The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

The Judge would smile, or laugh quietly to himself, or perhaps answer in this wise:

“I think Henry understands himself. Still waters, you know, run deep.”

One day in February, on the occasion of a periodical visit to S–, young Dewey called in at Judge Bigelow’s office, and finding Wallingford alone, sat down and entered into as familiar a talk with him as was possible, considering how little they had in common. Ralph had a purpose in view, and as soon as he saw, or thought he saw, Wallingford’s mind in the right mood, said—

“I am going to ask a particular favor, and you must not refuse.”

“If I can serve you in any thing, it will be my pleasure to do so,” was the ready answer.

“You know that I am to be married next month?”

“So I have heard,” replied Wallingford.

“You will stand my groomsman? Don’t say no!”

He had seen an instant negative in the young man’s face.

“Almost any thing else, but not that!” replied Henry, speaking with some feeling. He was thrown off his guard by so unexpected a request.

“Come now, my good friend, don’t take the matter so much to heart!” said Dewey, in a light way. “Plenty of good fish in the sea yet—as good as ever were caught. You must forgive the girl for liking me the best.”

“You jest on a grave subject,” said Wallingford, his face growing pale, but his eyes, a little dilated, riveting his companion’s where he stood.

“No, I am in earnest,” said Dewey, with something in his manner that was offensive.

“Jest or earnest, your familiarity is out of place with me,” retorted Wallingford, with a sternness of manner, that quickened the flow of bad blood in Dewey’s heart.

“Oh, you needn’t take on airs!” replied the other with a sneer of contempt. Then muttering to himself, yet loud enough to be heard,—“I didn’t suppose the puppy would growl at a familiar pat on the head.”

This was too much for Wallingford. At another time, he might have borne it with a manly self-possession. But only an hour before he had met Miss Floyd in the street, and the look she then gave him had stirred his heart, and left a tinge of shadowy regret on his feelings. He was, therefore, in no mood to bear trifling, much less insult. Scarcely had the offensive words passed Dewey’s lips, when a blow in the face staggered him back against the wall. Instantly recovering himself, he sprang towards Wallingford in blind rage, and struck at him with a savage energy; but the latter stepped aside, and let his assailant come, with stunning force, against the wall at the other side of the office, when he fell to the floor.

At this instant, Judge Bigelow came in.

“Henry! Ralph!” he exclaimed—“what is the meaning of this?”

“Your nephew insulted me, and in the heat of anger I struck him in the face. In attempting to return that blow, he missed his aim, and fell against the wall, as you see.”

Wallingford spoke without excitement, but in a stern, resolute way. By this time, Dewey was on his feet again. The sight of his uncle, and the unflinching aspect of the person he had ventured to insult, had the effect to cool off his excitement many degrees.

“What is the meaning of this, young men?” sternly repeated Judge Bigelow, looking from one to the other.

“I have answered your question as far as I am concerned,” replied Henry.

“Ralph! Speak! Did you offer him an insult?”

To this demand, the nephew replied, with no abatement of his originally offensive manner—

“If he chooses to consider my words as an insult, let him do so. I shall in no case take them back.”

“What did you say?”

There was an imperative force in the Judge’s manner.

Dewey was silent.

“What did he say,”—Judge Bigelow turned to Wallingford, “that you should answer it with a blow?”

“If he is satisfied with the answer,” replied the latter, “the case can rest where it is. If not, I am ready to meet him on any appeal. I He will find me no trifler.”

The Judge turned again to his nephew.

“Ralph! I insist upon having this matter explained. I know Henry too well to believe that he would strike you, unless there had been strong provocation.”

“Perhaps he regarded it as such; I did not,” said Dewey.

“If he is satisfied with his chastisement, there is no occasion to press him farther, Judge.” Wallingford was provoked to this by the young man’s cool impertinence.

Dewey made a movement as if about to rush upon Wallingford, but the Judge interposed his body to keep them apart. The appearance of a fourth party at this juncture, in the person of Squire Floyd, the prospective father-in-law of one of the belligerents, changed materially the aspect of affairs.

“Good-morning, Squire,” said Wallingford, with a quickly assumed cheerfulness of manner, smiling in his usual grave way.

Both the Judge and his nephew saw reason to imitate the example of Wallingford, and thus throw up a blind before the eyes of Squire Floyd, who thought he perceived something wrong as he came in, but was afterwards inclined to doubt the evidence of his senses.

Wallingford retired in a few moments. When he came back to the office an hour afterwards, he found a note of apology on his table, accompanied by a request that so unpleasant an incident as the one which had just occurred, might be suffered to pass into oblivion. No acknowledgment of this communication was made by the young lawyer. He felt the strongest kind of repugnance towards Dewey, and could not gain his own consent to have any intercourse with him. His position, as an associate with Judge Bigelow, occasionally brought him in contact with his nephew, who recognized him always in a respectful manner. But Wallingford held him ever coldly at a distance.

CHAPTER XI

The marriage of Delia Floyd was an event in our quiet town. It was celebrated at the house of her father, in the presence of a large company, who were invited to witness the ceremony, and take part in the attendant festivities. The match was regarded generally as a most desirable one for the young lady; and there was more than one mother present who envied the good fortune which had given such a son-in-law to Mrs. Floyd. I heard many snatches of conversation, half aside, in which marvelous things were related, or suggested, touching the bridegroom’s fortune and the splendid home he had prepared for his bride. He was looked upon as a prospective millionaire, and imagination pictured Delia as the jeweled mistress of a palace home. Few seemed to think of any thing beyond the promised worldly advantage.

“I am glad that your daughter has married so well.”

“Let me congratulate you, Squire Floyd, on this splendid match.”

“It is not often, Mrs. Floyd, that a mother sees her daughter go forth into the world with such brilliant prospects.”

“You have all that your heart can desire, so far as Delia is concerned, Mrs. Floyd.”

“You are the envy of mothers.”

And so I heard the changes rung on all sides of me, and from the lips of people who might have looked deeper if they had taken the trouble to use their eyes.

To me, the wedding was full of sad suggestions. It was one of those social self-sacrifices, as common now as then, in which the victim goes self-impelled to the altar, and lays upon its consuming fires the richest dower of womanhood.

I listened to the vows that were made on this occasion, and felt a low thrill of repulsion as words of such solemn import trembled on the air, for too well I knew that a union of souls in a true marriage, such as Delia Floyd might consummate, was impossible here. Could she be happy in this marriage? I gave to my own question an emphatic “No!” She might have a gay, brilliant, exciting life; but to that deep peace which is given to loving hearts, and which, in hours of isolation and loneliness, she would desire with an irrepressible longing, she must forever be a stranger.

I looked into her beautiful young face as she stood receiving the congratulations of friends, and felt as I had never felt before on such an occasion. Instinctively my thought ran questioning along the future. But no hopeful answer was returned. How was she to advance in that inner-life development through which the true woman is perfected? I pushed the question aside. It was too painful. Had she been one of the great company of almost soulless women—if I may use such strong language—who pass, yearly, through legal forms into the mere semblance of a marriage, I might have looked on with indifference, for then, the realization would, in all probability, be equal to the promise. But Delia Floyd was of a different spiritual organization. She had higher capabilities and nobler aspirations; and if the one found no true sphere of development, while the other was doomed to beat its wings vainly amid the lower atmospheres of life, was happiness in the case even a possibility?

Among the guests was Wallingford. It was six months, almost to a day, since the dearest hope in life he had ever cherished went suddenly out, and left him, for a season, in the darkness of despair. I did not expect to see him on this occasion; and there was another, I think, who as little anticipated his presence—I mean the bride. But he had shared in the invitations, and came up to witness the sacrifice. To see, what a few months before was to him the most precious thing in life, pass into the full possession of another. Had not the fine gold grown dim in his eyes? It had—dim with the tarnish that better natures receive when they consent to dwell with inferior spirits, and breathe in an atmosphere loaded with earthly exhalations. It would have been the highest delight of his life to have ascended with her into the pure regions, where thought builds tabernacles and establishes its dwelling-places. To have walked onward, side by side, in a dear life companionship, towards the goal of eternal spiritual oneness. But she had willed it otherwise; and now he had come, resolutely, to bear the pain of a final sundering of all bonds, that his soul might free itself from her soul completely and forever.

I first noticed him as the bridal party entered the room, and took their places in front of the clergyman who was to officiate on the occasion. He occupied a position that gave him a clear view of Delia’s face, while he was removed from general observation. Almost from the commencement to the ending of the ceremony his gaze rested on her countenance. His head was thrown a little forward, his brows slightly contracted, his lips firmly set, and his eyes fixed as if the object upon which he was gazing held him by an irresistible fascination. I was so much interested in him that I scarcely looked at the bride during the ceremony. At last, the minister, in conclusion, announced the twain to be husband and wife. I saw Wallingford give a slight start as if a tensely strung chord of feeling had been jarred. A moment more and the spell was broken! Every lineament of his countenance showed this. The stern aspect gave way—light trembled over the softening features—the body stood more erect as if a great pressure had been removed.

I noticed that he did not hold back in the excitement of congratulation that followed the ceremony. I was near him when he took the hand of Delia, and heard him say—not—“I congratulate you”—but “May your life be a happy one.” The tone was earnest and feeling, such as a brother might use to a beloved sister. I held that tone long afterwards in my memory, studying its signification. It had in it nothing of regret, or pain, or sadness, as if he were losing something, but simply expressed the regard and tender interest of a sincere well wisher. And so that great trial was at an end for him. He had struggled manfully with a great enemy to his peace, and this was his hour of triumph.

With the bride’s state of mind, as read in external signs, I was far from being satisfied. Marriage, in any case, to one who thinks and feels, is a thing of serious import; and even the habitually thoughtless can hardly take its solemn vows upon their lips without falling into a sober mood. We are, therefore, not surprised to see emotion put on signs of pain—like April showers that weep away into sunshine. But in Delia’s face I saw something that went deeper than all this.

“There is no one here,” said I, taking her hand, and holding it tightly in mine, “who wishes you well in the future more sincerely than I do.”

“I know it, Doctor,” she answered, returning the warm grasp I gave her. Her eyes rested steadily in mine, and saw a shadow in them.

“We are sorry to lose you from S–. Indeed we cannot afford to lose you.”

“She is wanted,” spoke up her young husband a little proudly, “to grace a wider and more brilliant sphere of life.”

“It is not the brilliant sphere that is always the happiest,” said I. “Life’s truest pleasures come oftener to quiet home circles even among the lowly, than to gilded palaces where fortune’s favorites reside.”

“It is not to external condition,” the bride remarked, “that we are to look for happiness.” I thought her voice had in it a pensive tone, as if she were not wholly satisfied with the brilliant promise that lay before her. “You know, Doctor, we have talked that over more than once in our lives.”

“Yes, Delia; and it is a truth which we ought never to forget—one that I trust you and your husband will lay up in your hearts.”

I turned to the young man desiring my admonition to reach him also.

“Perhaps I might differ something from this sage conclusion,” he answered a little flippantly. “As far as I can see, the external condition has a great deal to do with our happiness. I am very sure, that if I were situated as some people are whom I know, I would be miserable. So you see, Doctor, I have my doubts touching this theory of yours and Delia’s.”

“Time, I think, will demonstrate its truth,” I said, in a graver tone, and turned from them to give place to those who could talk in a lighter strain than was possible for me on the occasion.

During the evening I saw Wallingford more than once in conversation with the bride; but only when she happened to be a little separated from her husband, towards whom his manner was coldly polite. The two young men, after the scene in Judge Bigelow’s office, only kept up, for the sake of others, the shadow of acquaintanceship. Between them there was a strong mutual repulsion which neither sought to overcome.

As I remarked I saw Wallingford more than once in conversation with the bride. But nothing in his manner indicated any sentiment beyond that of friendship. He was polite, cheerful, and at his ease. But it was different with her. She was not at her ease in his company, and yet, I could see that his attention was grateful—even pleasant.

The augury was not good. As I read the signs, Delia Floyd, when she passed from maidenhood to wifehood, departed from the path that led to happiness in this world. And I said to myself as I pondered her future—“May the disappointments and sorrows that are almost sure to come, turn her feet aside into the right way at last!”

CHAPTER XII

On the day following, the young husband bore his bride away to grace the prouder home that awaited her in New York; and affairs in our town settled themselves down into the old routine.

During the few months that have passed since the opening of our story, the only matter that has occurred, of any interest to the reader, at the Allen House, is the fact that Judge Bigelow has undertaken the management of Mrs. Montgomery’s affairs, and the establishment of her claim to the possession, as only heir, of the whole of Captain Allen’s property. Some legal difficulties, bearing upon her identification as his sister, were in the way; and in the effort to remove these, there had been considerable correspondence with persons in England.

The first fact to be clearly proved was the solemnization of a marriage between Mrs. Montgomery’s mother and the elder Captain Allen. Next, the identity of Mrs. Montgomery as her child. No marriage certificate, nor any record of the fact, as to the exact time and place, were known to be in existence; and without them, or evidence of a very conclusive character, the title of Mrs. Montgomery could not be clearly established.

This, Judge Bigelow stated to her in the beginning; but, up to this time, no such evidence had been found.

Mrs. Montgomery’s health was not good, and as she required occasional medical aid, my visits to the Allen House were continued. The more intimately I came to know this lady, the higher did she rise in my esteem. She united strength of mind with clearness of perception: and decision of character with prudence and justice. She had, likewise, a depth and tenderness of feeling that often exhibited itself in beautiful incidents. The dignity of manner, which at first seemed touched with hauteur, now only gave grace to her fine proportions.

She had, from the beginning, spoken to me without reserve of her affairs, in which I naturally took deep interest. One day she said:—

“Doctor, I wish to get your opinion in regard to an individual whom Judge Bigelow proposes to send out to England for me on important business. He is a young man, associated with him, as I understand it, professionally.

“Mr. Wallingford, you mean?”

“Yes, that is the name, I believe. Do you know him?”

“Very well.”

“Is he prudent, intelligent, and reliable?”

“I think so.”

“You only think so, Doctor?”

“I can speak in stronger terms. As far as one can know another, I am ready to say that he is prudent, intelligent, and reliable. If I had important business to transact at a distant point, and needed a trusty agent, I would select him before any other man in S–.”

“I wish no better testimony, Doctor, and am glad to know that I can procure an agent so well qualified.”

“Have you seen him?” I inquired.

“No. But Judge Bigelow is to bring him here today, in order that I may see and converse with him.”

“You will find him,” said I, “a young man of few words and unobtrusive manners—but solid as a rock. I have seen him under circumstances calculated to test the character of any man.”

“What are the circumstances, if you are free to speak of them?” asked Mrs. Montgomery. “We get always a truer estimate of a man, when we see him in some great battle of life; for then, his real qualities and resources become apparent.”

I thought for a little while before answering. It did not seem just right to draw aside the veil that strangers’ eyes might look upon a life-passage such as was written in Wallingford’s Book of Memory. The brief but fierce struggle was over with him; and he was moving steadily onward, sadder, no doubt, for the experience, and wiser, no doubt. But the secret was his own, and I felt that no one ought to meddle therewith. Still, a relation of the fact, showing how deeply the man could feel, and how strong he was in self-mastery, could not but raise him in the estimation of Mrs. Montgomery, and increase her confidence.

“It is hardly fair,” said I, “to bring up the circumstances of a man’s life over which he has drawn a veil; and which are sacred to himself alone. In this case, however, with the end of enabling you more fully to know the person you think of sending abroad on an important service, I will relate an occurrence that cannot fail to awaken in your mind an interest for the young man, such as we always feel for those who have passed through deep suffering.”

Blanche was sitting by her mother. Indeed, the two were almost inseparable companions. It was a rare thing to find them apart. I saw her face kindle with an earnest curiosity.

“Judge Bigelow’s nephew was married, recently,” I said.

“So the Judge informed me. He spoke very warmly of his nephew, who is a merchant in New York, I think he said.”

“He is a partner in a mercantile firm there. The bride was Squire Floyd’s daughter; a very superior girl—lovely in character, attractive in person, and, mentally, well cultivated. I have always regarded her as the flower of our town.”

“The young man had good taste, it seems,” Mrs. Montgomery remarked.

“Better than the young lady showed in taking him for a husband,” said I.

“Ah? Then your opinion of him is not so favorable.”

“He was not worthy of her, if I possess any skill in reading character. But there was one worthy of her, and deeply attached to her at the same time.”

“This young Wallingford, of whom we were speaking?”

“The same.”

“But she didn’t fancy him?”

“She did fancy him. But—”

“Was not able to resist the attractions of a New York merchant, when put in opposition to those of a humble country lawyer?”

“The truth lies about there. She took the showy effigy of a man, in place of the real man.”

“A sad mistake. But it is made every day,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “and will continue to be made. Alas for the blindness and folly that lead so many into paths that terminate in barren deserts, or wildernesses where the soul is lost! And so our young friend has been crossed in love.”

“The experience is deeper than usual,” said I. Then I related, with some particularity, the facts in the case, already known to the reader. Both the mother and daughter listened with deep attention. After I had finished my story, Mrs. Montgomery said,

“He possesses will and strength of character, that is plain; but I can’t say that I just like the deliberate process of unloving, if I may use the word, which you have described. There is something too cold-blooded about it for me. Like the oak, bent under the pressure of a fierce storm, he comes up erect too soon.”

I smiled at her view of the case, and answered,

“You look upon it as a woman, I as a man. To me, there is a certain moral grandeur in the way he has disenthralled himself from fetters that could not remain, without a life-long disability.”

“Oh, no doubt it was the wisest course,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“And may we not look among the wisest men, for the best and most reliable?” I queried.

“Among those who are truly wise,” she said, her voice giving emphasis to the word truly.

“What is it to be truly wise?”

“All true wisdom,” she answered, “as it appertains to the affairs of this life, has its foundation in a just regard for others; for, in the degree that we are just to others, are we just to ourselves.”

“And is not the converse of your proposition true also? In the degree that we are just to ourselves, are we not just to others?”

“Undoubtedly. Each individual bears to common society, the same relation that a member, organ, or fibre, does to the human body, of which it makes a part. And as no member, organ, or fibre of the body, can injure itself without injuring the whole man; so no individual can do wrong to himself, without a consequent wrong to others. Each has duties to perform for the good of common society, and any self-inflicted or self-permitted disabilities that hinder the right performance of these duties, involve a moral wrong.”

“Then the case is very clear for my friend Wallingford,” said I. “He is a wise man in your sense of the word—wise, in resolutely putting away from his mind the image of one who, if she had been worthy of him, would have taken her place proudly by his side; but, proving herself unworthy, could never afterward be to him more than a friend or stringer. He could not hold her image in his heart, and fondly regard it, without sin; for was she not to be the bride of another? Nor without suffering loss of mental power, and life-purpose, and thus injuring others trough neglect of duty. It was acting wisely, then, for him to come up, manfully, to the work of drawing back his misplaced affections, and getting them again fully into his own possession. And he has done the work, if I read the signs aright. All honor to his manhood!”

“He has, I see, a warm advocate in you, Doctor,” said Mrs. Montgomery, again smiling. “Still, in an affair of the heart, where so much was involved, as seemed to be in his case, we can hardly fancy such a matter-of-fact, business-like proceeding as you have described. He might well have been forgiven, if he had shown more weakness of character, and acted even a little unreasonably. I will yield to no one in my regard for manly firmness and self-control, for bravery and endurance; and I have seen these qualities put to some of the severest tests. But in matters of the heart, I must own that I like to see a man show his weakness. Your Mr. Wallingford is too cool and calculating for me. But this is irrelevant to our consideration of his qualities as a business agent. For this purpose, I am satisfied that he is fitted in all things essential.”

“And that is quite as far as we need go,” said I.

“The business in hand,” said Mrs. Montgomery, resuming the conversation after a pause, “is of great importance to me, and may require not only a visit to England, but also to the West Indies. Unless evidence of my mother’s marriage can be found, there will be, as you know, considerable difficulty in establishing my full right to inherit my brother’s property. And my identity as the sister of the late Captain Allen must also be proved. By the will of my father, which is on record, he left all of his property to my brother. He, as far as is known, died intestate. As next of kin, I am the legal heir; but the proof is yet wanting. My mother’s cousin, a Colonel Willoughby, of whom we have before spoken, came over from England, on the strength of some vague rumors that reached the family from Jamaica, and was successful in discovering the only survivor of his uncle’s family. She saw it best to abandon her husband, as you know. My purpose in sending an agent, versed in legal matters, and used to weighing evidence, is to have such papers of Colonel Willoughby’s as the family possess and will submit for examination, carefully searched, in the hope that some record may be found in his hand-writing, sufficiently clear to establish the fact that my mother was the wife of the elder Captain Allen. So important an event as that of searching out my mother, and inducing her to flee from her husband, could hardly have taken place, it seems to me, without evidence of the fact being preserved. And my hope is, that this evidence, if it can be found, will prove of great value. So you see, Doctor, that I have good reasons for wishing to know well the agent who goes abroad with a matter so vital as this in his hands.”

I admitted the importance of a thoroughly reliable man to go upon this mission, and repeated my faith in Wallingford.