Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 15.
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One afternoon, very soon after that drive with Mr. Congreve, as I was on my way home from a visit to a friend, I met Edgar Holman. It was the first time I had been face to face with him since the night of the party at Mrs. Fairfield's. His countenance did not light up with the usual glow of pleasure that I had heretofore observed in it; and he seemed a little shy and embarrassed. Taking the reason for granted, I laid my hand in his, and let my eyes rest steadily in his eyes. He read their language, and was satisfied.
We stood and talked for a little while, and then parted; not from any sense of repulsion, such as I experienced when in company with Mr. Congreve. On the contrary, the sphere of attraction was as strong in the case of Mr. Holman — as the sphere of repulsion was in the case of Mr. Congreve. I had gone a short distance, after parting with Edgar, when I heard his quick steps behind me. Returning to my side, he said, with a little tremor in his voice,
"Are you in a hurry to get home, Miss Edith?"
I replied in the negative.
"Because, if you are not, I thought I would propose a short walk."
Nothing could have been more agreeable at the time. So we turned from the main street, down to a retired part of the city, where the dwellings stood far apart, and rows of well grown trees threw a shade on the sidewalks. Very little was said by either until we were quite beyond the reach of common observation; in fact, almost away from the settled portions of the town. Then taking my hand, in an impulsive way, after a silence of some minutes, Mr. Holman said, hurriedly,
"Pardon me, if I am going too far; but I feel that I must speak now."
He stopped, while I was holding my breath for other words.
"Shall I go on?" he asked. I did not withdraw the hand he had taken; but accorded that much of assent.
"You are not offended?"
"Oh, no!" The words leaped impulsively to expression.
Still, he was not satisfied. He wanted something more assuring.
"You are very dear to me, Edith!" With what a delicious thrill did the sentence go through my heart! And yet, my hand lay in his — passively.
"My father's approval will never, I fear, be obtained," said I, as soon as I could trust myself to speak.
"And if he says nay — what then?" He looked into my face with tender earnestness.
"We must wait patiently and hopefully for a time."
"And lovingly, Edith," he added. Then, after a little while, he said, "I would not have spoken with such unseemly haste, if I had not been in fear of losing what to me is so precious. Nor would I have taken an opportunity like this, if your father had not deprived me, by his repulsive conduct, of one which would have seemed more honorable. Against anythingclandestine, my feelings revolt; and I am hurt at the necessity which compels me to take an apparently unfair advantage of your father. If you do not object, I will, in the face of all unpleasant consequences, call upon him, and claim your hand."
I did not know what answer I should make to this.
"Time will be our instructors," said I, after pondering the matter. "For the present it were better, I think, to keep this secret locked within our own hearts."
"If you think best, I have not a word to say," he replied.
We had turned, and were now walking homewards. I wanted to speak of Mr. Congreve. I knew that he had seen us riding out together, and I wished him to understand that the man was wholly repulsive. Yet a feeling of maiden delicacy kept me from uttering his name. While the thought of him was yet in my mind, I heard the sound of wheels in advance, and lifting my eyes, I saw him driving towards us in his elegant carriage. As he approached, I raised my hand, and drew it within the arm of my companion, thus acknowledging the existence of something more than acquaintanceship. I saw a disturbed look on his face, as he bowed low, in passing.
I could have done nothing more assuring to Edgar. The plainest spoken words would not have conveyed so clearly my rejection of Mr. Congreve — and acceptance of Edgar.
We parted while yet at some distance from home, and without encountering my father, who, as a physician of good practice, was moving about in all directions. I had been in dread of meeting him nearly all the time.
For a little season, I was happy beyond measure. Edgar and I were born for each other. I felt as much assured of this, as of my existence. From the first, even as strangers, we drew mutually together; and at each meeting, the attraction had grown stronger. And now, pledges were exchanged. The brief season of doubt was over; and the assurance of oral language confirmed the significance of look, tone, and expression.
Many circumstances conspired to prevent our meeting again for nearly two weeks. Two or three times during this period Mr. Congreve called to see me, and twice invited me to ride out with him. A fortunate headache gave me a good excuse for declining on both occasions. I treated him with as much coldness as I dared to assume towards a visitor; but he was not, as far as I could see, in the least repelled thereby.
My next meeting with Mr. Holman was in a company at the house of a friend. Mr. Congreve was present; so were my father and Aunt Mary. The rooms were well filled, which gave Edgar and I an opportunity to speak familiarly to one another without attracting observation. He came in a little later than I did, but sought me out immediately. Mr. Congreve arrived soon after.
"Remember," said Edgar, as he noticed Mr. Congreve crossing the room towards us "that, when the dancing begins, you are engaged to me for the first set."
"And for the second and third, also, if you will," was my answer.
Mr. Congreve bowed with impressive formality as he came up, and I returned his greeting in a friendly way. He did not notice Edgar in even a cold nod, but began talking with me as freely as if we two were alone, referring to his disappointment in not having had the pleasure of my company in a drive two or three days before.
"You would have seen," he said, "a sunset of even more gorgeous beauty than the one we both enjoyed so much two or three weeks ago. It far outrivaled anything that I witnessed in the land so famed for its glorious skies."
I did not express regret at having missed the splendid sight, but merely referred to the beautiful sky we had gazed upon as one long to be remembered.
"The point from which we saw it, gave the scene a grander beauty," replied Mr. Congreve. "Nothing intruded to cut the horizon, and diminish the impression of vastness. I must take you there again, when the atmosphere is favorable."
But I guarded my reply so as not to express any desire to accept his offered courtesy. Gradually, and I thought from design, Mr. Congreve's person became intruded between Edgar and I, so that the latter was forced to recede to a greater distance. My father coming up, completely separated us. I felt provoked at what seemed contemptuous treatment of Edgar on the part of Mr. Congreve; and resented it with some coldness of manner.
Music was now introduced, preparatory to dancing. Mr. Congreve immediately claimed my hand for the first set.
I thanked him, but answered that I was already engaged; and Edgar, coming forward at the moment, said —
"I believe you are to be my partner!"
I arose and accepted his offered arm. Mr. Congreve looked disappointed, and my father frowned. But I was too happy to be at my lover's side, to care very greatly for the disappointment or displeasure of anyone.
"For the next set also, remember," said Edgar, as he conducted me to a seat after the dancing was over. Mr. Congreve came to my side again, and Edgar moved away.
"Our young friend was too quick for me," remarked the former, in a pleasant, nonchalant way. "But I will steal a dance on every one else. Your hand is free for the next set?"
"No," I answered, smiling, so that I might not seem as cold as I felt.
"I'm disappointed." And tone and look were in confirmation of his words. "I claim you, then, for the next."
I had said to Edgar, that I would dance with him in the second and third sets as well as in the first; but a moment of hurried thought made me conclude, on my father's account, to accept Mr. Congreve for the third set. I could explain to Edgar when we danced together for the second time. So I replied:
"I shall be happy to dance with you then, Mr. Congreve."
He looked more pleased than was agreeable to me. I was not vain enough to be flattered by the impression it was clear I had made upon him.
I informed Edgar, in a few words, while we danced for the second time, that I had promised to accept Mr. Congreve as a partner. I saw a slight change on his countenance; but I said that it was on my father's account, and that a certain measure of prudence must be exercised. He assented, but not cheerfully.
"After the third set, I will dance no more this evening," said I.
And I did not go on the dance floor again, though solicited by Mr. Congreve and others. Edgar made his way to where I sat, but the rich Mr. Congreve did not hide his contempt for the poor merchant's clerk, whose unobtrusive, gentlemanly reserve of manner — gave the other an opportunity to push him aside and monopolize my company.
Many times during that evening, in looking towards Aunt Mary, I saw her eyes upon me, and noted something unusual in their expression. I also noticed that my father observed me closely, and with much of doubt and question in his manner.
My secret was already burdening me heavily. It was against my nature to act in a hidden or clandestine way, and I resolved to take Aunt Mary into my confidence, and get her clear head and more solid judgment to act with and for me. So on returning home I went to her room instead of to my own, and there told her everything. She sat a long time after I had ceased speaking, before she replied. Her first words were:
"I'm afraid, dear, there is trouble before you."
"I have not questioned that from the beginning," I answered. "But do we not always find less trouble in doing right, than in doing wrong?"
"Without doubt," she replied.
"Mr. Congreve is pressing his attentions on me with, evidently, the full approval of my father. He is wealthy; a man of good social standing; some culture; and more than ordinary intelligence. But he is so repulsive to me, that his presence always produces a sense of suffocation here," and I laid my hand against my bosom. "The very thought of becoming his wife, produces a feeling like suffocation. I could hate much easier than I could love him! Would it be right for me, then, under any pressure of circumstances, to marry him?"
Aunt Mary said "No," in a clear, steady voice.
"On the other hand," I continued, "from the moment I saw Mr. Holman, I felt a motion in my heart way down below the region of any prior consciousness. I was drawn towards him with an unaccountable attraction, which I could no more resist than a leaf can resist the pressure of a steadily moving current. I did not, with an eager, girlish caprice, yield to this impression; and I would not, perhaps, even now have been aware of its true power, if my father had not attempted to make me act in opposition. That proved it to be no evanescent influence. The effort on his part to push us asunder, only caused the invisible bond by which we had become united, to draw heavily upon both of our hearts, and make us deeply conscious of its existence as a real thing. When, therefore, under the fear of losing me, Edgar was impelled to speak of what he felt — was I wrong in responding according to the truth?"
To this Aunt Mary did not reply. I waited for some time, and then said:
"Should a woman marry where she does not love?"
Her "No" was unhesitating and emphatic.
"That settles the question in regard to Mr. Congreve, should he really show himself to be in earnest," said I. "His wealth and position should not come into the estimate?"
"No, no. It is the man as to character, quality, and disposition — as to fitness and congeniality. These alone are to be considered, my child." Aunt Mary spoke with a sudden earnestness. "No mere social condition can give happiness in marriage. Love, in the poorest position, is blessed; but the highest position, without love, is a weariness and misery!"
"I love Edgar Holman with all my heart," said I, laying my face down upon Aunt Mary's bosom.
"It may be so, my child." Her hand passed caressingly over my brow and temples. "But these sudden impressions are not always permanent. There may be something in this of mere impulse. It may not be grounded in any soul-perception."
"It is, dear aunt, it is!" I answered with ardor, "You know that I was never what is called a susceptible girl. That I was not fond of young gentlemen's society — that beaux were always more disagreeable than pleasant. But from the instant my eyes looked into Edgar's face, my heart moved towards him. I cannot help myself if I would. There is an impulse pushing me onwards, that it would be vain to resist. Yes, Aunt Mary, I love Edgar Holman, and for good or evil, my destiny is bound up with his. And now, what is the best thing to do?"
Aunt Mary was silent again.
"Ought I, as things are, to encourage the attentions of Mr. Congreve?"
"I think not," said my aunt.
"Will it not be best for my father to know exactly how it stands with Edgar and me?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Who shall inform him?" I asked.
Aunt Mary reflected for a little while, and then, said:
"It will place Edgar in a better position, if a communication of the fact first come from him. The matter has gone too far already, as concealed from your father, and the longer it goes — the stronger will be his ground of objection."
I was fully in agreement with this, and with so much settled as to the future, left Aunt Mary and went to my own room.
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