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The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

by T. S. Arthur · English · Gutenberg #4588 · 428,969 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

Author: T. S. Arthur


        
Release date: October 1, 2003 [eBook #4588]
                Most recently updated: March 14, 2018

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALLEN HOUSE; OR, TWENTY YEARS AGO AND NOW ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo





THE ALLEN HOUSE

OR, TWENTY YEARS AGO AND NOW.

By T. S. Arthur

Philadelphia:

1860




PREFACE.

WE point to two ways in life, and if the young man and maiden, whose
feet are lingering in soft green meadows and flowery walks, will
consider these two ways in sober earnest, before moving onward, and
choose the one that truth and reason tell them leads to honor, success,
and happiness, our book will accomplish its right work for them. It is
a sad thing, after the lapse of twenty years, to find ourselves amid
ruined hopes;--to sit down with folded hands and say, “Thus far life has
been a failure!” Yet, to how many is this the wretched summing up at the
end of a single score of years from the time that reason takes the helm!
Alas! that so few, who start wrong, ever succeed in finding the right
way; life proving, even to its last burdened years, a miserable failure!





TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW.



CHAPTER I.



THE rain had poured in torrents all day, and now, for the third time
since morning, I came home, wet, uncomfortable and weary. I half dreaded
to look at the slate, lest some urgent call should stare me in the face.

“It must indeed be a case of life and death, that takes me out again
to-night,” said I, as my good wife met me in the entry, and with light
hands, made active by love, assisted in the removal of my great coat and
comforter.

“Now come into the sitting-room,” she said, “your slippers are on the
rug, and your dressing-gown warmed and waiting. Tea is ready, and
will be on the table by the time you feel a little comfortable. What a
dreadful day it has been!”

“Dreadful for those who have been compelled to face the storm,” I
remarked, as I drew off my boots, and proceeded to take advantage of all
the pleasant arrangements my thoughtful wife had ready for my solace and
delight.

It was on my lip to inquire if any one had called since I went out, but
the ringing of the tea-bell sent my thought in a new direction; when,
with my second self leaning on an arm, and my little Aggy holding
tightly by my hand, I moved on to the dining-room, all the disagreeable
things of the day forgotten.

“Has any one been here?” I asked, as I handed my cup for a third
replenishing. Professional habit was too strong--the query would intrude
itself.

“Mrs. Wallingford called to see you.”

“Ah! Is anybody sick?”

“I believe so--but she evaded my inquiry, and said that she wished to
speak a word with the Doctor.”

“She don't want me to call over to-night, I hope. Did she leave any
word?”

“No. She looked troubled in her mind, I thought.”

“No other call?”

“Yes. Mary Jones sent word that something was the matter with the baby.
It cried nearly all last night, her little boy said, and to-day has
fever, and lies in a kind of stupor.”

“That case must be seen to,” I remarked, speaking to myself.

“You might let it go over until morning,” suggested my wife. “At any
rate, I would let them send again before going. The child may be better
by this time.”

“A call in time may save life here, Constance,” I made answer; the sense
of duty growing stronger as the inner and outer man felt the renovating
effects of a good supper, and the brightness and warmth of my pleasant
home. “And life, you know, is a precious thing--even a baby's life.”

And I turned a meaning glance upon the calm, sweet face of our latest
born, as she lay sleeping in her cradle. That was enough. I saw the
tears spring instantly to the eyes of my wife.

“I have not a word to say. God forbid, that in the weakness of love and
care for you, dear husband, I should draw you aside from duty. Yes--yes!
The life of a baby is indeed a precious thing!”

And bending over the cradle, she left a kiss on the lips, and a tear
on the pure brow of our darling. Now was I doubly strengthened for the
night. There arose at this instant a wild storm-wail, that shrieked for
a brief time amid the chimneys, and around the eaves of our dwelling,
and then went moaning away, sadly, dying at last in the far distance.
The rain beat heavily against the windows. But I did not waver, nor seek
for reasons to warrant a neglect of duty. “I must see Mary Jones's baby,
and that to-night.” I said this to myself, resolutely, by way of answer
to the intimidating storm.

Mrs. Jones was a widow, and poor. She lived full a quarter of a mile
away. So in deciding to make the visit that night, I hardly think a
very strong element of self-interest was included in the motives that
governed me. But that is irrelevant.

“As there is no prospect of an abatement in the storm,” said I, after
returning to our cosy little sitting-room, “it may be as well for me to
see the baby at once. The visit will be over, so far as I am concerned,
and precious time may be gained for the patient.”

“I will tell Joseph to bring around the horse,” said my wife.

“No--I will walk. Poor beast! He has done enough for one day, and shall
not be taken out again.”

“Horse-flesh is not so precious as man-flesh,” Constance smiled
entreatingly, as she laid her hand upon my shoulder. “Let Tom be
harnessed up; it won't hurt him.”

“The merciful man is merciful to his beast,” I made answer. “If
horse-flesh is cheaper than man-flesh, like most cheap articles, it is
less enduring. Tom must rest, if his master cannot.”

“The decision is final, I suppose.”

“I must say yes.”

“I hardly think your great coat is dry yet,” said my wife. “I had it
hung before the kitchen fire. Let me see.”

“You must wait for ten, or fifteen minutes longer,” she remarked, on
returning from the kitchen. “One sleeve was completely wetted through,
and I have turned it in order to get the lining dry.”

I sat down and took Agnes on my lap, and was just getting into a
pleasant talk with her, when the door-bell rung. A shadow fell across my
wife's face.

“People are thoughtless of Doctors,” she remarked, a little fretfully,
“and often choose the worst weather and the most untimely seasons to
send for them.”

I did not answer, but listened as the boy went to the door. Some one was
admitted, and shown into the office.

“Who is it?” I enquired, as Joseph came to the sitting-room.

“Mrs. Wallingford.”

My wife and I exchanged glances. She looking grave and curious; but no
remark was made.

“Good-evening, Mrs. Wallingford,” said I, on entering my office. “This
is a very bad night for a lady to come out. I hope no one is seriously
ill.”

“I wish you would come over and see our Henry, Doctor.”

There was a choking tremor in her voice; and as I looked in her face, I
saw that it was pale and distressed.

“What's the matter?” I inquired.

“I can't say what it is, Doctor. Something's wrong. I'm afraid--yes, I'm
afraid he's going out of his senses.”

And she wrung her hands together with a nervous uneasiness in singular
contrast with her usual quiet exterior.

“How is he affected?”

“Well, Doctor, he came home last evening looking as white as a sheet. I
almost screamed out when I saw the strange, suffering expression on his
colorless face. My first thought was that he had fallen somewhere, and
been hurt dreadfully. He tried to pass me without stopping; but I put
both hands on him, and said--'Oh, Henry! what does ail you?' 'Nothing
of any account,' he answered, in a low, husky tone. 'I don't feel right
well, and am going to my room to lie down.' And saying this, he brushed
right past me, and went up stairs. I followed after him, but when I
tried his door it was fastened on the inside. I called three times
before he answered, and then he said--'Mother, I'm not sick; but I feel
bad and want to be alone. Please don't disturb me to-night.' I don't
think I would have known the voice if it hadn't been just then and
there. Knowing his disposition, anxious and troubled as I was, I felt
that it would be best for the time being to let him alone. And I did so.
For an hour or more all in his room was as still as death, and I began
to grow very uneasy. Then I heard his feet upon the floor moving about.
I heard him walk to his bureau--my ears served me for eyes--then to
the mantlepiece, and then to the window. All was still again for some
minutes. My heart beat like a hammer, as one vague suggestion after
another floated through my mind. Then he crossed the room with a slow
step; turned and went back again; and so kept on walking to and fro.
I listened, waiting for the sound to cease; nut he walked on and on,
backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, tramp, tramp, tramp,
until it seemed as if every jarring footfall was on my heart. Oh,
Doctor! I never had anything to affect me so before in my whole life. An
hour passed, and still he walked the floor of his room. I could bear it
no longer, and went and called to him. But he seemed deaf, and made no
reply. I rattled at the lock and called again and again. Then he came
close to the door, and said, speaking a little impatiently for him--

'Mother! Mother! For Heaven's sake don't trouble me! I don't feel just
right, and you must let me alone for the present.'

“Well, he kept on walking for an hour longer, and then everything was
still in his room for the night. This morning on trying his door it was
unfastened. I went in. He was lying in bed wide awake. But, oh! such a
change as I saw in his face. It was colorless as on the evening before;
but less expressive of emotion. A dead calm seemed to have settled upon
it. I took his hand; it was cold. I pressed his forehead; it was cold
also. 'Henry, my son, how are you?' I asked. He did not reply; but
looked in my face with a cold, steady gaze that chilled me. 'Are you
sick, my son?' He merely shook his head slowly. 'Has anything happened?
What has happened?' I pressed my question upon him; but it was of no
use. He would not satisfy me. I then asked if he would not rise. 'Not
yet,' he said. 'Shall I bring you some breakfast?' 'No--no--I cannot
eat.' And he shook his head and shut his eyes, while there came into his
face a look so sad and suffering that as I gazed on him I could not keep
the tears back.

“And it has been no better with him all the day, Doctor,” added Mrs.
Wallingford, heaving a long sigh. “Oh, I am distressed to death about
it. Won't you come and see him? I'm afraid if something isn't done that
he will lose his senses.”

“Have you no conjecture as to the cause of this strange condition of
mind?” I asked.

“None,” she replied. “Henry is a reserved young man, you know, Doctor;
and keeps many things hidden in his mind even from me that should be
outspoken.”

“Has he no love affair on hand?”

“I think not.”

“Hasn't he been paying attention to Squire Floyd's daughter?”

“Delia?”

“Yes.”

“I believe not, Doctor.”

“I've seen him at the Squire's.”

“Nothing serious, or I should have known of it. Henry is rather shy
about the girls.”

“And you wish me to see him to-night?”

“Yes. Something ought to be done.”

“What is his condition just now?” I inquired. “How did you leave him?”

“He's been in bed nearly all day, and hasn't touched a mouthful. To all
my persuasions and entreaties he answers--'Please, mother, let me alone.
I will be better after a while.'”

“I think,” said I, after musing on the case, “that, may be, the
let-alone prescription will be the best one for the present. He is
prostrated by some strong mental emotion--that seems clear; and time
must be given for the mind to regain its equipoise. If I were to call,
as you desire, it might annoy or irritate him, and so do more harm than
good. No medicine that I can give is at all likely to reach his case.”

Mrs. Wallingford looked disappointed, and demurred strongly to my
conclusion.

“I'm sure, Doctor, if you saw him you might suggest something. Or, may
be, he would open his mind to you.”

“I'll think it over,” said I. “Mrs. Jones has sent for me to see her
baby to-night. I was just about starting when you called. On my way
back, if, on reflection, it seems to me advisable, I will drop in at
your house.”

“Call at any rate, Doctor,” urged Mrs. Wallingford. “Even if you don't
see Henry, you may be able to advise me as to what I had better do.”

I gave my promise, and the troubled mother went back through storm and
darkness to her home. By this time my overcoat was thoroughly dried. As
Constance brought it forth warm from the fire, she looked into my face
with an expression of inquiry. But I was not ready to speak in regard to
Mrs. Wallingford, and, perceiving this at a glance, she kept silence on
that subject.

As I opened the front door, the storm swept into my face; but I passed
out quickly into the night, and shielding myself with an umbrella, as
best I could, bent to the rushing wind, and took my solitary way in
the direction of Mrs. Jones's humble dwelling, which lay quite upon the
outskirts of our town. To reach my destination, I had to pass the Old
Allen House, which stood within a high stone enclosure, surrounded by
stately elms a century old, which spread their great arms above and
around the decaying mansion, as if to ward off the encroachments of
time. As I came opposite the gate opening upon the carriage way, I
stopped suddenly in surprise, for light streamed out from both windows
of the north-west chamber, which I knew had been closed ever since the
death of Captain Allen, who passed to his account several years before.

This Allen House was one of the notable places in our town; and the
stories in circulation touching the Allen family, now almost extinct,
were so strongly tinctured with romance, that sober-minded people
generally received them with a large measure of incredulity.

The spacious old two-story mansion, with its high-pitched roof and rows
of dormer windows, was built by the father of Captain Allen, who had
also followed the sea, and, it was said, obtained his large wealth
through means not sanctioned by laws human or divine. Men and women of
the past generation, and therefore contemporaries, did not hesitate to
designate him an “old pirate,” though always the opprobrious words
were spoken in an undertone, for people were half afraid of the dark,
reserved, evil-looking man, who had evidently passed a large portion of
his life among scenes of peril and violence. There were more pleasing
traditions of the beautiful wife he brought home to grace the luxurious
dwelling he had fitted up in a style of almost princely splendor,
compared with the plain abode of even the best off people in town. Who
she was, or from whence she came, no one knew certainly. She was very
young--almost a child--when the elder Captain Allen brought her to
S----.

Very little intercourse, I believe, passed between the Allen family and
the town's-people, except in a business way. The first regular entry
made into the house beyond the formal drawing-room, was on the occasion
of a birth, when the best nurse and gossip in town was summoned to
attend the young mistress. A son was born. He was called John; though
not under the sign of Christian baptism--John Allen; afterwards Captain
Allen. The old sea-dog, his father, was absent at the time; but returned
before the infant was four weeks old. The nurse described the meeting
of husband and wife as very lover-like and tender on his part, but with
scarcely a sign of feeling on hers. She did not repel him, nor turn from
him; but received his caresses with the manner of one in whom all quick
emotion had died. And so it continued between them--he thoughtful and
assiduous, and she cold, and for the most part silent. But, to her babe,
the young mother was passionate at times in her loving demonstrations.
The pent up waters of feeling gave way in this direction, and poured
themselves out, often, in a rushing flood. Towards all others she bore
herself with a calm, sweet dignity of manner, that captivated the heart,
and made it sigh for a better acquaintance with one around whom mystery
had hung a veil that no hand but her own could push aside--and that hand
was never lifted.

The next event in the Allen House, noted by the people, was the birth of
a daughter. The same nurse was called in, who remained the usual time,
and then retired; bearing with her a history of the period, which she
related, very confidentially, at tea-tables, and in familiar gossip with
choice spirits of her own.

Those who knew her best, were always something in doubt as to which
of her stories contained truth and which romance. The latter element
mingled largely, it is presumed, in all of them.

A great change had taken place in the Captain's manner. He no longer
played the lover to a cold and distant mistress, but carried himself
haughtily at times--captiously at times--and always with an air of
indifference. All affection seemed transferred to his boy, who was
growing self-willed, passionate, and daring. These qualities were never
repressed by his father, but rather encouraged and strengthened. On
learning that his next heir was a daughter, he expressed impatience, and
muttered something about its being strangled at birth. The nurse said
that he never deigned even to look at it while she was in the house.

The beautiful young wife showed signs of change, also. Much of the old
sweetness had left her mouth, which was calmer and graver. Her manner
towards Captain Allen, noted before, was of the same quiet, distant
character, but more strongly marked. It was plain that she had no love
for him. The great mystery was, how two so wholly unlike in all internal
qualities, and external seeming, could ever have been constrained into
the relationship, of man and wife. She was, evidently, an English woman.
This was seen in her rich complexion, sweet blue eyes, fair hair, and
quiet dignity of manner. Among the many probable and improbable rumors
as to her first meeting with Captain Allen, this one had currency. A
sailor, who had seen a good deal of service in the West Indies, told the
following story:

An English vessel from Jamaica, richly freighted, had on board a
merchant with his family, returning from a residence of a few years on
the island, to the mother country.

They had been out only a day, when a pirate bore down upon them, and
made an easy capture of the ship. The usual bloody scenes of that day
followed. Death, in terrible forms, met the passengers and crew, and the
vessel, after being robbed of its costliest treasures, was scuttled and
sent down into the far depths of the ocean, from whence no sign could
ever come.

But one living soul was spared--so the story went. An only child of
the English merchant, a fair and beautiful young girl, whose years had
compassed only the early spring-time of life, flung herself upon her
knees before the pirate Captain and begged so piteously for life,
that he spared her from the general slaughter he had himself decreed.
Something in her pure, exquisitely beautiful face, touched his
compassion. There were murmurs of discontent among his savage crew. But
the strong-willed Captain had his way, and when he sailed back with
his booty to their place of rendezvous, he bore with him the beautiful
maiden. Here, it was said, he gave her honorable protection, and had her
cared for as tenderly as was possible under the circumstances. And it
was further related, that, when the maiden grew to ripe womanhood, he
abandoned the trade of a buccaneer and made her his wife. The sailor
told this story, shrugged his shoulders, looked knowing and mysterious,
and left his auditors to draw what inference they pleased. As they had
been talking of Captain Allen, the listeners made their own conclusion
as to his identity with the buccaneer. True to human nature, in its
inclination to believe always the worst of a man, nine out of ten
credited the story as applied to the cut-throat looking captain, and so,
after this, it was no unusual thing to hear him designated by the not
very flattering sobriquet of the “old pirate.”

Later events, still more inexplicable in their character, and yet
unexplained, gave color to this story, and invested it with the elements
of probability. As related, the old gossip's second intrusion upon the
Aliens, in the capacity of nurse, furnished the town's-people with a few
additional facts, as to the state of things inside of a dwelling, upon
whose very walls seemed written mystery. In the beginning, Mrs. Allen
had made a few acquaintances, who were charmed with her character, as
far as she let herself be known. Visits were made and returned for a
short season. But after the birth of her first child, she went abroad
but rarely, and ceasing to return all visits, social intercourse came to
an end. The old nurse insisted that this was not her fault, but wholly
chargeable upon the Captain, who, she was certain, had forbidden his
wife to have anything to do with the town's-people.



CHAPTER II.



One day, nearly two years after the birth of this second child,
the quiet town of S----was aroused from its dreams by a strange and
startling event. About a week before, a handsomely dressed man, with the
air of a foreigner, alighted from the stage coach at the “White
Swan,” and asked if he could have a room. A traveler of such apparent
distinction was a rare event in S----; and as he suggested the probable
stay of a week or so, he became an object of immediate attention, as
well as curiosity.

Night had closed in when he arrived, and as he was fatigued by his
journey in the old lumbering stage coach that ran between the nearest
sea-port town and S----, he did not show himself again that evening to
the curious people who were to be found idling about the “White Swan.”
 But he had a talk with the landlord. That functionary waited upon him to
know his pleasure as to supper.

“The ride has given me a headache,” the stranger said, “which a cup of
tea will probably remove. Beyond that, I will take nothing to-night.
Your name is--”

“Adams, sir. Adams is my name,” replied the landlord.

“And mine is Willoughby--Col. Willoughby.” And the Englishman bowed with
a slight air of condescension.

“I am at your service, Col. Willoughby,” said the landlord in his blunt
way. “Just say what you want, and the thing is done.”

“A cup of tea will serve me to-night, my friend. Let it be good and
strong; for my head is a little unsettled with this throbbing pain.
That stage coach of yours would be something better for a pair of new
springs.”

“It's seen service, and no mistake. But people in these parts don't
calculate much on easy riding. Springs are no great account. We look to
the main chance.”

“What is that?”

“Getting over the ground.”

The traveler smiled to himself in a quiet way, as if the landlord's
answer had touched some memory or experience.

Nothing further being remarked, Mr. Adams retired to order a cup of
tea for his guest. Something about the Englishman had stimulated his
curiosity; and, so, instead of sending the cup of tea by his wife, who
did most of the waiting, he carried it to the room himself.

“Sit down, Mr. Adams,” said the traveler, after the tea had been put
before him.

The landlord did not wait for a second invitation.

“I hope the tea is to your liking, sir.”

“Excellent. I've not tasted better since I left London.”

The traveler spoke blandly, as he held his cup a little way from his
lips, and looked over the top of it at his host with something more than
a casual glance. He was reading his face with an evident effort to gain
from it, as an index, some clear impression of his character.

“My wife understands her business,” replied the flattered landlord.
“There is not her equal in all the country round.”

“I can believe you, Mr. Adams. Already this delicious beverage has acted
like a charmed potion. My headache has left me as if by magic.”

He set his cup down; moved his chair a little way from the table at
which he was sitting, and threw a pleasant look upon the landlord.

“How long have you been in this town, Mr. Adams?” The question seemed
indifferently asked; but the landlord's ear did not fail to perceive in
the tone in which it was given, a foreshadowing of much beyond.

“I was born here,” he replied.

“Ah! Then you know all the people, I imagine?”

“I know all their faces, at least.”

“And their histories and characters?”

“Perhaps.”

Something in this “perhaps,” and the tone in which it was uttered,
seemed not to strike the questioner agreeably. He bent his brows a
little, and looked more narrowly at the landlord.

“I did not see much of your town as I came in this evening. How large is
it?”

“Middling good size, sir, for an inland town,” was the not very
satisfactory answer.

“What is the population?”

“Well, I don't know--can't just say to a certainty.”

“Two thousand?”

“Laws! no sir! Not over one, if that.”

“About a thousand, then?”

“Maybe a thousand, and maybe not more than six or seven hundred.”

“Call it seven hundred, then,” said the traveler, evidently a little
amused.

“And that will, in my view, be calling it enough.”

There was a pause. The traveler seemed in doubt as to whether he should
go on with his queries.

“Not much trade here, I presume?” He asked, at length.

“Not much to boast of,” said Adams.

Another pause.

“Any well-to-do people? Gentlemen who live on their means?”

“Yes; there's Aaron Thompson. He's rich, I guess. But you can't measure
a snake 'till he's dead, as they say.”

“True,” said the traveler, seeming to fall into the landlord's mood.
“Executors often change the public estimate of a man as to this world's
goods. So, Aaron Thompson is one of your rich men?”

“Yes, and there's Abel Reeder--a close-fisted old dog, but wealthy as a
Jew, and no mistake. Then there is Captain Allen.”

A flash of interest went over the stranger's face, which was turned at
once from the light.

“Captain Allen! And what of him?” The voice was pitched to a lower tone;
but there was no appearance of special curiosity.

“A great deal of him.” The landlord put on a knowing look.

“Is he a sea captain?”

“Yes;” and lowering his voice, “something else besides, if we are to
credit people who pretend to know.”

“Ah! but you speak in riddles, Mr. Adams. What do you mean by something
more?”

“Why, the fact is, Mr. Willoughby, they do say, that he got his money in
a backhanded sort of fashion.”

“By gambling?”

“No, sir! By piracy!”

Col. Willoughby gave a real or affected start.

“A grave charge that, sir.” He looked steadily at the landlord. “And one
that should not be lightly made.”

“I only report the common talk.”

“If such talk should reach the ears of Captain Allen?” suggested the
stranger.

“No great likelihood of its doing so, for I reckon there's no man in
S----bold enough to say 'pirate' to his face.”

“What kind of a man is he?”

“A bad specimen in every way.”

“He's no favorite of yours, I see?”

“I have no personal cause of dislike. We never had many words together,”
 said the landlord. “But he's a man that you want to get as far away from
as possible. There are men, you know, who kind of draw you towards them,
as if they were made of loadstone; and others that seem to push you off.
Captain Allen is one of the latter kind.”

“What sort of a looking man is he?”

“Short; thick-set; heavily built, as to body. A full, coarse face; dark
leathery skin; and eyes that are a match for the Evil One's. There is a
deep scar across his left forehead, running past the outer corner of
his eye, and ending against the cheek bone. The lower lid of this eye
is drawn down, and the inside turned out, showing its deep red lining.
There is another scar on his chin. Two fingers are gone from his left
hand, and his right hand has suffered violence.”

“He has evidently seen hard service,” remarked the stranger, and in a
voice that showed him to be suppressing, as best he could, all signs of
interest in the landlord's communication.

“There's no mistake about that; and if you could only see him, my word
for it, you would fall into the common belief that blood lies upon his
conscience.”

“I shall certainly put myself in the way of seeing him, after the spur
you have just given to my curiosity,” said Col. Willoughby, in a decided
manner, as if he had an interest in the man beyond what the landlord's
communication had excited.

“Then you will have to remain here something more than a week, I'm
thinking,” replied the landlord.

“Why so?”

“Captain Allen isn't at home.”

There was a sudden change in the stranger's face that did not escape the
landlord's notice. But whether it indicated pleasure or disappointment,
he could not tell; for it was at best a very equivocal expression.

“Not at home!” His voice indicated surprise.

“No, sir.”

“How long has he been absent?”

“About a month.”

“And is expected to return soon, no doubt?”

“As to that, I can't say. Few people in this town I apprehend, can speak
with certainty as to the going and coming of Captain Allen.”

“Is he often away?”

“No, sir; but oftener of late than formerly.”

“Is his absence usually of a prolonged character?”

“It is much longer than it used to be--never less than a month, and
often extended to three times that period.”

Colonel Willoughby sat without further remark for some time, his eyes
bent down, his brows contracted by thought, and his lips firmly drawn
together.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said, at length, looking up, “for your
patience in answering my idle questions. I will not detain you any
longer.”

The landlord arose, and, bowing to his guest, retired from the
apartment.



CHAPTER III.



On the next morning Colonel Willoughby plied the landlord with a few
more questions about Captain Allen, and then, inquiring the direction of
his house, started out, as he said, to take a ramble through the town.
He did not come back until near dinner time, and then he showed no
disposition to encourage familiarity on the part of Mr. Adams. But that
individual was not in the dark touching the morning whereabouts of his
friend. A familiar of his, stimulated by certain good things which the
landlord knew when and how to dispense, had tracked the stranger from
the “White Swan” to Captain Allen's house. After walking around it, on
the outside of the enclosure once or twice, and viewing it on all sides,
he had ventured, at last, through the gate, and up to the front door of
the stately mansion. A servant admitted him, and the landlord's familiar
loitered around for nearly three hours before he came out. Mrs. Allen
accompanied him to the door, and stood and talked with him earnestly
for some time in the portico. They shook hands in parting, and Colonel
Willoughby retired with a firm, slow step, and his eyes bent downwards
as if his thoughts were sober, if not oppressive.

All this Mr. Adams knew; and of course, his curiosity was pitched to a
high key. But, it was all in vain that he threw himself in the way
of his guest, made leading remarks, and even asked if he had seen the
splendid dwelling of Captain Allen. The handsome stranger held him
firmly at a distance. And not only on that day and evening, but on the
next day and the next. He was polite even to blandness, but suffered no
approach beyond the simplest formal intercourse. Every morning he was
seen going to Captain Allen's house, where he always stayed several
hours. The afternoons he spent, for the most part, in his own room.

All this soon became noised throughout the town of S----, and there was
a little world of excitement, and all manner of conjectures, as to who
this Colonel Willoughby might be. The old nurse, of whom mention has
been made, presuming upon her professional acquaintance with Mrs. Allen,
took the liberty of calling in one afternoon, when, to her certain
knowledge, the stranger was in the house. She was, however, disappointed
in seeing him. The servant who admitted her showed her into a small
reception-room, on the opposite side of the hall from the main parlor,
and here Mrs. Allen met her. She was “very sweet to her”--to use her own
words--sweet, and kind, and gentle as ever. But she looked paler than
usual, and did not seem to be at ease.

The nurse reported that something was going wrong; but, as to its exact
nature, she was in the dark. It certainly didn't look right for Mrs.
Allen to be receiving daily the visits of an elegant looking stranger,
and her husband away. There was only one opinion on this head.

And so it went on from day to day for nearly a week--Colonel Willoughby,
as he had called himself, spending the greater part of every morning
with Mrs. Allen, and hiding himself from curious eyes, during the
afternoons, in his room at the “White Swan.” Then came the denouement to
this exciting little drama.

One day the stranger, after dining, asked Mr. Adams for his bill, which
he paid in British gold. He then gave directions to have a small trunk,
the only baggage he had with him, sent to the house of Captain Allen.

The landlord raised his eyebrows, of course; looked very much surprised,
and even ventured a curious question. But the stranger repelled all
inquisition touching his movements. And so he left the “White Swan,”
 after sojourning there for nearly a week, and the landlord never saw him
again.

The news which came on the following day, created no little sensation in
S----. Jacob Perkins, who lived near Captain Allen's, and often worked
for him, told the story. His relation was to this effect: About
ten o'clock at night, Mrs. Allen sent for him, and he waited on her
accordingly. He found her dressed as for a journey, but alone.

“Take a seat, Jacob,” she said. “I wish to have some talk with you.” The
man noticed something unusual in her talk and manner.

“Jacob,” she resumed, after a pause, bending towards Mr. Perkins, “can
I trust you in a matter requiring both service and secrecy? I have done
some kind things for you and yours; I now wish you to return the favor.”

As she spoke, she drew out a purse, and let him see something of its
golden contents.

“Say on, Mrs. Allen. You may trust me. If you ask anything short of a
crime, it shall be done. Yes, you have been kind to me and mine, and now
I will repay you, if in my power to do so.”

Jacob Perkins was in earnest. But, whether gratitude, or that apparition
of golden sovereigns, had most influence upon him, cannot at this remote
period be said.

“Can you get a pair of horses and a carriage, or light wagon, to-night?”

“I can,” replied Jacob.

“And so as not to excite undue curiosity?”

“I think so.”

“Very well. Next, will you drive that team all night?”

And Mrs. Allen played with the purse of gold, and let the coins it
contained strike each other with a musical chink, very pleasant to the
ear of Jacob Perkins.

“You shall be paid handsomely for your trouble,” added the lady, as
she fixed her beautiful blue eyes upon Jacob with an earnest, almost
pleading look.

“I hope there is nothing wrong,” said Jacob, as some troublesome
suspicions began turning themselves over in his mind.

“Nothing wrong, as God is my witness!” And Mrs. Allen lifted her pale
face reverently upwards.

“Forgive me, madam; I might have known that,” said Jacob. “And now, if
you will give me your orders, they shall be obeyed to the letter.”

“Thank you, my kind friend,” returned Mrs. Allen. “The service you are
now about to render me, cannot be estimated in the usual way. To me, it
will be far beyond all price.”

She was agitated, and paused to recover herself. Then she resumed, with
her usual calmness of manner--

“Bring the carriage here--driving with as little noise as possible--in
half an hour. Be very discreet. Don't mention the matter even to your
wife. You can talk with her as freely as you choose on your return from
Boston.”

“From Boston? Why, that is thirty miles away, at least!”

“I know it, Jacob; but I must be in Boston early to-morrow morning. You
know the road?”

“Every foot of it.”

“So much the better. And now go for the carriage.”

Jacob Perkins arose. As he was turning to go, Mrs. Allen placed her hand
upon his shoulder, and said--

“I can trust you, Mr. Perkins?”

“Madam, you can,” was his reply; and he passed from the quiet house into
the darkness without. The night was moonless, but the stars shone down
from an unclouded sky. When Jacob Perkins found himself alone, and began
to look this adventure full in the face, some unpleasant doubts touching
the part he was about to play, intruded themselves upon his thoughts. He
had seen the handsome stranger going daily to visit Mrs. Allen, for now
nearly a week, and had listened to the town talk touching the matter,
until his own mind was filled with the common idea, that something was
wrong. And now, to be called on to drive Mrs. Allen to Boston, secretly,
and under cover of the night, seemed so much like becoming a party to
some act of folly or crime, that he gave way to hesitation, and began
to seek for reasons that would justify his playing the lady false. Then
came up the image of her sweet, reverent face, as she said so earnestly,
“Nothing wrong, as God is my witness!” And his first purpose was
restored.

Punctually, at half-past ten o'clock, the team of Jacob Perkins drove
noiselessly in through the gate, and up the carriage-way to the door
of the Allen mansion. No lights were visible in any part of the house.
Under the portico were two figures, a man and a woman--the man holding
something in his arms, which, on a closer observation, Jacob saw to be a
child. Two large trunks and a small one stood near.

“Put them on the carriage,” said Mrs. Allen, in a low, steady voice;
and Jacob obeyed in silence. When all was ready, she got in, and the man
handed her the sleeping child, and then took his place beside her.

“To Boston, remember, Jacob; and make the time as short as possible.”

No other words were spoken. Jacob led his horses down the carriage-way
to the gate, which he closed carefully after passing through; and then
mounting to his seat, drove off rapidly.

But little conversation took place between Mrs. Allen and her traveling
companion; and that was in so low a tone of voice, that Jacob Perkins
failed to catch a single word, though he bent his ear and listened with
the closest attention whenever he heard a murmur of voices.

It was after daylight when they arrived in Boston, where Jacob Perkins
left them, and returned home with all speed, to wake up the town of
S----with a report of his strange adventure. Before parting with Mrs.
Allen, she gave him a purse, which, on examination, was found to contain
a hundred dollars in gold. She also placed in his hand a small gold
locket, and said, impressively, while her almost colorless lips
quivered, and her bosom struggled with its pent up feelings--

“Jacob, when my son--he is now absent with his father--reaches his tenth
year, give him this, and say that it is a gift from his mother, and
contains a lock of her hair. Can I trust you faithfully to perform this
office of love?”

Tears filled her eyes; then her breast heaved with a great sob.

“As Heaven is my witness, madam,” answered Jacob Perkins, “it shall be
done.”

“Remember,” she said, “that you are only to give this to John, and not
until his tenth year. Keep my gift sacred from the knowledge of every
one until that time, and then let the communication be to him alone.”

Jacob Perkins promised to do according to her wishes, and then left her
looking so pale, sad, and miserable, that, to use his own words, “he
never could recall her image as she stood looking, not at him, but past
him, as if trying to explore the future, without thinking of some marble
statue in a grave-yard.”

She was never seen in S----again.



CHAPTER IV.



The excitement in the little town of S----, when Jacob returned from
Boston, and told his singular story, may well be imagined. The whole
community was in a buzz.

It was found that Mrs. Allen had so arranged matters, as to get all
the servants away from the house, on one pretence or another, for
that night, except an old negro woman, famous for her good sleeping
qualities; and she was in the land of forgetfulness long before the hour
appointed for flight.

Many conjectures were made, and one or two rather philanthropic
individuals proposed, as a common duty, an attempt to arrest the
fugitives and bring them back. But there were none to second this, the
general sentiment being, that Captain Allen was fully competent to look
after his own affairs. And that he wood look after them, and promptly
too, on his return, none doubted for an instant. As for Jacob Perkins,
no one professed a willingness to stand in his shoes. The fire-eating
Captain would most probably blow that gentleman's brains out in the
heat of his first excitement. Poor Jacob, not a very courageous man,
was almost beside himself with fear, when his view of the case was
confidently asserted. One advised this course of conduct on the part of
Jacob, and another advised that, while all agreed that it would on no
account be safe for him to fall in the Captain's way immediately on his
return. More than a dozen people, friends of Jacob, were on the alert,
to give him the earliest intelligence of Captain Allen's arrival in
S----, that he might hide himself until the first fearful outbreak of
passion was over.

Well, in about two weeks the Captain returned with his little son.
Expectation was on tip-toe. People's hearts beat in their mouths. There
were some who would not have been surprised at any startling occurrence;
an apparition of the scarred sea-dog, rushing along the streets,
slashing his sword about like a madman, would have seemed to them
nothing extraordinary, under the circumstances.

But expectation stood so long on tip-toe that it grew tired, and came
down a few inches. Nothing occurred to arouse the quiet inhabitants.
Captain Allen was seen to enter his dwelling about two o'clock in the
afternoon, and although not less than twenty sharp pairs of eyes were
turned in that direction, and never abated their vigilance until night
drew down her curtains, no one got even a glimpse of his person.

Jacob Perkins left the town, and took refuge with a neighbor living two
miles away, on the first intimation of the Captain's return.

The next day passed, but no one saw the Captain. On the third day a
member of the inquisitorial committee, who had his house under constant
observation, saw him drive out with his son, and take the road that
went direct to the neighborhood where Jacob Perkins lay concealed in the
house of a friend.

Poor Jacob! None doubted but the hour of retribution for him was at
hand. That he might have timely warning, if possible, a lad was sent
out on a fleet horse, who managed to go by Captain Allen's chaise on the
road. Pale with affright, the unhappy fugitive hid himself under a hay
rick, and remained there for an hour. But the Captain passed through
without pause or inquiry, and in due course of time returned to his
home, having committed no act in the least degree notable.

And so, as if nothing unusual had happened, he was seen, day after day,
going about as of old, with not a sign of change in his deportment that
any one could read. In a week, Jacob Perkins returned to his home, fully
assured that no harm was likely to visit him.

No event touching Captain Allen or his family, worthy of record,
transpired for several years. The only servants in the house were negro
slaves, brought from a distance, and kept as much as possible away from
others of their class in town. Among these, the boy, John, grew up. When
he was ten years old, Jacob Perkins, though in some fear, performed the
sacred duty promised to his mother on that memorable morning, when he
looked upon her pale, statuesque countenance for the last time. A flush
covered the boy's face, as he received the locket, and understood from
whence it came. He stood for some minutes, wholly abstracted, as if
under the spell of some vivid memory.

Tears at length filled his eyes, and glistened on the long fringed
lashes. Then there was a single, half-repressed sob--and then, grasping
the locket tightly in his hand, he turned from Jacob, and, without a
word, walked hastily away.

When the boy was sixteen, Captain Allen took him to sea. From that
period for many years, both of them were absent for at least two-thirds
of the time. At twenty-five, John took command of a large merchant-man,
trading to the South American coast, and his father, now worn down by
hard service, as well as by years, retired to his home in S----, to
close up there, in such repose of mind as he could gain, the last days
of his eventful life. He died soon after by apoplexy.

Prior to this event, his son, the younger Captain Allen, had brought
home from Cuba a Spanish woman, who took the name of his wife. Of her
family, or antecedents, no one in our town knew anything; and it was
questioned by many whether any rite of marriage had ever been celebrated
between them. Of this, however, nothing certain was known. None of the
best people, so called, in S----paid her the hospitable compliment of a
visit; and she showed no disposition to intrude herself upon them.
And so they stood towards each other as strangers; and the Allen house
remained, as from the beginning, to most people a terra incognita.

Neither Captain Allen nor his Spanish consort, to whom no children
were born, as they advanced in years, “grew old gracefully.” Both
had repulsive features, which were strongly marked by passion and
sensuality. During the last two years of his life I was frequently
called to see him, and prescribe for his enemy, the gout, by which he
was sorely afflicted. Mrs. Allen also required treatment. Her nervous
system was disordered; and, on closer observation, I detected signs of a
vagrant imagination, leading her away into states verging upon insanity.
She was fretful and ill-tempered; and rarely spoke to the Captain except
complainingly, or in anger. The visits I made to the Allen house, during
the lifetime of Captain Allen, were among the most unsatisfactory of
all my professional calls. I think, from signs which met my eyes,
that something more than bitter words passed occasionally between the
ill-matched couple.

Late in the day, nearly five years anterior to the time of which I am
now writing, I was summoned in haste to visit Captain Allen. I found him
lying on a bed in the north-west chamber, where he usually slept, in
a state of insensibility. Mrs. Allen received me at the door of the
chamber with a frightened countenance. On inquiry as to the cause of
his condition, she informed me that he had gone to his own room about an
hour before, a little the worse for a bottle of wine; and that she had
heard nothing more from him, until she was startled by a loud, jarring
noise in his chamber. On running up stairs, she found him lying upon the
floor, insensible.

I looked at her steadily, as she gave me this relation, but could not
hold her eyes in mine. She seemed more uneasy than troubled. There was
a contused wound just below the right temple, which covered, with its
livid stain, a portion of the cheek. A cursory examination satisfied me
that, whatever might be the cause of his fall, congestion of the brain
had occurred, and that but few chances for life remained. So I informed
Mrs. Allen. At the words, I could see a shudder run through her frame,
and an expression of something like terror sweep over her face.

“His father died of apoplexy,” said she in a hoarse whisper, looking at
me with a side-long, almost stealthy glance, not full and open-eyed.

“This is something more than apoplexy,” I remarked; still observing her
closely.

“The fall may have injured him,” she suggested.

“The blow on his temple has done the fearful work,” said I.

There was a perceptible start, and another look of fear-almost terror.

“For heaven's sake, doctor,” she said, rousing herself, and speaking
half imperatively, “do something! Don't stand speculating about the
cause; but do something if you have any skill.”

Thus prompted, I set myself to work, in good earnest, with my patient.
The result was in no way flattering to my skill, for he passed to his
account in less than an hour, dying without a sign.

I shall never forget the wild screams which rang awfully through the old
mansion, when it was announced to Mrs. Allen that the Captain was dead.
She flung herself upon his body, tore her hair, and committed other
extravagances. All the slumbering passions of her undisciplined nature
seemed quickened into sudden life, overmastering her in their strong
excitement. So it would have seemed to a less suspicious observer; but I
thought that I could detect the overacting of pretence. I may have
done her wrong; but the impression still remains. At the funeral, this
extravagant role of grief was re-enacted, and the impression was left on
many minds that she was half mad with grief.

Occasionally, after this event, I was summoned to the Allen House to see
its unhappy mistress. I say unhappy, for no human being ever had a face
written all over with the characters you might read in hers, that was
not miserable. I used to study it, sometimes, to see if I could get
anything like a true revelation of her inner life. The sudden lighting
up of her countenance at times, as you observed its rapidly varying
expression, made you almost shudder, for the gleam which shot across it
looked like a reflection from hell. I know no other word to express what
I mean. Remorse, at times, I could plainly read.

One thing I soon noticed; the room in which Captain Allen died--the
north-west chamber before mentioned--remained shut up; and an old
servant told me, years afterwards, that Mrs. Allen had never been inside
of it since the fatal day on which I attended him in his last moments.

At the time when this story opens the old lady was verging on to sixty.
The five years which had passed since she was left alone had bent her
form considerably, and the diseased state of mind which I noticed when
first called in to visit the family as a physician, was now but a
little way removed from insanity. She was haunted by many strange
hallucinations; and the old servant above alluded to, informed me, that
she was required to sleep in the room with her mistress, as she never
would be alone after dark. Often, through the night, she would start up
in terror, her diseased imagination building up terrible phantoms in the
land of dreams, alarming the house with her cries.

I rarely visited her that I did not see new evidences of waning reason.
In the beginning I was fearful that she might do some violence to
herself or her servants, but her insanity began to assume a less
excitable form; and at last she sank into a condition of torpor, both of
mind and body, from which I saw little prospect of her ever rising.

“It is well,” I said to myself. “Life had better wane slowly away than
to go out in lurid gleams like the flashes of a dying volcano.”



CHAPTER V.



And now, reader, after this long digression, you can understand my
surprise at seeing broad gleams of light reaching out into the darkness
from the windows of that north-west chamber, as I breasted the storm
on my way to visit the sick child of Mary Jones. No wonder that I stood
still and looked up at those windows, though the rain beat into my face,
half blinding me. The shutters were thrown open, and the curtains drawn
partly aside. I plainly saw shadows on the ceiling and walls as of
persons moving about the room. Did my eyes deceive me? Was not that the
figure of a young girl that stood for a moment at the window trying to
pierce with her eyes the thick veil of night? I was still in doubt when
the figure turned away, and only gave me a shadow on the wall.

I lingered in front of the old house for some minutes, but gaining no
intelligence of what was passing within, I kept on my way to the
humbler dwelling of Mary Jones. I found her child quite ill, and needing
attention. After doing what, in my judgment, the case required, I turned
my steps towards the house of Mrs. Wallingford to look into the case
of her son Henry, who, according to her account, was in a very unhappy
condition.

I went a little out of my way so as to go past the Allen House again.
As I approached, my eyes were directed to the chamber windows at the
north-west corner, and while yet some distance away, as the old elms
tossed their great limbs about in struggling with the storm, I saw
glancing out between them the same cheery light that met my astonished
gaze a little while before. As then, I saw shadows moving on the walls,
and once the same slender, graceful figure--evidently that of a young
girl--came to the window and tried to look out into the deep darkness.

As there was nothing to be gained by standing there in the drenching
storm, I moved onward, taking the way to Mrs. Wallingford's dwelling. I
had scarcely touched the knocker when the door was opened, and by Mrs.
Wallingford herself.

“Oh, Doctor, I'm so glad you've come!” she said in a low, troubled
voice.

I stepped in out of the rain, gave her my dripping umbrella, and laid
off my overcoat.

“How is Henry now?” I asked.

She put her finger to her lip, and said, in a whisper,

“Just the same, Doctor--just the same. Listen! Don't you hear him
walking the floor overhead? I've tried to get him to take a cup of tea,
but he won't touch any thing. All I can get out of him is--'Mother--dear
mother--leave me to myself. I shall come right again. Only leave me to
myself now.' But, how can I let him go on in this way? Oh, Doctor, I
am almost beside myself! What can it all mean? Something dreadful has
happened.”

I sat listening and reflecting for something like ten minutes. Steadily,
from one side the room overhead to the other, went the noise of feet;
now slowly, now with a quicker motion: and now with a sudden tramp, that
sent the listener's blood with a start along its courses.

“Won't you see him, doctor?”

I did not answer at once, for I was in the dark as to what was best to
be done. If I had known the origin of his trouble, I could have acted
understandingly. As it was, any intrusion upon the young man might do
harm rather than good.

“He has asked to be let alone,” I replied, “and it may be best to let
him alone. He says that he will come out right. Give him a little more
time. Wait, at least, until to-morrow. Then, if there is no change, I
will see him.”

Still the mother urged. At last I said--

“Go to your son. Suggest to him a visit from me, and mark the effect.”

I listened as she went up stairs. On entering his room, I noticed that
he ceased walking. Soon came to my ears the murmur of voices, which rose
to a sudden loudness on his part, and I distinctly heard the words:

“Mother! you will drive me mad! If you talk of that, I will go from the
house. I _must_ be left alone!”

Then all was silent. Soon Mrs. Wallingford came down. She looked even
more distressed than when she left the room.

“I'm afraid it might do harm,” she said doubtingly.

“So am I. It will, I am sure, be best to let him have his way for the
present. Something has disturbed him fearfully; but he is struggling
hard for the mastery over himself, and you may be sure, madam, that he
will gain it. Your son is a young man of no light stamp of character;
and he will come out of this ordeal, as gold from the crucible.”

“You think so, Doctor?”

She looked at me with a hopeful light in her troubled countenance.

“I do, verily. So let your heart dwell in peace.”

I was anxious to get back to my good Constance, and so, after a few more
encouraging words for Mrs. Wallingford, I tried the storm again, and
went through its shivering gusts, to my own home. There had been
no calls in my absence, and so the prospect looked fair for a quiet
evening--just what I wanted; for the strange condition of Henry
Wallingford, and the singular circumstance connected with the old Allen
House, were things to be conned over with that second self, towards whom
all thought turned and all interest converged as to a centre.

After exchanging wet outer garments and boots, for dressing gown and
slippers; and darkness and storm for a pleasant fireside; my thoughts
turned to the north-west chamber of the Allen House, and I said--

“I have seen something to-night that puzzled me.”

“What is that?” inquired my wife, turning her mild eyes upon me.

“You know the room in which old Captain Allen died?”

“Yes.”

“The chamber on the north-west corner, which, as far as we know, has
been shut up ever since?”

“Yes, I remember your suspicion as to foul play on the part of Mrs.
Allen, who, it is believed, has never visited the apartment since the
Captain's death.”

“Well, you will be surprised to hear that the shutters are unclosed, and
lights burning in that chamber.”

“Now!”

“Yes--or at least half an hour ago.”

“That is remarkable.”

My wife looked puzzled.

“And more remarkable still--I saw shadows moving on the walls, as of two
or three persons in the room.”

“Something unusual has happened,” said my wife.

“Perhaps Mrs. Allen is dead.”

This thought had not occurred to me. I turned it over for a few moments,
and then remarked,

“Hardly probable--for, in that case, I would have been summoned. No; it
strikes me that some strangers are in the house; for I am certain that
I saw a young girl come to the window and press her face close up to one
of the panes, as if trying to penetrate the darkness.

“Singular!” said my wife, as if speaking to herself. “Now, that
explains, in part, something that I couldn't just make out yesterday. I
was late in getting home from Aunt Elder's you know. Well, as I came in
view of that old house, I thought I saw a girl standing by the gate.
An appearance so unusual, caused me to strain my eyes to make out the
figure, but the twilight had fallen too deeply. While I still looked,
the form disappeared; but, through an opening in the shrubbery, I caught
another glimpse of it, as it vanished in the portico. I was going to
speak of the incident, but other matters pushed it, till now, from my
thoughts when you were at home.”

“Then my eyes did not deceive me,” said I; “your story corroborates
mine. There is a young lady in the Allen House. But who is she? That is
the question.”

As we could not get beyond this question, we left the riddle for time
to solve, and turned next to the singular state of mind into which young
Henry Wallingford had fallen.

“Well,” said my wife, speaking with some emphasis, after I had told her
of the case, “I never imagined that he cared so much for the girl!”

“What girl?” I inquired.

“Why, Delia Floyd--the silly fool! if I must speak so strongly.”

“Then he is really in love with Squire Floyd's daughter?”

“It looks like it, if he's taking on as his mother says,” answered my
wife, with considerable feeling. “And Delia will rue the day she turned
from as true a man as Henry Wallingford.”

“Bless me, Constance! you've got deeper into this matter, than either
his mother or me. Who has been initiating you into the love secrets of
S----?”

“This affair,” returned my wife, “has not passed into town talk, and
will, I trust, be kept sacred by those who know the facts. I learned
them from Mrs. Dean, the sister of Mrs. Floyd. The case stands thus:
Henry is peculiar, shy, reserved, and rather silent. He goes but little
into company, and has not the taking way with girls that renders
some young men so popular. But his qualities are all of the sterling
kind--such as wear well, and grow brighter with usage. For more than a
year past, he has shown a decided preference for Delia Floyd, and she
has encouraged his attentions. Indeed, so far as I can learn from Mrs.
Dean, the heart of her niece was deeply interested. But a lover of
higher pretensions came, dazzling her mind with a more brilliant
future.”

“Who?” I inquired.

“That dashing young fellow from New York, Judge Bigelow's nephew.”

“Not Ralph Dewey?”

“Yes.”

“Foolish girl, to throw away a man for such an effigy! It will be a
dark day that sees her wedded to him. But I will not believe in the
possibility of such an event.”

“Well, to go on with my story,” resumed Constance. “Last evening,
seeing, I suppose, that a dangerous rival was intruding, Henry made suit
for the hand of Delia, and was rejected.”

“I understand the case better now,” said I, speaking from a professional
point of view.

“Poor young man! I did not suppose it was in him to love any woman after
that fashion,” remarked Constance.

“Your men of reserved exterior have often great depths of feeling,” I
remarked. “Usually women are not drawn towards them; because they are
attracted most readily by what meets the eye. If they would look deeper,
they would commit fewer mistakes, like that which Delia Floyd has just
committed.”



CHAPTER VI.



Delia Floyd was a girl of more than ordinary attractions, and it is
not surprising that young Wallingford was drawn, fascinated, within the
charmed circle of her influence. She was, by no means, the weak, vain,
beautiful young woman, that the brief allusion I have made to her might
naturally lead the reader to infer. I had possessed good opportunities
for observing her, for our families were intimate, and she was
frequently at our house. Her father had given her a good education--not
showy; but of the solid kind. She was fond of books, and better read, I
think, in the literature of the day, than any other young lady in S----.
Her conversational powers were of a high order. Good sense, I had always
given her credit for possessing; and I believed her capable of reading
character correctly. She was the last one I should have regarded as
being in danger of losing a heart to Ralph Dewey.

In person, Delia was rather below than above the middle stature. Her
hair was of a dark brown, and so were her eyes--the latter large and
liquid. Her complexion was fresh, almost ruddy, and her countenance
animated, and quick to register every play of feeling.

In manner, she was exceedingly agreeable, and had the happy art of
putting even strangers at ease. It was no matter of wonder to me, as
I said before, that Henry Wallingford should fall in love with Delia
Floyd. But I did wonder, most profoundly, when I became fully assured,
that she had, for a mere flash man, such as Ralph Dewey seemed to me,
turned herself away from Henry Wallingford.

But women are enigmas to most of us--I don't include you, dear
Constance!--and every now and then puzzle us by acts so strangely out
of keeping with all that we had predicated of them, as to leave
no explanation within our reach, save that of evil fascination, or
temporary loss of reason. We see their feet often turning aside
into ways that we know lead to wretchedness, and onward they move
persistently, heeding neither the voice of love, warning, nor reproach.
They hope all things, believe all things, trust all things, and make
shipwreck on the breakers that all eyes but their own see leaping and
foaming in their course. Yes, woman is truly an enigma!

Squire Floyd was a plain, upright man, in moderately good circumstances.
He owned a water power on the stream that ran near our town, and had
built himself a cotton mill, which was yielding him a good annual
income. But he was far from being rich, and had the good sense not to
assume a style of living beyond his means.

Henry Wallingford was the son of an old friend of Squire Floyd's.
The elder Mr. Wallingford was not a man of the Squire's caution and
prudence. He was always making mistakes in matters of business, and
never succeeded well in any thing. He died when his son was about
eighteen years of age. Henry was at that time studying law with Judge
Bigelow. As, in the settlement of his father's estate, it was found to
be wholly insolvent, Henry, unwilling to be dependent on his mother, who
had a small income in her own right, gave notice to the Judge that he
was about to leave his office. Now, the Judge was a man of penetration,
and had already discovered in the quiet, reserved young man, just the
qualities needed to give success in the practice of law. He
looked calmly at his student for some moments after receiving this
announcement, conning over his face, which by no means gave indications
of a happy state of mind.

“You think you can find a better preceptor?” said the Judge, at last, in
his calm way.

“No, sir! no!” answered Henry, quickly. “Not in all this town, nor out
of it, either. It is not that, Judge Bigelow.”

“Then you don't fancy the law?”

“On the contrary, there is no other calling in life that presents to my
mind any thing attractive,” replied Henry, in a tone of despondency that
did not escape the Judge.

“Well, if that is the case, why not keep on? You are getting along
bravely.”

“I must support myself, sir--must do something besides sitting here and
reading law books.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” The Judge spoke to himself, as if light had broken
into his mind. “Well, Henry,” he added, looking at the young man, “what
do you propose doing?”

“I have hands and health,” was the reply.

“Something more than hands and health are required in this world. What
can you do?”

“I can work on a farm, if nothing better offers. Or, may be, I can get a
place in some store.”

“There's good stuff in the lad,” said Judge Bigelow to himself. Then
speaking aloud--

“I'll think this matter over for you, Henry. Let it rest for a day or
two. The law is your proper calling, and you must not give it up, if you
can be sustained in it.”

On that very day, Judge Bigelow saw Squire Floyd, and talked the matter
over with him. They had but one sentiment in the matter, and that was
favorable to Henry's remaining where he was.

“Can he be of any service to you, in your office, Judge--such as copying
deeds and papers, hunting up cases, and the like?” asked the Squire.

“Yes, he can be of service to me in that way; and is of service now.”

“You can afford to pay him something?” suggested Squire Floyd.

“It is usual,” replied the Judge, “to get this kind of service in return
for instruction and office privileges.”

“I know; but this case is peculiar. The death of Henry's father has left
him without a support, and he is too independent to burden his mother.
Unless he can earn something, therefore, he must abandon the law.”

“I understand that, Squire, and have already decided to compensate him,”
 said the Judge. “But what I can offer will not be enough.”

“How much can you offer?”

“Not over a hundred dollars for the first year.”

“Call it two hundred, Judge,” was the ready answer.

The two men looked for a moment into each other's faces.

“His father and I were friends from boyhood,” said Squire Floyd. “He was
a warm-hearted man; but always making mistakes. He would have ruined
me two or three times over, if I had been weak enough to enter into
his plans, or to yield to his importunities in the way of risks and
securities. It often went hard for me to refuse him; but duty to those
dependent on me was stronger than friendship. But I can spare a hundred
dollars for his son, and will do it cheerfully. Only, I must not be
known in the matter; for it would lay on Henry's mind a weight of
obligation, not pleasant for one of his sensitive disposition to bear.”

“I see, Squire,” answered Judge Bigelow to this; “but then it won't
place me in the right position. I shall receive credit for your
benevolence.”

“Don't trouble yourself on that score,” answered the Squire, laughing.
“It may be that I shall want some law business done--though heaven
forbid! In that case, I will call on you, and you can let Henry do the
work. Thus the equilibrium of benefits will be restored. Let the salary
be two hundred.”

And so this matter being settled, Henry Wallingford remained in the
office of Judge Bigelow. The fact of being salaried by the Judge,
stimulated him to new efforts, and made him forward to relieve his kind
preceptor of all duties within the range of his ability. There
came, during the next year, an unusually large amount of office
practice--preparing deeds, making searches, and drawing up papers of
various kinds. In doing this work, Henry was rapid and reliable. So,
when Squire Floyd tendered his proportion of the young man's salary to
his neighbor, the Judge declined receiving it. The Squire urged; but the
Judge said--

“No; Henry has earned his salary, and I must pay it, in simple justice.
I did not think there was so much in him. Business has increased, and
without so valuable an assistant, I could not get along.”

So the way had opened before Henry Wallingford, and he was on the road
to a successful manhood. At the time of his introduction to the reader,
he was in his twenty-third year. On attaining his majority, he had
become so indispensable to Judge Bigelow, who had the largest practice
in the county, that no course was left for him but to offer the young
man a share in his business. It was accepted; and the name of Henry
Wallingford was thenceforth displayed in gilt letters, in the office
window of his preceptor.

From that time, his mind never rested with anything like care or anxiety
on the future. His daily life consisted in an almost absorbed devotion
to his professional duties, which grew steadily on his hands. His
affection was in them, and so the balance of his mind was fully
sustained. Ah, if we could all thus rest, without anxiety, on the
right performance of our allotted work! If we would be content to
wait patiently for that success which comes as the orderly result of
well-doing in our business, trades, or professions, what a different
adjustment would there be in our social condition and relations! There
would not be all around us so many eager, care-worn faces--so many
heads bowed with anxious thought--so many shoulders bent with burdens,
destined, sooner or later, to prove too great for the strength which now
sustains them. But how few, like Henry Wallingford, enter with anything
like pleasure into their work! It is, in most cases, held as drudgery,
and regarded only as the means to cherished ends in life wholly removed
from the calling itself. Impatience comes as a natural result. The hand
reaches forth to pluck the growing fruit ere it is half ripened. No
wonder that its taste is bitter to so many thousands. No wonder that
true success comes to so small a number--that to so many life proves but
a miserable failure.



CHAPTER VII.



The morning which broke after that night of storm was serene and
beautiful. The air had a crystal clearness, and as you looked away up
into the cloudless azure, it seemed as if the eye could penetrate to an
immeasurable distance. The act of breathing was a luxury. You drew in
draught after draught of the rich air, feeling, with every inhalation,
that a new vitality was absorbed through the lungs, giving to the heart
a nobler beat, and to the brain a fresh activity. With what a different
feeling did I take up my round of duties for the day! Yesterday I went
creeping forth like a reluctant school boy; to-day, with an uplifted
countenance and a willing step.

Having a few near calls to make, I did not order my horse, as both
health and inclination were better served by walking. Soon after
breakfast I started out, and was going in the direction of Judge
Bigelow's office, when, hearing a step behind me that had in it
a familiar sound, I turned to find myself face to face with Henry
Wallingford! He could hardly have failed to see the look of surprise in
my face.

“Good morning, Henry,” I said, giving him my hand, and trying to
speak with that cheerful interest in the young man which I had always
endeavored to show.

He smiled in his usual quiet way as he took my hand and said in return,

“Good-morning, Doctor.”

“You were not out, I believe, yesterday,” I remarked, as we moved on
together.

“I didn't feel very well,” he answered, in a voice pitched to a lower
key than usual; “and, the day being a stormy one, I shut myself up at
home.”

“Ah,” said I, in a cheerful way, “you lawyers have the advantage of us
knights of the pill box and lancet. Rain or shine, sick or well, we must
travel round our parish.”

“All have their share of the good as well as the evil things of life,”
 he replied, a little soberly. “Doctors and lawyers included.”

I did not observe any marked change in the young man, except that he
was paler, and had a different look out of his eyes from any that I had
hitherto noticed; a more matured look, which not only indicated deeper
feeling, but gave signs of will and endurance. I carried that new
expression away with me as we parted at the door of his office, and
studied it as a new revelation of the man. It was very certain that
profounder depths had been opened in his nature--opened to his own
consciousness--than had ever seen the light before. That he was more
a man than he had ever been, and more worthy to be mated with a true
woman. Up to this time I had thought of him more as a boy than as a man,
for the years had glided by so quietly that bore him onward with the
rest, that he had not arisen in my thought to the full mental stature
which the word manhood includes.

“Ah,” said I, as I walked on, “what a mistake in Delia Floyd! She is
just as capable of high development as a woman as he is as a man.
How admirably would they have mated. In him, self-reliance, reason,
judgment, and deep feeling would have found in her all the qualities
they seek--taste, perception, tenderness and love. They would have grown
upwards into higher ideas of life, not downwards into sensualism and
mere worldliness, like the many. Alas! This mistake on her part may
ruin them both; for a man of deep, reserved feelings, who suffers a
disappointment in love, is often warped in his appreciation of the sex,
and grows one-sided in his character as he advances through the cycles
of life.”

I had parted from Henry only a few minutes when I met his rival, Ralph
Dewey. Let me describe him. In person he was taller than Wallingford,
and had the easy, confident manner of one who had seen the world, as we
say. His face was called handsome; but it was not a manly face--manly in
that best sense which includes character and thought. The chin and mouth
were feeble, and the forehead narrow, throwing the small orbs close
together. But he had a fresh complexion, dark, sprightly eyes, and
a winning smile. His voice was not very good, having in it a kind of
unpleasant rattle; but he managed it rather skillfully in conversation,
and you soon, ceased to notice the peculiarity.

Ralph lived in New York, where he had recently been advanced to the
position of fourth partner in a dry goods jobbing house, with a small
percentage on the net profits. Judging from the air with which he spoke
of his firm's operations, and his relation to the business, you might
have inferred that he was senior instead of junior partner, and that the
whole weight of the concern rested on his shoulders.

Judge Bigelow, a solid man, and from professional habit skilled in
reading character, was, singularly enough, quite carried away with his
smart nephew, and really believed his report of himself. Prospectively,
he saw him a merchant prince, surrounded by palatial splendors.

Our acquaintance was as yet but slight, so we only nodded in passing.
As we were in the neighborhood of Squire Floyd's pleasant cottage, I was
naturally curious, under the circumstances, to see whether the young
man was going to make a visit at so early an hour; and I managed to keep
long enough in sight to have this matter determined. Ralph called at the
Squire's, and I saw him admitted. So I shook my head disapprovingly, and
kept on my way.

Not until late in the afternoon did I find occasion to go into that part
of the town where the old Allen house was located, though the image
of its gleaming north-west windows was frequently in my thought. The
surprise occasioned by that incident was in no way lessened on seeing a
carriage drive in through the gateway, and two ladies alight therefrom
and enter the house. Both were in mourning. I did not see their faces;
but, judging from the dress and figure of each, it was evident that one
was past the meridian of life, and the other young. Still more to my
surprise, the carriage was not built after our New England fashion, but
looked heavy, and of a somewhat ancient date. It was large and high,
with a single seat for the driver perched away up in the air, and a
footman's stand and hangings behind. There was, moreover, a footman in
attendance, who sprung to his place after the ladies had alighted, and
rode off to the stables.

“Am I dreaming?” said I to myself, as I kept on my way, after
witnessing this new incident in the series of strange events that were
half-bewildering me. But it was in vain that I rubbed my eyes; I could
not wake up to a different reality.

It was late when I got home from my round of calls, and found tea
awaiting my arrival.

“Any one been here?” I asked--my usual question.

“No one.' The answer pleased me for I had many things on my mind, and
I wished to have a good long evening with my wife. Baby Mary and Louis
were asleep: but we had the sweet, gentle face of Agnes, our first born,
to brighten the meal-time. After she was in dream-land, guarded by
the loving angels who watch with children in sleep, and Constance
was through with her household cares for the evening, I came into the
sitting-room from my office, and taking the large rocking-chair, leaned
my head back, mind and body enjoying a sense of rest and comfort.

“You are not the only one,” said my wife, looking up from the basket of
work through which she had been searching for some article, “who noticed
lights in the Allen House last evening.”

“Who else saw them?” I asked.

“Mrs. Dean says she heard two or three people say that the house was lit
up all over--a perfect illumination.”

“Stories lose nothing in being re-told. The illumination was confined to
the room in which Captain Allen died. I am witness to that. But I have
something more for your ears. This afternoon, as I rode past, I saw an
old-fashioned English coach, with a liveried driver and footman, turn
into the gate. From this two ladies alighted and went into the house;
when the coach was driven to the stables. Now, what do you think of
that?”

“We are to have a romance enacted in our very midst, it would seem,”
 replied my wife, in her unimpassioned way. “Other eyes have seen this
also, and the strange fact is buzzing through the town. I was only
waiting until we were alone to tell you that these two ladies whom you
saw, arrived at the Allen House in their carriage near about daylight,
on the day before yesterday. But no one knows who they are, or from
whence they came. It is said that they made themselves as completely at
home as if they were in their own house; selected the north-west chamber
as their sleeping apartment; and ordered the old servants about with an
air of authority that subdued them to obedience.”

“But what of Mrs. Allen?” I asked, in astonishment at all this.

“The stories about her reception of the strangers do not agree.
According to one, the old lady was all resistance and indignation at
this intrusion; according to another, she gave way, passively, as if she
were no longer sole mistress of the house.”

Constance ceased speaking, for there came the usual interruption to our
evening _tete-a-tete_--the ringing of my office bell.

“You are wanted up at the Allen House, Doctor, said my boy, coming in
from the office a few moments afterwards.

“Who is sick?” I asked.

“The old lady.”

“Any thing serious?”

“I don't know, sir. But I should think there was from the way old Aunty
looked. She says, come up as quickly as you can.”

“Is she in the office?”

“No, sir. She just said that, and then went out in a hurry.”

“The plot thickens,” said I, looking at Constance.

“Poor old lady!” There was a shade of pity in her tones.

“You have not seen her for many years?”

“No.”

“Poor old witch of Endor! were better said.”

“Oh!” answered my wife, smiling, “you know that the painter's idea of
this celebrated individual has been reversed by some, who affirm that
she was young and handsome instead of old and ugly like modern witches.”

“I don't know how that may be, but if you could see Mrs. Allen, you
would say that 'hag' were a better term for her than woman. If the good
grow beautiful as they grow old, the loving spirit shining like a lamp
through the wasted and failing walls of flesh, so do the evil grow ugly
and repulsive. Ah, Constance, the lesson is for all of us. If we live
true lives, our countenances will grow radiant from within, as we
advance in years; if selfish, worldly, discontented lives, they will
grow cold, hard, and repulsive.”

I drew on my boots and coat, and started on my visit to the Allen House.
The night was in perfect contrast with the previous one. There was no
moon, but every star shone with its highest brilliancy, while the galaxy
threw its white scarf gracefully across the sky, veiling millions of
suns in their own excessive brightness. I paused several times in my
walk, as broader expanses opened between the great elms that gave to
our town a sylvan beauty, and repeated, with a rapt feeling of awe and
admiration, the opening stanza of a familiar hymn:--

“The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And
spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim.”

How the beauty and grandeur of nature move the heart, as if it
recognized something of its own in every changing aspect. The sun and
moon and stars--the grand old mountains lifting themselves upwards
into serene heights--the limitless expanse of ocean, girdling the whole
earth--rivers, valleys, and plains--trees, flowers, the infinite forms
of life--to all the soul gives some response, as if they were akin.

I half forgot my interest in old Mrs. Allen, as my heart beat responsive
to the pulsings of nature, and my thoughts flew upwards and away as on
the wings of eagles. But my faithful feet had borne me steadily onwards,
and I was at the gate opening to the grounds of the Allen House, before
I was conscious of having passed over half the distance that lay
between that and my home. I looked up, and saw a light in the north-west
chamber, but the curtains were down.

On entering the house, I was shown by the servant who admitted me, into
the small office or reception room opening from the hall. I had scarcely
seated myself, when a tall woman, dressed in black, came in, and said,
with a graceful, but rather stately manner--

“The Doctor, I believe?”

How familiar the voice sounded! And yet I did not recognise it as
the voice of any one whom I had known, but rather as a voice heard in
dreams. Nor was the calm, dignified countenance on which my eyes rested,
strange in every lineament. The lady was, to all appearance, somewhere
in the neighborhood of sixty, and, for an elderly lady, handsome. I
thought of my remark to Constance about the beauty and deformity of age,
and said to myself, “Here is one who has not lived in vain.”

I arose as she spoke, and answered in the affirmative.

“You have come too late,” she said, with a touch of feeling in her
voice.

“Not dead?” I ejaculated.

“Yes, dead. Will you walk up stairs and see her?”

I followed in silence, ascending to the chamber which had been occupied
by Mrs. Allen since the old Captain's death. It was true as she had
said; a ghastly corpse was before me. I use the word ghastly, for it
fully expresses the ugliness of that lifeless face, withered, marred,
almost shorn of every true aspect of humanity. I laid my hand upon
her--the skin was cold. I felt for her pulse, but there was no sign of
motion in the arteries.

“It is over,” I said, lifting myself from my brief examination, “and
may God have mercy upon her soul!” The last part of the sentence was
involuntary.

“Amen!”

I felt that this response was no idle ejaculation.

“How was she affected?” I asked. “Has she been sick for any time? Or did
life go out suddenly?”

“It went out suddenly,” replied the lady--“as suddenly as a lamp in the
wind.”

“Was she excited from any cause?”

“She has been in an excited state ever since our arrival, although every
thing that lay in our power has been done to quiet her mind and give it
confidence and repose.”

She spoke calmly, as one, who held a controlling position there, and of
right. I looked into her serene face, almost classic in its outlines,
with an expression of blended inquiry and surprise, that it was evident
did not escape her observation, although she offered no explanation in
regard to herself.

I turned again to the corpse, and examined it with some care. There was
nothing in its appearance that gave me any clue to the cause which had
produced this sudden extinguishment of life.

“In what way was she excited?” I asked, looking at the stranger as I
stepped back from the couch on which the dead body was lying.

She returned my steady gaze, without answering, for some moments.
Either my tone or manner affected her unpleasantly, for I saw her brows
contract slightly, her full lips close upon themselves, and her eyes
acquire an intenser look.

“You have been her physician, I believe?” There was no sign of feeling
in the steady voice which made the inquiry.

“Yes.”

“_I_ need not, in that case, describe to you her unhappy state of
mind. _I_ need not tell you that an evil will had the mastery over her
understanding, and that, in the fierce struggle of evil passion with
evil passion, mind and body had lost their right adjustment.”

“I know all this,” said I. “Still, madam, in view of my professional
duty, I must repeat my question, and urge upon you the propriety of an
undisguised answer. In what way was she excited? and what was the cause
leading to an excitement which has ended thus fatally?”

“I am not in the habit of putting on disguises,” she answered, with a
quiet dignity that really looked beautiful.

“I pray you, madam, not to misunderstand me,” said I. “As a physician,
I must report the cause of all deaths in the range of my practice. If I
were not to do so in this case, a permit for burial would not be issued
until a regular inquest was held by the Coroner.”

“Ah, I see,” she replied, yet with an air of indecision. “You are
perfectly right, Doctor, and we must answer to your satisfaction. But
let us retire from this chamber.”

She led the way down stairs. As we passed the memorable north-west room,
she pushed the door open, and said,

“Blanche, dear, I wish to see you. Come down to the parlor.”

I heard faintly the answer, in a very musical voice. We had scarcely
entered the parlor, when the lady said--

“My daughter, Doctor.”

A vision of beauty and innocence met my gaze. A young girl, not over
seventeen, tall like her mother, very fair, with a face just subdued
into something of womanly seriousness, stood in the door, as I turned at
mention of her presence.

A single lamp gave its feeble light to the room, only half subduing the
shadows that went creeping into corners and recesses. Something of a
weird aspect was on every thing; and I could not but gaze at the
two strangers in that strange place to them, under such peculiar
circumstances, and wonder to see them so calm, dignified, and
self-possessed. We sat down by the table on which the lamp was standing,
the elder of the two opposite, and the younger a little turned away, so
that her features were nearly concealed.

“Blanche,” said the former, “the Doctor wishes to know the particular
incidents connected with the death of Mrs. Allen.”

I thought there was an uneasy movement on the part of the girl. She did
not reply. There was a pause.

“The facts are simply these, Doctor,” and the mother looked me steadily
in the face, which stood out clear, as the lamp shone full on every
feature. “From the moment of our arrival, Mrs. Allen has seemed like one
possessed of an evil Spirit. How she conducted herself before, is
known to me only as reported by the servants. From the little they have
communicated, I infer that for some time past she has not been ii her
right mind. How is it? You must know as to her sanity or insanity.”

“She has not, in my opinion, been a truly sane woman for years,” was my
answer.

“As I just said,” she continued, “she has seemed like one possessed of
an evil spirit. In no way could we soften or conciliate her. Her conduct
resembled more nearly that of some fierce wild beast whose den was
invaded, than that of a human being. She would hold no friendly
intercourse with us, and if we met at any time, or in any part of the
house, she would fix her keen black eyes upon us, with an expression
that sent a shudder to the heart. My daughter scarcely dared venture
from her room. She so dreaded to meet her. Twice, as she flew past me,
in her restless wanderings over the house, muttering to herself, I heard
her say, as she struck her clenched hand in the air, 'I can do it again,
and I will!'”

A cold chill crept over me, for I remembered the death of Captain Allen;
and this was like a confirmation of what I had feared as to foul play.

“There is no trusting one wholly or even partially insane. So we were
always on our guard. Not once, but many times during the few nights
we have spent here, have we heard the door of our chamber tried after
midnight. It was plain to us that it was not safe to live in this way,
and so we had come to the reluctant conclusion that personal restraint
must be secured. The question as to how this could best be done we had
not yet decided, when death unraveled the difficulty.”

The speaker ceased at this part of her narrative, and lifting from
the table a small bell, rung it. A maid entered. I had never seen her
before.

“Tell Jackson that I want him.”

The girl curtsied respectfully, and withdrew.

Nothing more was said, until a man, whom I recognized at a glance to be
a regularly trained English servant, presented himself.

“Jackson,” said the lady, “I wish you to relate exactly, what occurred
just previously to, and at the time of Mrs. Allen's death.”

The man looked bewildered for a moment or two; but soon recovering
himself, answered without hesitation.

“Hit 'appened just in this way, ma'am. I was a comin' hup stairs, when
I met the hold lady a tearin' down like a mad cat. She looked kind o'
awful. I never saw anybody out of an 'ospital look that way in all my
life before. She 'eld an hiron poker in 'er 'and. As my young lady--”
 and he looked towards Blanche--“was in the 'all, I didn't think it safe
for 'er if I let the hold woman go down. So I just stood in 'er way, and
put my harms across the stairs so”--stretching his arms out. “My! but
'ow she did fire up! She stood almost a minute, and then sprung on me as
if she was a tiger. But I was the strongest, and 'olding 'er in my harms
like as I would a mad kitten, I carried 'er hup to 'er room, put 'er
hin, and shut the door. My young lady saw it hall, for she followed
right hup after me.”

He looked towards Blanche.

“Just as it occurred,” she said, in a low, sweet fluttering voice.

“I heard the strife,” said her mother, “and ran up to see what was the
matter. I reached the door of Mrs. Allen's room just as Jackson thrust
her in. He did not use any more violence than was needed in a case of
such sudden emergency. He is strong, and held her so tightly that she
could not even struggle. One wild, fierce scream rent the air, as
he shut the door, and then all was silent as death. I went in to her
instantly. She was on the floor in a convulsion. You were sent for
immediately; but it was too late for human intervention. Jackson, you
can go.”

The man bowed with an air of deferential respect, and retired.

“Now, sir,” she added, turning to me, “you have the facts as they
occurred. I have no wish to give them publicity, for they are family
matters, and these are always in their degree, sacred. If, however, you
think it your duty as a physician, to make the matter one of official
investigation, I can have nothing to say.”

I thought for some minutes before answering. The story, as related by
the servant, I fully credited.

“Let me see the body again,” said I, coming at length to a conclusion.

We went up stairs, all three together; but only two of us entered the
chamber of death. As we neared the door, Blanche caught at her mother's
arm, and I heard her say, in a whisper:

“Dear mamma! spare me that sight again. It is too horrible!”

“The presence of your daughter is not needed,” said I, interposing. “Let
her retire to her own room.”

“Thank you!” There was a grateful expression in her voice, as she
uttered these brief words, and then went back, while we passed in to the
apartment where the dead woman was still lying.

As I looked upon her face again, it seemed even more ghastly than
before; and I could hardly repress a shudder. My companion held a
lamp; while I made as careful an examination as was possible under the
circumstances. I did not expect to find any marks of violence, though
I searched for them about her head, neck, and chest. But, under the
circumstances, I felt it to be my duty to know, from actual search, that
no such signs existed. In every aspect presented by the corpse, there
was a corroboration of the story related by the serving man. It was
plain, that in a fit of half insane, uncontrollable passion, the nice
adjustment of physical forces had been lost.

“I am fully satisfied, madam,” said I, at length, turning from my
unpleasant task.

She let her calm, earnest eyes dwell on mine for a few moments, and then
answered, with a softened tone, in which there was just a perceptible
thrill of feeling--

“If I were a believer in omens, I should take this sad incident,
following so quickly on our removal to a new country and a new home, as
foreshadowing evil to me or mine. But I do not so read external events.”

“Between a life like hers, and a life like yours, madam, there can be
no possible nearness; nor any relation between your spiritual affinities
and hers. The antipodes are not farther apart,” said I, in return;
“therefore, nothing that has befallen her can be ominous as to you.”

“I trust not,” she gravely answered, as we left the room together.

To my inquiry if I could serve her in any way, in the present matter,
she simply requested me to send a respectable undertaker, who would
perform what was fitting in the last rites due to the dead.

I promised, and retired.



CHAPTER VIII.



The appearance, manner, and bearing of the two strangers impressed
me strongly. The elder had evidently moved in refined and cultivated
society all her life. There was about her the air of “a lady, born and
bred”--dignified, calm, easy, and courteous. The daughter was a lovely
blossom on this stately stem--delicate, beautiful, sweet with the odors
of innocence. I see her now as I saw her on that first night of our
meeting--to my eyes a new born vision of loveliness.

I found Constance awaiting, with curious interest, my return. I was
going right into the heart of this new wonder, and could not fail
to bring back some revelation that would satisfy, in a measure, the
excitement of mind produced by so singular an intrusion of strangers
upon our quiet town. I answered her first look of inquiry by the
words:--

“It is over. Another book of life is sealed up here to be opened in
eternity.”

“Dead! Not dead?”

“Yes, Constance, Mrs. Allen is dead. Her spirit had passed away before
my arrival.”

“How did she die?--from what cause?”

“From what I can learn she died in a fit of passion.” I then related all
that I had seen and heard.

“But who can they be?” This query came as a natural sequence. “What
right have they in the Allen House?”

“Whoever they may be,” I replied, “they act, or, at least, the elder
of the two ladies acts as if her right there was not even open to a
question. And, perhaps, it is not.”

“But what can they be to the Allens?”

“I will give you,” said I, “the benefit of my guessing on the subject.
You recollect the story told about Captain Allen's mother; how she went
off a great many years ago with a stranger--an Englishman.”

Constance remembered all about this family history, for it was the
romance of our town.

“My conclusion is that this lady is the sister of Captain Allen--the
child that his mother took with her when she fled from her husband's
house. I am strengthened in this belief from the first impression of her
voice, as if the tones had in them something familiar.”

We talked this matter over, looking at it in every way, until we
satisfied ourselves that my conjectures must be true. The quiet manner
in which they had intruded themselves, and taken possession of the
house--unheralded as far as we knew--could not but present itself to our
minds as a matter of special wonder. The more we conned it over the more
we were puzzled. Before coming home I had called at an undertaker's, and
notified him that his services were wanted at the Allen House. Early on
the next day I took the liberty of calling there myself. I sent up my
name, and awaited, with some interest, my reception. The visit might be
regarded as an intrusion, and I was prepared to receive a message from
the lady asking to be excused. Not so, however. I had been seated only
a few moments, when I heard the rustle of her garments on the stairs. My
first glance at her face assured me that I was no unwelcome visitor.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, as she extended her hand, “for this early
call. Our meeting last night for the first time can hardly be called a
pleasant one--or the associations connected with it such as either of us
might wish to recall.”

“Our control over events is so slight,” I made answer as I resumed my
seat, “that we should separate unpleasant feelings as far as possible
from any memories connected with them.”

A faint, sad smile just lightened up her placid face as she said, in
reply to the remark.

“Ah, Doctor, that may not be. Lives are too intimately blended here for
any one to suffer or do wrong without leaving a burden of sadness on
other memories.”

“True; but the burden will be light or heavy according to our strength.”

She looked at me without replying, for the remark was so palpable, that
it seemed to involve nothing beyond a literal fact.

“Or rather,” I said, “the burden will be heavy or light according to our
state or quality.”

There was a sign of awakening interest in her countenance as if my
remark had touched some hidden spring of thought.

“If we are right with ourselves,” I went on, “the disturbance produced
by others' misconduct will not reach very far down. The pressure of
sadness may lie upon us for a season; but cannot long remain; for the
pure heart will lift itself into serene atmospheres.”

“But, who is right with himself?” she said. “Whose heart is pure enough
to dwell in these serene atmospheres? Not mine, alas!”

I looked into the suddenly illuminated face as she put these questions,
in surprise at the quick change which had passed over it. But the
tone in which she uttered the closing sentence was touched with tender
sadness.

“Rather let me say,” I made answer, “_in the degree_ that we are right
with ourselves. None attain unto perfection here.”

“Yet,” said the lady, with a sweet calmness of manner that made her
look beautiful, “is it not pleasant to imagine a state of perfection--or
rather a state in which evil is quiescent, and the heart active with all
good and loving impulses? How full of inspiration is such an ideal of
life! But the way by which we must go, if we would rise into this state,
is one of difficulty and perpetual warfare. The enemies of our peace are
numbered by myriads; and they seek with deadly hatred to do us harm.”

“And yet are powerless,” said I, “if we keep the outworks of our lives
in order.”

“Yes,” she answered, “it is the very ultimate or last things of our
lives where the power of repulsion resides. We can, in temptation, be it
ever so strong, refuse to _act_ in the wrong direction--refuse to do an
evil thing, because it is sinful. And this is our bulwark; this is our
tower of safety; for it is only in _wrong doing_ that our enemies gain
the victory over us. They may assault us never so fiercely--may dazzle
our eyes with the glitter of this world's most alluring things--may
stir the latent envy, malice, pride, or dishonesty, that lurks in every
heart; but if we stand still, hold back our hands and stay our feet--if
we give our resolute 'No' to all enticements, and keep our _actions_
free from evil, all hell cannot prevail against us. God will take care
of the interior of our lives, and make them pure and heavenly, if we
resist evil in the exterior. But, pardon me; I did not mean to read you
a homily.”

She smiled with a grave sort of smile, and then sat silent.

“I like your way of talking,” said I. There was something about the lady
that put me at ease with her, and I said this without reserve, as if
I were speaking to a friend. “It looks to higher things in life than
people usually regard as worthy of our chief consideration. To most of
us, the outer world offers the highest attractions; only the few turn
inwardly to the more beautiful world of mind.”

“Outward things fade--change--die; only spiritual things dwell in
unfading beauty. We are in a world of mere effects as to our bodies;
but the soul lives in the world of causes. Do we not spend a vain
and unprofitable life, then, if we go on building, day after day, our
tabernacle on the ever-shifting sands of time, instead of upon the
immovable Rock of Ages? But who is guiltless of this folly? Not I! not
I!”

Again that calm, earnest voice fell to a lower key, and was veiled by a
tender sadness.

“It is something gained,” she added, with returning firmness of tone,
“if, even after the sharp lessons of many years, we get glimpses of
Truth, and are willing to follow, though it be at a far distance, the
light she holds aloft. Yes, it is something gained--something gained!”

She spoke the last words as if merely thinking aloud, and not addressing
an auditor.

“Can I aid you in anything, madam?” said I, breaking in upon a state
of reverie into which her mind seemed to be falling. “The circumstances
under which you find yourself are peculiar--I refer to the death of Mrs.
Allen, following so quickly on your arrival among strangers--and you
may stand in need of friendly service from one who knows the people and
their ways. If so, do not hesitate to command me.”

“I thank you sincerely,” she answered, unbending still more from
her almost stately manner. “Friendly consideration I shall need, of
course--as who does not in this world? And I repeat my thanks, that
you have so kindly and so promptly anticipated my needs So far as the
remains of my unhappy kinswoman are concerned, I have referred all to
the undertaker. He will carry out my wishes. To-morrow the interment
will take place. On the day following, if it it is altogether agreeable
to yourself, I would esteem a call as a particular favor.”

I arose, as she concluded the last sentence, saying as I did so,

“I will be sure to call, madam; and render any service in my power. You
may regard me as a friend.”

“Already you have extorted my confidence,” she answered, faintly
smiling.

I bowed low, and was retiring when she said--

“A moment, Doctor!”

I turned toward her again.

“Doctor, it may be well for you to see my daughter.”

“Is she indisposed?” I asked.

“Not exactly that. But the excitement and alarm of the last two or three
days have been, I fear, rather too much for her nerves. I say alarm, for
the poor girl was really frightened at Mrs. Allen's wild conduct--and no
wonder. Death following in so sad a way, shocked her painfully. She did
not sleep well last night; and this morning she looks pale and drooping.
In all probability, quiet of mind and body will soon adjust the balance
of health; still, it may be safest for you to see her.”

“A mere temporary disturbance, no doubt, which, as you suggest, quiet of
mind and body will, in all probability, overcome. Yet it will do no harm
for me to see her; and may save trouble.”

“Excuse me a moment,” she said, and left the room. In a little while she
returned, and asked me to accompany her up stairs.

I found the daughter in a black and gray silk wrapper, seated on a
lounge. She arose as I entered, a slight flush coming into her face,
which subsided in a few moments, leaving it quite pale, and weary
looking. After we were all seated, I took her hand, which was hot in the
palm, but cold at the extremities. Her pulse was feeble, disturbed, and
quick.

“How is your head?” I asked.

“It feels a little strangely,” she replied, moving it two or three
times, as if to get some well defined sensation.

“Any pain?”

“Yes; a dull kind of pain over my left eye, that seems to go deep into
my head.”

“What general bodily sensation have you? Any that you can speak of
definitely?”

“None, except a sense of oppression and heaviness. When I raise my arm,
it seems to fall like lead; if I move about, I am weary, and wish to be
at rest.”

“Rest is, by all means, the most desirable condition for you now,”
 said I. Then addressing her mother, I added--“I think your daughter had
better lie down. Let her room be shaded and kept quiet. She needs rest
and sleep. Sleep is one of nature's great restorers.”

“Will you make no prescription, Doctor?” the mother asked.

I reflected on the symptoms exhibited, for a few moments, and then said,

“Nothing beyond repose, now. I trust that nature, as the pressure is
removed, will work all right again.”

“You will call in again to-day.”

“Yes; towards evening I will see your daughter, when I hope to find her
improved in every way.”

I spoke with a cheerfulness of manner that did not altogether express
my feelings in the case; for, there were some indications, not yet clear
enough for a diagnosis, that awakened slight concern. As I did not wish
to go wrong in my first prescription, I deemed it better to wait a few
hours, and see how nature would succeed in her efforts to repel the
enemy. So I went away, with a promise to call again early in the
afternoon.



CHAPTER IX.



It was between four and five o'clock in the afternoon, when I called
again at the Allen House. An old colored servant, who had been in the
family ever since my remembrance--she went by the name of “Aunty”--was
standing by the gate as I alighted from my chaise.

“'Deed, massa, Ise glad you come,” said she in a troubled way.

“Why so, Aunty? No body very sick, I hope.”

“'Deed, an dar is den; else old Aunty don't know nothin'.”

“Who?”

“Why dat blessed young lady what drapped in among us, as if she'd come
right down from Heaven. I was jest a gwine to run down an' ax you to
come and see her right away.”

I did not linger to talk with “Aunty,” but went forward to the house.
The mother of Blanche met me at the door. She looked very anxious.

“How is your daughter now?” I asked.

“Not so well as when you saw her this morning,” she answered. Her voice
trembled.

“I would have called earlier, but have been visiting a patient several
miles away.”

“She has been lying in a kind of stupor ever since you were here. What
can it mean, Doctor?”

The mother looked intently in my face, and paused for an answer, with
her lips apart. But I knew as little as she what it meant. Ah! how often
do anxious friends question us, and hearken eagerly for our replies,
when the signs of disease are yet too indefinite for any clear
diagnosis!

“I can tell better after seeing your daughter,” said I. And we went up
to the sick girl's chamber; that north-west room, at the window of which
I had first seen the fair stranger, as I stood wondering in storm and
darkness. I found her lying in apparent sleep, and breathing heavily.
Her face was flushed; and I noticed the peculiar odor that usually
accompanies an eruptive fever.

“How do you feel now?” I asked.

She had opened her eyes as I took her hand. She did not answer, but
looked at me in a half bewildered way. Her skin was hot and the pulse
small, but tense and corded.

“Does your head ache?”

I wished to arouse her to external consciousness.

“Oh, it's you, Doctor.”

She recognized me and smiled faintly.

“How are you now?” I inquired.

“Not so well, I think, Doctor,” she answered. “My head aches worse than
it did; and I feel sick all over. I don't know what can ail me.”

“Have you any uneasiness, or sense of oppression in the stomach?” I
inquired.

“Oh, yes, Doctor.” She laid her hand upon her chest; and drew in a long
breath, as if trying to get relief.

“Have you felt as well as usual for a week, or ten days past?” I
inquired.

“No, Doctor.” It was the mother who answered my question. “And in order
that you may understand the case clearly, let me say, that it is only a
week since we arrived from England. We came over in a steamer, and were
fifteen days in making the trip. From Boston, we came here in our own
carriage. Before leaving home, Blanche went around to see a number of
poor cottagers in our neighbourhood, and there was sickness at several
of the places where she called. In one cottage, particularly, was a case
of low fever. I was troubled when I learned that she had been there, but
still hoped that her excellent state of health would repel anything
like contagion. During the first part of our voyage, she suffered
considerably from sea-sickness; but got along very well after that. If
it hadn't been for the unhappy scenes of the last few days, with their
painfully exciting consummation, I think she would have thrown off,
wholly, any lurking tendency to disease.”

I turned my face partly aside, so that its expression could not be seen.
The facts stated, and the symptoms as now presented, left me in little
doubt as to the nature of the malady against which I had to contend.
Even while her mother talked, my patient fell away into the stupor from
which I had aroused her.

My treatment of the case coincided with the practice of men eminent in
the school of medicine to which I then belonged. I am not a disciple
of that school now, having found a system of exacter science, and one
compassing more certain results with smaller risk and less waste of
physical energy.

In order to remove the uneasiness of which my patient complained, I gave
an emetic. Its action was salutary, causing a determination towards the
skin, and opening the pores, as well as relieving the oppression from
which she suffered.

“How is your head now?” I asked, after she had been quiet for some
minutes.

“Better. I feel scarcely any pain.”

“So far, all is right,” said I, cheerfully.

The mother looked at me with an anxious face. I arose, and we retired
from the room together. Before leaving, I spoke encouragingly to my
patient, and promised to see her early in the morning.

“My daughter is very sick, Doctor. What is the disease?” The mother
spoke calmly and firmly. “I am not one towards whom any concealments
need be practised; and it is meet that I should know the worst, that I
may do the best.”

“The disease, madam,” I replied, “has not yet put on all of its
distinctive signs. A fever--we call it the fever of incubation--is the
forerunner of several very different ailments, and, at the beginning,
the most accurate eye may fail to see what is beyond. In the present
case, however, I think that typhoid fever is indicated.”

I spoke as evenly as possible, and with as little apparent concern as
possible. But I saw the blood go instantly back from the mother's face.

“Typhoid fever!” she ejaculated, in a low voice, clasping her hands
together. I learned afterwards that she had cause to dread this
exhausting and often fatal disease. “Oh, Doctor! do for her as if she
were your own and only child.”

She grasped my arm, like one catching at a fleeting hope.

“As if she were my own and only child!” I repeated her words in promise
and assurance, adding--

“The first result of the medicine which I gave is just what I desired.
I will leave something more to be taken at intervals of two hours, until
midnight. In the morning, I hope to find a very encouraging change.”

“But, Doctor,” she replied, “if this is a case of typhoid fever, no hope
of any quick change for the better can be entertained. I am no stranger
to the fearful malady.”

“Attacks of all diseases,” I answered to this, “are more or less severe,
according to the nature of the predisposing and exciting causes. So
far as your daughter is concerned, I should think, from the very slight
opportunity I have had of forming an opinion in regard to her, that
she is not readily susceptible of morbific intrusions. Under an unusual
exposure to exciting causes, the balance of health has been overcome.
If my presumption is correct, we have the steady effort of nature, in
co-operation with remedial agencies, working towards a cure.”

“Do you think the attack light, or severe?” the mother asked, speaking
more calmly.

“Neither light nor severe; but of a character, judging from the first
impression made upon it, entirely controllable by medicines.”

This opinion gave her confidence. As I had spoken without any apparent
concealment, she evidently believed the case to stand exactly as I had
stated it. After leaving medicine to be taken, every two hours, for the
first part of the night, I went away.

In the morning, I found my patient in that comatose state, the usual
attendant upon typhoid fever. She aroused herself on my entrance, and
answered all questions clearly. She had no pain in the head, nor any
distressing symptoms. Her skin was soft and moist. All things looked
favorable. I gave, now, only gentle diaphoretics, and let the case
progress, watching it with the closest attention. In this, I followed my
usual course of treatment as to giving medicines. If I could produce a
reaction, or remove some obstruction, and give nature a chance, I did
not think it wise to keep on with drugs, which, from their general
poisonous qualities, make even well people sick--regarding the struggle
of life with disease as hazardous enough, without increasing the risk by
adding a new cause of disturbance, unless the need of its presence were
unmistakably indicated.

The course of this fever is always slow and exhausting. My patient sunk
steadily, day by day, while I continued to watch the case with more than
common anxiety. At the end of a week, she was feeble as an infant, and
lay, for the most part, in a state of coma. I visited her two or three
times every day, and had the thought of her almost constantly in my
mind. Her mother, nerved for the occasion, was calm, patient, and
untiring. The excitement which appeared on the occasion of my first
visits, when there was doubt as to the character of the disease, passed
away, and never showed itself again during her daughter's illness. I
saw, daily, deeper into her character, which more and more impressed
me with its simple grandeur, if I may use the word in this connection.
There was nothing trifling, mean, or unwomanly about her. Her mind
seemed to rest with a profoundly rational, and at the same time
child-like trust, in Providence. Fear did not unnerve her, nor anxiety
stay her hands in any thing. She met me, at every visit, with dignified
self-possession, and received my report of the case, each time, without
visible emotion. I had not attempted to deceive her in any thing from
the beginning; she had seen this, and the fact gave her confidence in
all my statements touching her daughter's condition.

At the end of a week, I commenced giving stimulants, selecting, as the
chief article, sound old Maderia wine. The effect was soon apparent,
in a firmer pulse and a quickened vitality. The lethargic condition in
which she had lain for most of the time since the commencement of the
attack, began to give way, and in a much shorter period than is
usually the case, in this disease, we had the unmistakable signs of
convalescence.

“Thank God, who, by means of your skill, has given me back my precious
child!” said the mother to me, one day, after Blanche was able to sit
up in bed. She took my hand and grasped it tightly. I saw that she was
deeply moved. I merely answered:

“With Him are the issues of life.”

“And I have tried to leave all with Him,” she said. “To be willing to
suffer even that loss, the bare thought of which makes me shudder. But I
am not equal to the trial, and in mercy He has spared me.”

“He is full of compassion, and gracious. He knows our strength, and will
not test it beyond the limits of endurance.”

“Doctor,” she said, a light coming into her face, “I have much to say to
you, but not now. I think you can understand me.”

I merely bowed.

“There is one thing,” she went on, “that I have liked in you from the
beginning. I am to you a total stranger, and my presence in this house
is a fact that must awaken many questions in your mind. Yet you have
shown no restless curiosity, have plied me with no leading questions,
have left me free to speak, or keep silence. There is a manly courtesy
about this that accords with my feelings.”

I bowed again, but did not venture upon mere words of compliment.

“I am not sure,” said she, “that my name even is known to you.”

“It is not,” I answered. “You have seemed to avoid any allusion thereto,
and delicacy forbade my asking.”

“There has been no purposed concealment. My name is Montgomery; and I am
sister to the late Captain Allen.”

“I had already inferred this relationship.” The remark evidently
surprised her.

“On what ground could you base such an inference?” she asked, curiously.

“On traditional ground. The history of this old mansion is familiar
to most persons in S----; and some of the incidents connected with the
family have too strong a tinge of romance about them to easily pass into
oblivion. It is well known to us that Captain Allen had an only sister.”

“What is it said became of her?”

“When she was about two years of age her mother carried her off,
sailing, as was believed, to England, of which country she was a
native.”

“Is the name of the child preserved in this tradition?”

“Yes. It was Flora.”

“My own name,” she said.

“And in person you are identical.”

“Yes. My mother's early life embraced some dreadful experiences. Her
father and mother, with two brothers and a younger sister, were all
murdered by pirates. She alone was spared, and afterwards became the
wife of a sea captain, who, I fear, was not a man innocent of blood.
On this point, however, my mother was reserved, almost silent. In the
course of time she grew so wretched, as the wife of this man, that
she sent a letter to England, addressed to some remembered relative,
imploring him to save her from a life that was worse than death. This
letter fell into the right hands. A cousin was sent out from England,
and she fled with him. No attempt, as far as we know, was ever made to
follow and regain her She did not live many years afterwards. I grew
up among my relatives, ignorant of her history. My memory of her is
distinct, though she died when I was but eight years old.

“I married, at the age of twenty-six, an officer in the British army,
one of the younger sons in a titled family, for whom no way in the
world is opened, except through the church or the battle-field. General
Montgomery chose the profession of a soldier, not from a love of its
exciting and fearful concomitants, but because he had no fancy for the
gown and cassock, and could not be a hypocrite in religion. He went
quite early to British India, and distinguished himself there by many
acts of bravery, as well as by his humane and honorable conduct. So
highly was he regarded by the East India Company, that he was
selected for most important services, and assigned to posts of great
responsibility. He was past thirty years of age when I met him, on the
occasion of one of his visits to England. The attraction was mutual;
and when he returned to Calcutta, I went with him as his wife. Then
came twenty years of a happy married life;--happy, I mean, so far as a
perfect union of souls can make us happy in this world, but miserable,
at times, through intense anxiety for the absent one exposed to fearful
perils.

“We had three children.” There was a tremor in the voice of Mrs.
Montgomery as she referred to her children. “One only remains.” She
paused, as if to recover herself, and then went on.

“I lost my husband first. Ten years ago, he fell at the post of duty,
and, while my heart lay crushed and bleeding under the terrible blow, it
leaped with throbbings of pride, as his honored name went sounding from
lip to lip, and from land to land. I had not the sad pleasure of being
with him in that last time. For the sake of our children, I was residing
in England.

“Troubles rarely come alone. Two years afterwards my oldest son died. My
home was in the family of General Montgomery, where I was treated with
great kindness; but as my income was not sufficient for an establishment
of my own, I felt a sense of obligation that is always oppressive to
one of my nature. This feeling grew upon me daily, and at last began to
haunt me like a constantly re-appearing spectre. It is now about
three years since, in looking over some old letters and papers, I came
unexpectedly upon a document written by my mother--all the evidence as
to this was clear--and addressed to myself. How it should have remained
so long unobserved, and yet in my possession, is one of the mysterious
things which I do not attempt to explain. There is a Providence in
all things, even to the most minute, and I simply refer the fact to
Providence, and leave it there. This document spoke briefly, but with
no special particularity, of her marriage with a Captain Allen, and
settlement in this town. It stated that she had two children, a son and
a daughter, and that in leaving America for England, she had taken her
daughter, but left the son behind. There was no suggestion as to the
use to be made of these facts; but there was such a statement of them as
left their verification, I thought, easy. I turned them over and over
in my mind, and in the end resolved to gain all accessible information
touching the present condition of things. To this end, I sent over
about two years ago, a man of prudence and intelligence, versed in legal
matters, with instructions to obtain all possible particulars in regard
to my brother, his family and estate. He brought back word that my
brother was dead; that he had left no children, and that his widow--if,
indeed, she were ever his legal wife, which seemed to be doubted--was
old, in poor health, and verging towards mental imbecility, if not
insanity. That there was a large and valuable estate, to which I, as
sister of Captain Allen, was undoubtedly the heir.

“I kept these things, for the time being, to myself, and pondered over
them in some perplexity as to the best course to take. But from these
thoughts, my mind was soon turned by the illness of my oldest daughter.
After a lingering sickness of many weeks, she died. It seemed almost
impossible to arouse myself from the stunning effects of this blow. It
crushed me down more than any previous sorrow, for it fell upon a heart
weakened by pain. It was many months before the discipline of this
affliction awakened me to thoughts of a higher life. Then I began to
rise into serener heights--to see as by an interior vision, to believe
that even our saddest things may fall upon us in mercy.

“Finally, circumstances of which I need not speak, made me resolve to
leave England, and under legal advice of the highest authority, take
quiet possession of this estate, which is mine.”

Mrs. Montgomery ceased speaking.

“Perhaps,” she resumed, after a moment, “it may be as well, all things
considered, that you do not speak of this for the present. I shall,
as soon as my daughter's full recovery gives me time to enter into the
subject, place my affairs in the hands of a safe legal agent, in order
that they may assume due form and order. You can, no doubt, refer me to
the right individual.”

“I can,” was my reply. “Judge Bigelow, of our town, is the man. I speak
of him with the utmost confidence.”

“Thank you, Doctor. You lay me under additional obligation,” she said.
“I will, at an early day consult him.”

Thus closed this deeply interesting interview.



CHAPTER X.



I attended Blanche Montgomery through her slow convalescence, and had
many opportunities for observing her and her mother closely. The more
intimately I knew them the higher did they rise in my estimation. A
purer, sweeter, truer-hearted girl than Blanche I had never seen. There
was an artlessness and innocence about her but rarely met with in young
ladies of her age. Especially was she free from that worldliness and
levity which so often mars young maidenhood. Her mind was well stored
and cultivated, and she was beginning to use her mental treasures in a
way that interested you, and made you listen with pleased attention when
she spoke on even common-place subjects. Her manners had in them a grace
and dignity that was very attractive. As she advanced towards health her
deportment took on an easy, confiding air, as if she looked upon me as a
true friend. Her smile, whenever I appeared, broke over her gentle face
like a gleam of sunshine.

Mrs. Montgomery's manner towards me was distinguished by the same
frankness that marked her daughter's deportment. The stately air that
struck me in the beginning I no longer observed. If it existed, my eyes
saw it differently. At her request, when her mind was sufficiently at
ease about her daughter to busy itself with the common affairs of life,
I brought Judge Bigelow to see her, and she placed her business matters
in his hands. The judge was very much struck with her person and manner,
and told me the day after his first meeting with her that she came
nearer to his ideal of a lady than any woman he had ever met; and as
for the daughter she seemed more like a picture he had once seen than a
piece of real flesh and blood. I smiled at the Judge's enthusiasm, but
did not wonder at the impression he had received.

Other characters in our story now claim attention, and we must turn to
them. After Henry Wallingford had gained the mastery over himself:--the
struggle was wild, but brief--he resumed his office duties as usual, and
few noticed any change in him, except that he withdrew even more than
ever into himself. I met him occasionally, and observed him closely. In
my eyes there was a marked difference in the aspect of his face. It had
an expression of patient suffering at times--and again I saw in it a
most touching sadness.

The dashing nephew of Judge Bigelow offered himself to Squire Floyd's
daughter in about a week after her rejection of Wallingford's suit,
and was accepted. I became immediately cognizant of the fact through
my wife, who had the news from Delia's aunt, Mrs. Dean. A day or two
afterwards I met her in company with young Dewey, and observed her
closely. Alas! In my eyes the work of moral retrocession had already
begun. She was gay and chatty, and her countenance fresh and blooming.
But I missed something--something the absence of which awakened a sigh
of regret. Ralph was very lover-like in his deportment, fluttering about
Delia, complimenting her, and showing her many obtrusive attentions. But
eyes that were in the habit of looking below the surface of things, saw
no heart in it all.

Squire Floyd was delighted with his daughter's fine prospects; and he
and Judge Bigelow drew their heads together over the affair in a cosy
and confidential way very pleasant to both of them. The Judge was
eloquent touching his nephew's fine qualities and splendid prospects;
and congratulated the Squire, time and again, on his daughter's
fortunate matrimonial speculation. He used the word which was
significative beyond any thing that entered his imagination.

A few days after the engagement Ralph Dewey returned to New York. The
wedding-day had not been fixed; but the marriage, as understood by all
parties, was to take place some time during the next winter.

From that time I noticed a change in Delia. She grew silent in company,
and had an absent way about her that contrasted strongly with her former
social disposition. Young people rallied her in the usual style about
her heart being absent with the beloved one, but I read the signs
differently. It could not but follow, that a soul, endowed like hers,
would have misgivings in view of an alliance with one like Ralph
Dewey. What was there in him to satisfy a true woman's yearnings for
conjunction with a kindred nature? Nothing! He was all outside as to
good. A mere selfish, superficial, speculating man of the world. While
she had a heart capable of the deepest and truest affection. Would he
make the fitting complement to her life? Alas! No! That were a thing
impossible.

During the few months that preceded this marriage, I often heard its
promise discussed by my wife and Mrs. Dean, neither of whom had any
strong liking for the young New York merchant.

“It's my opinion,” said Mrs. Dean, as she sat with my wife one evening,
about two months after the engagement had taken place, “that Ralph has
more froth than substance about him. He really talks, sometimes, as if
he had the world in a sling and could toss it up among the stars. As far
as my observation goes, such people flourish only for a season.”

“If Delia were a child of mine,” said my good Constance, in her earnest
way, “I would a thousand times rather trust her with Henry Wallingford
than with Ralph Dewey.”

“Yes, and a thousand millions of times,” responded Mrs. Dean. “He is
a man. You know just what he is, and where he is. But, as for this
splashing nephew of Judge Bigelow's--who knows what's below the surface?
Delia's father is all taken up with him, and thinks the match a splendid
one. Sister don't say much; but I can see that she has her misgivings. I
can talk to you freely, you know.”

“I don't think,” said I, “that Delia has grown more cheerful since her
engagement. Brides expectant ought to feel as happy as the day is long.”

“More cheerful? Oh, dear, no! She isn't the same that she was at all;
but mopes about more than half of her time. It's just my opinion--spoken
between friends--that she cares, now, a great deal more for Henry than
she does for Ralph.”

“Do they ever meet?” I inquired.

“Not very often.”

“They have met?”

“Yes, several times.”

“Have you seen them together?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How does she act towards him?”

“Not always the same. Sometimes she is talkative, and sometimes
reserved--sometimes as gay as a lark, and sometimes sober enough; as
if there were such a weight on her spirits, that she could not smile
without an effort.”

“Does the fact of his presence make any change in her?” I inquired.
“What I mean is, if she were lively in spirits before he came in, would
she grow serious--or if serious, grow excited?”

“Oh, yes, it always makes a change. I've known her, after being very
quiet, and hardly having any thing to say, though in the midst of young
company, grow all at once as merry as a cricket, and laugh and joke in
a wild sort of way. And again, when she has been in one of her old,
pleasant states of mind I have noticed that she all at once drew back
into herself; I could trace the cause to only this--the presence of
Henry Wallingford. But this doesn't often happen, for he rarely shows
himself in company.”

“Is there anything noticeable about Henry when they meet?” I asked.

“Not to an ordinary observer,” replied Mrs. Dean. “But I look with
sharper eyes than most people. Yes, there is something noticeable. He
always puts himself in her way, but with a kind of forced, resolute
manner, as if the act were a trial of strength, and involved a stern
heart-discipline. And this I think, is just the real state of the case.
He has deliberately and resolutely entered upon the work of unwinding
from his heart the cord which love his thrown around it in so many
intertwisted folds. So I read him. To break it by sudden force, would
leave so many unwound portions behind, that the memory of her might
sadden the whole of his after-life. And so he is learning to grow
indifferent towards her. To search in her for such things as repel,
instead of for those that charm the heart.”

“A dangerous experiment,” said my wife, “for one who has loved so
deeply.”

“It would be to most men,” I remarked. “But there is stuff about
Henry--the stuff that strong, persistent, successful men are made of. If
he has begun this work, he will complete it certainly.”

A few weeks afterwards, I had an opportunity of seeing them together,
and I improved it to observe them closely. It was in a mixed company
at the house of Judge Bigelow. Wallingford came in rather late. I
was conversing with Delia when he entered the room, and we were at an
interesting point in the subject under consideration. I noticed, all at
once, a hesitation and confusion of thought, as her eyes rested, with a
sudden interest, on some object in the room. Glancing around, I saw the
young man. We went on with our conversation, Delia rallying herself, as
I could see, with an effort. But she talked no longer from thought, only
from memory--uttering mere truisms and common-places. She put on more
animation, and affected a deeper interest; but I was not deceived.

We were still in conversation, when Wallingford joined us. I saw him fix
his eyes, as they met, searchingly upon her face, and saw her eyes droop
away from his. He was fully self-possessed; she not at ease. His mind
was clear; hers in some confusion. I remained some time near them,
listening to their conversation, and joining in occasionally. Never
before had I seen him appear so well, nor her to such poor advantage.
She tried to act a part--he was himself. I noticed, as he led the
conversation, that he kept away from the esthetic, and held her thought
in the region of moral causes; that he dwelt on the ends and purposes
of life, as involving everything. Now and then she essayed a feeble
argument, or met some of his propositions with light banter. But with
a word he obliterated the sophism--and with a glance repressed the
badinage. I think she could never before have so felt the superiority of
this man, whose pure love--almost worship--she had put aside as a thing
of light importance; and I think the interview helped him in the work
upon which he had entered, that of obliterating from his heart all
traces of her image.

After this interview, they did not draw together again during the
evening. Delia tried to be gay and indifferent; but he acted himself out
just as he was. I did not observe that he was more social than usual,
or that he mingled more than was his wont with the young ladies present.
For most of the time, he kept, as was usual with him, in company and in
conversation with his own sex.

I could not but pity Delia Floyd. It was plain to me that she was waking
up to the sad error she had committed--an error, the consequences of
which would go with her through life. Very, very far was she from being
indifferent to Wallingford--that I could plainly see.

During the winter, Ralph came up frequently from New York to visit his
bride to be. As he was the nephew of Judge Bigelow, he and Wallingford
were, as a thing of course, thrown often together during these visits.
It can hardly excite wonder, that Wallingford maintained a reserved
and distant demeanor towards the young man, steadily repelling all
familiarity, yet always treating him with such politeness and respect
that no cause of offence could appear. On the part of Dewey, it may be
said that he saw little in the grave plodder among dusty law books and
discolored parchments, that won upon his regard. He looked upon him as
a young man good enough in his way--a very small way, in his
estimation--good enough for S----, and small enough for a country town
lawyer. He would have put on towards him a patronizing air, and tried to
excite in his mind a nobler ambition than to move in our circumscribed
sphere, if something in the young man's steady, penetrating,
half-mysterious eye had not always held him back:

“I never can talk with that young associate or yours, uncle,” he would
say, now and then, to Judge Bigelow, “and I can't just make him out. Is
he stupid, or queer?”

The Judge would smile, or laugh quietly to himself, or perhaps answer in
this wise:

“I think Henry understands himself. Still waters, you know, run deep.”

One day in February, on the occasion of a periodical visit to S----,
young Dewey called in at Judge Bigelow's office, and finding Wallingford
alone, sat down and entered into as familiar a talk with him as was
possible, considering how little they had in common. Ralph had a purpose
in view, and as soon as he saw, or thought he saw, Wallingford's mind in
the right mood, said--

“I am going to ask a particular favor, and you must not refuse.”

“If I can serve you in any thing, it will be my pleasure to do so,” was
the ready answer.

“You know that I am to be married next month?”

“So I have heard,” replied Wallingford.

“You will stand my groomsman? Don't say no!”

He had seen an instant negative in the young man's face.

“Almost any thing else, but not that!” replied Henry, speaking with some
feeling. He was thrown off his guard by so unexpected a request.

“Come now, my good friend, don't take the matter so much to heart!” said
Dewey, in a light way. “Plenty of good fish in the sea yet--as good as
ever were caught. You must forgive the girl for liking me the best.”

“You jest on a grave subject,” said Wallingford, his face growing pale,
but his eyes, a little dilated, riveting his companion's where he stood.

“No, I am in earnest,” said Dewey, with something in his manner that was
offensive.

“Jest or earnest, your familiarity is out of place with me,” retorted
Wallingford, with a sternness of manner, that quickened the flow of bad
blood in Dewey's heart.

“Oh, you needn't take on airs!” replied the other with a sneer of
contempt. Then muttering to himself, yet loud enough to be heard,--“I
didn't suppose the puppy would growl at a familiar pat on the head.”

This was too much for Wallingford. At another time, he might have borne
it with a manly self-possession. But only an hour before he had met
Miss Floyd in the street, and the look she then gave him had stirred
his heart, and left a tinge of shadowy regret on his feelings. He was,
therefore, in no mood to bear trifling, much less insult. Scarcely
had the offensive words passed Dewey's lips, when a blow in the face
staggered him back against the wall. Instantly recovering himself,
he sprang towards Wallingford in blind rage, and struck at him with a
savage energy; but the latter stepped aside, and let his assailant come,
with stunning force, against the wall at the other side of the office,
when he fell to the floor.

At this instant, Judge Bigelow came in.

“Henry! Ralph!” he exclaimed--“what is the meaning of this?”

“Your nephew insulted me, and in the heat of anger I struck him in the
face. In attempting to return that blow, he missed his aim, and fell
against the wall, as you see.”

Wallingford spoke without excitement, but in a stern, resolute way. By
this time, Dewey was on his feet again. The sight of his uncle, and
the unflinching aspect of the person he had ventured to insult, had the
effect to cool off his excitement many degrees.

“What is the meaning of this, young men?” sternly repeated Judge
Bigelow, looking from one to the other.

“I have answered your question as far as I am concerned,” replied Henry.

“Ralph! Speak! Did you offer him an insult?”

To this demand, the nephew replied, with no abatement of his originally
offensive manner--

“If he chooses to consider my words as an insult, let him do so. I shall
in no case take them back.”

“What did you say?”

There was an imperative force in the Judge's manner.

Dewey was silent.

“What did he say,”--Judge Bigelow turned to Wallingford, “that you
should answer it with a blow?”

“If he is satisfied with the answer,” replied the latter, “the case can
rest where it is. If not, I am ready to meet him on any appeal. I He
will find me no trifler.”

The Judge turned again to his nephew.

“Ralph! I insist upon having this matter explained. I know Henry too
well to believe that he would strike you, unless there had been strong
provocation.”

“Perhaps he regarded it as such; I did not,” said Dewey.

“If he is satisfied with his chastisement, there is no occasion to press
him farther, Judge.” Wallingford was provoked to this by the young man's
cool impertinence.

Dewey made a movement as if about to rush upon Wallingford, but the
Judge interposed his body to keep them apart. The appearance of a fourth
party at this juncture, in the person of Squire Floyd, the prospective
father-in-law of one of the belligerents, changed materially the aspect
of affairs.

“Good-morning, Squire,” said Wallingford, with a quickly assumed
cheerfulness of manner, smiling in his usual grave way.

Both the Judge and his nephew saw reason to imitate the example of
Wallingford, and thus throw up a blind before the eyes of Squire
Floyd, who thought he perceived something wrong as he came in, but was
afterwards inclined to doubt the evidence of his senses.

Wallingford retired in a few moments. When he came back to the office an
hour afterwards, he found a note of apology on his table, accompanied
by a request that so unpleasant an incident as the one which had just
occurred, might be suffered to pass into oblivion. No acknowledgment of
this communication was made by the young lawyer. He felt the strongest
kind of repugnance towards Dewey, and could not gain his own consent to
have any intercourse with him. His position, as an associate with
Judge Bigelow, occasionally brought him in contact with his nephew, who
recognized him always in a respectful manner. But Wallingford held him
ever coldly at a distance.



CHAPTER XI.



The marriage of Delia Floyd was an event in our quiet town. It was
celebrated at the house of her father, in the presence of a large
company, who were invited to witness the ceremony, and take part in
the attendant festivities. The match was regarded generally as a most
desirable one for the young lady; and there was more than one mother
present who envied the good fortune which had given such a son-in-law to
Mrs. Floyd. I heard many snatches of conversation, half aside, in which
marvelous things were related, or suggested, touching the bridegroom's
fortune and the splendid home he had prepared for his bride. He was
looked upon as a prospective millionaire, and imagination pictured Delia
as the jeweled mistress of a palace home. Few seemed to think of any
thing beyond the promised worldly advantage.

“I am glad that your daughter has married so well.”

“Let me congratulate you, Squire Floyd, on this splendid match.”

“It is not often, Mrs. Floyd, that a mother sees her daughter go forth
into the world with such brilliant prospects.”

“You have all that your heart can desire, so far as Delia is concerned,
Mrs. Floyd.”

“You are the envy of mothers.”

And so I heard the changes rung on all sides of me, and from the lips of
people who might have looked deeper if they had taken the trouble to use
their eyes.

To me, the wedding was full of sad suggestions. It was one of those
social self-sacrifices, as common now as then, in which the victim
goes self-impelled to the altar, and lays upon its consuming fires the
richest dower of womanhood.

I listened to the vows that were made on this occasion, and felt a low
thrill of repulsion as words of such solemn import trembled on the air,
for too well I knew that a union of souls in a true marriage, such as
Delia Floyd might consummate, was impossible here. Could she be happy
in this marriage? I gave to my own question an emphatic “No!” She might
have a gay, brilliant, exciting life; but to that deep peace which is
given to loving hearts, and which, in hours of isolation and loneliness,
she would desire with an irrepressible longing, she must forever be a
stranger.

I looked into her beautiful young face as she stood receiving the
congratulations of friends, and felt as I had never felt before on such
an occasion. Instinctively my thought ran questioning along the future.
But no hopeful answer was returned. How was she to advance in that
inner-life development through which the true woman is perfected? I
pushed the question aside. It was too painful. Had she been one of
the great company of almost soulless women--if I may use such strong
language--who pass, yearly, through legal forms into the mere semblance
of a marriage, I might have looked on with indifference, for then, the
realization would, in all probability, be equal to the promise. But
Delia Floyd was of a different spiritual organization. She had higher
capabilities and nobler aspirations; and if the one found no true sphere
of development, while the other was doomed to beat its wings vainly
amid the lower atmospheres of life, was happiness in the case even a
possibility?

Among the guests was Wallingford. It was six months, almost to a day,
since the dearest hope in life he had ever cherished went suddenly out,
and left him, for a season, in the darkness of despair. I did not expect
to see him on this occasion; and there was another, I think, who as
little anticipated his presence--I mean the bride. But he had shared in
the invitations, and came up to witness the sacrifice. To see, what a
few months before was to him the most precious thing in life, pass into
the full possession of another. Had not the fine gold grown dim in his
eyes? It had--dim with the tarnish that better natures receive when they
consent to dwell with inferior spirits, and breathe in an atmosphere
loaded with earthly exhalations. It would have been the highest delight
of his life to have ascended with her into the pure regions, where
thought builds tabernacles and establishes its dwelling-places. To have
walked onward, side by side, in a dear life companionship, towards the
goal of eternal spiritual oneness. But she had willed it otherwise; and
now he had come, resolutely, to bear the pain of a final sundering of
all bonds, that his soul might free itself from her soul completely and
forever.

I first noticed him as the bridal party entered the room, and took their
places in front of the clergyman who was to officiate on the occasion.
He occupied a position that gave him a clear view of Delia's face, while
he was removed from general observation. Almost from the commencement to
the ending of the ceremony his gaze rested on her countenance. His head
was thrown a little forward, his brows slightly contracted, his lips
firmly set, and his eyes fixed as if the object upon which he was gazing
held him by an irresistible fascination. I was so much interested in him
that I scarcely looked at the bride during the ceremony. At last, the
minister, in conclusion, announced the twain to be husband and wife.
I saw Wallingford give a slight start as if a tensely strung chord of
feeling had been jarred. A moment more and the spell was broken!
Every lineament of his countenance showed this. The stern aspect gave
way--light trembled over the softening features--the body stood more
erect as if a great pressure had been removed.

I noticed that he did not hold back in the excitement of congratulation
that followed the ceremony. I was near him when he took the hand of
Delia, and heard him say--not--“I congratulate you”--but “May your life
be a happy one.” The tone was earnest and feeling, such as a brother
might use to a beloved sister. I held that tone long afterwards in my
memory, studying its signification. It had in it nothing of regret, or
pain, or sadness, as if he were losing something, but simply expressed
the regard and tender interest of a sincere well wisher. And so that
great trial was at an end for him. He had struggled manfully with a
great enemy to his peace, and this was his hour of triumph.

With the bride's state of mind, as read in external signs, I was far
from being satisfied. Marriage, in any case, to one who thinks and
feels, is a thing of serious import; and even the habitually thoughtless
can hardly take its solemn vows upon their lips without falling into a
sober mood. We are, therefore, not surprised to see emotion put on signs
of pain--like April showers that weep away into sunshine. But in Delia's
face I saw something that went deeper than all this.

“There is no one here,” said I, taking her hand, and holding it tightly
in mine, “who wishes you well in the future more sincerely than I do.”

“I know it, Doctor,” she answered, returning the warm grasp I gave her.
Her eyes rested steadily in mine, and saw a shadow in them.

“We are sorry to lose you from S----. Indeed we cannot afford to lose
you.”

“She is wanted,” spoke up her young husband a little proudly, “to grace
a wider and more brilliant sphere of life.”

“It is not the brilliant sphere that is always the happiest,” said I.
“Life's truest pleasures come oftener to quiet home circles even among
the lowly, than to gilded palaces where fortune's favorites reside.”

“It is not to external condition,” the bride remarked, “that we are to
look for happiness.” I thought her voice had in it a pensive tone, as if
she were not wholly satisfied with the brilliant promise that lay before
her. “You know, Doctor, we have talked that over more than once in our
lives.”

“Yes, Delia; and it is a truth which we ought never to forget--one that
I trust you and your husband will lay up in your hearts.”

I turned to the young man desiring my admonition to reach him also.

“Perhaps I might differ something from this sage conclusion,” he
answered a little flippantly. “As far as I can see, the external
condition has a great deal to do with our happiness. I am very sure,
that if I were situated as some people are whom I know, I would be
miserable. So you see, Doctor, I have my doubts touching this theory of
yours and Delia's.”

“Time, I think, will demonstrate its truth,” I said, in a graver tone,
and turned from them to give place to those who could talk in a lighter
strain than was possible for me on the occasion.

During the evening I saw Wallingford more than once in conversation with
the bride; but only when she happened to be a little separated from her
husband, towards whom his manner was coldly polite. The two young men,
after the scene in Judge Bigelow's office, only kept up, for the sake of
others, the shadow of acquaintanceship. Between them there was a strong
mutual repulsion which neither sought to overcome.

As I remarked I saw Wallingford more than once in conversation with the
bride. But nothing in his manner indicated any sentiment beyond that of
friendship. He was polite, cheerful, and at his ease. But it was
different with her. She was not at her ease in his company, and yet,
I could see that his attention was grateful--even pleasant.

The augury was not good. As I read the signs, Delia Floyd, when she
passed from maidenhood to wifehood, departed from the path that led
to happiness in this world. And I said to myself as I pondered her
future--“May the disappointments and sorrows that are almost sure to
come, turn her feet aside into the right way at last!”



CHAPTER XII.



On the day following, the young husband bore his bride away to grace
the prouder home that awaited her in New York; and affairs in our town
settled themselves down into the old routine.

During the few months that have passed since the opening of our story,
the only matter that has occurred, of any interest to the reader, at
the Allen House, is the fact that Judge Bigelow has undertaken the
management of Mrs. Montgomery's affairs, and the establishment of her
claim to the possession, as only heir, of the whole of Captain Allen's
property. Some legal difficulties, bearing upon her identification as
his sister, were in the way; and in the effort to remove these, there
had been considerable correspondence with persons in England.

The first fact to be clearly proved was the solemnization of a marriage
between Mrs. Montgomery's mother and the elder Captain Allen. Next, the
identity of Mrs. Montgomery as her child. No marriage certificate, nor
any record of the fact, as to the exact time and place, were known to
be in existence; and without them, or evidence of a very conclusive
character, the title of Mrs. Montgomery could not be clearly
established.

This, Judge Bigelow stated to her in the beginning; but, up to this
time, no such evidence had been found.

Mrs. Montgomery's health was not good, and as she required occasional
medical aid, my visits to the Allen House were continued. The more
intimately I came to know this lady, the higher did she rise in my
esteem. She united strength of mind with clearness of perception: and
decision of character with prudence and justice. She had, likewise, a
depth and tenderness of feeling that often exhibited itself in beautiful
incidents. The dignity of manner, which at first seemed touched with
hauteur, now only gave grace to her fine proportions.

She had, from the beginning, spoken to me without reserve of her
affairs, in which I naturally took deep interest. One day she said:--

“Doctor, I wish to get your opinion in regard to an individual whom
Judge Bigelow proposes to send out to England for me on important
business. He is a young man, associated with him, as I understand it,
professionally.

“Mr. Wallingford, you mean?”

“Yes, that is the name, I believe. Do you know him?”

“Very well.”

“Is he prudent, intelligent, and reliable?”

“I think so.”

“You only think so, Doctor?”

“I can speak in stronger terms. As far as one can know another, I am
ready to say that _he is_ prudent, intelligent, and reliable. If I had
important business to transact at a distant point, and needed a trusty
agent, I would select him before any other man in S----.”

“I wish no better testimony, Doctor, and am glad to know that I can
procure an agent so well qualified.”

“Have you seen him?” I inquired.

“No. But Judge Bigelow is to bring him here today, in order that I may
see and converse with him.”

“You will find him,” said I, “a young man of few words and unobtrusive
manners--but solid as a rock. I have seen him under circumstances
calculated to test the character of any man.”

“What are the circumstances, if you are free to speak of them?” asked
Mrs. Montgomery. “We get always a truer estimate of a man, when we
see him in some great battle of life; for then, his real qualities and
resources become apparent.”

I thought for a little while before answering. It did not seem just
right to draw aside the veil that strangers' eyes might look upon a
life-passage such as was written in Wallingford's Book of Memory. The
brief but fierce struggle was over with him; and he was moving steadily
onward, sadder, no doubt, for the experience, and wiser, no doubt.
But the secret was his own, and I felt that no one ought to meddle
therewith. Still, a relation of the fact, showing how deeply the man
could feel, and how strong he was in self-mastery, could not but raise
him in the estimation of Mrs. Montgomery, and increase her confidence.

“It is hardly fair,” said I, “to bring up the circumstances of a man's
life over which he has drawn a veil; and which are sacred to himself
alone. In this case, however, with the end of enabling you more fully to
know the person you think of sending abroad on an important service,
I will relate an occurrence that cannot fail to awaken in your mind an
interest for the young man, such as we always feel for those who have
passed through deep suffering.”

Blanche was sitting by her mother. Indeed, the two were almost
inseparable companions. It was a rare thing to find them apart. I saw
her face kindle with an earnest curiosity.

“Judge Bigelow's nephew was married, recently,” I said.

“So the Judge informed me. He spoke very warmly of his nephew, who is a
merchant in New York, I think he said.”

“He is a partner in a mercantile firm there. The bride was Squire
Floyd's daughter; a very superior girl--lovely in character, attractive
in person, and, mentally, well cultivated. I have always regarded her as
the flower of our town.”

“The young man had good taste, it seems,” Mrs. Montgomery remarked.

“Better than the young lady showed in taking him for a husband,” said I.

“Ah? Then your opinion of him is not so favorable.”

“He was not worthy of her, if I possess any skill in reading character.
But there was one worthy of her, and deeply attached to her at the same
time.”

“This young Wallingford, of whom we were speaking?”

“The same.”

“But she didn't fancy him?”

“She did fancy him. But--”

“Was not able to resist the attractions of a New York merchant, when put
in opposition to those of a humble country lawyer?”

“The truth lies about there. She took the showy effigy of a man, in
place of the real man.”

“A sad mistake. But it is made every day,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “and
will continue to be made. Alas for the blindness and folly that lead so
many into paths that terminate in barren deserts, or wildernesses where
the soul is lost! And so our young friend has been crossed in love.”

“The experience is deeper than usual,” said I. Then I related, with some
particularity, the facts in the case, already known to the reader.
Both the mother and daughter listened with deep attention. After I had
finished my story, Mrs. Montgomery said,

“He possesses will and strength of character, that is plain; but I can't
say that I just like the deliberate process of _un_loving, if I may use
the word, which you have described. There is something too cold-blooded
about it for me. Like the oak, bent under the pressure of a fierce
storm, he comes up erect too soon.”

I smiled at her view of the case, and answered,

“You look upon it as a woman, I as a man. To me, there is a certain
moral grandeur in the way he has disenthralled himself from fetters that
could not remain, without a life-long disability.”

“Oh, no doubt it was the wisest course,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“And may we not look among the wisest men, for the best and most
reliable?” I queried.

“Among those who are truly wise,” she said, her voice giving emphasis to
the word _truly_.

“What is it to be truly wise?”

“All true wisdom,” she answered, “as it appertains to the affairs of
this life, has its foundation in a just regard for others; for, in the
degree that we are just to others, are we just to ourselves.”

“And is not the converse of your proposition true also? In the degree
that we are just to ourselves, are we not just to others?”

“Undoubtedly. Each individual bears to common society, the same relation
that a member, organ, or fibre, does to the human body, of which it
makes a part. And as no member, organ, or fibre of the body, can injure
itself without injuring the whole man; so no individual can do wrong
to himself, without a consequent wrong to others. Each has duties
to perform for the good of common society, and any self-inflicted or
self-permitted disabilities that hinder the right performance of these
duties, involve a moral wrong.”

“Then the case is very clear for my friend Wallingford,” said I. “He is
a wise man in your sense of the word--wise, in resolutely putting away
from his mind the image of one who, if she had been worthy of him, would
have taken her place proudly by his side; but, proving herself unworthy,
could never afterward be to him more than a friend or stringer. He could
not hold her image in his heart, and fondly regard it, without sin; for
was she not to be the bride of another? Nor without suffering loss of
mental power, and life-purpose, and thus injuring others trough neglect
of duty. It was acting wisely, then, for him to come up, manfully, to
the work of drawing back his misplaced affections, and getting them
again fully into his own possession. And he has done the work, if I read
the signs aright. All honor to his manhood!”

“He has, I see, a warm advocate in you, Doctor,” said Mrs. Montgomery,
again smiling. “Still, in an affair of the heart, where so much was
involved, as seemed to be in his case, we can hardly fancy such a
matter-of-fact, business-like proceeding as you have described. He might
well have been forgiven, if he had shown more weakness of character, and
acted even a little unreasonably. I will yield to no one in my regard
for manly firmness and self-control, for bravery and endurance; and
I have seen these qualities put to some of the severest tests. But
in matters of the heart, I must own that I like to see a man show his
weakness. Your Mr. Wallingford is too cool and calculating for me. But
this is irrelevant to our consideration of his qualities as a business
agent. For this purpose, I am satisfied that he is fitted in all things
essential.”

“And that is quite as far as we need go,” said I.

“The business in hand,” said Mrs. Montgomery, resuming the conversation
after a pause, “is of great importance to me, and may require not only
a visit to England, but also to the West Indies. Unless evidence of my
mother's marriage can be found, there will be, as you know, considerable
difficulty in establishing my full right to inherit my brother's
property. And my identity as the sister of the late Captain Allen must
also be proved. By the will of my father, which is on record, he
left all of his property to my brother. He, as far as is known, died
intestate. As next of kin, I am the legal heir; but the proof is yet
wanting. My mother's cousin, a Colonel Willoughby, of whom we have
before spoken, came over from England, on the strength of some vague
rumors that reached the family from Jamaica, and was successful in
discovering the only survivor of his uncle's family. She saw it best to
abandon her husband, as you know. My purpose in sending an agent, versed
in legal matters, and used to weighing evidence, is to have such papers
of Colonel Willoughby's as the family possess and will submit for
examination, carefully searched, in the hope that some record may be
found in his hand-writing, sufficiently clear to establish the fact that
my mother was the wife of the elder Captain Allen. So important an event
as that of searching out my mother, and inducing her to flee from her
husband, could hardly have taken place, it seems to me, without evidence
of the fact being preserved. And my hope is, that this evidence, if it
can be found, will prove of great value. So you see, Doctor, that I have
good reasons for wishing to know well the agent who goes abroad with a
matter so vital as this in his hands.”

I admitted the importance of a thoroughly reliable man to go upon this
mission, and repeated my faith in Wallingford.



CHAPTER XIII.



I saw Mrs. Montgomery a few days afterwards, and inquired if she
had seen the young associate of Judge Bigelow. She replied in the
affirmative.

“How does he impress you?” I asked.

“Favorably, upon the whole; though,” she added with one of her meaning
smiles, “I can't help thinking all the time about the cool, calculating,
resolute way in which he went about disentangling himself from an
unfortunate love affair. I look at his calm face, over which you rarely
see a ripple of feeling go, and ask myself, sometimes, if a heart really
beats within his bosom.”

“There does; a true, large, manly heart, full of deep feeling; you may
be sure of this, madam,” I answered, with some warmth.

“I will not gainsay your words, Doctor. I trust for his sake that it may
be so.”

“Leaving out the heart matter, and regarding him only as to his fitness
for the work in hand, you are favorably impressed?”

“Quite so. I find him quick of apprehension, intelligent, and of
sufficient gravity of deportment to ensure a respectful attention
wherever he may go. He made one suggestion that ought to have occurred
to me, and upon which I am acting. As no will has been found, it has
been assumed that Captain Allen died intestate. Mr. Wallingford suggests
that a will may have been executed; and that a thorough search be made
in order to discover if one exists. In consequence of this suggestion,
Blanche and I have been hard at work for two days, prying into drawers,
examining old papers, and looking into all conceivable, and I had almost
said inconceivable places.”

“And if you were to find a will?” said I, looking into her earnest face.

“The question would be that much nearer to a solution.”

“Is it at all probable that it would be in your favor?”

I saw her start at the query, while her brows closed slightly, as if
from a sudden pain. She looked at me steadily for a few moments, without
speaking; then, after a long inspiration, she said:

“Whether in my favor or not, any disposition that he has made of his
property, in law and right, must, of course, stand good.”

“You might contest such a will, if not in your favor.”

She shook her head, compressed her lips firmly, and said:

“No. I should not contest the will. My belief was, when I came here,
that he died without making a bequest of any kind, and that his property
would go, in consequence, to the heir-at-law. This was the information
that I received. If it should prove otherwise, I shall make no
opposition.”

“Do you intend, under this view, continuing the search for a will?”

Something in the tone of voice touched her unpleasantly. I saw the light
in her eyes glow intenser, and her lips arch.

“Why not?” she asked, looking at me steadily. I could have given another
meaning to my question from the one I intended to convey, had it so
pleased me, and thus avoided a probable offence. But I wished to see a
little deeper into the quality of her mind, and so used the probe that
was in my hand.

“If you find a will, devising the property out of your line, all your
present prospects are at an end,” said I.

“I know it.”

Her voice was firm as well as emphatic.

“Then why not take the other horn of this dilemma? Give up searching for
a will that can hardly be in your favor, and go on to prove your title
through consanguinity.”

“And thus shut my eyes to the probable rights of others, in order to
secure a personal advantage? Do you think I would do this, Doctor? If
so, you have mistaken me.”

There was a tone of regret in her voice.

“Pardon me,” I replied. “The suggestion was natural under the
circumstances, and I gave it utterance.”

“Were you in my place, would you give up the search here?”

She fixed on me a penetrating look.

The probe had changed hands.

“It is difficult,” I answered, “for us to say what we would do if we
were to change places with another. In my experience, it is easy to see
what is right for our neighbor, but very difficult to see the right way
for ourselves, when under the allurement of some personal advantage.”

“Would it be right in me to give up the search?”

“I think not.”

My answer was without hesitation.

“And I will not,” she said, firmly. “If my brother has devised his
property, I have only to know the terms of his will. If it is against
me, well. I shall not oppose its operation.”

“It sometimes happens,” I suggested, “that a testator is manifestly
out of his right mind as to the direction given to his property, and
bequeaths it in a manner so evidently unwise and improper, that both
justice and humanity are served in the act of setting aside the will.
And it might prove so in this case.”

“I know not how that may be,” Mrs. Montgomery answered, soberly, yet
firmly. “But this I do know”--she spoke resolutely--“God helping me, I
will not stain my hands with gold that, in any legal right, belongs to
another. What is clearly mine, I will take and use as it is my right
and duty. But I must be certain that it is mine. If there is no will, I
am clear as to who is the owner of this estate; if there is a will, and
I and mine are not included in its provisions, I will step aside. First,
however, the obligation to search for a will is imperative; and I shall
continue it until clearly satisfied that no such document exists.”

What a womanly dignity there was in Mrs. Montgomery as she said this,
drawing her tall form up to its full height in speaking--not proudly,
but with conscious integrity!

“What is right is always best.” I made the remark as well approvingly as
in expression of an immutable truth.

“Always, always,” she replied, with earnestness. “There is no blinder
folly than that of grasping a present worldly good, at the expense of
violated justice. Whoever does so, comes out that far wrong in the end.
There is only one way that leads to peace of mind: the way of honor and
right. All other ways, no matter into what rich harvest fields they may
lead in the beginning, terminate in wretchedness. There never has been,
and never will be, any exception to this rule. We see its operation
daily, turn our eyes whatsoever way we choose. And God forbid that I
should deliberately enter the way that leads to ultimate unhappiness!
Self-denial in the present is better than gnawing regret in the future.
The good things of this world prove to be curses instead of blessings,
unless the mind be rightly adjusted for their enjoyment. And such a
right adjustment is impossible where the very fact of their possession
involves a moral wrong. I see this so clearly, Doctor, that I shudder
inwardly at the bare imagination of committing such a wrong.”

“It is by trial that God proves us,” said I, “and may He bring you out
of this one, should the trial come, as gold from the refiner's furnace!”

“Amen!” was her solemnly uttered response; “if it should come, may I be
found strong enough to do the right!”

For over a week this search for a will was continued, until it was
clear to all concerned that no such document was in existence. Then
preparation was made for the visit to England, in search of evidence
bearing upon the identity of Mrs. Montgomery as the sister of Captain
Allen. Two or three months elapsed, however, before Mr. Wallingford
could so arrange his business as to be absent for the length of time
it might take to complete his mission. He sailed for England in June,
between three and four months after the marriage of Delia Floyd. He
called to see me on the day before leaving, and I had a brief but
pleasant talk with him. He was in good health and good spirits, and
anticipated a successful visit.

“I shall gain,” he remarked, “in two ways by this trip. Professionally
and intellectually. I have had many a dream of that land of our
forefathers--England--now to be realized. I shall see London, walk its
streets, and linger amid its historic places. Don't smile at this
almost boyish enthusiasm, Doctor. London has always been the Mecca of my
desires.”

I had never seen him so animated. A higher life seemed flowing in his
veins. His countenance had a brighter aspect than usual, and his head
an erecter carriage. There was a depth of meaning in his eyes never
observed before--a look as if some new born hope were lending its
inspiration to his soul. Altogether manlier was his aspect and bearing
than I had ever seen it.

“God speed your mission,” said I, as I shook hands with him in parting.

“If it depends on human agency, directed with earnestness, patience, and
will, my mission will have a prosperous result,” he replied. “It is to
be my first entirely self-reliant experience, and I think the discipline
of mind it will involve must strengthen me for higher professional work
than any in which I have yet been engaged. You are aware, Doctor, that
my heart is in my profession.”

“So I have seen from the beginning.”

“I will not deny,” he added, “that I have ambition. That I wish to be
distinguished at the bar.”

“An honorable ambition,” said I.

“Nor that, sometimes--in moments of weakness, perhaps--my dreams
have gone higher. But I am a very young man, and youth is ardent and
imaginative,” he added.

“And you have this great advantage,” I replied, “that, with every year
added to your life, you may, if you will, grow wiser and stronger. You
stand, as all young minds, at the bottom of a ladder. The height to
which you climb will depend upon your strength and endurance.”

“If we both live long enough, Doctor, you may see me on the topmost
rundle, for I shall climb with unwearying effort.”

He spoke with a fine enthusiasm, that lent a manly beauty to his face.

“Climb on,” I answered, “and you will rise high above the great mass,
who are aimless and indolent. But you will have competitors, few, but
vigorous and tireless. In the contest for position that you must wage
with these, all your powers will be taxed; and if you reach the
topmost rundle to which you aspire, success will be, indeed, a proud
achievement.”

“I have the will, the ambition, the courage, and the endurance, Doctor,”
 was his reply. “So, if I fail, the fault will lie here,” and he touched,
significantly, his forehead.

“For lack of brains?” said I, smiling.

“Yes. The defect will lie there,” he answered, smiling in return.

“Brains are remarkable for latent capacity. If stimulated, they develop
new powers, and this almost without limit. All they want is to be well
supplied with the right kind of food, and well worked at the same time.”

“I believe that, Doctor, and find vast encouragement in the thought,”
 and Wallingford laughed pleasantly.

Our parting words were growing voluminous. So we shook hands again,
repeated our mutual good wishes, and separated. In the afternoon he
started for Boston, from whence he sailed, on the next day, for England.

This was towards the latter end of June. He was to write to Mrs.
Montgomery immediately on his arrival out, and again as soon as he had
obtained an interview with the Willoughby family. Early in August,
she received his first letter, which was brief, simply announcing his
arrival at Liverpool.

About three weeks after the coming of this letter, I received a note
from Mrs. Montgomery asking me to call. On meeting her, I noticed
something in her manner that struck me as unusual. She did not smile, as
was her wont, when we met, her countenance retaining its usual serious
expression. I thought she looked paler, and just a little troubled.

“Thank you for calling so promptly, Doctor,” she said. “I am afraid you
will think me troublesome. But you have always shown a kindly interest
in me, though a stranger; and have proved, in all cases, a sound
adviser.”

I bowed, and she continued:

“I have a second letter from Mr. Wallingford. He has, he writes,
been well received by my relatives, who had placed in his hands,
for examination, a large quantity of papers that belonged to Colonel
Willoughby.”

“If they contain any evidence in the right direction, he will be sure to
find it,” said I.

“No doubt of that. But”--I thought her voice faltered a little--“the
question is solved, and he may return.”

“Solved! How?” I asked quickly.

“I have found the will.”

“What?”

“I have found the will,” she repeated, in a steady tone, “and that
solves the question.”

“Is it in your favor?” I asked, and then held my breath for a reply. It
came in a firmly uttered--

“No.”

We looked steadily into each other's face for several moments.

“In whose favor?”

“In favor of Theresa Garcia his wife,” she replied.

“But she is dead,” I answered quickly.

“True--but I am not his heir.”

She said this resolutely.

“She died childless,” said I, “and will not the descent stop with
her?--the property reverting to you, as next of kin to Captain Allen?”

“She may have relatives--a brother or sister,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“That is scarcely probable,” I objected.

“It is possible; and in order to ascertain the fact, all right means
ought to, and must be, taken.”

“Where did you find the will?” I inquired.

“Blanche was examining a small drawer in an old secretary, when she
accidentally pressed her hand against one side, which yielded. She
pressed harder, lad it continued to yield, until it was pushed back
several inches. On withdrawing this pressure, the side returned to its
place. She then tried to see how far it could be forced in. As soon
as it had passed a certain point, a secret drawer, set in vertically,
sprung up, and from the side, which fell open, the will dropped out.”

“It is singular,” said I, “that it should come to light just at this
time.”

“It is Providential, no doubt,” Mrs. Montgomery remarked.

“What course will you pursue?” I inquired.

“My first step will be to recall Mr. Wallingford.”

“I must take the liberty of a friend, and object to that,” said I.

“On what ground?”

“This will may be worth the paper on which it is written, and no more.
If the legatee have no relatives, you stand just where you stood before,
and will require the evidence as to identity for which Mr. Wallingford
is now in search. Oh, no, Mrs. Montgomery; he must not be recalled.”

The lady mused for a little while, and then said--

“Perhaps you are right, Doctor.”

“I am sure of it,” I replied, speaking earnestly. “This will, if we
find it, on examination, to be an instrument executed according to
legal forms, puts your rights in jeopardy, though by no means sets them
aside.”

“You take the correct view, no doubt,” was her reply to this. Her voice
was not so firm as in the beginning. As the probabilities began to show
themselves again in her favor, she lost a degree of self-possession.

“Let Mr. Wallingford complete his work,” said I, “and find, if possible,
the evidence you require, in case you prove to be the legal heir, as I
trust you will. And until his return, the existence of this important
document had better remain a secret.”

“Shall I not submit it to Judge Bigelow?”

I reflected for some moments, and then replied--

“Yes. He is your legal adviser, and one in whom the highest confidence
may be reposed. The will should be at once placed in his hands for
examination.”

“And go upon record?”

“Better leave all to his superior legal judgment. But,” as the thought
occurred to me, “who are named as the executors of this will?”

“I did not examine as to that, being too much interested in the
provisions of the writing,” she replied.

“May I see the document?”

“Blanche, dear, you will find it in the right-hand drawer of the
secretary, in our room;” and Mrs. Montgomery handed a key to her
daughter, who left the apartment in which we were sitting. She came back
in a few minutes, and handed me a paper, which, on examination, I found
to be written throughout, and evidently by the hand of Captain Allen. It
was dated San Juan de Porto Rico, January 10, 1820, and was witnessed by
two signatures--the names Spanish. The executors were Judge Bigelow and
Squire Floyd. There was an important sentence at the conclusion of the
will. It was in these words:--“In case my wife, in dying, should leave
no relatives, then every thing shall revert to my own right heirs,
should any be living.”

All this gave the affair, in my mind, a more serious aspect. Before
mentioning the executors' names, I said--

“Do you know where Theresa Garcia resided, before her marriage with
Captain Allen?”

“In Porto Rico, as I have learned from old 'Aunty,' and also from
letters found in searching for the will.”

“Which I find was executed at San Juan De Porto Rico, the principal town
on the island. Judge Bigelow and Squire Floyd are the executors.”

I saw her start slightly, and grow a little pale as I said this.

“Judge Bigelow, and Squire Floyd! That is extraordinary!” She was more
disturbed than I had yet seen her in reference to this matter.

“It is remarkable, certainly, that Judge Bigelow, your legal adviser,
should be one of the executors of a will, which determines your
brother's estate out of the line of consanguinity.”

“He must, of course, cease to represent my interest in the case,”
 remarked the lady.

“He cannot represent two diverse interests,” said I.

“No; that is clear.” She said this in a troubled way; and was,
evidently, falling into a perplexed state of mind. “Well, Doctor, what
is to be done?” She spoke with recovered self-possession, after a short
period of silence, looking at me with her old calmness of expression.

I took some moments for reflection, and then said,

“My advice is, to keep your own counsel, and wait until Mr. Wallingford
returns from England. Whenever you place this document in the hands of
Judge Bigelow, he must go over to the adverse interest; when you will
be compelled to seek another legal adviser. You are not just ready for
this; nor will be until after your agent comes back with the result of
his investigations. No wrong to any one can possibly occur from letting
things remain just as they are for a few months.”

“I think your view of the matter correct, Doctor,” was her reply. “And
yet, to keep this secret, even for an hour, when I have no right to its
possession, touches my conscience. Is it just? This will is not in my
favor. It does not even recognize my existence. It devises property,
of large value, in another line; and there may be heirs ready to take
possession, the moment its existence is made known to them. Am I not
intermeddling, unjustly, in the affairs of another?”

“But for you,” I replied, “this will might never have seen the light. If
heirs exist, they can, therefore, have no just reason for complaint at
the brief delay to which, under the circumstances, you are, in
common justice, entitled. Your conscience may be over sensitive, Mrs.
Montgomery.”

“I would rather it were over sensitive than obtuse,” she said. “Worldly
possessions are desirable. They give us many advantages. We all desire
and cling to them. But they are dearly bought at the price of heavenly
possessions. What will it profit a man if he gain the whole world and
lose his own soul? Nothing! It were better for him to die like Lazarus.
No, Doctor, I am resolved in this matter to be simply just. If, in
justice and right, this estate comes into my hands, I will take the
wealth thankfully and use it as wisely as I can. But I will not throw
a single straw in the way of its passing to the legal heirs of my
brother's wife, if any are in existence and can be found.”

“But you will keep this secret until Mr. Wallingford's return?” I urged.

“I do not see that wrong to any one can follow such a delay,” she
answered. “Yes, I will keep the secret.”

“And I will keep it also, even from my good Constance,” said I, “until
your agent's return. The matter lies sacred between us.”



CHAPTER XIV.



“Mrs. Dewey is at her father's,” said my wife to me, one evening in
August, as we sat at the tea-table.

“Ah! have you seen her?” I was interested at once. Six months had
elapsed since Delia's wedding, and this was her first visit home; though
her mother had been twice down to New York, in company with the Squire,
who had business with the firm to which Ralph belonged. In fact, since
his marriage to Squire Floyd's daughter, young Dewey had prevailed upon
his father-in-law to make the house of Floyd, Lawson, Lee & Co., agents
for the entire product of his manufactory--an arrangement which the
Squire regarded as greatly to his advantage.

My question was answered in the affirmative.

“How is she?”

“Looking very well.”

There was no warmth or feeling in my wife's voice or manner, although
Delia had been a favorite with her, and we had often talked about the
pleasure we should have in meeting her again.

“Have you nothing more to say of our young friend?” I asked.

“She is very much changed.”

“For the better?”

“Some might think so. I do not.” There was a disappointed manner about
my wife.

“In what respect is she changed?”

“Some would say that she had grown handsome; and, in truth, her
countenance strikes you, at first, as much improved. It is rounded to a
fuller outline, and has a style about it, caught, I suppose, from city
life and feeling. But she carries her head with a statelier air than is
becoming Squire Floyd's daughter; and I am very sure, that, as the wife
of Ralph Dewey, she has acquired no special consequence. Rich jewelry
may be very well in city drawing-rooms, and public assemblages, where
dress is made conspicuous. But to sport diamond ear-rings and breastpin,
splendid enough for a countess, in her father's little parlor, and
before the eyes of friends who loved her once for herself alone, savored
so strongly of weak pride and vanity, that I could not look upon her
with any of my old feelings. It was Delia Floyd no longer. Already,
the pure, sweet, artless maiden, had changed into a woman of the world,
dressed up for show. Ah, my husband! if this is the effect of city life,
let me never breathe its tainted atmosphere.”

And she dropped her eyes, with a sigh, and sat, lost in thought, for
several moments.

“Your account of Delia pains me,” said I. “Is the case indeed so bad?”

“It is. Alas! the fine gold is dimmed. Our sweet young friend has
strayed from the paths of nature, and will never, I fear, get back
again.”

“Had you any conversation with her?” I inquired.

“Yes: or, rather I listened to her, as she ran on about her city life;
the grand people with whom, she had already become acquainted; and the
splendor of balls, parties, soirees, and operas. I grew sober as she
talked: for not one true womanly sentiment fell from her lips. She did
not express interest in any of her new friends and acquaintances for
the good qualities they possessed; but spoke of their wealth, style of
living, social connections, and other attractions wholly external to the
individual. She was even eloquent over star actresses and opera singers;
one or two of whom she spoke of having met at the house of a fashionable
friend.”

“How true the old adage, that evil communications corrupt good manners!”
 said I.

“There must be some radical weakness in a case of such sudden
deterioration as this,” replied my wife. “Some latent vanity and love of
the world. I cannot believe that one sensible young woman in ten would
be spoiled to the degree that Delia is spoiled, if you passed her
through like temptations.”

I saw Delia myself, on the next day. She was dressed in New York, not in
S----, style; and so, naturally, appeared to disadvantage in my eyes.
I found her very bright and animated; and to my questions as to her
new city life, she spoke warmly of its attractions. At times, in the
intervals of exciting talk, her countenance would fall into its true
expression, as nearly all countenances will when thought ceases to be
active--that expression, in which you see, as in a mirror, the actual
state of mind. It revealed far more than came into her consciousness at
the time, else would she have covered it with one of the rippling smiles
she had already learned to throw, like a spangled veil, over her face.

Mrs. Dewey spent nearly a month in S----and then went back with her
husband to New York. I saw them several times together during this
period. He had grown more pompous in manner, and talked in a larger way.
Our little town was simply contemptible in his eyes, and he was at no
pains to conceal his opinion. New York was everything; and a New York
merchant of passable standing, able to put two or three towns like
S----in his breeches pocket.

The only interest I felt in this conceited young man was as the husband
of my young friend; and as touching their relation to each other, I
observed both of them very closely. It did not take me long to discover
that there was no true bond of love between them. The little fond
attentions that we look for in a husband of only six months' standing;
and the tender reciprocations which are sure to follow, were all wanting
here. Constance spoke of this, and I answered, lightly, to cover the
regret the fact occasioned--

“It is not fashionable in good society, you know, for husband and wife
to show any interest in each other.”

She laid her hand suddenly upon my arm, and looked lovingly into my
face.

“May we never make a part of good society, then!”

I kissed her pure lips, and answered,

“There is no present prospect of it, my Constance. I am not ambitious of
social distinction. Still, our trial in this direction may come, for you
know that I am not without ambition professionally. A chair in one of
the medical schools might tempt me to an Atlantic city.”

Constance smiled, as she still rested her hand upon my arm. Then looking
from my face to our little ones, two of whom were playing on the floor,
while the third slept like a vision of innocence in the cradle, she
said:--

“I shall not need the glitter of diamonds--these are my jewels.”

Turn your eyes away, good society reader, lest they be offended at sight
of a husband's kiss. Could I do less than breathe my tender love upon
her lips again?

“And richer jewels were never worn in the diadem of a queen,” said I.
“As a mother, woman attains her highest glory.”

“As wife and mother,” Constance answered quickly. And now she leaned
against me, and I drew my arm tenderly around her.

“And all this,” she said, “a good society woman must give up; and for
what? God help them in the time of life's bitter trials and painful
experience, which all must endure in some degree!” She spoke with strong
feeling. “On what arm can a woman lean, who has no husband in the true
sense? Is she strong enough, standing alone, for life's great battles?
What has she to sustain her, when all the external support, received
from pride, is swept away? Alas! Alas! Is there a blinder folly than the
pageantry of fashionable society? It is the stage on a grander scale,
glittering, gorgeous, fascinating to the senses--but all a mere
show, back from which the actors retire, each with an individual
consciousness, and the sad words pressing to tremulous lips--'The heart
knoweth its own bitterness.'”

Like ourselves, most of Delia's best friends were disappointed, and when
she returned to New York, no hearts followed her with tender interest,
except those of her own family. She had carried herself with an air
of too much self-consequence; or, if she came down to the level of
old friends and companions, it was with too evident a feeling of
condescension.

I happened to fall into the company of Squire Floyd and Judge Bigelow,
not very long after the return of Delia and her husband to New York.
The conversation turned upon business, and I learned that the Squire had
thought of enlarging his mill, and introducing steam--the water power
being only sufficient for its present productive capacity. Judge
Bigelow was very much interested, I found, in the particular branch of
manufacture in which his neighbor was engaged, and inclined to embark
some capital with him in the proposed extension of the works. They
frequently quoted the Judge's nephew, Mr. Ralph Dewey, as to the extent
to which goods could be put into market by the house of Floyd, Lawson,
Lee & Co., who possessed, it was conceded, almost unlimited facilities.

I listened to their conversation, which involved plans of enlargement,
statistics of trade, home and foreign production, capital, and the
like, until I began to feel that I was moving in a narrow sphere, and
destined, in comparison with them, to occupy a very small space on the
world. And I will confess it, a shade of dissatisfaction crept over my
heart.

A few months later I learned that my two neighbors were jointly
interested in the mill, and that early in the ensuing spring steam-power
would be introduced, and the capacity of the works increased to more
than double their present range.

It was December when Wallingford returned from England. He brought
back with him all the evidence required to prove the identity of Mrs.
Montgomery. Up to this time only three persons knew of the existence of
a will--Mrs. Montgomery, Blanche, and myself; and we formed a council on
the question of what was now to be done. I gave it as my opinion, that,
as Judge Bigelow was one of the executors, and must in consequence cease
to act for Mrs. Montgomery, that we had better call in Mr. Wallingford,
and get his view of the case before placing the will in Judge Bigelow's
hands. The mother and daughter agreed with me. So a time of meeting was
appointed, and a note sent to the young lawyer desiring his presence
at the house of Mrs. Montgomery. He seemed very much gratified at the
successful result of his visit to England, and referred to it with
something of pardonable pride in his manner.

“We have every reason,” said Mrs. Montgomery, in response to this, “to
be satisfied with the manner in which you have executed an important
mission. Since you left America, however, a document has come into my
hands, which, had it reached me earlier, would have saved you a long and
tedious search among mouldy and moth-eaten papers. It was nothing less
than Captain Allen's will.”

And she gave him the paper. He looked surprised, and for a moment or two
bewildered. Then opening the will, he read it through rapidly. I saw the
color leave his face as he progressed, and his hand move nervously.
It was plain that his mind took in, at a grasp, the entire series of
consequences which the appearance of this document involved.

“This is a serious matter,” he said, looking up at Mrs. Montgomery.

“It is,” she answered, calmly. “The will appears to be in legal form.”

“Yes.”

“And must go into the hands of those who are named as executors.”

“And be by them entered in the office of probate,” added Wallingford.

“I would have placed it in their hands immediately on its discovery, but
have, acting under advice from my kind friend here, waited until your
return from England. No interest has suffered, I presume, by this
delay?”

“None.”

Wallingford bent his eyes to the floor, and sat for some time as if
half-confounded by the discovery.

“What step will the executors probably take?” I inquired.

“It will be their duty to assume possession of the estate, and hold it
for the heirs of Mrs. Allen, if any are in existence,” he replied.

“And it will be their duty to take all proper means for discovering
these heirs?” said I.

“Yes. That follows, of course.”

“And if none are found within a reasonable time?” I asked.

“The phrase, a reasonable time, is very indeterminate,” said
Wallingford. “It may include one, or ten years, according to the facts
in the case, the views of the executors and the courts.”

“But, finally?”

“Finally,” he answered, “if no heirs come forward to claim the estate,
it will revert to the old line of descent through the blood relations of
Captain Allen.”

“And come into the possession of Mrs. Montgomery?”

“Yes, if the courts are satisfied with the evidence which can be
presented in her favor.”

There followed a long silence, which Mrs. Montgomery was first to break.

“I believe,” she said, firmly, “that I am prepared for the final issue
of this matter, whatever it may be. I shall still require legal advice,
Mr. Wallingford.”

The young man bowed assent.

“And, as Judge Bigelow is one of the executors--”

“I do not think, madam,” said Wallingford, interrupting her, “that the
fact of his executorship will make him any the less a safe adviser for
you. He is a man of the highest integrity of character, clear-seeing,
and of impartial judgment.”

“I believe in his judgment and integrity,” she replied. “Still, I do not
think it well to have these two interests represented by the same man.
You are his associate, if I understand correctly the relation between
you.”

“I am, in a certain sense.”

“Do you have a share in all of his business?”

“Not in all.”

“So he can be independent of you in any special case if he deems it
desirable.”

“Yes.”

“And this is also true as regards yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Then, Mr. Wallingford, I shall consult you, individually, in future.”

He bowed low in acquiescence.

“And let me say to you, once for all, that I want only my rights, if I
have any, protected. I do not wish any impediments thrown in the way
of a proper search for the heirs of Mrs. Allen; but desire to see the
fullest notice given, and in channels by which it is most likely to
reach them. At the same time, it is but just to me and mine that all
right steps should be taken to protect my interests, in case no heirs
should be found. And I have faith in you, Mr. Wallingford.”

“You shall never have cause to regret your confidence, madam,” he
replied, in a tone so full of manly integrity, that I could not but gaze
upon his fine countenance with a feeling of admiration.

“Will you place this will in the hands of Judge Bigelow?” asked Mrs.
Montgomery.

“It will be best for you to do that yourself, madam,” replied
Wallingford.

“I will be guided by your judgment in the case, sir. This very day I
will send him a note asking an interview.”

“After that, madam,” said Wallingford, rising, “I will be at your
service.”

We retired together.



CHAPTER XV.



Both Judge Bigelow and Squire Floyd were discreet men, and did not, at
the outset of their executorship, do more in the way of giving publicity
to the fact, than probating the will, and entering into bonds for the
faithful performance of the trust. For the present they decided to let
Mrs. Montgomery remain in occupancy of the old mansion, and she accepted
this concession in her favor.

The property left by Captain Allen was large. The grounds upon which the
old house stood, embraced nearly twenty acres, and as the town had grown
in that direction, its value might now be estimated by the foot, instead
of the acre, as houses had grown up on all sides. Moreover, the stream
of water upon which the mill of Squire Floyd stood, ran through these
grounds, in a series of picturesque rapids, giving a fall of over twenty
feet. The value of this property, including a mill site, was estimated
at sixty thousand dollars. Then there were twenty thousand dollars in
stock of the County Bank, the interest of which Mrs. Allen had drawn
since the death of her husband, regularly, as administratrix of the
estate. Besides this property, there were several pieces of unimproved
land in and around the town, the value of which could not fall much
below twenty thousand dollars. In addition to all this, was a coffee
estate on the island of Porto Rico. But as to its extent, or value, no
evidence appeared. It might now be richly productive, or a mere tropical
wilderness. If productive, no evidence of any return since Captain
Allen's death appeared.

The winter passed without any apparent movement on the part of the
executors looking to the discovery of Mrs. Allen's heirs. Young Dewey
came up from New York every few weeks, to hold business interviews with
his uncle and Squire Floyd, touching the mill-extension which was
fully determined upon; Judge Bigelow agreeing to invest twenty thousand
dollars, and the nephew ten thousand. All these matters were talked of
in the beginning, freely, before Wallingford, who still had his office
with his old preceptor, and shared in his business. After a while, he
noticed a growing reserve on the part of Judge Bigelow and Squire Floyd,
when he was by, touching their private affairs; and then they ceased
entirely all reference thereto.

Dewey came up as frequently as usual, but avoided any remark in relation
to business while in the presence of Wallingford. During his stay in
S----, the Judge spent but little time at the office; being, for the
most part, at the mill with his nephew and the Squire.

In the s

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