And now, reader, after this long digression, you can understand my
surprise at seeing broad gleams of light reaching out into the darkness
from the windows of that north-west chamber, as I breasted the storm
on my way to visit the sick child of Mary Jones. No wonder that I stood
still and looked up at those windows, though the rain beat into my face,
half blinding me. The shutters were thrown open, and the curtains drawn
partly aside. I plainly saw shadows on the ceiling and walls as of
persons moving about the room. Did my eyes deceive me? Was not that the
figure of a young girl that stood for a moment at the window trying to
pierce with her eyes the thick veil of night? I was still in doubt when
the figure turned away, and only gave me a shadow on the wall.
I lingered in front of the old house for some minutes, but gaining no
intelligence of what was passing within, I kept on my way to the
humbler dwelling of Mary Jones. I found her child quite ill, and needing
attention. After doing what, in my judgment, the case required, I turned
my steps towards the house of Mrs. Wallingford to look into the case
of her son Henry, who, according to her account, was in a very unhappy
condition.
I went a little out of my way so as to go past the Allen House again.
As I approached, my eyes were directed to the chamber windows at the
north-west corner, and while yet some distance away, as the old elms
tossed their great limbs about in struggling with the storm, I saw
glancing out between them the same cheery light that met my astonished
gaze a little while before. As then, I saw shadows moving on the walls,
and once the same slender, graceful figure--evidently that of a young
girl--came to the window and tried to look out into the deep darkness.
As there was nothing to be gained by standing there in the drenching
storm, I moved onward, taking the way to Mrs. Wallingford's dwelling. I
had scarcely touched the knocker when the door was opened, and by Mrs.
Wallingford herself.
“Oh, Doctor, I'm so glad you've come!” she said in a low, troubled
voice.
I stepped in out of the rain, gave her my dripping umbrella, and laid
off my overcoat.
“How is Henry now?” I asked.
She put her finger to her lip, and said, in a whisper,
“Just the same, Doctor--just the same. Listen! Don't you hear him
walking the floor overhead? I've tried to get him to take a cup of tea,
but he won't touch any thing. All I can get out of him is--'Mother--dear
mother--leave me to myself. I shall come right again. Only leave me to
myself now.' But, how can I let him go on in this way? Oh, Doctor, I
am almost beside myself! What can it all mean? Something dreadful has
happened.”
I sat listening and reflecting for something like ten minutes. Steadily,
from one side the room overhead to the other, went the noise of feet;
now slowly, now with a quicker motion: and now with a sudden tramp, that
sent the listener's blood with a start along its courses.
“Won't you see him, doctor?”
I did not answer at once, for I was in the dark as to what was best to
be done. If I had known the origin of his trouble, I could have acted
understandingly. As it was, any intrusion upon the young man might do
harm rather than good.
“He has asked to be let alone,” I replied, “and it may be best to let
him alone. He says that he will come out right. Give him a little more
time. Wait, at least, until to-morrow. Then, if there is no change, I
will see him.”
Still the mother urged. At last I said--
“Go to your son. Suggest to him a visit from me, and mark the effect.”
I listened as she went up stairs. On entering his room, I noticed that
he ceased walking. Soon came to my ears the murmur of voices, which rose
to a sudden loudness on his part, and I distinctly heard the words:
“Mother! you will drive me mad! If you talk of that, I will go from the
house. I _must_ be left alone!”
Then all was silent. Soon Mrs. Wallingford came down. She looked even
more distressed than when she left the room.
“I'm afraid it might do harm,” she said doubtingly.
“So am I. It will, I am sure, be best to let him have his way for the
present. Something has disturbed him fearfully; but he is struggling
hard for the mastery over himself, and you may be sure, madam, that he
will gain it. Your son is a young man of no light stamp of character;
and he will come out of this ordeal, as gold from the crucible.”
“You think so, Doctor?”
She looked at me with a hopeful light in her troubled countenance.
“I do, verily. So let your heart dwell in peace.”
I was anxious to get back to my good Constance, and so, after a few more
encouraging words for Mrs. Wallingford, I tried the storm again, and
went through its shivering gusts, to my own home. There had been
no calls in my absence, and so the prospect looked fair for a quiet
evening--just what I wanted; for the strange condition of Henry
Wallingford, and the singular circumstance connected with the old Allen
House, were things to be conned over with that second self, towards whom
all thought turned and all interest converged as to a centre.
After exchanging wet outer garments and boots, for dressing gown and
slippers; and darkness and storm for a pleasant fireside; my thoughts
turned to the north-west chamber of the Allen House, and I said--
“I have seen something to-night that puzzled me.”
“What is that?” inquired my wife, turning her mild eyes upon me.
“You know the room in which old Captain Allen died?”
“Yes.”
“The chamber on the north-west corner, which, as far as we know, has
been shut up ever since?”
“Yes, I remember your suspicion as to foul play on the part of Mrs.
Allen, who, it is believed, has never visited the apartment since the
Captain's death.”
“Well, you will be surprised to hear that the shutters are unclosed, and
lights burning in that chamber.”
“Now!”
“Yes--or at least half an hour ago.”
“That is remarkable.”
My wife looked puzzled.
“And more remarkable still--I saw shadows moving on the walls, as of two
or three persons in the room.”
“Something unusual has happened,” said my wife.
“Perhaps Mrs. Allen is dead.”
This thought had not occurred to me. I turned it over for a few moments,
and then remarked,
“Hardly probable--for, in that case, I would have been summoned. No; it
strikes me that some strangers are in the house; for I am certain that
I saw a young girl come to the window and press her face close up to one
of the panes, as if trying to penetrate the darkness.
“Singular!” said my wife, as if speaking to herself. “Now, that
explains, in part, something that I couldn't just make out yesterday. I
was late in getting home from Aunt Elder's you know. Well, as I came in
view of that old house, I thought I saw a girl standing by the gate.
An appearance so unusual, caused me to strain my eyes to make out the
figure, but the twilight had fallen too deeply. While I still looked,
the form disappeared; but, through an opening in the shrubbery, I caught
another glimpse of it, as it vanished in the portico. I was going to
speak of the incident, but other matters pushed it, till now, from my
thoughts when you were at home.”
“Then my eyes did not deceive me,” said I; “your story corroborates
mine. There is a young lady in the Allen House. But who is she? That is
the question.”
As we could not get beyond this question, we left the riddle for time
to solve, and turned next to the singular state of mind into which young
Henry Wallingford had fallen.
“Well,” said my wife, speaking with some emphasis, after I had told her
of the case, “I never imagined that he cared so much for the girl!”
“What girl?” I inquired.
“Why, Delia Floyd--the silly fool! if I must speak so strongly.”
“Then he is really in love with Squire Floyd's daughter?”
“It looks like it, if he's taking on as his mother says,” answered my
wife, with considerable feeling. “And Delia will rue the day she turned
from as true a man as Henry Wallingford.”
“Bless me, Constance! you've got deeper into this matter, than either
his mother or me. Who has been initiating you into the love secrets of
S----?”
“This affair,” returned my wife, “has not passed into town talk, and
will, I trust, be kept sacred by those who know the facts. I learned
them from Mrs. Dean, the sister of Mrs. Floyd. The case stands thus:
Henry is peculiar, shy, reserved, and rather silent. He goes but little
into company, and has not the taking way with girls that renders
some young men so popular. But his qualities are all of the sterling
kind--such as wear well, and grow brighter with usage. For more than a
year past, he has shown a decided preference for Delia Floyd, and she
has encouraged his attentions. Indeed, so far as I can learn from Mrs.
Dean, the heart of her niece was deeply interested. But a lover of
higher pretensions came, dazzling her mind with a more brilliant
future.”
“Who?” I inquired.
“That dashing young fellow from New York, Judge Bigelow's nephew.”
“Not Ralph Dewey?”
“Yes.”
“Foolish girl, to throw away a man for such an effigy! It will be a
dark day that sees her wedded to him. But I will not believe in the
possibility of such an event.”
“Well, to go on with my story,” resumed Constance. “Last evening,
seeing, I suppose, that a dangerous rival was intruding, Henry made suit
for the hand of Delia, and was rejected.”
“I understand the case better now,” said I, speaking from a professional
point of view.
“Poor young man! I did not suppose it was in him to love any woman after
that fashion,” remarked Constance.
“Your men of reserved exterior have often great depths of feeling,” I
remarked. “Usually women are not drawn towards them; because they are
attracted most readily by what meets the eye. If they would look deeper,
they would commit fewer mistakes, like that which Delia Floyd has just
committed.”