memories." 
 
 "True; but the burden will be light or heavy 
 according to our strength." 
 
 She looked at me without replying, for the remark 
 was so palpable, that it seemed to involve nothing beyond 
 a literal fact. 
 
 " Or rather," I said, "the burden will be heavy or 
 light according to our state or quality." 
 
 There was a sign of awakening interest in her coun- 
 
PLEASANT CONVERSATION. 77 
 
 tenance as if my remark had touched some hidden 
 spring of thought. 
 
 " If we are right with ourselves," I went on, " the 
 disturbance produced by others' misconduct will not 
 reach very far down. The pressure of sadness may 
 lie upon us for a season ; but cannot long remain ; for 
 the pure heart will lift itself into serene atmospheres." 
 
 " But, who is right with himself?" she said. "Whose 
 heart is pure enough to dwell in these serene atmos 
 pheres ? Not mine, alas !" 
 
 I looked into the suddenly illuminated face as she 
 put these questions, in surprise at the quick change 
 which had passed over it. But the tone in which she 
 uttered the closing sentence was touched with tender 
 sadness. 
 
 " Rather let me say," I made answer, "in the degree 
 that we are right with ourselves. None attain unto 
 perfection here." 
 
 "Yet," said the lady, with a sweet calmness of 
 manner that made her look beautiful, " is it not plea 
 sant to imagine a state of perfection or rather a state 
 in which evil is quiescent, and the heart active with all 
 good and loving impulses ? How full of inspiration is 
 such an ideal of life ! But the way by which we must 
 go, if we would rise into this state, is one of difficulty 
 and perpetual warfare. The enemies of our peace are 
 numbered by myriads ; and they seek with deadly 
 hatred to do us harm." 
 
 "And yet are powerless," said I, "if we keep the 
 outworks of our lives in order." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "it is the very ultimate or 
 
78 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 last things of our lives where the power of repulsion 
 resides. We can, in temptation, be it ever so strong, 
 refuse to act in the wrong direction refuse to do an 
 evil thing, because it is sinful. And this is our bul 
 wark; this is our tower of safety; for it is only in 
 wrong doing that our enemies gain the victory over 
 us. They may assault us never so fiercely may 
 dazzle our eyes with the glitter of this world's most 
 alluring things may stir the latent envy, malice, 
 pride, or dishonesty, that lurks in every heart ; but if 
 we stand still, hold back our hands and stay our feet 
 if we give our resolute ' No ' to all enticements, and 
 keep our actions free from evil, all hell cannot prevail 
 against us. God will take care of the interior of our 
 lives, and make them pure and heavenly, if we resist 
 evil in the exterior. But, pardon me ; I did not mean 
 to read you a homily." 
 
 She smiled with a grave sort of smile, and then sat 
 silent. 
 
 "I like your way of talking," said I. There was 
 something about the lady that put me at ease with her, 
 and I said this without reserve, as if I were speaking 
 to a friend. " It looks to higher things in life than 
 people usually regard as worthy of our chief considera 
 tion. To most of us, the outer world offers the highest 
 attractions ; only the few turn inwardly to the more 
 beautiful world of mind." 
 
 "Outward things fade change die; only spiritual 
 things dwell in unfading beauty. We are in a world 
 of mere effects as to our bodies ; but the soul lives in 
 the world of causes. Do we not spend a vain and 
 
EXALTED SENTIMENTS. 79 
 
 unprofitable life, then, if we go on building, day after 
 day, our tabernacle on the ever-shifting sands of time, 
 instead of upon the immoveable Rock of Ages ? But 
 who is guiltless of this folly ? Not I ! not I ! " 
 
 Again that calm, earnest voice fell to a lower key, 
 and was veiled by a tender sadness. 
 
 "It is something gained," she added, with returning 
 firmness of tone, " if, even after the sharp lessons of 
 many years, we get glimpses of Truth, and are willing 
 to follow, though it be at a far distance, the light she 
 holds aloft. Yes, it is something gained something 
 gained ! " 
 
 She spoke the last words as if merely thinking 
 aloud, and not addressing an auditor. 
 
 " Can I aid you in anything, madam ?" said I, 
 breaking in upon a state of reverie into which her 
 mind seemed to be falling. " The circumstances 
 under which you find yourself are peculiar I refer to 
 the death of Mrs. Allen, following so quickly on your 
 arrival among strangers and you may stand in need 
 of friendly service from one who knows the people and 
 their ways. If so, do not hesitate to command me." 
 
 "I thank you sincerely," she answered, unbending 
 still more from her almost stately manner. " Friendly 
 consideration I shall need, of course as who does not 
 in this world ? And I repeat my thanks, that you 
 have so kindly and so promptly anticipated my needs. 
 So far as the remains of my unhappy kinswoman are 
 concerned, I have referred all to the undertaker. He 
 will carry out my wishes. To-morrow the interment 
 "will take place. On the day following, if it it is alto- 
 
80 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 gether agreeable to yourself, I would esteem a call as 
 a particular favor." 
 
 I arose, as she concluded the last sentence, saying as 
 I did so, 
 
 " I will be sure to call, madam ; and render any 
 service in my power. You may regard me as a friend. ' ' 
 
 "Already you have extorted my confidence," she 
 answered, faintly smiling. 
 
 I bowed low, and was retiring when she said 
 
 " A moment, Doctor !" 
 
 I turned toward her again. 
 
 " Doctor, it may be well for you to see my daughter." 
 
 " Is she indisposed ?" I asked. 
 
 " Not exactly that. But the excitement and alarm 
 of the last two or three days have been, I fear, rather 
 too much for her nerves. I say alarm, for the poor 
 girl was really frightened at Mrs. Allen's wild conduct 
 and no wonder. Death following in so sad a way, 
 shocked her painfully. She did not sleep well last 
 night ; and this morning she looks pale and drooping. 
 In all probability, quiet of mind and body will soon 
 adjust the balance of health; still, it may be safest 
 for you to see her." 
 
 " A mere temporary disturbance, no doubt, which, 
 as you suggest, quiet of mind and body will, in all 
 probability, overcome. Yet it will do no harm for me 
 to see her ; and may save trouble." 
 
 " Excuse me a moment," she said, and left the room. 
 In a little while she returned, and asked me to accom 
 pany her up stairs, 
 
 I found the daughter in a black and gray silk wrap- 
 
SICKNESS OF THE DAUGHTER. 81 
 
 per, seated on a lounge. She arose as I entered, a 
 slight flush coming into her face, which subsided in a 
 few moments, leaving it quite pale, and weary looking. 
 After we were all seated, I took her hand, which was 
 hot in the palm, but cold at the extremities. Her 
 pulse was feeble, disturbed, and quick. 
 
 " How is your head ?" I asked. 
 
 "It feels a little strangely," she replied, moving it 
 two or three times, as if to get some well defined sen 
 sation. 
 
 "Any pain?" 
 
 " Yes ; a dull kind of pain over my left eye, that 
 seems to go deep into my head." 
 
 " What general bodily sensation have you ? Any 
 that you can speak of definitely ?" 
 
 " None, except a sense of oppression and heaviness. 
 When I raise my arm, it seems to fall like lead ; if I 
 move about, I am weary, and wish to be at rest." 
 
 " Rest is, by all means, the most desirable condition 
 for you now," said I. Then addressing her mother, I 
 added " I think your daughter had better lie down. 
 Let her room be shaded and kept quiet. She needs 
 rest and sleep. Sleep is one of nature's great re 
 storers." 
 
 " Will you make no prescription, Doctor ?" the 
 mother asked. 
 
 I reflected on the symptoms exhibited, for a few mo 
 ments, and then said, 
 
 " Nothing beyond repose, now. I trust that nature, 
 as the pressure is removed, will work all right again." 
 
 " You will call in again to-day." 
 6 
 
82 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " Yes ; towards evening I will see your daughter, 
 when I hope to find her improved in every way." 
 
 I spoke with a cheerfulness of manner that did not 
 altogether express my feelings in the case ; for, there 
 were some indications, not yet clear enough for a 
 diagnosis, that awakened slight concern. As I did 
 not wish to go wrong in my first prescription, I deemed 
 it better to wait a few hours, and see how nature 
 would succeed in her efforts to repel the enemy. So I 
 went away, with a promise to call again early in the 
 afternoon. 
 
OLD AUNTY. 83 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IT was between four and five oclock in the after 
 noon, when I called again at the Allen House. An 
 old colored servant, who had been in the family ever 
 since my remembrance she went by the name of 
 "Aunty" was standing by the gate as I alighted 
 from my chaise. 
 
 " 'Deed, massa, Ise glad you come," said she in a 
 troubled way. 
 
 " Why so, Aunty ? No body very sick, I hope." 
 
 " 'Deed, an dar is den ; else old Aunty don't know 
 nothin'." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Why dat blessed young lady what drapped in 
 among us, as if she'd come right down from Heaven. 
 I was jest a gwine to run down an' ax you to come and 
 see her right away." 
 
 I did not linger to talk with "Aunty," but went 
 forward to the house. The mother of Blanche met 
 me at the door. She looked very anxious. 
 
 " How is your daughter now ?" I asked. 
 
 "Not so well' as when you saw her this morning," 
 she answered. Her voice trembled. 
 
 " I would have called earlier, but have been visiting 
 a patient several miles away." 
 
84 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " She has been lying in a kind of stupor ever since 
 you were here. What can it mean, Doctor ?" 
 
 The mother looked intently in my face, and paused 
 for an answer, with her lips apart. But I knew as 
 little as she what it meant. Ah ! how often do anxious 
 friends question us, and hearken eagerly for our 
 replies, when the signs of disease are yet too indefinite 
 for any clear diagnosis ! 
 
 " I can tell better after seeing your daughter," said I. 
 
 And we went up to the sick girl's chamber ; that 
 north-west room, at the window of which I had first 
 seen the fair stranger, as I stood wondering in storm 
 and darkness, I found her lying in apparent sleep, 
 and breathing heavily. Her face was flushed ; and I 
 noticed the peculiar odor that usually accompanies an 
 eruptive fever, 
 
 " How do you feel now ?" I asked. 
 
 She had opened her eyes as I took her hand. She 
 did not answer, but looked at me in a half bewildered 
 way. Her skin was hot and the pulse small, but tense 
 and corded. 
 
 " Does your head ache ?" 
 
 I wished to arouse her to external consciousness. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, Doctor." 
 
 She recognized me and smiled faintly. 
 
 " How are you now ?" I inquired. 
 
 "Not so well, I think, Doctor, "she answered. 
 " My head aches worse than it did ; and I feel sick all 
 over. I don't know what can ail me." 
 
 " Have you any uneasiness, or sense of oppression 
 in the stomach ?" I inquired. 
 
CRITICAL CONDITION OF BLANCHE. 85 
 
 "Oh, yes, Doctor." She laid her hand upon her 
 chest ; and drew in a long breath, as if trying to get 
 relief. 
 
 " Have you felt as well as usual for a week, or ten 
 days past?" I inquired. 
 
 "No, Doctor." It was the mother who answered 
 my question. " And in order that you may under 
 stand the case clearly, let me say, that it is only a 
 week since we arrived from England. We came over 
 in a steamer, and were fifteen days in making the 
 trip. From Boston, we came here in our own carriage. 
 Before leaving home, Blanche went around to see a 
 number of poor cottagers in our neighbourhood, and 
 there was sickness at several of the places where she 
 called. In one cottage, particularly, was a case of 
 low fever. I was troubled when I learned that she 
 had been there, but still hoped that her excellent state 
 of health would repel anything like contagion. During 
 the first part of our voyage, she suffered considerably 
 from sea-sickness ; but got along very well after that. 
 If it hadn't been for the unhappy scenes of the last 
 few days, with their painfully exciting consummation, 
 I think she would have thrown off, wholly, any lurking 
 tendency to disease." 
 
 I turned my face partly aside, so that its expression 
 could not be seen. The facts stated, and the symp 
 toms as now presented, left me in little doubt as to the 
 nature of the malady against which I had to contend. 
 Even while her mother talked, my patient fell away 
 into the stupor from which I had aroused her. 
 
 My treatment of the case coincided with the practice 
 
 ** 
 
86 ffWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 of men eminent in the school of medicine to which I 
 then belonged. I am not a disciple of that school now, 
 having found a system of exacter science, and one 
 compassing more certain results with smaller risk and 
 less waste of physical energy. 
 
 In order to remove the uneasiness of which my 
 patient complained, I gave an emetic. Its action was 
 salutary, causing a determination towards the skin, 
 and opening the pores, as well as relieving the oppres 
 sion from which she suffered. 
 
 "How is your head now?" I asked, after she had 
 been quiet for some minutes. 
 
 " Better. I feel scarcely any pain." 
 
 " So far, all is right," said I, cheerfully. 
 
 The mother looked at me with an anxious face. I 
 arose, and we retired from the room together. Before 
 leaving, I spoke encouragingly to my patient, and 
 promised to see her early in the morning. 
 
 "My daughter is very sick, Doctor. What is the 
 disease ? " The mother spoke calmly and firmly. " I 
 am not one towards whom any concealments need be 
 practised; and it is meet that I should know the worst, 
 that I may do the best." 
 
 " The disease, madam," I replied, "has not yet put 
 on all of its distinctive signs. A fever we call it the 
 fever of incubation is the forerunner of several very 
 different ailments, and, at the beginning, the most 
 accurate eye may fail to see what is beyond. In the 
 present case, however, I think that typhoid fever is 
 indicated." 
 
 I spoke as evenly as possible, and with as little ap- 
 
SYMPTOMS OF TYPHOID FEVEE. 87 
 
 parent concern as possible. But I saw the blood go 
 instantly back from the mother's face. 
 
 "Typhoid fever!" she ejaculated, in a low voice, 
 clasping her hands together. I learned afterwards 
 that she had cause to dread this exhausting and often 
 fatal disease. " Oh, Doctor ! do for her as if she 
 were your own and only child." 
 
 She grasped my arm, like one catching at a fleeting 
 hope. 
 
 "As if she were my own and only child!" I re 
 peated her words in promise and assurance, adding 
 
 " The first result of the medicine which I gave is 
 just what I desired. I will leave something more to 
 be taken at intervals of two hours, until midnight. 
 In the morning, I hope to find a very encouraging 
 change." 
 
 " But, Doctor," she replied, " if this is a case of 
 typhoid fever, no hope of any quick change for the 
 better can be entertained. I am no stranger to the 
 fearful malady." 
 
 "Attacks of all diseases," I answered to this, "are 
 more or less severe, according to the nature of the 
 predisposing and exciting causes. So far as your 
 daughter is concerned, I should think, from* the very 
 slight opportunity I have had of forming an opinion 
 in regard to her, that she is not readily susceptible of 
 morbific intrusions. Under an unusual exposure to 
 exciting causes, the balance of health has been over 
 come. If my presumption is correct, we have the 
 steady effort of nature, in co-operation with remedial 
 agencies, working towards a cure." 
 
88 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 "Do you think the attack light, or severe?" the 
 mother asked, speaking more calmly. 
 
 " Neither light nor severe ; but of a character, 
 judging from the first impression made upon it, en 
 tirely controllable by medicines." 
 
 This opinion gave her confidence. As I had spoken 
 without any apparent concealment, she evidently be 
 lieved the case to . stand exactly as I had stated it. 
 After leaving medicine to be taken, every two hours, 
 for the first part of the night, I went away. 
 
 In the morning, I found my patient in that coma 
 tose state, the usual attendant upon typhoid fever. 
 She aroused herself on my entrance, and answered 
 all questions clearly. She had no pain in the head, 
 nor any distressing symptoms. Her skin was soft and 
 moist. All things looked favorable. I gave, now, 
 only gentle diaphoretics, and let the case progress, 
 watching it with the closest attention. In this, I fol 
 lowed my usual course of treatment as to giving medi 
 cines. If I could produce a reaction, or remove some 
 obstruction, and give nature a chance, I did not think 
 it wise to keep on with drugs, which, from their gene 
 ral poisonous qualities, make even well people sick 
 regarding the struggle of life with disease as hazardous 
 enough, without increasing the risk by adding a new 
 cause of disturbance, unless the need of its presence 
 were unmistakably indicated. 
 
 The course of this fever is always slow and exhaust 
 ing. My patient sunk steadily, day by day, while I 
 continued to watch the case with more than common 
 anxiety. At the end of a week, she was feeble as an 
 
THE RECOVERY OF BLANCHE. 89 
 
 infant, and lay, for the most part, in a state of coma. 
 I visited her two or three times every day, and had 
 the thought of her almost constantly in my mind. 
 Her mother, nerved for the occasion, was calm, pa 
 tient, and untiring. The excitement which appeared 
 on the occasion of my first visits, when there was doubt 
 as to the character of the disease, passed away, and 
 never showed itself again during her daughter's illness. 
 I saw, daily, deeper into her character, which more 
 and more impressed me with its simple grandeur, if I 
 may use the word in this connection. There was no 
 thing trifling, mean, or unwomanly about her. Her 
 mind seemed to rest with a profoundly rational, and at 
 the same time child-like trust, in Providence. Fear 
 did not unnerve her, nor anxiety stay her hands in 
 any thing. She met me, at every visit, with dignified 
 self-possession, and received my report of the case, 
 each time, without visible emotion. I had not at 
 tempted to deceive her in any thing from the begin 
 ning ; she had seen this, and the fact gave her confi 
 dence in all my statements touching her daughter's 
 condition. 
 
 At the end of a week, I commenced giving stimu 
 lants, selecting, as the chief article, sound old Ma- 
 deria wine. The effect was soon apparent, in a firmer 
 pulse and a quickened vitality. The lethargic condi 
 tion in which she had lain for most of the time since 
 the commencement of the attack, began to give way, 
 and in a much shorter period than is usually the case, 
 in this disease, we had the unmistakable signs of con 
 valescence. 
 
90 
 
 " Thank God, who, by means of your skill, has 
 given me back my precious child !" said the mother to 
 me, one day, after Blanche was able to sit up in bed. 
 She took my hand and grasped it tightly. I saw that 
 she was deeply moved. I merely answered : 
 
 "With Him are the issues of life." 
 
 " And I have tried to leave all with Him," she said. 
 " To be willing to suffer even that loss, the bare thought 
 of which makes me shudder. But I am not equal to 
 the trial, and in mercy He has spared me." 
 
 " He is full of compassion, and gracious. He 
 knows our strength, and will not test it beyond the 
 limits of endurance." 
 
 "Doctor," she said, a light coming into her face, 
 "I have much to say to you, but not now. I think 
 you can understand me." 
 
 I merely bowed. 
 
 "There is one thing," she went on, "that I have 
 liked in you from the beginning. I am to you a total 
 stranger, and my presence in this house is a fact that 
 must awaken many questions in your mind. Yet you 
 have shown no restless curiosity, have plied me with 
 no leading questions, have left me free to speak, or 
 keep silence. There is a manly courtesy about this 
 that accords with my feelings." 
 
 I bowed again, but did not venture upon mere words 
 of compliment. 
 
 "I am not sure," said she, "that my name even is 
 known to you." 
 
 " It is not," I answered. " You have seemed to avoid 
 any allusion thereto, and delicacy forbade my asking." 
 
FLORA ALLEN. 91 
 
 "There has been no purposed concealment. My 
 name is Montgomery ; and I am sister to the late Cap 
 tain Allen." 
 
 "I had already inferred this relationship." 
 
 The remark evidently surprised her. 
 
 " On what ground could you base such an infer 
 ence?" she asked, curiously. 
 
 " On traditional ground. The history of this old 
 
 mansion is familiar to most persons in S ; and 
 
 some of the incidents connected with the family have 
 too strong a tinge of romance about them to easily 
 pass into oblivion. It is well known to us that Cap 
 tain Allen had an only sister." 
 
 "What is it said became of her?" 
 
 " When she was about two years of age her mother 
 carried her off, sailing, as was believed, to England, of 
 which country she was a native." 
 
 "Is the name oT the child preserved in this tra 
 dition ?" 
 
 "Yes. It was Flora." 
 
 " My own name," she said. 
 
 " And in person you are identical." 
 
 "Yes. My mother's early life embraced some 
 dreadful experiences. Her father and mother, with 
 two brothers and a younger sister, were all murdered 
 by pirates. She alone was spared, and afterwards be 
 came the wife of a sea captain, who, I fear, was not a 
 man innocent of blood. On this point, however, my 
 mother was reserved, almost silent. In the course of 
 time she grew so wretched, as the wife of this man, 
 that she sent a letter to England, addressed to some 
 
92 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 remembered relative, imploring him to save her from 
 a life that was worse than death. This letter fell into 
 the right hands. A cousin was sent out from Eng 
 land, and she fled with him. No attempt, as far as 
 we know, was ever made to follow and regain her. 
 She did not live many years afterwards. I grew up 
 among my relatives, ignorant of her history. My me 
 mory of her is distinct, though she died when I was 
 but eight years old. 
 
 " I married, at the age of twenty-six, an officer in 
 the British army, one of the younger sons in a titled 
 family, for whom no way in the world is opened, ex 
 cept through the church or the battle-field. General 
 Montgomery chose the profession of a soldier, not 
 from a love of its exciting and fearful concomitants, 
 but because he had no fancy for the gown and cassock, 
 and could not be a hypocrite in religion. He went 
 quite early to British India, and distinguished himself 
 there by many acts of bravery, as well as by his 
 humane and honorable conduct. So highly was he 
 regarded by the East India Company, that he was 
 selected for most important services, and assigned to 
 posts of great responsibility. He was past thirty 
 years of age when I met him, on the occasion of one 
 of his visits to England. The attraction was mutual ; 
 and when he returned to Calcutta, I went with him as 
 his wife. Then came twenty years of a happy mar 
 ried life ; happy, I mean, so far as a perfect union 
 of souls can make us happy in this world, but mise 
 rable, at times, through intense anxiety for the absent 
 one exposed to fearful perils. 
 
MRS. MONTGOMERY'S STORY. 93 
 
 "We had three children." There was a tremor in 
 the voice of Mrs. Montgomery as she referred to her 
 children. " One only remains." She paused, as if 
 to recover herself, and then went on. 
 
 " I lost my husband first. Ten years ago, he fell at 
 the post of duty, and, while my heart lay crushed and 
 bleeding under the terrible blow, it leaped with throb- 
 bings of pride, as his honored name went sounding 
 from lip to lip, and from land to land. I had not the 
 sad pleasure of being with him in that last time. For 
 the sake of our children, I was residing in England. 
 
 " Troubles rarely come alone. Two years after 
 wards my oldest son died. My home was in the fam 
 ily of General Montgomery, where I was treated with 
 great kindness ; but as my income was not sufiicient 
 for an establishment of my own, I felt a sense of obli 
 gation that is always oppressive to one of my nature. 
 This feeling grew upon me daily, and at last began to 
 haunt me like a constantly re-appearing spectre. It 
 is now about three years since, in looking over some 
 old letters and papers, I came unexpectedly upon a 
 document written by my mother all the evidence as 
 to this was clear and addressed to myself. How it 
 should have remained so long unobserved, and yet in 
 my possession, is one of the mysterious things which I 
 do not attempt to explain. There is a Providence in 
 all things, even to the most minute, and I simply refer 
 the fact to Providence, and leave it there. This docu 
 ment spoke briefly, but with no special particularity, 
 of her marriage with a Captain Allen, and settlement 
 in this town. It stated that she had two children, a 
 
94 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 son and a daughter, and that in leaving America for 
 England, she had taken her daughter, but left the son 
 behind. There was no suggestion as to the use to be 
 made of these facts ; but there was such a statement 
 of them as left their verification, I thought, easy. I 
 turned them over and over in my mind, and in the end 
 resolved to gain all accessible information touching the 
 present condition of things. To this end, I sent over 
 about two years ago, a man of prudence and intelli- 1 
 gence, versed in legal matters, with instructions to 
 obtain all possible particulars in regard to my brother, 
 his family and estate. He brought back word that 
 my brother was dead ; that he had left no children, 
 and that his widow if, indeed, she were ever his legal 
 wife, which seemed to be doubted was old, in poor 
 health, and verging towards mental imbecility, if not 
 insanity. That there was a large and valuable estate, 
 to which I, as sister of Captain Allen, was undoubt 
 edly the heir. 
 
 " I kept these things, for the time being, to myself, 
 and pondered over them in some perplexity as to the 
 best course to take. But from these thoughts, my 
 mind was soon turned by the illness of my oldest 
 daughter. After a lingering sickness of many weeks, 
 she died. It seemed almost impossible to arouse my 
 self from the stunning effects of this blow. It crushed 
 me down more than any previous sorrow, for it fell 
 upon a heart weakened by pain. It was many months 
 before the discipline of this affliction awakened me to 
 thoughts of a higher life. Then I began to rise into 
 serener heights to see as by an interior vision, to 
 
A SAFE LEGAL AGENT. 95 
 
 believe that even our saddest things may fall upon us 
 in mercy. 
 
 " Finally, circumstances of which I need not speak, 
 made me resolve to leave England, and under legal 
 advice of the highest authority, take quiet possession 
 of this estate, which is mine." 
 
 Mrs. Montgomery ceased speaking. 
 
 "Perhaps," she resumed, after a moment, "it may 
 be as well, all things considered, that you do not speak 
 of this for the present. I shall, as soon as my daugh 
 ter's full recovery gives me time to enter into the sub 
 ject, place my aiFairs in the hands of a safe legal 
 agent, in order that they may assume due form and 
 order. You can, no doubt, refer me to the right in 
 dividual." 
 
 "I can," was my reply. "Judge Bigelow, of our 
 town, is the man. I speak of him with the utmost 
 confidence." 
 
 "Thank you, Doctor. You lay me under addi 
 tional obligation," she said. " I will, at an early day, 
 consult him." 
 
 Thus closed this deeply interesting interview. 
 
96 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I ATTENDED Blanche Montgomery through her slow 
 convalescence, and had many opportunities for observ 
 ing her and her mother closely. The more intimately 
 I knew them the higher did they rise in my estimation. 
 A purer, sweeter, truer-hearted girl than Blanche I 
 had never seen. There was an artlessness and an in 
 nocence about her but rarely met with in young ladies 
 of her age. Especially was she free from that worldli- 
 ness and levity which so often mars young maidenhood. 
 Her mind was well stored and cultivated, and she was 
 beginning to use her mental treasures in a way that 
 interested you, and made you listen with pleased at 
 tention when she spoke on even common-place sub 
 jects. Her manners had in them a grace and dignity 
 that was very attractive. As she advanced towards 
 health her deportment took on an easy, confiding air, 
 as if she looked upon me as a true friend. Her smile, 
 whenever I appeared, broke over her gentle face like 
 a gleam of sunshine. 
 
 Mrs. Montgomery's manner towards me was distin 
 guished by the same frankness that marked her daugh 
 ter's deportment. The stately air that struck me in 
 the beginning I no longer observed. If it existed, my 
 
DELIA FLOYD'S ENGAGEMENT. 97 
 
 eyes saw it differently. At her request, when her 
 mind was sufficiently at ease about her daughter to 
 busy itself with the common affairs of life, I brought 
 Judge Bigelow to see her, and she placed her business 
 matters in his hands. The Judge was very much 
 struck with her person and manner, and told me the 
 day after his first meeting with her that she came 
 nearer to his ideal of a lady than any woman he had 
 ever met; and as for the daughter she seemed more 
 like a picture he had once seen than a piece of real 
 flesh and blood. I smiled at the Judge's enthusiasm, 
 but did not wonder at the impression he had received. 
 
 Other characters in our story now claim attention, 
 and we must turn to them. After Henry "Wallingford 
 had gained the mastery over himself the struggle 
 was wild, but brief he resumed his office duties as 
 usual, and few noticed any change in him, except that 
 he withdrew even more than ever into himself. I met 
 him occasionally, and observed him closely. In my 
 eyes there was a marked difference in the aspect of 
 his face. It had an expression of patient suffering at 
 times and again I saw in it a most touching sadness. 
 
 The dashing nephew of Judge Bigelow offered him 
 self to Squire Floyd's daughter in about a week after 
 her rejection of Wallingford's suit, and was accepted. 
 I became immediately cognizant of the fact through 
 my wife, who had the news from Delia's aunt, Mrs. 
 Dean. A day or two afterwards I met her in com 
 pany with young Dewey, and observed her closely. 
 Alas ! In my eyes the work of moral retrocession had 
 already begun. She was gay and chatty, and her 
 
98 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 countenance fresh and blooming. But I missed some 
 thing something the absence of which awakened a 
 sigh of regret. Ralph was very lover-like in his de 
 portment, fluttering about Delia, complimenting her, 
 and showing her many obtrusive attentions. But eyes 
 that were in the habit of looking below the surface of 
 things, saw no heart in it all. 
 
 Squire Floyd 'was delighted with his daughter's fine 
 prospects; and he and Judge Bigelow drew their 
 heads together over the affair in a cosy and confiden 
 tial way very pleasant to both of them. The Judge 
 was eloquent touching his nephew's fine qualities and 
 splendid prospects ; and congratulated the Squire, time 
 and again, on his daughter's fortunate matrimonial 
 speculation. He used the word which was significa- 
 tive'beyond any thing that entered his imagination. 
 
 A few days after the engagement Ralph Dewey re 
 turned to New York. The wedding-day had not been 
 fixed ; but the marriage, as understood by all parties, 
 was to take place some time during the next winter. 
 
 From that time I noticed a change in Delia. She 
 grew silent in company, and had an absent way about 
 her that contrasted strongly with her former social 
 disposition. Young people rallied her in the usual 
 style about her heart being absent with the beloved 
 one, but I read the signs differently. It could not but 
 follow, that a soul, endowed like hers, would have mis 
 givings in view of an alliance with one like Ralph 
 Dewey. What was there in him to satisfy a true wo 
 man's yearnings for conjunction with a kindred nature? 
 Nothing ! He was all outside as to good. A mere 
 
RALPH DEWEY. 99 
 
 selfish, superficial, speculating man of the world. 
 While she had a heart capable of the deepest and 
 truest affection. Would he make the fitting comple 
 ment to her life ? Alas ! No ! That were a thing 
 impossible. 
 
 During the few months that preceded this marriage, 
 I often heard its promise discussed by my wife and 
 Mrs. Dean, neither of whom had any strong liking for 
 the young New York merchant. 
 
 "It's rny opinion/' said Mrs. Dean, as she sat with 
 my wife one evening, about two months after the en 
 gagement had taken place, "that Ralph has more 
 froth than substance about him. He really talks, 
 sometimes, as if he had the world in a sling and could 
 toss it up among the stars. As far as my observation 
 goes, such people flourish only for a season." 
 
 "If Delia were a child of mine," said my good 
 Constance, in her earnest way, " I would a thousand 
 times rather trust her with Henry Wallingford than 
 with Ralph Dewey." 
 
 " Yes, and a thousand millions of times," responded 
 Mrs. Dean. " He is a man. You know just what he 
 is, and where he is. But, as for this splashing nephew 
 of Judge Bigelow's who knows what's below the sur 
 face? Delia's father is all taken up with him, and 
 thinks the match a splendid one. Sister don't say 
 much ; but I can see that she has her misgivings. I 
 can talk to you freely, you know." 
 
 "I don't think," said I, "that Delia has grown 
 more cheerful since her engagement. Brides expect 
 ant ought to feel as happy as the day is long." 
 
100 
 
 "More cheerful? Oh, dear, no! She isn't the 
 same that she was at all ; but mopes about more than 
 half of her time. It's just my opinion spoken be 
 tween friends that she cares, now, a great deal more 
 for Henry than she does for Ralph." 
 
 "Do they ever meet?" I inquired. 
 
 "Not very often." 
 
 "They have met?" 
 
 " Yes, several times." 
 
 " Have you seen them together?" 
 
 Oh, yes." 
 
 "How does she act towards him?" 
 
 "Not always the same. Sometimes she is talka 
 tive, and sometimes reserved sometimes as gay as a 
 lark, and sometimes sober enough ; as if there were 
 such a weight on her spirits, that she could not smile 
 without an effort." 
 
 " Does the fact of his presence make any change in 
 her?" I inquired. "What I mean is, if she were 
 lively in spirits before he came in, would she grow se 
 rious or if serious, grow excited?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, it always makes a change. I've known 
 her, after being very quiet, and hardly having any 
 thing to say, though in the midst of young company, 
 grow all at once as merry as a cricket, and laugh and 
 joke in a wild sort of way. And again, when she has 
 been in one of her old, pleasant states of mind I have 
 noticed that she all at once drew back into herself; I 
 could trace the cause to only this the presence of 
 Henry Wallingford. But this doesn't often happen, 
 for he rarely shows himself in company." 
 
HEART-DISCIPLINE. 101 
 
 ' Is there anything noticeable about Henry when 
 they meet?" I asked. 
 
 "Not to an ordinary observer," replied Mrs. Dean. 
 " But I look with sharper eyes than most people. . Yes, 
 there is something noticeable. He always puts him 
 self in her way, but with a kind of forced, resolute 
 manner, as if the act were a trial of strength, and in 
 volved a stern heart-discipline. And this, I think, is 
 just the real state of the case. He has deliberately 
 and resolutely entered upon the work of unwinding 
 from his heart the cord which love has thrown around it 
 in so many in tertwisted folds. So I read him. To break 
 it by sudden force, would leave so many unwound 
 portions behind, that the memory of her might sadden 
 the whole of his after-life. And so he is learning to 
 grow indifferent towards her. To search in her for 
 such things as repel, instead of for those that charm 
 the heart." 
 
 "A dangerous experiment," said my wife, " for one 
 who has loved so deeply." 
 
 ."It would be to most men," I remarked. "But 
 there is stuff about Henry the stuff that strong, per 
 sistent, successful men are made of. If he has begun 
 this work, he will complete it certainly." 
 
 A few weeks afterwards, I had an opportunity of 
 seeing them together, and I improved it to observe 
 them closely. It was in a mixed company at the 
 house of Judge Bigelow. Wallingford came in rather 
 late. I was conversing with Delia when he entered 
 the room, and we were at an interesting point in the 
 subject under consideration. I noticed, all at once, a 
 
102 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 hesitation and confusion of thought, as her eyes rested, 
 with a sudden interest, on some object in the room. 
 Glancing around, I saw the young man. We went on 
 with our conversation, Delia rallying herself, as I could 
 see, with an effort. But she talked no longer from 
 thought, only from memory uttering mere truisms 
 and common-places. She put on more animation, and 
 affected a deeper interest ; but I was not deceived. 
 
 We were still in conversation, when Wallirigford 
 joined us. I saw him fix his eyes, as they met, 
 searchingly upon her face, and saw her eyes droop 
 away from his. He was fully self-possessed ; she not 
 at ease. His mind was clear ; hers in some confusion. 
 I remained some time near them, listening to their 
 conversation, and joining in occasionally. Never before 
 had I seen him appear so well, nor her to such poor 
 advantage. She tried to act a part he was himself. 
 I noticed, as he led the conversation, that he kept 
 away from the esthetic, and held her thought in the 
 region of moral causes ; that he dwelt on the ends 
 and purposes of life, as involving everything. Now 
 and then she essayed a feeble argument, or met some 
 of his propositions with light banter. But with a word 
 he obliterated the sophism and with a glance repressed 
 the badinage. I think she could never before have so 
 felt the superiority of this man, whose pure love 
 almost worship she had put aside as a thing of light 
 importance ; and I think the interview helped him in 
 the work upon which he had entered, that of obliterat 
 ing from his heart all traces of her image. 
 
 After this interview, they did not draw together 
 
WALLINGFORD AND DEWEY. 
 
 103 
 
 again during the evening. Delia tried to be gay and 
 indifferent ; but he acted himself out just as he was. 
 I did not observe that he was more social than usual, 
 or that he mingled more than was his wont with the 
 young ladies present. For most of the time, he kept, 
 as was usual with him, in company and in conversation 
 with his own sex. 
 
 I could not but pity Delia Floyd. It was plain to 
 me that she was waking up to the sad error she had 
 committed an error, the consequences of which would 
 go with her through life. Very, very far was she from 
 being indifferent to Wallingford that I could plainly 
 see. 
 
 During the winter, Ralph came up frequently from 
 New York to visit his bride to be. As he was the ne 
 phew of Judge Bigelow, he and Wallingford \vere, as a 
 thing of course, thrown often together during these 
 visits. It can hardly excite wonder, that Wallingford 
 maintained a reserved and distant demeanor towards 
 the young man, steadily repelling all familiarity, yet 
 always treating him with such politeness and respect 
 that no cause of offence could appear. On the part 
 of Dewey, it may be said that he saw little in the grave 
 plodder among dusty law books and discolored parch 
 ments, that won upon his regard. He looked upon him 
 as a young man good enough in his way a very small 
 
 way, in his estimation good enough for S , and 
 
 small enough for a country town lawyer. He would 
 have put on towards him a patronizing air, and tried 
 to excite in his mind a nobler ambition than to move 
 in our circumscribed sphere, if something in the young 
 
104 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 man's steady, penetrating, half-mysterious eye had not 
 always held him back. 
 
 "I never can talk with that young associate of 
 yours, uncle/' he would say, now and then, to Judge 
 Bigelow, u and I can't just make him out. Is he 
 stupid, or queer?" 
 
 The Judge would smile, or laugh quietly to himself, 
 or perhaps answer in this wise : 
 
 " I think Henry understands himself. Still waters, 
 you know, run deep." 
 
 One day in February, on the occasion of a periodi 
 cal visit to S , young Dewey called in at Judge 
 
 Bigelow's office, and finding Wallingford alone, sat 
 down and entered into as familiar a talk with him as 
 was possible, considering how little they had in com 
 mon. Ralph had a purpose in view, and as soon as he 
 saw, or thought he saw, Wallingford's mind in the 
 right mood, said 
 
 "I am going to ask a particular favor, and you 
 must not refuse." 
 
 "If I can serve you in any thing, it will be my 
 pleasure to do so," was the ready answer. 
 
 " You know that I am to be married next month ? " 
 
 " So I have heard," replied Wallingford. 
 
 " You will stand my groomsman ? Don't say no ! " 
 
 He had seen an instant negative in the young man's 
 face. 
 
 "Almost any thing else, but not that!" replied 
 Henry, speaking with some feeling. He was thrown 
 off his guard by so unexpected a request. 
 
 " Come now, my good friend, don't take the matter 
 
AN INSULT AND A BLOW. 105 
 
 so much to heart !" said Dewey, in a light way. 
 " Plenty of good fish in the sea yefr as good as ever 
 were caught. You must forgive the girl for liking me 
 the best." 
 
 " You jest on a grave subject," said Wallingford, 
 his face growing pale, but his eyes, a little dilated, 
 riveting his companion's where he stood. 
 
 " No, I am in earnest," said Dewey, with something 
 in his manner that was offensive. 
 
 " Jest or earnest, your familiarity is out of place 
 with me," retorted Wallingford, with a sternness of 
 manner, that quickened the flow of bad blood in 
 Dewey's heart. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't take on airs !" replied the other 
 with a sneer of contempt. Then muttering to him 
 self, yet loud enough to be heard, " I didn't suppose 
 the puppy would growl at a familiar pat on the head." 
 
 This was too much for Wallingford. At another 
 time, he might have borne it with a manly self-posses 
 sion. But only an hour before he had met Miss Floyd 
 in the street, and the look she then gave him had 
 stirred his heart, and left a tinge of shadowy regret on 
 his feelings. He was, therefore, in no mood to bear 
 trifling, much less insult. Scarcely had the offensive 
 words passed Dewey's lips, when a blow in the face 
 staggered him back against the wall. Instantly recov 
 ering himself, he sprang towards Wallingford in blind 
 rage, and struck at him with a savage energy ; but the 
 latter stepped aside, and let his assailant come, with 
 stunning force, against the wall at the other side of 
 the office, when he fell to the floor. 
 
106 TWENTY YEAKS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 At this instant, Judge Bigelow came in. 
 
 "Henry! Ralph!" he exclaimed "what is the 
 meaning of this ?" 
 
 " Your nephew insulted me, and in the heat of anger 
 I struck him in the face. In attempting to return that 
 blow, he missed his aim, and fell against the wall, as 
 you see." 
 
 Wallingford spoke without excitement, but in a stern, 
 resolute way. By this time, Dewey was on his feet 
 again. The sight of his uncle, and the unflinching 
 aspect of the person he had ventured to insult, had the 
 effect to cool off his excitement many degrees. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this, young men ?" sternly 
 repeated Judge Bigelow, looking from one to the other. 
 
 " I have answered your question as far as I am con 
 cerned," replied Henry. 
 
 " Ralph ! Speak ! Did you offer him an insult?" 
 
 To this demand, the nephew replied, with no abate 
 ment of his originally offensive manner 
 
 " If he chooses to consider my words as ^an insult, 
 let him do so. I shall in no case take them back." 
 
 " What did you say ?" 
 
 There was an imperative force in the Judge's man 
 ner. 
 
 Dewey was silent. 
 
 " What did he &ay," Judge Bigelow turned to 
 Wallingford, " that you should answer it with a blow ?" 
 
 "If he is satisfied with the answer," replied the lat 
 ter, " the case can rest where it is. If. not, I am 
 ready to meet him on any appeal. He will find me no 
 trifler." 
 
A NOTE OF APOLOGY. 107 
 
 The Judge turned again to his nephew. 
 
 " Ralph ! I insist upon having this matter explained. 
 I know Henry too well to believe that he would strike 
 you, unless there had been strong provocation." 
 
 "Perhaps he regarded it as such ; I did not," said 
 Dewey. 
 
 " If he is satisfied with his chastisement, there is no 
 occasion to press him farther, Judge." Wallingford 
 was provoked to this by the young man's cool imperti 
 nence. 
 
 Dewey made a movement as if about to rush upon 
 Wallingford, but the Judge interposed his body to keep 
 them apart. The appearance of a fourth party at 
 this juncture, in the person of Squire Floyd, the pro 
 spective father-in-law of one of the belligerents, 
 changed materially the aspect of affairs. 
 
 " Good-morning, Squire," said Wallingford, with a 
 quickly assumed cheerfulness of manner, smiling in 
 his usual grave way. 
 
 Both the Judge and his nephew saw reason to imitate 
 the example of Wallingford, and thus throw up a blind 
 before the eyes of Squire Floyd, who thought he per 
 ceived something wrong as he came in, but was after 
 wards inclined to doubt the evidence of his senses. 
 
 Wallingford retired in a few moments. When he 
 came back to the office an hour afterwards, he found 
 a note of apology .on his table, accompanied by a re 
 quest that so unpleasant an incident as the one which 
 had just occurred, might be suffered to pass into obli 
 vion. No acknowledgment of this communication 
 was made by the young lawyer. He felt the strongest 
 
108 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 kind of repugnance towards Dewey, and could not 
 gain his own consent to have any intercourse with him. 
 -His position, as an associate with Judge Bigelow, oc 
 casionally brought him in contact with his nephew, 
 who recognized him always in a respectful manner. 
 But Wallingford held him ever coldly at a distance. 
 
MARRIAGE OF DELIA FLOYD. 109 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE marriage of Delia Floyd was an event in our 
 quiet town. It was celebrated at the house of her 
 father, in the presence of a large company, who were 
 invited to witness the ceremony, and take part in the 
 attendant festivities. The match was regarded gene 
 rally as a most desirable one for the young lady ; and 
 there was more than one mother present who envied 
 the good fortune which had given such a son-in-law to 
 Mrs. Floyd. I heard many snatches of conversation, 
 half aside, in which marvelous things were related, or 
 suggested, touching the bridegroom's fortune and the 
 splendid home he had prepared for his bride. He was 
 looked upon as a prospective millionaire, and imagina 
 tion pictured Delia as the jeweled mistress of a palace 
 home. Few seemed to think of any thing beyond the 
 promised worldly advantage. 
 
 "I am glad that your daughter has married so 
 well." 
 
 " Let me congratulate you, Squire Floyd, on this 
 splendid match." 
 
 " It is not often, Mrs. Floyd, that a mother sees her 
 daughter go forth into the world with such brilliant 
 prospects." 
 
110 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " You have all that your heart can desire, so far as 
 Delia is concerned, Mrs. Floyd." 
 
 J* You are the envy of mothers." 
 
 And so I heard the changes rung on all sides of me, 
 and from the lips of people who might have looked 
 deeper if they had taken the trouble to use their eyes. 
 
 To me, the wedding was full of sad suggestions. It 
 was one of those social self-sacrifices, as common now 
 as then, in which the victim goes self-impelled to the 
 altar, and lays upon its consuming fires the richest 
 dower of womanhood. 
 
 I listened to the vows that were made on this occa 
 sion, and felt a low thrill of repulsion as words of such 
 solemn import trembled on the air, for too well I knew 
 that a union of souls in a true marriage, such as Delia 
 Floyd might consummate, was impossible here. Could 
 she be happy in this marriage ? I gave to my own 
 question an emphatic " No ! " She might have a gay, 
 brilliant, exciting life ; but to that deep peace which is 
 given to loving hearts, and which, in hours of isolation 
 and loneliness, she would desire with an irrepressible 
 longing, she must forever be a stranger. 
 
 I looked into her beautiful young face as she stood 
 receiving the congratulations of friends, and felt as I 
 had never felt before on such an occasion. Instinc 
 tively my thought ran questioning along the future, 
 But no hopeful answer was returned. How was she to ad 
 vance in that inner-life development through which the 
 true woman is perfected ? I pushed the question aside. 
 It was too painful. Had she been one of the great com 
 pany of almost soulless women if I may use such strong 
 
WALLINGFORD AT THE BRIDAL. Ill 
 
 language who pass, yearly, through legal forms into the 
 mere semblance of a marriage, I might have looked on 
 with indifference, for then, the realization would, in all 
 probability, be equal to the promise. But Delia Floyd 
 was of a different spiritual organization. She had 
 higher capabilities and nobler aspirations ; and if the 
 one found no true sphere of development, while the 
 other was doomed to beat its wings vainly amid the 
 lower atmospheres of life, was happiness in the case 
 even a possibility ? 
 
 Among the guests was Wallingford. It was six 
 months, almost to a day, since the dearest hope in life 
 he had ever cherished went suddenly out, and left him, 
 for a season, in the darkness of despair. I did not 
 expect to see him on 'this occasion ; and there was 
 another, I think, who as little anticipated his presence 
 I mean the bride. But he had shared in the invi 
 tations, and came up to witness the sacrifice. To see, 
 what a few months before was to him the most precious 
 thing in life, pass into the full possession of another. 
 Had not the fine gold grown dim in his eyes ? It had 
 dim with the tarnish that better natures receive 
 when they consent to dwell with inferior spirits, and 
 breathe in an atmosphere loaded with earthly exhala 
 tions. It would have been the highest delight of his life 
 to have ascended with her into the pure regions, where 
 thought builds tabernacles and establishes its dwelling- 
 places. To have walked onward, side by side, in a 
 dear life companionship, towards the goal of eternal 
 spiritual oneness. But she had willed it otherwise ; 
 and now he had come, resolutely, to bear the pain of a 
 
112 
 
 final sundering of all bonds, that his soul might free 
 itself from her soul completely and forever. 
 
 I first noticed him as the bridal party entered the 
 room, and took their places in front of the clergyman 
 who was to officiate on the occasion. He occupied a 
 position that gave him a clear view of Delia's face, 
 while he was removed from general observation. 
 Almost from the commencement to the ending of the 
 ceremony his gaze rested on her countenance. His 
 head was thrown a little forward, his brows slightly 
 contracted, his lips firmly set, and his eyes fixed as if 
 the object upon which he was gazing held him by an 
 irresistible fascination. I was so much interested in 
 him that I scarcely looked at the bride during the 
 ceremony. At last, the minister, in conclusion, 
 announced the twain to be husband and wife. I saw 
 Wallingford give a slight start as if a tensely strung 
 chord of feeling had been jarred. A moment more 
 and the spell was broken ! Every lineament of his 
 countenance showed this. The stern aspect gave way 
 light trembled over the softening features the body 
 stood more erect as if a great pressure had been re 
 moved. 
 
 I noticed that he did not hold back in the excite 
 ment of congratulation that followed the ceremony. I 
 was near him when he took the hand of Delia, and 
 heard him say not "I congratulate you" but 
 u May your life be a happy one." The tone was ear 
 nest and feeling, such as a brother might use to a be 
 loved sister. I held that tone long afterwards in my 
 memory, studying its signification. It had in it noth- 
 
CONGRATULATIONS TO THE BRIDE. 113 
 
 ing of regret, or pain, or sadness, as if he were losing 
 something, but simply expressed the regard and tender 
 interest of a sincere well wisher. And so that great 
 trial was at an end for him. He had struggled man 
 fully with a great enemy to his peace, and this was 
 his hour of triumph. 
 
 With the bride's state of mind, as read in external 
 signs, I was far from being satisfied. Marriage, in any 
 case, to one who thinks and feels, is a thing of serious 
 import ; and even the habitually thoughtless can 
 hardly take its solemn vows upon their lips without 
 falling into a sober mood. We are, therefore, not sur 
 prised to see emotion put on signs of pain like April 
 showers that weep away into sunshine. But in Delia's 
 face I saw something that went deeper than all this. 
 
 " There is no one here," said I, taking her hand, 
 and holding it tightly in mine, " who wishes you well 
 in the future more sincerely than I do." 
 
 " I know it, Doctor," she answered, returning the 
 warm grasp I gave her. Her eyes rested steadily in 
 mine, and saw a shadow in them. 
 
 " We are sorry to lose you from S . Indeed 
 
 we cannot afford to lose you." 
 
 " She is wanted," spoke up her young husband a 
 little proudly, " to grace a wider and more brilliant 
 sphere of life." 
 
 " It is not the brilliant sphere that is always the 
 happiest," said I. " Life's truest pleasures come oft- 
 ener to quiet home circles even among the lowly, than 
 to gilded palaces where fortune's favorites reside." 
 
 " It is not to external condition," the bride re- 
 
 8 
 
114 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 marked, "that we are to look for happiness." I 
 thought her voice had in it a pensive tone, as if she 
 were not wholly satisfied with the brilliant promise that 
 lay before her. " You know, Doctor, we have talked 
 that over more than once in our lives." 
 
 " Yes, Delia ; and it is a truth which we ought 
 never to forget one that I trust you and your hus 
 band will lay up in your hearts." 
 
 I turned to the young man desiring my admonition 
 to reach him also. 
 
 " Perhaps I might differ something from this sage 
 conclusion," he answered a little flippantly. " As far 
 as I can see, the external condition has a great deal 
 to do with our happiness. I am very sure, that if I 
 were situated as some people are whom I know, I 
 would be miserable. So you see, Doctor, I have my 
 doubts touching this theory of yours and Delia's." 
 
 " Time, I think, will demonstrate its truth," I said, 
 in a graver tone, and turned from them to give place 
 to those who could talk in a lighter strain than was 
 possible for me on the occasion. 
 
 During the evening I saw Wallingford more than 
 once in conversation with the bride ; but only when 
 she happened to be a little separated from her husband, 
 towards whom his manner was coldly polite. The two 
 young men, after the scene in Judge Bigelow's office, 
 only kept up, for the sake of others, the shadow of 
 acquaintanceship. Between them there was a strong 
 mutual repulsion which neither sought to overcome. 
 
 As I remarked I saw Wallingford more than once 
 in conversation with the bride. But nothing in his 
 
BAD AUGURY. 115 
 
 manner indicated any sentiment beyond that of friend 
 ship. He was polite, cheerful, and at his ease. But 
 it was different with her. She was not at her ease in 
 his company, and yet, I could see that his attention 
 was grateful even pleasant. 
 
 The augury was not good. As I read the signs, 
 Delia Floyd, when she passed from maidenhood to 
 wifehood, departed from the path that led to happiness 
 in this world. And I said to myself as I pondered 
 her future " May the disappointments and sorrows 
 that are almost sure to come, turn her feet aside into 
 the right way at last !" 
 
116 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ON the day following, the young husband bore his 
 bride away to grace the prouder home that awaited 
 her in New York ; and affairs in our town settled them 
 selves down into the old routine. 
 
 During the few months that have passed since the 
 opening of our story, the only matter that has occurred, 
 of any interest to the reader, at the Allen House, is 
 the fact that Judge Bigelow has undertaken the man 
 agement of Mrs. Montgomery's affairs, and the estab 
 lishment of her claim to the possession, as only heir, 
 of the whole of Captain Allen's property. Some legal 
 difficulties, bearing upon her identification as his sis 
 ter, were in the way ; and in the effort to remove these, 
 there had been considerable correspondence with per 
 sons in England. 
 
 The first fact to be clearly proved was the solemni 
 zation of a marriage between Mrs. Montgomery's mo 
 ther and the elder Captain Allen. Next, the identity 
 of Mrs. Montgomery as her child. No marriage cer 
 tificate, nor any record of the fact, as to the exact 
 time and place, were known to be in existence ; and 
 without them, or evidence of a very conclusive cha 
 racter, the title of Mrs. Montgomery could not be 
 clearly established. 
 
THE TRUSTY AGENT. 117 
 
 This, Judge Bigelow stated to her in the beginning ; 
 but, up to this time, no such evidence had been found. 
 
 Mrs. Montgomery's health was not good, and as she 
 required occasional medical aid, my visits to the Allen 
 House were continued. The more intimately I came 
 to know this lady, the higher did she rise in my esteem. 
 She united strength of mind with clearness of percep 
 tion: and decision of character with prudence and 
 justice. She had, likewise, a depth and tenderness of 
 feeling that often exhibited itself in beautiful inci 
 dents. The dignity of manner, which at first seemed 
 touched with hauteur, now only gave grace to her fine 
 proportions. 
 
 She had, from the beginning, spoken to me without 
 reserve of her affairs, in which I naturally took deep 
 interest. One day she said : 
 
 " Doctor, I wish to get your opinion in regard to an 
 individual whom Judge Bigelow proposes to send out 
 to England for me on important business. He is a 
 young man, associated with him, as I understand it, 
 professionally. 
 
 "Mr. Wallingford, you mean?'* 
 
 " Yes, that is the name, I believe. Do you know 
 him?" 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "Is he prudent, intelligent, and reliable?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "You only think so, Doctor?" 
 
 "I can speak in stronger terms. As far aa one 
 can know another, I am ready to say that he is pru 
 dent, intelligent, and reliable. If I had important 
 
118 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 business to transact at a distant point, and needed a 
 trusty agent, I would select him before any other man 
 in S ." 
 
 " I wish no better testimony, Doctor, and am glad 
 to know that I can procure an agent so well qualified." 
 
 " Have you seen him?" I inquired. 
 
 " No. But Judge Bigelow is to bring him here to 
 day, in order that I may see and converse with him." 
 
 " You will find him," said I, " a young man of few 
 words and unobtrusive manners but solid as a rock. 
 I have seen him under circumstances calculated to test 
 the character of any man." 
 
 "What are the circumstances, if you are free to 
 speak of them?" asked Mrs. Montgomery. "We get 
 always a truer estimate of a man, when we see him in 
 some great battle of life ; for then, his real qualities 
 and resources become apparent." 
 
 I thought for a little while before answering. It 
 did not seem just right to draw aside the veil that 
 strangers' eyes might look upon a life-passage such as 
 was written in Wallingford's Book of Memory. The 
 brief but fierce struggle was over with him ; and he 
 was moving steadily onward, sadder, no doubt, for the 
 experience, and wiser, no doubt. But the secret was 
 his own, and I felt that no one ought to meddle there 
 with. Still, a relation of the fact, showing how deeply 
 the man could feel, and how strong he was in self- 
 mastery, could not but raise him in the estimation of 
 Mrs. Montgomery, and increase her confidence. 
 
 "It is hardly fair," said I, "to bring up the cir 
 cumstances of a man's life over which he has drawn a 
 
RAISING THE VEIL. 119 
 
 veil ; and which are sacred to himself alone. In this 
 case,' however, with the end of enabling you more fully 
 to know the person you think of sending abroad on an 
 important service, I will relate an occurrence that can 
 not fail to awaken in your mind an interest for the 
 young man, such as we always feel for those who have 
 passed through deep suffering." 
 
 Blanche was sitting by her mother. Indeed, the 
 two were almost inseparable companions. It was a 
 rare thing to find them apart. I saw her face kindle 
 with an earnest curiosity. 
 
 " Judge Bigelow's nephew was married, recently," 
 I said. 
 
 "So the Judge informed me. He spoke very 
 warmly of his nephew, who is a merchant in New 
 York, I think he said." 
 
 " He is a partner in a mercantile firm there. The 
 bride was Squire Floyd's daughter ; a very superior 
 girl lovely in character, attractive in person, and, 
 mentally, well cultivated. I have always regarded 
 her as the flower of our town." 
 
 "The young man had good taste, it seems," Mrs. 
 Montgomery remarked. 
 
 " Better than the young lady showed in taking him 
 for a husband," said I. 
 
 " Ah ? Then your opinion of him is not so favor 
 able." 
 
 " He was not worthy of her, if I possess any 
 skill in reading character. But there was one wor 
 thy of her, and deeply attached to her at the same 
 time." 
 
120 
 
 " This young Wallingford, of whom we were speak- 
 ing?" 
 
 " The same." 
 
 "But she didn't fancy him?" 
 
 " She did fancy him. But" 
 
 " Was not able to resist the attractions of a New 
 York merchant, when put in opposition to those of a 
 humble country lawyer?" 
 
 " The truth lies about there. She took the showy 
 effigy of a man, in place of the real man." 
 
 " A sad mistake. But it is made every day," said 
 Mrs. Montgomery, "and will continue to be made. 
 Alas for the blindness and folly that lead so many into 
 paths that terminate in barren deserts, or wildernesses 
 where the soul is lost ! And so our young friend has 
 been crossed in love." 
 
 "The experience is deeper than usual," said I. 
 Then I related, with some particularity, the facts in 
 the case, already known to the reader. Both the 
 mother and daughter listened with deep attention. 
 After I had finished my story, Mrs. Montgomery said, 
 
 " He possesses will and strength of character, that 
 is plain ; but I can't say that I just like the deliberate 
 process of unloving, if I may use the word, which you 
 have described. There is something too cold-blooded 
 about it for me. Like the oak, bent under the pres 
 sure of a fierce storm, he comes up erect too soon." 
 
 I smiled at her view of the case, and answered, 
 
 " You look upon it as a woman, I as a man. To 
 me, there is a certain moral grandeur in the way he 
 
THE TRULY WISE. 121 
 
 has disenthralled himself from fetters that could not 
 remain, without a life-long disability." 
 
 " Oh, no doubt it was the wisest course," said Mrs. 
 Montgomery. 
 
 " And may we not look among the wisest men, for 
 the best and most reliable ?" I queried. 
 
 " Among those who are truly wise," she said, her 
 voice giving emphasis to the word truly. 
 
 " What is it to be truly wise ?" 
 
 " All true wisdom," she answered, " as it appertains 
 to the affairs of this life, has its foundation in a just 
 regard for others ; for, in the degree that we are just 
 to others, are we just to ourselves." 
 
 " And is not the converse of your proposition true 
 also ? In the degree that we are just to ourselves, are 
 we not just to others ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly. Each individual bears to common 
 society, the same relation that a member, organ, or 
 fibre, does to the human body, of which it makes a 
 part. And as no member, organ, or fibre of the body, 
 can injure itself without injuring the whole man ; so 
 no individual can do wrong to himself, without a con 
 sequent wrong to others. Each has duties to perform 
 for the good of common society, and any self-inflicted 
 or self-permitted disabilities that hinder the right per 
 formance of these duties, involve a moral wrong." 
 
 " Then the case is very clear for my friend Walling- 
 ford," said I. " He is a wise man in your sense of 
 the word wise, in resolutely putting away from his 
 mind the image of one who, if she had been worthy 
 of him, would have taken her place proudly by his 
 
122 TWENTY YEARS 
 
 side ; but, proving herself unworthy, could never after 
 ward be to him more than a friend or stranger. He 
 could not hold her image in his heart, and fondly re 
 gard it, without sin ; for was she not to be the brido 
 of another? Nor without suffering loss of mental 
 power, and life-purpose, and thus injuring others 
 through neglect of duty. It was acting wisely, then, 
 for him to come up, manfully, to the work of drawing 
 back his misplaced affections, and getting them again 
 fully into his own possession. And he hag done the 
 work, if I read the signs aright. All honor to his 
 manhood !" 
 
 " He has, I see, a warm advocate in you, Doctor," 
 said Mrs. Montgomery, again smiling. " Still, in an 
 affair of the heart, where so much was involved, as 
 seemed to be in his case, we can hardly fancy such a 
 matter-of-fact, business-like proceeding as you have 
 described. He might well have been forgiven, if he 
 had shown more weakness of character, and acted even 
 a little unreasonably. I will yield to no one in my 
 regard for manly firmness and self-control, for bravery 
 and endurance ; and I have seen these qualities put to 
 some of the severest tests. But in matters of the 
 heart, I must own that I like to see a man show his 
 weakness. Your Mr. Wallingford is too cool and cal 
 culating for me. But this is irrelevant to our consi 
 deration of -his qualities as a business agent. For this 
 purpose, I am satisfied that he is fitted in all things 
 essential." 
 
 "And that is quite as far as we need go," said I. 
 
 " The business in hand," said Mrs. Montgomery, 
 
MRS. MONTGOMERY THE HEIRESS. 123 
 
 resuming the conversation after a pause, " is of great 
 importance to me, and may require not only a visit to 
 England, but also to the West Indies. Unless evidence 
 of my mother's marriage can be found, there will be, 
 as you know, considerable difficulty in establishing my 
 full right to inherit my brother's property. And my 
 identity as the sister of the late Captain Allen must 
 also be proved. By the will of my father, which is on 
 record, he left all of his property to my brother. He, 
 as far as is known, died intestate. As next of kin, I 
 am the legal heir ; but the proof is yet wanting. My 
 mother's cousin, a Colonel Willoughby, of whom we 
 have before spoken, came over from England, on the 
 strength of some vague rumors that reached the family 
 from Jamaica, and was successful in discovering the 
 only survivor of his uncle's family. She saw it best 
 to abandon her husband, as you know. My purpose 
 in sending an agent, versed in legal matters, and used 
 to weighing evidence, is to have such papers of Colonel 
 Willoughby's as the family possess and will submit for 
 examination, carefully searched, in the hope that some 
 record may be found in his hand-writing, sufficiently 
 clear to establish the fact that my mother was the wife 
 of the elder Captain Allen. So important an event as 
 that of searching out my mother, and inducing her to 
 flee from her husband, could hardly have taken place, 
 it seems to me, without evidence of the fact being pre 
 served. And my hope is, that this evidence, if it can 
 be found, will prove of great value. So you see, 
 Doctor, that I have good reasons for wishing to know 
 
124 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 well the agent who goes abroad with a matter so vital 
 as this in his hands." 
 
 I admitted the importance of a thoroughly reliable 
 man to go upon this mission, and repeated my faith in 
 Wallingford. 
 
A FAVORABLE IMPRESSION. 125 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I SAW Mrs. Montgomery a few days afterwards, and 
 inquired if she had seen the young associate of Judge 
 Bigelow. She replied in the affirmative. 
 
 " How does he impress you ?" I asked. 
 
 " Favorably, upon the whole ; though," she added 
 with one of her meaning smiles, " I can't help think 
 ing all the time about the cool, calculating, resolute 
 way in which he went about disentangling himself from 
 an unfortunate love affair. I look at his calm face, 
 over which you rarely see a ripple of feeling go, and 
 ask myself, sometimes, if a heart really beats within 
 his bosom." 
 
 " There does ; a true, large, manly heart, full of 
 deep feeling; you may be sure of this, madam," I an 
 swered, with some warmth. 
 
 " I will not gainsay your words, Doctor. I trust 
 for his sake that it may be so." 
 
 " Leaving out the heart matter, and regarding him 
 only as to his fitness for the work in hand, you are fa 
 vorably impressed ?" 
 
 "Quite so. I find him quick of apprehension, in 
 telligent, and of sufficient gravity of deportment to 
 
126 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 ensure a respectful attention wherever he may go. He 
 made one suggestion that ought to have occurred to 
 me, and upon which I am acting. As no will has been 
 found, it has been assumed that Captain Allen died 
 intestate. Mr. Wallingford suggests that a will may 
 have been executed ; and that a thorough search be 
 made in order to discover if one exists. In conse 
 quence of this suggestion, Blanche and I have been 
 hard at work for two days, prying into drawers, exam 
 ining old papers, and looking into all conceivable, and 
 I had almost said inconceivable places." 
 
 " And if you were to find a will ?" said I, looking 
 into her earnest face. 
 
 " The question would be that much nearer to a solu 
 tion." 
 
 " Is it at all probable that it would be in your fa 
 vor?" 
 
 I saw her start at the query, while her brows closed 
 slightly, as if from a sudden pain. She looked at me 
 steadily for a few moments, without speaking ; then, 
 after a long inspiration, she said : 
 
 " Whether in my favor or not, any disposition that 
 he has made of his property, in law and right, must, 
 of course, stand good." 
 
 " You might contest such a will, if not in your 
 favor." 
 
 She shook her head, compressed her lips firmly, and 
 said : 
 
 " No. I should not contest the will. My belief 
 was, when I came here, that he died without making a 
 
THE PEOBE. 127 
 
 bequest of any kind, and that his property would go, 
 in consequence, to the heir-at-law. This was the in 
 formation that I received. If it should prove other 
 wise, I shall make no opposition." 
 
 " Do you intend, under this view, continuing the 
 search for a will?" 
 
 Something in the tone of voice touched her un 
 pleasantly. I saw the light in her eyes glow intenser, 
 and her lips arch. 
 
 " Why not ?" she asked, looking at me steadily. 
 
 I could have given another meaning to my question 
 from the one I intended to convey, had it so pleased 
 me, and thus avoided a probable offence. But I wished 
 to see a little deeper into the quality of her mind, and 
 so used the probe that was in my hand. 
 
 " If you find a will, devising the property out of 
 your line, all your present prospects are at an end," 
 said I. 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 Her voice was firm as well as emphatic. 
 
 " Then why not take the other horn of this dilemma? 
 Give up searching for a will that can hardly be in your 
 favor, and go on to prove your title through consan 
 guinity." 
 
 " And thus shut my eyes to the probable rights of 
 others, in order to secure a personal advantage ? Do 
 you think I would do this, Doctor ? If so, you have 
 mistaken me." 
 
 There was a tone of regret in her voice. 
 
 " Pardon me," I replied. " The suggestion was 
 
128 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 natural under the circumstances, and I gave it utter 
 ance." 
 
 " Were you in my place, would you give up the 
 search here?" 
 
 She fixed on me a penetrating look. 
 
 The probe had changed hands. 
 
 " It is difficult," I answered, u for us to say what we 
 would do if we were to change places with another. In 
 my experience, it is easy to see what is right for our 
 neighbor, but very difficult to see the right way for 
 ourselves, when under the allurement of some per 
 sonal advantage." 
 
 " Would it be right in me to give up the search ?" 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 My answer was without hesitation. 
 
 " And I will not," she said, firmly. " If my brother 
 has devised his property, I have only to know the 
 terms of his will. If it is against me, well. I shall 
 not oppose its operation." 
 
 " It sometimes happens," I suggested, "that a testa 
 tor is manifestly out of his right mind as to the direc 
 tion given to his property, and bequeaths it in a manner 
 so evidently unwise and improper, that both justice 
 and humanity are served in the act of setting aside the 
 will. And it might prove so in this case." 
 
 " I know not how that may be," Mrs. Montgomery 
 answered, soberly, yet firmly. " But this I do know" 
 she spoke resolutely " God helping me, I will not 
 stain my hands with gold that, in any legal right, be 
 longs to another. What is clearly mine, I will take 
 and use, as it is my right and duty. But I must be 
 
WHAT IS RIGHT IS BEST. 129 
 
 certain that it is mine. If there is no will, I am clear 
 as to who is the owner of this estate ; if there is a 
 will, and I and mine are not included in its provisions, 
 I will step aside. First, however, the obligation to 
 search for a will is imperative ; and I shall continue it 
 until clearly satisfied that no such document exists." 
 
 What a womanly dignity there was in Mrs. Montgo 
 mery as she said this, drawing her tall form up to its 
 full height in speaking not proudly, but with con 
 scious integrity ! 
 
 " What is right is always best." I made the remark 
 as well approvingly as in expression of an immutable 
 truth. 
 
 "Always, always," she replied, with earnestness. 
 " There is no blinder folly than that of grasping a 
 present worldly good, at the expense of violated jus 
 tice. Whoever does so, comes out that far wrong in 
 the end. There is only one way that leads to peace 
 of mind: the way of honor and right. All other 
 ways, no matter into what rich harvest fields they may 
 lead in the beginning, terminate in wretchedness. 
 There never has been, and never will be, any excep 
 tion to this rule. We see its operation daily, turn our 
 eyes whatsoever way we choose. And God forbid that 
 I should deliberately enter the way that leads to ulti 
 mate unhappiness ! Self-denial in the present is bet 
 ter than gnawing regret in the future. The good 
 things of this world prove to be curses instead of bless 
 ings, unless the mind be rightly adjusted for their en 
 joyment. And such a right adjustment is impossible 
 
 where the very fact of their possession involves a mo= 
 9 
 
130 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 ral wrong. I see this so clearly, Doctor, that I shud 
 der inwardly at the bare imagination of committing 
 such a wrong." 
 
 "It is by trial that God proves us," said I, " and 
 may He bring you out of this one, should the trial 
 come, as gold from the refiner's furnace !" 
 
 " Amen !" was her solemnly uttered response ; "if 
 it should come, may I be found strong enough to do 
 the right !" 
 
 For over a week this search for a will was continued, 
 until it was clear to all concerned that no such docu 
 ment was in existence. Then preparation was made 
 for the visit to England, in search of evidence bearing 
 upon the identity of Mrs. Montgomery as the sister 
 of Captain Allen. Two or three months elapsed, how 
 ever, before Mr. Wallingford could so arrange his bu 
 siness as to be absent for the length of time it might 
 take to complete his mission. He sailed for England 
 in June, between three and four months after the mar 
 riage of Delia Floyd. He called to see me on the 
 day before leaving, and I had a brief but pleasant 
 talk with him. He was in good health and good spi 
 rits, and anticipated a successful visit. 
 
 "I shall gain," he remarked, "in two ways by this 
 trip. Professionally and intellectually. I have had 
 many a dream of that land of our forefathers Eng 
 land now to be realized. I shall see London, walk 
 its streets, and linger amid its historic places. Don't 
 smile at this almost boyish enthusiasm, Doctor. Lon 
 don has always been the Mecca of my desires." 
 
 J had never seen him so animated. A higher life 
 
HONORABLE AMBITION. 131 
 
 seemed flowing in his veins. His countenance had a 
 brighter aspect than usual, and his head an erecter 
 carriage. There was a depth of meaning in his eyes 
 never observed before a look as if some new born 
 hope were lending its inspiration to his soul. Alto 
 gether manlier was his aspect and bearing than I had 
 ever seen it. 
 
 " God speed your mission," said I, as I shook hands 
 with him in parting. 
 
 " If it depends on human agency, directed with 
 earnestness, patience, and will, my mission will have 
 a prosperous result," he replied. "It is to be my 
 first entirely self-reliant experience, and I think the 
 discipline of mind it will involve must strengthen me 
 for higher professional work than any in which I have 
 yet been engaged. You are aware, Doctor, that my 
 heart is in my profession." 
 
 " So I have seen from the beginning." 
 
 " I will not deny," he added, " that I have ambition. 
 That I wish to be distinguished at the bar." 
 
 "An honorable ambition," said I. 
 
 " Nor that, sometimes in moments of weakness, 
 perhaps my dreams have gone higher. But I am a 
 very young man, and youth is ardent and imagina 
 tive," he added. 
 
 "And you have this great advantage," I replied, 
 " that, with every year added to your life, you may, 
 if you will, grow wiser and stronger. You stand, as 
 all young minds, at the bottom of a ladder. The 
 height to which you climb will depend upon your 
 strength and endurance." 
 
132 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " If we both live long enough, Doctor, you may see 
 me on the topmost rundle, for I shall climb with un 
 wearying effort." 
 
 He spoke with a fine enthusiasm, that lent a manly 
 beauty to his face. 
 
 "Climb on," I answered, "and you will rise high 
 above the great mass, who are aimless and indolent. 
 But you will have competitors, few, but vigorous and 
 tireless. In the contest for position that you must 
 wage with these, all your powers will be taxed ; and 
 if you reach the topmost rundle to which you aspire, 
 success will be, indeed, a proud achievement." 
 
 " I have the will, the ambition, the courage, and the 
 endurance, Doctor," was his reply. "So, if I fail, 
 the fault will lie here," and he touched, significantly, 
 his forehead. 
 
 "For lack of brains ?" said I, smiling. 
 
 "Yes. The defect will lie there," he answered, 
 smiling in return. 
 
 "Brains are remarkable for latent capacity. If 
 stimulated, they develop new powers, and this almost 
 without limit. All they want is to be well supplied 
 with the right kind of food, and well worked at the 
 same time." 
 
 " I believe that, Doctor, and find vast encouragement 
 in the thought," and Wallingford laughed pleasantly. 
 
 Our parting words were growing voluminous. So 
 we shook hands again, repeated our mutual good 
 wishes, and separated. In the afternoon he started for 
 Boston, from whence he sailed, on the next day, for 
 England. 
 
THE WILL FOUND. 133 
 
 This was towards the latter end of June. He was 
 to write to Mrs. Montgomery immediately on his arri 
 val out, and again as soon as he had obtained an inter 
 view with the Willoughby family. Early in August, 
 she received his first letter, which was brief, simply 
 announcing his arrival at Liverpool. 
 
 About three weeks after the coming of this letter, I 
 received a note from Mrs. Montgomery asking me to 
 call. On meeting her, I noticed something in her 
 manner that struck me as unusual. She did not smile, 
 as was her wont, when we met, her countenance re 
 taining its usual serious expression. I thought she 
 looked paler, and just a little troubled. 
 
 " Thank you for calling so promptly, Doctor," she 
 said. " I am afraid you will think me troublesome. 
 But you have always shown a kindly interest in me, 
 though a stranger ; and have proved, in all cases, a 
 sound adviser." 
 
 I bowed, and she continued: 
 
 " I have a second letter from Mr. Wallingford. 
 He has, he writes, been well received by my relatives, 
 who had placed in his hands, for examination, a large 
 quantity of papers that belonged to Colonel Will 
 oughby." 
 
 " If they contain any evidence in the right direction, 
 he will be sure to find it," said I. 
 
 "No doubt of that. But" I thought her voice 
 faltered a little "the question is solved, and he may 
 return." 
 
 " Solved ! How ?" I asked quickly. 
 
 "I have found the will." 
 
134 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND JSOW. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I have found the will," she repeated, in a steady 
 tone, "and that solves the question." 
 
 "Is it in your favor?" I asked, and then held my 
 breath for a reply. It came in a firmly uttered 
 
 "No." 
 
 We looked steadily into each other's face for several 
 moments. 
 
 " In whose favor ?" 
 
 "In favor of Theresa Garcia his wife," she replied. 
 
 " But she is dead," I answered quickly. 
 
 " True but I am not his heir." 
 
 She said this resolutely. 
 
 " She died childless," said I, "and will not the de 
 scent stop with her ? the property reverting to you, 
 as next of kin to Captain Allen ?" 
 
 " She may have relatives a brother or sister," said 
 Mrs. Montgomery. 
 
 " That is scarcely probable," I objected. 
 
 "It is possible; and in order to ascertain the fact, 
 all right means ought to, and must be, taken." 
 
 " Where did you find the will ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Blanche was examining a small drawer in an old 
 secretary, when she accidentally pressed her hand 
 against one side, which yielded. She pressed harder, 
 and it continued to yield, until it was pushed back 
 several inches. On withdrawing this pressure, the side 
 returned to its place. She then tried to see how far it 
 could be forced in. As soon as it had passed a certain 
 point, a secret drawer, set in vertically, sprung up, and 
 from the side, which fell open, the will dropped- out." 
 
CAPTAIN ALLEN'S WILL. 135 
 
 "It is singular," said I, " that it should come to 
 light just at this time." 
 
 "It is Providential, no doubt," Mrs. Montgomery 
 remarked." 
 
 "What course will you pursue?" I inquired. 
 
 "My first step will be to recall Mr. Wallingford." 
 
 " I must take the liberty of a friend, and object to 
 that," said I. 
 
 "On what ground?" 
 
 " This will may be worth the paper on which it is 
 written, and no more. If the legatee have no rela 
 tives, you stand just where you stood before, and will 
 require the evidence as to identity for which Mr. Wal 
 lingford is now in search. Oh, no, Mrs. Montgomery; 
 he must not be recalled." 
 
 The lady mused for a little while, and then said 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, Doctor." 
 
 "I am sure of it," I replied, speaking earnestly. 
 " This will, if we find it, on examination, to be an 
 instrument executed according to legal forms, puts 
 your rights in jeopardy, though by no means sets them 
 aside." 
 
 "You take the correct view, no doubt," was her 
 reply to this. Her voice was not so firm as in the 
 beginning. As the probabilities began to show them 
 selves again in her favor, she lost a degree of self- 
 possession. 
 
 "Let Mr. Wallingford complete his work," said I, 
 "and find, if possible, the evidence you require, in 
 case you prove to be the legal heir, as I trust you will. 
 
136 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 And until his return, the existence of this important 
 document had better remain a secret." 
 
 " Shall I not submit it to Judge Bigelow ? " 
 
 I reflected for some moments, and then replied 
 
 " Yes. He is your legal adviser, and one in whom 
 the highest confidence may be reposed. The will 
 should be at once placed in his hands for examina 
 tion." 
 
 " And go upon record ? " 
 
 "Better leave all to his superior legal judgment. 
 But," as the thought occurred to me, "who are named 
 as the executors of this will?" 
 
 "I did not examine as to that, being too much 
 interested in the provisions of the writing," she 
 replied. 
 
 " May I see the document ? " 
 
 " Blanche, dear, you will find it in the right-hand 
 drawer of the secretary, in our room;" and Mrs. 
 Montgomery handed a key to her daughter, who left 
 the apartment in which we were sitting. She came 
 back in a few minutes, and handed me a paper, which, 
 on examination, I found to be written throughout, and 
 evidently by the hand of Captain Allen. It was dated 
 San Juan de Porto Rico, January 10, 1820, and was 
 witnessed by two signatures the names Spanish. 
 The executors were Judge Bigelow and Squire Floyd. 
 There was an important sentence at the conclusion of 
 the will. It was in these words : " In case my wife, 
 in dying, should leave no relatives, then every thing 
 shall revert to my own right heirs, should any be 
 living." 
 
THE EXECUTORS. 137 
 
 All this gave the affair, in my mind, a more serious 
 aspect. Before mentioning the executors' names, I 
 said 
 
 " Do you know where Theresa Garcia resided, before 
 her marriage with Captain Allen ?" 
 
 "In Porto Rico, as I have learned from old 
 4 Aunty,' and also from letters found in searching for 
 the will." 
 
 " Which I find was executed at San Juan De Porto 
 Rico, the principal town on the island. Judge Bige- 
 low and Squire Floyd are the executors." 
 
 I saw her start slightly, and grow a little pale as I 
 said this. 
 
 " Judge Bigelow, and Sofuire Floyd ! That is ex 
 traordinary !" She was more disturbed than I had 
 yet seen her in reference to this matter. 
 
 " It is remarkable, certainly, that Judge Bigelow, 
 your legal adviser, should be one of the executors of 
 a will, which determines your brother's estate out of 
 the line of consanguinity." 
 
 " He must, of course, cease to represent my interest 
 in the case," remarked the lady. * 
 
 "He cannot represent two diverse interests," said I. 
 
 " No ; that is clear." She said this in a troubled 
 way ; and was, evidently, falling into a perplexed state 
 of mind. "Well, Doctor, what is to be done ?" She 
 spoke with recovered self-possession, after a short 
 period of silence, looking at me with her old calmness 
 of expression. 
 
 I took some moments for reflection, and then said, 
 
 " My advice is, to keep your own counsel, and wait 
 
138 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 until Mr Wallingford returns from England. When 
 ever you place this document in the hands of Judge 
 Bigelow, he must go over to the adverse interest ; when 
 you will be compelled to seek another legal adviser. 
 You are not just ready for this ; nor will be, until after 
 your agent comes back with the result of his investi 
 gations. No wrong to any one can possibly occur from 
 letting things remain just as they are for a few 
 months." 
 
 " I think your viw of the matter correct, Doc 
 tor," was her reply. " And yet, to keep this secret, 
 even for an hour, when I have no right to its possession, 
 touches my conscience. Is it just ? This will is not 
 in my favor. It does n'ot even recognize my exis 
 tence. It devises property, of large value, in another 
 line ; and there may be heirs ready to take possession 
 the moment its existence is made known to them. 
 Am I not intermeddling, unjustly, in the affairs of an 
 other ?" 
 
 "But for you," I replied, "this will might never 
 have seen the light. If heirs exist, they can, there 
 fore, have no just reason for complaint at the brief de 
 lay to which, under the circumstances, you are, in 
 common justice, entitled. Your conscience may be 
 over sensitive, Mrs. Montgomery." 
 
 " I would rather it were over sensitive than obtuse," 
 she said. " Worldly possessions are desirable. They 
 give us many advantages. We all desire and cling "to 
 them. But they are dearly bought at the price of 
 heavenly possessions. What will it profit a man if he 
 gain the whole world and lose his own soul ? Noth- 
 
NOBLE RESOLUTION. 139 
 
 ing ! It were better for him to die like Lazarus. No, 
 Doctor, I am resolved in this matter to be simply just. 
 If, in justice and right, this estate comes into my 
 hands, I will take the wealth thankfully and use it as 
 wisely as I can. But I will not throw a single straw 
 in the way of its passing to the legal heirs of my 
 brother's wife, if any are in existence and can be 
 found." 
 
 " But you will keep this secret until Mr. Walling- 
 ford's return?" I urged. 
 
 "I do not see that wrong to any one can follow 
 such a delay," she answered. " Yes, I will keep the 
 secret." 
 
 " And I will keep it also, even from my good Con 
 stance," said I, "until your agent's return. The 
 matter lies sacred between us." 
 
140 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "MRS. DEWEY is at her father's," said my wife to 
 me, one evening in August, as we sat at the tea-table. 
 
 "Ah! have you seen her?" I was interested at 
 once. Six months had elapsed since Delia's wedding, 
 and this was her first visit home ; though her mother 
 had been twice down to New York, in company with 
 the Squire, who had business with the firm to which 
 Ralph belonged. In fact, since his marriage to Squire 
 Floyd's daughter, young Dewey had prevailed upon 
 his father-in-law to make the house of Floyd, Lawson, 
 Lee & Co., agents for the entire product of his manu 
 factory an arrangement which the Squire regarded 
 as greatly to his advantage. 
 
 My question was answered in the affirmative. 
 
 "How is she?" 
 
 "Looking very well." 
 
 There was no warmth or feeling in my wife's voice 
 or manner, although Delia had been a favorite with 
 her, and we had often talked about the pleasure we 
 should have in meeting her again. 
 
 " Have you nothing more to say of our young 
 friend?" I asked. 
 
 " She is very much changed." 
 
CHANGE IN MRS. DEWEY. 141 
 
 X 
 
 "For the better?" 
 
 " Some might think so. I do not." There was a 
 disappointed manner about my wife. 
 
 "In what respect is she changed ?" 
 
 " Some would say that she had grown handsome ; 
 and, in truth, her countenance strikes you, at first, as 
 much improved. It is rounded to a fuller outline, and 
 has a style ahout it, caught, I suppose, from city life 
 and feeling. But she carries her head with a statelier 
 air than is becoming Squire Floyd's daughter ; and I 
 am very sure, that, as the wife of Ralph Dewey, she 
 has acquired no special consequence. Rich jewelry 
 may be very well in city drawing-rooms, and public 
 assemblages, where dress is made conspicuous. But to 
 sport diamond ear-rings and breastpin, splendid enough 
 for a countess, in her father's little parlor, and before 
 the eyes of friends who loved her once for herself 
 alone, savored so strongly of weak pride and vanity, 
 that I could not look upon her with any of my old 
 feelings. It was Delia Floyd no longer. Already, 
 the pure, sweet, artless maiden, had changed into a 
 woman of the world, dressed up for show. Ah, my 
 husband ! if this is the effect of city life, let me never 
 breathe its tainted atmosphere." 
 
 And she dropped her eyes, with a sigh, and sat, lost 
 in thought, for several moments. 
 
 " Your account of Delia pains me," said I. " Is the 
 case indeed so bad?" 
 
 " It is. Alas ! the fine gold is dimmed. Our sweet 
 young friend has strayed from the paths of nature, 
 and will never, I fear, get back again." 
 
142 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " Had you any conversation with her ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Yes : or, rather I listened to her, as she ran on 
 about her city life ; the grand people with whom sh( 
 had already become acquainted ; and the splendor of 
 balls, parties, soirees, and operas. I grew sober as 
 she talked : for not one true womanly sentiment fell 
 from her lips. She did not express interest in any of 
 her new friends and acquaintances for the good quali 
 ties they possessed ; but spoke of their wealth, style 
 of living, social connections, and other attractions 
 wholly external to the individual. She was even 
 eloquent over star actresses and opera singers ; one or 
 two of whom she spoke of having met at the house of 
 a fashionable friend." 
 
 " 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 ques 
 tions 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 mir- 
 
HABITS OF GOOD SOCIETY. 143 
 
 ror, 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 span 
 gled 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 con 
 temptible in his eyes, and he was at no pains to con 
 ceal 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 touch 
 ing their relation to each other, I observed both of 
 them very closely. It did not take me long to disco 
 ver 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 recipro 
 cations 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, 
 
144 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOT. 
 
 " 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 At 
 lantic 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! 
 
BUSINESS CONVERSATION. 145 
 
 Is there a blinder folly than the pageantry of fashion 
 able society ? It is the stage on a grander scale, glit 
 tering, 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 conversa 
 tion turned upon business, and I learned that the 
 Squire had thought of enlarging his mill, and intro 
 ducing 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 en 
 gaged, and inclined to embark some capital with him 
 in the proposed extension of the works. They fre 
 quently quoted the Judge's nephew, Mr. Ralph Dewey, 
 as to the extent to which goods could be put into mar 
 ket by the house of Floyd, Lawson, Lee & Co., who 
 possessed, it was conceded, almost unlimited facilities. 
 
 I listened to their conversation, whieh involved plans 
 of enlargement, statistics of trade, home and foreign 
 10 
 
146 
 
 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 dis 
 satisfaction 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 exist 
 ence of a will Mrs. Montgomery, Blanche, and my 
 self; 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 Bige- 
 low'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 Eng 
 land, 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. 
 
WALLINGFORD'S SURPRISE. 147 
 
 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. 
 
148 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " 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 moans 
 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 indetermi 
 nate," said Wallingford. " It may include one, or ten 
 jears, according to the facts in the case, the views of 
 Jie 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. Montgo 
 mery?" 
 
 " Yes, if the courts are satisfied with the evidence 
 which can be presented in her favor." 
 
 There followed a long silence, which Mrs. Montgo 
 mery 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, inter 
 rupting her, "that the fact of his executorship will 
 make him any the less a safe adviser for you. He is 
 
WALLINGFORD LEGAL ADVISER. 149 
 
 a man of the highest integrity of character, clear-see 
 ing, and of impartial judgment." 
 
 " I believe in his judgment and integrity," she re 
 plied. " 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, indi 
 vidually, 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 confi 
 dence, 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. 
 
150 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " 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 inter 
 view." 
 
 "After that, madam," said Wallingford, rising, "I 
 will be at your service." 
 
 We retired together. 
 
CAPTAIN ALLEN'S PROPERTY. 151 
 
 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 occu 
 pancy of the old mansion, and she accepted this con 
 cession 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, in 
 cluding 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, reg 
 ularly, as administratrix of the estate. Besides this 
 property, there were several pieces of unimproved 
 
152 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 land in and around the town, the value of which could 
 not fall much below twenty thousand dollars. In ad 
 dition to all this, was a coffee estate on the island of 
 Porto Rico. But as to its extent, or value, no evi 
 dence appeared. It might now be richly productive, 
 or a mere tropical wilderness. If productive, no evi 
 dence of any return- since Captain Allen's death ap 
 peared. 
 
 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 inter 
 views 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 mat 
 ters were talked of in the beginning, freely, before 
 Wallingford, who still had his office with his old pre 
 ceptor, and shared in his business. After a while, he 
 noticed a growing reserve on the part of Judge Bige 
 low and Squire Floyd, when he was by, touching their 
 private affairs ; and then they ceased entirely all refer 
 ence thereto. 
 
 Dewey came up as frequently as usual, but avoided 
 any remark in relation to business while in the pres 
 ence 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 
 
NO SEARCH FOR THE HEIRS. 153 
 
 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 busi 
 ness 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 ne 
 glected." 
 
 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 
 
154 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 im 
 posing 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. 
 
NEGLECT OF THE EXECUTORS. 155 
 
 " There is personal, as well a& real estate ?" 
 
 "Yes. Stocks worth twenty thousand dollars." 
 
 " I have heard it suggested, that trust funds in the 
 case are going into Squire Eloyd'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 confiden 
 tially 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 man 
 ner. 
 
 "As you represent the interests of Mrs. Mont 
 gomery," 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 
 
156 
 
 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 him 
 self 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 peo 
 ple 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 
 
DELIA'S DISCONTENT. 157 
 
 the right direction. She had wholly abandoned that 
 tasteful reading through which intellectual refinement 
 comes ; and to all appearance, no longer cared for any 
 thing 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 discon 
 tented 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 in 
 difference I had yet seen was exhibited in their conduct 
 to each other. Their babe did not seem to be a mat 
 ter 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, 
 
158 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 cor 
 ners 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 conscious 
 ness of this fact pressed upon her soul like a suffocat 
 ing nightmare. 
 
NOTICE TO REMOVE. 159 
 
 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. Walling- 
 ford. 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 respect 
 ful 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 equiva 
 lent 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.' " 
 
160 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " I will see Judge Bigelow this morning, and ascer 
 tain 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 gesticu 
 lated quite freely. Then they moved on to that por 
 tion of the stream where the water went gliding down 
 the mimic rapids, and remained there for a considera 
 ble 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 de 
 liberation. At last, as if satisfied with their investi 
 gations, they returned by way of the mansion, and 
 passed out without calling. 
 
PROPERTY TO BE SOLD. 161 
 
 " Put that and that together, and there is a mean 
 ing in this procedure beyond the simple rental of the 
 place," said Wallingford. 
 
 " What is your inference ?" asked Mrs. Montgom 
 ery. 
 
 " I have made none as yet," he replied. " But I 
 will see Judge Bigelow, and have some talk with him. 
 
 f course, I can have nothing to say, adverse to a re 
 quirement 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 any 
 thing. 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 re- 
 
 ' O9 9 
 
 mam r 
 
 " 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," re 
 plied Mrs. Montgomery. 
 
 The interview which Mr. Wallingford held with 
 Judge Bigelow a few hours afterwards, was not satis 
 factory. The proposition to let Mrs. Montgomery and 
 her daughter occupy the house, separate from the ex 
 tensive 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 
 11 
 
162 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 consolida 
 tion of interests between the mercantile and manufac 
 turing branches being about to take place. The old 
 mansion was to undergo a thorough revision, and be 
 come 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 wish 
 ing 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 ad 
 vanced on both sides. After the decision, as Walling- 
 
REMOVAL FROM THE ALLEN HOUSE. 163 
 
 ford 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 re 
 mark 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 con 
 ferences 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 in 
 timate. 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, 
 
164 
 
 and stronger for life's duties. I do not know any term 
 that so clearly expresses my idea of this lady, as Chris 
 tian philosopher." 
 
 Occasionally Mrs. Montgomery would pay us a visit ; 
 and these also were times treasured up in my wife's 
 rememhrance. 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 be 
 ing of superior mould with whom familiarity was pre 
 sumption. 
 
 The companion of such a mother, who had with ten 
 der 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 se 
 lected 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 
 
CHANGE OF RESIDENCE. 165 
 
 character, that showed itself beneath the sweet grace 
 of her external life, whenever occasion for their exhi 
 bition 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 occa 
 sion 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 confi 
 dence that every thing would come out right, beautiful 
 to contemplate. What she meant by right, was some 
 thing more than is usually included in the words ; for 
 she had learned from her wise teacher, that God's pro 
 vidence disposes the things of this world for every in 
 dividual 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 
 
166 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 
 
REMOVAL TO BOSTON. 167 
 
 showed itself; and I again observed that Mrs. Mont 
 gomery, 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 acknowledg 
 ment 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 inti 
 mately, that was not stronger to do right in every trial 
 for the memory of these true-hearted strangers no, 
 friends ! 
 
168 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 re 
 moval 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 consum 
 mation. 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 
 
SALE OF THE ALLEN HOUSE. 169 
 
 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 ma 
 naged, however, to omit that part of his duty. 
 
 On the day of sale, quite a company of curious peo 
 ple assembled at the Allen House, but when the pro 
 perty 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 carpen 
 ters and masons were busy in and around the old man 
 sion, with a view to its thorough renovation, as the 
 future residence of Mr. Ralph Dewey. That gentle 
 man was on the ground, moving about with a self-suffi 
 cient 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 
 
170 
 
 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 continu 
 ally 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 con 
 tained. 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 con 
 siderably. 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 bot 
 tom. 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 pos 
 sessed me. 
 
 In May, the furnishing of the renovated house be 
 gan. 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 con 
 veyed to the Allen House the designation which the 
 
SHOWY CHANGES. 171 
 
 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 admi 
 ration. All S went to see the show, and wan 
 der 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 white 
 washed ceilings and dingy papered walls, graceful 
 frescoes spread their light figures, entrancing the eyes 
 with their marvelous semblances. The great hall re 
 ceived 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 1 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 propor 
 tions, 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. 
 
172 
 
 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 im 
 provements 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 pos 
 session of their new home, and the occasion was cele 
 brated 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 ques 
 tioned 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 oc 
 casions, 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 
 
DELIA'S ENNUI. 173 
 
 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 re 
 moval from New York, and asked how she liked the 
 change. 
 
 " I don't like it all, Doctor," she replied, in a dis 
 satisfied 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 think 
 ing, sadly out of place here. We must have society, 
 Doctor." 
 
 " True." My voice was a little rough. I had mis 
 taken her. 
 
 "But there is no society here !" And she tossed 
 her head a little contemptuously. 
 
174 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 "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 
 
REMEDY FOR ENNUI. 175 
 
 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 super 
 vision, 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, dis 
 pose of everything according to the best of your judg 
 ment, and require orderly obedience from every sub 
 ject. But act wisely and kindly. Do this, my young 
 friend, and you will not be troubled with the fashion 
 able 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 
 
176 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 risks refreshed at coming dawn. If she is 
 happier than your fine lady, whose dainty hands can 
 not bear the soil of these common things, why ? Pon 
 der this subject, Delia. It concerns you deeply. It 
 
MIPERY OF FASHIONABLE IDLERS. 177 
 
 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 unut 
 terable wretchedness." 
 
 The earnestness of my manner added force to what 
 I said, and constrained at least a momentary convic 
 tion. 
 
 " You speak strongly, Doctor," she said, with the 
 air of one who could not look aside from an unpleas 
 ant 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 
 12 
 
178 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 thought, taste, feeling were all building for themselves 
 a habitation, the stones whereof were truths, and the 
 decorations within and without pure and good affec 
 tions. All this " I glanced at the rich furniture, 
 mirrors, and curtains u 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 lialf 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. Exam 
 ine 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 tem 
 ple 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 1 see, nor know as I know. I have chosen my 
 way, and must walk in it, even to the end, let it term 
 inate 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, 
 
THE SUBJECT CHANGED. 179 
 
 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 them 
 selves in tranquil valleys, or linger on the distant hill- 
 slopes. The crowd, the hum, the shock of social life 
 forme!" 
 
 " 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 can 
 not 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 prompt 
 ness 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. 
 
180 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 STEADILY, under the busy hands of hundreds of 
 workmen, the new buildings arose, stretching their far 
 lengths along, and towering np, 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 every 
 thing 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 Legisla 
 ture. There was not a great deal of loose money in 
 
THE CLINTON BANK. 181 
 
 S to flow easily into bank s tocks ; 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 ope 
 ration about the same time. Years of prosperity fol 
 lowed. Money was plenty in our town, and everybody 
 was growing better off. Dewey was still the manufac 
 turing 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 re 
 sources ; as having expansive views of trade and fi 
 nance ; 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 judg 
 ment below all this splendid seeming. 
 
 And what of our friend Wallingford, during those 
 busy years ? Like myself, he moved so quietly through 
 
182 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 his round of professional duties, as to attract little at 
 tention. But he had been growing in all this time 
 growing in mental stature ; and growing in the confi 
 dence 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 excel 
 lent 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 em 
 ployed him. He got the character in our town of a 
 safe adviser. If a man had a difficulty with a neigh 
 bor, and talked of going to law with him, in all pro 
 bability 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 find 
 ing heirs. 
 
 Ten years had elapsed since the discovery of Mr. 
 Allen's will, and yet no heirs had presented them 
 selves. And now Mr. Wallingford took formal issue 
 in the case, and demanded the property for his client, 
 
AN HEIR FOUND. 183 
 
 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 feehle, 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 re 
 versed telescope. 
 
 A time was fixed for hearing the case, which, now 
 that it assumed this important shape, excited great in 
 terest among the people of S . When the mat 
 ter 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, exe 
 cutors of the late Captain Allen, and notified them 
 
184 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 as 
 certain 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 four 
 teenth 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 rela 
 tionship 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. Immedi 
 ately 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 ex 
 pected," 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 re- 
 
CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHY. 185 
 
 marked. " 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 ahout their spiritual ex 
 periences 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 com 
 mon duty. I do not believe that for anything this 
 world could offer her, Mrs. Montgomery would swe*rve 
 a hair's breadth from justice. I have been in the po 
 sition 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, hea 
 venly, and she gave me this memorable reply 'Mr. 
 Wallingford, I have a richer estate than this in ex 
 pectancy, and cannot mar the title.' And she has not 
 marred it, Doctor." 
 
 " How did her daughter receive the news ?" I in 
 quired. 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 
 
186 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 dis 
 ciplined." 
 
 " 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, 
 
 r< 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 Ho 
 mer, 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 con 
 tentment in a rented house. Mr, Homer said some 
 thing 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 trim 
 ming 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." 
 
SYMPTOMS OF MATKIMONY. 187 
 
 "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 Walling 
 ford. Besides, he is ten years her senior," said I. 
 
 "What is the difference in our ages, dear?" Con 
 stance 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. 
 
188 TWENTY YEARS^AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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. Wal- 
 lingford, 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 furnish 
 ing Ivy Cottage, as the place was called. I saw car 
 pets going in on the very next day. All the shrub 
 bery had been trimmed, the grounds cleared up and 
 put in order, and many choice flowers planted in bor 
 ders 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 bach 
 elor 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, sn*e 
 feigned ignorance ; and affected not to understand the 
 hints, questions, and surmises of curious neighbors. 
 
THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. 189 
 
 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 re 
 ceived 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 WAL 
 LINGFORD and BLANCHE MONTGOMERY, and the words, 
 " At home Wednesday evening, June 15th. Ivy Cot 
 tage." 
 
 " Bravo !" I exclaimed, as soon as a momentary be 
 wilderment passed, showing more than my wonted en 
 thusiasm. " 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," re 
 marked 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." 
 
190 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 pleas 
 ant 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 an 
 ticipation. 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, atti 
 tudeall showed the woman of heart, mind, and pur 
 pose. 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 
 
ALL RIGHT. 191 
 
 to how he looked and seemed ? Worthy of the splen 
 did 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 she 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 de 
 termines the quality of the marriage. She who weds 
 best, weds the truest man. The rank and wealth are 
 
192 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 be 
 gin 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 them 
 selves 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. Mont 
 gomery 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 
 
* 
 
 DEATH NO TERROR. 193 
 
 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 at 
 tended by indefinable terrors. Teachers and preach 
 ers 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 i3 
 13 
 
194 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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. 
 
DEATH OF MRS. MONTGOMERY. 195 
 
 " 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 beau 
 tiful, 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 ex 
 pressed themselves in the younger as she stood blush 
 ing in the ripeness of her charms ; while all tilings 
 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 daugh 
 ter'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. 
 
196 TWENTY TEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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. 
 
CALM INTERVIEW. 197 
 
 " 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. 
 1 It is well with her !' I said. 
 
 " 'Oh, yes, my friend, it is well with her,' she an 
 swered, mournfully, ' well with her, but not with me. 
 How shall I walk onward in life's difficult ways, with 
 out 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 un 
 faltering trust. In this God has been good to me. 
 But my wise, patient mother how shall I live with 
 out her?' 
 
 " ' She is only removed from you as to bodily pre 
 sence,' said J. 'Love conjoins your souls as inti 
 mately as ever.' 
 
 " 'Ah, yes, I know this must be. Too many times 
 
198 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 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 weep 
 ing, 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 hope 
 ful love. The curtain of death hid from her no laud 
 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 ex 
 claimed, ' 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 be 
 yond, than do our modern Christians, who frighten us 
 with images of terror. f I will lay me down in peace 
 and sleep,' when the time of my departure comes, 
 
PURE RELIGION. 199 
 
 should be the heart-language of every one who takes 
 upon himself the name of Him who said, * In my Fa 
 ther'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 percep 
 tions 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 in 
 terior 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 strong- 
 
200 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 ly 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 ac 
 cumulating 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 un 
 wisely consummated,- had not served for the develop 
 ment 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-indul- 
 
TROUBLE AHEAD. 201 
 
 gent. 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 fre 
 quently 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. 
 
 At least two months of every summer Mrs. Dewey 
 was absent from S , intermitting between Sara 
 toga and Newport, where she abandoned herself to all 
 the excitements of fashionable dissipation. Regularly 
 each year we saw her name in the New York corres 
 pondence of the Herald, as the " fascinating Mrs. 
 
 D ;" the " charming wife of Mr. D ;" or 
 
 in some like style of reference. At last, coupled with 
 one of these allusions, was an intimation that " it might 
 be well if some discreet friend would whisper in the 
 lady's ear that she was a little too intimate with men 
 of doubtful reputation ; particularly in the absence of 
 her husband." 
 
 This paragraph was pointed out to me by one of my 
 patients. I read it with a throb of pain. A little 
 while afterwards I passed Mr. Floyd and Mr. Dewey 
 in the street. They were walking rapidly, and con 
 versing in an excited manner. I saw them take the 
 direction of the depot. 
 
 " Here is trouble !" I said, sighing to myself. " Trou 
 ble that gold cannot gild, nor the sparkle of diamonds 
 
202 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 hide. Alas ! alas ! that a human soul, in which was 
 so fair a promise, should get so far astray !" 
 
 I met Mr. Floyd half an hour later. His face was 
 pale and troubled, and his eyes upon the ground. He 
 did not see me or care to see me and so we passed 
 without recognition. 
 
 Before night the little warning sentence, written by 
 the Saratoga correspondent, was running from lip to 
 
 lip all over S . Some pitied, some blamed, and 
 
 not a few were glad in their hearts of the disgrace ; 
 for Mrs. Dewey had so carried herself among us as to 
 destroy all friendly feeling. 
 
 There was an expectant pause for several days. 
 Then it was noised through the town that Mr. Dewey 
 had returned, bringing his wife home with him. I 
 met him in the street on the day after. There was a 
 heavy cloud on his brow. Various rumors were afloat. 
 One was it came from a person just arrived from Sa 
 ratoga that Mr. Dewey surprised his wife in a moon 
 light walk with a young man for whom he had no par 
 ticular fancy, and under such lover-like relations, that 
 he toot the liberty of caning the gentleman on the 
 spot. Great excitement followed. The young man 
 resisted Mrs. Dewey screamed in terror people 
 flocked to the place and mortifying exposure fol 
 lowed. This story was in part corroborated by the 
 following paragraph in the Herald's Saratoga corres 
 pondence : 
 
 " We had a spicy scene, a little out of the regular 
 performance, last evening ; no less than the caning of 
 a New York sprig of fashion, who made himself rather 
 
DISGRACEFUL EXPOSURE. 203 
 
 more agreeable to a certain married lady who dashes 
 about here in a queenly way than was agreeable to 
 her husband. The aftair was husiied up. This morn 
 ing I missed the lady from her usual place at the 
 breakfast-table. Later in the day I learned that her 
 husband had taken her home. If he'll accept my ad 
 vice, he will keep her there." 
 
 "Poor Mrs. Floyd !" It was the mother's deep sor 
 row and humiliation that touched the heart of my 
 Constance when this disgraceful exposure reached her. 
 " She has worn to me a troubled look for this long 
 while," she added. " The handsome new house which 
 the Squire built, and into which they moved last year, 
 has not, with all its elegant accompaniments, made 
 her any more cheerful than she was before. Mrs. 
 Dean told me that her sister was very much opposed 
 to leaving her old home ; but the Squire has grown 
 rich so fast that he must have everything in the exter 
 nal to correspond with his improved circumstances. 
 Ah me ! If, with riches, troubles so deep must come, 
 give me poverty as a blessing." 
 
 A week passed, and no one that I happened to meet 
 knew, certainly, whether Mrs. Dewey was at home or 
 not. Then she suddenly made her appearance riding 
 about in her stylish carriage, and looking as self-as 
 sured as of old. 
 
 "That was a strange story about Mrs. Dewey," 
 said I to a lady whom 1 was visiting professionally. 
 I knew her to be of Mrs. Dewey's set. Don't smile, 
 reader ; we had risen to the dignity of having a fash- 
 
204 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 ionable "set," in S , and Mrs. Dewey was the 
 
 leader. 
 
 The lady shrugged her shoulders, drew up her eye 
 brows, and looked knowing and mysterious. I had 
 expected this, for I knew my subject very well. 
 
 "You were at Saratoga," I added; "and must 
 know whether rumor has exaggerated her conduct." 
 
 "Well, Doctor," said the lady, dropping her voice, 
 and putting on the air of one who spoke in confi 
 dence. " I must say that our friend was not as discreet 
 as she might have been. Nothing wrong that is, 
 criminal of course. But the truth is, she is too fond 
 of admiration, and encourages the attentions of young 
 men a great deal more than is discreet for any mar 
 ried woman." 
 
 " There was an actual rencontre between Mr. Dewey 
 and a person he thought too familiar with his wife ?" 
 said I. 
 
 " Oh, yes. Why, it was in the newspapers ! " 
 
 " How was it made up between the parties ? " 
 
 " It isn't made up at all, I believe. There's been 
 some talk of a duel." 
 
 "A sad affair," said I. "How could Mrs. Dewey 
 have been so thoughtless?" 
 
 " She isn't prudent, by any means," answered this 
 intimate friend. " I often look at the way she con 
 ducts herself at public places, and wonder at her 
 folly." 
 
 "Folly, indeed, if her conduct strikes at the root 
 of domestic happiness." 
 
 The lady shook her head in a quiet, meaning way. 
 
LOVE'S DESOLATION. 205 
 
 . 
 
 I waited for her to put her thoughts into words, which 
 she did in a few moments after this fashion : 
 
 " There's not much domestic happiness to spoil, 
 Doctor, so far as I can see. I don't think she cares a 
 farthing for her husband ; and he seems to have his 
 mind so full of grand business schemes as to have no 
 place left for the image of his wife. At least, so I 
 read him." 
 
 " How has this matter affected their relation one to 
 the other?" 
 
 " I have not seen them together since her return, 
 and therefore cannot speak from actual observation," 
 she replied. 
 
 There was nothing very definite in all this, yet it 
 revealed such an utter abandonment of life's best 
 hopes such a desolation of love's pleasant land 
 such a dark future for one who might have been so 
 nobly blest in a true marriage union, that I turned 
 from the theme with a sad heart. 
 
206 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ALMOST daily, while the pleasant fall weather lasted, 
 did I meet the handsome carriage of Mrs. Dewey ; but 
 I noticed that she went less through the town, and 
 oftener out into the country. And I also noticed that 
 she rode alone more frequently than she had been 
 accustomed to do. Formerly, one fashionable friend 
 or another, who felt it to be an honor to sit in the car 
 riage of Mrs. Dewey, was generally to be seen in her 
 company when she went abroad. Now, the cases were 
 exceptional. I also noticed a gathering shade of 
 trouble on her face. 
 
 The fact was, opinion had commenced setting against 
 her. The unhappy affair at Saratoga was not allowed 
 
 to sleep in the public mind of S . It was conned 
 
 over, magnified, distorted, and added to, until it as 
 sumed most discreditable proportions ; and ladies who 
 respected themselves began to question whether it 
 was altogether reputable to be known as her intimate 
 friends. The less scrupulous felt the force of example 
 as set by these, and began receding also. In a large 
 city, like New York, the defection would only have 
 been partial ; for there, one can be included in many 
 fashionable circles, while only a few of them may be 
 
CHANGE FOE THE WORSE. 207 
 
 penetrated by a defaming rumor. But in a small town 
 like S , the case is different. 
 
 I was surprised when I comprehended the meaning 
 of this apparent isolation of herself by Mrs. Dewey, 
 and saw, in progress, the ban of social ostracism. 
 While I pitied the victim, I was glad that we had virtue 
 enough, even among our weak-minded votaries of 
 ftshion, to stamp with disapproval the conduct of 
 *hich she had been guilty. 
 
 " I saw Mrs. Dewey this morning," said my wife, 
 one day, late in November. " She was in at Howard's 
 making some purchases." 
 
 " Did you speak to her ? " 
 
 " Yes, we passed a few words. How much she has 
 changed!" 
 
 "For the worse?" 
 
 " Yes. She appears five years older than she did 
 last summer, and has such a sad, disappointed look, 
 that I could not help pitying her from my heart." 
 
 " There are few who need your pity more, Con 
 stance. I think she must be wretched almost beyond 
 endurance. So young, and the goblet which held the 
 wine of her life broken, and all its precious contents 
 spilled in the thirsty sand at her feet. Every one 
 seems to have receded from her." 
 
 " The common sentiment is against her ; and yet, I 
 am of those who never believed her any thing worse 
 than indiscreet." 
 
 " Her indiscretion was in itself a heinous offence 
 against good morals," said I ; " and while she has my 
 
208 
 
 compassion, I have no wish to see a different course of 
 treatment pursued towards her." 
 
 " I haven't much faith in the soundness of this 
 common sentiment against her," replied Constance. 
 " There is in it some self-righteousness, a good deal of 
 pretended horror at her conduct, but very little real 
 virtuous indignation. It is my opinion that eight out 
 of ten of her old fashionable friends would be just as 
 intimate with her as ever, though they knew all about 
 the affair at Saratoga, if they only were in the secret. 
 It is in order to stand well with the world that they 
 lift their hands in pretended holy horror." 
 
 " We cannot expect people to act from any higher 
 principles than they possess," said I; "and it is some 
 thing gained to good morals, when even those who are 
 corrupt in heart affect to be shocked at departures 
 from virtue in their friends." 
 
 " Yes, I can see that. Still, when I look beneath 
 the surface, I feel that, so far as the motives are con 
 cerned, a wrong has been done ; and my soul stirs with 
 a feeling of pity towards Mrs. Dewey, and indignation 
 against her heartless friends. Do you know, dear, 
 that since I met her this morning, I have had serious 
 thoughts of calling upon her ? " 
 
 "You!" 
 
 Constance gave me one of her placid smiles in an 
 swer to my surprised ejaculation. 
 
 "Yes; why not?" 
 
 "What will people say?" 
 
 " I can tell you what they will not say," she replied. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
A FRIENDLY CALL. 209 
 
 " They will not say., as they do of her, that of all 
 men, I care least for my husband." 
 
 "I am not afraid of their saying that; but " 
 
 I was a little bewildered by this unexpected thought 
 on the part of my wife, and did not at first see the 
 matter clear. 
 
 " She has held herself very high, and quite aloof 
 from many of her old friends," Constance resumed. 
 " While this was the case, I have not cared to intrude 
 upon her ; although she has been kind and polite to 
 me whenever we happened to meet. Now, when the 
 summer friends who courted her are dropping away 
 like autumn leaves, a true friend may draw near and 
 help her in the trial through which she is passing." 
 
 " Right, Constance ! right !" said I, warmly. " Your 
 clearer eyes have gone down below the surface. Oh, 
 yes ; call upon her, and be her true friend, if she will 
 permit you to come near enough. There can be no loss 
 to you ; there may be great gain to her. Was there any 
 thing in her manner that encouraged you to approach ?" 
 
 " I think so. It was this, no doubt, that stirred the 
 suggestion in my mind." 
 
 Constance waited a day or two, pondering the mat 
 ter, and then made a call at the Allen House. 
 
 " How were you received?" I asked, on meeting her. 
 
 " Kindly," she said. 
 
 "But with indifference?" 
 
 " No. Mrs. Dewey was surprised, I thought, but 
 evidently pleased." 
 
 " How long did you stay?" 
 
 " Only for a short time." 
 14 
 
210 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 "What did you talk about?" 
 
 " Scarcely any thing heyond the common-place 
 topics that come up on formal visits. But I pene 
 trated deep enough into her mind to discover the 
 ' aching void' there, which she has been so vainly en 
 deavoring to fill. I do not think she meant to let me 
 see this abyss of wretchedness ; but her efforts to hide 
 it were in vain. Unhappy one ! She has been seek 
 ing to quench an immortal thirst at broken cisterns 
 which can hold no water." 
 
 " Can you do her any good, Constance?" I asked. 
 
 "If we would do good, we must put ourselves in 
 the way," she replied. " Nothing is gained by stand 
 ing afar off." 
 
 a Then you mean to call upon her again ?" 
 
 " She held my hand at parting, with such an earn 
 est pressure, and looked at me so kindly when she 
 said, ' Your visit has been very pleasant,' that I saw 
 the way plain before me." 
 
 " You will wait until she returns your call ?" 
 
 " I cannot say. It will depend upon the way things 
 shape themselves in my mind. If I can do her good, 
 I shall not stand upon etiquette." 
 
 As I came in sight of my modest little home a few 
 days afterwards, I saw the stylish carriage of Mrs. 
 Dewey dash away from my door, taking a direction 
 opposite to that by which I was approaching. 
 
 " How are the mighty fallen !" It was hardly a 
 good spirit by whom this thought was quickened, for 
 I was conscious of something like a feeling of triumph. 
 With an effort I repressed the ungenerous state of mind. 
 
THE CALL RETURNED. 211 
 
 " So your call has been returned," said I, on entering 
 our sitting room. 
 
 "Yes. How did you know?" Constance looked 
 up, smiling, but curious. 
 
 " I saw Mrs. Dewey's carriage leave our door as I 
 turned into the street. Did she come in, or only leave 
 her card?" 
 
 " She came in, and sat for half an hour." 
 
 " And made herself very agreeable, was patroniz 
 ing, and all that?" 
 
 "No nothing of the kind suggested by your words." 
 And Constance looked at me reproachfully. " She 
 was, on the contrary, quiet, subdued, and womanly. I 
 called to see her, with the manner of one who had about 
 her no consciousness of inferiority ; and she returned 
 the call, without a sign that I could regard as offensive." 
 
 " It is well," I answered, coming back into my bet 
 ter state. " If true friends can take the place of false 
 friends, who left her the moment a shadow fell upon 
 her good name, then the occasion of blame may pave 
 the way to life instead of ruin. There must be re 
 mains of early and better states covered up and hid 
 den away in her soul, but not lost : and by means of 
 these she may be saved yet, I fear, that only through 
 deep suffering will the overlying accretions of folly be 
 broken away." 
 
 " She is in the hands of one to whom all spirits are 
 precious," said Constance, meekly ; " and if we can 
 aid in His good work of restoration and salvation, 
 our reward shall be great."- 
 
 After the lapse of a week, Constance called again 
 
212 
 
 upon Mrs. Dewey. She found her in a very unhappy 
 state of mind, and failed, almost entirely, in her efforts 
 to throw a few sunbeams across the shadow by which 
 she was environed. Her reception was neither cold 
 nor cordial. 
 
 "I think," she said, "that my visit was untimely. 
 Some recent occurrence had, probably, disturbed her 
 mind so deeply, that she was not able to rise above the 
 depression that followed. I noticed a bitterness of 
 feeling about her that was not apparent on the occa 
 sion of my first call ; and a hardness of manner and 
 sentiment, that indicated a condition of mental suffer- 
 ing having its origin in a sense of wrong. Mr. Dewey 
 passed through the hall, and went out a few minutes 
 after I entered the house, and before his wife joined 
 me in the parlor. It may have been fancy ; but I 
 thought, while I sat there awaiting her appearance, 
 that I heard angry words in the room above. The 
 heavy tread of a man's foot was there ; but the sound 
 ceased all at once so did the voices. A little while 
 afterwards Mr. Dewey came down stairs, and went 
 out, as I have said. Some minutes passed before I 
 heard the rustle of Mrs. Dewey's garments. There 
 was the air of one disturbed and ill at ease about her, 
 when she entered ; and though she made an effort to 
 seem pleased, all was forced work. Poor woman ! 
 The path she selected to walk in through the world 
 has proved rough and thorny, I fear, beyond any thing 
 dreamed of in her young imagination." 
 
JOSHUA KLING. 213 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 WEEKS passed after this second visit to the Allen 
 House, but the call was not returned by Mrs. Dewey. 
 We talked the matter over, occasionally, and concluded 
 that, for some reason best known to herself, the 
 friendly overtures of Constance were not agreeable to 
 the lady. She was not often seen abroad, and when 
 she did appear, the closed windows of her carriage 
 usually hid her face from careful observation. 
 
 Of late, Mr. Dewey was away from S more 
 
 than usual, business connected with the firm of which 
 he was a member requiring his frequent presence in 
 New York. He did not remain absent over two or 
 three days at a time. 
 
 Nearly opposite to where I resided lived Mr. Joshua 
 Kling, the Cashier of the new Clinton Bank. He and 
 Mr. Dewey seemed to be on particularly friendly 
 terms. Often I noticed the visits of Mr. Dewey to 
 the Cashier's house after bank hours, and many times 
 in paying evening calls would I meet the two gentle 
 men, arm in arm, engaged in close conversation. 
 
 It was pretty generally understood in S that 
 
 the Clinton Bank was in the hands of parties in New 
 York, and that a large proportion of the discounts 
 
214 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 made were of paper bearing the endorsement of Floyd, 
 Lawson, Lee, & Co., which was passed by the direc 
 tors as the legitimate business paper received by that 
 house in its extensive business operations ; or of paper 
 drawn to the order of John Floyd & Co., given in pay 
 ment of goods manufactured at the mills in S . 
 
 It was also generally conceded that as, through their 
 partner, Mr. Dewey, this firm of Floyd, Lawson, Lee, 
 & Co., had invested a large amount of capital in 
 
 S , and by their liberality and enterprise greatly 
 
 benefited the town, they were entitled to all the favors 
 it was in the power of the bank to give ; more particu 
 larly as the firm was one of great wealth " solid as 
 gold" and the interests of the stockholders would, 
 therefore, be best served by keeping the line of dis 
 count mainly in so safe a channel. 
 
 Now and then a disappointed storekeeper, whose 
 small offerings were thrown out, would inveigh bitterly 
 against the directors, calling hard names, and pro 
 phesying "a grand explosion one of these days;" but 
 these invectives and predictions hardly ever found a 
 repetition beyond the narrow limits of his place of 
 business. 
 
 And so the splendid schemes of Ralph Dewey and 
 Company went on prospering, while he grew daily in 
 self-importance, and in offensive superciliousness to 
 ward men from whom he had nothing to expect. In 
 my own case I had little to complain of, as my contact 
 with him was generally professional, and* under cir 
 cumstances that caused a natural deference to my skill 
 as a physician. 
 
MRS. DEWEY A SUFFERER. 215 
 
 Nothing out of the ordinary range of things trans 
 pired until towards Christmas, when my wife received 
 a note from Mrs. Dewey, asking her as a special favor 
 to call at the Allen House. She was there in half an 
 hour after the note came to hand. 
 
 I was at home when she returned, and saw the mo 
 ment I looked into her face that she had been the wit 
 ness of something that had moved her deeply. 
 
 "Is anything wrong with Mrs. Dewey?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes." Her countenance took on a more serious 
 aspect. 
 
 "In what respect?" 
 
 " The story cannot be told in a sentence. I received 
 a note from her as you are aware. Its earnest brevity 
 forewarned me that the call involved something of 
 serious import ; and I was not mistaken in this conclu 
 sion. On calling, and asking for Mrs. Dewey, I no 
 ticed an air of irresolution about the servant. ' Mrs. 
 Dewey is not well,' she said, 'and I hardly think can 
 see company to-day.' 
 
 " < She is not ill, I hope ?' said I. 
 
 " ' No, ma'am ; not ill exactly, but ' and she hesi 
 tated and looked embarrassed. 
 
 "'She will see me,' I spoke confidently. 'Take 
 her my name, and I will wait here in the parlor.' 
 
 " In a few minutes the girl returned and asked me 
 to walk up stairs. I followed her to Mrs. Dewey's 
 room. She tapped lightly on the door, which was 
 opened. I passed in, and found myself alone with 
 Delia. She grasped my arm tightly as she shut the 
 door and locked it, saying as she did so, in a voice so 
 
216 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 altered from her usual tone, that it sounded strangely 
 in my ears 
 
 " ' Thank you, my friend, for coming so soon. I am 
 in deep trouble, and need a counselor as well as a 
 comforter. I can trust you for both.' 
 
 " I drew my arm around 1 her, so that by act I could 
 give more than the assurance of words, and walked 
 from the door with her to a lounge between the win 
 dows, where we sat down. Her face had a shrunken 
 aspect, like the face of one who had been sick ; and it 
 showed also the marks of great suffering. 
 
 " ' You may trust me as your own sister, Delia,' said 
 I, * and if in my power to counsel or to comfort, both 
 will be freely accorded.' 
 
 "I called her Delia, instead of Mrs. Dewey; not 
 from design, but because the old name by which I had 
 known her was first on my lips. 
 
 " I thought there was a sudden lifting of her eyes 
 as I pronounced this name. The effect, if any fol 
 lowed, was not to repel, but to draw her closer. 
 
 "'I am standing,' she said, speaking slowly and 
 solemnly, ' at the edge of a deep abyss, my way hedged 
 up on both sides, and enemies coming on behind. I 
 have not strength to spring over ; and to fall is de 
 struction. In my weakness and despair, I turn to you 
 for help. If there is help in any mortal arm, some 
 thing tells me it is in yours.' 
 
 " She did not weep, nor show strong emotion. But 
 her face was almost colorless, and presented an image 
 of woe sueh as never met my eyes, except in pictures. 
 
 "'You have heard, no doubt,' she went on, 'some 
 
CONSEQUENCES OF ERROR. 217 
 
 of the stories to my discredit which have been circu 
 lated in S . That I was gay and imprudent at 
 
 Saratoga, cannot be denied gay and imprudent as 
 are too many fashionable women, under the exciting 
 allurements of the place. Little fond flirtations with 
 gentlemen made up a part of our pastime there. But 
 as for sin it was not in my thoughts ! ' She said this 
 with an emphasis that assured me of its truth. 4 A 
 mere life of fashionable pleasure is a great exhauster 
 of resources. One tires of this excitement and of 
 that, pushing them aside, as a child does an old or 
 broken toy, to grasp after something new. It is not 
 surprising, therefore, that mere pleasure-seeking wo 
 men forget at times the just proprieties of life, and, 
 before they are aware of danger, find themselves in 
 very equivocal positions. This was simply my case. 
 Nothing more nothing less.' 
 
 " She paused and looked earnestly into my face, to 
 see if I credited this assertion. 
 
 " 'I have never believed any thing else,' said I. 
 
 " A faint, sad smile flitted across her wan face. 
 
 "'The consequences of this error on my part/ she 
 went on, 'threaten to be of the most disastrous kind. 
 My husband has ever since conducted himself towards 
 me as if I were a guilty and disgraced thing. We 
 occupy separate apartments ; and though we sit toge 
 ther at the same table, words rarely pass between us. 
 Occasionally he comes home under the influence of 
 wine, and then his abuse of me is fearful to think of 
 If any thing could waken a thoughtless creature sleep 
 ing on enchanted ground, it was this.' 
 
218 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " ' There has never been anything more than the 
 semblance of love between us,' she continued. ' The 
 more intimately I came to know him, after our marriage, 
 the more did my soul separate itself from him, until 
 the antipodes were not farther apart than we. So we 
 lived on ; I seeking a poor compensation in fashionable 
 emulations aud social triumphs ; and he in grand 
 business enterprises castles in the air perhaps. Liv 
 ing thus, we have conie to this point in our journey ; 
 and now the crisis has arrived !' 
 
 " She paused. 
 
 "'What crisis?' I asked. 
 
 " i He demands a separation/ Her voice choked 
 'a divorce ' 
 
 " < On what ground ?' 
 
 " ' On legal ground.' She bent down, covered her 
 face, and uttered a groan so full of mental anguish, 
 that I almost shuddered as the sound penetrated my 
 ears. 
 
 " ' I am to remain passive,' she resumed, while he 
 charges me before the proper court, with infidelity, 
 and gains a divorce through failure on my part to 
 stand forth and defend myself. This, or a public trial 
 of the case, at which he pledges himself to have wit 
 nesses who will prove me criminal, is my dreadful 
 alternative. If he gains a divorce quietly on the 
 charge of infidelity, I am wronged and disgraced ; and 
 if successful in a public trial, through perjured witnesses, 
 the wrong and disgrace will be more terrible. Oh, my 
 friend ! pity and counsel me.' 
 
THE STRENGTH OF INNOCENCE. 219 
 
 " ' There is one,' said I, < better able to stand your 
 friend in a crisis like this than I am.' 
 
 " < Who ?' She looked up anxiously. 
 
 "< Your father.' 
 
 "A shadow fell over her face, and she answered 
 mournfully, 
 
 " ' Even he is against me. How it is I cannot tell ; 
 but my husband seems to have my father completely 
 under his influence.' 
 
 " ' Your mother ?' I suggested. 
 
 " ' Can only weep with me. I have no adviser, and 
 my heart beats so wildly all the time, that thought 
 confuses itself whenever it makes an effort to see the 
 right direction. Fear of a public trial suggests passive 
 endurance of wrong on my part; but an innate sense 
 of justice cries out against this course, and urges me 
 to resistance.' 
 
 " ' If you are innocent,' said I, firmly, ' in the name 
 and strength of innocence defend yourself ! All that 
 a woman holds dearest is at stake. If they drive you 
 to this great extremity, do not shrink from the trial.' 
 
 " < But what hope have I in such- a trial if false 
 witnesses come up against me?' 
 
 " ' God and justice are stronger than all the powers 
 of evil,' said I. 
 
 " ' They might be, in your case,' she answered, 
 mournfully ; i for you have made God your friend, and 
 justice your strong tower. But I what have I to 
 hope for in God ? He has not been in all my thoughts ; 
 and now will He not mock at my calamity ?' 
 
 " * No no, my unhappy friend !' I answered. ' He 
 
220 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 never turns from any ; it is we who turn from Him. 
 His tender mercy is over all His works. All human 
 souls are alike precious in His eyes. If you trust in 
 Him, you need not fear your bitterest enemies.' 
 
 "< How shall I trust in him ?' 
 
 " She bent towards me' eagerly. 
 
 "' In the simple work of doing right,' said I. 
 
 "'Doing right?' 
 
 " She did not clearly understand me. 
 
 " ' Do you think it would be right to let a charge of 
 crime lie, unrepelled, against you ; a great crime, such 
 as is alleged destroying your good name, and throw 
 ing a shadow of disgrace over your children !' 
 
 *" No,' was her unhesitating reply. 
 
 " ' Then it would be wrong for you to suffer a di 
 vorce to issue on the ground of infidelity, without a 
 defence of yourself by every legal means in your 
 power. Do right, then, in so defending yourself, and 
 trust in God for the result.' 
 
 " ' I shudder at the bare thought of a public trial,' 
 she answered. 
 
 " i Don't think of anything but right action,' said I. 
 * If you would have the Hosts of Heaven on your side, 
 give them power by doing the right; and they will 
 surely achieve for you the victory over all your ene 
 mies. Have any steps been taken by Mr. Dewey ?" 
 
 "'I fear so.' 
 
 " ' How long is it since your husband entertained 
 this purpose ?' 
 
 " * I think it has been growing in his mind ever 
 since that unhappy affair at Saratoga.' 
 
THE CRIMINAL LETTER. 221 
 
 " As she said this, her thoughts seemed to turn 
 aside upon something else, and she sat looking down 
 upon the floor in a state of deep abstraction. At last, 
 taking a long breath, she looked up, and said with 
 trembling lips and a husky voice, 
 
 " ' I have something more to tell you. There is 
 another aspect to this miserable affair.' 
 
 "And she drew forth a crumpled letter. 
 
 " ' I found this, sealed, and directed, lying on the 
 floor of my husband's room, two days ago. It is in 
 his hand writing ; addressed to a lady in New York, 
 and signed R. D. I will read you its contents.' And 
 she unfolded the letter, and read : 
 
 "'My dearest Caroline,' it began; and then went 
 on for a few paragraphs, in a lover-like strain ; after 
 which, the divorce from the writer's wife was referred 
 to as a thing of speedy attainment, there being little 
 fear of opposition on her part, as he had given her to 
 understand that he had witnesses ready to prove her 
 criminal conduct, if she dared to resist his will in the 
 matter. 'A few months of patient waiting, dearest 
 Caroline,' was the concluding sentence, ' and then for 
 that happy consummation we have so long desired.' 
 
 " l What do you think of that ?' asked poor Delia, 
 looking almost wildly into my face. 
 
 " ' I think,' said I, ' that you hold in your hands 
 the means of safety. Your v husband will not dare to 
 force you into a defensive position, when he learns 
 that you have this document in your possession. It 
 would tell strongly against him and his perjured wit 
 nesses if produced in court. Then take heart, my 
 
222 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 friend. This worst evil that you dreaded will not 
 come to pass. If a divorce is granted, it will have to 
 be on some different allegation.' 
 
 " She grasped my hand, and said, < Oh, do you 
 think so ? Do you think so ?' ' 
 
 " ' I am sure of it,' was my confident answer. * Sure 
 of it. Why the man would only damage his cause, 
 and disgrace himself, by venturing into a trial with a 
 witness like this against him.' ' 
 
 " ' Oh, bless you for such confidently assuring 
 words !' and the poor creature threw herself forward, 
 and laid her face upon my bosom. For the first time 
 she wept, and for a season, oh how wildly ! You will 
 not wonder that my tears fell almost as fast as hers. 
 
 "'I turned in my despair to you,' she said, on 
 growing calm, * you whom I loved, and almost revered, 
 in the earlier and better days of my life, and my heart 
 tells me that I have not turned in vain. Into the 
 . darkness that surrounded me like the pall of death, a 
 little light has already penetrated.' >: 
 
 " May it shine unto the perfect day !" I answered 
 fervently. 
 
 " And, dear husband ! it will shine," said Con 
 stance, a glow of enthusiasm lighting up her face, and 
 giving it a new beauty, " even unto the perfect day ! 
 Not the perfect day of earthly bliss for I think the 
 sun of that day has gone down never to rise again for 
 her but the perfect day of that higher life, which to 
 many comes not, except through the gates of tribula 
 tion." 
 
WORLDLY PRUDENCE. 223 
 
 CHAPTER XXII.y-r' 
 
 I WAS shocked and distressed by the painful revela 
 tion which Mrs. Dewey had made to Constance. A 
 sadder history in real life I had never heakL 
 
 A few days after this memorable visit to the Allen 
 House, a note was received by my wife, containing this 
 single word, " Come" and signed DELIA. 
 
 "Any change in the aspect of affairs?" I inquired 
 of Constance on her return. 
 
 "Yes. Mrs. Dewey has received notice, in due 
 form, of her husband's application for a divorce." 
 
 "What has she done?" 
 
 " Nothing yet. It was to ask my advice as to her 
 best course that she sent for me." 
 
 "And what advice did you give her ?" 
 
 " I gave none. First, I must consult you." 
 
 I shook my head and replied, 
 
 " It will not do for me to be mixed up in this affair, 
 Constance." 
 
 Worldly prudence spoke there. 
 
 My wife laid her hand upon my arm, and looking 
 calmly in my face, said, 
 
 " The right way is always a safe way." 
 
 " Granted." 
 
224 TWENTY TEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " It will be right for you to give such advice as your 
 judgment dictates, and therefore safe, I do not know 
 much about law matters, but it occurs to me that her 
 first step should be the employment of counsel." 
 
 " Is her father going to stand wholly aloof?" I in 
 quired. 
 
 " Yes, if she "be resolved to defend herself in open 
 court. He will not sanction a course that involves so 
 much disgrace of herself and family." 
 
 " Has she shown him the letter you saw ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I think she is afraid to let it go out of her hands." 
 
 " She might trust it with her father, surely," said I. 
 
 " Her father has been very hard with her ; and 
 seems to take the worst for granted. He evidently 
 believes that it is in the power of Dewey to prove her 
 guilty ; and that if she makes any opposition to his 
 application for a divorce, he will hold her up disgraced 
 before the world." 
 
 " This letter might open his eyes." 
 
 " The letter is no defence of her ; only a witness 
 against him. It does not prove her innocence. If it 
 did, then it would turn toward her a father's averted 
 face. In court its effect will be to throw doubt upon 
 the sincerity of her husband's motives, and to show that 
 he had a reason, back of alleged infidelity, for wishing 
 to be divorced from his wife." 
 
 "I declare, Constance !" said I, lookitg at my wife 
 in surprise, " you have taken upon yourself a new 
 character. I think the case is safe in your hands, and 
 
WALLINGFORD RECOMMENDED AS ADVISER. 225 
 
 that Mrs. Dewey wants no more judicious friend. If 
 you were a man, you might conduct the defence for her 
 to a successful issue." 
 
 " I am not a man, and, therefore, I come to a man," 
 she replied, " and ask the aid of his judgment. I go 
 by a very straight road to conclusions ; but I want the 
 light of your reason upon these conclusions." 
 
 " I am not a lawyer as you are aware, Constance 
 only a doctor." 
 
 " You are a man with a heart and common sense," 
 she answered, with just a little shade of rebuke in her 
 tones, " and as God has put in your way a wretched 
 human soul that may be lost, unless you stretch forth 
 a saving hand, is there any room for question as to 
 duty ? There is none, my husband ! Squire Floyd 
 believes his daughter guilty ; and while he rests in this 
 conclusion, he will not aid her in anything that points 
 to exposure and disgrace. She must, therefore, if a 
 vigorous defence is undertaken, look elsewhere for aid 
 and comfort." 
 
 I began to see the matter a little clearer. 
 
 "Mr. Wallingford is the best man I know." 
 
 "Mr. Wallingford!" I thought Constance would 
 have looked me through. 
 
 "Mr. Wallingford!" she repeated, still gazing 
 steadily into my face. " Are you jesting ?" 
 
 "No," I replied calmly. "In a case that involves 
 so much, she wants a wise and good defender ; and I 
 do not know of any man upon whom she could so 
 thoroughly rely." 
 
 Constance dropped her eyes to the floor. 
 
226 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 "It would not do," she said, after some moments. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Their former relation to each other precludes its 
 possibility." 
 
 " But, you must remember, Constance, that Delia 
 never knew how deeply he was once attached to her." 
 
 " She knows that he offered himself." 
 
 " And that, in a very short time afterwards, he met 
 her with as much apparent indifference as if she had 
 never been to him more than a pleasant acquaintance. 
 Of the struggle through which he passed, in the work 
 qf obliterating her image from his mind, she knows 
 nothing." 
 
 "But he knows it," objected Constance. 
 
 " And what does that signify ? Will he defend her 
 less skillfully on this account ? Rather will he not 
 feel a stronger interest in the case ?" 
 
 " I do not think that she will employ him to defend 
 her," said Constance. " I would not, were the case 
 mine." 
 
 "Womanly pride spoke there, Constance." 
 
 " Or rather say a manly lack of perception in your 
 case." 
 
 "Perception of what?" 
 
 " Of the fitness of things," she answered. 
 
 " That is just what I do see," I returned. " There 
 
 is no man in S better fitted for conducting this 
 
 case than Mr. Wallingford." 
 
 " She will never place it in his hands ; you may take 
 a woman's word for that," said my wife confidently. 
 " Of all living men he is the last one to whom she 
 
GOOD COUNSEL. 227 
 
 could talk of the humiliating particulars involved in a 
 case like this." 
 
 " Suppose you suggest his name to her. Twelve 
 years of such a life as she has led may have almost 
 obliterated the memory of that passage in her life." 
 
 " Don't believe it. A woman never forgets a pas 
 sage like that ; particularly when the events of every 
 passing day but serve to remind her of the error she 
 once committed." 
 
 "I don't know what else to advise," saidl!. " She 
 ought to have a good and' discreet man to represent 
 her, or all may be lost." 
 
 " Would you have any objection to confer with Mr. 
 Wallingford on the subject in a private, confidential 
 way?" 
 
 "None in the world," I replied. 
 
 "Will you see him at once ?" The interest of Con 
 stance was too strongly excited to brook delay. 
 
 " Yes, immediately." 
 
 And putting on my overcoat I went to the office of 
 Mr. Wallingford. I found him alone, and at once laid 
 the whole case before him relating, with particular 
 ity, all that had occurred between my wife and Mrs. 
 Dewey. He -listened with deep and pitying attention ; 
 and when I was through, expressed his opinion of 
 Dewey in very strong language. 
 
 " And now what is to be done ?" I asked, going at 
 once to the vital question. 
 
 " Your wife is right," he answered. " I can hardly 
 become her advocate. It would involve humiliation 
 on her part too deep to be borne. But my aid she 
 
228 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 shall have to the fullest extent ; and it will be strange 
 if I do not thwart his wicked scheme." 
 
 " How will you aid her ?" 
 
 " Through her right attorney, if my advice as to the 
 choice be followed. You know James Orton ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " He is a young man to be relied upon. Let Mrs. 
 Dewey put the case in his hands. If she does so, it 
 will be, virtually, in mine." 
 
 "Enough, Mr. Wallingford," said I. "It looks 
 more hopeful for our poor unhappy friend, against 
 whom even her own flesh and blood have turned." 
 
 When I gave Constance the result of my interview 
 with Mr. Wallingford, she was quite elated at the pros 
 pect of securing his most valuable aid for Mrs. Dewey. 
 Orton was young, and had been practising at the bar 
 for only a couple of years. Up to this time he had 
 not appeared in any case of leading importance ; and 
 had, therefore, no established reputation. Our fear 
 was that Mrs. Dewey might not be willing to place her 
 case in such inexperienced hands. In order to have 
 the matter settled with as little delay as possible, Con 
 stance paid an early visit to the Allen House, and 
 suggested Mr. Orton as counsel. Mrs. Dewey had 
 not even heard his name ; but, after being assured that 
 I had the fullest confidence in him, and particularly 
 advised his employment, she consented to accept of 
 his services. 
 
 Their first interview was arranged to take place at 
 my house, and in the presence of my wife, when the 
 notice Mrs. Dewey had received on the institution of 
 
ANSWER TO THE DIVORCE. 229 
 
 proceedings, was placed in the young lawyer's hands, 
 and some conversation had as to the basis and tenor 
 of an answer. A second interview took place on the 
 day following, at which Mrs. Dewey gave a full state 
 ment of the affair at Saratoga, and asserted her inno 
 cence in the most solemn and impressive manner. The 
 letter from her hushand to the lady in New York, was 
 produced, and at the request of Mr. Orton, given into 
 his possession. 
 
 The answer to Mr. Dewey's application for a divorce 
 was drawn up by Mr. Wallingford, who entered with 
 great earnestness into the matter. It was filed in 
 court within a week after notice of the application 
 was received. This was altogether unexpected by the 
 husband, who, on becoming aware of the fact, lost all 
 decent control of himself, and ordered his wretched 
 wife to leave his house. This, however, she refused to 
 do. Then she had her father's angry opposition to 
 brave. But she remained firm. 
 
 "He will cover you with infamy, if you dare to 
 persevere in this mad opposition," he said. 
 
 And she answered 
 
 " The infamy may recoil upon his own head. I am 
 innocent I will not be such a traitor to virtue as to 
 let silence declare me guilty." 
 
 There was a pause, now, for a few weeks. The un 
 happy state of affairs at the Allen House made it 
 hardly proper for my wife to continue her visits there, 
 and Mrs. Dewey did not venture to call upon her. 
 The trial of the case would not come up for some two 
 
230 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 or three months, and both parties were waiting, in 
 stern resolution, for the approaching contest. 
 
 One day I received a message from Mrs. Dewey, 
 desiring me to call and see two of her children who 
 were sick. On visiting them the two youngest I 
 found them seriously ill, with symptoms so like scar- 
 letina, that I had little question in my mind as to the 
 character of the disease from which they were suffer 
 ing. My second visit confirmed these fears. 
 
 "It is scarlet fever?" said Mrs. Dewey, looking at 
 me calmly, as I moved from the bed-side after a care 
 ful examination of the two little ones. 
 
 I merely answered 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 There was no change in her countenance. 
 
 " They are both very ill." 
 
 She spoke with a slow deliberateness, that was un 
 usual to her. 
 
 "They are sick children," said I. 
 
 " Sick, it may be, unto death." 
 
 There was no emotion in her voice. 
 
 I looked at her without replying. 
 
 " I can see them die, Doctor, if that must be." 
 
 Oh, that icy coldness of manner, how it chilled me ! 
 
 " No hand but mine shall tend them now, Doctor. 
 They have been long enough in the care of others 
 neglected almost forgotten by their unworthy mo 
 ther. But in this painful extremity I will be near 
 them. I come back to the post of duty, even at this 
 late hour, and all that is left for me, that will I. do." 
 
 I was deeply touched by her words and manner. 
 
CALM INTERVIEW. 231 
 
 The latter softened a little as she uttered the closing 
 sentence. fc 
 
 " You look at the darkest side," I answered. " With 
 God are the issues of life. He calls us, our children, 
 or our friends, in His own good time. We cannot tell 
 how any sickness will terminate; and hope for the 
 best is always our truest state." 
 
 "I hope for the best," she replied: but with some 
 thing equivocal in her voice. 
 
 "The best is life," I said, scarcely reflecting upon 
 my words. 
 
 " Not always," she returned, still speaking calmly. 
 "Death is often the highest blessing that God can 
 give. It will be so in the present case." 
 
 "Madam!" 
 
 My tone of surprise did not move her. 
 
 "It is simply true, Doctor," she made answer. 
 " As things are now, and as they promise to be in the 
 future, the safest place for these helpless innocents is 
 in Heaven ; and I feel that their best Friend is about 
 to remove them there through the door of sickness." 
 
 I could not bear to hear her talk in this way. It 
 sent cold chills through me. So I changed the subject. 
 
 On the next day, all the symptoms were unfavor 
 able. Mrs. Dewey was calm as when I last saw her ; 
 but it was plain from her appearance, that she had 
 taken little if any rest. Her manner towards the sick 
 babes was full of tenderness ; but there was no be 
 trayal of weakness or distress in view of a fatal ter 
 mination. She made no anxious inquiries, such as 
 are pressed on physicians in cases of dangerous illness ; 
 
TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 but received my directions, and promised to give them 
 a careful observance, with a self-possession that showed 
 not a sign of wavering strength. 
 
 I was touched by all this. How intense must have 
 been the suffering that could so benumb the heart ! 
 that could prepare a mother to sit by the couch of 
 her sick babes, and be willing to see them die ! I 
 have witnessed many sad scenes in professional expe 
 rience ; but none so sad as this. 
 
 Steadily did the destroyer keep on with his work. 
 There were none of those nattering changes that some 
 times cheat us into hopes of recovery, but a regular 
 daily accumulation of the most unfavorable symptoms. 
 At the end of a week, I gave up all hope of saving 
 the children, and made no more vain attempts to con 
 trol a disease that had gone on from the beginning, 
 steadily breaking away the foundations of life. To 
 diminish the suffering of my little patients, and make 
 their passage from earth to Heaven as easy as possible, 
 was now my only care. 
 
 On the mother's part, there was no sign of wavering. 
 Patiently, tenderly, faithfully did she minister to her 
 little ones, night and day. No lassitude or weariness 
 appeared, though her face, which grew paler and thin 
 ner every day, told the story of exhausting nature. 
 She continued in the same state of mind I have de 
 scribed ; never for an instant, as far as I could see, 
 receding from a full consent to their removal. 
 
 One morning, in making my usually early call at 
 the Allen House, I saw, what I was not unprepared to 
 sec, a dark death sign on the door. 
 
BOTH DEAD. 233 
 
 "All over?" I said to the servant who admitted 
 me. 
 
 " Yes, sir, all is over," she replied. 
 
 "Both gone?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, both." 
 
 Tears were in her eyes. 
 
 "When did they die?"' 
 
 "About midnight." 
 
 " At the same time ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. Dear little souls ! They went toge 
 ther." 
 
 " I will go up to see them," said I. 
 
 And the girl showed me to the room in which they 
 were laid. The door was closed. I opened it, and 
 stepped in softly. The room was darkened ; but light 
 came in through a small opening in the curtains at the 
 top of the window, and fell in a narrow circle around 
 the spot where the bodies, already in their snowy grave 
 clothes, were laid. In a chair beside them sat the 
 mother. She was alone with her dead. I felt that I 
 was an intruder upon a sorrow too deep for tears or 
 words ; but it was too late to recede. So I moved 
 forward and stood by the bedside, looking down upon 
 the two white little faces, from which had passed every 
 line of suffering. 
 
 Mrs. Dewey neither stirred nor spoke, nor in any 
 way gave token that she was aware of my presence in 
 the room. I stood for over a minute looking upon the 
 sweet images before me for in them, death had put 
 on forms of beauty and still there was no movement 
 on the part of Mrs. Dewey. Then, feeling that she 
 
234 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 was with One who could speak to her heart by 
 an inner way, better than I could speak through 
 the natural ear, I quietly receded and left the apart 
 ment. As my eyes rested on her a moment, in closing 
 the door, I saw that her form remained as still as a 
 statue. 
 
HOW CHANGED! 235 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 AN hour later, when Constance went to see Mrs. 
 Dewey, she found her in a state of unconsciousness, 
 nature having at last given way. Not long after I 
 left the house, her mother, on entering the room where 
 . -the children were laid out, found her insensible, lying 
 across the bed, with her dead babes clasped in her 
 arms. 
 
 Mrs. Floyd sent word for me to come and see her 
 daughter, as she continued in a lethargic state. I 
 found her like one in a deep sleep, only her breathing 
 was light, and her pulse very feeble, but regular. She 
 was out of the reach of my skill, and in the hands of 
 the Great Physician. I could only trust the cure to 
 Him. No medicine for the body would be of any 
 avail here. I called again in the afternoon ; but found 
 no change. How little was there in the pale, pinched 
 face that lay among the white pillows, to remind me 
 of the handsome, dashing Mrs. Dewey, of a year gone 
 by! 
 
 " What do you think of her, Doctor ?" 
 
 Mrs. Floyd put the question. The tone had in it 
 something that made me look narrowly into the 
 speaker's face. My ears had not deceived- me. 
 
236 
 
 There was the wish in her heart that Delia might 
 die! 
 
 I was not surprised at this. And yet the revela 
 tion of such a state of feeling, in so good and true a 
 woman, as I had reason to know Mrs. Floyd to be, 
 made my heart bound with a throb of pain. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! Into what unnatural conditions may not 
 the mind fall, through suffering that shuts out human 
 hope ! 
 
 " Nature," said I, in answer to the question of Mrs. 
 Floyd, " may be only gathering up her powers after a 
 long period of exhaustion. The strife through which 
 your daughter has passed calmly passed to all exter 
 nal seeming has not been without a wasting of inter 
 nal life. How she kept on so evenly to the end, passes 
 my comprehension. There is not one woman in a 
 thousand who could have so borne herself through to 
 the final act. It is meet that she should rest now." 
 
 " If she were sleeping with her babes, happy would 
 it be for her !" 
 
 Tears fell over the face of Mrs. Floyd. 
 
 " God knows what is best," I remarked. 
 
 "She has nothing to live for in this world." A sob 
 broke from its repression, and heaved the mother's 
 bosom. " Doctor, if I saw the death dews on her 
 brow, I would not weep !" 
 
 " Leave her, my dear friend," said I, " in the hands 
 of Him who sees deeper into the heart than it is possible 
 for our eyes to penetrate. Her feet have left the soft, 
 flowery ways they trod for a time, and turned into 
 rough paths, where every footfall is upon sharp stones ; 
 
THE STRENGTH OF INNOCENCE. 237 
 
 but it may be that a blessed land is smiling beyond. 
 She has been astray in the world, and God may only 
 be leading her homeward by the way of sorrow." 
 
 Mrs. Floyd wept freely as I talked. 
 
 "His will be done," she said, sobbing. 
 
 "Your daughter," said I, taking the occasion to bear 
 my testimony on the favorable side, " has been wronged 
 without question. She was doubtless imprudent, but 
 not sinful ; and the present attempt to disgrace her I 
 regard as a cruel wrong. It will recoil, I trust, in a 
 way not dreamed of." 
 
 " Doctor, let me thank you for such words !" 
 
 And Mrs. Floyd caught my arm with an eager move 
 ment. 
 
 " I speak soberly, madam, and from observation and 
 reflection. And I trust to see Delia live and triumph 
 over her enemies." 
 
 " Won't you talk with the Squire, Doctor ?" She 
 still grasped my arm. " He will not hear a word from 
 me in favor of Delia. Mr. Dewey has completely 
 blinded him." 
 
 "Wait patiently, Mrs. Floyd," said I, in a tone of 
 encouragement. " Your daughter is not without friends. 
 There are those upon her side, who have the will and 
 the power to defend her; and they will defend her, I 
 believe successfully." 
 
 A sigh fluttered through the room, causing us both 
 to turn quickly towards the bed on which Mrs. Dewey 
 was lying. Her lips were moving slightly ; but no 
 change appeared on her death-like face. I laid my 
 fingers upon her wrist, and searched for her pulse. It 
 
238 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 was very low and thread-like ; but with more vitality 
 than on the occasion of my first visit to her in the 
 morning. 
 
 " The signs are favorable." 
 
 Mrs. Floyd did not respond. She was looking at 
 her daughter with an expression of unutterable grief 
 upon her countenance. 
 
 I did not attempt to give medicine, but left unerring 
 nature to do her own work. 
 
 Mrs. Dewey did not again look upon the faces of 
 her dead children. They were buried ere her mind 
 awoke to any knowledge of passing events. I was at 
 the funeral, and closely observed her husband. He 
 appeared very sober, and shed some tears at the grave, 
 when the little coffins were lowered together into the 
 earth. 
 
 It was a week before Mrs. Dewey was clearly con 
 scious of external things. I visited her every day, 
 watching, with deep interest, her slow convalescence. 
 It was plain, as her mind began to recover its faculties, 
 that the memory of a sad event had faded ; and I was 
 anxious for the effect, when this painful remembrance 
 was restored. 
 
 One day I found her sitting up in her room. She 
 smiled feebly as I came in, and said : 
 
 "Doctor, am I never going to get well ? It seems 
 like an age since I became sick." 
 
 " You are getting on finely," I answered, in a cheer 
 ful way, sitting down by her and taking her hand, 
 which was wasted and shadowy. 
 
 "I don't know about that, Doctor," she said. 
 
FEARFUL DREAMS. 239 
 
 " What makes me so weak ? I've no more strength 
 than a babe. And that reminds me of a frightful 
 dream I had." And her countenance changed. 
 
 "A dream?" I queried. 
 
 " Yes ; I thought Aggy and Lu were both dead ! I 
 saw them laid out, cold and white as statues, just as 
 plainly as I see you now." 
 
 She stopped suddenly, an expression of fear going 
 over her face then looked at me in a strange, ques 
 tioning way. 
 
 "Doctor" she leaned towards me, with lips apart, 
 and eyes full of a sudden, wild alarm. I laid my hand 
 upon her, and said : 
 
 " You have been very ill for some time, Mrs. Dewey, 
 and are too weak to bear excitement. Don't let mere 
 dreams disturb you." 
 
 " Dreams ?" Her eyes fell from mine. " Dreams ?" 
 she repeated. " I feel very weak, Doctor," was added, 
 after a few moments. " Won't you assist me to lie 
 down ?" 
 
 And she made a movement to rise. I took her arm 
 and supported her to the bed, where she quietly com 
 posed herself, and turned her face away, so as almost 
 to hide it from my view. At this moment Mrs. Floyd 
 came in, and I withdrew, leaving them together. 
 
 Memory had been restored. The accompanying 
 shock was severe, but not heavy enough seriously to 
 retard her recovery, which went on slowly. She still 
 remained at the Allen House, rarely meeting her 
 husband, who now spent a large part of his time in 
 New York. 
 
240 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 The period fixed for a trial of the case between them 
 was fast approaching. He continued resolute, and she 
 did not waver from her purpose to defend her good 
 name. The deep interest I took in the case, led me to 
 see Mr. Wallingford often, and make inquiry as to the 
 evidence which could be produced in Mrs. Dewey's 
 favor, and the probable chances of an honorable result. 
 We both favored a settlement of the difficulty without 
 a trial and its consequent exposure, if that were possi 
 ble. But how to prevent this was the difficult question. 
 Finally it was determined to make a copy of the letter 
 found by Mrs. Dewey, and enclose it to her husband, 
 giving him warning at the same time that the original 
 would be produced at the trial. 
 
 Nothing was heard in response to this movement, 
 until within a week of the day on which the case was 
 expected to come up, when Mr. Dewey's lawyer called 
 on Mr. Orton to know if it was still his intention to 
 meet them in open court and resist their application 
 for a divorce. On being assured that such was their 
 purpose, he expressed some regret at the consequent 
 damage to the lady's reputation, as they had evidence 
 against her of the most conclusive character. Finally 
 he wished to know whether, in case a new ground were 
 taken one not touching the lady's good name any 
 opposition would be made. Mr. Orton said that he 
 would consult his client, and answer the query with as 
 little delay as practicable. 
 
 Mrs. Dewey expressed a willingness to remain pas 
 sive, provided no allegations were made in the new bill 
 that even remotely cast a shadow upon her virtue. 
 
A DIVORCE OBTAINED. 241 
 
 But Mr. Wallingford, on taking the matter into fur 
 ther consideration, advised a different course altogether 
 no less than an application from the other side, on 
 the ground of neglect, ill-treatment, and constructive 
 conjugal infidelity, based on the important letter 
 already referred to. Mrs. Dewey caught eagerly at 
 this suggestion, as soon as it was presented to her. If 
 a divorce were thus obtained, her vindication would be 
 complete. 
 
 The ranks of the enemy were thrown into confusion 
 by this diversion. Mr. Dewey was violent, and threat 
 ened most terrible consequences. But when the time 
 set for the case to come up arrived, he failed to ap 
 pear. 
 
 It was from the other side that the next movement 
 came. A divorce was applied for on the part of Mrs. 
 Dewey, in a bill carefully drawn up by Mr. Walling 
 ford. It asked not only for a legal separation from 
 her husband, but for alimony, and the possession of 
 the two remaining children. An answer was filed; 
 but it was of so feeble a character as to amount to 
 scarcely anything in the way of opposition. The chief 
 argument was directed against the claim for alimony. 
 The result was as we had anticipated. In the follow 
 ing spring a divorce was granted, and Mrs. Dewey, 
 with her two children, left the Allen House and re 
 turned to her father's. The maintenance allowed by 
 the court, was one thousand dollars a year for herself, 
 and five hundred a year for each of the children during 
 their minority. 
 
 And so closed this exciting drama, begun in weak- 
 16 
 
242 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 ness, and ending in hopeless disaster. Oh, a few 
 years ! How many broken hearts do they close over ? 
 How many wrecks of goodly lives do they see scattered 
 among the breakers ! 
 
 The interposition of Mr. Wallingford, in this case, 
 was so managed as to keep him entirely out of sight, 
 and Mrs. Dewey was never made aware of the fact 
 that he had rendered her a great service. 
 
MATRIMONIAL RUMOR. 243 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 WE did not see a great deal of Mr. Dewey in 
 S for some months after this. I heard it casu 
 ally remarked that he was traveling in the South 
 and West, for a part of the time, on business. The 
 large interests of his firm involved in the two mills, 
 however, made his presence necessary among us, and 
 late in the fall he came back, and remained through 
 the winter residing at the Allen House. 
 
 In the spring a rumor got afloat that Mr. Dewey 
 was soon to be married. A lady in New. York was 
 mentioned ; the same, it was said, to whom the letter 
 found by Mrs. Dewey was addressed. A few signs of 
 renovation at the Allen House gave confirmation of 
 this rumor, which at length assumed a more positive 
 shape. 
 
 The intimacy between Mrs. Wallingford and Con 
 stance, had grown into a close interior friendship, and 
 scarcely a week passed that an evening was not spent 
 by them together, sometimes at our house, and some 
 times at Ivy Cottage. Mr. Wallingford had developed 
 into a man after my own heart ; and so I shared, when 
 professional engagements allowed, in the enjoyment 
 of these pleasant seasons. 
 
244 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 One evening Mr. and Mrs. Wallingford came round 
 to spend an hour with us. I was happily at leisure. 
 Conversation naturally falls into the current of passing 
 events, and on this occasion, the approaching marriage 
 of Mr. Dewey came naturally into the field of topics. 
 This led to a review of the many strange circumstan 
 ces connected with Mrs. Wallingford's presence in 
 
 S , and naturally, to an inquiry from my wife 
 
 as to the present position of the property left by Cap 
 tain Allen. 
 
 " What about this young Garcia ?" said Constance, 
 addressing Mr. Wallingford. " I haven't heard of him 
 for some time." 
 
 "He is at school yet, I believe," replied Mr. Wall 
 ingford, not showing much interest in the matter. 
 
 " He must be nearly of age," said I. 
 
 " About twenty, if his years were correctly given." 
 
 " He will come into the possession of a handsome 
 property," I remarked. 
 
 " Yes, if it can be found by the time he is ready to 
 receive it." 
 
 " Can be found ! I don't comprehend you, Mr. 
 Wallingford ? Do you mean to question the integrity 
 of the men who are executors to the estate ?" 
 
 " No. But, they have embarked in the same vessel 
 with an unscrupulous villain so I regard Ralph 
 Dewey and have, as far as I can see, given the rud 
 der into his hands. If he do not wreck them on some 
 dangerous coast, or sunken rock, it will be more from 
 good fortune than anything else." 
 
 " He is partner in a very wealthy firm," said I. 
 
MERCANTILE DISHONOR. 245 
 
 " The standing of Floyd, Lawson, Lee & Co., is, you 
 know, undoubted. He can't wreck out friends Bigelow 
 and Floyd, without ruining them also." 
 
 " I was in New York a few months ago, on busi 
 ness," Mr. Wallingford replied, " and it so happened, 
 that I heard the firm of which Dewey is a partner 
 spoken of. Among other remarks, was this : ' They 
 are thought to be very much extended.' ' 
 
 "What is the meaning of that?" asked Mrs. Wal 
 lingford. 
 
 " It is understood in business circles," replied her 
 husband, " to mean, that a house is doing too much 
 business for the amount of capital employed, and that 
 it has issued, in consequence, a large amount of paper. 
 Any very heavy losses to a firm in this condition might 
 prove disastrous." 
 
 "Too much extended?" said I, thoughtfully, some 
 new impressions forming themselves in my mind. 
 
 " Yes, that was the opinion held by the individual I 
 refer to ; and he was not one to speak carelessly on so 
 grave a matter." 
 
 " If the house of Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co. should 
 go down," I remarked, "there will be sad work in 
 
 " There will, without any doubt," replied Mr. Wal 
 lingford. 
 
 " The executors to the Allen estate might find them 
 selves in a most unfortunate position," said I. 
 
 " Such a position as I would not be in, for all the 
 world. Any thing but dishonor ! " 
 
 "How dishonor?" asked Constance. 
 
246 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " The whole estate would be, I fear, involved." 
 
 " They gave security," said I. 
 
 " But the sureties are not worth a tenth part of the 
 sum for which they stand responsible. The court 
 acted with a singular want of discretion in appointing 
 them." 
 
 " You don't mean to have us infer that Judge Bige- 
 low and Squire Floyd have used the funds of this 
 estate for their own purposes, to any great extent?" 
 
 u I would not care to say this out of doors, Doctor, 
 but that is just my opinion of the matter as it now 
 stands. Dewey is guardian to the heir, and would 
 favor, rather than oppose, such a use of the funds." 
 
 " It might be just so much in favor of the heir," re 
 marked Mrs. Wallingford, " if two-thirds of the pro 
 perty had disappeared by the time he reached his 
 majority; for, from all that I have heard of him, he 
 is not likely to become a man fitted to use large wealth 
 either to his own or any body else's advantage. He 
 was low born and low bred, in the worst sense of the 
 words ; and I fear that no education will change his 
 original quality, or greatly modify his early bias. So 
 while the wasting of his substance is a great wrong in 
 the abstract, it may be a real blessing to him. Events 
 in this life work out strangely to our human eyes, yet 
 there is a Providence in them that ever educes good 
 from evil." 
 
 "If we could always believe that," said I, "how 
 tranquilly might we pass through life ! How clearly 
 would our eyes see through the darkest clouds, and 
 rest upon the silver lining ! " 
 
TREASURES IN HEAVEN. 247 
 
 " Is it not so ? Does not God's providence follow 
 us in the smallest things of our lives ? Do WL take a 
 step that falls outside of his cognizance ? We have 
 only to look back, to be assured of this. We may 
 walk on tranquilly, Doctor, for, as sure as we live, no 
 evil can befal us that does not have its origin within 
 our own spirits. All the machinations of our most 
 bitter enemies will come to naught, if we keep our 
 hearts free from guile. They may rob us of our 
 earthly possessions ; but even this God will turn to our 
 greater gain." 
 
 Mrs. Wallingford spoke with a charming enthusi 
 asm. 
 
 "With such a confidence," said my wife, "one is 
 richer than if he had the wealth of an Astor." 
 
 "And with this great advantage," replied Mrs. 
 Wallingford, "that he may enjoy the whole of his 
 possessions. Moth and rust never corrupt them ; and 
 no man can take them away." 
 
 " I have a new book from which I want to read you 
 a sentiment," said Constance, rising, and moving to 
 wards the secretary and book-case, which stood in the 
 room. 
 
 Mrs. Wallingford rose and went with her. 
 
 " It is so beautifully accordant with many things I 
 have heard you say," added my wife, as she took 
 down the volume, and commenced turning over its 
 pages. 
 
 After reading a few sentences, and commenting 
 upon them, some remark directed the attention of 
 Mrs. Wallingford to the antiquated secretary, which 
 
248 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 was the one I had purchased when the furniture of the 
 Allen house was sold. 
 
 " I have reason to remember this old secretary." 
 she said. " It was here that the will was found which 
 cut off our interest in the estate of my uncle." 
 
 As she spoke in a pleasant way, she pulled out a 
 drawer the very one which had suggested conceal 
 ment, when I first got possession of the piece of furni 
 ture and said 
 
 " This is where the will lay concealed." 
 
 And she pressed against the side firmly, when a 
 portion of it yielded, and there sprung up another 
 drawer, or receptacle, placed in vertically. 
 
 We were all very much interested in this curious 
 arrangement. The drawer could not be pulled out 
 much beyond half its depth ; the secret portion lying 
 within this limit. 
 
 As I stood looking at the drawer, a sudden thought 
 flashed through my mind, and I pressed my hand 
 against the other side. It began to yield ! I pressed 
 harder, and up sprung a corresponding secret recepta 
 cle, from which a paper fell out. A hard substance 
 rattled on the solid wood. It was a gold locket, tied 
 with a piece of blue ribbon ; and attached, with a seal, 
 to the folded paper. 
 
 It was some moments before a hand reached forth 
 to lift the document. It was at length taken up by 
 Mr. Wallingford. As he did so, the locket swung 
 free, and we saw that it contained a braid of dark 
 hair. Unfolding the paper, and stepping back to the 
 light, he read, in a low, firm voice, as follows : 
 
THE DISCOVERY OF THE WILL. 249 
 
 " I, John Allen, being of sound mind, do make this 
 as my last will and testament, revoking, at the same 
 time, all other wills. I give and bequeath all my pro 
 perty, real and personal, to my sister Flora, if living ; 
 or, if dead, to her legal heirs reserving only, for my 
 wife, Theresa Garcia, in case she survive me, a legacy 
 of five hundred dollars a year, to be continued during 
 her natural life. And I name as my executors, to 
 carry out the provisions of this will, Doctor Edward 
 
 , and James Wilkinson, of the town of S , 
 
 State of Massachusetts." 
 
 Then followed the date, which was recent, com 
 pared with that of the other wills, and the signatures 
 of the testator and witnesses, all in due form. The wit 
 nesses were men in our town, and well known to us all. 
 
 At the reading of her mother's name, Mrs. Walling- 
 ford sat down quickly, and, covering her face, leaned 
 over upon the centre table. I saw that she was en 
 deavoring to control a strong agitation. 
 
 I was the first to speak. 
 
 " The ways of Providence are past finding out," 
 said I. " Let me congratulate you on this good for 
 tune." 
 
 As I spoke, Mrs. Wallingford rose from the table, 
 and, going to her husband, placed her hands upon his 
 arms, and looking up into his face, fondly and tear 
 fully, said: 
 
 " Dear Henry ! For your sake, my heart is glad 
 to-night." 
 
 He laid the will down, as if it were a thing of little 
 value, and kissing her, said : 
 
250 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " This cannot add to our happiness, Blanche, and 
 may bring care and trouble." 
 
 "Not more trouble than blessing," she replied, "if 
 rightfully used." 
 
 The locket attached to the will excited our curious 
 interest. It was, we felt sure, the same that Captain 
 Allen's mother had sent to him by the hands of Jacob 
 Perkins. Doubtless, some memory of his mother, 
 stirred by the sight of this locket, had caused him to 
 revoke his former will, and execute this one in favor 
 of his sister. There was no room to question, for a 
 moment, its genuineness. It had all legal formality, 
 and the men who witnessed the signature were living 
 and well known to us all. I was named as one of the 
 executors. So there was some perplexing business 
 before me ; for, in taking things as they were, it was 
 not probable that the executors under the former will 
 would be able, promptly, to give a satisfactory account 
 of their trust, or to hand over the property in a shape 
 acceptable to the right heirs. 
 
 But, of this, more anon. Our good friends went 
 home early after this singular discovery, showing more 
 bewilderment than elation of manner. I think that 
 Constance and I were gladder in heart than they. 
 
THE WITNESSES. 251 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE first thing done was to place the will on re 
 cord ; the next to give proper legal notice of its exist 
 ence to the executors under the previous will, Judge 
 Bigelow and Squire Floyd. Mr. Dewey, on the an 
 nouncement of this discovery, unhesitatingly declared 
 the paper a forgery ; but the witnesses to the signa 
 ture of Captain Allen were living, and ready to attest 
 its genuineness. They remembered, very distinctly, 
 the time when their names were appended to the docu 
 ment. It was only a year before the Captain's death. 
 They were walking past the Allen House, when the 
 old man called them in, and asked them to witness the 
 signing of a paper. Of its contents they had no 
 knowledge, as he did not make any communication on 
 the subject. But he signed it in their presence, and 
 their signatures showed this will to be the paper then 
 executed. 
 
 Notwithstanding .this, it came to our ears, that Mr. 
 Dewey persisted in alleging fraud, forgery, and the 
 complicity of these witnesses. And from the manner 
 of Judge Bigelow and Squire Floyd, in the first brief 
 interview I had with them, it was pla^n that they were 
 far from being satisfied that all was right. Their 
 
252 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 manner was that of men utterly confounded. If the 
 property in question had been held by them as really 
 their own, they could hardly have exhibited more 
 feeling. 
 
 After the will was entered at the proper office, and 
 thus made public, the following paragraph appeared in 
 our "Weekly Star:" 
 
 " REMARKABLE DISCOVERY OF A WILL. A singu 
 lar circumstance happened in our town last week, no 
 less than the discovery of a new and more recent will 
 of the late Captain Allen, by which all of his large 
 property is devised to his sister and her heirs. It 
 was found in a secret drawer, contained in an anti 
 quated French Secretary, which Dr. bought 
 
 when the furniture of the Allen House was sold, pre 
 vious to a renovation of the old mansion for the resi 
 dence of Mr. Ralph Dewey. The late Mrs. Montgo 
 mery, who resided for a time at the Allen House, was 
 sister to Captain Allen, and her daughter is now the 
 wife of our townsman, Henry Wallingford, Esq. We 
 congratulate the parties on the good fortune which 
 has come to their door." 
 
 The marriage of Mr. Dewey took place within a 
 month after the discovery of this will, and he brought 
 
 his new wife to S , installing her as mistress of 
 
 the Allen House. She was a showy woman, past 
 thirty, with a pair of brilliant black eyes, and a dark, 
 rich complexion. Her long, thin nose, and delicate, 
 but proudly arching lips, showed her to possess will 
 
THE LATE MRS. DEWEY. 253 
 
 and determination. It was the rumor in S , 
 
 that she brought her husband a considerable fortune. 
 But she was not well received among us. The fami 
 lies of Judge Bigelow, and Joshua Kling, Cashier of 
 the Clinton Bank, called immediately. Something 
 later called the wives of two Directors in the Bank, 
 and afterwards the wives of one or two citizens who 
 had embarked some capital in the cotton mills. Be 
 yond this, no advances were made towards an acquaint 
 ance with the new Mrs. Dewey. 
 
 It shocked my sensibilities to see this woman dash 
 ing about through S in the elegant equipage 
 
 once the pride of the now humbled daughter of Squire 
 Floyd, who, since the divorce granted on her applica 
 tion, had lived in strict retirement in her father's 
 house. The only time when she was seen abroad, 
 was on the Sabbath, at church, with her two chil 
 dren. The oldest, a daughter, in her thirteenth year ; 
 and the youngest, a boy, ten years of age. The ter 
 rible ordeal passed through by this unhappy woman, 
 had told upon her severely. In a year, she seemed to 
 have lived ten. All the fine roundness of her face 
 and person had given way, and she presented the 
 appearance of one who had come out of a long and 
 exhausting illness. 
 
 Constance made it a point of duty to visit her often. 
 She found her states of mind exceedingly variable. 
 Sometimes she was in patient, tranquil states, and 
 sometimes she manifested great bitterness of spirit, 
 complaining of man's cruel selfishness, and God's injus 
 tice. The marriage of Mr. Dewey disturbed her con- 
 
254 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 siderably. One day, not long after this event, Con 
 stance called to see her. She was in one of her 
 darker moods ; and all the comforting suggestions 
 which my good wife could make, seemed to go for no 
 thing. They were sitting near a window, overlooking 
 the street, when Delia suddenly turned pale, and 
 caught her breath. A carriage went sweeping by at 
 the moment, drawn by two spirited horses, 
 
 "Is that the woman ?" she exclaimed, as soon as 
 she recovered herself. 
 
 " That is the woman," Constance replied. 
 
 Delia clutched her hands so tightly that her arms 
 quivered, and grew rigid ; while her' pale face darkened 
 with an expression so like revenge, that Constance felt 
 a shudder of fear in her heart. 
 
 " If my prayers for her are answered," said the ex 
 cited woman, speaking through her closing teeth, 
 " she will find that day the darkest in the calendar of 
 her life, when she stepped between me and my husband. 
 I have only curses for her in my heart. Only cur 
 ses !" 
 
 Constance, startled, and almost frightened by this 
 wild burst of feeling, endeavored to soothe her ; but 
 the storm was too fierce to own the power of her gen 
 tle persuasions, and raged on for its brief season. 
 
 " I thought her mind had given way," said my wife, 
 on relating what she had seen and heard. " It was 
 fearful to look upon a human creature so terribly 
 moved." 
 
 " The trial to her feelings must have been very 
 great," I returned. 
 
THE DIFFERENT STATES OF DELIA. 255 
 
 "But I thought the severe discipline through which 
 she had passed, had chastened and subdued her," an 
 swered Constance. " I saw, or believed that I saw, 
 the beginnings of a new and true life in her soul. But 
 over all this, passion has swept with its besom of de 
 struction." 
 
 " The better states," I replied, "may not have been 
 destroyed in this evil whirlwind. Such states, when 
 once formed, usually retire and hide themselves until 
 the storm has spent its fury." 
 
 " I pray that it may be so in this case," said Con 
 stance. " But from what I saw to-day, my fears are on 
 the other side." 
 
 In the mean time we were taking such steps as the 
 responsibility of our position required, towards getting 
 possession of the property, which, under the will of 
 Captain Allen, must come into our hands. My co- 
 executor, Mr. James Wilkinson, a merchant of S , 
 
 was for adopting the most summary proceedings. He 
 was annoyed at the questions, doubts, and delays 
 which Judge Bigelow and Squire Floyd permitted to 
 intervene ; and more especially by the intermeddling 
 of Dewey, towards whom, from some cause, he enter 
 tained hostile feeling. 
 
 As a matter of course, we were guided in all our 
 movements by Mr. Wallingford. At the earliest term 
 of court, we brought forward the claim of Mrs. Wal 
 lingford, under the last will and testament of her uncle. 
 A feeble effort was made to throw doubt upon the 
 genuineness of the document ; but the oath of the wit 
 nesses to the signature of Captain Allen settled the 
 
256 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 question beyond the reach of cavil, and the executors 
 under the first will were ordered to transfer, by a cer 
 tain date, all property belonging to the estate into our 
 hands. 
 
 I saw plainly enough, from the beginning, that the 
 idea of giving an account of their stewardship was 
 not an agreeable one to either of the executors under 
 the old will. The direction which the property must 
 take was one that would not admit of any holding back 
 or covering up on their part. They would be required 
 to exhibit clean hands. 
 
 The property clearly shown as having passed into 
 their possession, was the old mansion and valuable 
 grounds, which had been sold, under an order of the 
 court, at a heavy sacrifice bringing only thirty-five 
 thousand dollars, instead of sixty thousand, its real 
 value and the proceeds re-invested. Then there was 
 other town property worth twenty thousand dollars, 
 and stocks valued at as much more : making seventy- 
 five thousand dollars in all as the principal. Interest 
 added, would swell the sum for which they must give 
 account to over one hundred thousand dollars. 
 
 It was found, on looking into the business, that the 
 whole of this immense sum was invested in the cotton 
 mills. The search made into the legal condition of 
 these mill properties was not satisfactory. There were 
 several mortgages against them, one of which, for 
 twenty-five thousand dollars, was held by the Clinton 
 Bank as collateral security for loans. 
 
 After various delays and failures on the part of the 
 old executors to meet us in a satisfactory manner, we 
 
THE MILL INVESTMENT. 257 
 
 all assembled, by appointment, in the office of Judge 
 Bigelow. Mr. Dewey I was surprised to find present. 
 But it was plain that he was there either by the con 
 sent or request of the Judge and Squire. The court 
 had given a certain time for the executors under the 
 first will to make up their accounts, and hand over the 
 property in trust. That time had expired. 
 
 There was manifest embarrassment on the part of 
 Judge Bigelow and his associate ; while Dewey looked 
 stern and dogged. We soon got into the centre of 
 the business, and found it pretty earnest work. It 
 was admitted by the executors that the greater portion 
 of the estate was in the cotton mills. How to get it 
 out was the question. 
 
 "I had always understood," said Mr. Wallingford, 
 "that the mills were chiefly owned in New York." 
 
 "The New York interest is large," replied Squire 
 Floyd, in a husky voice. 
 
 "And can be increased, no doubt, to almost any 
 extent, in order to enable you to withdraw the trust 
 investments," resumed Mr. Wallingford. 
 
 " Why cannot you let it remain where it is for the 
 present? The investment is safe and the interest 
 sure," said Judge Bigelow. 
 
 "There isn't safer security in the state," spoke up 
 Mr. Dewey, with animation. 
 
 " It isn't the kind of security we wish to hold," said 
 Mr. Wilkinson firmly. " We have given heavy bonds, 
 and prefer to get the property in a different shape." 
 
 Here followed a chilling silence, which was broken 
 by Mr. Wallingford. 
 
258 TWENTY TEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 "There is one way in which this can be arranged," 
 said he. 
 
 All eyes were turned upon him. 
 
 " If it is not convenient to transfer to new parties 
 interests of such magnitude, we will take, at a fail 
 valuation, the Allen House and grounds appertaining 
 thereto, including the mill site." 
 
 Mr. Dewey was on his feet in a moment, and said 
 
 "Never!" with considerable excitement of manner, 
 
 Judge Bigelow and Squire Floyd looked at eacl 
 other in a bewildered manner, and then at Mr. Dewey 
 who was walking the floor with many signs of disturb 
 ance. 
 
 "This is the family property," continued Mr. Wai 
 lingford, coolly " and ought never to have been sold 
 It is but fair that it should come back." 
 
 "It can't go back," spoke up Mr. Dewey. "Th< 
 present owners will not let it pass out of their hands.' 
 
 "If that is the case," said Mr. Wallingford, "w( 
 shall have to look in another direction. It occurrec 
 to me that this might suit all parties, and lead to ai 
 easy arrangement. But if that cannot be if th( 
 present owners, to use Mr. Dewey's words, will not lei 
 it go back then my suggestion falls to the ground 
 and we must look to the investments as they stand. W( 
 do not press the matter." 
 
 I observed Mr. Dewey closely ; the amount of feel 
 ing he displayed having drawn my attention upon him, 
 Once or twice I saw him dart maligant glances towards 
 Mr. Wallingford. And so, by degrees, I began to 
 have a glimpse of what was passing in his mind. Tc 
 
BITTER HUMILIATION. 259 
 
 go out from that elegant home, and let Wallingford 
 succeed him as the owner, was something to which his 
 proud heart could not submit Wallingford, the once 
 despised and contemned student of his uncle ! That 
 was too bitter a humiliation. 
 
 As nothing could then be decided, another meeting, 
 to take place in three or four days, was agreed upon, 
 and we separated. 
 
260 TWENTY YEAKS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 As my profession kept me going about all the while, 
 I had opportunities for observing the movements of 
 other people. The day following the meeting referred 
 to in the last chapter, I saw Dewey, the Judge, and 
 the Squire together several times, and always in ear 
 nest talk. As I came home, towards evening, I saw 
 them all entering Mr. Dewey's residence. It was 
 plain that there was trouble in the camp. 
 
 On the next day, Mr. Dewey left town. I noticed 
 him going into a car at the depot. When the time 
 came for our meeting, a postponement was asked for. 
 I felt like demurring, but Mr. Wallingford readily 
 consented. 
 
 " Give them a little more time,'* said he, as we 
 walked away from Judge Bigelow's office. " It will 
 come out as we desired. The easiest way for them to 
 arrange with us, is to let us have the Allen House 
 property, which is owned by the firm of which Dewey 
 is a member ; and it is with a view to' this, I have no 
 doubt, that he is now in New York." 
 
 So we waited a few days longer. The return of 
 Mr. Dewey took place in the course of a week, when 
 I received a note from Judge Bigelow, asking a pri- 
 
EMBARRASSING SITUATION. 261 
 
 vate interview. I found him and his nephew alone. 
 They received me in a pleasant, affable way ; and the 
 Judge said that he wished to have a little talk with me 
 before another formal meeting of the executors. I 
 answered that it would give me pleasure to confer with 
 him ; though I could neither accept nor propose any 
 thing, standing alone.. 
 
 " It is not with a view to that, Doctor," replied the 
 Judge, his countenance putting on a shade of gravity 
 that nearly obliterated the smiles with which he at 
 first received me. " But I thought it might help to a 
 better issue, if two of the parties representing the 
 opposite interests in this case were to have a little 
 informal conversation." 
 
 "I am ready to hear any thing you have to say, 
 Judge, and shall be very happy if I can aid, in any 
 thing, the satisfactory adjustment of these matters." 
 
 My answer, I thought, appeared to give him confi 
 dence, and he said 
 
 " Without doubt you can aid, Doctor. The position 
 in which Squire Floyd and myself find ourselves 
 placed, is one of some embarrassment. In making 
 investments of the property which came into our 
 hands, we had reference, of course, to its security and 
 productiveness ; at the same time looking to a period, 
 still some years in advance, when our trust would 
 cease, and the property pass in due course to the 
 heir-at-law. To realize on these investments now, 
 would be to damage the interests of others; and I 
 cannot feel that it would be right for you to urge this. 
 The discovery of a new will, bearing a later date, is a 
 
262 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 thing wholly unexpected. We had no warning to 
 prepare for the summary action growing out of its 
 appearance, and, as I have just intimated, cannot pro 
 ceed without injury to others." 
 
 "I do not believe," said Mr. Dewey, "that the 
 court, if the case was fairly stated, would require this 
 speedy settlement of the trust. And it is my advice, 
 that the whole matter be referred back for a new award 
 as to time. A year longer should be conceded to the 
 executors under the old will." 
 
 " That would be equitable," said the Judge. 
 
 "I am afraid," I made answer to this, "that Mr. 
 Wallingford will not consent to any postponement." 
 
 " He won't ? The hound !" I was startled by the 
 fierceness of Dewey's tone of voice, and, turning to 
 look at him, saw on his countenance an expression of 
 malignant hatred. 
 
 " Ralph !" said Judge Bigelow, in a warning voice. 
 
 " I can't repress my indignation," answered the 
 nephew. " What demons from the nether hell have 
 conspired to give him power over us ? If it had been 
 any other man in the world I could have borne it 
 patiently." 
 
 "Ralph! Ralph!" interposed the Judge, in a de 
 precating voice. 
 
 " It is no use, uncle. I cannot keep down my feel 
 ing," was replied. "To see you hunted by this 
 hound, who owes you everything." 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. Dewey," said I, "but I cannot 
 hear such language used towards a gentleman of irre 
 proachable character. Mr. Wallingford is not entitled 
 
BAD TEMPER. 263 
 
 to the epithet you give ; and I warn you, not to repeat 
 that, or anything like it, in my presence." 
 
 "You warn me !" 
 
 A gleam shot towards me from his evil eyes. 
 
 " Kalph ! silence !" The Judge spoke sternly. 
 
 "Yes, in all soberness, I warn you," said I, fixing 
 my gaze upon him, and holding his eyes until they fell 
 to the floor. "Mr. Wallingford is not the man to 
 permit any one to use language about him, such as you 
 have indulged in. If you make use of another oppro 
 brious epithet, I will communicate the fact to him im 
 mediately. And let me say, that, unless a different 
 temper is manifested, I must terminate this interview 
 at once." 
 
 Judge Bigelow drew his nephew aside, and talked 
 for some time with him, in a low, earnest tone ; after 
 which the latter apologized, though with an ill grace, 
 for the intemperance of his manner alleging that an 
 old wound smarted whenever Wallingford crossed his 
 path. 
 
 The result of this confidential' talk was not as favor 
 able on my mind as Judge Bigelow had hoped to make 
 it. I pitied his embarrassment ; but the conduct of 
 Dewey confirmed my previous view of the case, which 
 was to require a transfer of the property specified by 
 Mr. Wallingford, or press for an immediate foreclosure 
 of the mill investments. There was, I felt satisfied, 
 hazard in delay. 
 
 When our next formal meeting took place, Dewey 
 was again present. It was in my thought to suggest 
 that he was not a party covered by the business to be 
 
264 
 
 considered, when Mr. Wallingford said, in his mild, 
 grave way 
 
 " I believe this is a meeting of the Executors under 
 the two wills of Captain Allen." 
 
 The meaning of his remark could not be misunder 
 stood, for he glanced towards Mr. Dewey as he spoke. 
 That individual, however, did not choose to regard 
 himself as referred to, and made no sign. But Mr. 
 Wallingford was not the man to let a deliberate pur 
 pose fall to the ground. He had come with the inten 
 tion of objecting to Dewey's presence at the confer 
 ence, and to insist upon his retiring, as a preliminary 
 to business. 
 
 No one replying to Mr. Wallingford's remark, he 
 said, further 
 
 " I do not mean to be uncourteous, but I must sug 
 gest the propriety of Mr. Dewey's withdrawal." 
 
 "I am an interested party," said Dewey, with ill- 
 concealed anger. 
 
 "Ah! I was not before aware of this," replied 
 Wallingford, and he looked inquiringly towards the 
 Judge and Squire. They showed an uneasy perplex 
 ity of manner, but did not respond. 
 
 " In what way are you interested ?" queried Mr. 
 Wallingford. 
 
 " I am one of the guardians to the heir under an 
 existing will." 
 
 " A will that the decision of our court has rendered 
 null and void," was promptly answered. "We have 
 not met to consider questions in which Leon Garcia, 
 
INTERMEDDLING. 265 
 
 or his representative, has any concern. Our business 
 refers to other matters." 
 
 Dewey moved uneasily, and seemed struggling to 
 keep down his rising displeasure. But he did not 
 manifest any intention to withdraw. 
 
 " Had we not better proceed to business ?" suggested 
 Squire Floyd. 
 
 "Not while Mr. Dewey remains," said I, firmly 
 taking the side of Mr. Wallingford. 
 
 " Somebody will repent himself of this !" exclaimed 
 the ill -governed man, passionately, starting to his feet, 
 and striding from the office. 
 
 "I don't understand this individual's conduct," re 
 marked Wallingford, in a serious way. " Why has he 
 presumed to intermeddle in our business ? It has a 
 bad look." 
 
 He knit his brows closely, and put on a stern as 
 pect, very unusual to him. 
 
 "You probably forget," said Judge Bigelow, "that 
 you have proposed a change of ownership in property 
 now occupied by him ?" 
 
 " That was simply to give you more latitude in set 
 tling up the estate in your hands. I said we were 
 willing to accept that property at a fair valuation, 
 thinking it would offer a desirable mode of liquidation. 
 It is for you to say yea or nay to us ; not Ralph 
 Dewey. If you cannot gain his consent to the trans 
 fer, there is an end of that proposal." 
 
 I really commiserated the embarrassment shown by 
 the Judge and Squire. They seemed to be in a maze, 
 without perceiving the right way of extrication. Dewey 
 
266 
 
 appeared to have over them some mysterious influence, 
 above which they had not power to rise. 
 
 "If Ralph will not consent " 
 
 "Ralph must consent!" exclaimed Squire Floyd, 
 with a sudden energy of manner, and the exhibition 
 of a degree of will not shown before. " Ralph must 
 consent ! The mode of adjustment proposed by Mr. 
 Wallingford is the one easiest for us to accomplish, 
 and I shall insist on Dewey's giving up his opposition. 
 There is a vast deal more of pride than principle in 
 volved in his objection." 
 
 The Squire was breaking away from his fetters. 
 
 "It is plain," added Squire Floyd, "that his part 
 ners wish that property to go in preference to any 
 other. And it must go." 
 
 This was a style of remark quite unexpected on our 
 part ; and only added firmness to our purpose. The 
 interview was not prolonged in discussion. We merely 
 reaffirmed our ultimatum, and gave one week for the 
 two men to decide in what manner to close their trust. 
 
THE DECISION. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 THE decision was as I expected it to be ; and the 
 old property came back into the family. There were 
 few hearts in S , that did not beat with plea 
 sure, when it was known that Mr. Wallingford and his 
 lovely wife were to pass from Ivy Cottage to the 
 stately Allen House. 
 
 I think the strife between Mr. Dewey and the old 
 executors was severe, and that he yielded only when 
 he saw that they were immovable. An open rupture 
 with Squire Floyd was a consequence of his persistent 
 determination to have the Allen property transferred ; 
 and after the settlement of this business, they held no 
 personal communication with each other. 
 
 The change in Mr. Dewey 's appearance, after it be 
 came a settled thing that he must remove from the 
 splendid mansion he had occupied for years, was re 
 markable. He lost the impressive swagger that always 
 
 said, " I am the first man in S ;" and presented 
 
 the appearance of one who had suffered some great 
 misfortune, without growing better under the disci 
 pline. He did not meet you with the free, open, bet- 
 ter-than-you look that previously characterized him, 
 but with a half sidelong falling of the eyes, in which 
 there was, to me, something very sinister. 
 
268 
 
 As far as our observation went, Mr. Wallingford 
 put on no new phase of character. There was about 
 him the same quiet, thoughtful dignity of manner 
 which had always commanded involuntary respect. 
 He showed no unseemly haste in dispossessing Mr. 
 Dewey of his elegant home. Two months after the 
 title deeds had passed, I called in at Ivy Cottage, 
 
 now one of the sweetest, little places in S , for 
 
 Constance, who had been passing the evening there. 
 Not in any home, through all the region round, into 
 which it wai my privilege to enter, was there radiant, 
 like a warm, enticing atmosphere that swelled your 
 lungs with a new vitality, and gave all your pulses a 
 freer beat, such pure love maternal and conjugal 
 as pervaded this sanctuary of the heart. I say ma 
 ternal, as well as conjugal, for two dear babes had 
 brought into this home attendant angels from the 
 higher heaven. 
 
 A soft astral lamp threw its mellow rays about the 
 room. Mr. Wallingford had a book open in his hand, 
 from which he had been reading aloud to his wife and 
 Constance. He closed the volume as I entered, and 
 rising, took my hand, saying, with even more than his 
 usual cordiality 
 
 " Now our circle is complete." 
 
 " Excuse me from rising, Doctor," said Mrs. Wal 
 lingford, a smile of welcome giving increased beauty 
 to her countenance, as she offered the hand that was 
 free the other held her babe, just three months old, 
 tenderly to her bosom. 
 
 "What have you been reading?" I asked, as 1 
 
MARRIAGE IN HEAVEN. 269 
 
 seated myself, and glanced towards the volume which 
 Mr. Wallingford had closed and laid upon the table. 
 
 " A memorable relation of the Swedish Seer," he 
 replied, smiling. 
 
 " Touching marriage in heaven," said I, smiling in 
 return. 
 
 " Or, to speak more truly," he replied, "the union 
 of two souls in heaven, into an eternal oneness. Yes, 
 that was the subject, and it always interests me deeply. 
 Our life here is but a span, and our brief union sha 
 dowed by care, pain, sickness, and the never-dying 
 fear of parting. The sky of our being is not unclouded 
 long. And therefore I cannot believe that the bles 
 sedness of married love dies forever at the end of this 
 struggle to come into perfect form and beauty. No, 
 Doctor ; the end is not here. And so Blanche and I 
 turn often with an eager delight to these relations, 
 feeling, as we read, that they are not mere pictures of 
 fancy, but heavenly verities. They teach us that if 
 we would be united in the next world, we must become 
 purified in this. That selfish love, which is of the 
 person must give place to a love for spiritual qualities. 
 That we must grow in the likeness and image of God, 
 if we would make one angel in His heavenly kingdom." 
 
 His eyes rested upon Blanche, as he closed the sen 
 tence, with a look full of love ; and she, as if she knew 
 that the glance was coming, turned and received it 
 into her heart. 
 
 I did not question the faith that carried them over 
 the bounds of time, and gave them delicious foresha- 
 dowings of the blessedness beyond. As I looked at 
 
270 TWENTY TEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 them, and marked how they seemed to grow daily into 
 a oneness of spirit, could I doubt that there was for 
 them an eternal union ? No, no. Such doubts would 
 have been false to the instincts of my own soul, and 
 false to the instincts of every conscious being made to 
 love and be loved. 
 
 "The laying aside of this earthly investiture," said 
 Wallingford, resuming, " the passage from mortal to 
 immortal life, cannot change our spirits, but only give 
 to all their powers a freer and more perfect develop 
 ment. Love is not a quality of the body, but of the 
 spirit, and will remain in full force, after the body is 
 cast off like the shell of a chrysalis. Still existing, it 
 will seek its object. And shall it seek forever and not 
 find ? God forbid ! No ! The love I bear my wife is 
 not, I trust, all of the earth, earthy ; but instinct with 
 a heavenly perpetuity. And when we sleep the 
 sleep of death, it will be in the confident assurance of 
 a speedy and more perfect conjunction of our lives. 
 On a subject of such deep concern, we are dissatisfied 
 with the vague and conjectural ; and this is why the 
 record of things seen and heard in the spiritual world 
 by Swedenborg especially in what relates to mar 
 riages in heaven has for us such an absorbing inte 
 rest." 
 
 " Are you satisfied with the evidence ?" I ventured 
 to inquire, seeing him so confident. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He answered quietly, and with an assured man 
 ner. 
 
THE EYES OF THE SPIRIT. 271 
 
 " How do you reach a conclusion as to the truth of 
 these things ?" 
 
 " Something after the same way that you satisfy 
 yourself that the sun shines." 
 
 " My eyes testify to me that fact. Seeing is believ 
 ing," I answered. 
 
 " The spirit of a man has eyes as well as his body," 
 said Wallingford. "And seeing is believing in ano 
 ther sense than you intimate. Now the bodily eyes 
 see material objects, and the mind, receiving their tes 
 timony, is in no doubt as to the existence, quality, and 
 relation of things in the outer world. The eyes of our 
 spirits, on the other hand, see immaterial objects or 
 truths ; and presenting them to the rational and per 
 ceptive faculties, they are recognized as actual exist 
 ences, and their quality as surely determined as the 
 quality of a stone or metal. If you ask me how I 
 know that this is quartz, or that iron ; I answer, By 
 the testimony of my eyes. And so, if you ask how I 
 satisfy myself as to the truth of which I read in this 
 book ; I can only reply that I see it all so clearly that 
 conviction is a necessity. There is no trouble in be 
 lieving. To attempt disbelief, would be to illustrate 
 the fable of Sisyphus." 
 
 He spoke calmly, like one whose mind had risen 
 above doubt. I objected nothing further; for that 
 would have been useless. And why attempt to throw 
 questions into his mind ? Was there anything evil in 
 the faith which he had adopted as exhibited in his life ? 
 I could not say yes. On the contrary, taking his life 
 as an illustration, good only was to be inferred. I 
 
272 
 
 remembered very well when his mind diverged into 
 this new direction. Some years had intervened. I 
 thought to see him grow visionary or enthusiastic. 
 Not so, however. There was a change progressively 
 visible ; but it was in the direction of sound and ra 
 tional views of life. A broader humanity showed 
 itself in his words and actions. Then came the sub 
 tler vein of religious sentiments, running like pure 
 gold through all that appertained to him. 
 
 If, therefore, he was progressing towards a higher 
 life, why should I question as to the way being right 
 for him ? Why should I seek to turn him into another 
 path when there was such a broad light for his eyes 
 on the one he had chosen ? " By their fruits ye shall 
 know them." And by his fruits I knew him to be of that 
 highest type of manhood, a Christian gentleman. 
 
 I noticed, while Mr. Wallingford spoke so confi 
 dently of their reunion in heaven, that his wife leaned 
 towards, and looked at him, with eyes through which 
 her soul seemed going forth into his. 
 
 As the conversation flowed on, it gradually involved 
 other themes, and finally led to the question on my 
 part, as to when they were going to leave Ivy Cot 
 tage. 
 
 "That is quite uncertain," replied Mr. Wallingford. 
 " I shall not hurry the present occupant. We have 
 been so happy here, that we feel more inclined to stay 
 than to remove to a more ambitious home." 
 
 "I hear that Mr. Dewey is going to build," said I. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
NEGOTIATING FOR PROPERTY. 273 
 
 " He has been negotiating for the property on the 
 elevation west of the Allen House." 
 
 Ah !" 
 
 " Yes. The price of the ground, five acres, is ten 
 thousand dollars." 
 
 " The site is commanding and beautiful. The finest 
 
 in S , for one who thinks mainly of attracting 
 
 the attention of others," said Mr. Wallingford. 
 
 " If he builds, we shall see something on a grander 
 scale than anything yet attempted in our neighbor 
 hood. He will overshadow you." 
 
 " The rivalry must be on his side alone," was Mr. 
 Wallingford's reply. " No elegance or imposing 
 grandeur that he may assume, can disturb me in the 
 smallest degree. I shall only feel pity for the defect 
 of happiness that all his blandishments must hide." 
 
 "A splendid Italian villa is talked of." 
 
 Mr. Wallingford shook his head. 
 
 " You doubt all this ?" said I. 
 
 " Not the man's ambitious pride ; but his ability to 
 do what pride suggests. He and his compeers are 
 poorer, by a hundred thousand, dollars, than they 
 deemed themselves a few short months ago." 
 
 " Have they met with heavy losses ? " I asked, not 
 understanding the drift of his remark. 
 
 " The estate in trust has been withdrawn." 
 
 " How should that make them poorer ? " 
 
 " It makes them poorer, in the first place, as to the 
 
 means for carrying on business. And it makes them 
 
 poorer, in the second place, in the loss of an estate, 
 
 which, I am sorry to believe, Mr. DeVey and a part 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 of his New York associates regarded as virtually their 
 own." 
 
 "But the heir was approaching his majority," 
 said I. 
 
 "And growing up a weak, vicious, self-indulgent 
 young man, who, in the hands of a shrewd, unscrupu 
 lous villain, might easily be robbed of his fortune. 
 You may depend upon it, Doctor, that somebody has 
 suffered a terrible disappointment, and one from which 
 he is not likely soon to recover. No no ! We shall 
 see nothing of this princely Italian villa." 
 
 "I cannot believe," I replied, "that the executors 
 who had the estate in trust were influenced by disho 
 norable motives. I know the men too well." 
 
 " Nor do I, Doctor," he answered, promptly. "But, 
 as I have before said, they were almost wholly under 
 the influence of Dewey, and I think that he was lead 
 ing them into mazes from which honorable extrication 
 would have been impossible." 
 
 "Have you given Dewey any notice of removal?" 
 I inquired. 
 
 " No and shall not, for some time. I am in no 
 hurry to leave this place, in which the happiest days 
 of my life have passed. Any seeming eagerness to 
 dispossess him, would only chafe a spirit in which I 
 would not needlessly excite evil passions. His pride 
 must, I think, lead him at a very early day to remove, 
 and thus make a plain way before me." 
 
 " How long will you wait ? " I asked. 
 
 "Almost any reasonable time." 
 
WISE MAXIMS. 275 
 
 " You and he might not take the same view of what 
 was reasonable," said I. 
 
 " Perhaps not. But, as I remarked just now, being 
 in no hurry to leave our present home, I shall not 
 disturb him for some months to come. No change will 
 be made by us earlier than next spring. And if he 
 wishes to spend the winter in his present abode, he is 
 welcome to remain." 
 
 There was no assumed virtuous forbearance in all 
 this ; but a sincere regard for the feelings and comfort 
 of Dewey. This was so apparent, that I did not 
 question for a moment his generous consideration of a 
 man who would not have hesitated, if the power were 
 given, to crush him to the very earth. 
 
 Many thoughts passed in my mind, as I pondered 
 the incidents and conversation of this evening. In 
 looking back upon life, we see the sure progress of 
 causes to effects ; and in the effects, the quality of the 
 causes. We no longer wonder at results the only 
 wonder is, that they were not foreseen. Wise maxims, 
 some of the garnered grains of our fathers' experi 
 ences, are scattered through the books we read, and 
 daily fall from the lips of teachers and friends ; max 
 ims which, if observed, would lead us to honor and 
 happiness. But who gives them heed ? Who makes 
 them the rule of his conduct ? 
 
 We might wonder less at the blind infatuation with 
 which so many press onward in a course that all the 
 wisdom of the past, as well as all the reason of the 
 present, condemns, if it were possible to rub out our 
 actions, as a child rubs from his slate a wrong sum, 
 
276 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 and begin the work of life over again. But this can 
 not be. We weave hourly the web that is to bind us 
 in the future. Our to-days hold the fate of our to 
 morrows. What we do is done for ever, and in some 
 degree will affect us throughout infinite ages. 
 
 "Poor Delia Floyd!" My thought had turned to 
 her as I lay awake, long after the small hours of the 
 morning, busy with incidents and reflections which had 
 completely banished sleep from my eyes. In the 
 strong pity of my heart, I spoke the words aloud. 
 
 "What of her?" said Constance, in a tone of sur 
 prise. And so intruding thought had kept her awake 
 also! 
 
 " Nothing more than usual," I answered. " But I 
 cannot sleep for thinking of her unhappy state, and 
 what she might have been, if obeying her own heart's 
 right impulses, and the reason God gave her, she had 
 accepted a true man, instead of a specious villain for 
 her husband. The scene in Ivy Cottage to-night stands 
 in most remarkable contrast with some things I wit 
 nessed at the Allen House before she went out thence 
 a wretched woman for life. She staked everything on 
 a desperate venture, and has lost. God pity her ! for 
 there is no help in any human arm. To think of what 
 she is, and what she might have been, is enough to 
 veil her reason in midnight darkness." 
 
 "Amen! God pity her!" said Constance. "For 
 truly there is no help for her in mortal arm." 
 
CONSIDERATION FOE OTHERS. 277 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE conduct of Mr. Wallingford, in regard to the 
 estate -which had fallen into his hands, rather puzzled 
 Dewey. He had anticipated an early notification to 
 remove, and, true to his character, had determined to 
 annoy the new owner by vexatious delays. But after 
 the passage of several weeks, in which came to him no 
 intimation that he must give up the possession of his 
 elegant home, he began to wonder what it could mean. 
 
 One day, not long after the conversation with Wall 
 ingford, mentioned in the last chapter, I met Mr. 
 Dewey in the street. He stopped me and said, in a 
 half-sneering way, 
 
 " What of our honorable friend ? Impatient, I sup 
 pose, to see the inside of the Allen House ?" 
 
 "No,'* I replied, "he has no wish to disturb you 
 for the present." 
 
 " Indeed ! You expect me to believe all that, of 
 course." 
 
 There was a rudeness in his manner that was offen 
 sive ; but I did not care to let him see that I noticed 
 it. 
 
 " Why should you not believe my remark ?" said I. 
 "Is it a new thing in your experience with men to 
 find an individual considerate of another ?" 
 
278 
 
 " What do you mean by considerate of another ?" 
 
 My form of speech touched his pride. 
 
 " Mr. Wallingford has manifested towards you a 
 considerate spirit," said I, speaking slowly and dis 
 tinctly* " It naturally occurs to him that, as you are 
 so pleasantly situated at the Allen House, an early 
 removal therefrom might be anything but desirable. 
 And so he has rested quietly up to this time, leaving a 
 decision as to the period with yourself." 
 
 " Humph ! Very unselfish, truly !" 
 
 His lip curled in disdain. 
 
 " If you feel restive under this concession in your 
 favor," said I, putting on a serious manner, " I would 
 suggest independence as a remedy." 
 
 He looked at me curiously, yet with a scowling con 
 traction of his brows. 
 
 " Independence ! What am I to understand by 
 your remark?" 
 
 " Simply this, Mr. Dewey. You are in the occu 
 pancy of property belonging to Mr. Wallingford, and 
 by his favor. Now, if you cannot receive a kindness 
 at his hands, in the name of all that is manly and in 
 dependent, put yourself out of the range of obliga 
 tion." 
 
 I was not able to repress a sudden feeling of indig 
 nation, and so spoke with warmth and plainness. 
 
 " Thank you for your plainness of speech, Doctor,'* 
 he retorted, drawing himself up in a haughty manner. 
 " As to removing from the Allen House, I will do that 
 just when it suits my pleasure." 
 
 "Mr. Wallingford, you may be assured," said I, 
 
A DISAGREEABLE SUBJECT. 279 
 
 " will not show any unseemly impatience, if you do 
 not find it convenient to make an early removal. He 
 knows that it cannot be agreeable for you to give up 
 the home of years, and he is too much of a Christian 
 and a gentleman to do violence to another's feelings, 
 if it can be in any way avoided." 
 
 "Pah! I hate cant!" 
 
 He threw his head aside in affected disgust. 
 
 "We judge men by their actions, not their words," 
 said I. " If a man acts with considerate kindness, is 
 it cant to speak of him in terms of praise? Pardon 
 me, Mr. Dewey, but I think you are letting passion 
 blind you to another's good qualities." 
 
 " The subject is disagreeable to me, Doctor. Let 
 us waive it." 
 
 "It was introduced by yourself, remember," I re 
 plied ; " and all that I have said has been in response 
 to your own remarks. This much good has grown 
 from it. You know just how Mr. Wallingford stands 
 towards you, and you can govern yourself according 
 to your own views in the case. And now let me vo 
 lunteer this piece of advice. Never wantonly give 
 offence to another, for you cannot tell how soon you 
 may find yourself in need of his good services." 
 
 Dewey gave me a formal bow, and passed on his 
 way. 
 
 About a week afterwards, Judge Bigelow inquired 
 of Wallingford as to when he wished to get possession 
 of the Allen House. 
 
 " Whenever Mr. Dewey finds it entirely convenient 
 to remove," was the unhesitating reply. 
 
280 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " Suppose it should not be convenient this fall or 
 winter?" 
 
 " Very well. The spring will suit me. I am in no 
 hurry. We are too comfortable in Ivy Cottage to be 
 in any wise impatient for change." 
 
 " Then it is your pleasure that Mr. Dewey remain 
 until spring?" 
 
 " If such an arrangement is desirable on his part, 
 Judge, it is altogether accordant with my feelings and 
 convenience. Say to him that he has only to consult 
 his own wishes in the case." 
 
 " You are kind and considerate, Mr. Wallingford," 
 said the Judge, his manner softening considerably, for 
 there had been a coldness of some years' standing on 
 the part of Judge Bigelow, which more recent events 
 had increased. 
 
 "And why should it be otherwise, Judge?" inquired 
 his old student. 
 
 "Mr. Dewey has not given you cause for either 
 kindness or consideration." 
 
 " It would hurt me more than it would him, were I 
 to foster his unhappy spirit. It is always best, I find, 
 Judge, to be right with myself." 
 
 " All men would find it better for themselves, were 
 they to let so fine a sentiment govern their lives," re 
 marked Judge Bigelow, struck by the language of 
 Wallingford. 
 
 " It is the only true philosophy," was replied. " If 
 a man is right with himself, he cannot be wrong towards 
 others ; though it is possible, as in my case, that other 
 eyes, looking through a densely refracting medium, 
 
THE EXPLANATION. 281 
 
 may see him out of his just position. But he would 
 act very unwisely were he to change his position for 
 all that. He will be seen right in the end." 
 
 Judge Bigelow reached out his hand and grasped 
 that of Mr. Wallingford. 
 
 " Spoken like a man, Henry ! Spoken like a man !" 
 he said, warmly. " I only wish that Ralph had some 
 thing of your spirit. I have seen you a little out of 
 your right position, I believe ; but a closer view is cor 
 recting the error." 
 
 Wallingford returned the pressure as warmly as it 
 was given, saying, as he did -so 
 
 " I am aware, Judge, that you have suffered your 
 mind to fall into a state of prejudice in regard to me. 
 But I am not aware of any thing in my conduct to 
 wards you or others, to warrant the feeling. If in 
 any thing I have been brought into opposition, .faith 
 fulness to the interests I represented has been the rule 
 of my conduct. I have sought by no trick of law to 
 gain an advantage. The right and the just I have en 
 deavored to pursue, without fear and without favor. 
 Can you give me a better rule for professional or pri 
 vate life?" 
 
 " I cannot, Henry," was the earnest reply. " And 
 if all men would so pursue the right and the just, how 
 different would be the result for each, as the sure adjust 
 ment of advancing years gave them their true places 
 in the world's observation !" 
 
 The Judge spoke in a half-absent way, and with a 
 shade of regret in his tones ; Wallingford noted this 
 with a feeling of concern. 
 
282 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 "Let us be friends in the future," he added, again 
 offering his hand to Wallingford. 
 
 " It will be your fault, not mine, if we are not fast 
 friends, Judge. I have never forgotten the obligations 
 of my boyhood ; and never ceased to regret the aliena 
 tion you have shown. To have seemed in your eyes 
 ungrateful, has been a source of pain whenever I saw 
 or thought of you." 
 
 The two men parted, each feeling better for the 
 interview. A day or two afterwards Wallingford re 
 ceived a note from Judge Bigelow asking him, as a 
 particular favor, to call at his office that evening. He 
 went, of course. The Judge was alone, and received 
 him cordially. But, his countenance soon fell into an 
 expression of more than usual gravity. 
 
 "Mr. Wallingford," he said, after the passage of a 
 few casual observations, " I would like to consult you 
 in strict confidence on some matters in which I have 
 become involved. I can trust you, of course ?" 
 
 "As fully as if the business were my own," was the 
 unhesitating answer. 
 
 " So I have believed. The fact is, Henry, I have 
 become so entangled in this cotton mill business with 
 Squire Floyd, Dewey, and others, that I find myself in 
 a maze of bewildering uncertainty. The Squire and 
 Ralph are at loggerheads, and seem to me to be getting 
 matters snarled up. There is no denying the fact that 
 this summary footing of our accounts, as executors, 
 has tended to cripple affairs. We were working up to 
 the full extent of capital invested, and the absence of 
 a hundred thousand dollars or its representative 
 
HONEST WARNING. 283 
 
 security has made financiering a thing of no easy 
 consideration." 
 
 "I am afraid, Judge Bigelow," said Wallingford, as 
 the old man paused, " that you are in the hands of one 
 who, to gain his own ends, would sacrifice you without 
 a moment's hesitation." 
 
 " Who ?" 
 
 "You will permit me to speak plainly, Judge." 
 
 " Say on. The plain speech of a friend is better 
 than the flatteries of an enemy." 
 
 " I have no faith in Kalph Dewey." 
 
 The two men looked steadily at each other for some 
 moments. 
 
 "Over fifteen years' observation of the man has 
 satisfied me that he possesses neither honor nor hu 
 manity. He is your nephew. But that does not sig 
 nify. We must look at men as they are." 
 
 " His movements have not been to my satisfaction 
 for some time," said the Judge ; speaking as though 
 conviction had to force itself upon his mind. 
 
 " You should canvass all he does with the closest 
 care ; and if your property lies in any degree at his 
 mercy, change the relation as quickly as possible." 
 
 "Are you not prejudiced against him, Henry?" 
 The Judge spoke in a deprecating tone, 
 
 " I believe, sir, that I estimate him at his real 
 value ; and I do most earnestly conjure you to set to 
 work at once to disentangle your affairs if seriously in 
 volved with his. If you do not, he will beggar you in 
 your old age, which God forbid !" 
 
284 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 " I am far from sure that I can disentangle my af 
 fairs," said the Judge. 
 
 " There is nothing like trying, you know." Wal- 
 lingford spoke in a tone of encouragement. "And 
 everything may depend on beginning in time. In 
 what way are you involved with him ?" 
 
 It was some time before Judge Bigelow answered 
 this direct question. He then replied, 
 
 ." Heavily in the way of endorsements." 
 
 " Of his individual paper ?" 
 
 "Yes. Also of the paper of his firm." 
 
 "To an extent beyond your ability to pay if there 
 should be failure on their part ?" 
 
 "Yes; to three times my ability to pay." 
 
 Wallingford dropped his eyes to the floor, and sat 
 for some time. He then looked up into Judge Bige- 
 low's face, and said, 
 
 " If that be so, I can see only one way for you." 
 
 " Say on." 
 
 " Let no more endorsements be given from this day 
 forth." 
 
 " How can I suddenly refuse ? The thing has been 
 going on for years." 
 
 " You can refuse to do wrong on the plea of wrong. 
 If your name gives no real value to a piece of paper, 
 yet accredits it in the eyes of others, it is wrong for 
 you to place your endorsement thereon. Is not this 
 so?" 
 
 " I admit the proposition, Henry." 
 
 " Very well. The only way to get right, is to start 
 right. And my dear, dear sir ! let me implore you to 
 
THE FIRST RIGHT STEP. 285 
 
 take immediately the first step in a right direction. 
 Standing outside of the charmed circle of temptation 
 as I do, 1 can see the right way for your feet to walk 
 in better than you can. Oh, sir ! Let me be eyes, 
 and hands, and feet for you if need be; and if it is 
 not too late, I will save you from impending ruin." 
 
 Wallingford took the old man's hand, and grasped 
 it warmly as he spoke. The Judge was moved by this 
 earnest appeal, coming upon him so unexpectedly; 
 and not only moved, but startled and alarmed by the 
 tenor of what was said. 
 
 " The first thing," he remarked, after taking time 
 to get his thoughts clear, " if I accept of your friendly 
 overtures, is for me to lay before you everything just 
 as it is, so that you can see where I stand, and how I 
 stand. Without this, your view of the case would be 
 partial, and your conclusions might not be right." 
 
 " That is unquestionably so," Wallingford replied. 
 " And now, Judge, if you wish my friendly aid, con 
 fide in me as you would a son or brother. You will 
 find me as true as steel." 
 
 A revelation succeeded that filled Mr. Wallingford 
 with painful astonishment. The endorsements of 
 Judge Bigelow, on paper brought to him by Dewey, 
 and of which he took no memorandums, covered, no 
 doubt, from a hundred to a hundred and fifty thou 
 sand dollars ! Then, as to the affairs of the Clinton 
 Bank, of which Judge Bigelow was still the President, 
 he felt a great deal of concern. The Cashier and Mr. 
 Dewey knew far more about the business and condi 
 tion of the institution than anybody else, and managed 
 
280 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 it pretty much in their own way. The directors, if not 
 men of straw, might almost as well have been, for all 
 the intelligent controF they exercised. As for Judge 
 Bigelow, the principal duty required of him was to 
 sign his name as President to great sheets of bank 
 bills, the denomination running from one dollar to a 
 thousand. Touching the extent to which these repre 
 sentatives of value were issued, he knew nothing cer 
 tain. He was shown, at regular periods, a statement 
 wherein the condition of the bank was set forth, and 
 to which he appended his signature. But he had no 
 certain knowledge that the figures were correct. Of 
 the paper under discount over two-thirds was drawn 
 or endorsed by Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co. 
 
 At the time Judge Bigelow began investing in mill 
 property, he was worth, in productive stocks and real 
 estate, from thirty to forty thousand dollars. He now 
 estimated his wealth at from sixty to eighty thousand 
 dollars ; but it was all locked up in the mills. 
 
 The result of this first interview between the Judge 
 and Mr. Wallingford was to set the former in a better 
 position to see the character of his responsibilities, and 
 the extreme danger in which he stood. The clear, 
 honest, common sense way in which Wallingford 
 looked at everything, and comprehended everything, 
 surprised his old preceptor ; and gave him so much 
 confidence in his judgment and discretion, that he 
 placed himself fully in his hands. And well for him 
 was it that he did so in time. 
 
THE REFUSAL. 287 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 IN accordance with the advice of Mr. Wallingford, 
 the first reactionary movement on the part of Judge 
 Bigelow, was his refusal to endorse any more paper 
 for his nephew, or the firm of which he was a member, 
 on the ground that such endorsements, on his part, 
 were of no real value, considering the large amounts 
 for which he was already responsible, and consequently 
 little better than fraudulent engagements to pay. 
 
 A storm between the uncle and nephew was the 
 consequence, and the latter undertook to drive the 
 old gentleman back again into the traces, by threats 
 of terrible disasters to him and all concerned. If 
 Judge Bigelow had stood alone, the nephew would 
 have been too strong for him. But he had a clear- 
 seeing, honest mind to throw light upon his way, and 
 a young and vigorous arm to lean upon in his hour of 
 weakness and trial. And so Ralph Dewey, to his 
 surprise and alarm, found it impossible to bend the 
 Judge from his resolution. 
 
 Then followed several weeks, during which time 
 Dewey was flying back and forth between New York 
 
 and S , trying to re-adjust the disturbed balance 
 
 of things. The result was as Mr. Wallingford had 
 
288 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 anticipated. There was too much at stake for the 
 house of Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co., to let matters 
 fail for lack of Judge Bigelow's endorsements. Some 
 other prop must be substituted for this one. 
 
 The four months that followed were months of anx 
 ious suspense on the part of Judge Bigelow and his 
 true friend, who was standing beside him, though invi 
 sible in this thing to all other eyes, firm as a rocky 
 pillar. No more endorsements were given, and the 
 paper bearing his name was by this time nearly all 
 paid. 
 
 " Bight, so far," said Mr. Wallingford, at the expi 
 ration of the time in which -most of the paper bearing 
 Judge Bigelow's name reached its maturity. " And 
 now for the next safe move in this difficult game, where 
 the odds are still against us. You must get out of 
 this Bank." 
 
 The Judge looked gravely opposed. 
 
 " It may awaken suspicion that something is wrong, 
 and create a run upon the Bank, which would be 
 ruin." 
 
 " Can you exercise a controlling influence in the 
 position you hold? Can you be true, as President 
 of the Clinton Bank, to the public interest you repre 
 sent?" 
 
 " I cannot. They have made of me an automaton." 
 
 "Very well. That settles the question. You can 
 not honorably hold your place a single day. There is 
 only one safe step, and that is to resign." 
 
 " But the loose way in which I held office will be 
 exposed to my successor." 
 
THE RESIGNATION. 289 
 
 " That is not the question to consider, Judge but 
 the right. Still, so far as this fear is concerned, don't 
 let it trouble you. The choice of successor will fall 
 upon some one quite as facile to the wishes of Ralph 
 Dewey & Company as you have been." 
 
 The good counsels of Mr. Wallingford prevailed. 
 At the next meeting of the Board of Directors, the 
 resignation of Judge Bigelow was presented. Dewey 
 had been notified two days before of what was coming, 
 and was prepared for it. He moved, promptly, that 
 the resignation be accepted. As soon as the motion 
 was carried, he offered the name of Joshua Kling, the 
 present Cashier, for the consideration of the Board, 
 and urged his remarkable fitness. Of course, Mr. 
 Joshua Kling was elected ; and his place filled by one 
 of the tellers. To complete the work, strong compli 
 mentary resolutions, in which deep regret at the re 
 signation of Judge Bigelow was expressed, were passed 
 by the Board. In the next week's paper, the follow 
 ing notice of this change in the officers of the Bank 
 appeared : 
 
 "RESIGNATION OF JUDGE BIGELOW. In consequence 
 of the pressure of professional engagements, our highly 
 esteemed citizen Judge Bigelow, has found it necessary 
 to give up the office of President in the Clinton Bank, 
 which he has held with so much honor to himself since 
 the institution commenced business. He is succeeded 
 by Joshua Kling, Esq., late Cashier ; a gentleman 
 peculiarly well-fitted for the position to which he has 
 been elevated. Harvey Weems, the first Teller, takes 
 19 
 
290 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 the place of Cashier. A better selection, it would be 
 impossible to make. From the beginning, the affairs 
 of this Bank have been managed with great prudence, 
 and it is justly regarded as one of the soundest in the 
 State." 
 
 > 
 
 " My dear friend," said the grateful Judge, grasping 
 the hand of Wallingford, who called his attention to 
 this notice, " what a world of responsibility you have 
 helped me to cast from my shoulders ! I am to-day a 
 happier man than I have been for years. The new 
 President is welcome to all the honor his higher position 
 may reflect upon him." 
 
 "The next work in order," remarked the Judge's 
 clear-headed, resolute friend, " is to withdraw your in 
 vestments from the cotton mills. That will be a slower 
 and more difficult operation ; but it must be done, even 
 at a sacrifice. Better have fifty thousand dollars in 
 solid real estate, than a hundred thousand in that con 
 cern." 
 
 And so this further disentanglement was commenced. 
 
 Winter having passed away, Mr. Dewey saw it ex 
 pedient to retire from the Allen House. By this time 
 nothing more was heard of his Italian Villa. He had 
 something else to occupy his thoughts. As there was 
 no house to be rented in S , that in any way cor 
 responded with his ideas, he stored his furniture, and 
 took board at the new hotel which had lately been 
 erected. 
 
 Mr. Wallingford now made preparations for remov- 
 
THE SETTLEMENT. 291 
 
 ing to the old mansion, which was still the handsomest 
 place, by all odds, in our town. 
 
 One day, early in the summer, I received a note 
 from Mr. Wallingford, asking me to call around at Ivy 
 Cottage in the evening. At the bottom of the note, 
 was a pencilled line from his wife to Constance, asking 
 the pleasure of seeing her also. We went after tea. 
 
 " Come with me to the library, Doctor !" said my 
 excellent friend, soon after our arrival. " I want to 
 have a little talk with you." 
 
 So we left the ladies and retired to the library. 
 
 "My business with you to-night," said he, as we 
 seated ourselves, facing each other, on opposite sides 
 of the library-table, " is to get at some adjustment of 
 affairs between us, as touching your executorship of 
 the Allen estate. I have asked two or three times for 
 your bills against the estate, but you have always put 
 me off. Mr. Wilkinson, on the contrary, rendered an 
 account for services, which has been allowed and set 
 tled." 
 
 " The business required so little attention on my 
 part," I replied to this, " that I have never felt that I 
 could, in conscience, render an account. And besides, 
 it was with me so much a labor of love, that I do not 
 wish to mar the pleasure I felt by overlaying it with a 
 compensation." 
 
 "No man could possibly feel more deeply your 
 generous good will toward me and mine manifested 
 from the beginning until now than I do, Doctor. 
 But I cannot permit the obligation to rest all on one 
 side." 
 
292 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 He pulled out a drawer of the library-table, as he 
 said this, and taking therefrom a broad parchment 
 document, laid it down, and while his hand rested upon 
 it continued 
 
 " Anticipating that, as heretofore, I might not be 
 able to get your figures, I have taken the matter into 
 ray own hands, and fixed the amount of compensation 
 subject, of course, to objections on your part, if I 
 have made the award too low. These papers are the 
 title deeds of Ivy Cottage, executed in your favor. 
 There are memories and associations connected with 
 this dear spot, which must for ever be sacred in the 
 hearts of myself and wife ; and it would be pain to us 
 to see it desecrated by strangers. . In equity and love, 
 then, we pass it over to you and yours ; and may God 
 give you as much happiness beneath its roof as we 
 have known." 
 
 Surprise kept me silent for some time. But as soon 
 as my thoughts ran free, I answered 
 
 " No no, Mr. Wallingford. This is fixing the sum 
 entirely beyond a fair estimate. I cannot for a mo 
 ment " 
 
 He stopped me before I could finish the sentence. 
 
 " Doctor !" He spoke with earnestness and deep 
 feeling. " There is no living man to whom I am so 
 heavily indebted as I am to you. Not until after my 
 marriage was I aware that your favorable word, given 
 without qualification, bore me into the confidence of 
 Mrs. Montgomery, and thus opened the way for me to 
 happiness and fortune. My good Blanche has often 
 repeated to me the Inngunge you once used in my 
 
GOOD FORTUNE. 293 
 
 favor, and which awakened in her mind an interest 
 which gradually deepened into love. My heart moves 
 towards you, Doctor, and you must let its impulses 
 have way in this small matter. Do not feel it as an 
 obligation. That is all on our side. We cannot let 
 Ivy Cottage go entirely out of the family. We wish 
 to have as much property in it as the pilgrim has in 
 Mecca. We must visit it sometimes, and feel always 
 that its chambers are the abodes of peace and love. 
 A kind Providence has given us of this world's goods 
 an abundance. We did not even have to lift our 
 hands to the ripe clusters. They fell into our laps. 
 And now, if, from our plenty, we take a small portion 
 and discharge a debt, will you push aside the oifering, 
 and say, No ? Doctor, this must not be !" 
 
 Again I essayed objection ; but all was in vain. Ivy 
 Cottage was to be our pleasant home. When, on re 
 turning with Constance, I related to her what had 
 passed between Mr. Wallingford and myself, she was 
 affected to tears. 
 
 " If I have ever had a covetous thought," she said, 
 " it has been when I looked at Ivy Cottage. And to 
 think it is to be mine ! The sweetest, dearest spot in 
 S !" 
 
 There was no putting aside this good fortune. It 
 came in such a shape, that we could not refuse it with 
 out doing violence to the feelings of true-hearted 
 friends. And so, when they removed to their jiew 
 home, w r e passed to Ivy Cottage. 
 
 The two years that followed were marked by no 
 events of striking interest. The affairs of Judge 
 
294 TWENTY YEAKS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 Bigelow continued to assume a better shape, under the 
 persistent direction of Mr. Wallingford, until every 
 dollar which he had invested in the cotton mills was 
 withdrawn and placed in real estate or sound securi 
 ties. Long before this there had come an open rup 
 ture between the old man and his nephew ; but the 
 Judge had seen his real character in so clear a light 
 that friendship was no longer desirable. 
 
THE CRISIS. 295 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 AND now we have come down to the memorable 
 summer and fall of 1857. No gathering clouds, no 
 far-distant, low-voiced thunder gave warning of an ap 
 proaching storm. The sky was clear, and the sun of 
 prosperity moving onward in his strength, when, sud 
 denly, from the West came a quick flash and an ominous 
 roll of thunder. Men paused, looked at each other, 
 and asked what it meant. Here and there a note of 
 warning was sounded ; but, if heeded by any, it came 
 too late. There followed a brief pause, in which peo 
 ple held their breaths. Then came another flash, and 
 another rattling peal. Heavy clouds began to roll up 
 from the horizon ; and soon the whole sky was dark. 
 Pale face looked into pale face, and tremulous voices 
 asked as to what was coming. Fear and consternation 
 were in all hearts. It was too late for any to seek refuge 
 or shelter. Ere the startled multitudes had stirred from 
 their first surprised position, the tempest came down 
 in its fury, sweeping, tornado-like, from West to East, 
 and then into one grand gyration circling the whole 
 horizon. Men lost courage, confidence, and hope. 
 They stood still while the storm beat down, and the 
 fearful work of destruction went on. 
 
296 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 No commercial disaster like this had ever before 
 visited our country. Houses that stood unmoved 
 through many fierce convulsions went down like brittle 
 reeds, and old Corporations which were thought to be 
 as immovable as the hills tottered and fell, crushing 
 hundreds amid their gigantic ruins. 
 
 Among the first to yield was the greatly extended 
 house of Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co. The news came 
 
 up on the wires to S , with orders to stop the mills 
 
 and discharge all hands. This was the bursting of the 
 tempest on our town. Mr. Dewey had gone to New 
 York on the first sign of approaching trouble, and his 
 return was looked for anxiously by all with whom he 
 was deeply interested in business. But many days 
 passed and none saw him, or heard from him. Failing 
 to receive any communication, Squire Floyd, who had 
 everything involved, went down to New York. I saw 
 Mm on the morning of his return. He looked ten 
 years older. 
 
 It was soon whispered about that the failure of Floyd, 
 Lawson, Lee, & Co. was a bad one. Then came inti 
 mations that Mr. Dewey was not in New York, and 
 that his partners, when questioned about him, gave 
 Very unsatisfactory replies. 
 
 " Have you any notes of the Clinton Bank, Doctor?" 
 said a friend whom I met in the street. " Because, if 
 you have, take my advice and get rid of them as 
 quickly as possible. A run has commenced, and it's 
 my opinion that the institution will not stand for forty- 
 eight hours." 
 
 It stood just forty-eight hours from the date of this 
 
CLOSE OF THE CLINTON BANK. 297 
 
 i 
 
 prophecy, and then closed its doors, leaving our neigh 
 borhood poorer by the disaster over two hundred 
 thousand dollars. There was scarcely a struggle in 
 dying, for the institution had suffered such an exhaust 
 ing depletion that when its extremity came it passed 
 from existence without a throe. A Receiver was im 
 mediately appointed, and the assets examined. These 
 consisted, mainly, of bills receivable under discount, 
 not probably worth now ten cents on the dollar. 
 Three-fourths of this paper was drawn or endorsed by 
 New York firms or individuals, 'most of whom had 
 already failed. The personal account of Ralph Dewey 
 showed him to be a debtor to the Bank in the sum of 
 nearly a hundred thousand dollars. The President, 
 Joshua Kling, had not been seen since the evening of 
 the day on which the doors of the Clinton Bank were 
 shut, never to be opened for business again. His ac 
 counts were all in confusion. The Cashier, who had 
 succeeded him on his elevation to the Presidency of 
 the institution, was a mere creature in his hands ; and 
 from his revelations it was plain that robbery had been 
 progressing for some time on a grand scale. 
 
 As soon as these disastrous facts became known to 
 
 the heaviest sufferers in S , the proper affidavits 
 
 were made out, and requisitions obtained for both 
 Dewey and Kling, as defaulters and fugitives from 
 justice. The Sheriff of our county, charged with the 
 duty of arrest, proceeded forthwith to New York, and, 
 engaging the services of detectives there, began the 
 search for Dewey, who, it was believed, had not left 
 that city. He was discovered, in a week, after having 
 
298 
 
 dexterously eluded pursuit, on the eve of departure for 
 England, disguised, and under an assumed name. His 
 
 next appearance in S was as a prisoner in the 
 
 hands of our Sheriff, who lodged him in jail. Very 
 heavy bonds being required for his appearance at 
 court, there was not found among us any one willing 
 to take the risk, who was qualified to become his 
 surety. And so the wretched man was compelled to 
 lie in prison until the day of trial. 
 
 Immediately on his incarceration, he sent for Mr. 
 Wallingford, who visited him without delay. He 
 found him a shrinking, cowed, and frightened culprit ; 
 not a man, conscious of rectitude, and therefore firm 
 in bearing, though in a false and dangerous position. 
 
 " This is a bad business, Mr. Wallingford," he said, 
 on meeting the lawyer " a very bad business ; and I 
 have sent for you as a professional gentleman of 
 standing and ability, in order to have a consultation 
 in regard to my position in fact, to place myself 
 wholly in your hands. I must have the best counsel, 
 and therefore take the earliest opportunity to secure 
 your valuable services. Will you undertake my 
 v case?" 
 
 "That will depend, Mr. Dewey," was answered, 
 " entirely upon how it stands. If you are falsely ac 
 cused, and can demonstrate to me your innocence, I 
 will defend you to the utmost of my ability, battling 
 your accusers to the last. But if, on the contrary, 
 you cannot show clean hands, I am not the one to un 
 dertake your case." 
 
FRAUD. 299 
 
 Dewcy looked at Mr. Wallingford strangely. He 
 scarcely comprehended him. 
 
 "I may have committed mistakes; all men are 
 liable to error," he replied. 
 
 "Mistake is one thing, Mr. Dewey, and may be 
 explained; fraud is another thing, and cannot be 
 explained to mean any thing else. What I want you 
 to understand, distinctly, is this : If your connection 
 with the Clinton Bank has been, from the beginning, 
 just and honorable, however much it may now seem 
 to be otherwise, I will undertake your case, and con 
 duct it, I care not through how great difficulties, to a 
 favorable issue. But if it has not been and you 
 know how it stands do not commit your fate to me, 
 for I will abandon you the moment I discover that you 
 have been guilty of deliberate wrong to others." 
 
 The countenance of Mr. Dewey fell, and he seemed 
 to shudder back into himself. For some time he was 
 silent. 
 
 " If there is a foregone conclusion in your mind, 
 that settles the matter," he said, at length, in a disap 
 pointed tone. 
 
 " All I ask is clear evidence, Mr. Dewey. Fore 
 gone conclusions have nothing to do with the matter," 
 replied Mr. Wallingford, " If you know yourself to be 
 innocent, you may trust yourself in my hands ; if not, 
 I counsel you to look beyond me to some other man." 
 
 " All men are liable to do wrong, Mr. Wallingford ; 
 and religion teaches that the door of repentance is 
 open to every one." 
 
 " True, but the just punishment of wrong is always 
 
300 
 
 needed for a salutary repentance. The contrition that 
 springs from fear of consequences, is not genuine re 
 pentance. If you have done wrong, you must take 
 the penalty in some shape, and I am not the man 
 knowingly to stay the just progression of either moral 
 or civil law." 
 
 " Will you accept a retaining fee, even if not active 
 in my case?" asked Mr. Dewey. 
 " No," was the emphatic answer. 
 A dark, despairing shadow fell over the miserable 
 man's face, and he turned himself away from the only 
 being towards whom he had looked with any hope in 
 this great extremity of his life. 
 
 Mr. Wallingford retired with pity in his heart. The 
 spectacle was one of the most painful he had ever wit 
 nessed. How was the mighty fallen ! the proud 
 brought low! As he walked from the prison, the 
 Psalmist's striking words passed through his mind 
 " I have seen the wicked in great power, and spreading 
 himself like a green bay tree : yet he passed away, 
 and lo, he was not." 
 
 When the day of trial came, Mr. Wallingford ap 
 peared as counsel for the creditors of the Clinton 
 Bank, on the side of the prosecution. He did not 
 show any eagerness to gain his case against the pri 
 soner ; but the facts were so strong, and all the links 
 in the chain of evidence so clear, that conviction was 
 inevitable. A series of frauds and robberies was ex 
 posed, that filled the community with surprise and in 
 dignation ; and when the jury, after a brief consulta 
 tion, brought in a verdict of guilty, the expression of 
 
RETRIBUTION. 301 
 
 delight was general. Detestation of the man's crimes 
 took away all pity from the eoiiimon sentiment in re 
 gard to him. A sentence of five years' expiation in 
 the State prison closed the career of Ralph Dewey in 
 S , and all men said : " The retribution is just." 
 
 Squire Floyd lost everything, and narrowly escaped 
 the charge of complicity with Dewey. Nothing but 
 the fact of their known antagonism for some two or 
 three years, turned the public mind in his favor, and 
 enabled him to show that what appeared collusion, was 
 only, so far as he was concerned, fair business opera 
 tions. With the wreck of his fortune he came very 
 near making also a wreck of his good name. Even 
 
 as it was, there were some in S who thought 
 
 the Squire had, in some things, gone far beyond the 
 rule of strict integrity. 
 
 Judge Bigelow, thanks to the timely and resolute 
 intervention of Mr. Wallingford, stood far away from 
 the crashing wrecks, when the storm swept down in 
 fearful devastation. It raged around, but did not 
 touch him; for he was safely sheltered, and beyond 
 its reach. 
 
302 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Two years have passed since these disastrous 
 events ; and twenty years since the opening of our 
 story. The causes at work in the beginning, have 
 wrought out their legitimate effects the tree has ri 
 pened its fruits the harvest has been gathered. The 
 
 quiet of old times has fallen upon S . It was only 
 
 a week ago that steps were taken to set the long si 
 lent mills in motion. A company, formed in Boston, 
 has purchased the lower mill, and rented from Mr. 
 Wallingford the upper one, which was built on the 
 Allen estate. Squire Floyd, I learn, is to be the 
 manager here for the company. I am glad of this. 
 Poor man ! He was stripped of everything, and has 
 been, for the past two years, in destitute circumstan 
 ces. How he has contrived to live, is almost a mys 
 tery. The elegant house which he had built for him 
 self was taken and sold by creditors, with the furniture, 
 plate, and all things pertaining thereto, and, broken- 
 spirited, he retired to a small tenement on the outskirts 
 of the town, where he has since lived. His unhappy 
 daughter, with her two children, are with him. Her 
 son, old enough to be put to some business, she has 
 placed in a store, where he is earning enough to pay 
 
LOST EOREVER! 303 
 
 his board ; while she and her daughter take in what 
 sewing they can obtain, in order to lessen, as far as 
 possible, the burden of their maintenance. Alas for 
 her that the father of those children should be a con 
 victed felon ! 
 
 I move about through S , on my round of 
 
 duties, and daily there comes to me som,e reminder of 
 the events and changes of twenty years. I see, here 
 and there, a stranded wreck, and think how proudly 
 the vessel spread her white sails in the wind a few 
 short years gone by, freighted with golden hopes. But 
 where are those treasures now ? Lost, lost forever in 
 the fathomless sea ! 
 
 Twenty years ago, and now ! As a man soweth, 
 even so shall he reap. Spring time loses itself in 
 luxuriant summer, and autumn follows with the sure 
 result. If the seed has been good, the fruit will be 
 good ; but if a man have sown only tares in his fields, 
 he must reap in sorrow and not in joy. There is no 
 exception to the rule. A bramble bush can no more 
 bear grapes, than a selfish and evil life can produce 
 happiness. The one is a natural, and the other a 
 spiritual, impossibility. 
 
 A few days ago, as I was riding along on a visit to 
 one of my patients, I met Mr. and Mrs. Wallingford, 
 with two of their children, driving out in their car 
 riage. They stopped, and we were passing a few 
 pleasant words, when there came by two persons, 
 plainly, almost coarsely dressed a mother and her 
 daughter. Both had bundles in their hands. Over 
 the mother's face a veil was drawn, and as she passed, 
 
304 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 with evidently quickening steps, she turned herself 
 partly away. The daughter looked at us steadily 
 from her calm blue eyes, in which you saw a shade of 
 sadness, as though already many hopes had failed. 
 Her face was pale and placid, but touched you with 
 its expression of half-concealed suffering, as if, young 
 as she was, some lessons of pain and endurance had 
 already been learned. 
 
 " Who are they ?" asked Mrs. Wallingford. 
 
 " Delia Floyd and her daughter," said I. 
 
 No remark was made. If my ears did not deceive 
 me, I heard a faint sigh pass the lips of Mr. Walling 
 ford. 
 
 I spoke to my horse, and, bowing mutually, we 
 passed on our ways. 
 
 " Twenty years ago, and now ! " said I to myself, 
 falling into a sober mood, as thought went back to the 
 sweet, fragrant morning of Delia's life, and I saw it 
 in contrast with this dreary autumn. " If the young 
 would only take a lesson like this to heart ! " 
 
 In the evening, Mr. Wallingford called to see me. 
 
 "I have not been able, all day," said he, "to get 
 the image of that poor woman and her daughter out 
 of my mind. What are their circumstances, Doc 
 tor?" 
 
 "They live with Squire Floyd," I answered, "and 
 he is very poor. I think Delia and her daughter sup 
 port themselves by their needles." 
 
 " What a fall ! " he said, with pity in his tones. 
 
 "Yes, it was a sad fall sad, but salutary, I 
 trust." 
 
A SECOND DIVORCE. 305 
 
 "How was she after her separation from Mr. 
 Dewey?" 
 
 " Very bitter and rebellious, for a time. His mar 
 riage seemed to arouse every evil passion of her nature. 
 I almost shuddered to hear the maledictions she called 
 down upon the head of his wife one day, when she 
 rode by in the elegant equipage of which she had once 
 been the proud owner. She fairly trembled with rage. 
 Since then, the discipline of the inevitable in life has 
 done its better work. She has grown subdued and 
 patient, and is doing all a mother in such narrow cir 
 cumstances can do for her children." 
 
 "What of Dewey's second wife?" asked Mr. Wal- 
 lingford. 
 
 " She has applied for a divorce from him, on the 
 ground that he is a convicted felon ; and will get a 
 decree in her favor, without doubt." 
 
 "What a history!" he exclaimed. Then, after a 
 pause, he asked 
 
 " Cannot something be done for Mr. Floyd?" 
 
 "I have understood," said I, "that the company 
 about to start the mills again have engaged him as 
 manager." 
 
 " Is that so ? Just what I was thinking," he replied, 
 with animation. " I must look after that matter, and 
 see that it does not fall through." 
 
 And he was in this, as in all things, as good as his 
 word. It needed only a favorable intimation from him 
 to decide the company to place their works in the hands 
 of Squire Floyd, who was a man of skill and experi- 
 
306 TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. 
 
 ence in manufacturing, and one in whose integrity the 
 fullest confidence might be reposed. 
 
 A month has passed ; and Squire Floyd, engaged 
 at a salary of two thousand dollars a year, is again at 
 the mills, busy in superintending repairs, improve 
 ments, and additions. A few more weeks, and the 
 rattle of industry will commence, and the old aspect 
 
 of things show itself in S . May the new mill 
 
 owners be wiser than their predecessors ! 
 
 Squire Floyd has removed from the poor tenement 
 lately the home of his depressed family, and is back 
 in the pleasant homestead he abandoned years ago, 
 when pride and ambition impelled him to put on a 
 grander exterior. It is understood that the company 
 have bought the house, and rent it to him at a very 
 moderate price. My own impression is, that Mr. Wal- 
 lingford has more to do in the matter than people ima 
 gine. I am strengthened in this view, from the fact 
 of having seen Mrs. Wallingford call at the Squire's 
 twice during the past week. They are in good hands, 
 and I see a better future in store for them. 
 
 And now, reader, you have the story I wished to 
 tell. It is full of suggestion to all who are starting 
 forth upon life's perilous journey. Let truth, honor, 
 integrity, and humanity, govern all your actions. Do 
 not make haste to be rich, lest you fall into divers 
 temptations. Keep always close to the right; and 
 always bear in mind that no wrong is ever done that 
 does not, sooner or later, return upon the wrong-doer. 
 
 And above all, gentle maiden, be not dazzled by the 
 condition or prospect of any who seek your hand. 
 
AUTUMN'S TREASURES. 307 
 
 Look away, down, deeply into the character, disposi 
 tion, and quality ; and if these are not of good seem 
 ing, shun the proffered alliance as you would death. 
 Better, a thousand times, pass through life alone than 
 wed yourself to inevitable misery. So heeding the 
 moralist, you will not, in the harvest time which comes 
 to all, look in despair over your barren fields, but find 
 them golden with Autumn's treasures, that shall fill 
 your granaries and crown your latter days with bless 
 ing. 
 
 THE END. 
 
LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY G. G. EVANS. 
 
 A BUDGET OF 
 
 HUMOROUS POETRY, 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 Specimens of the best and most Humorous Productions of the 
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 By the author of the " BOOK OF ANECDOTES AND BUDGET OF 
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 From the Pfdladelphia North American. 
 
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 THE 
 
 The World in a Pocket Book. 
 
 BY 
 WILLIAM H. CRUMP. 
 
 NEW AND REVISED EDITION, BROUGHT DOWN TO 
 
 1860. 
 
 This work is a Compendium of Useful Knowledge and General 
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LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY G. G. EVANS. 
 
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 heart, warming the affections, and elevating the soul." 
 
 ANNA CLAYTON; OR, THE MOTHER'S TRIAL. 
 A Tale of Real Life, izmo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 " The principal characters in this tale are drawn from real life imagina 
 tion cannot picture deeper shades of sadness, higher or more exquisite joys, 
 than Truth has woven for us, in the Mother's Trial." 
 
 " FASHIONABLE DISSIPATION." 
 
 By METTA V. FULLER. Mezzotint Frontispiece, 1 2mo., bound in 
 cloth, Price $1.00. 
 
 THE YANKEE SLAVE DRIVER; 
 
 OR, THE WHITE AND BLACK RIVALS, izmo., cloth, Illustrated. 
 Price $1.00. 
 
LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY G. G. EVANS. 
 
 THE MASTER SPIRIT OF THE AGE. 
 
 THE PUBLIC AND PRIVATE HISTORY OF NAPOLEON 
 THE THIRD. 
 
 With Biographical Notices of his most Distinguished Ministers, 
 Generals and Favorites. By S. M. SMUCKER, LL.D. This in 
 teresting and valuable work is embellished with splendid steel 
 plates, done by Sartain in his best style, including the Emperor, 
 the Empress, Queen Hortense, and the Countess Castiglione. 
 400 pages, I2mo. Price $1.25. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF ROBERT HOUDIN, 
 
 The celebrated French Conjuror. Translated from the French. 
 With a copious Index. By DR. R. SHELTON MACKENZIE. This 
 book is full of interesting and entertaining anecdotes of the great 
 Wizard, and gives descriptions of the manner of performing 
 many of his most curious tricks and transformations, izmo., 
 cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF DAVID CROCKETT. 
 
 Written by himself, with Notes and Additions. Splendidly illus 
 trated with engravings, from original designs. By GEORGE G 
 WHITE, izmo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 LIFE AND TIMES OF DANIEL BOONE. 
 
 Including an account of the Early Settlements of Kentucky. By 
 CECIL B. HARTLEY. With splendid illustrations, from original 
 drawings by George G. White. I2mo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF LEWIS WETZEL. 
 Together with Biographical Sketches of Simon Kenton, Benjamin 
 Logan, Samuel Brady, Isaac Shelby, and other distinguished 
 Warriors and Hunters of the West. By CECIL B. HARTLEY. 
 With splendid illustrations, from original drawings by George 
 G. White. I2mo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 LIFE AND TIMES OF GENERAL FRANCIS MARION, 
 
 The Hero of the American Revolution ; giving full accounts of 
 
 his many perilous adventures and hair-breadth escapes amongst 
 
 the British and Tories in the Southern States, during the struggle 
 
 for liberty. Bv W. GILMORE SIMMS. I2mo., cloth. $1.00. 
 
LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY C. G. EVANS. 
 
 LIFE OF GENERAL SAMUEL HOUSTON, 
 
 The Hunter, Patriot, and Statesman of Texas. With nine illus 
 trations, izmo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 LIVES OF GENERAL HENRY LEE AND GENERAL 
 THOMAS SUMPTER. 
 
 Comprising a History of the War in the Southern Department of 
 the United States. Illustrated, izmo, cloth. $1.00. 
 
 DARING & HEROIC DEEDS OF AMERICAN WOMEN. 
 
 Comprising Thrilling Examples of Courage, Fortitude, Devoted- 
 ness, and Self-Sacrifice, among the Pioneer Mothers of the 
 Western Country. By JOHN FROST, LL.D. Price $1.00. 
 
 LIVES OF FEMALE MORMONS. 
 
 A Narrative of facts Stranger than Fiction. By METTA VICTORIA 
 FULLER, izmo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 LIVES OF ILLUSTRIOUS WOMEN OF ALL AGES. 
 
 Containing the Empress Josephine, Lady Jane Gray, Beatrice 
 Cenci, Joan of Arc, Anne Boleyn, Charlotte Corday, Zenobia, 
 &c., &c. Embellished with Fine Steel Portraits. I2mo., cloth. 
 Price $1.00. 
 
 THE LIVES AND EXPLOITS OF THE MOST NOTED 
 BUCCANEERS & PIRATES OF ALL COUNTRIES. 
 
 Handsomely illustrated, i vol. Cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 HIGHWAYMEN, ROBBERS AND BANDITTI OF ALL 
 COUNTRIES. 
 
 With Colored and other Engravings. Handsomely bound in one 
 volume, izmo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 HEROES AND PATRIOTS OF THE SOUTH; 
 
 Comprising Lives of General Francis Marion, General William 
 Moultrie, General Andrew Pickens, and Governor John 
 Rutledge. By CECIL B. HARTLEY. Illustrated, izmo., cloth. 
 Price $1.00. 
 
LIST OP BOOKS PUBLISHED BY G. G. EVANS. 
 
 BEAUTY OF WOMAN'S FAITH; 
 
 A TALE OF SOUTHERN LIFE. One volume, izmo., cloth. Price 
 $i oo. 
 
 " This volume contains the story of a French Emigrant, who first escaped 
 to England, and afterward settled on a plantation in Louisiana. It is charm 
 ingly told, and the strength and endurance of woman's faith well illustrated." 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY; 
 
 OR, LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF NORTHERN LIFE. By JEREMY LOUD. 
 One volume, izmo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 "This is a work illustrating the passions and pleasures, the trials and tri 
 umphs of common life; it is well written and the interest is admirably sus 
 tained." 
 
 THE ORPHAN GIRLS; 
 
 A TALE OF LIFE IN THE SOUTH. By JAMES S. PEACOCK, M.D., 
 of Mississippi. One volume, I2mo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 "The style is fluent and unforced, the description of character well limned, 
 and the pictures of scenery forcible and felicitous. There is a natural con 
 veyance of incidents to the denouement, and the reader closes the volume with 
 an increased regard for the talent and spirit of the author." 
 
 NEW ENGLAND BOYS; 
 
 OR, THE THREE APPRENTICES. By A. L. STIMSON. One volume, 
 ., Cloth. Price $i oo. 
 
 " This is a very agreeable book, written in a dashing independent style. The 
 incidents are numerous and striking, the characters life-like, and the plot 
 sufficiently captivating to enchain the reader's attention to the end of the 
 volume." 
 
 THE KING'S ADVOCATE; 
 
 OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A WITCH FINDER. One volume, izmo., 
 cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 "This is a book so thoroughly excellent, so exalted in its character, so full 
 of exquisite pictures of society, and manifesting so much genius, skill, and 
 knowledge of human nature, that no one can possibly read it without admit 
 ting it to be, in every way, a noble book. The story, too, is one of stirring 
 interest; and it either sweeps you along with its powerful spell, or beguiles 
 you with its tenderness, pathos and geniality." 
 
LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY G. G. EVANS. 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF A PASTOR'S LIFE. 
 By S. H. ELLIOTT. One volume, iimo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 " This is a well -written, highly instructive book. It is a story of the life- 
 teachings, and life-trials of a good man, whose great aim was to derate, 
 morally and intellectually, his fellow-men. Like many of his nature and 
 temperament tome of hit views were Utopian. But his successes and 
 laftnies, with the causes of these, are painted with a masterly hand. There 
 is unusual strength and vitality in this volume." 
 
 THREE PER CENT. A MONTH; 
 
 OR, THE PERILS OF FAST LIVING, A Warning to Young Men. 
 By CHAS. BURDETT. One volume, I2mo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 "The stylo of this book is direct and effective, particularly fitting the 
 impression which such a story should make. It is a very spirited and in- 
 totiT tal^ leaving a good impwssion both npon the wader's sensibilities 
 and morals." 
 
 EVENINGS AT HOME; 
 
 OR, TALES FOR THE FIRESIDE. By JANI C, CAMPBELL. One 
 volume, I2mo., cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 We know of no book in the whole range of modern fictitious literature 
 we womld sooner select for a delightful and instructive coane*ie. 
 
 RURAL LIFE; 
 
 OR, PROSE AND POETRY OF THE WOODS AND FIELDS. By HARRY 
 PENCILLER. One volume, cloth, iimo. Price $1.00. 
 
 "Beantifkl 
 
 .^ -- _ , _ , ... MJ mmm 
 
 wed* and vatea. of the beantiea of verdant fields and fragrant 
 tkftiHite ef 1Mb and r*.imghek* aft tesjifa in i 
 
 , which cannot fail to 
 
 JOYS AND SORROWS OF HOME; 
 
 An AUTOBIOGRAPHY. By AKKA LELAND. One volume, 1 2mo., 
 cloth. Price 9i.oo. 
 
 is one of the rat beamtifkl iosnsHis etories we have ever read, 
 let.tMtHft.witn a aatollew and enanesn which leads tne leader 
 on to the dene, and ntA leave* a regret that tite tale is done.- 
 

THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 RENEWED BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE 
 RECALL 
 
 LIBRARY, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, DAVIS 
 
 BookSlip-50m-9,'70(N9877s8)458 A-31/5,6 
 
N9 785289 
 
 PS1039 
 Arthur, T.S. 
 
 Twenty years ago, and T8 
 now. 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS