No;—there had been no strife with the heavenly messenger. As a child falls asleep in its mother's arms, so fell Mrs. Montgomery asleep in the arms of an angel—tranquil, peaceful, happy. I say happy—for in lapsing away into that mortal sleep, of which our natural sleep is but an image, shall the world-weary who have in trial and suffering grown heavenly minded, sink into unconsciousness with less of tranquil delight than the babe pillowed against its mother's bosom? I think not.
As I gazed upon her dead face, where the parting soul had left its sign of peace, I prayed that, when I passed from my labors, there might be as few stains of earth upon my garments.
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, Yea, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.”
I found myself repeating these holy words, as I stood looking at the white, shrunken features of the departed.
It was not until the next day that I saw Blanche. But Constance was with her immediately after the sad news jarred upon her sympathizing heart.
“How did you leave her?” was my anxious query, on meeting my wife at home.
“Calm,” was the brief answer.
How much the word included!
“Did you talk with her?”
“Not a great deal; she did not seem inclined to talk, like some who seek relief through expression. I found her alone in the room next to the one in which the body of her mother was lying. She was sitting by a table, with one hand pressed over her eyes, as I entered. 'Oh, my friend! my dear friend!' she said, in a tone of grief, rising and coming a step or two to meet me. I drew my arms around her, and she laid her head against me and sobbed three or four times, while the tears ran down and dropped upon the floor. 'It is well with her!' I said.
“'Oh, yes, my friend, it is well with her,' she answered, mournfully, 'well with her, but not with me. How shall I walk onward in life's difficult ways, without my mother's arm to lean upon? My steps already hesitate.'
“'You have another arm to lean upon,' I ventured to suggest.
“'Yes, a strong arm upon which I can lean in unfaltering trust. In this God has been good to me. But my wise, patient mother—how shall I live without her?'
“'She is only removed from you as to bodily presence,' said I. 'Love conjoins your souls as intimately as ever.'
“'Ah, yes, I know this must be. Too many times have I heard that comforting truth from her lips ever to forget it. But while we are in the body, the mind will not rest satisfied with any thing less than bodily presence.'
“I did not press the point, for I knew that in all sorrow the heart is its own best comforter, and gathers for itself themes of consolation that even the nearest friend would fail to suggest. We went in together to look at the frail tabernacle from which the pure spirit of her mother had departed forever! How sweetly the smile left upon the lips in the last kiss of parting, lingered there still, fixed in human marble with more than a sculptor's art! There was no passionate weeping, as we stood by the lifeless clay. Very calm and silent she was; but oh, what a look of intense love went out from her sad eyes! Not despairing but hopeful love. The curtain of death hid from her no land of shadows and mystery; but a world of spiritual realities. Her mother had not gone shrinking and trembling into regions of darkness and doubt; but in the blessed assurance of a peaceful reception in the house of her friends.
“How a true faith,” said I, strongly impressed by the images which were presented to my mind, “strips from death its old terrors! When the Apostle exclaimed, 'Oh, grave, where is thy victory? oh, death, where is thy sting?' his mind looked deeper into the mystery of dying, and saw farther into the world beyond, than do our modern Christians, who frighten us with images of terror. 'I will lay me down in peace and sleep,' when the time of my departure comes, should be the heart-language of every one who takes upon himself the name of Him who said, 'In my Father's house are many mansions. I go to prepare a place for you, that where I am, ye may be also.'”
“Since I knew Mrs. Montgomery, and felt the sphere of her quality,” said Constance, “my perceptions of life and duty here, and their connection with life and happiness hereafter, have been elevated to a higher region. I see no longer as in a glass darkly, but in the light of reason, made clear by the more interior light of Revelation.”
“And the same is true with me,” I replied. “We may well say that it was good to have known her. She was so true, so just, so unconscious of self, that truth, justice, and unselfishness were always lovelier in your eyes for having seen them illustrated in her person. And there was no pious cant about her. No parade of her unworthiness; no solemn aspects, nor obtrusive writings of bitter things against herself. But always an effort to repress what was evil in her nature; and a state of quiet, religious trust, which said, 'I know in whom I have believed.'”
“Ah,” said Constance, “if there was only more of such religion in the world!”
“It would be a happier world than it is,” I answered.
“By the impress of a life like hers, what lasting good is done!” said my wife. “Such are the salt of the earth. Cities set upon hills. Lights in candlesticks. They live not in vain!'”
I did not see Blanche until the day of burial. Her beautiful face was calm, but very pale. It bore strongly the impress of sorrow, but not of that hopeless sorrow which we so often see on these mournful occasions. It was very plain that her thoughts were not lingering around the shrouded and coffined form of what was once her mother's body, but were following her into the world beyond our mortal vision, as we follow a dear friend who has gone from us on a long journey.
And thus it was that Blanche Montgomery entered upon her new life. Death's shadow fell upon the torch of Hymen. There was a rain of grief just as the sun of love poured forth his brightest beams, and the bow which spanned the horizon gave, in that hour of grief, sweet promise for the future.
These exciting events in the experience of our young friends had come upon us so suddenly, that our minds were half bewildered. A few weeks served, however, to bring all things into a right adjustment with our own daily life and thought, and Ivy Cottage became one of the places that grew dearer to us for the accumulating memories of pleasant hours spent there with true-hearted ones who were living for something more than the unreal things of this world.
How many times was the life that beat so feverishly in the Allen House, and that which moved to such even pulsings in Ivy Cottage, contrasted in my observation! Ten years of a marriage such as Delia Floyd so unwisely consummated, had not served for the development of her inner life to any right purpose. She had kept on in the wrong way taken by her feet in the beginning, growing purse proud, vain, ambitious of external pre-eminence, worldly-minded, and self-indulgent. She had four children, who were given up almost wholly to the care of hirelings. There was, consequent upon neglect, ignorance, and bad regimen, a great deal of sickness among them, and I was frequently called in to interpose my skill for their relief. Poor little suffering ones! how often I pitied them An occasional warning was thrown in, but it was scarcely heeded by the mother, who had put on towards me a reserved stateliness, that precluded all friendly remonstrance.
At least two months of every summer Mrs. Dewey was absent from S——, intermitting between Saratoga and Newport, where she abandoned herself to all the excitements of fashionable dissipation. Regularly each year we saw her name in the New York correspondence 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 conversing in an excited manner. I saw them take the direction of the depot.
“Here is trouble!” I said, sighing to myself. “Trouble that gold cannot gild, nor the sparkle of diamonds 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 Saratoga—that Mr. Dewey surprised his wife in a moonlight walk with a young man for whom he had no particular fancy, and under such lover-like relations, that he took 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 followed. This story was in part corroborated by the following paragraph in the Herald's Saratoga correspondence:
“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 more agreeable to a certain married lady who dashes about here in a queenly way than was agreeable to her husband. The affair was hushed up. This morning 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 advice, he will keep her there.”
“Poor Mrs. Floyd!” It was the mother's deep sorrow 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 external 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-assured as of old.
“That was a strange story about Mrs. Dewey,” said I to a lady whom I 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 fashionable “set,” in S——, and Mrs. Dewey was the leader.
The lady shrugged her shoulders, drew up her eyebrows, 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 confidence. “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 married 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 conducts 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.
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.
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 carriage 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 assumed 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 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 fashion, to stamp with disapproval the conduct of which 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, Constance. I think she must be wretched almost beyond endurance. So young, and the goblet which held the shine 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 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 something 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 concerned, 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 answer to my surprised ejaculation.
“Yes; why not?”
“What will people say?”
“I can tell you what they will not say,” she replied,
“Well?”
“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 matter, 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.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Scarcely any thing beyond the common-place topics that come up on formal visits. But I penetrated deep enough into her mind to discover the 'aching void' there, which she has been so vainly endeavoring 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 seeking 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 standing afar off.”
“Then you mean to call upon her again?”
“She held my hand at parting, with such an earnest 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.
“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 patronizing, 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 better 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 remains of early and better states covered up and hidden 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 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 occasion of my first call; and a hardness of manner and sentiment, that indicated a condition of mental suffering 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.”
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 gentlemen, arm in arm, engaged in close conversation.
It was pretty generally understood in S——that the Clinton Bank was in the hands or parties in New York, and that a large proportion of the discounts made were of paper bearing the endorsement of Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co., which was passed by the directors 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 payment 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 particularly 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 discount 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 prophesying “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 toward 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 circumstances that caused a natural deference to my skill as a physician.
Nothing out of the ordinary range of things transpired 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 moment I looked into her face that she had been the witness 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 conclusion. On calling, and asking for Mrs. Dewey, I noticed 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 hesitated 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 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 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 windows, 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 followed, 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 destruction. In my weakness and despair, I turn to you for help. If there is help in any mortal arm, something 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 such as never met my eyes, except in pictures.
“'You have heard, no doubt,' she went on, 'some of the stories to my discredit which have been circulated 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. '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 women 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 together 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 sleeping on enchanted ground, it was this.'
“'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 and social triumphs; and he in grand business enterprises—castles in the air perhaps. Living thus, we have come to this point in our journey; and now the crisis has arrived!'
“She paused.
“' What crisis?' I asked.
“'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 witnesses 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.'
“'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; '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 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 throwing a shadow of disgrace over your children!'
“'No,' was her unhesitating reply.
“'Then it would be wrong for you to suffer a divorce 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.
“'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 enemies. 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.'
“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.'
“'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 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 witnesses if produced in court. Then take heart, my 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 Constance, 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 tribulation.”
I was shocked and distressed by the painful revelation which Mrs. Dewey had made to Constance. A sadder history in real life I had never heard.
A few days after this memorable visit to the Allen House, a note was received by my wife, containing this single word, “Come,” and signedDelia.
“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.”
“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 inquired.
“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, looking at my wife in surprise, “you have taken upon yourself a new character. I think the case is safe in your hands, and 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.
“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 of 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 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 passage 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,” said I. “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 Constance 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 particularity, 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 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 prospect 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, Constance 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 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 statement of the affair at Saratoga, and asserted her innocence in the most solemn and impressive manner. The letter from her husband 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 unhappy 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 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 scarletina, that I had little question in my mind as to the character of the disease from which they were suffering. 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 careful 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 unusual 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 mother. 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.
The latter softened a little as she uttered the closing sentence.
“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 something 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 unfavorable. 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 betrayal of weakness or distress in view of a fatal termination. She made no anxious inquiries, such as are pressed on physicians in cases of dangerous illness; 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 experience; but none so sad as this.
Steadily did the destroyer keep on with his work. There were none of those flattering changes that sometimes 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 control a disease that had gone on from tie 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 thinner every day, told the story of exhausting nature. She continued in the same state of mind I have described; 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 see, a dark death sign on the door.
“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 together.”
“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 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 apartment. As my eyes rested on her a moment, in closing the door, I saw that her form remained as still as a statue.