WE point to two ways in life, and if the young man and maiden, whose feet are lingering in soft green meadows and flowery walks, will consider these two ways in sober earnest, before moving onward, and choose the one that truth and reason tell them leads to honor, success, and happiness, our book will accomplish its right work for them. It is a sad thing, after the lapse of twenty years, to find ourselves amid ruined hopes;—to sit down with folded hands and say, “Thus far life has been a failure!” Yet, to how many is this the wretched summing up at the end of a single score of years from the time that reason takes the helm! Alas! that so few, who start wrong, ever succeed in finding the right way; life proving, even to its last burdened years, a miserable failure!
THE rain had poured in torrents all day, and now, for the third time since morning, I came home, wet, uncomfortable and weary. I half dreaded to look at the slate, lest some urgent call should stare me in the face.
“It must indeed be a case of life and death, that takes me out again to-night,” said I, as my good wife met me in the entry, and with light hands, made active by love, assisted in the removal of my great coat and comforter.
“Now come into the sitting-room,” she said, “your slippers are on the rug, and your dressing-gown warmed and waiting. Tea is ready, and will be on the table by the time you feel a little comfortable. What a dreadful day it has been!”
“Dreadful for those who have been compelled to face the storm,” I remarked, as I drew off my boots, and proceeded to take advantage of all the pleasant arrangements my thoughtful wife had ready for my solace and delight.
It was on my lip to inquire if any one had called since I went out, but the ringing of the tea-bell sent my thought in a new direction; when, with my second self leaning on an arm, and my little Aggy holding tightly by my hand, I moved on to the dining-room, all the disagreeable things of the day forgotten.
“Has any one been here?” I asked, as I handed my cup for a third replenishing. Professional habit was too strong—the query would intrude itself.
“Mrs. Wallingford called to see you.”
“Ah! Is anybody sick?”
“I believe so—but she evaded my inquiry, and said that she wished to speak a word with the Doctor.”
“She don't want me to call over to-night, I hope. Did she leave any word?”
“No. She looked troubled in her mind, I thought.”
“No other call?”
“Yes. Mary Jones sent word that something was the matter with the baby. It cried nearly all last night, her little boy said, and to-day has fever, and lies in a kind of stupor.”
“That case must be seen to,” I remarked, speaking to myself.
“You might let it go over until morning,” suggested my wife. “At any rate, I would let them send again before going. The child may be better by this time.”
“A call in time may save life here, Constance,” I made answer; the sense of duty growing stronger as the inner and outer man felt the renovating effects of a good supper, and the brightness and warmth of my pleasant home. “And life, you know, is a precious thing—even a baby's life.”
And I turned a meaning glance upon the calm, sweet face of our latest born, as she lay sleeping in her cradle. That was enough. I saw the tears spring instantly to the eyes of my wife.
“I have not a word to say. God forbid, that in the weakness of love and care for you, dear husband, I should draw you aside from duty. Yes—yes! The life of a baby is indeed a precious thing!”
And bending over the cradle, she left a kiss on the lips, and a tear on the pure brow of our darling. Now was I doubly strengthened for the night. There arose at this instant a wild storm-wail, that shrieked for a brief time amid the chimneys, and around the eaves of our dwelling, and then went moaning away, sadly, dying at last in the far distance. The rain beat heavily against the windows. But I did not waver, nor seek for reasons to warrant a neglect of duty. “I must see Mary Jones's baby, and that to-night.” I said this to myself, resolutely, by way of answer to the intimidating storm.
Mrs. Jones was a widow, and poor. She lived full a quarter of a mile away. So in deciding to make the visit that night, I hardly think a very strong element of self-interest was included in the motives that governed me. But that is irrelevant.
“As there is no prospect of an abatement in the storm,” said I, after returning to our cosy little sitting-room, “it may be as well for me to see the baby at once. The visit will be over, so far as I am concerned, and precious time may be gained for the patient.”
“I will tell Joseph to bring around the horse,” said my wife.
“No—I will walk. Poor beast! He has done enough for one day, and shall not be taken out again.”
“Horse-flesh is not so precious as man-flesh,” Constance smiled entreatingly, as she laid her hand upon my shoulder. “Let Tom be harnessed up; it won't hurt him.”
“The merciful man is merciful to his beast,” I made answer. “If horse-flesh is cheaper than man-flesh, like most cheap articles, it is less enduring. Tom must rest, if his master cannot.”
“The decision is final, I suppose.”
“I must say yes.”
“I hardly think your great coat is dry yet,” said my wife. “I had it hung before the kitchen fire. Let me see.”
“You must wait for ten, or fifteen minutes longer,” she remarked, on returning from the kitchen. “One sleeve was completely wetted through, and I have turned it in order to get the lining dry.”
I sat down and took Agnes on my lap, and was just getting into a pleasant talk with her, when the door-bell rung. A shadow fell across my wife's face.
“People are thoughtless of Doctors,” she remarked, a little fretfully, “and often choose the worst weather and the most untimely seasons to send for them.”
I did not answer, but listened as the boy went to the door. Some one was admitted, and shown into the office.
“Who is it?” I enquired, as Joseph came to the sitting-room.
“Mrs. Wallingford.”
My wife and I exchanged glances. She looking grave and curious; but no remark was made.
“Good-evening, Mrs. Wallingford,” said I, on entering my office. “This is a very bad night for a lady to come out. I hope no one is seriously ill.”
“I wish you would come over and see our Henry, Doctor.”
There was a choking tremor in her voice; and as I looked in her face, I saw that it was pale and distressed.
“What's the matter?” I inquired.
“I can't say what it is, Doctor. Something's wrong. I'm afraid—yes, I'm afraid he's going out of his senses.”
And she wrung her hands together with a nervous uneasiness in singular contrast with her usual quiet exterior.
“How is he affected?”
“Well, Doctor, he came home last evening looking as white as a sheet. I almost screamed out when I saw the strange, suffering expression on his colorless face. My first thought was that he had fallen somewhere, and been hurt dreadfully. He tried to pass me without stopping; but I put both hands on him, and said—'Oh, Henry! what does ail you?' 'Nothing of any account,' he answered, in a low, husky tone. 'I don't feel right well, and am going to my room to lie down.' And saying this, he brushed right past me, and went up stairs. I followed after him, but when I tried his door it was fastened on the inside. I called three times before he answered, and then he said—'Mother, I'm not sick; but I feel bad and want to be alone. Please don't disturb me to-night.' I don't think I would have known the voice if it hadn't been just then and there. Knowing his disposition, anxious and troubled as I was, I felt that it would be best for the time being to let him alone. And I did so. For an hour or more all in his room was as still as death, and I began to grow very uneasy. Then I heard his feet upon the floor moving about. I heard him walk to his bureau—my ears served me for eyes—then to the mantlepiece, and then to the window. All was still again for some minutes. My heart beat like a hammer, as one vague suggestion after another floated through my mind. Then he crossed the room with a slow step; turned and went back again; and so kept on walking to and fro. I listened, waiting for the sound to cease; nut he walked on and on, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, tramp, tramp, tramp, until it seemed as if every jarring footfall was on my heart. Oh, Doctor! I never had anything to affect me so before in my whole life. An hour passed, and still he walked the floor of his room. I could bear it no longer, and went and called to him. But he seemed deaf, and made no reply. I rattled at the lock and called again and again. Then he came close to the door, and said, speaking a little impatiently for him—
'Mother! Mother! For Heaven's sake don't trouble me! I don't feel just right, and you must let me alone for the present.'
“Well, he kept on walking for an hour longer, and then everything was still in his room for the night. This morning on trying his door it was unfastened. I went in. He was lying in bed wide awake. But, oh! such a change as I saw in his face. It was colorless as on the evening before; but less expressive of emotion. A dead calm seemed to have settled upon it. I took his hand; it was cold. I pressed his forehead; it was cold also. 'Henry, my son, how are you?' I asked. He did not reply; but looked in my face with a cold, steady gaze that chilled me. 'Are you sick, my son?' He merely shook his head slowly. 'Has anything happened? What has happened?' I pressed my question upon him; but it was of no use. He would not satisfy me. I then asked if he would not rise. 'Not yet,' he said. 'Shall I bring you some breakfast?' 'No—no—I cannot eat.' And he shook his head and shut his eyes, while there came into his face a look so sad and suffering that as I gazed on him I could not keep the tears back.
“And it has been no better with him all the day, Doctor,” added Mrs. Wallingford, heaving a long sigh. “Oh, I am distressed to death about it. Won't you come and see him? I'm afraid if something isn't done that he will lose his senses.”
“Have you no conjecture as to the cause of this strange condition of mind?” I asked.
“None,” she replied. “Henry is a reserved young man, you know, Doctor; and keeps many things hidden in his mind even from me that should be outspoken.”
“Has he no love affair on hand?”
“I think not.”
“Hasn't he been paying attention to Squire Floyd's daughter?”
“Delia?”
“Yes.”
“I believe not, Doctor.”
“I've seen him at the Squire's.”
“Nothing serious, or I should have known of it. Henry is rather shy about the girls.”
“And you wish me to see him to-night?”
“Yes. Something ought to be done.”
“What is his condition just now?” I inquired. “How did you leave him?”
“He's been in bed nearly all day, and hasn't touched a mouthful. To all my persuasions and entreaties he answers—'Please, mother, let me alone. I will be better after a while.'”
“I think,” said I, after musing on the case, “that, may be, the let-alone prescription will be the best one for the present. He is prostrated by some strong mental emotion—that seems clear; and time must be given for the mind to regain its equipoise. If I were to call, as you desire, it might annoy or irritate him, and so do more harm than good. No medicine that I can give is at all likely to reach his case.”
Mrs. Wallingford looked disappointed, and demurred strongly to my conclusion.
“I'm sure, Doctor, if you saw him you might suggest something. Or, may be, he would open his mind to you.”
“I'll think it over,” said I. “Mrs. Jones has sent for me to see her baby to-night. I was just about starting when you called. On my way back, if, on reflection, it seems to me advisable, I will drop in at your house.”
“Call at any rate, Doctor,” urged Mrs. Wallingford. “Even if you don't see Henry, you may be able to advise me as to what I had better do.”
I gave my promise, and the troubled mother went back through storm and darkness to her home. By this time my overcoat was thoroughly dried. As Constance brought it forth warm from the fire, she looked into my face with an expression of inquiry. But I was not ready to speak in regard to Mrs. Wallingford, and, perceiving this at a glance, she kept silence on that subject.
As I opened the front door, the storm swept into my face; but I passed out quickly into the night, and shielding myself with an umbrella, as best I could, bent to the rushing wind, and took my solitary way in the direction of Mrs. Jones's humble dwelling, which lay quite upon the outskirts of our town. To reach my destination, I had to pass the Old Allen House, which stood within a high stone enclosure, surrounded by stately elms a century old, which spread their great arms above and around the decaying mansion, as if to ward off the encroachments of time. As I came opposite the gate opening upon the carriage way, I stopped suddenly in surprise, for light streamed out from both windows of the north-west chamber, which I knew had been closed ever since the death of Captain Allen, who passed to his account several years before.
This Allen House was one of the notable places in our town; and the stories in circulation touching the Allen family, now almost extinct, were so strongly tinctured with romance, that sober-minded people generally received them with a large measure of incredulity.
The spacious old two-story mansion, with its high-pitched roof and rows of dormer windows, was built by the father of Captain Allen, who had also followed the sea, and, it was said, obtained his large wealth through means not sanctioned by laws human or divine. Men and women of the past generation, and therefore contemporaries, did not hesitate to designate him an “old pirate,” though always the opprobrious words were spoken in an undertone, for people were half afraid of the dark, reserved, evil-looking man, who had evidently passed a large portion of his life among scenes of peril and violence. There were more pleasing traditions of the beautiful wife he brought home to grace the luxurious dwelling he had fitted up in a style of almost princely splendor, compared with the plain abode of even the best off people in town. Who she was, or from whence she came, no one knew certainly. She was very young—almost a child—when the elder Captain Allen brought her to S——.
Very little intercourse, I believe, passed between the Allen family and the town's-people, except in a business way. The first regular entry made into the house beyond the formal drawing-room, was on the occasion of a birth, when the best nurse and gossip in town was summoned to attend the young mistress. A son was born. He was called John; though not under the sign of Christian baptism—John Allen; afterwards Captain Allen. The old sea-dog, his father, was absent at the time; but returned before the infant was four weeks old. The nurse described the meeting of husband and wife as very lover-like and tender on his part, but with scarcely a sign of feeling on hers. She did not repel him, nor turn from him; but received his caresses with the manner of one in whom all quick emotion had died. And so it continued between them—he thoughtful and assiduous, and she cold, and for the most part silent. But, to her babe, the young mother was passionate at times in her loving demonstrations. The pent up waters of feeling gave way in this direction, and poured themselves out, often, in a rushing flood. Towards all others she bore herself with a calm, sweet dignity of manner, that captivated the heart, and made it sigh for a better acquaintance with one around whom mystery had hung a veil that no hand but her own could push aside—and that hand was never lifted.
The next event in the Allen House, noted by the people, was the birth of a daughter. The same nurse was called in, who remained the usual time, and then retired; bearing with her a history of the period, which she related, very confidentially, at tea-tables, and in familiar gossip with choice spirits of her own.
Those who knew her best, were always something in doubt as to which of her stories contained truth and which romance. The latter element mingled largely, it is presumed, in all of them.
A great change had taken place in the Captain's manner. He no longer played the lover to a cold and distant mistress, but carried himself haughtily at times—captiously at times—and always with an air of indifference. All affection seemed transferred to his boy, who was growing self-willed, passionate, and daring. These qualities were never repressed by his father, but rather encouraged and strengthened. On learning that his next heir was a daughter, he expressed impatience, and muttered something about its being strangled at birth. The nurse said that he never deigned even to look at it while she was in the house.
The beautiful young wife showed signs of change, also. Much of the old sweetness had left her mouth, which was calmer and graver. Her manner towards Captain Allen, noted before, was of the same quiet, distant character, but more strongly marked. It was plain that she had no love for him. The great mystery was, how two so wholly unlike in all internal qualities, and external seeming, could ever have been constrained into the relationship, of man and wife. She was, evidently, an English woman. This was seen in her rich complexion, sweet blue eyes, fair hair, and quiet dignity of manner. Among the many probable and improbable rumors as to her first meeting with Captain Allen, this one had currency. A sailor, who had seen a good deal of service in the West Indies, told the following story:
An English vessel from Jamaica, richly freighted, had on board a merchant with his family, returning from a residence of a few years on the island, to the mother country.
They had been out only a day, when a pirate bore down upon them, and made an easy capture of the ship. The usual bloody scenes of that day followed. Death, in terrible forms, met the passengers and crew, and the vessel, after being robbed of its costliest treasures, was scuttled and sent down into the far depths of the ocean, from whence no sign could ever come.
But one living soul was spared—so the story went. An only child of the English merchant, a fair and beautiful young girl, whose years had compassed only the early spring-time of life, flung herself upon her knees before the pirate Captain and begged so piteously for life, that he spared her from the general slaughter he had himself decreed. Something in her pure, exquisitely beautiful face, touched his compassion. There were murmurs of discontent among his savage crew. But the strong-willed Captain had his way, and when he sailed back with his booty to their place of rendezvous, he bore with him the beautiful maiden. Here, it was said, he gave her honorable protection, and had her cared for as tenderly as was possible under the circumstances. And it was further related, that, when the maiden grew to ripe womanhood, he abandoned the trade of a buccaneer and made her his wife. The sailor told this story, shrugged his shoulders, looked knowing and mysterious, and left his auditors to draw what inference they pleased. As they had been talking of Captain Allen, the listeners made their own conclusion as to his identity with the buccaneer. True to human nature, in its inclination to believe always the worst of a man, nine out of ten credited the story as applied to the cut-throat looking captain, and so, after this, it was no unusual thing to hear him designated by the not very flattering sobriquet of the “old pirate.”
Later events, still more inexplicable in their character, and yet unexplained, gave color to this story, and invested it with the elements of probability. As related, the old gossip's second intrusion upon the Aliens, in the capacity of nurse, furnished the town's-people with a few additional facts, as to the state of things inside of a dwelling, upon whose very walls seemed written mystery. In the beginning, Mrs. Allen had made a few acquaintances, who were charmed with her character, as far as she let herself be known. Visits were made and returned for a short season. But after the birth of her first child, she went abroad but rarely, and ceasing to return all visits, social intercourse came to an end. The old nurse insisted that this was not her fault, but wholly chargeable upon the Captain, who, she was certain, had forbidden his wife to have anything to do with the town's-people.
One day, nearly two years after the birth of this second child, the quiet town of S——was aroused from its dreams by a strange and startling event. About a week before, a handsomely dressed man, with the air of a foreigner, alighted from the stage coach at the “White Swan,” and asked if he could have a room. A traveler of such apparent distinction was a rare event in S——; and as he suggested the probable stay of a week or so, he became an object of immediate attention, as well as curiosity.
Night had closed in when he arrived, and as he was fatigued by his journey in the old lumbering stage coach that ran between the nearest sea-port town and S——, he did not show himself again that evening to the curious people who were to be found idling about the “White Swan.” But he had a talk with the landlord. That functionary waited upon him to know his pleasure as to supper.
“The ride has given me a headache,” the stranger said, “which a cup of tea will probably remove. Beyond that, I will take nothing to-night. Your name is—”
“Adams, sir. Adams is my name,” replied the landlord.
“And mine is Willoughby—Col. Willoughby.” And the Englishman bowed with a slight air of condescension.
“I am at your service, Col. Willoughby,” said the landlord in his blunt way. “Just say what you want, and the thing is done.”
“A cup of tea will serve me to-night, my friend. Let it be good and strong; for my head is a little unsettled with this throbbing pain. That stage coach of yours would be something better for a pair of new springs.”
“It's seen service, and no mistake. But people in these parts don't calculate much on easy riding. Springs are no great account. We look to the main chance.”
“What is that?”
“Getting over the ground.”
The traveler smiled to himself in a quiet way, as if the landlord's answer had touched some memory or experience.
Nothing further being remarked, Mr. Adams retired to order a cup of tea for his guest. Something about the Englishman had stimulated his curiosity; and, so, instead of sending the cup of tea by his wife, who did most of the waiting, he carried it to the room himself.
“Sit down, Mr. Adams,” said the traveler, after the tea had been put before him.
The landlord did not wait for a second invitation.
“I hope the tea is to your liking, sir.”
“Excellent. I've not tasted better since I left London.”
The traveler spoke blandly, as he held his cup a little way from his lips, and looked over the top of it at his host with something more than a casual glance. He was reading his face with an evident effort to gain from it, as an index, some clear impression of his character.
“My wife understands her business,” replied the flattered landlord. “There is not her equal in all the country round.”
“I can believe you, Mr. Adams. Already this delicious beverage has acted like a charmed potion. My headache has left me as if by magic.”
He set his cup down; moved his chair a little way from the table at which he was sitting, and threw a pleasant look upon the landlord.
“How long have you been in this town, Mr. Adams?” The question seemed indifferently asked; but the landlord's ear did not fail to perceive in the tone in which it was given, a foreshadowing of much beyond.
“I was born here,” he replied.
“Ah! Then you know all the people, I imagine?”
“I know all their faces, at least.”
“And their histories and characters?”
“Perhaps.”
Something in this “perhaps,” and the tone in which it was uttered, seemed not to strike the questioner agreeably. He bent his brows a little, and looked more narrowly at the landlord.
“I did not see much of your town as I came in this evening. How large is it?”
“Middling good size, sir, for an inland town,” was the not very satisfactory answer.
“What is the population?”
“Well, I don't know—can't just say to a certainty.”
“Two thousand?”
“Laws! no sir! Not over one, if that.”
“About a thousand, then?”
“Maybe a thousand, and maybe not more than six or seven hundred.”
“Call it seven hundred, then,” said the traveler, evidently a little amused.
“And that will, in my view, be calling it enough.”
There was a pause. The traveler seemed in doubt as to whether he should go on with his queries.
“Not much trade here, I presume?” He asked, at length.
“Not much to boast of,” said Adams.
Another pause.
“Any well-to-do people? Gentlemen who live on their means?”
“Yes; there's Aaron Thompson. He's rich, I guess. But you can't measure a snake 'till he's dead, as they say.”
“True,” said the traveler, seeming to fall into the landlord's mood. “Executors often change the public estimate of a man as to this world's goods. So, Aaron Thompson is one of your rich men?”
“Yes, and there's Abel Reeder—a close-fisted old dog, but wealthy as a Jew, and no mistake. Then there is Captain Allen.”
A flash of interest went over the stranger's face, which was turned at once from the light.
“Captain Allen! And what of him?” The voice was pitched to a lower tone; but there was no appearance of special curiosity.
“A great deal of him.” The landlord put on a knowing look.
“Is he a sea captain?”
“Yes;” and lowering his voice, “something else besides, if we are to credit people who pretend to know.”
“Ah! but you speak in riddles, Mr. Adams. What do you mean by something more?”
“Why, the fact is, Mr. Willoughby, they do say, that he got his money in a backhanded sort of fashion.”
“By gambling?”
“No, sir! By piracy!”
Col. Willoughby gave a real or affected start.
“A grave charge that, sir.” He looked steadily at the landlord. “And one that should not be lightly made.”
“I only report the common talk.”
“If such talk should reach the ears of Captain Allen?” suggested the stranger.
“No great likelihood of its doing so, for I reckon there's no man in S——bold enough to say 'pirate' to his face.”
“What kind of a man is he?”
“A bad specimen in every way.”
“He's no favorite of yours, I see?”
“I have no personal cause of dislike. We never had many words together,” said the landlord. “But he's a man that you want to get as far away from as possible. There are men, you know, who kind of draw you towards them, as if they were made of loadstone; and others that seem to push you off. Captain Allen is one of the latter kind.”
“What sort of a looking man is he?”
“Short; thick-set; heavily built, as to body. A full, coarse face; dark leathery skin; and eyes that are a match for the Evil One's. There is a deep scar across his left forehead, running past the outer corner of his eye, and ending against the cheek bone. The lower lid of this eye is drawn down, and the inside turned out, showing its deep red lining. There is another scar on his chin. Two fingers are gone from his left hand, and his right hand has suffered violence.”
“He has evidently seen hard service,” remarked the stranger, and in a voice that showed him to be suppressing, as best he could, all signs of interest in the landlord's communication.
“There's no mistake about that; and if you could only see him, my word for it, you would fall into the common belief that blood lies upon his conscience.”
“I shall certainly put myself in the way of seeing him, after the spur you have just given to my curiosity,” said Col. Willoughby, in a decided manner, as if he had an interest in the man beyond what the landlord's communication had excited.
“Then you will have to remain here something more than a week, I'm thinking,” replied the landlord.
“Why so?”
“Captain Allen isn't at home.”
There was a sudden change in the stranger's face that did not escape the landlord's notice. But whether it indicated pleasure or disappointment, he could not tell; for it was at best a very equivocal expression.
“Not at home!” His voice indicated surprise.
“No, sir.”
“How long has he been absent?”
“About a month.”
“And is expected to return soon, no doubt?”
“As to that, I can't say. Few people in this town I apprehend, can speak with certainty as to the going and coming of Captain Allen.”
“Is he often away?”
“No, sir; but oftener of late than formerly.”
“Is his absence usually of a prolonged character?”
“It is much longer than it used to be—never less than a month, and often extended to three times that period.”
Colonel Willoughby sat without further remark for some time, his eyes bent down, his brows contracted by thought, and his lips firmly drawn together.
“Thank you, my friend,” he said, at length, looking up, “for your patience in answering my idle questions. I will not detain you any longer.”
The landlord arose, and, bowing to his guest, retired from the apartment.
On the next morning Colonel Willoughby plied the landlord with a few more questions about Captain Allen, and then, inquiring the direction of his house, started out, as he said, to take a ramble through the town. He did not come back until near dinner time, and then he showed no disposition to encourage familiarity on the part of Mr. Adams. But that individual was not in the dark touching the morning whereabouts of his friend. A familiar of his, stimulated by certain good things which the landlord knew when and how to dispense, had tracked the stranger from the “White Swan” to Captain Allen's house. After walking around it, on the outside of the enclosure once or twice, and viewing it on all sides, he had ventured, at last, through the gate, and up to the front door of the stately mansion. A servant admitted him, and the landlord's familiar loitered around for nearly three hours before he came out. Mrs. Allen accompanied him to the door, and stood and talked with him earnestly for some time in the portico. They shook hands in parting, and Colonel Willoughby retired with a firm, slow step, and his eyes bent downwards as if his thoughts were sober, if not oppressive.
All this Mr. Adams knew; and of course, his curiosity was pitched to a high key. But, it was all in vain that he threw himself in the way of his guest, made leading remarks, and even asked if he had seen the splendid dwelling of Captain Allen. The handsome stranger held him firmly at a distance. And not only on that day and evening, but on the next day and the next. He was polite even to blandness, but suffered no approach beyond the simplest formal intercourse. Every morning he was seen going to Captain Allen's house, where he always stayed several hours. The afternoons he spent, for the most part, in his own room.
All this soon became noised throughout the town of S——, and there was a little world of excitement, and all manner of conjectures, as to who this Colonel Willoughby might be. The old nurse, of whom mention has been made, presuming upon her professional acquaintance with Mrs. Allen, took the liberty of calling in one afternoon, when, to her certain knowledge, the stranger was in the house. She was, however, disappointed in seeing him. The servant who admitted her showed her into a small reception-room, on the opposite side of the hall from the main parlor, and here Mrs. Allen met her. She was “very sweet to her”—to use her own words—sweet, and kind, and gentle as ever. But she looked paler than usual, and did not seem to be at ease.
The nurse reported that something was going wrong; but, as to its exact nature, she was in the dark. It certainly didn't look right for Mrs. Allen to be receiving daily the visits of an elegant looking stranger, and her husband away. There was only one opinion on this head.
And so it went on from day to day for nearly a week—Colonel Willoughby, as he had called himself, spending the greater part of every morning with Mrs. Allen, and hiding himself from curious eyes, during the afternoons, in his room at the “White Swan.” Then came the denouement to this exciting little drama.
One day the stranger, after dining, asked Mr. Adams for his bill, which he paid in British gold. He then gave directions to have a small trunk, the only baggage he had with him, sent to the house of Captain Allen.
The landlord raised his eyebrows, of course; looked very much surprised, and even ventured a curious question. But the stranger repelled all inquisition touching his movements. And so he left the “White Swan,” after sojourning there for nearly a week, and the landlord never saw him again.
The news which came on the following day, created no little sensation in S——. Jacob Perkins, who lived near Captain Allen's, and often worked for him, told the story. His relation was to this effect: About ten o'clock at night, Mrs. Allen sent for him, and he waited on her accordingly. He found her dressed as for a journey, but alone.
“Take a seat, Jacob,” she said. “I wish to have some talk with you.” The man noticed something unusual in her talk and manner.
“Jacob,” she resumed, after a pause, bending towards Mr. Perkins, “can I trust you in a matter requiring both service and secrecy? I have done some kind things for you and yours; I now wish you to return the favor.”
As she spoke, she drew out a purse, and let him see something of its golden contents.
“Say on, Mrs. Allen. You may trust me. If you ask anything short of a crime, it shall be done. Yes, you have been kind to me and mine, and now I will repay you, if in my power to do so.”
Jacob Perkins was in earnest. But, whether gratitude, or that apparition of golden sovereigns, had most influence upon him, cannot at this remote period be said.
“Can you get a pair of horses and a carriage, or light wagon, to-night?”
“I can,” replied Jacob.
“And so as not to excite undue curiosity?”
“I think so.”
“Very well. Next, will you drive that team all night?”
And Mrs. Allen played with the purse of gold, and let the coins it contained strike each other with a musical chink, very pleasant to the ear of Jacob Perkins.
“You shall be paid handsomely for your trouble,” added the lady, as she fixed her beautiful blue eyes upon Jacob with an earnest, almost pleading look.
“I hope there is nothing wrong,” said Jacob, as some troublesome suspicions began turning themselves over in his mind.
“Nothing wrong, as God is my witness!” And Mrs. Allen lifted her pale face reverently upwards.
“Forgive me, madam; I might have known that,” said Jacob. “And now, if you will give me your orders, they shall be obeyed to the letter.”
“Thank you, my kind friend,” returned Mrs. Allen. “The service you are now about to render me, cannot be estimated in the usual way. To me, it will be far beyond all price.”
She was agitated, and paused to recover herself. Then she resumed, with her usual calmness of manner—
“Bring the carriage here—driving with as little noise as possible—in half an hour. Be very discreet. Don't mention the matter even to your wife. You can talk with her as freely as you choose on your return from Boston.”
“From Boston? Why, that is thirty miles away, at least!”
“I know it, Jacob; but I must be in Boston early to-morrow morning. You know the road?”
“Every foot of it.”
“So much the better. And now go for the carriage.”
Jacob Perkins arose. As he was turning to go, Mrs. Allen placed her hand upon his shoulder, and said—
“I can trust you, Mr. Perkins?”
“Madam, you can,” was his reply; and he passed from the quiet house into the darkness without. The night was moonless, but the stars shone down from an unclouded sky. When Jacob Perkins found himself alone, and began to look this adventure full in the face, some unpleasant doubts touching the part he was about to play, intruded themselves upon his thoughts. He had seen the handsome stranger going daily to visit Mrs. Allen, for now nearly a week, and had listened to the town talk touching the matter, until his own mind was filled with the common idea, that something was wrong. And now, to be called on to drive Mrs. Allen to Boston, secretly, and under cover of the night, seemed so much like becoming a party to some act of folly or crime, that he gave way to hesitation, and began to seek for reasons that would justify his playing the lady false. Then came up the image of her sweet, reverent face, as she said so earnestly, “Nothing wrong, as God is my witness!” And his first purpose was restored.
Punctually, at half-past ten o'clock, the team of Jacob Perkins drove noiselessly in through the gate, and up the carriage-way to the door of the Allen mansion. No lights were visible in any part of the house. Under the portico were two figures, a man and a woman—the man holding something in his arms, which, on a closer observation, Jacob saw to be a child. Two large trunks and a small one stood near.
“Put them on the carriage,” said Mrs. Allen, in a low, steady voice; and Jacob obeyed in silence. When all was ready, she got in, and the man handed her the sleeping child, and then took his place beside her.
“To Boston, remember, Jacob; and make the time as short as possible.”
No other words were spoken. Jacob led his horses down the carriage-way to the gate, which he closed carefully after passing through; and then mounting to his seat, drove off rapidly.
But little conversation took place between Mrs. Allen and her traveling companion; and that was in so low a tone of voice, that Jacob Perkins failed to catch a single word, though he bent his ear and listened with the closest attention whenever he heard a murmur of voices.
It was after daylight when they arrived in Boston, where Jacob Perkins left them, and returned home with all speed, to wake up the town of S——with a report of his strange adventure. Before parting with Mrs. Allen, she gave him a purse, which, on examination, was found to contain a hundred dollars in gold. She also placed in his hand a small gold locket, and said, impressively, while her almost colorless lips quivered, and her bosom struggled with its pent up feelings—
“Jacob, when my son—he is now absent with his father—reaches his tenth year, give him this, and say that it is a gift from his mother, and contains a lock of her hair. Can I trust you faithfully to perform this office of love?”
Tears filled her eyes; then her breast heaved with a great sob.
“As Heaven is my witness, madam,” answered Jacob Perkins, “it shall be done.”
“Remember,” she said, “that you are only to give this to John, and not until his tenth year. Keep my gift sacred from the knowledge of every one until that time, and then let the communication be to him alone.”
Jacob Perkins promised to do according to her wishes, and then left her looking so pale, sad, and miserable, that, to use his own words, “he never could recall her image as she stood looking, not at him, but past him, as if trying to explore the future, without thinking of some marble statue in a grave-yard.”
She was never seen in S——again.
The excitement in the little town of S——, when Jacob returned from Boston, and told his singular story, may well be imagined. The whole community was in a buzz.
It was found that Mrs. Allen had so arranged matters, as to get all the servants away from the house, on one pretence or another, for that night, except an old negro woman, famous for her good sleeping qualities; and she was in the land of forgetfulness long before the hour appointed for flight.