Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 16.
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On the next day I sent a note to Edgar, asking him to meet me, at a certain hour, in the retired part of the town which was dear to me in memory for the happiness I had there experienced. I related to him, when we met, a part of my conversation with Aunt Mary, and mentioned the advice she had given. He was ready to act upon it, and did so within twenty-four hours. I was not altogether unprepared for the result. My father insulted him in the grossest manner, and forbade any attempt to see me; utterly rejecting his suit at the same time, and telling him that it was hopeless. This he communicated to me by letter, closing with the sentence:
"And what now, dear Edith?" I answered, telling him that I would be true to him till death — with patience and hope. Two or three days passed without my father approaching me on the subject, but I could see that his mind was strongly exercised.
I was coming downstairs, late in the afternoon of the third day since the rejection of Edgar's suit, dressed to go out. It was to keep an appointment with my lover. I had seen him on the day before, and we were to meet again according to agreement. It was fully two hours before my father's usual return home. His office hours were from three to four o'clock; after that he was frequently away among his patients until nearly seven. To my surprise, the front door opened and he came in, in something of a hurried manner. Seeing me dressed to go out, he said, a little imperatively —
"Where are you going, Edith?"
My face commenced burning, and I answered, with a confusion of spirit that I could not overcome —
"To take a walk, sir."
"Come into the parlor. I would like to say a word to you."
I followed him.
"Sit down," he said.
I sat down, and he drew a chair nearly in front of me. He was considerably disturbed in mind.
"You were out at this time yesterday!" He spoke affirmatively.
"I was." My answer was given without hesitation.
"Where?"
"I was in Elm street."
"Do you visit anybody in Elm street?"
"No, sir."
"Then, pray, for what purpose were you there?"
I had taken off my bonnet and laid it on the piano; unpinned my light mantilla and pushed it back from my shoulders, to show that I understood the interview to be one of importance, and likely to last for some time. These acts helped me to gather back the self-possession I was losing, and of which I felt conscious of standing greatly in need.
"For what purpose were you there?" My father repeated his interrogatory before I could frame an answer in my mind.
"I was there to meet Mr. Holman," said I, bravely. As I thus answered, I looked at my father with a steadiness that a little disconcerted him.
"And you have the boldness to say that to my face!" he exclaimed, losing command of himself.
"I hope never to be guilty of an act that I would conceal from my father when questioned by him," was my answer. "I am not conscious of having done anything wrong."
He was too much confounded by what I had said, to know how to meet the case promptly; and while he hesitated, I went on.
"Mr. Holman has communicated to me the result of his interview. While I had not ventured to hope for your approval and consent, I was scarcely prepared for the cruel mannerof your denial. I did not believe that my father would wound and insult a young man who came to him respectfully and honorably, to solicit the hand of his daughter."
"Quiet!" exclaimed my father, losing command of himself.
I remained silent.
"This matter must stop where it is!" He spoke resolutely.
"I am a woman, remember!" And I gave to the words all the meaning it was possible to convey in the tone of my voice. He was driving me into resolute antagonism — and I had awill equal to the emergency.
"You must give up this fellow's company!" My father spoke with just a little less of assumed authority.
Fellow! How the word quickened my heart with indignant pulses! Fellow! And applied to Edgar! This was too much. Looking steadily at my father, I replied:
"The heart does not love by square and rule, nor ask of authority how it shall beat. It is supreme in its own world."
"Quiet, will you!" He spoke very impatiently.
"You have summoned me to answer," I said, in a voice the calmness of which surprised myself. "If you do not wish to hear me, well, I can be silent."
"Self-willed, wrong-headed girl! You shall bitterly repent all this!" replied my father.
"There will come pain and sorrow, I doubt not; but never repentance." Then, after a little period of silence, I said, taking on a firm bearing, "Opposition will be of no avail, sir; the question is settled. I am betrothed to Edgar Holman; and I will keep my pledges until death! If you will not permit him to visit me here, I must submit to the humiliating necessity you impose, and meet him elsewhere — in the street, if need be."
He grew very pale instantly.
"You have driven us to quick avowals, and a life-compact that seems hurriedly made," I continued, "but now that we have cast the dice, let me beg you to be our father — and not our antagonist; our best friend — and not our enemy. You have permitted an unjust prejudice against Edgar to come into your mind. He is worthy of your child — in all things worthy, dear father! Oh, receive him; receive him for the sake of the daughter you have loved!"
I leaned towards him and spoke in pleading tones. But he answered hoarsely, and in bitter rejection of my appeal.
"Never! That base, sneaking wretch shall never have allowance from me!"
"He is not a base, sneaking wretch," I replied, "but high-minded and honorable. He is your daughter's choice, which will never pass to another."
"Beware, mad girl!" There was threatening in my father's eyes. "I will not see myself defied and insulted by a beggarly upstart. It shall not be as you fondly imagine."
"You cannot alter what God has ordained," said I, firmly. "A woman's heart does not love by prescription. Did my mother's?" I looked with steady eyes into my father's face.
But he was blind in his disappointment. He had looked to the attainment of a desired thing in my marriage — and it maddened him to be thwarted. He had made money andposition the great good — and I was affianced to a poor clerk! It was more than he could bear.
"Go your ways! Go your ways, rash girl!" he said, at length, rising and moving towards the door. "Life has always its reckoning days — and yours will come!"
I sat in tears for some time after he left the room. Then putting on my bonnet again, I went from the house, and met Edgar according to appointment.
The troubled life which I passed during the weeks and months which followed, I will not describe. My father's opposition to Edgar did not in the least abate; and I had to meet him at the houses of friends or in the street — to me, often, a bitter humiliation. He would have visited me at my own home, in spite of my father's opposition, but I would not have one so dear subjected to insult; I could not bear it. My relation to Edgar did not cause me to withdraw from society, but led me, rather, to mingle in it more freely, for the reason that I often met him when abroad, but never at home.
It had become very soon apparent that Mr. Congreve knew of my relation to Edgar. He was annoyed and disappointed, and for a time kept himself at a distance, greatly to my relief. But after a while, as we met frequently in company, he gradually drew nearer again, and never seemed better pleased than when by my side. I saw this change with regret. If he had been over-intrusive, I would have firmly repelled him. But he was not. There was a certain subdued reserve about him, altogether different from the confident way in which he had sought to impress me in the beginning of our acquaintance; in fact, what I plainly felt to be an acknowledgment of my affianced position. This being so, I could do no less than treat him with that courtesy which right feeling dictated. He appeared satisfied with this — too well satisfied to please me. I noticed that he was on excellent terms with my father; that when they met it was with a cordiality which, to my keenly observant eyes, intimated something more than common social amenity. I did not like its aspect.
No change showing itself in my father's treatment of our case, we fixed the time of marriage, which was about a year from the period of our engagement.
Edgar was receiving a good salary, and I was willing to try the world with him, in what some might think a humble way. The announcement was made to my father, but he deigned no response. I did not, however, fail to see that he was in a more abstracted state afterwards. We had ceased to have any controversy on the subject of my attachment to Edgar. It was useless, both saw, and therefore abandoned. No concealment of our engagement was made by either Edgar or myself, and so it became known in all the circles where I visited. No particular change showed itself in the deportment of Mr. Congreve. He was as polite, attentive, and deferential as before — but I thought a little less familiar. This seemed natural, and made me feel his presence as less repulsive. I did not like, however, his treatment of Edgar, nor his way of looking at him when they happened to meet in my presence. I had so formally introduced them, that Mr. Congreve could not help a recognition. Had he failed in respectful deportment — I would have resented it, as he must have felt assured. Their conversation was always limited to cold common-place things. Usually, if Edgar was present in any company, Mr. Congreve did not intrude himself upon me, except in a brief, casual way. But I now and then detected his gaze fixed upon Edgar, with an expression that sometimes made my flesh creep — it was so strange and sinister; and I felt at such times, that he would do him evil if in his power.
Time passed on, with little to break the regular progression of our lives, until we came to within a month of the day fixed for the marriage ceremonial. Through Aunt Mary, I learned that my father would hear no reference to the subject whatever; and refused to supply me, at her solicitation, with the money required for a bridal outfit. From her own slender means, I received what was needed, and so made all preparation for the event.
About this time I yielded to a gradually approaching depression of spirits. I had felt for some time, the intrusion of a shadow upon my mind, as if an evil thing were drawing, invisibly, near. At first, this was very indistinctly perceived, but it grew more and more palpable as our appointed marriage-day came nearer. Frightful dreams haunted me in the night, so that I often came from my room in the morning pale and unrefreshed.
One evening I had met Edgar at the house of a friend, and was returning home with him. I was more depressed in mind than usual. There was on my spirit a weight as of some impending calamity. I startled and trembled nervously if any one came suddenly by, or walked closely behind us. Edgar talked to me in tender assurance, and pointed my thought to the sweet, coming future. But I remained sad and troubled, even to tears.
"The blessing is too great for me," I said, as we stood, in the sad moonlight, at the gate leading into my home. "The cup too full of precious wine for mortal lips. Oh, Edgar! if it should fall, and be broken at our feet!"
"It will not, dear Edith!" he replied, with confidence. "An evil spirit, envious of such joy, is trying to make you wretched by doubts. We have Heaven on our side."
"I trust so," was my answer; yet no assurance came with his words.
"Tomorrow evening I will see you at Mrs. Darling's," he said, as he held my hands. There was a hard substance in his palm, as it pressed against mine, about the size of a silver dollar.
"I will be there, of course," was my reply. There was to be company at Mrs. Darling's, and we were invited. Then followed a kiss, and a pressure of the hand. I had scarcely any other consciousness, until I was in my room, and the token he had left with me held close to the light. My lips touched it almost as quickly as my eyes. It was a picture of himself, in a gold medallion, wonderfully life-like. I slept with it against my heart, and dreamed for that night, sweet, tranquil dreams.
But the old pressure on my feelings came back with the morning, and I brought down a pale face to the breakfast table. The meal passed, as had become usual, in silence. At dinner-time, I noticed something unusual in my father's treatment of me. His manner was kinder, and his voice gentler. If my quick ear did not deceive me, there was a shade ofcompassion in his tones. I could not understand the way in which he looked at me sometimes. It excited and troubled me.
"Where are you going?" he asked, on seeing me dressed to go out at tea-time. He seemed surprised.
"To Mrs. Darling's," I answered.
"I wouldn't go, Edith." He spoke quickly, and with a gravity of manner that concealed, evidently, a reason which he considered conclusive.
"I have promised to be there." Very earnestly and inquiringly I looked at my father on giving this reply.
"I think you had better not go. Take my advice, for once, and remain at home." He spoke very seriously, but with unusual kindness of manner. My eyes were fixed upon him, but he did not look at me in a direct way.
"If you know of any reason why I should not go," said I, conscious, from a sense of faintness, that a death-like pallor was coming into my face, "don't conceal it from me. It would be cruel. I have promised to be there, and must keep my word, unless a barrier lies in the way which prudence warns me not to pass."
"There is such a barrier." My father looked even more serious than in the beginning.
"Then in Heaven's name, what is it?" I started to my feet, no longer able to keep my place at the table, and bent my white face, beseechingly, towards him. My father's silence, and perplexed manner, only made suspense more feeble.
"Has anything happened to Edgar?" I now demanded.
"Yes." He said it in a low voice, as if fearful of the effect.
"What of him? Speak!" I felt as if I were suffocating. I reached out my hands, and grappled my father's garments. "Speak!" I repeated. "Speak, or I shall die!"
"Be calm, my daughter," he said. "There may be no truth in the charge."
"In what charge?" Oh, sir, if there is any pity in your heart, speak out plainly, and let me know all at once! What charge?"
I looked at Aunt Mary, but saw, from her pale face, that she was ignorant like myself.
My father now arose, and taking my hand, led me from our breakfast room into the parlor, across the hall, Aunt Mary following. I moved like one in a dream.
"Sit down, my child. There!" and he placed me on a sofa, Aunt Mary sitting down beside me and encircling me with her arm.
"What charge, father?" I had grown calm from partial stupor of mind.
"Edgar was arrested today, on a charge of forgery!" The words burned like a quick fire through my brain.
"The charge is false!" I remember uttering that denial in a kind of wild panic; but can recollect nothing of what immediately followed.
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