



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