The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

“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.