The Allen House, or Twenty Years Ago and Now
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T. S. Arthur >> The Allen House, or Twenty Years Ago and Now
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17 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."
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