Timothy Arthur - The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

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.