Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 1.
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"The corner house is taken at last," said my wife one evening, looking up at me from her sewing; "I saw furniture going in today."
"That will make the landlord happy," was my answer.
"You are thinking of the rent." My wife smiled.
"Yes. His interest on the investment will be light this year."
"While I am thinking of the tenants, and wondering what kind of neighbors we are to have."
"Woman-like thinking," said I; "have you seen anything of them yet?"
"A carriage brought two ladies there. I happened to be at the window and saw the face of one of them as they alighted. It was that of a woman past middle age — thin, delicate in feature, with a cast of intellectual refinement. The other was in black, and deeply veiled. By her figure and style of dress, I should say she was young."
"Mother and daughter, perhaps," said I.
"That was my inference."
"In mourning? Probably a young widow."
"Or a young mother, sorrowing for the loss of her firstborn."
My wife sighed; and I knew the meaning of her sigh. Our first-born was dead. Passing through the gate of death, he went thitherward, years gone by, while yet his life was fragrant with the innocence of boyhood. We did not mourn for him in black. Oh, no! our sorrow was too sacred a sentiment to be intruded upon others; and we could not shadow thus his rosy memory. Black for our baby? Oh, no, no! Anything but black! White were better, as symbolizing his purity."
"Will you call upon our new neighbors?" I asked.
"Yes."
"From curiosity, inclination, or duty?"
"Each will have its influence. The strongest may be inclination."
On the next evening, my wife had something more to say about our new neighbors in the corner house. There had been a second arrival in the person of a middle-aged man.
"What kind of a man was he?" I asked.
"I saw his face only for a moment. It did not impress me favorably. But faces in repose do not always give a right index of character."
"What was its peculiarity?" I asked.
"As I said before, I only saw it for a moment," replied my wife; "but think I would recognize it again anywhere."
"Then it must have been a strongly marked face?"
"It was. The types and styles of face that one meets every day are singularly varied; but not one in a hundred stands out so strongly from the rest, as to hold the eye and picture itself on the mind, as if the image had been taken by a camera."
"This man's face then belongs to the one in a hundred."
"Yes."
"Can you describe it?"
"I must see it again before I can particularize. What struck me was prominence of feature — prominent eyes, nose, lips, and chin."
"A sensual face."
"Sensual, but not animal. It was a strong face; and that indicates will and intellect of no low order."
"Fair or dark?"
"Almost bronzed."
"You seem to have gathered something in that single glance," said I, smiling. "And this is all as to the new tenants of the corner house?"
"All that has yet appeared."
"Not all that will appear."
"No," answered my wife; "for I feel just curious enough to be observant, and I think there is a story in that corner house."
"There is a story in every house," said I, "and one to strike deep chords of feeling in the common heart, if the right narrator could be found."
On the following day, as I passed the corner house, I glanced up at the parlor windows, the shutters of which were open. A face that was a perfect sunbeam, met my vision. It was the face of a child close against the crystal pane. But another face drew my eyes almost instantly from that of the child. It was a little back in the room, and partly in shadow; but so white that it seemed ghostly. I saw it only for a moment in passing.
"Anything more from the corner house?" said I, on meeting my wife that evening.
She gave a quiet negative.
"I have seen the lady in black."
"What lady in black?"
"In the corner house."
"Oh! have you?" She was all interest.
"I saw her for an instant as I passed today. She was standing a little removed from the window, at which was one of the loveliest children I have ever seen. Her face was like alabaster — so pale and fixed; her eyes large, dark, and sad. If there had been warmth and feeling in her face, she would have been exquisitely beautiful."
"I wonder who she can be?" said my wife, visibly excited by my communication.
"The corner house has become to us, an 'unknown world'. There will have to be a voyage of discovery," I remarked.
"My curiosity is so piqued, that I shall certainly make the voyage before long," said my wife. "There was something in the step and air of this lady which interested me when I saw her alight from the carriage. I felt that there were passages in her life to draw strongly on a woman's sympathies."
"We must learn the name of this family, and something about them," said I, "before a call is made."
"The name at least ought to be known."
"And some facts in regard to the people; as to their standing and reputation, for instance," said I.
"That would be satisfactory; but I don't think it probable that I shall delay calling for a very long time, should the facts of the family not appear. The face I saw, taking the face in repose as an index of character — your own theory — was sufficiently indicative of a true woman to warrant friendly advances."
"It is well," I remarked, "to let prudential considerations have their right influence. If strangers make a mystery of themselves, the inference lies naturally against them."
"The mystery may refer to things over which they had no control. We must not wrong the individual, because unhappily the bad deeds of another have furnished his life with sorrow, and tainted the name he bears."
"If we know the truth, then we can act justly," said I. "It does not do to infer too much in regard to strangers, if our conduct towards them is to be governed by these inferences."
"If we suppose at all," replied my wife, "why not suppose good? If a stranger clothes himself with mystery — why not infer good of him instead of evil? The mystery may be a cloak to hide the conduct of others; and he may stand in need of our sustaining kindness, as he bends, almost fainting, under burdens which would crush the life out of you and me."
"This may all be so," I answered. "But let us look for a moment or two at the other side, and narrow down our suppositions to the present case. A family, of whom we know nothing, has moved into our neighborhood. There is a mystery about them; and where there is mystery — we naturally infer that something wrong or disgraceful has been done either by the individuals themselves, or by friends with whom they stood in intimate connection. Now, let us take the lady in black at the corner house. You need only a glance at her ghostly face, to be assured that at least one passage in the record of her life tells a fearful story. It may be, that her hand is stained with blood."
"No!" exclaimed my wife, repelling the suggestion. But I saw the color fade from her cheeks.
"We cannot say yes, nor nay. Where there is mystery — we are in the dark," said I. "Or, she may have been guilty of a crime that excludes her from virtuous society."
"I will not believe it!"
"For the sake of argument, I will assume it," I continued. "She has been guilty of a crime, and her family, seeking to veil her own and their disgrace, have withdrawn from the old social circles, and come to our city and neighborhood to hide themselves from observation. Take this for granted, and would you call upon the lady?"
My wife was silent.
"Would you call?"
I pressed the question, and got a woman's answer.
"I don't believe a syllable of what you infer!"
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