The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

“‘No,’ was her unhesitating reply.

“‘Then it would be wrong for you to suffer a divorce to issue on the ground of infidelity, without a defence of yourself by every legal means in your power. Do right, then, in so defending yourself, and trust in God for the result.’

“I shudder at the bare thought of a public trial,’ she answered.

“‘Don’t think of anything but right action, said I. If you would have the Hosts of Heaven on your side, give them power by doing the right; and they will surely achieve for you the victory over all your enemies. Have any steps been taken by Mr. Dewey?’

“‘I fear so.’

“‘How long is it since your husband entertained this purpose?’

“‘I think it has been growing in his mind ever since that unhappy affair at Saratoga.’

“As she said this, her thoughts seemed to turn aside upon something else, and she sat looking down upon the floor in a state of deep abstraction. At last, taking a long breath, she looked up, and said with trembling lips and a husky voice,

“‘I have something more to tell you. There is another aspect to this miserable affair.’

“And she drew forth a crumpled letter.

“‘I found this, sealed, and directed, lying on the floor of my husband’s room, two days ago. It is in his hand writing; addressed to a lady in New York, and signed R. D. I will read you its contents.’ And she unfolded the letter, and read:

“‘My dearest Caroline,’ it began; and then went on for a few paragraphs, in a lover-like strain; after which, the divorce from the writer’s wife was referred to as a thing of speedy attainment, there being little fear of opposition on her part, as he had given her to understand that he had witnesses ready to prove her criminal conduct; if she dared to resist his will in the matter. ‘A few months of patient waiting, dearest Caroline,’ was the concluding sentence, ‘and then for that happy consummation we have so long desired.’

“‘What do you think of that?’ asked poor Delia, looking almost wildly into my face.

“‘I think,’ said I, ‘that you hold in your hands the means of safety. Your husband will not dare to force you into a defensive position, when he learns that you have this document in your possession. It would tell strongly against him and his perjured witnesses if produced in court. Then take heart, my friend. This worst evil that you dreaded will not come to pass. If a divorce is granted, it will have to be on some different allegation.’

“She grasped my hand, and said, ‘Oh, do you think so? Do you think so?’”

“‘I am sure of it,’ was my confident answer. ‘Sure of it. Why the man would only damage his cause, and disgrace himself, by venturing into a trial with a witness like this against him.’”

“‘Oh, bless you for such confidently assuring words!’ and the poor creature threw herself forward, and laid her face upon my bosom. For the first time she wept, and for a season, oh how wildly! You will not wonder that my tears fell almost as fast as hers.

“‘I turned in my despair to you,’ she said, on growing calm, ‘you whom I loved, and almost revered, in the earlier and better days of my life, and my heart tells me that I have not turned in vain. Into the darkness that surrounded me like the pall of death, a little light has already penetrated.’”

“May it shine unto the perfect day!” I answered fervently.

“And, dear husband! it will shine,” said Constance, a glow of enthusiasm lighting up her face, and giving it a new beauty, “even unto the perfect day! Not the perfect day of earthly bliss—for I think the sun of that day has gone down never to rise again for her—but the perfect day of that higher life, which to many comes not, except through the gates of tribulation.”

CHAPTER XXII

I was shocked and distressed by the painful revelation which Mrs. Dewey had made to Constance. A sadder history in real life I had never heard.

A few days after this memorable visit to the Allen House, a note was received by my wife, containing this single word, “Come,” and signed Delia.

“Any change in the aspect of affairs?” I inquired of Constance on her return.

“Yes. Mrs. Dewey has received notice, in due form, of her husband’s application for a divorce.”

“What has she done?”

“Nothing yet. It was to ask my advice as to her best course that she sent for me.”

“And what advice did you give her?”

“I gave none. First, I must consult you.”

I shook my head and replied,

“It will not do for me to be mixed up in this affair, Constance.”

Worldly prudence spoke there.

My wife laid her hand upon my arm, and looking calmly in my face, said,

“The right way is always a safe way.”

“Granted.”

“It will be right for you to give such advice as your judgment dictates, and therefore safe. I do not know much about law matters, but it occurs to me that her first step should be the employment of counsel.”

“Is her father going to stand wholly aloof?” I inquired.

“Yes, if she be resolved to defend herself in open court. He will not sanction a course that involves so much disgrace of herself and family.”

“Has she shown him the letter you saw?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I think she is afraid to let it go out of her hands.”

“She might trust it with her father, surely,” said I.

“Her father has been very hard with her; and seems to take the worst for granted. He evidently believes that it is in the power of Dewey to prove her guilty; and that if she makes any opposition to his application for a divorce, he will hold her up disgraced before the world.”

“This letter might open his eyes.”

“The letter is no defence of her; only a witness against him. It does not prove her innocence. If it did, then it would turn toward her a father’s averted face. In court its effect will be to throw doubt upon the sincerity of her husband’s motives, and to show that he had a reason, back of alleged infidelity, for wishing to be divorced from his wife.”

“I declare, Constance!” said I, looking at my wife in surprise, “you have taken upon yourself a new character. I think the case is safe in your hands, and that Mrs. Dewey wants no more judicious friend. If you were a man, you might conduct the defence for her to a successful issue.”

“I am not a man, and, therefore, I come to a man,” she replied, “and ask the aid of his judgment. I go by a very straight road to conclusions; but I want the light of your reason upon these conclusions.”

“I am not a lawyer as you are aware, Constance—only a doctor.”

“You are a man with a heart and common sense,” she answered, with just a little shade of rebuke in her tones, “and as God has put in your way a wretched human soul that may be lost, unless you stretch forth a saving hand, is there any room for question as to duty? There is none, my husband! Squire Floyd believes his daughter guilty; and while he rests in this conclusion, he will not aid her in anything that points to exposure and disgrace. She must, therefore, if a vigorous defence is undertaken, look elsewhere for aid and comfort.”