It was one of the happiest days in Ellison’s life when he pressed upon the lips of the gentle girl whom he had won, the sweet bridal kiss. Over his future course through life hung a cloudless sky. The doubt and difficulty that had been on his way for years were removed—success to the utmost extent of his wishes was before him. Already, in imagination, he was in Italy, among the glorious creations of the old masters, drinking in from their sublime works an inspiration that was to him half immortal in his art.

For a few weeks these bright visions remained. Then his thoughts began to come down into the present, and to consider the real aspect of things around him. In regard to Clara’s fortune, all the knowledge he possessed was that obtained through common report. It was known that her father, while living, was in the enjoyment of a handsome property, and that this on his death had been divided equally among his children. As to the nature or value of his wife’s share, he was entirely ignorant; a certain feeling of delicacy kept him from seeking or even seeming to seek for information on the subject prior to marriage. In fact, he tried at times to persuade himself that the property of Clara had nothing whatever to do with his affection for her.

The mind of Ellison being proud, sensitive and independent, this delicacy remained equally strong after marriage. He took his wife to a good boarding-house, where he had engaged a large, handsomely furnished room at the rate of twelve dollars a week, and here they commenced their matrimonial life. From a friend, a short time previous to marriage, Ellison had borrowed a couple of hundred dollars, and this gave him the means of meeting all the necessary expenses attendant on the important event, besides leaving him with seventy or eighty dollars in possession as a little fund to use until some portion of his wife’s income should begin to find its way into his hands.

Two or three weeks passed, during which time Ellison went daily to paint and draw in his studio, though he did not work with his former earnestness. From some cause he found it impossible to bring his mind down to a present interest in his profession; that is, to an interest in what he was then engaged in doing. His mind was continually wandering away, and his fancy teeming with bright and beautiful images. He saw the pure blue skies of Italy; he felt the fragrant airs of the sunny clime breaking over his forehead; he was a worshiper among her galleries of immortal art; and more than all this, he was panting to be in the land of art and song, and felt his impatience to be away increasing every moment. And yet, his gentle, loving young wife, for whom a profound respect as well as affection had been awakened, said nothing of her property, nor had he permitted her to look deep enough into his mind to see his dream of Italy. He had carefully avoided this lest she should suspect the motive that first drew him to her side; a motive which, could he have done so, he would gladly have concealed even from himself.

Weeks went by, and still Clara said nothing about her little fortune; nor did she place money in the hands of her husband. The small sum he had in possession was daily growing less, and the income from his pencil was far from being sufficient to meet his expenses. To introduce the subject was next to impossible. The young man’s mind shrunk from even the remotest allusion thereto. To dreams of Italy, soon succeeded an anxious desire to turn what ability he possessed to some profitable account in the present, in order that he might retain his independence—something that had always been dear to him. It was barely possible, it occurred to his mind, that Clara had no property in her own right. Were this so, he was indeed in an embarrassed position.

Thus matters continued until nearly the last dollar of the young artist’s money was gone, and he began to be so unhappy that it was next to impossible to hide from his wife the troubled state of his feelings. What was he to do? From the thought of revealing to Clara the true nature of his affairs he shrunk away with exquisite pain. The moment that was done his independence was gone, and to retain his independence he was ready to make all other sacrifices. Daily he met her gentle, love-beaming face, and daily saw more and more of her pure, high-minded character, and all the while he felt guilty in her presence, and struggled to hide from her the wild disturbance of his heart.

One day, it was about six weeks after their marriage, Clara said to her husband, looking slightly grave, yet smiling as she spoke.

She had a letter in her hand.

“I’m afraid I am going to bring you more trouble than profit.”

Instantly, in spite of his effort to control himself, the blood sprung to the very forehead of the young man.

“I shall cheerfully meet all the trouble, and be content with the profit,” he replied, as quickly as he could speak, forcing a smile as he did so, and endeavoring to drive back the tell-tale blood to his heart.

Clara looked at her husband earnestly, and seemed to be perplexed at the singular effect produced by her words.

“There is a valuable tract of land in Ohio,” said she, “which was left me by my father, that I am in danger of losing. The title deed, it is alleged, is defective.”

“Ah! What is the nature of the defect?” Ellison’s voice, schooled under a brief but strong effort into composure, was calm as he asked this question.

“It is claimed,” answered Clara, “that a former sale was fraudulent, and therefore illegal, and that it must now revert to certain individuals who have been deprived of their rights.”

“Did the property come into your father’s hands by inheritance or purchase?”

“He bought the property, and therefore, as far as I am concerned, the title to its possession is an honest one.”

“How large is the tract of land?”

Because Ellison especially desired to avoid showing any particular interest in knowing the extent of the property, his voice faltered on this question, and he was conscious that his countenance was slightly marked with confusion.

“Five hundred acres,” was replied.

“Is it near a town?”

“Yes. It lies not over two miles distant from a flourishing town, and was considered by my father before his death to be worth seven or eight thousand dollars. He was repeatedly offered that sum for it, but always refused, for he considered its value to be yearly increasing. ‘It will be worth twenty thousand to my children,’ he would say in reply to all offers.”

This last sentence caused the heart of Ellison to sink almost like lead. Here, then, was the twenty thousand dollars’ worth of property which his wife possessed in her own right, and upon the income of which he was to dream over and study the old masters in Italy! And so Clara was really worth twenty thousand dollars; but it was in Ohio wild lands, and even for these there was another claimant! It required a very strong effort on the part of the young man to conceal what he felt. How quickly into thin air vanished his hopes! How coldly broke the morning whose dim light showed the painful and embarrassing reality of his position!

“Has a suit been commenced?” asked Ellison.

“Yes. I have just received word from my agent that the parties claiming the tract of land have instituted legal proceedings.”

“What does he say in regard to the matter?”

“He says that he has consulted a lawyer, who after looking pretty carefully into the subject, is clearly of opinion that no suit can be sustained. But says that a good deal of trouble may be occasioned, and that the question may be kept open for two or three years.”

Here was some real intelligence bearing upon the question of Clara’s property, its amount and condition. Certainty was something; but it was not a certainty in any way calculated to elevate or tranquilize the feelings of the young artist. Instead of obtaining with his wife a handsome productive property, in stocks or city real estate, of twenty thousand dollars, he had become possessor of a law suit, and prospective owner of five hundred acres of uncultivated land in Ohio. And, by the time this knowledge was gained, he was so well acquainted with the character of his wife as to entertain for her a respect that was almost deferential. There was nothing frivolous or selfish about her—nothing trifling—nothing vulgar. She was a pure, high-minded, clear-seeing, yet deeply affectionate woman, and her husband, while he loved her tenderly, was painfully conscious that, in seeking her, he had been governed by motives that, if known, she must instinctively despise. Moreover, the fact that he had deceived her by offering his hand in marriage and leading her to the altar when his income was not large enough to support even himself in comfort, must soon appear, and that revelation he dreaded above all things; for, when it was made, the veil would be torn from Clara’s eyes, and she would see him as he was.

——