What Came Afterwards CHAPTER 1.

It was an evening in winter. A man, just above the medium height, with a pale, delicately cut, intellectual face, sat by an office table, above which hung a shaded gas-light. He was leaning over a book, now examining a page intently, and now turning the leaves with rapid fingers — not so much reading, as searching for some fact, formula, or illustration. His face, we said, was pale; but the paleness was not of ill health, nor in consequence of prolonged physical exhaustion; for the skin had a clear, healthy look, and the strong brown eyes, which glanced up, now and then, in pauses of reflection, were full of fire. The face, as we said, was delicately cut; the forehead high and broad; the eyebrows thin, but darkly defined; the lashes well fringed and with a graceful curve upwards, the nose long, rather prominent, but straight, with wide, almost transparent nostrils; full lips, and slightly receding chin. There was not a hard or harsh line in his face. The artist-soul, which had been at work upon it for many years — the snow-flecked hair said many years — drew, it was plain, her inspiration and ideals of beauty, from heavenly spheres. Truth, purity, self-discipline, high thoughts and noble purposes, with love of the neighbor — had all guided the artist-soul, as it wrought upon the material investiture, and cut it into a representation of its own interior life. So the soul is ever at work upon the face, giving to it the form of its quality. If you have skilled eyes, you may read the men you meet, by the lines of their countenances.

He sat at an office table, the strong gas-light flooding his face, and giving it an almost supernatural beauty. There were many cases standing against the walls of the office, which was spacious, and carpeted — cases of books; of chemical and philosophical apparatus; of drugs and curious specimens in bottles; and of an atomical preparations. Orderly arrangement, and an air of taste and comfort, were in everything. The man and his surroundings were in harmony.

"Is the Doctor in?"

The door opened so quietly, that he was not aware of the presence of anyone, until a child's voice asked the question. Glancing up, he saw a little girl, not over eight years of age, standing just inside of the office door, which she still held ajar. She was poorly dressed, but clean. Her face, which could not be called a plain one, had little of that healthy glow and roundness which we see in children who have plenty of food, air and exercise. It was the face of a child to whom life had not been all sunshine; for over it shadows of real things had passed so often, and dwelt so long, that cheerfulness had faded out. She had a look of endurance, if not suffering. Her skin was fair, and she had blue eyes, that should have been dancing in light; but they were clouded and sad, and full of questionings. To her, life had come on the darker side, and its mystery and sorrow weighed sluggishly on her heart. The Doctor, who possessed the rare faculty of reading countenances as some men read books, saw all this at a glance.

"I am the Doctor," he replied, leaning back from the table, and looking intently at the child.

"Mother asks if you would come and see little Theo." The child came forward a few steps. Her eyes rested fully on the Doctor's face — not boldly, but with that confidence seen in artless children.

"Who is your mother?" asked the Doctor.

"Her name is Mrs. Ewbank."

"Where does she live?"

"In Green Street, four doors from Franklin."

"Which side?"

"On the other side."

"What's the matter with Theo?"

"He's sick."

"In what way?"

"I don't know; but he cries almost all the time, and he's fallen to skin and bone, as mother says. He's cried all day — and he's so hot; and won't eat anything."

"In Green Street, four doors from Franklin?"

The Doctor took a slate and commenced writing on it with a pencil.

"Yes, sir."

"What is the name? Mrs. Ewbank?"

"Yes, sir."

"Does your mother want me to come around this evening?"

"Oh, yes. She's crying; and is afraid Theo won't live."

It was on the Doctor's tongue to ask the child about her father; but it crossed his mind that such a question might give pain, and so it was withheld.

"I'll be around this evening, tell your mother," he answered, kindly.

The child threw him a grateful look, and then went out. As she did so, the Doctor bent over his volume again, and commenced running from page to page in a rapid, searching manner. He did not observe that another door had opened, nor that almost noiseless feet were crossing the room. A hand was laid gently on his shoulder. Without startling, or a motion of surprise, he leaned back from the table, and turning, looked up into the pleasant face of a woman. In actual record, her years were forty-five; in appearance, she was younger by half a score. The flowers of summer had been tempered for her by the shadows of great rocks, or the cool recesses of arbors wrought of vines which loving hands had planted. The wild blasts of winter had rarely been able to penetrate the sheltered home in which she dwelt; and even when their chilly breath came in through a suddenly opening door, or neglected cranny — it was soon subdued by the tempering warmth within. Life had, thus far on her journey, given her more of peace than sadness — more of interior satisfaction than disquietude.

And yet, a second glance at her almost youthful face, revealed the fact, that she had not passed thus far in the ways of life, without a share of discipline — of sorrow — of sickness and pain; but they had wrought their true intent — softening, elevating and refining — bearing back, and to the circumference of her being, the inherited natural with its evils, and ministering to the birth of that spiritual life, the full development of which gives the stature of an angel.

"Diane." As the Doctor uttered her name, gently a smile crept around his lips, and the intenser light of his eyes, which professional thought had kindled — softened to a look of tenderness.

"Studying a case, I suppose," she said, question and affirmative uniting in her voice.

"Yes, and a difficult one," replied the Doctor, as he still leaned back, and looked at his wife. She moved around, and stood more nearly in front, the light falling strongly on his face from the shaded lamp, while hers remained partly in shadow.

"I would think, by this time," was remarked, "that you were so familiar with all forms of disease, and their treatment, that no case would be found difficult."

"As evil is protean — so is disease. When the moralist has discovered all forms of evil, and noted their remedies — the physician may hope to attain for disease a like consummation," said the Doctor.

"In that view, the healer can never be perfect in his art."

"Never. Symptoms — effects — the ultimate signs of causes he does not see — are all that meet his observation. Sin is the mother of disease — therefore, all diseases have aspiritual origin. Physical evil is only the result of moral evil, descended to a lower plane of life.

As the cause is — so will the effect be; and the effect must give an actual sign of the cause, and vary as to its quality and force. You can see, then, how, with an almost infinite variety, diseases will manifest themselves, and set at naught, in many instances, all the physician's previously acquired skill and demand of him a new application of remedies."

Something like a sigh parted the air, as the Doctor's wife answered —

"And so, his work will never grow lighter."

"Why should it, if he has strength?" asked the Doctor. His countenance was as serene as his voice.

"True. Why should it, if he has strength? But, dear" — her voice fell to a lower tone — "your strength is failing, while your work demands increasing vigor."

"I am not conscious of the diminishing." The Doctor smiled into the face of his wife.

"You bear the signs," she answered, tenderly. "Here," she laid the tips of her fingers softly on his hair, "they are gathering fast. Every day I can see some spot on which a snow-flake has alighted. And, as your head whitens — the summer flushes grow paler on your cheeks. Are deepening orbits and shrinking flesh, the signs of strength? No — no, my husband!"

"You are too quick at reading signs, Diane. The plump and the ruddy are not always the most enduring. The clear eye, the healthy skin, the compact muscle — these show the right condition, and give warrant of endurance. And, above all, the calm temperament, and Heaven-aspiring soul."

"But a dwarf may not be equal to a giant's work."

"No; and he would be a very foolish dwarf to attempt so impossible a thing. But, a dwarf, working bravely up to his strength, may do a great deal more than a self-indulgent giant, and be none the weaker."

"You generally beat me in argument," said the Doctor's wife, smiling. "But, convinced against my will, I hold the same opinion still. I feel that you are taxing yourself too severely — and I see it, also; and unless your reasoning harmonizes with my perception, I cannot fully accept your judgment. In most cases, your thought and my intuition reach to the same conclusion — and then I know we are right. I doubt now; and think you will be wise to take the benefit of my doubts, and spare yourself a little."

The Doctor reached his hand towards the table, and shut the book over which he had been poring when his wife came in.

"That's right. Now come upstairs," she said, drawing upon his arm.

"Is tea ready?" The Doctor took out his watch.

"It will be, in ten minutes."

"Half past six." The Doctor laid his hand on the book he had just closed. "In ten minutes, you say? That will give time to finish my — "

"Indeed it will not," said the wife, interrupting him, and speaking with the firmness of one who intended to have her own way. Seizing the volume resolutely, she returned it to one of the book-cases.

"Now, sir, my will must, for once, be law," she added, with mock seriousness.

The Doctor leaned back in his chair, and fixed his eyes on his wife, meeting her animated countenance, as she turned from the book-case, with so sober a gaze, that she was, for a moment, half in doubt whether he were not offended.

"Do you know who is upstairs?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Diane and little Ned."

"No!" The Doctor was on his feet in a moment.

"Yes, they've been here all the afternoon."

"Have they? Well, that's pleasant." And he was already on his way to the door of his office. In the door, he turned, and saw his wife standing near the table. She had not moved.

"Come," he said.

"Oh, it's of no consequence about me," was answered, in a voice simulating so well a hurt spirit, that the Doctor was for the moment deceived. Going back, he drew an arm around his wife.

"She is yours as well as mine, dear."

"All very well to say that. But, I understand. You wouldn't give me ten minutes. Oh, no! But at Diane's name, you fly away like an impatient lover!"

"Jealous of your own child! What a riddle is woman!" said the Doctor, standing fully before his wife, and looking way down into her large, black eyes, that were always so full of light that few could gaze into them steadily. A kiss reconciled all. A husband's kiss — the heart of a loving wife never gets too old for that sign, but leaps to it, always responsive, and with a thrill of pleasure. With his arm still around her waist, the Doctor and his wife went from the office to one of the drawing-rooms above.

"Diane!" How tenderly the name was spoken! How warmly the small, fair hand was clasped! How lovingly manhood's lips rested on lips that were given to their pressure with the pure abandonment of a daughter's heart. Then little three-year-old Ned was in grandpa's arms, and clinging around his neck.

"How is Edward?" The tone in which this question was asked, made very plain the fact that Edward, Diane's husband, stood in high regard with the Doctor.

"Very well." The daughter's love and the wife's love, blended sweetly in the rich young face, dark as her mother's, and as full of affluent life.

"He will come to tea?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"For the same reason that we cannot, once in an age — get you to tea."

"Crowded with professional duties?"

"Yes; that's the only reason. He has a consultation at six. I've said a hundred times, when I saw how you were robbed of social hours, that I'd never marry a doctor. But, it was my fate."

"Not a very hard fate, I imagine," said her father, smiling.

"I will be as brave and enduring as possible, knowing that it might be worse," answered the daughter, with feigned seriousness.

As they talked, the tea-bell rang. Assembled at the table, five people made up the circle. Doctor Hofland and his wife; Diane, their oldest daughter, with her boy in a high-chair, next to his grandfather; and Annie, the youngest daughter, just blossoming into the full springtime of luxuriant eighteen. Their only son, Frank, holding the rank of a lieutenant in the navy, was on board of a national vessel, in the Indian seas.

"If only Frank were here!" The mother's thought, as she gazed around the table, went off to the absent one. "Then," she added, our circle would be complete."

"There would still be a vacant place," said Diane.

"Whose?"

"Edward's."

"True." And yet the mother's heart did not come rounding into fullness in her tones."

"He loves you just as dearly as if he were your own son, mother."

"And I love him very much. He could scarcely be dearer, if he were my own flesh and blood. Yes, it would take him, also, to make our circle complete."

"He seems to be making his way very rapidly into the confidence of some of our best people," said the Doctor.

"Yes. Almost every week, he is called to a new family," said Diane, with pride and pleasure in her voice. "If it goes on as it has begun, he will speedily acquire a large practice."

"I hear him well spoken of in influential circles," remarked Doctor Hofland. "As it now stands, he is in the right road to a high place in his profession."

"He was called in to Mr. Larobe's last week," said Diane.

"Ah! Mr. Larobe's! Who's sick there?"

"Mrs. Larobe's oldest son."

"Leon Guyton?"

"Yes."

"What ails him?"

"Some nervous disease. He's lost the use of both legs. Edward says that he's a most pitiable object — emaciated, and with a countenance so exhausted by suffering, that the sightof him leaves an impression of sadness. His mother has taken him to the sea shore, to medicinal springs, and once to France, for consultation with physicians in Paris. But, all to no good purpose."

"How long has he been suffering in this way?" asked the Doctor.

"For a number of years. Up to his tenth year, he was a healthy boy. Then, from cold, or some shock, I don't remember which, the balance of health was destroyed, and he has been growing worse ever since."

"He must be a young man, now?"

"Past sixteen, I think."

The Doctor's eyes fell from his daughter's face, and his countenance grew serious.

"We cannot pity the mother," he said, thoughtfully, "however we may feel for the child. If there is such a thing as retribution — it must fall upon her head."

"It is falling, I think," remarked Mrs. Hofland, "and with crushing weight — hurting her in the most vulnerable places. Someone told me recently, that her daughter, BlancheGuyton, was simple. This, in all probability, accounts for the fact that she is never seen on the Street, and but seldom in the carriage, with her mother."

"Simple?" the Doctor mused. "I wouldn't wonder," he added, "if that were really so. I saw them riding out not long since, and remarked in passing, an unsatisfactory something in the girl's face. Feeble-minded — poor child!"

"Better feeble-minded, I would say," returned Mrs. Hofland, "than evil-minded, like her mother."

"Safer by far," answered the Doctor. "With such a father and such a mother — what hope of a moral equilibrium in the child? The chances are heavily on the adverse side. In a foreclosure of the rational, so that responsibility may cease, lies, it would seem, in occasional instances, the only barrier to floods of evil in which the soul would inevitably be lost."

"But, what bitterness for a woman of Mrs. Larobe's quality of mind. How the perpetual presence of an imbecile child must drain the wine of life from her soul, and leave only bitter dregs," said Mrs. Hofland.

"And these are not all her troubles," remarked the Doctor. "To the hopelessly invalid son, and worse diseased daughter, another calamity has been added!"

"What?"

"In her hands, if all that is said be true, Adam Guyton was bent at will. Her subtle power, against which he had no armor of defense, overmastered, and, I fear, destroyed him. For one, I have never been clear as to a state of insanity warranting his removal to a madhouse; and the fact, that he was taken to a distant private institution, under circumstances of haste and concealment, never fully explained, has always left with me a suspicion of foul play. Poor man! His dreadful death, while attempting escape, closed the door on amystery which no one cared to investigate. Though rich, Guyton had no true friends; and when he was in mortal peril — there was none interested enough to spring to his rescue. But, I did not mean to speak particularly of him. If there has been foul play, Justin Larobe was the wife's accomplice. Executor under the will of Mr. Guyton, in little more than a year from the day of his death, he became the widow's husband! From that time, I venture to say, the subtle, cold, self-poised, and selfish woman found herself matched against one of superior subtlety and strength. Adam Guyton was triple armed and defended only on one side, and vulnerable at almost every other point; but, Justin Larobe is of another class. Guyton sought wealth through the avenues of trade — honest trade in the main; but, Larobe has more of the spirit of a robber. Under legal covers, and statutory license, he plunders right and left, as opportunity offers. Of course, such a man is ever on the alert — Argus-eyed, for prey as well as for protection. He observes the motions of all who approach him; and reads those who try to read him, from Introduction to Finis, before they have spelled through the first chapter of his record. Such is my estimate of Justin Larobe, and such, I doubt not, the widow of Adam Guyton has found him. But, as I was going to say, she has met with another calamity. There has been, I understand, a separation between herself and husband."

"Not legal?" said Mrs. Hofland.

"No, only formal."

"On what ground?"

"That is mainly conjectural. Rumor says, they have not lived happily for a long time; and rumor also says, that Larobe has acted with but little disguise since their marriage, on the subject of her property, which the law has placed almost entirely in his hands. Certain settlements were stipulated for; but the cunning lawyer, who had, as executor under Mr. Guyton's will, everything in his own hands, while formally making these settlements, contrived to fail in giving them a legal value."

"And is going to absorb everything," said Mrs. Hofland.

"That is an inference, which goes beyond the range of probabilities. My belief is that he will not drive her to desperation by any such an excess of wrong. He knows her quality, and just how far to test its strength. There is enough between them in my opinion, to ruin both — should either take the witness stand against the other. So while contending one with the other, in a bitter antagonism, the last things must be at stake before Mrs. Larobe will fling off all disguises, and risk a final struggle with him before the world. Confederates in evil, are wary of an open fight. They know too much about each other, and therefore will not risk too much."

"I pity all who are in suffering, be they evil or good," said Mrs. Hofland. "And, somehow, I pity this woman. The good have much to sustain them when night falls, and pain oppresses. But, to one like Mrs. Larobe, there is no balm in Gilead. If there is an open rupture with, and separation from her husband — the dark days of her life have come. I never believed however, after the way in which her step-children were treated, that any good was in store for her. It was not wise to alienate Adam's son Henry Guyton. A bond of interest would have held him; and he might have been, at this time, a powerful friend. He is said to be growing rich."

"Like his father," replied the Doctor, "he knows, by a kind of instinct, where the veins of metal lie, and rarely fails, in digging down, to reach them on the first trial."

"He did not follow in his father's steps, however; did not become a merchant."

"No; but tried the real estate business. His love of money led him to prefer a closer contact with the precious thing, and a quicker result. Stocks, which enrich so many and ruin so many, he never tries, I am told. But his property investments are large, and most of them in improving neighborhoods. In the simple item of advance in real estate, I have heard his gains estimated at almost fabulous sums."

"Is he getting rich so very fast?"

"We must take all these reports with grains of allowance. But, you know, that he wedded an heiress."

"Miss Taylor. Yes; and she is said to have brought him fifty thousand dollars."

"At least that."

"If I were a man," spoke up Annie, the youngest daughter, who had until now, made no remarks, "I would not have taken her for a wife, had her fortune been twice fifty thousand. Homely and disagreeable! Faugh!"

"She is no beauty," remarked the Doctor.

"She's coarse and vulgar!" said Annie, with some warmth.

"She could hardly be otherwise," said Mrs. Hofland, "for both father and mother were coarse and vulgar. I remember, very well, when they kept a shop in West Market Street for the purchase of old iron and rags. He was miserly, and his wife was a woman, I should think, after his own heart. In the course of time, a part of the lower floor of their house was fitted up for a grain shop, and here, at almost any hour in the twenty-four, from six in the morning until ten or eleven at night, you could have seen Mrs. Taylor waiting on her customers, black and white. A few years more — and the old iron, rag, and grain shop was closed, and Mr. Taylor presented himself to the public behind the counters of a well-stocked retail grocery. From this period, Mrs. Taylor was no more seen in public life. But, she began to show herself in vulgar finery on the street, and to seek to intrude herself among people of refinement and education. In this last essay, she attained only a limited success. The sphere of her true quality was too dense, and thus too easily perceived. True refinement could not breathe freely in her presence. The daughter grew up undisciplined, poorly educated, and coarse within and without. At her father's death, she became the possessor of fifty thousand dollars, and, by virtue of this golden attraction, won the admiration of Adam Guyton, and bought herself a husband."

"Bought! You may well say bought." Annie spoke with ill-concealed disgust. "But think, how low the idea of marriage in the mind of Henry Guyton. To take such a woman into so intimate a life-relationship, just for money! Isn't it shocking — disgusting — painful. He is not wedded to a wife — but to gold!

"All base cupidities," said the Doctor, "have a transmuting power, working inversely to that of the fabled stone sought for by old alchemists, and wholly changing the relation of values. In Mrs. Larobe's case, the earthly dross was rendered invaluable, while the divinely endowed soul sunk to a poor insignificance; and he seized the one with avidity, while almost spurning, with contempt, the other. He could not understand nor appreciate a heart; but in fleeting gold — he saw beauty and perfection."

"It is sad; very sad;" remarked Mrs. Hofland. "These things always pain me. But, now that we are speaking of Henry Guyton, the thought of his poor sister Lydia comes into my mind. I wonder what has become of her?"

The Doctor shook his head in a sober way.

"Her father not only disowned, but disinherited her."

"So I have understood. Poor child! I'm afraid she has found her way in life along rough and thorny paths. But, these oftener lead to final peace, than more flowery ones."

"I fear that she did not, in marrying, act wisely."

"Few act wisely who wed as she wedded. I never saw her husband, but, from the little I gathered from Lydia, he was weak and inferior, and love was not the power that moved him to the conquest of her heart."

"What is his name?"

"Brady, I think."

"John Brady is dead."

"Yes," replied the Doctor. "Intemperance and debauchery made quick work with him."

"There was another son of Adam Guyton."

"Yes — Edwin. I saw him today."

"What of him?"

The Doctor shook his head. "No credit to himself, or to anyone else, I'm afraid. He received ten or twelve thousand dollars on becoming of age, and lived fast for two or three years, when he found himself penniless, and of course, friendless. The habits acquired during this spending term, were, in no way, favorable. But, necessity is a stern disciplinarian. He had to work — or starve; and so sought employment among our merchants. The small salary at command of a clerk, was not sufficient for the habits of one like Edwin Guyton. He lost his place in a few months. Rumor gave the reason, and it was not honorable to the young man. Again he found a place, and kept it longer; but, not over a year. He was far from being well enough disciplined for the position of a clerk. Then he fell into the hands of a clique of politicians, who have used him ever since. Being neither honest nor scrupulous; yet having a specious exterior, and some smartness, he is just the kind of implement for them to work with. Of course, the workman must live, and he has a place in the Custom House, which he holds in virtue of his willingness and ability to serve the party in power."

"I would rather my son were dead!" said Mrs. Hofland, with feeling. "Poor Mrs. Lydia Guyton! To think that her children should come to this!"

There was silence for some moments, when Mrs. Hofland went on.

"There was one more child — the youngest — a daughter. What has become of her? She must now be at least twenty-four years of age."

"She is not with her step-mother. At least, I have not seen them together for a long time."

"She was sent away to school, and alienated from home as much as possible; treated, as I have understood, more like a stranger, than a child."

"Her father's will gave her a few thousands of dollars," said Doctor Hofland. "Some fortune-hunter, in a small way — or one whose imagination increased her ten thousand to fifty or sixty — has, in all probability, drawn her from lonely and desolate ways, and blessed or cursed her life in marriage."

"I have little confidence in the blessing," sighed Mrs. Hofland. "Little — very little. My poor friend Lydia Guyton! — so true hearted, so pure, so good; to think, that it is of your children that we are now speaking. Alas! Alas! It has been well said, that marriage is a blessing or a curse — a good or an evil — the road to happiness or misery! With a husband of another quality, what a different life would have opened for my friend. Today she might be sitting among us, crowned with blessing."

Doctor Hofland now pushed his chair back from the table, and resting his hands on the arms, was about rising.

"Why, father!" said his daughter, Diane, "you are not going away from us yet?"

"Yes. I have several patients who must have an early call this evening."

"Oh, that is too bad. Can't they give you one half-hour?" asked Diane.

"Sickness will not wait, my child. We must not prolong our enjoyments — at the expense of others' sufferings. But, I will be home again in an hour."

And the Doctor bent over his grandson, who sat next to him in a high chair, and left a warm kiss upon each ruddy cheek.

A few minutes afterwards, and he was out in the clear, cold air of a January night, on his way to Green Street, near Franklin, to see the sick child of a stranger, who had sent to ask his aid.

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