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 pleasure, 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 became a settled thing that he must remove from the splendid mansion he had occupied for years, was remarkable. 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 discipline. He did not meet you with the free, open, better-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.
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 was 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 maternal, 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. Wallingford, 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 I 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 shadowed 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 blessedness 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 sentence, 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 foreshadowings of the blessedness beyond. As I looked at 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 development. 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 marriages in heaven—has for us such an absorbing interest.”
“Are you satisfied with the evidence?” I ventured to inquire, seeing him so confident.
“Yes.”
He answered quietly, and with an assured manner.
“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 believing,” I answered.
“The spirit of a man has eyes as well as his body,” said Wallingford. “And seeing is believing in another sense than you intimate. Now the bodily eyes see material objects, and the mind, receiving their testimony, 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 perceptive faculties, they are recognized as actual existences, 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 believing. 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 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 rational views of life. A broader humanity showed itself in his words and actions. Then came the subtler 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 confidently 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 Cottage.
“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?”
“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 neighborhood. 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. Dewey and a part 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, unscrupulous 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 dishonorable 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 leading 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.”
“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' experiences, are scattered through the books we read, and daily fall from the lips of teachers and friends; maxims 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, and begin the work of life over again. But this cannot 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 surprise. 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 witnessed 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.”
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 Wallingford, mentioned in the last chapter, I met Mr. Dewey in the street. He stopped me and said, in half-sneering way,
“What of our honorable friend? Impatient, I suppose, 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 offensive; 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?”
“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 distinctly. “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 contraction of his brows.
“Independence! What am I to understand by your remark?”
“Simply this, Mr. Dewey. You are in the occupancy 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 independent, put yourself out of the range of obligation.”
I was not able to repress a sudden feeling of indignation, 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, “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 replied; “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 volunteer 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.
“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,” remarked 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, 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 something of your spirit. I have seen you a little out of your right position, I believe; but a closer view is correcting 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 towards you or others, to warrant the feeling. If in any thing I have been brought into opposition, faithfulness 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 endeavored to pursue, without fear and without favor. Can you give me a better rule for professional or private 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 adjustment 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.
“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 fiends, Judge. I have never forgotten the obligations of my boyhood; and never ceased to regret the alienation 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 received 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 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 Ralph 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 humanity. He is your nephew. But that does not signify. 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 involved with his. If you do not, he will beggar you in your old age, which God forbid!”
“I am far from sure that I can disentangle my affairs,” said the Judge.
“There is nothing like trying, you know.” Wallingford 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 Bigelow'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 take immediately the first step in a right direction. Standing outside of the charmed circle of temptation as I do, I can see the right way for your feet to walk in better than you can. Oh, sir! Let me be eyes, and hand, 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, confide 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 thousand 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 condition of the institution than anybody else, and managed it pretty much in their own way. The directors, if not men of straw, might almost as well have been, for all the intelligent control 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 representatives of value were issued, he knew nothing certain. 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.
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 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 anxious suspense on the part of Judge Bigelow and his true friend, who was standing beside him, though invisible 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.
“Right, so far,” said Mr. Wallingford, at the expiration 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 represent?”
“I cannot. They have made of me an automaton.”
“Very well. That settles the question. You cannot 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.”
“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 complimentary resolutions, in which deep regret at the resignation of Judge Bigelow was expressed, were passed by the Board. In the next week's paper, the following 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 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 investments 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 concern.”
And so this further disentanglement was commenced.
Winter having passed away, Mr. Dewey saw it expedient 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 corresponded 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 removing 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 settled.”
“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.”
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 my 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 moment—”
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 language you once used in my 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 offering, 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 returning 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 without doing violence to the feelings of true-hearted friends. And so, when they removed to their new home, we passed to Ivy Cottage.
The two years that followed were marked by no events of striking interest. The affairs of Judge 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 securities. Long before this there had come an open rupture 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.