The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

CHAPTER XXVI

As my profession kept me going about all the while, I had opportunities for observing the movements of other people. The day following the meeting referred to in the last chapter, I saw Dewey, the Judge, and the Squire together several times, and always in earnest talk. As I came home, towards evening, I saw them all entering Mr. Dewey’s residence. It was plain that there was trouble in the camp.

On the next day, Mr. Dewey left town. I noticed him going into a car at the depot. When the time came for our meeting, a postponement was asked for. I felt like demurring, but Mr. Wallingford readily consented.

“Give them a little more time,” said he, as we walked away from Judge Bigelow’s office. “It will come out as we desired. The easiest way for them to arrange with us, is to let us have the Allen House property, which is owned by the firm of which Dewey is a member; and it is with a view to this, I have no doubt, that he is now in New York.”

So we waited a few days longer. The return of Mr. Dewey took place in the course of a week, when I received a note from Judge Bigelow, asking a private interview. I found him and his nephew alone. They received me in a pleasant, affable way; and the Judge said that he wished to have a little talk with me before another formal meeting of the executors. I answered that it would give me pleasure to confer with him; though I could neither accept nor propose any thing, standing alone.

“It is not with a view to that, Doctor,” replied the Judge, his countenance putting on a shade of gravity that nearly obliterated the smiles with which he at first received me. “But I thought it might help to a better issue, if two of the parties representing the opposite interests in this case were to have a little informal conversation.”

“I am ready to hear any thing you have to say, Judge, and shall be very happy if I can aid, in any thing, the satisfactory adjustment of these matters.” My answer, I thought, appeared to give him confidence, and he said—

“Without doubt you can aid, Doctor. The position in which Squire Floyd and myself find ourselves placed, is one of some embarrassment. In making investments of the property which came into our hands, we had reference, of course, to its security and productiveness; at the same time looking to a period, still some years in advance, when our trust would cease, and the property pass in due course to the heir-at-law. To realize on these investments now, would be to damage the interests of others; and I cannot feel that it would be right for you to urge this. The discovery of a new will, bearing a later date, is a thing wholly unexpected. We had no warning to prepare for the summary action growing out of its appearance, and, as I have just intimated, cannot proceed without injury to others.”

“I do not believe,” said Mr. Dewey, “that the court, if the case was fairly stated, would require this speedy settlement of the trust. And it is my advice, that the whole matter be referred back for a new award as to time. A year longer should be conceded to the executors under the old will.”

“That would be equitable,” said the Judge.

“I am afraid,” I made answer to this, “that Mr. Wallingford will not consent to any postponement.”

“He won’t? The hound!” I was startled by the fierceness of Dewey’s tone of voice, and, turning to look at him, saw on his countenance an expression of malignant hatred.

“Ralph!” said Judge Bigelow, in a warning voice.

“I can’t repress my indignation,” answered the nephew. “What demons from the nether hell have conspired to give him power over us? If it had been any other man in the world I could have borne it patiently.”

“Ralph! Ralph!” interposed the Judge, in a deprecating voice.

“It is no use, uncle. I cannot keep down my feeling,” was replied. “To see you hunted by this hound, who owes you everything.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Dewey,” said I, “but I cannot hear such language used towards a gentleman of irreproachable character. Mr. Wallingford is not entitled to the epithet you give; and I warn you, not to repeat that, or anything like it, in my presence.”

“You warn me!”

A gleam shot towards me from his evil eyes.

“Ralph! silence!” The Judge spoke sternly.

“Yes, in all soberness, I warn you,” said I, fixing my gaze upon him, and holding his eyes until they fell to the floor. “Mr. Wallingford is not the man to permit any one to use language about him, such as you have indulged in. If you make use of another opprobrious epithet, I will communicate the fact to him immediately. And let me say, that, unless a different temper is manifested, I must terminate this interview at once.”

Judge Bigelow drew his nephew aside, and talked for some time with him, in a low, earnest tone; after which the latter apologized, though with an ill grace, for the intemperance of his manner—alleging that an old wound smarted whenever Wallingford crossed his path.

The result of this confidential talk was not as favorable on my mind as Judge Bigelow had hoped to make it. I pitied his embarrassment; but the conduct of Dewey confirmed my previous view of the case, which was to require a transfer of the property specified by Mr. Wallingford, or press for an immediate foreclosure of the mill investments. There was, I felt satisfied, hazard in delay.

When our next formal meeting took place, Dewey was again present. It was in my thought to suggest that he was not a party covered by the business to be considered, when Mr. Wallingford said, in his mild, grave way—

“I believe this is a meeting of the Executors under the two wills of Captain Allen.”

The meaning of his remark could not be misunderstood, for he glanced towards Mr. Dewey as he spoke. That individual, however, did not choose to regard himself as referred to, and made no sign. But Mr. Wallingford was not the man to let a deliberate purpose fall to the ground. He had come with the intention of objecting to Dewey’s presence at the conference, and to insist upon his retiring, as a preliminary to business.

No one replying to Mr. Wallingford’s remark, he said, further—

“I do not mean to be uncourteous, but I must suggest the propriety of Mr. Dewey’s withdrawal.”

“I am an interested party,” said Dewey, with ill-concealed anger.

“Ah! I was not before aware of this,” replied Wallingford, and he looked inquiringly towards the Judge and Squire. They showed an uneasy perplexity of manner, but did not respond.

“In what way are you interested?” queried Mr. Wallingford.

“I am one of the guardians to the heir under an existing will.”

“A will that the decision of our court has rendered null and void,” was promptly answered. “We have not met to consider questions in which Leon Garcia, or his representative, has any concern. Our business refers to other matters.”

Dewey moved uneasily, and seemed struggling to keep down his rising displeasure. But he did not, manifest any intention to withdraw.

“Had we not better proceed to business?” suggested Squire Floyd.

“Not while Mr. Dewey remains,” said I, firmly taking the side of Mr. Wallingford.

“Somebody will repent himself of this!” exclaimed the ill-governed man, passionately, starting to his feet, and striding from the office.

“I don’t understand this individual’s conduct,” remarked Wallingford, in a serious way. “Why has he presumed to intermeddle in our business? It has a bad look.”

He knit his brows closely, and put on a stern aspect, very unusual to him.

“You probably forget,” said Judge Bigelow, “that you have proposed a change of ownership in property now occupied by him?”

“That was simply to give you more latitude in settling up the estate in your hands. I said we were willing to accept that property at a fair valuation, thinking it would offer a desirable mode of liquidation. It is for you to say yea or nay to us; not Ralph Dewey. If you cannot gain his consent to the transfer, there is an end of that proposal.”

I really commiserated the embarrassment shown by the Judge and Squire. They seemed to be in a maze, without perceiving the right way of extrication. Dewey appeared to have over them some mysterious influence, above which they had not power to rise.

“If Ralph will not consent—”

“Ralph must consent!” exclaimed Squire Floyd, with a sudden energy of manner, and the exhibition of a degree of will not shown before. “Ralph must consent! The mode of adjustment proposed by Mr. Wallingford is the one easiest for us to accomplish, and I shall insist on Dewey’s giving up his opposition. There is a vast deal more of pride than principle involved in his objection.”

The Squire was breaking away from his fetters.

“It is plain,” added Squire Floyd, “that his partners wish that property to go in preference to any other. And it must go.”

This was a style of remark quite unexpected on our part; and only added firmness to our purpose. The interview was not prolonged in discussion. We merely reaffirmed our ultimatum, and gave one week for the two men to decide in what manner to close their trust.

CHAPTER XXVII

The decision was as I expected it to be; and the old property came back into the family. There were few hearts in S–, that did not beat with pleasure, when it was known that Mr. Wallingford and his lovely wife were to pass from Ivy Cottage to the stately Allen House.

I think the strife between Mr. Dewey and the old executors was severe, and that he yielded only when he saw that they were immovable. An open rupture with Squire Floyd was a consequence of his persistent determination to have the Allen property transferred; and after the settlement of this business, they held no personal communication with each other.

The change in Mr. Dewey’s appearance, after it became a settled thing that he must remove from the splendid mansion he had occupied for years, was remarkable. He lost the impressive swagger that always said, “I am the first man in S–;” and presented the appearance of one who had suffered some great misfortune, without growing better under the discipline. He did not meet you with the free, open, better-than-you look that previously characterized him, but with a half sidelong falling of the eyes, in which there was, to me, something very sinister.

As far as our observation went, Mr. Wallingford put on no new phase of character. There was about him the same quiet, thoughtful dignity of manner which had always commanded involuntary respect. He showed no unseemly haste in dispossessing Mr. Dewey of his elegant home. Two months after the title deeds had passed, I called in at Ivy Cottage, now one of the sweetest, little places in S–, for Constance, who had been passing the evening there. Not in any home, through all the region round, into which it was my privilege to enter, was there radiant, like a warm, enticing atmosphere that swelled your lungs with a new vitality, and gave all your pulses a freer beat, such pure love—maternal and conjugal—as pervaded this sanctuary of the heart. I say maternal, as well as conjugal, for two dear babes had brought into this home attendant angels from the higher heaven.

A soft astral lamp threw its mellow rays about the room. Mr. Wallingford had a book open in his hand, from which he had been reading aloud to his wife and Constance. He closed the volume as I entered, and rising, took my hand, saying, with even more than his usual cordiality—

“Now our circle is complete.”

“Excuse me from rising, Doctor,” said Mrs. Wallingford, a smile of welcome giving increased beauty to her countenance, as she offered the hand that was free—the other held her babe, just three months old, tenderly to her bosom.

“What have you been reading?” I asked, as I seated myself, and glanced towards the volume which Mr. Wallingford had closed and laid upon the table.

“A memorable relation of the Swedish Seer,” he replied, smiling.

“Touching marriage in heaven,” said I, smiling in return.

“Or, to speak more truly,” he replied, “the union of two souls in heaven, into an eternal oneness. Yes, that was the subject, and it always interests me deeply. Our life here is but a span, and our brief union shadowed by care, pain, sickness, and the never-dying fear of parting. The sky of our being is not unclouded long. And therefore I cannot believe that the blessedness of married love dies forever at the end of this struggle to come into perfect form and beauty. No, Doctor; the end is not here. And so Blanche and I turn often with an eager delight to these relations, feeling, as we read, that they are not mere pictures of fancy, but heavenly verities. They teach us that if we would be united in the next world, we must become purified in this. That selfish love, which is of the person must give place to a love for spiritual qualities. That we must grow in the likeness and image of God, if we would make one angel in His heavenly kingdom.”

His eyes rested upon Blanche, as he closed the sentence, with a look full of love; and she, as if she knew that the glance was coming, turned and received it into her heart.

I did not question the faith that carried them over the bounds of time, and gave them delicious foreshadowings of the blessedness beyond. As I looked at them, and marked how they seemed to grow daily into a oneness of spirit, could I doubt that there was for them an eternal union? No, no. Such doubts would have been false to the instincts of my own soul, and false to the instincts of every conscious being made to love and be loved.

“The laying aside of this earthly investiture,” said Wallingford, resuming, “the passage from mortal to immortal life, cannot change our spirits, but only give to all their powers a freer and more perfect development. Love is not a quality of the body, but of the spirit, and will remain in full force, after the body is cast off like the shell of a chrysalis. Still existing, it will seek its object. And shall it seek forever and not find? God forbid! No! The love I bear my wife is not, I trust, all of the earth, earthy; but instinct with a heavenly perpetuity. And when we sleep the sleep of death, it will be in the confident assurance of a speedy and more perfect conjunction of our lives. On a subject of such deep concern, we are dissatisfied with the vague and conjectural; and this is why the record of things seen and heard in the spiritual world by Swedenborg—especially in what relates to marriages in heaven—has for us such an absorbing interest.”

“Are you satisfied with the evidence?” I ventured to inquire, seeing him so confident.

“Yes.”

He answered quietly, and with an assured manner.

“How do you reach a conclusion as to the truth of these things?”

“Something after the same way that you satisfy yourself that the sun shines.”

“My eyes testify to me that fact. Seeing is believing,” I answered.

“The spirit of a man has eyes as well as his body,” said Wallingford. “And seeing is believing in another sense than you intimate. Now the bodily eyes see material objects, and the mind, receiving their testimony, is in no doubt as to the existence, quality, and relation of things in the outer world. The eyes of our spirits, on the other hand, see immaterial objects or truths; and presenting them to the rational and perceptive faculties, they are recognized as actual existences, and their quality as surely determined as the quality of a stone or metal. If you ask me how I know that this is quartz, or that iron; I answer, By the testimony of my eyes. And so, if you ask how I satisfy myself as to the truth of which I read in this book; I can only reply that I see it all so clearly that conviction is a necessity. There is no trouble in believing. To attempt disbelief, would be to illustrate the fable of Sisyphus.”

He spoke calmly, like one whose mind had risen above doubt. I objected nothing further; for that would have been useless. And why attempt to throw questions into his mind? Was there anything evil in the faith which he had adopted as exhibited in his life? I could not say yes. On the contrary, taking his life as an illustration, good only was to be inferred. I remembered very well when his mind diverged into this new direction. Some years had intervened. I thought to see him grow visionary or enthusiastic. Not so, however. There was a change progressively visible; but it was in the direction of sound and rational views of life. A broader humanity showed itself in his words and actions. Then came the subtler vein of religious sentiments, running like pure gold through all that appertained to him.

If, therefore, he was progressing towards a higher life, why should I question as to the way being right for him? Why should I seek to turn him into another path when there was such a broad light for his eyes on the one he had chosen? “By their fruits ye shall know them.” And by his fruits I knew him to be of that highest type of manhood, a Christian gentleman.

I noticed, while Mr. Wallingford spoke so confidently of their reunion in heaven, that his wife leaned towards, and looked at him, with eyes through which her soul seemed going forth into his.

As the conversation flowed on, it gradually involved other themes, and finally led to the question On my part, as to when they were going to leave Ivy Cottage.

“That is quite uncertain,” replied Mr. Wallingford. “I shall not hurry the present occupant. We have been so happy here, that we feel more inclined to stay than to remove to a more ambitious home.”

“I hear that Mr. Dewey is going to build,” said I.

“Where?”

“He has been negotiating for the property on the elevation west of the Allen House.”

“Ah!”

“Yes. The price of the ground, five acres, is ten thousand dollars.”

“The site is commanding and beautiful. The finest in S–, for one who thinks mainly of attracting the attention of others,” said Mr. Wallingford.

“If he builds, we shall see something on a grander scale than anything yet attempted in our neighborhood. He will overshadow you.”

“The rivalry must be on his side alone,” was Mr. Wallingford’s reply. “No elegance or imposing grandeur that he may assume, can disturb me in the smallest degree. I shall only feel pity for the defect of happiness that all his blandishments must hide.”

“A splendid Italian villa is talked of.”

Mr. Wallingford shook his head.

“You doubt all this?” said I.

“Not the man’s ambitious pride; but his ability to do what pride suggests. He and his compeers are poorer, by a hundred thousand dollars, than they deemed themselves a few short months ago.”

“Have they met with heavy losses?” I asked, not understanding the drift of his remark.

“The estate in trust has been withdrawn.”

“How should that make them poorer?”

“It makes them poorer, in the first place, as to the means for carrying on business. And it makes them poorer, in the second place, in the loss of an estate, which, I am sorry to believe, Mr. Dewey and a part of his New York associates regarded as virtually their own.

“But the heir was approaching his majority,” said I.

“And growing up a weak, vicious, self-indulgent young man, who, in the hands of a shrewd, unscrupulous villain, might easily be robbed of his fortune. You may depend upon it, Doctor, that somebody has suffered a terrible disappointment, and one from which he is not likely soon to recover. No—no! We shall see nothing of this princely Italian villa.”

“I cannot believe,” I replied, “that the executors who had the estate in trust were influenced by dishonorable motives. I know the men too well.”

“Nor do I, Doctor,” he answered, promptly. “But, as I have before said, they were almost wholly under the influence of Dewey, and I think that he was leading them into mazes from which honorable extrication would have been impossible.”

“Have you given Dewey any notice of removal?” I inquired.

“No—and shall not, for some time. I am in no hurry to leave this place, in which the happiest days of my life have passed. Any seeming eagerness to dispossess him, would only chafe a spirit in which I would not needlessly excite evil passions. His pride must, I think, lead him at a very early day to remove, and thus make a plain way before me.”

“How long will you wait?” I asked.

“Almost any reasonable time.”

“You and he might not take the same view of what was reasonable,” said I.

“Perhaps not. But, as I remarked just now, being in no hurry to leave our present home, I shall not disturb him for some months to come. No change will be made by us earlier than next spring. And if he wishes to spend the winter in his present abode, he is welcome to remain.”

There was no assumed virtuous forbearance in all this; but a sincere regard for the feelings and comfort of Dewey. This was so apparent, that I did not question for a moment his generous consideration of a man who would not have hesitated, if the power were given, to crush him to the very earth.

Many thoughts passed in my mind, as I pondered the incidents and conversation of this evening. In looking back upon life, we see the sure progress of causes to effects; and in the effects, the quality of the causes. We no longer wonder at results—the only wonder is, that they were not foreseen. Wise maxims, some of the garnered grains of our fathers’ experiences, are scattered through the books we read, and daily fall from the lips of teachers and friends; maxims which, if observed, would lead us to honor and happiness. But who gives them heed? Who makes them the rule of his conduct?

We might wonder less at the blind infatuation with which so many press onward in a course that all the wisdom of the past, as well as all the reason of the present, condemns, if it were possible to rub out our actions, as a child rubs from his slate a wrong sum, and begin the work of life over again. But this cannot be. We weave hourly the web that is to bind us in the future. Our to-days hold the fate of our to-morrows. What we do is done for ever, and in some degree will affect us throughout infinite ages.

“Poor Delia Floyd!” My thought had turned to her as I lay awake, long after the small hours of the morning, busy with incidents and reflections which had completely banished sleep from my eyes. In the strong pity of my heart, I spoke the words aloud.

“What of her?” said Constance, in a tone of surprise. And so intruding thought had kept her awake also!

“Nothing more than usual,” I answered. “But I cannot sleep for thinking of her unhappy state, and what she might have been, if obeying her own heart’s right impulses, and the reason God gave her, she had accepted a true man, instead of a specious villain for her husband. The scene in Ivy Cottage to-night stands in most remarkable contrast with some things I witnessed at the Allen House before she went out thence a wretched woman for life. She staked everything on a desperate venture, and has lost. God pity her! for there is no help in any human arm. To think of what she is, and what she might have been, is enough to veil her reason in midnight darkness.”

“Amen! God pity her!” said Constance. “For truly there is no help for her in mortal arm.”