Three days after this event, Wilmer entered the store of the merchants in whose service he had been for years, for the purpose of resuming his regular duties which had been briefly interrupted.  He was met by the senior partner, with a manner that chilled him to the heart.

“Is Mr. Wykoff in?” he asked.

“No,” was the cold reply.

“He has not left town?”

“Yes.  He went to New Orleans yesterday, and will not return for two or three months.”

“Did he leave a letter for me?”

“No.”

Then came an embarrassing silence of some moments which was broken by Wilmer’s saying—­

“I suppose that I can resume my duties, as usual?”

“We have supplied your place,” was the answer to this.

Quick as thought, the young man turned away, and left the store, his mind all in confusion.  In marrying Constance in opposition to her parents’ wishes, he did so with a feeling of pride in the internal power, and external facilities, which he possessed for rising rapidly in the world, and showing ere long to old Mr. Jackson, that he could stand upon an equal social eminence with himself.  How suddenly was this feeling of proud confidence dashed to the earth!  The external facilities upon which he had based his anticipations were to be found in the friendship and ample means of the house of Rensselaer, Wykoff & Co.  That friendship had been suddenly withdrawn, evidently in strong disapprobation of what he had done.

As he turned away, and walked slowly along, he knew not and scarcely cared whither, a feeling of deep despondency took possession of his mind.  From a proud consciousness of ability to rise rapidly in the world, and show to the friends of Constance that she had not chosen one really beneath her, he sunk into that gloomy and depressing state of mind in which we experience a painful inability to do anything, while deeply sensible that unusual efforts are required at our hands.  The thought of not being able to lift his wife above the obscure condition in which he must now inevitably remain, at least for a long time, seemed as if it would drive him mad.  Passing slowly along, wrapped thus in gloomy meditations, he was suddenly aroused by a hand upon his arm, and a cheerful voice, saying—­

“Give us your hand, Theodore!  Here’s a hearty shake, and a hearty congratulation at the same time!  Run off with that purse—­proud old curmudgeon’s daughter Ha! ha!  I like you for that!  You’re a man of mettle.  But, halloo!  What’s the matter?  You look as grave as a barn-door, on the shady side.  Not repenting, already, I hope?”

“Yes, Henry, I am repenting of that rash act from the very bottom of my heart.”

“O, no!  Don’t talk in that way, Theodore.  Constance is one of the sweetest girls in the city, and will make you a lovely wife.  There are hundreds who envy you.”

“They need not; for this is the most wretched hour of my life.”