The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

I began to see the matter a little clearer.

“Mr. Wallingford is the best man I know.”

“Mr. Wallingford!” I thought Constance would have looked me through.

“Mr. Wallingford!” she repeated, still gazing steadily into my face. “Are you jesting?”

“No,” I replied calmly. “In a case that involves so much, she wants a wise and good defender; and I do not know of any man upon whom she could so thoroughly rely.”

Constance dropped her eyes to the floor.

“It would not do,” she said, after some moments.

“Why?”

“Their former relation to each other precludes its possibility.”

“But, you must remember, Constance, that Delia never knew how deeply he was once attached to her.”

“She knows that he offered himself.”

“And that, in a very short time afterwards, he met her with as much apparent indifference as if she had never been to him more than a pleasant acquaintance. Of the struggle through which he passed, in the work of obliterating her image from his mind, she knows nothing.”

“But he knows it,” objected Constance.

“And what does that signify? Will he defend her less skillfully on this account? Rather will he not feel a stronger interest in the case?”

“I do not think that she will employ him to defend her,” said Constance. “I would not, were the case mine.”

“Womanly pride spoke there, Constance.”

“Or rather say a manly lack of perception in your case.”

“Perception of what?”

“Of the fitness of things,” she answered.

“That is just what I do see,” I returned. “There is no man in S–better fitted for conducting this case than Mr. Wallingford.”

“She will never place it in his hands; you may take a woman’s word for that,” said my wife confidently. “Of all living men he is the last one to whom she could talk of the humiliating particulars involved in a case like this.”

“Suppose you suggest his name to her. Twelve years of such a life as she has led may have almost obliterated the memory of that passage in her life.”

“Don’t believe it. A woman never forgets a passage like that; particularly when the events of every passing day but serve to remind her of the error she once committed.”

“I don’t know what else to advise,” said I. “She ought to have a good and discreet man to represent her, or all may be lost.”

“Would you have any objection to confer with Mr. Wallingford on the subject in a private, confidential way?”

“None in the world,” I replied.

“Will you see him at once?” The interest of Constance was too strongly excited to brook delay.

“Yes, immediately.”

And putting on my overcoat I went to the office of Mr. Wallingford. I found him alone, and at once laid the whole case before him—relating, with particularity, all that had occurred between my wife and Mrs. Dewey. He listened with deep and pitying attention; and when I was through, expressed his opinion of Dewey in very strong language.

“And now what is to be done?” I asked, going at once to the vital question.

“Your wife is right,” he answered. “I can hardly become her advocate. It would involve humiliation on her part too deep to be borne. But my aid she shall have to the fullest extent; and it will be strange if I do not thwart his wicked scheme.”

“How will you aid her?”

“Through her right attorney, if my advice as to the choice be followed. You know James Orton?”

“Yes.”

“He is a young man to be relied upon. Let Mrs. Dewey put the case in his hands. If she does so, it will be, virtually, in mine.”

“Enough, Mr. Wallingford,” said I. “It looks more hopeful for our poor unhappy friend, against whom even her own flesh and blood have turned.”

When I gave Constance the result of my interview with Mr. Wallingford, she was quite elated at the prospect of securing his most valuable aid for Mrs. Dewey. Orton was young, and had been practising at the bar for only a couple of years. Up to this time he had not appeared in any case of leading importance; and had, therefore, no established reputation. Our fear was that Mrs. Dewey might not be willing to place her case in such inexperienced hands. In order to have the matter settled with as little delay as possible, Constance paid an early visit to the Allen House, and suggested Mr. Orton as counsel. Mrs. Dewey had not even heard his name; but, after being assured that I had the fullest confidence in him, and particularly advised his employment, she consented to accept of his services.

Their first interview was arranged to take place at my house, and in the presence of my wife, when the notice Mrs. Dewey had received on the institution of proceedings, was placed in the young lawyer’s hands, and some conversation had as to the basis and tenor of an answer. A second interview took place on the day following, at which Mrs. Dewey gave a full statement of the affair at Saratoga, and asserted her innocence in the most solemn and impressive manner. The letter from her husband to the lady in New York, was produced, and at the request of Mr. Orton, given into his possession.

The answer to Mr. Dewey’s application for a divorce was drawn up by Mr. Wallingford, who entered with great earnestness into the matter. It was filed in court within a week after notice of the application was received. This was altogether unexpected by the husband, who, on becoming aware of the fact, lost all decent control of himself, and ordered his wretched wife to leave his house. This, however, she refused to do. Then she had her father’s angry opposition to brave. But she remained firm.

“He will cover you with infamy, if you dare to persevere in this mad opposition,” he said. And she answered—

“The infamy may recoil upon his own head. I am innocent—I will not be such a traitor to virtue as to let silence declare me guilty.”

There was a pause, now, for a few weeks. The unhappy state of affairs at the Allen House made it hardly proper for my wife to continue her visits there, and Mrs. Dewey did not venture to call upon her. The trial of the case would not come up for some two or three months, and both parties were waiting, in stern resolution, for the approaching contest.

One day I received a message from Mrs. Dewey, desiring me to call and see two of her children who were sick. On visiting them—the two youngest—I found them seriously ill, with symptoms so like scarletina, that I had little question in my mind as to the character of the disease from which they were suffering. My second visit confirmed these fears.

“It is scarlet fever?” said Mrs. Dewey, looking at me calmly, as I moved from the bed-side after a careful examination of the two little ones.

I merely answered—

“Yes.”

There was no change in her countenance.

“They are both very ill.”

She spoke with a slow deliberateness, that was unusual to her.

“They are sick children,” said I.