I attended Blanche Montgomery through her slow convalescence, and had
many opportunities for observing her and her mother closely. The more
intimately I knew them the higher did they rise in my estimation. A
purer, sweeter, truer-hearted girl than Blanche I had never seen. There
was an artlessness and innocence about her but rarely met with in young
ladies of her age. Especially was she free from that worldliness and
levity which so often mars young maidenhood. Her mind was well stored
and cultivated, and she was beginning to use her mental treasures in a
way that interested you, and made you listen with pleased attention when
she spoke on even common-place subjects. Her manners had in them a grace
and dignity that was very attractive. As she advanced towards health her
deportment took on an easy, confiding air, as if she looked upon me as a
true friend. Her smile, whenever I appeared, broke over her gentle face
like a gleam of sunshine.
Mrs. Montgomery's manner towards me was distinguished by the same
frankness that marked her daughter's deportment. The stately air that
struck me in the beginning I no longer observed. If it existed, my eyes
saw it differently. At her request, when her mind was sufficiently at
ease about her daughter to busy itself with the common affairs of life,
I brought Judge Bigelow to see her, and she placed her business matters
in his hands. The judge was very much struck with her person and manner,
and told me the day after his first meeting with her that she came
nearer to his ideal of a lady than any woman he had ever met; and as
for the daughter she seemed more like a picture he had once seen than a
piece of real flesh and blood. I smiled at the Judge's enthusiasm, but
did not wonder at the impression he had received.
Other characters in our story now claim attention, and we must turn to
them. After Henry Wallingford had gained the mastery over himself:--the
struggle was wild, but brief--he resumed his office duties as usual, and
few noticed any change in him, except that he withdrew even more than
ever into himself. I met him occasionally, and observed him closely. In
my eyes there was a marked difference in the aspect of his face. It had
an expression of patient suffering at times--and again I saw in it a
most touching sadness.
The dashing nephew of Judge Bigelow offered himself to Squire Floyd's
daughter in about a week after her rejection of Wallingford's suit,
and was accepted. I became immediately cognizant of the fact through
my wife, who had the news from Delia's aunt, Mrs. Dean. A day or two
afterwards I met her in company with young Dewey, and observed her
closely. Alas! In my eyes the work of moral retrocession had already
begun. She was gay and chatty, and her countenance fresh and blooming.
But I missed something--something the absence of which awakened a sigh
of regret. Ralph was very lover-like in his deportment, fluttering about
Delia, complimenting her, and showing her many obtrusive attentions. But
eyes that were in the habit of looking below the surface of things, saw
no heart in it all.
Squire Floyd was delighted with his daughter's fine prospects; and he
and Judge Bigelow drew their heads together over the affair in a cosy
and confidential way very pleasant to both of them. The Judge was
eloquent touching his nephew's fine qualities and splendid prospects;
and congratulated the Squire, time and again, on his daughter's
fortunate matrimonial speculation. He used the word which was
significative beyond any thing that entered his imagination.
A few days after the engagement Ralph Dewey returned to New York. The
wedding-day had not been fixed; but the marriage, as understood by all
parties, was to take place some time during the next winter.
From that time I noticed a change in Delia. She grew silent in company,
and had an absent way about her that contrasted strongly with her former
social disposition. Young people rallied her in the usual style about
her heart being absent with the beloved one, but I read the signs
differently. It could not but follow, that a soul, endowed like hers,
would have misgivings in view of an alliance with one like Ralph
Dewey. What was there in him to satisfy a true woman's yearnings for
conjunction with a kindred nature? Nothing! He was all outside as to
good. A mere selfish, superficial, speculating man of the world. While
she had a heart capable of the deepest and truest affection. Would he
make the fitting complement to her life? Alas! No! That were a thing
impossible.
During the few months that preceded this marriage, I often heard its
promise discussed by my wife and Mrs. Dean, neither of whom had any
strong liking for the young New York merchant.
“It's my opinion,” said Mrs. Dean, as she sat with my wife one evening,
about two months after the engagement had taken place, “that Ralph has
more froth than substance about him. He really talks, sometimes, as if
he had the world in a sling and could toss it up among the stars. As far
as my observation goes, such people flourish only for a season.”
“If Delia were a child of mine,” said my good Constance, in her earnest
way, “I would a thousand times rather trust her with Henry Wallingford
than with Ralph Dewey.”
“Yes, and a thousand millions of times,” responded Mrs. Dean. “He is
a man. You know just what he is, and where he is. But, as for this
splashing nephew of Judge Bigelow's--who knows what's below the surface?
Delia's father is all taken up with him, and thinks the match a splendid
one. Sister don't say much; but I can see that she has her misgivings. I
can talk to you freely, you know.”
“I don't think,” said I, “that Delia has grown more cheerful since her
engagement. Brides expectant ought to feel as happy as the day is long.”
“More cheerful? Oh, dear, no! She isn't the same that she was at all;
but mopes about more than half of her time. It's just my opinion--spoken
between friends--that she cares, now, a great deal more for Henry than
she does for Ralph.”
“Do they ever meet?” I inquired.
“Not very often.”
“They have met?”
“Yes, several times.”
“Have you seen them together?”
“Oh, yes.”
“How does she act towards him?”
“Not always the same. Sometimes she is talkative, and sometimes
reserved--sometimes as gay as a lark, and sometimes sober enough; as
if there were such a weight on her spirits, that she could not smile
without an effort.”
“Does the fact of his presence make any change in her?” I inquired.
“What I mean is, if she were lively in spirits before he came in, would
she grow serious--or if serious, grow excited?”
“Oh, yes, it always makes a change. I've known her, after being very
quiet, and hardly having any thing to say, though in the midst of young
company, grow all at once as merry as a cricket, and laugh and joke in
a wild sort of way. And again, when she has been in one of her old,
pleasant states of mind I have noticed that she all at once drew back
into herself; I could trace the cause to only this--the presence of
Henry Wallingford. But this doesn't often happen, for he rarely shows
himself in company.”
“Is there anything noticeable about Henry when they meet?” I asked.
“Not to an ordinary observer,” replied Mrs. Dean. “But I look with
sharper eyes than most people. Yes, there is something noticeable. He
always puts himself in her way, but with a kind of forced, resolute
manner, as if the act were a trial of strength, and involved a stern
heart-discipline. And this I think, is just the real state of the case.
He has deliberately and resolutely entered upon the work of unwinding
from his heart the cord which love his thrown around it in so many
intertwisted folds. So I read him. To break it by sudden force, would
leave so many unwound portions behind, that the memory of her might
sadden the whole of his after-life. And so he is learning to grow
indifferent towards her. To search in her for such things as repel,
instead of for those that charm the heart.”
“A dangerous experiment,” said my wife, “for one who has loved so
deeply.”
“It would be to most men,” I remarked. “But there is stuff about
Henry--the stuff that strong, persistent, successful men are made of. If
he has begun this work, he will complete it certainly.”
A few weeks afterwards, I had an opportunity of seeing them together,
and I improved it to observe them closely. It was in a mixed company
at the house of Judge Bigelow. Wallingford came in rather late. I
was conversing with Delia when he entered the room, and we were at an
interesting point in the subject under consideration. I noticed, all at
once, a hesitation and confusion of thought, as her eyes rested, with a
sudden interest, on some object in the room. Glancing around, I saw the
young man. We went on with our conversation, Delia rallying herself, as
I could see, with an effort. But she talked no longer from thought, only
from memory--uttering mere truisms and common-places. She put on more
animation, and affected a deeper interest; but I was not deceived.
We were still in conversation, when Wallingford joined us. I saw him fix
his eyes, as they met, searchingly upon her face, and saw her eyes droop
away from his. He was fully self-possessed; she not at ease. His mind
was clear; hers in some confusion. I remained some time near them,
listening to their conversation, and joining in occasionally. Never
before had I seen him appear so well, nor her to such poor advantage.
She tried to act a part--he was himself. I noticed, as he led the
conversation, that he kept away from the esthetic, and held her thought
in the region of moral causes; that he dwelt on the ends and purposes
of life, as involving everything. Now and then she essayed a feeble
argument, or met some of his propositions with light banter. But with
a word he obliterated the sophism--and with a glance repressed the
badinage. I think she could never before have so felt the superiority of
this man, whose pure love--almost worship--she had put aside as a thing
of light importance; and I think the interview helped him in the work
upon which he had entered, that of obliterating from his heart all
traces of her image.
After this interview, they did not draw together again during the
evening. Delia tried to be gay and indifferent; but he acted himself out
just as he was. I did not observe that he was more social than usual,
or that he mingled more than was his wont with the young ladies present.
For most of the time, he kept, as was usual with him, in company and in
conversation with his own sex.
I could not but pity Delia Floyd. It was plain to me that she was waking
up to the sad error she had committed--an error, the consequences of
which would go with her through life. Very, very far was she from being
indifferent to Wallingford--that I could plainly see.
During the winter, Ralph came up frequently from New York to visit his
bride to be. As he was the nephew of Judge Bigelow, he and Wallingford
were, as a thing of course, thrown often together during these visits.
It can hardly excite wonder, that Wallingford maintained a reserved
and distant demeanor towards the young man, steadily repelling all
familiarity, yet always treating him with such politeness and respect
that no cause of offence could appear. On the part of Dewey, it may be
said that he saw little in the grave plodder among dusty law books and
discolored parchments, that won upon his regard. He looked upon him as
a young man good enough in his way--a very small way, in his
estimation--good enough for S----, and small enough for a country town
lawyer. He would have put on towards him a patronizing air, and tried to
excite in his mind a nobler ambition than to move in our circumscribed
sphere, if something in the young man's steady, penetrating,
half-mysterious eye had not always held him back:
“I never can talk with that young associate or yours, uncle,” he would
say, now and then, to Judge Bigelow, “and I can't just make him out. Is
he stupid, or queer?”
The Judge would smile, or laugh quietly to himself, or perhaps answer in
this wise:
“I think Henry understands himself. Still waters, you know, run deep.”
One day in February, on the occasion of a periodical visit to S----,
young Dewey called in at Judge Bigelow's office, and finding Wallingford
alone, sat down and entered into as familiar a talk with him as was
possible, considering how little they had in common. Ralph had a purpose
in view, and as soon as he saw, or thought he saw, Wallingford's mind in
the right mood, said--
“I am going to ask a particular favor, and you must not refuse.”
“If I can serve you in any thing, it will be my pleasure to do so,” was
the ready answer.
“You know that I am to be married next month?”
“So I have heard,” replied Wallingford.
“You will stand my groomsman? Don't say no!”
He had seen an instant negative in the young man's face.
“Almost any thing else, but not that!” replied Henry, speaking with some
feeling. He was thrown off his guard by so unexpected a request.
“Come now, my good friend, don't take the matter so much to heart!” said
Dewey, in a light way. “Plenty of good fish in the sea yet--as good as
ever were caught. You must forgive the girl for liking me the best.”
“You jest on a grave subject,” said Wallingford, his face growing pale,
but his eyes, a little dilated, riveting his companion's where he stood.
“No, I am in earnest,” said Dewey, with something in his manner that was
offensive.
“Jest or earnest, your familiarity is out of place with me,” retorted
Wallingford, with a sternness of manner, that quickened the flow of bad
blood in Dewey's heart.
“Oh, you needn't take on airs!” replied the other with a sneer of
contempt. Then muttering to himself, yet loud enough to be heard,--“I
didn't suppose the puppy would growl at a familiar pat on the head.”
This was too much for Wallingford. At another time, he might have borne
it with a manly self-possession. But only an hour before he had met
Miss Floyd in the street, and the look she then gave him had stirred
his heart, and left a tinge of shadowy regret on his feelings. He was,
therefore, in no mood to bear trifling, much less insult. Scarcely
had the offensive words passed Dewey's lips, when a blow in the face
staggered him back against the wall. Instantly recovering himself,
he sprang towards Wallingford in blind rage, and struck at him with a
savage energy; but the latter stepped aside, and let his assailant come,
with stunning force, against the wall at the other side of the office,
when he fell to the floor.
At this instant, Judge Bigelow came in.
“Henry! Ralph!” he exclaimed--“what is the meaning of this?”
“Your nephew insulted me, and in the heat of anger I struck him in the
face. In attempting to return that blow, he missed his aim, and fell
against the wall, as you see.”
Wallingford spoke without excitement, but in a stern, resolute way. By
this time, Dewey was on his feet again. The sight of his uncle, and
the unflinching aspect of the person he had ventured to insult, had the
effect to cool off his excitement many degrees.
“What is the meaning of this, young men?” sternly repeated Judge
Bigelow, looking from one to the other.
“I have answered your question as far as I am concerned,” replied Henry.
“Ralph! Speak! Did you offer him an insult?”
To this demand, the nephew replied, with no abatement of his originally
offensive manner--
“If he chooses to consider my words as an insult, let him do so. I shall
in no case take them back.”
“What did you say?”
There was an imperative force in the Judge's manner.
Dewey was silent.
“What did he say,”--Judge Bigelow turned to Wallingford, “that you
should answer it with a blow?”
“If he is satisfied with the answer,” replied the latter, “the case can
rest where it is. If not, I am ready to meet him on any appeal. I He
will find me no trifler.”
The Judge turned again to his nephew.
“Ralph! I insist upon having this matter explained. I know Henry too
well to believe that he would strike you, unless there had been strong
provocation.”
“Perhaps he regarded it as such; I did not,” said Dewey.
“If he is satisfied with his chastisement, there is no occasion to press
him farther, Judge.” Wallingford was provoked to this by the young man's
cool impertinence.
Dewey made a movement as if about to rush upon Wallingford, but the
Judge interposed his body to keep them apart. The appearance of a fourth
party at this juncture, in the person of Squire Floyd, the prospective
father-in-law of one of the belligerents, changed materially the aspect
of affairs.
“Good-morning, Squire,” said Wallingford, with a quickly assumed
cheerfulness of manner, smiling in his usual grave way.
Both the Judge and his nephew saw reason to imitate the example of
Wallingford, and thus throw up a blind before the eyes of Squire
Floyd, who thought he perceived something wrong as he came in, but was
afterwards inclined to doubt the evidence of his senses.
Wallingford retired in a few moments. When he came back to the office an
hour afterwards, he found a note of apology on his table, accompanied
by a request that so unpleasant an incident as the one which had just
occurred, might be suffered to pass into oblivion. No acknowledgment of
this communication was made by the young lawyer. He felt the strongest
kind of repugnance towards Dewey, and could not gain his own consent to
have any intercourse with him. His position, as an associate with
Judge Bigelow, occasionally brought him in contact with his nephew, who
recognized him always in a respectful manner. But Wallingford held him
ever coldly at a distance.