Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 13.
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From that time, my father's manner towards me was different. A night of sober thought convinced him, without doubt, that I possessed a quality and a development of will that must be treated in a way altogether different from that in which he had begun to meet the impediment so unexpectedly thrown in his path. When I met him on the next morning, he was serious but kind in his manner; and with the kindness of tone used in addressing me, I now and then detected a new feeling, which seemed more like respect for something he had discovered in me than anything else to which I could compare it.
The conclusion in my own mind, was natural. I had shown myself too strong for him. No feeling of triumph accompanied this; but it gave me a certain confidence in myself. As my father had assumed a new character, so to speak, in order more surely to gain his ultimate purposes in regard to me — which purposes began to dawn in my thoughts — I put on an exterior designed to mislead him. I do not think, however, that either was much deceived by the other.
I did not tell Aunt Mary about my father's treatment of Mr. Holman, nor allude to the painful interview that followed. It was at first my intention to do so, and to take her entirely into my confidence. But on reflection, I changed my mind. For the present, at least, I would keep my own counsel. I was satisfied, from her manner, that she was not even aware that my father had seen Mr. Holman in the parlor. Her pleasant banter in regard to my visitor gave me an opportunity to ask some questions about him, in a casual way, as though I had but little interest in her replies. I found that he was something of a favorite with Aunt Mary; and that she regarded him as a very superior young man. Her opinion of anyone, I would take against the world, so that disposed entirely of my father's objections.
Mr. Holman did not call again. This was as I had expected. After my father's uncivil treatment, self-respect must keep him away. I soon became aware that all my movements were closely observed by my father. If I went out, he, somehow or other, managed to cross my way in the street — sometimes twice or thrice. If I paid an evening visit, he was sure to come for me at an early hour. If I attended a party, he was there long before the time arrived for the company to disperse. Whenever it happened that Mr. Holman was present, and ventured to come near me, which he always did, my father's manner exhibited disturbance, and he would use various little arts to interrupt our fellowship, or procure a separation of one from the other. This became so apparent, that neither of us could help noticing it or being annoyed thereby. Is it remarkable that this studied effort to keep us apart — should have the effect to draw us more closely together, and precipitate the result he so dreaded?
One evening I met Mr. Holman at an entertainment given by Mrs. Fairfield, the wife of a member of the mercantile house in which he was a clerk. It was a large company, and some of our best people, as they are called, were there. As usual, greatly to the annoyance of my father, who was present, Edgar soon found his way to my side; and when the dancing commenced, we took the floor as partners. Two or three times, as we stood in the pauses of the dance, I met my father's eyes bent almost sternly upon me. At the close of the set, my partner led me to a sofa, and stood before me, talking, when my father came up with a gentleman, and presented him to me as a Mr. Congreve. Edgar retired to another part of the room.
"May I claim your hand for the next cotillion?" asked the gentleman, bowing very low, and with what struck me as an excess of formality.
I could not say that I was already engaged, and even if I had been, to Edgar, I would not have ventured to decline, under the circumstances. Until the next set took the floor, Mr. Congreve held me in conversation, and I had a good opportunity to observe him. I was nineteen — he past thirty. So much for the difference in our ages. I did not like his face. It was strongly marked, and gave evidence of mental vigor — but not of refinement or taste. His nose was large and slightly aquiline; his eyes prominent; his lips full; his complexion dark. He was rather above, than below the middle stature.
I saw many curious eyes upon us as we stood up and took a position on the floor; and from the expression in some of these eyes, I understood that my partner was a man of note for something distinguishing. Large wealth, I afterwards learned this to be. He made quite an elegant appearance, as he threaded the mazy figures, and I might have been proud of my partner if his company had not, at the time, been almost an intrusion.
"You dance charmingly," he said, as the music ceased, and we passed to the side of the room; "and before somebody else snatches you away from me, I must secure your hand for another set."
I could do no less than consent. My father now joined us, and looked happy as Mr. Congreve complimented me. I danced with him again; and then he drew me away from the parlors to the conservatory, which had been lighted up for the occasion, and held me there, in conversation about rare plants, with which he seemed familiar, for nearly an hour. Three or four times Edgar passed near us; and I saw, by the expression of his face, that he was annoyed, and, perhaps, a little disturbed in mind. I tried to throw him assuring glances.
"I must follow up this acquaintance," said Mr. Congreve, speaking both to me and to my father, as we stood together in the thinning parlors, at a late hour.
My father bowed; but I made no response. The intimation was far from being agreeable. As we rode home, my father spoke warmly of Mr. Congreve. He was a man of wealthand high position, he said, who had come to our city from the South a year before, to connect himself with some enterprises of an extensive character. I listened, but did not answer. His wealth and position, however attractive to my father — had no charms for me. As a man, he had not impressed me favorably.
Indisposition had prevented Aunt Mary from attending this party of the season; a circumstance that we both regretted. I went to her room, on my return home, and found her awake. She had many questions to ask, as to who were there, and how I had enjoyed the evening. I mentioned my introduction to Mr. Congreve, and his monopoly of my company. She did not seem altogether pleased.
"Who is he, aunt? Tell me!" I spoke with some earnestness.
"I cannot say that I know much about him," she replied. "He has not resided here for a very long time."
"Father says he is very rich."
"Money isn't everything." Aunt Mary said this partly to herself.
"What do you think of him?" I wanted to get her impression of the man.
"He has not been a favorite of mine," was her reserved answer.
"He is going to call here," said I.
"How do you know?" Aunt Mary spoke with sudden interest.
"He said that he meant to follow up the acquaintance. I suppose that means what I intimate."
"Perhaps it does." A faint sigh closed the remark.
"I don't like him," said I.
Aunt Mary looked at me curiously.
"And I don't wish him to come here," I added.
"It may only have been a compliment," said Aunt Mary. "Men of his stamp are often profuse in words."
"He has plenty of them. I wished him mute more than a dozen times tonight. He really annoyed me with his compliments and attentions."
"Don't think any more about them, dear." Aunt Mary looked a little worried, I thought.
"You don't like him?" said I, determined to get her impression of Mr. Congreve.
"Not much," she replied. "He isn't the kind of man to win my admiration."
"Nor mine either," I responded. "So, he might as well save himself the trouble of following up the acquaintance."
I kissed Aunt Mary, and said good night. I was in too much excitement of mind to sleep for an hour or two after retiring. There was trouble in my way; I saw that clearly. If Mr. Congreve should prove to be really in earnest in his admiration, and attempt any advances beyond the formalities of ordinary acquaintanceship — I would have to hold him off, at the risk of offending my father.
In the morning my father asked me how I had enjoyed the party, and before I could reply said, smiling,
"But I had eyes, and could see for myself. She was quite the belle." And he looked across the table at Aunt Mary.
My heart did not flutter nor my face crimson at this compliment; I felt too sober for that.
"Dissipation is not good for you." My father looked at me more narrowly. "You danced too often last night."
"Perhaps I did." I spoke listlessly.
My father then gave Aunt Mary some account of the entertainment, and of the people who were there. As I expected, he said more about Mr. Congreve than anyone else, and sought to make a good impression in regard to him. I kept silent, and so did Aunt Mary. He was a little annoyed at this, I could see, but repressed his feelings.
Almost to my consternation, Mr. Congreve made me a call this very morning. I could do no less than treat him courteously; but he found me, at home, something different, I imagine, from what he found me in company on the night before.
"Are you fond of music?" he asked, as we sat conversing. My suggestive piano stood open in the room.
I replied in the affirmative.
"So am I, passionately," he said. "Won't you favor me?" and he made a motion to lead me to the instrument. I arose and crossed to where it stood, without allowing him to touch my hand.
"What kind of music do you like?" I inquired, as I sat down, and laid a book open on the desk.
"Oh, anything that can be called music," he replied.
I tried him in a piece designed to reach only a cultivated ear, and understood from his undiscriminating praise, that it merely gave to his sense of hearing, a confusion of musical sounds. A march reached him more intelligibly, so did an airy waltz. The Nocturne by Chopin received the equivocal praise contained in the words "very fine."
"You play charmingly," he said, as I left the piano. "Charmingly!" he added. "I never heard better playing in my life, and I have listened to some admirable performers, both at home and abroad."
I acknowledged the compliment as gracefully as possible. He then referred to some musical entertainments which he had enjoyed, a few years before, in London and Paris, and mentioned certain celebrities, in whom I felt interested.
My replies led him on to speak of other things connected with his tour in Europe, and, as he had been quite an intelligent observer, he soon had my absorbed attention. He must be a dull man indeed, who has spent any time in Paris, London, Rome, Florence, and Naples, and yet is not able to interest the thought of a young and ardent girl, who has dreamed over their fascinations in books. But Mr. Congreve was far from being a dull man. He was, on the contrary, intelligent, appreciative, and a lover of art. He had traveled with open eyes, and brought home a well stored memory.
He saw that I was interested in his reminiscences and descriptions, and entertained me for an hour with pictures of Italian life, scenery, and art. When he took his departure, my impression of the man was changed. I could not but feel respect for his intelligence, and a certain deference towards him as one who had seen the world at many points, and enjoyed rare advantages.
I mentioned the call to my father, and saw that it gave him great pleasure. It would have been more in accordance with my feelings to have said nothing to him on the subject; but I had my reasons for alluding to the visit.
"He is really an intelligent man," said I to Aunt Mary, in speaking to her of Mr. Congreve. "He traveled in Europe with open eyes, and describes what he saw in a very interesting manner."
"He is a man possessed of considerable information," replied my aunt, "but"
She paused, as if questioning with herself the propriety of saying what was in her thoughts.
"But what, Aunt Mary?" I said, seeing that she hesitated.
"Two things go to make up the character of a true man," she remarked.
"What are they?"
"The head and the heart; or the intellect and the moral qualities."
"That I understand clearly."
"The head is well enough in the case of Mr. Congreve," said Aunt Mary; "but I am not so well satisfied about the heart."
"I know one thing," said I; "there is about him, for me, a sphere of repulsion. I felt all the while as if something were pushing me away from him. Was it not singular, to say the least of it?"
"It is a fact not lightly to be regarded," was Aunt Mary's reply. "When two people meet for the first time, this feeling of repulsion on the part of one or the other often occurs, and is not without significance."
"What does it signify?" I saw that Aunt Mary was not speaking at random — indeed, she never does that — but had a meaning that involved something beyond what my girlish thoughts had ever reached.
"It may signify perception of quality," said Aunt Mary.
"I am not sure that I understand you," was my reply.
"You can understand that the mind has a quality. That it is good or bad — true or false?"
"Oh, yes." For that was clear enough.
"When two people meet, and the thought of each turns to the other, we may say, without figure of speech, that their minds meet." Aunt Mary spoke with deliberation, so that I might get the meaning of her words.
"I see that you comprehend me." Aunt Mary spoke with satisfaction in her tones, and then added: "In this meeting, is it not fair to conclude, that if the quality of one mind is good, and that of the other evil — the quality will be perceived, and a sense of repulsion be inevitable, in one case or the other. Can it be otherwise?"
I caught at the suggestion eagerly. It was novel to my mind, but self-evidently true.
"Then," said I, "the inference follows that an instinctive dislike, or repulsion, felt towards anyone at first, may be taken as a warning that some condition or quality exists which would forever prevent an intimate and harmonious association; and that any attempt to act in the face of this warning is a blind folly, opening the way to misery."
"I do not know that you state the case too strongly," remarked Aunt Mary, thoughtfully; "in my view, it is safer to obey these suggestive instincts than to disregard them."
"Thank you, dear aunt," said I, "for the light you have thrown into my mind. I just needed these few rays to guide me in the right path."
Aunt Mary looked at me curiously. But I did not take her yet into my confidence.
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