The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now. Arthur Timothy Shay
looked kind o’ awful. I never saw anybody out of an ‘ospital look that way in all my life before. She ‘eld an hiron poker in ‘er ‘and. As my young lady—” and he looked towards Blanche—“was in the ‘all, I didn’t think it safe for ‘er if I let the hold woman go down. So I just stood in ‘er way, and put my harms across the stairs so”—stretching his arms out. “My! but ‘ow she did fire up! She stood almost a minute, and then sprung on me as if she was a tiger. But I was the strongest, and ‘olding ‘er in my harms like as I would a mad kitten, I carried ‘er hup to ‘er room, put ‘er hin, and shut the door. My young lady saw it hall, for she followed right hup after me.”
He looked towards Blanche.
“Just as it occurred,” she said, in a low, sweet fluttering voice.
“I heard the strife,” said her mother, “and ran up to see what was the matter. I reached the door of Mrs. Allen’s room just as Jackson thrust her in. He did not use any more violence than was needed in a case of such sudden emergency. He is strong, and held her so tightly that she could not even struggle. One wild, fierce scream rent the air, as he shut the door, and then all was silent as death. I went in to her instantly. She was on the floor in a convulsion. You were sent for immediately; but it was too late for human intervention. Jackson, you can go.”
The man bowed with an air of deferential respect, and retired.
“Now, sir,” she added, turning to me, “you have the facts as they occurred. I have no wish to give them publicity, for they are family matters, and these are always in their degree, sacred. If, however, you think it your duty as a physician, to make the matter one of official investigation, I can have nothing to say.”
I thought for some minutes before answering. The story, as related by the servant, I fully credited.
“Let me see the body again,” said I, coming at length to a conclusion.
We went up stairs, all three together; but only two of us entered the chamber of death. As we neared the door, Blanche caught at her mother’s arm, and I heard her say, in a whisper:
“Dear mamma! spare me that sight again. It is too horrible!”
“The presence of your daughter is not needed,” said I, interposing. “Let her retire to her own room.”
“Thank you!” There was a grateful expression in her voice, as she uttered these brief words, and then went back, while we passed in to the apartment where the dead woman was still lying.
As I looked upon her face again, it seemed even more ghastly than before; and I could hardly repress a shudder. My companion held a lamp; while I made as careful an examination as was possible under the circumstances. I did not expect to find any marks of violence, though I searched for them about her head, neck, and chest. But, under the circumstances, I felt it to be my duty to know, from actual search, that no such signs existed. In every aspect presented by the corpse, there was a corroboration of the story related by the serving man. It was plain, that in a fit of half insane, uncontrollable passion, the nice adjustment of physical forces had been lost.
“I am fully satisfied, madam,” said I, at length, turning from my unpleasant task.
She let her calm, earnest eyes dwell on mine for a few moments, and then answered, with a softened tone, in which there was just a perceptible thrill of feeling—
“If I were a believer in omens, I should take this sad incident, following so quickly on our removal to a new country and a new home, as foreshadowing evil to me or mine. But I do not so read external events.”
“Between a life like hers, and a life like yours, madam, there can be no possible nearness; nor any relation between your spiritual affinities and hers. The antipodes are not farther apart,” said I, in return; “therefore, nothing that has befallen her can be ominous as to you.”
“I trust not,” she gravely answered, as we left the room together.
To my inquiry if I could serve her in any way, in the present matter, she simply requested me to send a respectable undertaker, who would perform what was fitting in the last rites due to the dead.
I promised, and retired.
CHAPTER VIII
The appearance, manner, and bearing of the two strangers impressed me strongly. The elder had evidently moved in refined and cultivated society all her life. There was about her the air of “a lady, born and bred”—dignified, calm, easy, and courteous. The daughter was a lovely blossom on this stately stem—delicate, beautiful, sweet with the odors of innocence. I see her now as I saw her on that first night of our meeting—to my eyes a new born vision of loveliness.
I found Constance awaiting, with curious interest, my return. I was going right into the heart of this new wonder, and could not fail to bring back some revelation that would satisfy, in a measure, the excitement of mind produced by so singular an intrusion of strangers upon our quiet town. I answered her first look of inquiry by the words:—
“It is over. Another book of life is sealed up here to be opened in eternity.”
“Dead! Not dead?”
“Yes, Constance, Mrs. Allen is dead. Her spirit had passed away before my arrival.”
“How did she die?—from what cause?”
“From what I can learn she died in a fit of passion.” I then related all that I had seen and heard.
“But who can they be?” This query came as a natural sequence. “What right have they in the Allen House?”
“Whoever they may be,” I replied, “they act, or, at least, the elder of the two ladies acts as if her right there was not even open to a question. And, perhaps, it is not.”
“But what can they be to the Allens?”
“I will give you,” said I, “the benefit of my guessing on the subject. You recollect the story told about Captain Allen’s mother; how she went off a great many years ago with a stranger—an Englishman.”
Constance remembered all about this family history, for it was the romance of our town.
“My conclusion is that this lady is the sister of Captain Allen—the child that his mother took with her when she fled from her husband’s house. I am strengthened in this belief from the first impression of her voice, as if the tones had in them something familiar.”
We talked this matter over, looking at it in every way, until we satisfied ourselves that my conjectures must be true. The quiet manner in which they had intruded themselves, and taken possession of the house—unheralded as far as we knew—could not but present itself to our minds as a matter of special wonder. The more we conned it over the more we were puzzled. Before coming home I had called at an undertaker’s, and notified him that his services were wanted at the Allen House. Early on the next day I took the liberty of calling there myself. I sent up my name, and awaited, with some interest, my reception. The visit might be regarded as an intrusion, and I was prepared to receive a message from the lady asking to be excused. Not so, however. I had been seated only a few moments, when I heard the rustle of her garments on the stairs. My first glance at her face assured me that I was no unwelcome visitor.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, as she extended her hand, “for this early call. Our meeting last night for the first time can hardly be called a pleasant one—or the associations connected with it such as either of us might wish to recall.”
“Our control over events is so slight,” I made answer as I resumed my seat, “that we should separate unpleasant feelings as far as possible from any memories connected with them.”
A faint, sad smile just lightened up her placid face as she said, in reply to the remark.
“Ah, Doctor, that may not be. Lives are too intimately blended here for any one to suffer or do wrong without leaving a burden of sadness on other memories.”
“True; but the burden will be light or heavy according to our strength.”
She looked at me without replying,