It was one of the happiest days in Ellison’s life when he pressed upon
the lips of the gentle girl whom he had won, the sweet bridal kiss. Over
his future course through life hung a cloudless sky. The doubt and
difficulty that had been on his way for years were removed—success to
the utmost extent of his wishes was before him. Already, in imagination,
he was in Italy, among the glorious creations of the old masters,
drinking in from their sublime works an inspiration that was to him half
immortal in his art.
For a few weeks these bright visions remained. Then his thoughts began
to come down into the present, and to consider the real aspect of things
around him. In regard to Clara’s fortune, all the knowledge he possessed
was that obtained through common report. It was known that her father,
while living, was in the enjoyment of a handsome property, and that this
on his death had been divided equally among his children. As to the
nature or value of his wife’s share, he was entirely ignorant; a certain
feeling of delicacy kept him from seeking or even seeming to seek for
information on the subject prior to marriage. In fact, he tried at times
to persuade himself that the property of Clara had nothing whatever to
do with his affection for her.
The mind of Ellison being proud, sensitive and independent, this
delicacy remained equally strong after marriage. He took his wife to a
good boarding-house, where he had engaged a large, handsomely furnished
room at the rate of twelve dollars a week, and here they commenced their
matrimonial life. From a friend, a short time previous to marriage,
Ellison had borrowed a couple of hundred dollars, and this gave him the
means of meeting all the necessary expenses attendant on the important
event, besides leaving him with seventy or eighty dollars in possession
as a little fund to use until some portion of his wife’s income should
begin to find its way into his hands.
Two or three weeks passed, during which time Ellison went daily to paint
and draw in his studio, though he did not work with his former
earnestness. From some cause he found it impossible to bring his mind
down to a present interest in his profession; that is, to an interest in
what he was then engaged in doing. His mind was continually wandering
away, and his fancy teeming with bright and beautiful images. He saw the
pure blue skies of Italy; he felt the fragrant airs of the sunny clime
breaking over his forehead; he was a worshiper among her galleries of
immortal art; and more than all this, he was panting to be in the land
of art and song, and felt his impatience to be away increasing every
moment. And yet, his gentle, loving young wife, for whom a profound
respect as well as affection had been awakened, said nothing of her
property, nor had he permitted her to look deep enough into his mind to
see his dream of Italy. He had carefully avoided this lest she should
suspect the motive that first drew him to her side; a motive which,
could he have done so, he would gladly have concealed even from himself.
Weeks went by, and still Clara said nothing about her little fortune;
nor did she place money in the hands of her husband. The small sum he
had in possession was daily growing less, and the income from his pencil
was far from being sufficient to meet his expenses. To introduce the
subject was next to impossible. The young man’s mind shrunk from even
the remotest allusion thereto. To dreams of Italy, soon succeeded an
anxious desire to turn what ability he possessed to some profitable
account in the present, in order that he might retain his
independence—something that had always been dear to him. It was barely
possible, it occurred to his mind, that Clara had no property in her own
right. Were this so, he was indeed in an embarrassed position.
Thus matters continued until nearly the last dollar of the young
artist’s money was gone, and he began to be so unhappy that it was next
to impossible to hide from his wife the troubled state of his feelings.
What was he to do? From the thought of revealing to Clara the true
nature of his affairs he shrunk away with exquisite pain. The moment
that was done his independence was gone, and to retain his independence
he was ready to make all other sacrifices. Daily he met her gentle,
love-beaming face, and daily saw more and more of her pure, high-minded
character, and all the while he felt guilty in her presence, and
struggled to hide from her the wild disturbance of his heart.
One day, it was about six weeks after their marriage, Clara said to her
husband, looking slightly grave, yet smiling as she spoke.
She had a letter in her hand.
“I’m afraid I am going to bring you more trouble than profit.”
Instantly, in spite of his effort to control himself, the blood sprung
to the very forehead of the young man.
“I shall cheerfully meet all the trouble, and be content with the
profit,” he replied, as quickly as he could speak, forcing a smile as he
did so, and endeavoring to drive back the tell-tale blood to his heart.
Clara looked at her husband earnestly, and seemed to be perplexed at the
singular effect produced by her words.
“There is a valuable tract of land in Ohio,” said she, “which was left
me by my father, that I am in danger of losing. The title deed, it is
alleged, is defective.”
“Ah! What is the nature of the defect?” Ellison’s voice, schooled under
a brief but strong effort into composure, was calm as he asked this
question.
“It is claimed,” answered Clara, “that a former sale was fraudulent, and
therefore illegal, and that it must now revert to certain individuals
who have been deprived of their rights.”
“Did the property come into your father’s hands by inheritance or
purchase?”
“He bought the property, and therefore, as far as I am concerned, the
title to its possession is an honest one.”
“How large is the tract of land?”
Because Ellison especially desired to avoid showing any particular
interest in knowing the extent of the property, his voice faltered on
this question, and he was conscious that his countenance was slightly
marked with confusion.
“Five hundred acres,” was replied.
“Is it near a town?”
“Yes. It lies not over two miles distant from a flourishing town, and
was considered by my father before his death to be worth seven or eight
thousand dollars. He was repeatedly offered that sum for it, but always
refused, for he considered its value to be yearly increasing. ‘It will
be worth twenty thousand to my children,’ he would say in reply to all
offers.”
This last sentence caused the heart of Ellison to sink almost like lead.
Here, then, was the twenty thousand dollars’ worth of property which his
wife possessed in her own right, and upon the income of which he was to
dream over and study the old masters in Italy! And so Clara was really
worth twenty thousand dollars; but it was in Ohio wild lands, and even
for these there was another claimant! It required a very strong effort
on the part of the young man to conceal what he felt. How quickly into
thin air vanished his hopes! How coldly broke the morning whose dim
light showed the painful and embarrassing reality of his position!
“Has a suit been commenced?” asked Ellison.
“Yes. I have just received word from my agent that the parties claiming
the tract of land have instituted legal proceedings.”
“What does he say in regard to the matter?”
“He says that he has consulted a lawyer, who after looking pretty
carefully into the subject, is clearly of opinion that no suit can be
sustained. But says that a good deal of trouble may be occasioned, and
that the question may be kept open for two or three years.”
Here was some real intelligence bearing upon the question of Clara’s
property, its amount and condition. Certainty was something; but it was
not a certainty in any way calculated to elevate or tranquilize the
feelings of the young artist. Instead of obtaining with his wife a
handsome productive property, in stocks or city real estate, of twenty
thousand dollars, he had become possessor of a law suit, and prospective
owner of five hundred acres of uncultivated land in Ohio. And, by the
time this knowledge was gained, he was so well acquainted with the
character of his wife as to entertain for her a respect that was almost
deferential. There was nothing frivolous or selfish about her—nothing
trifling—nothing vulgar. She was a pure, high-minded, clear-seeing, yet
deeply affectionate woman, and her husband, while he loved her tenderly,
was painfully conscious that, in seeking her, he had been governed by
motives that, if known, she must instinctively despise. Moreover, the
fact that he had deceived her by offering his hand in marriage and
leading her to the altar when his income was not large enough to support
even himself in comfort, must soon appear, and that revelation he
dreaded above all things; for, when it was made, the veil would be torn
from Clara’s eyes, and she would see him as he was.