In War Time

XXIII.

SOON there fell upon the house the quiet with which we surround those who have no longer the power to hear, and the servants went and came with the want of naturalness which death inevitably brings to all who are not simply crashed by grief. Arthur, too deeply hurt to be of any use, sent for Mr. Wilmington, and had a curious wonderment because the old man, who was much attached to Edward, did not seem to be more shocked and more visibly distressed. Arthur was too young to have learned that age rarely retains life’s primal capacity to grieve, and that for it a young life cut short does not awaken the same sense of premature wreck as it does in the young themselves. Age is too near eternity to value justly human hopes. Yet the elder man’s calm was of service to Arthur, and steadied him ; and then, too, the following day Hester came over with Ann Wendell to see him.

Wendell had felt that it was wise to stay as long as possible at the Mortons’, so that it was near dusk before he reached home.

Ann was comfortably seated in a rocking-chair, her work on her lap, the shadows of evening having for a time suspended her task. She was singing one of the old Puritan hymn tunes with which she was wont to enliven her labor or gratify her leisure. Wendell stood still a moment at the door.

“ Ah ! Is that you, Ezra ? ” she said. “ How late you are! You are getting very unpunctual. Your tea must be stone cold.”

Her quiet little criticism — she smiled as she spoke—exasperated him.

“ You, at least, seem very comfortable ! ” he exclaimed, in a tone so hard and unnatural that his sister rose instantly, facing him. Then, even in the failing light, Ann saw that in his face which shocked her.

“ What has happened ? Something has gone wrong. What is it ? ”

He hesitated a moment before saying, “ You won’t be so comfortable when I tell you.” He recalled with an approach to fury that it was the haste caused by Ann’s obstinate folly that had been the true cause of the disaster which had befallen him.

“ Why do you speak so to me, brother?” she said. “There is nothing wrong with you, is there ? ”

“ No ; but Edward Morton died suddenly, this afternoon.”

“ How dreadful, Ezra! I have long believed it could not be far off; but death is always near, and always far off. What can I do for them? Don’t you think I should go over there at once ? ” “ No one will want you,” he answered abruptly. “ Edward was in great pain when I got there, and your letter did not make things any better.”

Copyright, 1884, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co.

“ You cannot mean that what I did hurt him ! How could it do that ? How could I have hurt any one I loved so well ? And it had to be done, — it had to be done.”

“ Yes, and so have all stupid follies,

I suppose.”

“ Ezra ! ”

“ Oh, I don’t mean it killed him, but it did make him worse. How could it do otherwise ? ”

“ Will you tell me how the boy died, brother ? ” She spoke quietly and softly.

“ I can’t,” he said. “I — Don’t ask me any more about it yet. I was never in my life so upset by anything.”

“ Very well. Don’t say any more now. We will talk of it another time. But why did Mrs. Morton trouble the sick lad with my letter? Surely that was needless.”

“ She was so angry, Ann, that I think she lost her head. She broke out about it before both the boys. A nice business you have made of it ! I call it wicked.”

Ann’s eyes filled ; if ever tears were bitter, hers were bitter then. Her incessant, sacrifices for her brother had been too purely instinctive to be counted by her as of any weight in their mutual relations. Secure of his affection, she asked no more return for the gentle offices of life than the mother-bird asks of her young ; but that any one she loved should think she would deliberately do a wrong action disturbed her deeply.

“ What we think right,” she said, “ is all the right we can do. The issues are in other hands. Please not to say I am wicked, Ezra; but you did not say that, did you, —not that, exactly?”

“ I do not know what I said. I trust that you were not fool enough to talk to Mr. Gray. In future I hope you will consult me about things which concern me more than any one else.”

“ I will do as you say, brother, as to anything in which my conscience is not concerned.”

“ Conscience ! I am tired of hearing of it. Did you see Mr. Gray ? ”

“ I did not. He failed to come, as he said he would. He was delayed, and has sent a letter for you.”

Wendell took it from her. “ When he does come, Ann, you must not speak to him at all about this matter. I shall attend to it myself.”

“ Oh,” said Ann, shocked into unusual subjugation, “if you will do so, I shall be much relieved, Ezra. You are certainly the proper person ; but you did not appear to think it quite so important as it seemed to me.”

“ Very well,” he returned, “ we shall see;” but he made no such pledge as Ann desired.

“ Has Mr. Morton been heard from?” she asked. " Somehow I cannot feel at ease about it. I just seem to be putting aside a duty. And this awful death ! It seems to bring one’s duties closer, Ezra.”

“ Perhaps,” rejoined Wendell, “ it may comfort you to know that Colonel Morton has been heard from, and that he says it is simply absurd ; so I trust we have now heard the last of it, Ann. It has made mischief enough to satisfy any woman.”

Her brother’s positiveness confused her. She was not clear as to being in any way responsible, and concluded that Ezra’s outbreak was due partly to his grief, and partly to the irritability of a man not quite well, and now worn out by the strain the day’s events had put upon him. She had the maternal feeling that unusual peevishness must be due to some distinct failure in health.

“ You must be sick, brother,” she said gently. “ You never have talked to me this way before ! ”

It was not in Wendell to like to wound, and he was made uncomfortable by his sister’s increasing distress ; but we cannot strike and not hurt our own knuckles.

“ I am perfectly wretched,” he returned. “ This death has been too much for me. You must forgive me, sister.”

“ Don’t ask me to forgive you, brother.

It hurts me to think that you feel I have anything to forgive. You will go and lie down, won’t you ? I will not mention that business any more.”

“ Thank you,” he said, and went upstairs.

Once in his room he threw himself on the bed, and with his hands clasped behind his head lay still and thought.

He was annoyed that he could not steadily control his own logical processes. He tried to feel clear that he was not entirely to blame for Edward’s death, and then essayed with some ease to persuade himself that Arthur was the person most blamable, and yet that even if he himself had been hasty or careless he was bound to protect Arthur, and that to speak frankly would never so entirely clear Arthur as to be of any use. Still, no sooner had he seemingly satisfied himself than thoughts which rose unsummoned, like ghosts, startled him, and filled his mind with new and horrible suggestions of future risks and dangers. Vivid and terrible images of the fatal moment of haste came before him, and with a memory of his physical recoil he saw again the dead, and his own hand stretched out to close the open eyes. It was growing dark. He rose and lit the gas. As he crossed the room he remembered the Middle-Age belief that the blood would flow anew when the slayer touched the dead slain. There was a grotesque horror in the idea that in a man who had been poisoned this could not be. He sat down, with his face in his hands, and gave way to a strange sense of mental confusion, a valueless jostling of incongruous thoughts and memories and fears, which seemed to come and go on the stage of consciousness, until at last the giddiness which sometimes follows great emotional tension made him stagger to the bed, on which he fell heavily.

Then happening to see Mr. Gray’s letter, which had dropped on the floor, and being a little eased by the supine position, the physical distress of his vertigo having for the time cleared his head of its thronging and uncontrollable phantoms, He opened the envelope. It contained a kind note, in which Mr. Gray desired the doctor to tell Hester that, if pleasant for her, he wished her in a week or two to go with him to Baltimore, and further south if the state of the country made that possible. He repeated his thanks to Miss Wendell and her brother, and said that even if Hester wished to return to them for a time, he would like now to take charge of the sum placed in Wendell’s hands. He hoped, however, that Dr. Wendell would not feel unwilling to retain a thousand dollars, as he had before asked him to do, and also would kindly render him a full account of the extent to which money had been expended for Hester’s board and dress. He desired that the nine thousand dollars might be remitted to him in New York by draft as soon us convenient.

This added blow fell with but little weight on Wendell. Capacity to feel anxiety has its limits in mysterious failures of response in the brain cells, and convulsive explosions of emotional torment make impossible for a time the normal activities which an intellectual conception of a difficulty or trouble should awaken. He had a certain obscure sense that this matter had been provided for, until suddenly he remembered that this idea was due to Edward’s promise to lend him money. A more commercially minded man would very early have presented to himself this as one, at least, of the embarrassments which arose out of this calamity, but Wendell was not prone to think even enough of money. To do him justice, through all his fears, and efforts at selfvindication, there was forever coming and going a remembrance of how dear to him had been the young man who was dead, how noble he had been, how tender and true a friend. Recalling Edward’s self-sacrificing character, he even tried to find in this an excuse for his own concealment, not for the moment setting before himself the conception that in hiding the truth he was allowing an innocent person to bear his guilt, even if only in the minds of Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Westerley.

“And really,” he said to himself, “a brother should have been the most careful ; ” and he thus confused himself at moments into a state of rest of mind. Many people are helped at such times by their incapacity to think clearly, and at all times Wendell, who was admirably veneered with intelligence, was incapable of attaining in any of his logical processes the definiteness of results which is reached by more thoroughly trained intellects.

By degrees, this matter of the money he was unable to return to its owner began to relate itself painfully to Alice Westerley. Too well he knew what sentence he might have to read in those eyes, whose light would be to him as the sheen on the blade of the angel of judgment. For the time the nearness of this peril routed all other terrors, and he sat on the bedside holding the letter and thinking the vain thoughts of a man without resource. At last he felt again the dizziness which is so apt, upon concentration of mental effort, to return to a brain recently overstrained by either work or emotion. Then he began to fear lest some horrible physical incapacity should come upon him, and paralyze his activity. Stuffing the letter into his pocket, he opened the door and called, “ Ann! Bring me some whisky.” He took a half tumblerful, and quieting her fears said that he would undress and go to bed. Then he locked the door, and still confused threw himself dressed on the bed, and was soon in a deep sleep, brought on by the unaccustomed stimulus.

The next morning his head ached, and he went back to bed, asking Ann to request a friendly physician near by to see for him such of his cases as needed care. She wrote also to Mrs. Morton that, overcome by the events of the day before, he had remained at home, suffering from a severe headache.

He was glad, indeed, when Ann herself suggested this course to him, and felt it an inconceivable relief not so soon again to have to enact his part before Mrs. Morton, and possibly Alice. From the former there came kind inquiries, and later in the day, with a basket of hothouse grapes, a note from Alice Westerley. It was simply a loving little remembrance in words, with of course no allusion to the scene through which they had so lately passed.

Towards evening a servant came over to ask Dr. Wendell for the usual formal attestation of a death. We have said that he had looked forward to this act with dread. He remembered too well the day when he had failed to meet a professional obligation brought on him by the unlooked-for chances of war. it had been known to few, and not to Ann, but he had bitterly regretted his weakness, and had only by degrees succeeded in putting it aside from his life ; and now again he was to sin against the moral code of his profession. The need was too urgent to admit of long reflection. He wrote with haste the name and age, gave as the cause of death paralysis of the heart, and signed his name. After putting the paper in an envelope, he took it out and looked at it again, wondering whether his signature had in it any of the peculiar feelings with which he wrote it.

The next morning, early, he received a note from Mrs. Morton, asking him to call as soon as he was able, and containing other matter of so grave a nature that he hastened to write a reply, at the close of which he excused his prolonged absence on the plea of continued suffering.

The constant petty need for self-command which becomes part of the social training of women like Mrs. Morton is apt to make effectual those larger efforts which are now and then demanded by some grave exigency. But supplementing this, Mrs. Morton had one of those natures which are steadied by great emergencies, and sometimes unduly excited by small ones. In the presence of her dead son, she broke into the passionate grief of sorely wounded motherhood ; but away from this dreary reminder, she shocked or surprised all her friends, save Alice, by a calmness and self-control to the mystery of which they had no clue. Three days after her son’s death she said to Alice Westerley, “ I have been unwilling to talk to you, or to any one ; but now I have made up my mind, and I want to say some things to you, and then I desire never again to speak of them or hear of them.”

Alice had dreaded this talk, but on the whole was not sorry to have it over. She too had something which she felt must be said.

“ I think,” she answered, “ you are very right, Helen. I have not ceased to feel how hard it is for you that a thing as sacred and sweet as the ending of this dear life should come to you surrounded with such awful bitterness of suffering and such unusual trials. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“ No, there is nothing. You understand me; that is something you have done for me. Beyond it there is nothing,— nothing! When once this talk is over, we will let its remembrance be as a thing that is dead and buried with my boy ; but now there are things I must say, — I cannot live alone with them.”

“And what, dear Helen ?” " Have you thought, Alice, that Arthur, whose carelessness cost my Edward’s life, is his sole heir? That he ignorantly profits by it ? That his way to an easy, happy marriage is smoothed by this deed ? ”

“ Oh, Helen, don’t talk of a pure accident as ‘this deed ’ ! It sounds too much like speaking of a voluntary act.”

“ I spoke as a malicious world might speak. What would such a story become with the comments of Mrs. Grace or a half dozen others we can name ? What would happen to my son if such a whisper reached him ? he would say, ’ I cannot touch this money ; ’ and then this feeling would be called remorse. Oh, I have tasted this cup in all its bitterness, Alice! ”

“ But he never can hear, He never will hear, unless you betray yourself. I trust he has not the faintest idea of his share in it, poor lad ! ”

“ Not the least, Alice, He has seen the doctor’s certificate, and you yourself heard what Dr. Wendell said to him. No; I do believe he has not the very faintest suspicion. Indeed, how could he ? But I shudder lest something should turn up to make him inquire further. Suppose I were ill, or dying, and were to let slip some word of terror ; and never, never, will this be out of my mind! Oh, I shudder to think of it! Even the most unlikely possibilities become probable to me, and it seems to me that there is no precaution I can take which would be needless. And you, — can you always be sure of yourself? And there is Dr. Wendell. The very ease with which he accepted the situation alarmed me. It seemed like weakness.”

“ Indeed, my friend,” returned Alice, " you are making yourself uneasy without just cause. Like you, I too have thought over all this sad affair. To tell you the truth, I think we were all wrong: you and I, who were swept away by our love, and Dr. Wendell, who nobly accepted a compromising position to shelter one who is not of his kindred. You and I may lie, and believe that he who knows all things and the secrets of all hearts will forgive us; but, Helen, whether you — whether you had a right to permit a man in Dr. Wendell’s place to protect your son at the cost of his own honor — is •— I think — you won’t mind what I say ? — I think it wrong.”

Mrs. Morton reflected a moment. “ I did not ask him to do it,” she said.

“ No, but you accepted the sacrifice, and you thanked him.”

“ And could I have been human and not have done so ? Put yourself in my place. If Arthur had been your son, what would you have done ? ”

“ I cannot say, Helen. No one can put herself in another’s place. And yet — and yet I cannot think you were right; and, dear, to blame you even in thought at a time like this seems to me cruel.”

“ I must say, Alice, that you appear to think more of Dr. Wendell than of me.”

“ I think of you both. He has not in this matter the stake you have, and for him it must be inconceivably painful. And yet I confess that I see now no escape. It might have been better to have faced the truth openly at first, and taken the consequences, — better, dear, even for Arthur.”

“You cannot expect me, at least, to think so. But now, Alice, that things have gone so far, what course except silence is left us and him ? I mean, what in your judgment? Mine has never varied. I shall defend my boy at all costs, — at any one’s cost.”

“ I see no other course,” Alice sadly replied. “ We have been wrong, and — now we must abide by it,” and silently she thought of Wendell.

“ Why,” questioned Mrs. Morton,— “ why do you suppose Dr. Wendell has not been here? I sent for him.”

“ But you told me that Miss Ann said he was sick ”

“Yes, and he has written me himself to the same effect, but he must know how intensely desirous I am to see him. She says it is a headache. A headache ! ”

“ Oh, I suppose that is a mere excuse. Cannot you imagine that a man may have been shaken by what he went through ? And he is a very sensitive man, Helen.”

“ I know all that, but I think he should have come. I want to feel more sure about him.”

“And you distrust him after what he has done for you ? ”

“I — I distrust every one, — him, yon, myself, Arthur, every one ! I must feel more certain, or it will kill me ! ”

“ But how can you feel more certain ? ”

“ I don’t know — yet, but I must. I do not like this delay in coming here.”

“ It seems to me natural enough.”

Mrs. Morton was silent for a moment, and then said,—

“ Did I tell you what my poor Edward said to me about Dr. Wendell being a good deal in debt ?”

“No, but it does not surprise me. He must have had many expenses ; and there was Hester.”

“ Edward wished to put him at ease, and had not enough money on hand, so he asked me to lend him a thousand dollars for a few days.”

“ And did you ? ”

“ I said I would. I did not think Edward was right, but you know, dear, I never refused that boy anything.”

“ And why do you speak of this now ? ” queried Alice, who was all alive with a terrible anticipation. She understood Helen Morton well, and knew that she was at times determined to carry her plans at any cost, and that in a difficulty, such as the one before her, no considerations were likely to arise except how to meet it.

Her friend’s manner was full of suspicion for Mrs. Morton.

“ I thought,” she explained, “ I would fulfill Edward’s wishes, and I sent Dr. Wendell the amount Edward mentioned as desirable.”

“ How much?” asked Alice, faintly.

“ Five thousand dollars, — a check, dear.”

“ You sent him five thousand dollars ! ”

“ Yes. It would have been my boy’s wish.”

“ My God, how horrible ! ” exclaimed Alice.

“ Horrible ! What do you mean, Alice ! ” demanded Mrs. Morton, sternly.

“ I mean,” said Alice, “ that you did not do this as a gift from our dead Edward. You gave it as a bribe to silence ! That is why you gave it. And how could you do it ? A man does a wrong thing from noble motives, and because you never liked him you insult him with an offer of money, and this when you knew him to be in difficulties! And the folly of it, — the folly of it!” Alice rose and walked to and fro, agitated and angry.

“ You told me that you could not put yourself in my place,” said Mrs. Morton, “ and now I am sure of it. I dare not trust any one, and I must make myself certain.”

“ And does this make you certain ? It makes you insecure, if that were possible. Do you suppose a gentleman — do you suppose a man like Wendell will let you smirch his motives with even the semblance of a bribe?” She recalled Wendell’s sad and refined face, and saw, as it were, the scorn of his lips. “ He will send it back to you,” she affirmed, “and you will have hurt a fast friend, or even made an enemy. I should hate you were I he.”

Helen looked the surprise she felt. “ Read that,” she said.

Alice took the open note and reading it, life grew black before her. Its sweetness went out of it. and belief in man, and trust in God. It was this : — “ Dear Mrs. Morton, your kind note, with its inclosure, fulfilling my dear friend’s wishes as expressed to me, has touched me deeply. I hasten to thank you, and to say how great a relief it is to me. I can never forget the terms in which you speak of my services to him, and I thank you again, both for the act and the words which accompany it. You do not speak of it as a loan, but as that I must of course consider it. I shall, I think, be able to see you to morrow or the day after. I must ask, as I am sensitive about such matters, that you will not mention this to Arthur or to Mrs. Westerley.”

“ Not mention this to Mrs. Westerley ? ” said Alice, standing with the note in her hand.

“ Of course,” returned Mrs. Morton, “ that was a matter for my discretion. You had to know it, as you know all the rest of it.”

Alice felt that she must get out into the air. The paper fell on the floor as she spoke in broken tones : “ Oh, he said well who said there is no wrong which has not a child ! You have done a wicked thing. Don’t talk to me any more now. I cannot bear it ! May God forgive you, — I never can ! Let me go, — let me go ! Life is over, — life is dead.”

“Alice, — Alice!” exclaimed Mrs. Morton, alarmed. “ I could not have dreamed of this ! Don’t go ! ”

“ I must, — I must! Don’t stop me ! I shall die! I shall fall dead if I stay here ! Room, room ! ” she cried, wildly. “ Let me pass ! Let me go ! ” and with a face that scared her friend she left the room, and presently was moving swiftly across the lawn. Walking with a fierce energy which represented in physical action the agony of restrained emotion, she passed through the lanes. It was the close of June, and the air was warm even in the afternoon, so that in her own house the long windows were open to the floor. Alice was glad of it, as it enabled her to enter unnoticed. She caught at the nearest chair, sat down at once, and a minute later was aware of Hester at her side.

“ Oh,” said the girl, “ I am glad to have found you. How are they all ? ”

But hearing no answer, she came close to the chair. Alice was shaking, unable to speak. Hester turned in alarm to call for help, when Alice said explosively, “ Don’t — ring ! ” Hester was quick-witted, and her life in a doctor’s house had not lelt her quite ignorant. She knew at once that this was an attack of nervous agitation, and that Alice was unwilling to have it seen. She closed the door, and kneeling without a word held Alice’s hands steadily in hers, while the elder woman set herself with great effort to overcome the physical agitation which now possessed her. She was suffering from one of those wild insurrections which seem to be the natural result of the social laws which so continually crush into expressionless silence the normal outbursts of our passions or emotions. By and by Alice grew more quiet, and at last her tremor ceased, and she fell back with a sigh of relief.

“ You are better,” said Hester; “but shall I not run home and ask Dr. Wendell to come ? He is not out, you know, to-day, but I am sure he would come at once if he knew you were ill.”

“ No,” replied Alice, “ I want no one ; and you will never tell any one of this. I have had a great shock, Hester, and it has nearly killed me.”

Hester of course presumed that it was Edward’s death of which she spoke. “ I can well imagine it,” she returned.

“ No, you cannot, child, any more than you can imagine death. But now I want to be alone ; so please go home, and let this be as between us two. You behaved quietly, — I like that; and kiss me, dear.”

Somewhat reluctantly Hester went away wondering, leaving Alice Westerley to the sad company of her own thoughts. Like Wendell, the woman he loved had also to face a future. As her physical control returned, she began to find it possible to think. She knew that by degrees she had gathered interest in Wendell, and that a part of it arose from her power to lift him out of his moods, and to sympathize with his theoretical ambitions. He had said that others had not that ability, and the attribution of exceptional capacity is a subtle flattery. Then he was gentle, sad, and with all his intellect, which Alice rated too highly, he had much of that strange dependence on women which some much larger characters have exhibited. She knew that she had had full warning as to where the path she trod would lead, but each step was pleasant, and the steps unconsciously multiplied, until when Colonel Fox spoke return was impossible. Her lover hud now done that thing which more than justified Colonel Fox and all that the maliciousminded had whispered.

A great writer has said that in all women’s love there is a maternal element. It rose at times wildly in Alice’s breast, making her yearn to help and protect Wendell, and for the moment utterly blinding her to the depth of infamy to which he had descended. This, indeed, was to her most strange. How could a learned, scholar-like man, of gentle ways and refined tastes, suddenly fall so far ! She shuddered. There must have been events in his life of which she knew not, — horrible preparations for this final degradation. Then also there was something blundering and stupid about it all, — about his note, and his mode of acceptance, and his reference to Alice. And why did he not come to her, if he was in such sore straits? “And if he had, — oh, if he had,” — she exclaimed aloud, “ I should have married him; and then—and then — some day I should have come to know that he could do such things as this ! ”

And here it struck her that she was ingeniously torturing herself. “ I must decide,” she said.

In fact, from the instant that she read Wendell’s note to Mrs. Morton she had made up her mind; nay, all the habits and sentiments of a life of truth and purity and honor made it up for her. When seeming to hesitate she was only cheating love’s sweet patience with the semblance of indecision.

How the next twenty-four hours were passed Alice Westerley could hardly have told a year or two later. Great moral catastrophes, like physical shocks, disturb or even obliterate in some minds the memory of the lesser events which follow them. It may be added that she was suffering less acutely. For the mind, as for the body, the tiger claws of calamity bring about for a time a certain amount of incapacity to feel further anguish, and leave us crushed, inert, and hopeless.

The day after her talk with Mrs. Morton, Alice sat alone, towards evening, in her drawing-room. Unsympathetic nature mocked her mood with the sun of a June day, and with full eyes she sat watching a pair of hummingbirds as they darted through the swaying roses which hung about the window.

At this moment she heard a step on the gravel walk, and catching a glimpse of Wendell stepped back into the room as he rang the bell. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, she went to the door of the room and waited until the servant appeared in the hall, when she said, —

“ I am not at home to any one, — to any one.”

She stood with one hand clutching at her heart, holding her breath for the moment, as she heard a voice but too well known, and then through the vines saw Wendell turn and go slowly down the gravel path. She could see his side face, its pallor and the fineness of its lines. She gave way for the moment. Overcome by her emotions, and hardly knowing what she meant to do, she turned to a window which opened out on to the porch and gave access to the garden. It was closed, and fastened by a catch. The physical effort needed to move it steadied her, and when she succeeded in lifting the sash she paused irresolute, and remained standing by the window while Wendell walked slowly and hesitatingly away from her, down the little avenue of maples which led to the gate.

“ And with that face ! ” she thought, as she moved away, “ I don’t know how it can be ! ” For the moment she had a wild desire to see Wendell, and to tell him that, love him as she might, marriage was out of the question ; but she was wise enough to fear her own weakness, and to know that to say to his face what she must say would but add to the sum of her misery an incalculable torment.

The love she dreaded to torture face to face was as strong as her own, and the capacity for the nurture of an intense affection was large in Wendell, — of a half-womanly largeness, — and represented a life of absolute purity.

As he left her house he knew that his reception had been unusual. He had seen Mrs. Morton, who had been kind and thankful, and had so stated her gratitude as to make him feel that the money he had taken with apparent reluctance was in a measure earned; but no word bad been said about Mrs. Westerley. Mrs. Morton did not know what to say, or in fact whether she could wisely do anything but keep silent, and for the time her own grief was paramount. Then Wendell had walked up the main street, and been much questioned as to Edward’s death by Mrs. Bullock and by Miss Sarah Grace, who was developing a promising faculty for the collection of facts about her neighbors. It had put the man in an ill humor, and he turned into the lane, contrasting with these petty natures the graciousness of his mistress, her multiple interests in life and thought and politics, even her sympathy with those who followed pursuits that were incomprehensible to her. He had the happy poetical quality of dreaming himself out of situations, of ceasing to be himself for a time ; and he walked along feeling as if now he were true and were moving in the sunshine of her truth, and as if her kiss had had the force of a benediction and had laid I he demons of sin which once possessed him.

Then he was sent away from her door. That might have been an accident, but at present it was a new wretchedness. To see her banished all other thoughts, and to-day he had great need of her. He turned back, on a fresh impulse, and again rang.

“ I must see Mrs. Westerley, if she is in the house,” he declared.

“ She is not at home, sir,” repeated the servant, who knew his business.

“ Give her my card,” said Wendell, peremptorily. He had written on it “ Please to see me.”

John turned, rather dubious, and found his way through back premises into the drawing-room.

Alice shuddered. Fate had been too much for her. Should she put him off, and then write to him ? But she hardly fell up to so stern a rôle of endurance. “Show Dr. Wendell in,” she said. The servant closed the door behind him, and Wendell advanced with outstretched hand.

“ At last, Alice ! ” he cried. “ How I have longed for you ! I have been so wretched.”

There was something strange in her face, but he did not see it for a moment. She gave him her hand, and he drew her towards him. She had not spoken. Then he saw how grave and cold her face was, and that her eyes were red and the lids swollen.

“ You cannot kiss me,” she said. “ Sit down.”

“ I cannot kiss you ! ” he repeated, slowly, and sat down with automatic obedience. “What have I done ? ” he faltered.

“ Ask yourself,” she rejoined, proudly. “ I am not your conscience.”

“ I ! ” he said. “ What is it ? What does this mean ? You know that what I did, I did for Arthur’s sake ! Did you disapprove of that ? Oh, you could not ! You must have understood what it cost me ! ”

“It was not that,” she said. “ You know me too well to suppose that I meant that. I have thought it over since, and I feel that what we did was wrong. Mrs. Morton had no right to ask or allow it, and I was weak to yield to her. But I cannot talk of it any more. The thing is done, and there is now no help for it. But why, why,” she said, looking down as she spoke, — “ why did you accept a bribe from Mrs. Morton ? You had done a thing I might call falsely noble, and you took money she gave you to make her feel surer of your silence ! The two acts were so unlike. The one was heroic ; the other — I — I can’t understand it! ”

She had meant to ask no explanation. Now in her pity she had done so ; but it was love, not hope, that prompted her.

He sat looking at her downward face, while she questioned him with slow, distinct utterance, seeming at times to search for the right word.

“ If you think it was wrong,” he said, “ it must have been wrong, but Edward had promised it, and I am perplexed with debts, and I had to have help. You cannot conceive what misery it is to owe money. I shall repay it.”

“ Repay ! ” she cried. “ What you lost to get this help you can never get back! Can she give you again your honor ? Can you cease to be an accomplice,— a paid accomplice ? You have made it look like a crime. It does seem to me strange that you did not see this. I cannot dare to face the thought that, seeing it, you did as you have done.”

He was silent. The darker guilt she did not guess, was scourging him with intolerable anguish, as he saw himself in the clear light of her judgment, He dreaded to hear his sentence.

“ What can I do,” he asked, “ to justify myself ? I see that I was wrong. Help me to do what seems right to you.”

His humility appeared to her disgusting. “ And this,” she said to herself,

“ this was the man I loved!”

“ I will send it back,” be added.

“ That is for yon to decide,” she returned, looking at him.

“ And you won’t desert me, Alice ? ”

“ If you mean by this that you can ever again be to me what you have been, you strangely misunderstand me.

I could not marry a man I do not respect.”

“ Then it is all over.”

“ Yes, it is all over, — all but the shame and the bitterness of it. And I loved you! — oh, I loved you dearly ; more than life, more than my soul ! God help me, I would give it now, this instant, to be able to think of you as I once thought ! ”

She was scared when she looked at him. Down his face, ghastly and white, great drops of sweat rolled, and his mouth twitched convulsively. He was crushed by an agony of despair that seemed to him to make life unendurable. It was not alone the lost love that hurt him, but the fact that this woman regarded him with contempt, — she, so gentle and so full of sweet pity for all the forms of human trouble.

“ And there is no hope for me ? ” he moaned, hoarsely.

“ If I said there was, I should be false,” she returned. “ I meant to write to you, but you would insist on seeing me, and I have said more than I wanted to say. No doubt I have hurt you sorely, but you are not the only one hurt.”

“ And I must be to you of all men the lowest.”

She made no answer, feeling that she was at the end of her powers of endurance. He stood up. “ I cannot hear your scorn. I can bear the rest; that I cannot bear ! ”

Her silence tortured him beyond endurance. All else in life became little to him, — his name, his safety, his very existence.

He spoke, and with a singular calmness : “You are right; but I am now as one facing death. I had to do as I did, or resign all hopes of you. That I could not do.”

“ What ? ” she exclaimed.

“I — made the mistake that cost Edward his life. I did it. I was in a hurry, as you know, to reach Ann in time, and in my haste I gave Arthur the wrong vial. It was I who killed him. It was to be either Arthur or I; and if I had said it was I, then I knew life was over for me. It was because I loved you, Alice.”

“ And is this really true ? ” she cried. “ Oh, it cannot possibly be true ! You could not have lied thus, and looked me in the face. Take it back. Please to say it is not so. And the money, — after that, to take her money ! ”

“ Wrong or right,” he said, “ I did it for you.”

“ For me ! For me ! He says he did it for me! How little you knew me, — how less than little ! If you had spoken the truth I should have clung to you for life. You cannot know how I should have loved you. Ah. I should have loved you as man was never loved.”

“ And now is it over, Alice ? ”

“ Yes, it is over.”

“ Oh, my God ! ” he cried, “ what have I done? But at least you cannot scorn me now. When you think of me you will say, ‘ He had the courage to do one right thing. He was not utterly base’ ”

“ I shall pray for you,” she said softly.

“ I shall try never to think of you except in my prayers; ” and the tears rained through the hands with which she hid her face. “ Go,” she urged;

“ please to go. I can bear no more.”

“ I will go,” he returned ; but he fell on his knees beside her, and seizing her hand kissed it, one long, lingering kiss. Then he rose and slowly left the house.

Several days had gone by since the burial of Edward, when Captain Arthur Morton took his way, one afternoon, across the fields from his home towards the long highway of Germantown. he was on his usual visit to Hester, but was more sad than common, his morning having been spent in the legal business which necessarily followed his brother’s death. Nothing in life had so sobered him as this loss. He went along through the woods of June, thinking how remorselessly the busy waters of life had closed over this dear one, as the sea above its dead. It was in truth no common calamity. Edward’s strong individuality intensified the sense of his loss to those he left; for although there are many people in the world, there are but few persons, and Edward’s was a distinctive personality.

As the young soldier approached the house, he saw Hester in the garden beside it tying up the roses, which were now putting out anew their summer buds. She had dressed herself in black, and the vase-like curves of her young form came out sharply in the dark dress against the gray stone wall.

Arthur leapt lightly over the pale fence, and if the roses were of a sudden jealous they had reason therefor.

The two young folks strolled down the little garden, chatting as they went of many things: of the great war, out of which he had come with little scath ; of the happy future they promised themselves,— and over and over returned to speak of the power to love which their brother and friend had possessed, of the sweetness that came out of his strength, until, looking up, each saw tears in the other’s eyes, and owned their mysterious relief.

“ And, Arty, no one loved him better than Dr. Wendell.”

“ I am sure of that. But was it not very strange that he did not come to the funeral ? I could not understand it.”

“ He was in bed all that day,” returned Hester. “ I never saw a person so altered. I think he must have been dreadfully shocked by Edwards death. I heard him tell Miss Ann once that he ought not to have been a doctor; and I think may be he is right, for Miss Ann says he broods for days when any of his patients die.”

“ And Ned did love him well,” said Arthur. “ I have a pleasant surprise for him, and I want you to come into the house with me and find him. It may do him good, poor fellow.”

“ And what is it, Arty ? ”

“ That you cannot know until I tell Miss Ann. Come.”

“ I think he needs some help. He really must be ill. He scarcely speaks to any one. Miss Ann went out early to-day, and came back to tell me that she has arranged with Mrs. Westerley that I am to go to her, while Miss Ann takes the doctor to the seashore a while.”

“ Mother has a still better plan. She has written to ask Mr. Gray to let you go with her to Europe in August ; and then in September, if you are a good girl, I may follow you ; and afterwards, in a year, Hester, — mother says you must have a year abroad, — you will consider the propriety and advantages of a residence in a mountain district ; Alleghanies, we may say.”

“ Perhaps,” said Hester, smiling.

How kind your mother is ! ”

“ Mother is never half anything,” he returned. “ She fought us a good while, and now she is making believe that she has won a victory. We need n’t contradict her. I never contradict people who agree with me.”

“ I shall know how to escape contradiction,” cried Hester, laughing. “But there is Miss Ann at the window;” and as she spoke they passed through the hall into the sitting-room.

“ Good news, Miss Ann,” cried Arthur. “ I wanted to be first to tell you that my dear Ned has left your brother ten thousand dollars.” He had in reality left a letter asking Arthur to give it, as he had only a life estate in his property, which passed to Arthur.

“ It was like him,” she returned; “ and I may say to you that it will be a great relief. God has been good to us, and there is no one I would like better to think of as helping us than your brother. But here is Ezra. Please don’t remark his appearance. He has been very wretched, and he does not like to have it mentioned.”

Arthur was struck with the man’s face. It was haggard and flushed.

“ Tell him about it,” continued Ann ; “you will like to, I am sure.”

“What is it? Tell me what?” returned Wendell, in an uninterested voice.

“ Only some pleasant news,” Arthur responded. “ I came over to say that by a provision of Edward’s will you are to have ten thousand dollars. And we are all so glad, — Hester, and I, and all of us.”

“ He has left me ten thousand dollars ! ”

Arthur was troubled. “ Yes ; is n’t it nice ? We all owe you so much that I should like to have given it myself; only you might not like to take from the living what you can take from the dead. But it is as if dear Ned were thanking you for us all. That is why we like it.”

Wendell looked up at the speaker with a face written all over with the toneless, infirm lines of weariness. Then he said, in a monotonous voice, as if he did not feel the meaning of his own words, —

“ The dead thankful! the dead thankful ! I can’t take it,—that’s all. I can’t take it. Let me lie down.”

Arthur looked his amazement. “ Doctor, doctor,” he said, “ you are ill. It has been too much for you. Why do you talk so ? ”

“ No, I am not sick ; I am dead. But hell is alive. Go away, all of you. I want to be alone.”

“ Yes,” said Ann, “ go away, children. Leave him to me. He will be all right in a few days. This last week has been too much for him.” She knew he had taken a good deal of opium, and, thinking his strangeness of conduct due to this, dreaded lest he should further betray himself.

Somewhat reluctantly they left her. Then Wendell spoke : “ We must get away, Ann. We must go somewhere. And don’t mind what I say. Tell Arthur I don’t mean anything. Tell him I took some morphia this morning; and don’t look at me that way, Ann.”

“Yes, brother,” she replied uneasily ; “ yes, you want a change. Don’t worry, dear. I will arrange it.”

It was all one horrible mystery to her, — this last week ; but she got her brother to bed, and went on at once completing her arrangements for leaving town for a week or two, hoping that with change of air he would become as he had been.

Within a day or two they left abruptly, without leave-taking; and the house was closed, and Hester went to Alice Westerley’s.

Alice found it impossible to talk of what Wendell had told her. Some day she must do it. Just now she could not make up her mind to blacken further the character of the man she had loved; but being a just woman, she wrote to Helen Morton: —

“ I have done you a wrong, and while I have in no respect changed my views as to what should have been our course, I want to ask your pardon. I have kept away on the plea of ill health. If you can forget what I said in haste, I will come over to-morrow and see you, but let us say nothing of the past.”

Helen Morton was too much softened by the sorrow of the week to give any but a kindly answer, and they were friends again, but always with a sense of some vague barrier between them. We may be eager enough to let the dead past bury its dead passions, but at times their ghosts move sadly in the dreary graveyard of memory. Some day the good priest Time shall lay them.

Late in August Mrs. Morton, Hester and Alice went abroad ; and meanwhile there came no news of Wendell. In September, Ann returned. There was a sudden sale of their furniture, and she went as she had come, still ruddy-cheeked and quiet, and betraying no sign of any suffering these months may have laid upon her.

XXIV.

A year or more had gone by since the actors in this story passed, one by one, from the quiet village which now makes a part of the great city. There was a dinner, one of those debtor-andcreditor feasts which wise men dread, at which was assembled a somewhat incongruous collection of guests.

Mr. Wilmington found, to his horror, that he was assigned to Mrs. Grace, and was not sorry to see, as he sat down, that the seat on his left was occupied by Miss Clemson, who came in to dinner on the arm of Dr. Jones, a more than middleaged man, much known as reliable ; a comfortable physician, too well satisfied with his art, “ and so sympathetic, my dear.”

Mrs. Grace spoke to him across her neighbors as soon as the soup was removed. “ Whatever has become of Dr. Wendell ? ” she asked.

“ I do not know,” he returned. “ He was always a rolling stone, I am told. And he was a rolling stone in his opinions, too. Never could hold fast to anything.”

“ He was very strong on gout,” said Wilmington ; “ had some ideas about it I never heard before.”

“ I dare say,” rejoined Dr. Jones.

“ The doctors are like dentists,” murmured Miss Clemson to Wilmington. ‘How they hate one another; and after all people get well. It is merely a question of statistics.”

“ May be Dr. Lagrange knows,” said Mrs. Grace, who pursued a personal fact as a naturalist does a butterfly. Lagrange was within ear-shot across the table. “We were talking of Dr. Wendell,” she added. “ Do you know where he has gone? I always did think he went away quite mysteriously.”

“ He is in the West, I believe,” replied Lagrange ; “ but why he left I do not know.”

“ There was always something queer about him,” affirmed Mrs. Grace. “ I should think a doctor that did n’t believe in liver, or malaria, or even in neuralgia, would n’t come to much good.”

“ That is conclusive,” said Miss Clemson. “ I always liked him.”

“ And did n’t you think he would marry Mrs. Westerley ? ” returned Mrs. Grace. “ I think he will yet.”

“ It is hardly a subject for thought,” said Miss Clemson severely; “ but it may interest you to know that Alice Westerley is still abroad, and has so far married no one.”

“ I did think there was a chance for Colonel Fox.”

“ Might do worse,” growled Wilmington.

“ A year is surely long enough to mourn a lost lover,” returned Miss Clemson; and then she whispered an aside to Wilmington : “ Alas, poor Sarah ! You should avail yourself of the opportunity.”

“ I am not old enough to manage so much real estate,” said Wilmington, ferociously. “ But do you know,” he added, aloud, “ that we expect Arty and his wife next week ? ”

“Oh, that is too bad!” exclaimed Mrs. Grace. “ I never heard it.”

She began to feel that the world of facts was evading her pursuit in some maliciously mysterious way.

“ You seem skeptical,” said Miss Clemson ; “ we shall have you dubious as to the census next, Mrs. Grace.”

“ Well, I have my opinions,” returned that lady. “ And as to Dr. Wendell, you can say what you like; I never approved of him, and I am not surprised at the result.”

“ You should have been a doctor yourself,” remarked Lagrange, who said vicious things with a bewildering tranquillity of manner; “you are such a good observer thrown away.”

Mrs. Grace had her doubts as to this compliment.

“And,” added Miss Clemson, “it would be so nice to be able to ask people their ages.”

“ But they would n’t ever tell you the truth,” rejoined Mrs. Grace, thoughtfully.

“It is the absence of truth that makes social life possible,” said Miss Clemson.

“And women agreeable!” cried Wilmington. “ What a horrible sherry ! ”

“Poor thing!” cried Miss Clemson.

“ Let us talk wine a little.”

“ It is better than gossip,” said Wilmington, sharply.

“ I agree with you ; but gossip is socially valuable, because it requires no intelligence. Even the weather is lost to us now, since we have the signal service. All the pleasures of doubt are being taken away from us. I like it myself, and if I live long enough life will become sufficiently definite to be agreeable.”

“ Goodness ! ” exclaimed Wilmington, “ I wish you would say all that over again to Mrs. Grace.”

“ Thauk you, I never talk to her if I can help it. It makes me feel as if I were looking at life through a bad window glass. Alice Westerley was right about her when she said the real chif founière would be nicer society. Mrs. Grace does like the pursuit of ragged facts.”

“ Oh, our dear Mrs. Westerley! I wish she would come home and abuse me a little. Seriously speaking, I had myself some idea that she might marry Dr. Wendell. I liked the man, on the whole, a good deal better than I like most Yankees.”

“ I do not share your prejudices,” returned Miss Clemson. “ He was charmingly intelligent. What has become of him ? ”

“Well, you know his health broke down, and I believe Fox found him quite ill and penniless at Long Branch, where his sister had taken him. I understand that Fox carried them off to the West, and has given him a fresh start.”

“ It was like Mr. Fox,” said Miss Clemson. “ I shall write Alice Westerley all about it this very evening. She will be so interested.”

Wilmington smiled.

“ What is amusing you ? ” she asked.

“ Oh, I was thinking,” he replied.

Some two months after this dinner, which has let us into a knowledge of the fates of some of our friends, Mrs. Morton received from Ann Wendell this letter : —

DEAR MRS. MORTON, — I have been able to persuade my brother that it were well in the eyes of God that he permit me to write to you, and say that the death of your son Edward was owing to negligence on the part of my brother, who was in haste, for some cause unknown to me, and so gave the wrong vial to Arthur, and did not sufficiently examine as he should have done. For reasons which I do not understand, my brother allowed the blame to rest on Arthur, and seemed to be willing to assist in concealing the truth. Now, at last, having come to look at it more wisely, he is desirous that I should tell you the truth ; and hence you will see why he could not take the money which would not have come to him except for the death he caused.

Perhaps, now that some time has gone, you will try to forgive this great wickedness, knowing that my brother is much broken in health and spirit.

When Alice Westerley saw this note, a good while after it was written, she had a great longing to be able to say some tender words to the true, simple, honest woman, who had poured out the waters of her loving life where the barren soil seemed to give back no least return.

S. Weir Mitchell.