“It will be right for you to give such advice as your judgment dictates, and therefore safe. I do not know much about law matters, but it occurs to me that her first step should be the employment of counsel.”

“Is her father going to stand wholly aloof?” I inquired.

“Yes, if she be resolved to defend herself in open court. He will not sanction a course that involves so much disgrace of herself and family.”

“Has she shown him the letter you saw?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I think she is afraid to let it go out of her hands.”

“She might trust it with her father, surely,” said I.

“Her father has been very hard with her; and seems to take the worst for granted. He evidently believes that it is in the power of Dewey to prove her guilty; and that if she makes any opposition to his application for a divorce, he will hold her up disgraced before the world.”

“This letter might open his eyes.”

“The letter is no defence of her; only a witness against him. It does not prove her innocence. If it did, then it would turn toward her a father’s averted face. In court its effect will be to throw doubt upon the sincerity of her husband’s motives, and to show that he had a reason, back of alleged infidelity, for wishing to be divorced from his wife.”

“I declare, Constance!” said I, looking at my wife in surprise, “you have taken upon yourself a new character. I think the case is safe in your hands, and that Mrs. Dewey wants no more judicious friend. If you were a man, you might conduct the defence for her to a successful issue.”

“I am not a man, and, therefore, I come to a man,” she replied, “and ask the aid of his judgment. I go by a very straight road to conclusions; but I want the light of your reason upon these conclusions.”

“I am not a lawyer as you are aware, Constance—only a doctor.”

“You are a man with a heart and common sense,” she answered, with just a little shade of rebuke in her tones, “and as God has put in your way a wretched human soul that may be lost, unless you stretch forth a saving hand, is there any room for question as to duty? There is none, my husband! Squire Floyd believes his daughter guilty; and while he rests in this conclusion, he will not aid her in anything that points to exposure and disgrace. She must, therefore, if a vigorous defence is undertaken, look elsewhere for aid and comfort.”

I began to see the matter a little clearer.

“Mr. Wallingford is the best man I know.”

“Mr. Wallingford!” I thought Constance would have looked me through.

“Mr. Wallingford!” she repeated, still gazing steadily into my face. “Are you jesting?”

“No,” I replied calmly. “In a case that involves so much, she wants a wise and good defender; and I do not know of any man upon whom she could so thoroughly rely.”

Constance dropped her eyes to the floor.

“It would not do,” she said, after some moments.

“Why?”

“Their former relation to each other precludes its possibility.”

“But, you must remember, Constance, that Delia never knew how deeply he was once attached to her.”

“She knows that he offered himself.”

“And that, in a very short time afterwards, he met her with as much apparent indifference as if she had never been to him more than a pleasant acquaintance. Of the struggle through which he passed, in the work of obliterating her image from his mind, she knows nothing.”

“But he knows it,” objected Constance.

“And what does that signify? Will he defend her less skillfully on this account? Rather will he not feel a stronger interest in the case?”

“I do not think that she will employ him to defend her,” said Constance. “I would not, were the case mine.”

“Womanly pride spoke there, Constance.”

“Or rather say a manly lack of perception in your case.”

“Perception of what?”

“Of the fitness of things,” she answered.

“That is just what I do see,” I returned. “There is no man in S–better fitted for conducting this case than Mr. Wallingford.”

“She will never place it in his hands; you may take a woman’s word for that,” said my wife confidently. “Of all living men he is the last one to whom she could talk of the humiliating particulars involved in a case like this.”

“Suppose you suggest his name to her. Twelve years of such a life as she has led may have almost obliterated the memory of that passage in her life.”

“Don’t believe it. A woman never forgets a passage like that; particularly when the events of every passing day but serve to remind her of the error she once committed.”

“I don’t know what else to advise,” said I. “She ought to have a good and discreet man to represent her, or all may be lost.”

“Would you have any objection to confer with Mr. Wallingford on the subject in a private, confidential way?”

“None in the world,” I replied.

“Will you see him at once?” The interest of Constance was too strongly excited to brook delay.

“Yes, immediately.”

And putting on my overcoat I went to the office of Mr. Wallingford. I found him alone, and at once laid the whole case before him—relating, with particularity, all that had occurred between my wife and Mrs. Dewey. He listened with deep and pitying attention; and when I was through, expressed his opinion of Dewey in very strong language.

“And now what is to be done?” I asked, going at once to the vital question.

“Your wife is right,” he answered. “I can hardly become her advocate. It would involve humiliation on her part too deep to be borne. But my aid she shall have to the fullest extent; and it will be strange if I do not thwart his wicked scheme.”

“How will you aid her?”

“Through her right attorney, if my advice as to the choice be followed. You know James Orton?”

“Yes.”

“He is a young man to be relied upon. Let Mrs. Dewey put the case in his hands. If she does so, it will be, virtually, in mine.”

“Enough, Mr. Wallingford,” said I. “It looks more hopeful for our poor unhappy friend, against whom even her own flesh and blood have turned.”

When I gave Constance the result of my interview with Mr. Wallingford, she was quite elated at the prospect of securing his most valuable aid for Mrs. Dewey. Orton was young, and had been practising at the bar for only a couple of years. Up to this time he had not appeared in any case of leading importance; and had, therefore, no established reputation. Our fear was that Mrs. Dewey might not be willing to place her case in such inexperienced hands. In order to have the matter settled with as little delay as possible, Constance paid an early visit to the Allen House, and suggested Mr. Orton as counsel. Mrs. Dewey had not even heard his name; but, after being assured that I had the fullest confidence in him, and particularly advised his employment, she consented to accept of his services.

Their first interview was arranged to take place at my house, and in the presence of my wife, when the notice Mrs. Dewey had received on the institution of proceedings, was placed in the young lawyer’s hands, and some conversation had as to the basis and tenor of an answer. A second interview took place on the day following, at which Mrs. Dewey gave a full statement of the affair at Saratoga, and asserted her innocence in the most solemn and impressive manner. The letter from her husband to the lady in New York, was produced, and at the request of Mr. Orton, given into his possession.

The answer to Mr. Dewey’s application for a divorce was drawn up by Mr. Wallingford, who entered with great earnestness into the matter. It was filed in court within a week after notice of the application was received. This was altogether unexpected by the husband, who, on becoming aware of the fact, lost all decent control of himself, and ordered his wretched wife to leave his house. This, however, she refused to do. Then she had her father’s angry opposition to brave. But she remained firm.

“He will cover you with infamy, if you dare to persevere in this mad opposition,” he said. And she answered—

“The infamy may recoil upon his own head. I am innocent—I will not be such a traitor to virtue as to let silence declare me guilty.”

There was a pause, now, for a few weeks. The unhappy state of affairs at the Allen House made it hardly proper for my wife to continue her visits there, and Mrs. Dewey did not venture to call upon her. The trial of the case would not come up for some two or three months, and both parties were waiting, in stern resolution, for the approaching contest.

One day I received a message from Mrs. Dewey, desiring me to call and see two of her children who were sick. On visiting them—the two youngest—I found them seriously ill, with symptoms so like scarletina, that I had little question in my mind as to the character of the disease from which they were suffering. My second visit confirmed these fears.

“It is scarlet fever?” said Mrs. Dewey, looking at me calmly, as I moved from the bed-side after a careful examination of the two little ones.

I merely answered—

“Yes.”

There was no change in her countenance.

“They are both very ill.”

She spoke with a slow deliberateness, that was unusual to her.

“They are sick children,” said I.

“Sick, it may be, unto death.”

There was no emotion in her voice.

I looked at her without replying.

“I can see them die, Doctor, if that must be.”

Oh, that icy coldness of manner, how it chilled me!

“No hand but mine shall tend them now, Doctor. They have been long enough in the care of others—neglected—almost forgotten—by their unworthy mother. But in this painful extremity I will be near them. I come back to the post of duty, even at this late hour, and all that is left for me, that will I do.”

I was deeply touched by her words and manner.

The latter softened a little as she uttered the closing sentence.

“You look at the darkest side,” I answered. “With God are the issues of life. He calls us, our children, or our friends, in His own good time. We cannot tell how any sickness will terminate; and hope for the best is always our truest state.”

“I hope for the best,” she replied; but with something equivocal in her voice.

“The best is life,” I said, scarcely reflecting upon my words.

“Not always,” she returned, still speaking calmly. “Death is often the highest blessing that God can give. It will be so in the present case.”

“Madam!”

My tone of surprise did not move her.

“It is simply true, Doctor,” she made answer. “As things are now, and as they promise to be in the future, the safest place for these helpless innocents is in Heaven; and I feel that their best Friend is about to remove them there through the door of sickness.”

I could not bear to hear her talk in this way. It sent cold chills through me. So I changed the subject.

On the next day, all the symptoms were unfavorable. Mrs. Dewey was calm as when I last saw her; but it was plain from her appearance, that she had taken little if any rest. Her manner towards the sick babes was full of tenderness; but there was no betrayal of weakness or distress in view of a fatal termination. She made no anxious inquiries, such as are pressed on physicians in cases of dangerous illness; but received my directions, and promised to give them a careful observance, with a self-possession that showed not a sign of wavering strength.

I was touched by all this. How intense must have been the suffering that could so benumb the heart!—that could prepare a mother to sit by the couch of her sick babes, and be willing to see them die! I have witnessed many sad scenes in professional experience; but none so sad as this.

Steadily did the destroyer keep on with his work. There were none of those flattering changes that sometimes cheat us into hopes of recovery, but a regular daily accumulation of the most unfavorable symptoms. At the end of a week, I gave up all hope of saving the children, and made no more vain attempts to control a disease that had gone on from tie beginning, steadily breaking away the foundations of life. To diminish the suffering of my little patients, and make their passage from earth to Heaven as easy as possible, was now my only care.

On the mother’s part, there was no sign of wavering. Patiently, tenderly, faithfully did she minister to her little ones, night and day. No lassitude or weariness appeared, though her face, which grew paler and thinner every day, told the story of exhausting nature. She continued in the same state of mind I have described; never for an instant, as far as I could see, receding from a full consent to their removal.

One morning, in making my usually early call at the Allen House, I saw, what I was not unprepared to see, a dark death sign on the door.

“All over?” I said to the servant who admitted me.

“Yes, sir, all is over,” she replied.

“Both gone?”

“Yes, sir, both.”

Tears were in her eyes.

“When did they die?”

“About midnight.”

“At the same time?”

“Yes, sir. Dear little souls! They went together.”

“I will go up to see them,” said I.

And the girl showed me to the room in which they were laid. The door was closed. I opened it, and stepped in softly. The room was darkened; but light came in through a small opening in the curtains at the top of the window, and fell in a narrow circle around the spot where the bodies, already in their snowy grave clothes, were laid. In a chair beside them sat the mother. She was alone with her dead. I felt that I was an intruder upon a sorrow too deep for tears or words; but it was too late to recede. So I moved forward and stood by the bedside, looking down upon the two white little faces, from which had passed every line of suffering.

Mrs. Dewey neither stirred nor spoke, nor in any way gave token that she was aware of my presence in the room. I stood for over a minute looking upon the sweet images before me—for in them, death had put on forms of beauty—and still there was no movement on the part of Mrs. Dewey. Then, feeling that she was with One who could speak to her heart by an inner way, better than I could speak through the natural ear, I quietly receded and left the apartment. As my eyes rested on her a moment, in closing the door, I saw that her form remained as still as a statue.

CHAPTER XXIII

An hour later, when Constance went to see Mrs. Dewey, she found her in a state of unconsciousness, nature having at last given way. Not long after I left the house, her mother, on entering the room where the children were laid out, found her insensible, lying across the bed, with her dead babes clasped in her arms.

Mrs. Floyd sent word for me to come and see her daughter, as she continued in a lethargic state. I found her like one in a deep sleep, only her breathing was light, and her pulse very feeble, but regular. She was out of the reach of my skill, and in the hands of the Great Physician. I could only trust the cure to Him. No medicine for the body would be of any avail here. I called again in the afternoon; but found no change. How little was there in the pale, pinched face that lay among the white pillows, to remind me of the handsome, dashing Mrs. Dewey, of a year gone by!

“What do you think of her, Doctor?”

Mrs. Floyd put the question. The tone had in it something that made me look narrowly into the speaker’s face. My ears had not deceived me.

There was the wish in her heart that Delia might die!

I was not surprised at this. And yet the revelation of such a state of feeling, in so good and true a woman, as I had reason to know Mrs. Floyd to be, made my heart bound with a throb of pain.

Alas! alas! Into what unnatural conditions may not the mind fall, through suffering that shuts out human hope!

“Nature,” said I, in answer to the question of Mrs. Floyd, “may be only gathering up her powers after a long period of exhaustion. The strife through which your daughter has passed—calmly passed to all external seeming—has not been without a wasting of internal life. How she kept on so evenly to the end, passes my comprehension. There is not one woman in a thousand who could have so borne herself through to the final act. It is meet that she should rest now.”

“If she were sleeping with her babes, happy would it be for her!”

Tears fell over the face of Mrs. Floyd.

“God knows what is best,” I remarked.

“She has nothing to live for in this world.” A sob broke from its repression, and heaved the mother’s bosom. “O Doctor, if I saw the death dews on her brow, I would not weep!”

“Leave her, my dear friend,” said I, “in the hands of Him who sees deeper into the heart than it is possible for our eyes to penetrate. Her feet have left the soft, flowery ways they trod for a time, and turned into rough paths, where every footfall is upon sharp stones; but it may be that a blessed land is smiling beyond, he has been astray in the world, and God may only be leading her homeward by the way of sorrow.”

Mrs. Floyd wept freely as I talked.

“His will be done,” she said, sobbing.

“Your daughter,” said I, taking the occasion to bear my testimony on the favorable side, “has been wronged without question. She was doubtless imprudent, but not sinful; and the present attempt to disgrace her I regard as a cruel wrong. It will recoil, I trust, in a way not dreamed of.”

“O Doctor, let me thank you for such words.”

And Mrs. Floyd caught my arm with an eager movement.

“I speak soberly, madam, and from observation and reflection. And I trust to see Delia live and triumph over her enemies.”

“Won’t you talk with the Squire, Doctor?” She still grasped my arm. “He will not hear a word from me in favor of Delia. Mr. Dewey has completely blinded him.”

“Wait patiently, Mrs. Floyd,” said I, in a tone of encouragement. “Your daughter is not without friends. There are those upon her side, who have the will and the power to defend her; and they will defend her, I believe successfully.”

A sigh fluttered through the room, causing us both to turn quickly towards the bed on which Mrs. Dewey was lying. Her lips were moving slightly; but no change appeared on her death-like face. I laid my fingers upon her wrist, and searched for her pulse. It was very low and thread-like; but with more vitality than on the occasion of my first visit to her in the morning.

“The signs are favorable.”

Mrs. Floyd did not respond. She was looking at her daughter with an expression of unutterable grief upon her countenance.

I did not attempt to give medicine, but left unerring nature to do her own work.

Mrs. Dewey did not again look upon the faces of her dead children. They were buried ere her mind awoke to any knowledge of passing events. I was at the funeral, and closely observed her husband. He appeared very sober, and shed some tears at the grave, when the little coffins were lowered together into the earth.

It was a week before Mrs. Dewey was clearly conscious of external things. I visited her every day, watching, with deep interest, her slow convalescence. It was plain, as her mind began to recover its faculties, that the memory of a sad event had faded; and I was anxious for the effect, when this painful remembrance was restored.

One day I found her sitting up in her room. She smiled feebly as I came in, and said:

“Doctor, am I never going to get well? It seems like an age since I became sick.”

“You are getting on finely,” I answered, in a cheerful way, sitting down by her and taking her hand, which was wasted and shadowy.

“I don’t know about that, Doctor,” she said.

“What makes me so weak? I’ve no more strength than a babe. And that reminds me of a frightful dream I had.” And her countenance changed.

“A dream?” I queried.

“Yes; I thought Aggy and Lu were both dead! I saw them laid out, cold and white as statues, just as plainly as I see you now.”

She stopped suddenly, an expression of fear going over her face—then looked at me in a strange, questioning way.

“Doctor”—she leaned towards me, with lips apart, and eyes full of a sudden, wild alarm. I laid my hand upon her, and said:

“You have been very ill for some time, Mrs. Dewey, and are too weak to bear excitement. Don’t let mere dreams disturb you.”

“Dreams?” Her eyes fell from mine. “Dreams?” she repeated. “I feel very weak, Doctor,” was added, after a few moments. “Won’t you assist me to lie down?”

And she made a movement to rise. I took her arm and supported her to the bed, where she quietly composed herself, and turned her face away, so as almost to hide it from my view. At this moment Mrs. Floyd came in, and I withdrew, leaving them together.

Memory had been restored. The accompanying shock was severe, but not heavy enough seriously to retard her recovery, which went on slowly. She still remained at the Allen House, rarely meeting her husband, who now spent a large part of his time in New York.

The period fixed for a trial of the case between them was fast approaching. He continued resolute, and she did not waver from her purpose to defend her good name. The deep interest I took in the case, led me to see Mr. Wallingford often, and make inquiry as to the evidence which could be produced in Mrs. Dewey’s favor, and the probable chances of an honorable result. We both favored a settlement of the difficulty without a trial and its consequent exposure, if that were possible. But how to prevent this was the difficult question. Finally it was determined to make a copy of the letter found by Mrs. Dewey, and enclose it to her husband, giving him warning at the same time that the original would be produced at the trial.

Nothing was heard in response to this movement, until within a week of the day on which the case was expected to come up, when Mr. Dewey’s lawyer called on Mr. Orton to know if it was still his intention to meet them in open court and resist their application for a divorce. On being assured that such was their purposes he expressed some regret at the consequent damage to the lady’s reputation, as they had evidence against her of the most conclusive character. Finally he wished to know whether, in case a new ground were taken—one not touching the lady’s good name—any opposition would be made. Mr. Orton said that he would consult his client, and answer the query with as little delay as practicable.

Mrs. Dewey expressed a willingness to remain passive, provided no allegations were made in the new bill that even remotely cast a shadow upon her virtue.

But Mr. Wallingford, on taking the matter into further consideration, advised a different course altogether—no less than an application from the other side, on the ground of neglect, ill-treatment, and constructive conjugal infidelity, based on the important letter already referred to. Mrs. Dewey caught eagerly at this suggestion, as soon as it was presented to her. If a divorce were thus obtained, her vindication would be complete.

The ranks of the enemy were thrown into confusion by this diversion. Mr. Dewey was violent, and threatened most terrible consequences. But when the time set for the case to come up arrived, he failed to appear.

It was from the other side that the next movement came. A divorce was applied for on the part of Mrs. Dewey, in a bill carefully drawn up by Mr. Wallingford. It asked not only for a legal separation from her husband, but for alimony, and the possession of the two remaining children. An answer was filed; but it was of so feeble a character as to amount to scarcely anything in the way of opposition. The chief argument was directed against the claim for alimony. The result was as we had anticipated. In the following spring a divorce was granted, and Mrs. Dewey, with her two children, left the Allen House and returned to her father’s. The maintenance allowed by the court, was one thousand dollars a year for herself, and five hundred a year for each of the children during their minority.

And so closed this exciting drama, begun in weakness, and ending in hopeless disaster. Oh, a few years! How many broken hearts do they close over? How many wrecks of goodly lives do they see scattered among the breakers!

The interposition of Mr. Wallingford, in this case, was so managed as to keep him entirely out of sight, and Mrs. Dewey was never made aware of the fact that he had rendered her a great service.

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The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

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