Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 11.
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My father's uneasiness could not be concealed. When we met again at dinner-time, and in the evening, I would detect his eyes, if I looked up at him suddenly, fixed upon my countenance with a look of earnest inquiry. His concern obliterated from his mind all perceptive wisdom. If he had reflected for a moment, he must have seen that his conduct was calculated to give the matter an undue importance in my eyes — to turn my thoughts towards the young man instead of away from him.
On the next morning, after breakfast, I went into the parlor again. But not, as on the day before, to linger at the window, waiting for the stranger's appearance, should he call again. I sat down at the piano, with my back to the window, and commenced playing. This would satisfy my father, and assure him, if the young man came, that I would remain in ignorance of the fact. How far was it from his imagination, that I played and sang to each visitor who called — I could hear every ring of the bell and every footfall in the passage — in the hope that ears I longed already to penetrate with my voice, would take in the melodies that passed, warbling, full of heart-warmth, from my lips.
Thus I played and sang until the close of my father's office hours. How much I desired to know whether the young man had called. It was several times on my lips to put the question to Aunt Mary. But a dictate of prudence restrained me. I must for the present, at least, keep my own secret beyond the danger of betrayal.
"You look dull this morning," said Aunt Mary. "Are you staying in the house too much?"
"Perhaps I am," was my reply.
"Put on your things and take a walk, and make some calls."
Just the suggestion that pleased me.
"I think the fresh air of this beautiful day would put new life into my veins." And I went to my room and dressed myself with more than usual carefulness. Was I thus careful forcommon eyes? No! What then? Did I expect to meet "my destiny" — and was I attiring myself for him? I will not answer "yes" nor "nay." My state of mind was not clear to me. I acted from something like a double consciousness. I was led by an impulse that I neither sought to define nor to control. Yet, all the while, way down in my heart, was a low, delicious thrill — half pain, half pleasure.
It was a calm, sweet, summer day, with the bluest of blue skies bending over the flower-gemmed earth. The air was as clear as crystal, and I drank it in like an elixir of life, as I passed through the garden gate, and walked with light steps down the broad pavement, on which lay the still, dense shadows from trees in which the winds slept pulseless. Our house stood a little way from the business portion of the town, in a part where many handsome dwellings had been erected. They stretched along for many squares, each with its little garden in front glowing with flowers, and filling the air with perfume. I had friends in some of these houses, and at almost any other time I would have found more pleasure in calling, than in continuing a solitary walk. But, scarcely looking from the right to the left, I kept on, until I reached the less attractive parts of the town, where the noise, and bustle, and rude jar of business stunned the quiet ear.
I was in a strange state of mind; and I knew it. A dreamy, expectant state. Suddenly I was startled by a confused noise in the street behind me — the sound of hoofs and wheels and quick warning voices. I stood still in vague alarm; and as I turned in the direction from which the tumult came, I saw a horse and wagon dashing down towards me. I was near the curb; but, like one in a nightmare, I could not move. Quick falling terror had paralyzed me. In a moment more, the frightened animal, who came onwards with widely springing feet, fluttering mane, and distended nostrils, would have struck me with his iron hoofs, when I was seized by strong arms and carried back from the point of danger. Scarcely had I left the spot, when the horse swept by like a fury.
"Thank God, you are safe!"
I did not know the voice. It was disturbed, and full of interest and gratitude, like the voice of one who had saved the life of a beloved object. I was leaning against him heavily, for I had become as weak as a child, and could not support myself. Remembering that I was in the street, and seeing a little crowd of people beginning to gather, one and another of whom were asking whether I was hurt or not, I made an effort to rally myself, and was successful. Disengaging my person from the arm by which I was still supported, I stood up firmly, and turned to look into the face of my rescuer and thank him. But, when I saw his face, I was speechless. Not a word of utterance was on my lips. I could not make a sound. Only with my eyes, did I reward him.
The exclamation of Aunt Mary, when I arrived at home, told how much the circumstance had disturbed me.
"What has happened?" she asked, with alarm pictured in her face.
I related the incident of the runaway horse, mentioning that I had been pulled back just in time to save me, but said nothing in regard to the individual to whom I owed my life. My father heard, incidentally, of the circumstance, and hurried home in some alarm, arriving soon after me. My face was still pale, and my nerves disturbed. He made particular inquiries into all the circumstances, and asked who had rescued me. I felt his eyes on my face, as I turned mine partly aside, and answered, truly, that I did not know. And yet I did know my rescuer to be the young man whose presumption in looking towards me, had so troubled my father. But who was he? His name and personality were yet unknown to me.
"Did you see his face?" asked my father.
"Only for an instant, as I recovered from the sudden fright, and got away as quickly as possible from the crowd which began to gather around me."
My father was silent for a little while, and, as I could see, not at ease in his mind. Is it possible, thought I, that he has learned who it was that put forth so timely a saving hand?
"If you should learn who it was," said I, "thank him in my name."
"We, indeed, owe him thanks." My father spoke with some feeling.
The incident coming to the ears of several intimate friends, there were a dozen calls during the day. Some had heard that I was seriously injured; others that I had fainted from alarm; and others some version of the case about as near the truth.
"You had quite an adventure, I hear," said one lady, looking less serious than most of our friends had been in referring to the matter. "A sudden danger, a fright, a fainting fit, and a nice young man to the rescue, just in the nick of time!"
"Oh, no, no!" I answered; "you are wide of the truth. There was no fainting in the case."
"But a nice young man, ha, my pretty lady! That part of the story, at least, is true."
"I was saved by a stranger," said I.
"Are you sure?"
"Very sure." I spoke in a tone of confidence.
The visitor looked at Aunt Mary.
"Do you know who it was?"
Aunt Mary shook her head.
"Is it possible!"
"Quite so."
"Didn't the doctor tell you?"
"No. I think he is quite as ignorant as we are," said Aunt Mary.
"Not a bit of it. My husband came up a few moments after the incident, and saw the 'noble youth' who had risked his life in the cause of beauty. From him the doctor learned the name of that 'noble youth.' And he has kept it a secret! Well!"
"Who was it?" asked Aunt Mary.
"Fairfield & Co.'s handsome clerk. You know him."
"Mr. Holman?"
"Yes."
"Is it possible!"
My aunt looked surprised; but there was no special meaning in her eyes as she turned them upon my face.
"It is singular," she remarked, "that the doctor did not mention his name. He knows him very well."
"He was afraid, I suppose, of this young lady's heart. Gratitude is often the parent of love. Are you very susceptible, my dear?"
"I was thought cold-hearted at school," said I, putting on an air of indifference.
"But had a lover for all that?"
"No. I am still heart-free." I tried to speak gaily, but don't think I succeeded.
"Well, well, child," said the visitor, in her light, thoughtless manner, "Cupid has drawn a bow for you now; and the arrow is on its way!" Then turning to Aunt Mary, she added —
"It was a narrow escape, I hear; and you owe the young man a debt of gratitude. His life, they say, was in imminent danger."
A clerk in Fairfield & Co.'s store, named Holman! So much known. After the lady retired, I said to Aunt Mary —
"Then you know this young man, to whom we are all so much indebted."
"Oh, yes; very well," she answered.
My ear was in every tone of her voice; but I could not discover a sign of objection. Many questions came crowding to my lips; but I kept them back, and hid the almost irrepressible interest that was in my heart.
"He's an excellent young man," said Aunt Mary, "and quite a favorite with all who know him."
What music was in the words! I sat silent, but listening intently.
"Handsome, well educated, gentlemanly, and of irreproachable character."
How little did dear Aunt Mary know of the sweetness which lay in these words as they fell upon my ears. "Handsome, well educated, gentlemanly, and of irreproachable character." They were fixed in my memory, and dwelt upon as testimonials of worth above all gainsaying. I would take Aunt Mary's approval in the face of a denouncing world. How I longed to press inquiry after inquiry; but a prudent forethought made me assume an indifference which I did not feel. My father's attitude towards the young man, was a warning to be circumspect.
In the evening, as we sat at the tea-table, Aunt Mary said, addressing my father —
"So it is young Edgar Holman to whom we are so deeply indebted?"
My father looked across the table at Aunt Mary in a cold way, and with a glance of caution in his eyes. I saw it, and the effect upon my aunt. His answer was a simple, indifferently spoken "Yes," and no more was said on the subject.
One might as well attempt to keep water from finding its level, as the heart from obedience to its native impulses. Did my father's strange conduct deaden the impulses of my heart? No — it only quickened them!
In less than a week, I met Mr. Holman at the house of one of our friends, where a small company had been invited. I saw him speak to the lady whose guests we were, a few minutes after I came in, when she brought him to where I was sitting, and gave us a formal introduction. As he drew a chair nearly in front of me, and sat down, with his eyes reading my face as if it were a book, I said to him —
"Let me, first of all, thank you for my life. But for the promptness and courage you displayed — I must have been killed."
My voice trembled, though I tried to speak calmly, and I was conscious of a deepening color. His countenance lighted up with a glow of pleasure, and his eyes looked with more than admiration on my face.
"I am only too happy," he replied, "in having been the instrument of rescue. It was a narrow escape," he added. "If I had been a moment later, the infuriated horse would have been upon you. I have shuddered at the thought many times since."
This was our introduction. For the whole of that evening, the young man was away from my side for scarcely a moment. What a charm for my ears lay in his voice; what a fascination in his eyes, whenever I could venture to look into them; what a subduing power in his presence! Every sentiment he uttered seemed to have in it deeper meanings than the simple words conveyed, and my thoughts searched busily all the while for these meanings. When the hour for separation came, he asked to be my escort home. I knew that my father would call for me in his carriage, but I could not resist the temptation to lay my hand upon the arm of Mr. Holman, and be all alone with him for the first time, and so accepted his invitation. I hurried on my things, lest my father should arrive, and passed from the house with a hand drawn within the arm of Edgar Holman, my consciousness more like that of a person in the mazes of a sweet dream than of one in real life.
"Where is your father?" asked Aunt Mary, when I met her on entering our house.
"I came away before he arrived," said I.
"How so?" She looked at me narrowly.
"The company was dispersing, and he had not come, so I accepted an escort. I thought it possible that he was detained by some patient."
"Who came home with you?"
I tried to speak in a tone of indifference, as I replied —
"Mr. Holman, my gallant rescuer."
"I'm afraid your father will not be pleased," said Aunt Mary, looking at me with a sober face.
"Why not?"
I believed her, but wished to get at the secret of my father's too evident dislike of Edgar Holman.
"He said that he would call for you; and it will displease him when he finds that you went home without waiting for him. He is peculiar, you know."
But this did not satisfy me.
"He doesn't like Mr. Holman," said I.
"How do you know?" My aunt looked at me curiously.
"What is the reason?" I put my question without answering hers.
"I am not aware of any dislike towards Mr. Holman, on the part of your father," she replied. "Why have you taken it for granted? Or has our friend made so free as to venture a suggestion of this nature?"
"Oh, no, no!" I answered quickly. "Father was not referred to by him."
I think from the way Aunt Mary looked at me, that my face betrayed more than I wished her to see.
"There is your father, now!" she said, as we heard the door open, and his unusually quick tread in the passage. We were standing in the parlor. He saw us, and came in hastily. His face was angry, as he fixed his eyes on me, and said, with unusual sternness —
"Why did you leave before I came?"
"The company were separating, and I thought you might be detained by some pressing call."
"Didn't I say that I would come for you?" he demanded.
The tone, so angry and imperative beyond anything that I had ever heard, confounded me.
"I didn't suppose you would care," I stammered, my eyes filling with tears.
"I do care, then! And now let me say to you, once for all, that I will be your attendant home from evening visits and parties. Do you understand?"
I made no answer. Rebellion was coming into my heart.
"Why don't you speak?"
Still I kept silent. My father's face was growing dark with anger. At this moment, Aunt Mary leaned towards him and said something that I did not hear. "Whatever it was, it had an immediate influence, for I saw a change in his manner. Without looking towards me, or saying another word, he left the room, and crossing the passage, entered his office and shut the door.
My father had drawn the string too tightly — and snapped the bow. I was a rebel from that hour. Half the night I lay in a kind of semi-conscious elysian dream. I had met my "destiny," face to face; and we had looked way down into each other's eyes — which were only the mirrors of our hearts. All hope, all happiness, all that made life to be desired — were, I felt, included in the love of Edgar Holman. What a strong, deep-flowing passion had suddenly flooded my heart. From a light-thoughted girl, I had become, in a day, as it were, a full-grown, thrillingly-conscious woman.
"My father must not attempt to thwart me here," said I, as I pondered in sober mood, on the next morning, the incidents of the evening before. "I will render him dutiful obedience in all things that a daughter can render as a daughter. But, as a woman, I claim to be the disposer of my own heart. That is free, by God's gift; and free it shall remain! Here, a father's authority does not reach; and I will not acknowledge it."
Bold, strong words for a girl at my age. But I was in earnest. I had been seized upon, as it were, suddenly by a passion that infused itself into every element of my being. Not so much a bewildering — as a deeply-penetrating and all-involving passion. Not agitating and blinding — but strong, clear-seeing, and conclusive. I no more doubted the inspiration of love in the heart of Edgar, than I doubted that which had been born in my own. "We were made for each other," said I, in my strange confidence. "And what Heaven ordains, is inevitable."
There was a cloud on my father's face when we met on the next morning, but no allusion was made to the evening's disturbing incident. Aunt Mary looked almost as sober as my father. I noticed several times, that she was attempting to read my countenance. I made it as a sealed book, however. School-life had taught me lessons of self-control and the art of veiling the face, as well as more intellectual things. I was not yet ready to offer her my confidence. It was far from her thoughts, that I had given my heart away before it had been asked for, in any language but heart-language — that I had passed in a few hours from a weak girl to a strong woman. Yet it was so.
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