The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

“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.

CHAPTER XIII

I saw Mrs. Montgomery a few days afterwards, and inquired if she had seen the young associate of Judge Bigelow. She replied in the affirmative.

“How does he impress you?” I asked.

“Favorably, upon the whole; though,” she added with one of her meaning smiles, “I can’t help thinking all the time about the cool, calculating, resolute way in which he went about disentangling himself from an unfortunate love affair. I look at his calm face, over which you rarely see a ripple of feeling go, and ask myself, sometimes, if a heart really beats within his bosom.”

“There does; a true, large, manly heart, full of deep feeling; you may be sure of this, madam,” I answered, with some warmth.

“I will not gainsay your words, Doctor. I trust for his sake that it may be so.”

“Leaving out the heart matter, and regarding him only as to his fitness for the work in hand, you are favorably impressed?”

“Quite so. I find him quick of apprehension, intelligent, and of sufficient gravity of deportment to ensure a respectful attention wherever he may go. He made one suggestion that ought to have occurred to me, and upon which I am acting. As no will has been found, it has been assumed that Captain Allen died intestate. Mr. Wallingford suggests that a will may have been executed; and that a thorough search be made in order to discover if one exists. In consequence of this suggestion, Blanche and I have been hard at work for two days, prying into drawers, examining old papers, and looking into all conceivable, and I had almost said inconceivable places.”

“And if you were to find a will?” said I, looking into her earnest face.

“The question would be that much nearer to a solution.”

“Is it at all probable that it would be in your favor?”

I saw her start at the query, while her brows closed slightly, as if from a sudden pain. She looked at me steadily for a few moments, without speaking; then, after a long inspiration, she said:

“Whether in my favor or not, any disposition that he has made of his property, in law and right, must, of course, stand good.”

“You might contest such a will, if not in your favor.”

She shook her head, compressed her lips firmly, and said:

“No. I should not contest the will. My belief was, when I came here, that he died without making a bequest of any kind, and that his property would go, in consequence, to the heir-at-law. This was the information that I received. If it should prove otherwise, I shall make no opposition.”

“Do you intend, under this view, continuing the search for a will?”

Something in the tone of voice touched her unpleasantly. I saw the light in her eyes glow intenser, and her lips arch.

“Why not?” she asked, looking at me steadily. I could have given another meaning to my question from the one I intended to convey, had it so pleased me, and thus avoided a probable offence. But I wished to see a little deeper into the quality of her mind, and so used the probe that was in my hand.

“If you find a will, devising the property out of your line, all your present prospects are at an end,” said I.

“I know it.”

Her voice was firm as well as emphatic.

“Then why not take the other horn of this dilemma? Give up searching for a will that can hardly be in your favor, and go on to prove your title through consanguinity.”

“And thus shut my eyes to the probable rights of others, in order to secure a personal advantage? Do you think I would do this, Doctor? If so, you have mistaken me.”

There was a tone of regret in her voice.

“Pardon me,” I replied. “The suggestion was natural under the circumstances, and I gave it utterance.”

“Were you in my place, would you give up the search here?”

She fixed on me a penetrating look.

The probe had changed hands.

“It is difficult,” I answered, “for us to say what we would do if we were to change places with another. In my experience, it is easy to see what is right for our neighbor, but very difficult to see the right way for ourselves, when under the allurement of some personal advantage.”

“Would it be right in me to give up the search?”

“I think not.”

My answer was without hesitation.

“And I will not,” she said, firmly. “If my brother has devised his property, I have only to know the terms of his will. If it is against me, well. I shall not oppose its operation.”

“It sometimes happens,” I suggested, “that a testator is manifestly out of his right mind as to the direction given to his property, and bequeaths it in a manner so evidently unwise and improper, that both justice and humanity are served in the act of setting aside the will. And it might prove so in this case.”

“I know not how that may be,” Mrs. Montgomery answered, soberly, yet firmly. “But this I do know”—she spoke resolutely—“God helping me, I will not stain my hands with gold that, in any legal right, belongs to another. What is clearly mine, I will take and use as it is my right and duty. But I must be certain that it is mine. If there is no will, I am clear as to who is the owner of this estate; if there is a will, and I and mine are not included in its provisions, I will step aside. First, however, the obligation to search for a will is imperative; and I shall continue it until clearly satisfied that no such document exists.”

What a womanly dignity there was in Mrs. Montgomery as she said this, drawing her tall form up to its full height in speaking—not proudly, but with conscious integrity!

“What is right is always best.” I made the remark as well approvingly as in expression of an immutable truth.

“Always, always,” she replied, with earnestness. “There is no blinder folly than that of grasping a present worldly good, at the expense of violated justice. Whoever does so, comes out that far wrong in the end. There is only one way that leads to peace of mind: the way of honor and right. All other ways, no matter into what rich harvest fields they may lead in the beginning, terminate in wretchedness. There never has been, and never will be, any exception to this rule. We see its operation daily, turn our eyes whatsoever way we choose. And God forbid that I should deliberately enter the way that leads to ultimate unhappiness! Self-denial in the present is better than gnawing regret in the future. The good things of this world prove to be curses instead of blessings, unless the mind be rightly adjusted for their enjoyment. And such a right adjustment is impossible where the very fact of their possession involves a moral wrong. I see this so clearly, Doctor, that I shudder inwardly at the bare imagination of committing such a wrong.”

“It is by trial that God proves us,” said I, “and may He bring you out of this one, should the trial come, as gold from the refiner’s furnace!”

“Amen!” was her solemnly uttered response; “if it should come, may I be found strong enough to do the right!”

For over a week this search for a will was continued, until it was clear to all concerned that no such document was in existence. Then preparation was made for the visit to England, in search of evidence bearing upon the identity of Mrs. Montgomery as the sister of Captain Allen. Two or three months elapsed, however, before Mr. Wallingford could so arrange his business as to be absent for the length of time it might take to complete his mission. He sailed for England in June, between three and four months after the marriage of Delia Floyd. He called to see me on the day before leaving, and I had a brief but pleasant talk with him. He was in good health and good spirits, and anticipated a successful visit.

“I shall gain,” he remarked, “in two ways by this trip. Professionally and intellectually. I have had many a dream of that land of our forefathers—England—now to be realized. I shall see London, walk its streets, and linger amid its historic places. Don’t smile at this almost boyish enthusiasm, Doctor. London has always been the Mecca of my desires.”

I had never seen him so animated. A higher life seemed flowing in his veins. His countenance had a brighter aspect than usual, and his head an erecter carriage. There was a depth of meaning in his eyes never observed before—a look as if some new born hope were lending its inspiration to his soul. Altogether manlier was his aspect and bearing than I had ever seen it.

“God speed your mission,” said I, as I shook hands with him in parting.

“If it depends on human agency, directed with earnestness, patience, and will, my mission will have a prosperous result,” he replied. “It is to be my first entirely self-reliant experience, and I think the discipline of mind it will involve must strengthen me for higher professional work than any in which I have yet been engaged. You are aware, Doctor, that my heart is in my profession.”

“So I have seen from the beginning.”

“I will not deny,” he added, “that I have ambition. That I wish to be distinguished at the bar.”

“An honorable ambition,” said I.

“Nor that, sometimes—in moments of weakness, perhaps—my dreams have gone higher. But I am a very young man, and youth is ardent and imaginative,” he added.

“And you have this great advantage,” I replied, “that, with every year added to your life, you may, if you will, grow wiser and stronger. You stand, as all young minds, at the bottom of a ladder. The height to which you climb will depend upon your strength and endurance.”

“If we both live long enough, Doctor, you may see me on the topmost rundle, for I shall climb with unwearying effort.”

He spoke with a fine enthusiasm, that lent a manly beauty to his face.

“Climb on,” I answered, “and you will rise high above the great mass, who are aimless and indolent. But you will have competitors, few, but vigorous and tireless. In the contest for position that you must wage with these, all your powers will be taxed; and if you reach the topmost rundle to which you aspire, success will be, indeed, a proud achievement.”

“I have the will, the ambition, the courage, and the endurance, Doctor,” was his reply. “So, if I fail, the fault will lie here,” and he touched, significantly, his forehead.