THE GOOD AND THE EVIL.

Much to the surprise of Constance, Church did not make his appearance at their rooms that day or the next. So she was left unfettered, so far as that strange man was concerned. This seemed to bring great relief to Mr. Hudson, who was depressed and miserably restless whenever Church was in town.

Young Sterling came to his work the next morning. No, not to his work, for he was far too much excited for that; but he came with hope in his heart to persuade Constance into some liking for the new life offered them on the prairies, which, in his imagination, grew more and more beautiful each day.

Constance appeared to enter into his plans, and took a strange pleasure in going over the details of their western life; all the while knowing in her heart that her share in them was an illusion. It was arranged between them that all things should be put in preparation for their departure, but that nothing should as yet be said to Mr. Hudson.

"Father is very blue and low-spirited," she said, "and I know it will half kill him to part with me. Only think, I am all that he has in the wide world!"

Sterling was just then very ready to believe all this. His generous heart yearned to her with infinite tenderness. What a creature she might become under the pure influences of a genial country life! How he longed to fling off the secrecy that became each day more irksome, and pronounce this young creature his wife before the whole world. Even his high-bred and delicate mother would feel the want of female companionship in her new life so much, that this beautiful creature, unformed as she was, might become welcome as a daughter-in-law.

Constance seemed to share all his hopeful anticipations. Sometimes she did, indeed, half resolve to accompany him; and at night the inconsistent creature would lie awake and cry like a child, at the thought of parting with her husband, as if some force not her own kept her from his side.

Indeed, this was the truth; wild dreams, and such vain thoughts as an inexperienced, ambitious, and coarse-natured girl alone would have harbored for a moment, swept her out of herself, and made her almost irresponsible, so completely did they predominate in her life just then. If she could have divided her existence, the better half would have gone with him, the other would have worked out a dashing future, in which her pleasures must ever have been her foremost object. As it was, she seemed to vacillate, but never did. It was hard to give her husband up, but harder still to sacrifice the brilliant dreams that had perverted her whole being.

Some time, when all these delusions turned to ashes about her feet, the pure love might come forth from its burial-place in her heart; and haunt her into a miserable old age; for in a woman's life some period must come when the soul turns wearily, or in despair, to the pure and good, seeing their exquisite beauty, and feeling how terrible is their loss.

But Constance had not come to this by many a year. Indeed, she had no thought that the follies of life, as well as its crimes, have a sure retribution.

While Sterling was with her, she gave way to all the fond love that had led them on to an imprudent marriage. Caresses that had grown cold of late, were lavished upon him with what seemed inexhaustible tenderness. In this very extravagance of affection she sought to atone for the secret thoughts of future wrong which were just then crowded back into her heart.

At length there was but one day left to them, and that found her really suffering; and if not ill, sufficiently so to leave her cheeks pale, and her eyes heavy beneath the purple shadows that gathered around them.

"I cannot—oh! I cannot leave my poor father!" she pleaded, as Sterling held her shivering hands in his and entreated her to go with him. "He is ill; he is troubled. If I go, it will break his heart. Let me have a little time, William. Do not speak to him yet; but go away, if you must, and after awhile send for me. Then I will tell him all, and come to you on the prairie, in a log-house—anywhere, only don't ask me to abandon my poor father."

At length the girl prevailed. She was so earnest and eager in her filial piety that it almost became real. Certainly he thought it so, and yielded his dearest wishes to this new and beautiful trait in the character of his wife.

"I will leave you, Constance," he said; "and keep our secret as you wish, but it must only be for a time. The moment I am settled, or can find a home, you will come to me and share it?"

"Indeed, I will."

The creature meant it for the moment, and looked into his eyes truthfully, while her own were blinded with tears.

It was hard to part with him. What did she care for all the gorgeous promises lately so potent with her? What did she care for any one compared to him—so graceful, so gentle and loving? How dared that man Church presume to speak of her husband so contemptuously? It sickened her to think of it. Of course, she would follow her husband. He might plant morning-glories around some log-cabin as soon as he liked. As for gold, there was plenty in the rocks and hills out yonder, and Sterling was as likely to find it as another. Still she would not go just then. Some time later, after she had enjoyed a little more of fashionable life, and prepared her father for the change, a western home would be pleasant, no doubt.

The day had arrived. In a few hours Sterling would be far from her, hurrying fast as the speed of a ruthless engine could take him toward the far, far west, which was indefinite and vast as eternity to her. All night long the girl lay awake sobbing piteously over her griefs. She relented then, and reproached herself bitterly that he was going without her. She felt how wicked and selfish she had been; thought of the dangers and toil upon which he was entering with absolute remorse. Once she sprang out of bed and began to pack her clothes, resolved to join Sterling the next morning and go with him.

With a shawl flung over her night-dress, and her bare feet upon the carpet, she moved from closet to bureau, packing up her belongings in eager haste. Now she folded a half soiled ribbon over her hand, smiling when she remembered who had given it to her. Then a crushed collar or a pair of sleeves was smoothed out on her lap, and laid in the corner of a battered old trunk that belonged to her father, and which she had dragged from under her bed. As she proceeded in her task, the young creature became more and more earnest. She seized upon the articles of her scant toilet, and crushed them into the trunk hurriedly, as if she feared the train destined to bear away her husband would leave her behind. She took from a corner of her bureau-drawer a little, old book, and opened it, where a marriage certificate had been lying for many weeks, hid away there because the sight of it, resting close to her heart, had been a sort of reproach. Now she put it back into the little silken case, which she had embroidered so tastefully when love was freshest in her life, and restored it to her bosom, which seemed to grow purer beneath its light touch.

That was not enough. In the ecstacy of her newly-aroused tenderness, the precious paper must lie close to her heart. She attempted to place it there, when her hand came in contact with an obstacle which made her start as if it had touched an adder. It was a fold of bank-notes pinned to her garments just over the spot from which the marriage certificate had been removed.

With a gasp and a shudder she tore the notes from their fastening, and dashed them to the floor. The little silken package fell downward into their place; with both hands pressed to her heart she held it there, and, seated on the side of her bed, began to sob and cry as if her heart were breaking under that passionate pressure.

After a time she became more composed, and starting up went to her work again. The lowest drawer of her bureau was opened, and there lay the dress of azure silk, as yet unworn, close by the India shawl, which she had learned to prize at its full value.

The sight of these garments produced a sudden revulsion in that unstable nature. Constance sunk down upon the floor and contemplated the rich fabrics with longing intensity. All that Church had said and hinted swept back upon her with vivid force. Could she give these things up, with the hopes of triumph and display inspired by them? How beautiful she had looked in that dress, even in the dim light of a dress-maker's room! How softly its delicate blue gleamed upon her now through the vapory lace! And was she never to wear it? After so much deception and secret anxiety, was it to go for nothing?

She asked these questions of herself sitting upon the floor, with both white feet huddled under her scarcely whiter garments, and her bare arms folded on the edge of the drawer. The half-trimmed lamp cast its gleams of smoky light upon her face, as thoughts kindred to these questions swept through her mind. Mechanically she took the folded garments and laid them among the shabby things in her shabby trunk. The contrast brought a gleam of scorn into those eyes which had been so beautiful and loving only a few moments before; and she drew the garments back into her lap, as if thus separating one portion of her life from the other.

The package of money lay upon the floor as she had cast it down, where a gleam of lamplight fell upon it. She slowly reached forth her hand, grasped it stealthily, and was about to place it in her bosom; but some feeling rose up against that, and lifting herself from the floor, she thrust it under her pillow.

After this Constance threw off her shawl, huddled the things she had been packing back into the drawers of her bureau, and pushed the trunk to its old place under her bed. Then she blew out the light, and all was still in the chamber. Hours later the moon shone through a window close by her bed; and then might have been observed the glitter of two eyes, wakeful and bright, as if sleep never would visit them again.