The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

“Doctor, it may be well for you to see my daughter.”

“Is she indisposed?” I asked.

“Not exactly that. But the excitement and alarm of the last two or three days have been, I fear, rather too much for her nerves. I say alarm, for the poor girl was really frightened at Mrs. Allen’s wild conduct—and no wonder. Death following in so sad a way, shocked her painfully. She did not sleep well last night; and this morning she looks pale and drooping. In all probability, quiet of mind and body will soon adjust the balance of health; still, it may be safest for you to see her.”

“A mere temporary disturbance, no doubt, which, as you suggest, quiet of mind and body will, in all probability, overcome. Yet it will do no harm for me to see her; and may save trouble.”

“Excuse me a moment,” she said, and left the room. In a little while she returned, and asked me to accompany her up stairs.

I found the daughter in a black and gray silk wrapper, seated on a lounge. She arose as I entered, a slight flush coming into her face, which subsided in a few moments, leaving it quite pale, and weary looking. After we were all seated, I took her hand, which was hot in the palm, but cold at the extremities. Her pulse was feeble, disturbed, and quick.

“How is your head?” I asked.

“It feels a little strangely,” she replied, moving it two or three times, as if to get some well defined sensation.

“Any pain?”

“Yes; a dull kind of pain over my left eye, that seems to go deep into my head.”

“What general bodily sensation have you? Any that you can speak of definitely?”

“None, except a sense of oppression and heaviness. When I raise my arm, it seems to fall like lead; if I move about, I am weary, and wish to be at rest.”

“Rest is, by all means, the most desirable condition for you now,” said I. Then addressing her mother, I added—“I think your daughter had better lie down. Let her room be shaded and kept quiet. She needs rest and sleep. Sleep is one of nature’s great restorers.”

“Will you make no prescription, Doctor?” the mother asked.

I reflected on the symptoms exhibited, for a few moments, and then said,

“Nothing beyond repose, now. I trust that nature, as the pressure is removed, will work all right again.”

“You will call in again to-day.”

“Yes; towards evening I will see your daughter, when I hope to find her improved in every way.”

I spoke with a cheerfulness of manner that did not altogether express my feelings in the case; for, there were some indications, not yet clear enough for a diagnosis, that awakened slight concern. As I did not wish to go wrong in my first prescription, I deemed it better to wait a few hours, and see how nature would succeed in her efforts to repel the enemy. So I went away, with a promise to call again early in the afternoon.

CHAPTER IX

It was between four and five o’clock in the afternoon, when I called again at the Allen House. An old colored servant, who had been in the family ever since my remembrance—she went by the name of “Aunty”—was standing by the gate as I alighted from my chaise.

“‘Deed, massa, Ise glad you come,” said she in a troubled way.

“Why so, Aunty? No body very sick, I hope.”

“‘Deed, an dar is den; else old Aunty don’t know nothin’.”

“Who?”

“Why dat blessed young lady what drapped in among us, as if she’d come right down from Heaven. I was jest a gwine to run down an’ ax you to come and see her right away.”

I did not linger to talk with “Aunty,” but went forward to the house. The mother of Blanche met me at the door. She looked very anxious.

“How is your daughter now?” I asked.

“Not so well as when you saw her this morning,” she answered. Her voice trembled.

“I would have called earlier, but have been visiting a patient several miles away.”

“She has been lying in a kind of stupor ever since you were here. What can it mean, Doctor?”

The mother looked intently in my face, and paused for an answer, with her lips apart. But I knew as little as she what it meant. Ah! how often do anxious friends question us, and hearken eagerly for our replies, when the signs of disease are yet too indefinite for any clear diagnosis!

“I can tell better after seeing your daughter,” said I. And we went up to the sick girl’s chamber; that north-west room, at the window of which I had first seen the fair stranger, as I stood wondering in storm and darkness. I found her lying in apparent sleep, and breathing heavily. Her face was flushed; and I noticed the peculiar odor that usually accompanies an eruptive fever.

“How do you feel now?” I asked.

She had opened her eyes as I took her hand. She did not answer, but looked at me in a half bewildered way. Her skin was hot and the pulse small, but tense and corded.

“Does your head ache?”

I wished to arouse her to external consciousness.

“Oh, it’s you, Doctor.”

She recognized me and smiled faintly.

“How are you now?” I inquired.

“Not so well, I think, Doctor,” she answered. “My head aches worse than it did; and I feel sick all over. I don’t know what can ail me.”

“Have you any uneasiness, or sense of oppression in the stomach?” I inquired.

“Oh, yes, Doctor.” She laid her hand upon her chest; and drew in a long breath, as if trying to get relief.

“Have you felt as well as usual for a week, or ten days past?” I inquired.

“No, Doctor.” It was the mother who answered my question. “And in order that you may understand the case clearly, let me say, that it is only a week since we arrived from England. We came over in a steamer, and were fifteen days in making the trip. From Boston, we came here in our own carriage. Before leaving home, Blanche went around to see a number of poor cottagers in our neighbourhood, and there was sickness at several of the places where she called. In one cottage, particularly, was a case of low fever. I was troubled when I learned that she had been there, but still hoped that her excellent state of health would repel anything like contagion. During the first part of our voyage, she suffered considerably from sea-sickness; but got along very well after that. If it hadn’t been for the unhappy scenes of the last few days, with their painfully exciting consummation, I think she would have thrown off, wholly, any lurking tendency to disease.”

I turned my face partly aside, so that its expression could not be seen. The facts stated, and the symptoms as now presented, left me in little doubt as to the nature of the malady against which I had to contend. Even while her mother talked, my patient fell away into the stupor from which I had aroused her.

My treatment of the case coincided with the practice of men eminent in the school of medicine to which I then belonged. I am not a disciple of that school now, having found a system of exacter science, and one compassing more certain results with smaller risk and less waste of physical energy.

In order to remove the uneasiness of which my patient complained, I gave an emetic. Its action was salutary, causing a determination towards the skin, and opening the pores, as well as relieving the oppression from which she suffered.

“How is your head now?” I asked, after she had been quiet for some minutes.

“Better. I feel scarcely any pain.”