"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 a.s.sured 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 inst.i.tution 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 a.s.serted 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.
"Sick, it may be, unto death."
There was no emotion in her voice.
I looked at her without replying.
"I can see them die, Doctor, if that must be."
Oh, that icy coldness of manner, how it chilled me!
"No hand but mine shall tend them now, Doctor. They have been long enough in the care of others--neglected--almost forgotten--by their unworthy mother. But in this painful extremity I will be near them. I come back to the post of duty, even at this late hour, and all that is left for me, that will I do."
I was deeply touched by her words and manner.
The latter softened a little as she uttered the closing sentence.
"You look at the darkest side," I answered. "With G.o.d are the issues of life. He calls us, our children, or our friends, in His own good time.
We cannot tell how any sickness will terminate; and hope for the best is always our truest state."
"I hope for the best," she replied; but with something equivocal in her voice.
"The best is life," I said, scarcely reflecting upon my words.
"Not always," she returned, still speaking calmly. "Death is often the highest blessing that G.o.d can give. It will be so in the present case."
"Madam!"
My tone of surprise did not move her.
"It is simply true, Doctor," she made answer. "As things are now, and as they promise to be in the future, the safest place for these helpless innocents is in Heaven; and I feel that their best Friend is about to remove them there through the door of sickness."
I could not bear to hear her talk in this way. It sent cold chills through me. So I changed the subject.
On the next day, all the symptoms were unfavorable. Mrs. Dewey was calm as when I last saw her; but it was plain from her appearance, that she had taken little if any rest. Her manner towards the sick babes was full of tenderness; but there was no betrayal of weakness or distress in view of a fatal termination. She made no anxious inquiries, such as are pressed on physicians in cases of dangerous illness; but received my directions, and promised to give them a careful observance, with a self-possession that showed not a sign of wavering strength.
I was touched by all this. How intense must have been the suffering that could so benumb the heart!--that could prepare a mother to sit by the couch of her sick babes, and be willing to see them die! I have witnessed many sad scenes in professional experience; but none so sad as this.
Steadily did the destroyer keep on with his work. There were none of those flattering changes that sometimes cheat us into hopes of recovery, but a regular daily acc.u.mulation of the most unfavorable symptoms. At the end of a week, I gave up all hope of saving the children, and made no more vain attempts to control a disease that had gone on from tie beginning, steadily breaking away the foundations of life. To diminish the suffering of my little patients, and make their pa.s.sage from earth to Heaven as easy as possible, was now my only care.
On the mother"s part, there was no sign of wavering. Patiently, tenderly, faithfully did she minister to her little ones, night and day.
No la.s.situde or weariness appeared, though her face, which grew paler and thinner every day, told the story of exhausting nature. She continued in the same state of mind I have described; never for an instant, as far as I could see, receding from a full consent to their removal.
One morning, in making my usually early call at the Allen House, I saw, what I was not unprepared to see, a dark death sign on the door.
"All over?" I said to the servant who admitted me.
"Yes, sir, all is over," she replied.
"Both gone?"
"Yes, sir, both."
Tears were in her eyes.
"When did they die?"