Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 17.
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My mind lay for a long time bewildered in the maze of events that followed. I was hurt, badly, by the shock which fell upon me while in a state of highly-wrought excitement. My father knew of Edgar's arrest at dinner-time, and if he had informed Aunt Mary then, and left it to her to break the cruel intelligence in the way her woman's heart would have suggested — the effect might not have been so disastrous. As it was, I went down prostrate with the blow.
I have a dim remembrance of weeks in which I seemed like one in a nightmare, from which there was a vain effort to awaken — weeks of undefined suffering, which ached on at the heart in never-ceasing anguish.
Very clearly do I recollect the day — it was several weeks, as I learned, after my father's dreadful communication — when I found myself clothed, as it were, and in my right mind. I was reclining on a sofa, in my own chamber, dressed in a morning wrapper. I remembered getting up, and putting on the wrapper, with Aunt Mary's assistance — but as if in a dream. But now I was wide awake. Aunt Mary sat near me, with some needlework in her hands. I looked into her face for a little while before speaking. It was greatly changed, being pale and care-worn; and there was about her sweet mouth, a new expression of sadness.
"Aunt Mary!" I spoke, in a half-eager way which I could not repress.
She dropped her work instantly, and came and bent over me, looking down into my face with a tender, yearning, pitying love, which made the tears spring into my eyes.
"Will you have anything, dear?" she asked.
"How long have I been sick, Aunt Mary?" I inquired.
"Not a very great while," she answered. "But you are better."
I did not clearly understand the meaning of her face. Putting my hand to my forehead, I tried to recall the past. It began to break upon me — dimly, at first; then distinct and startling. The anxious troubled way in which Aunt Mary looked at, and hung about me, helped to quicken my memory of the dreadful incident I have related.
"How long is it since — since?" — I could not put my thought in words; it was too shocking. But Aunt Mary understood what I meant, and replied:
"Nearly six weeks."
"O no, aunt! Not so long as that." It seemed to me, then, in my own consciousness, as if my father had spoken that blasting sentence scarcely an hour before.
"You have been sick, dear, for a long time, and are still very weak," said my aunt, in great apparent anxiety. "Don't let your mind become excited, or you will lose yourself again."
Lose yourself again! What a strange, low shudder crept along my nerves. Then I had lost myself! How many, many times since have I wished that I had never been found again.
"What about Edgar, Aunt Mary?" I spoke with a sudden flush of eagerness.
"You are too weak to talk about him now," she replied. "Wait until you grow stronger."
Wait! Tell the traveler, dying of thirst, to wait, with the cooling draught at his lips!
"I must hear now, aunt," said I. "I am stronger to hear, than to wait. Edgar was charged with forgery. I remember that."
Aunt Mary's eyes were brimming with tears; and her face so sad that the very sight of it made hope expire in my heart. Still I must know the truth, if I died in hearing it.
"Speak, Aunt Mary. I must know all. Don't conceal anything."
My strange calmness made her think me stronger to bear than I really was.
"Yes," she answered, "he was charged with forgery."
"But, it has not been proved against him?" I spoke in a quick, breathless manner.
"The trial will take place next month," she replied.
"Where is he now?"
Aunt Mary did not reply.
"Not in prison?"
"Yes."
It seemed as if a sword had gone through my heart, so quick and piercing was the pain.
"Mr. Congreve offered to go bail for him, but he refused to accept the favor," said Aunt Mary. "It was a kind act in him. They say that he was much affected by the unhappy event. Indeed, everybody was shocked, surprised, and grieved."
"But his innocence will appear on the trial!" I spoke in an assured manner.
"I trust that it may be so; but — " Aunt Mary hesitated.
"But what?" I asked.
"The evidence is strong against him — too strong, I fear, for any reasonable ground of hope."
I thought this sentence would kill me. I felt a dizziness of brain, and appeared to be in sudden darkness. I did not, however, lose myself.
"What do you think, Aunt Mary?" I put the question, faintly.
"You are not strong enough to talk about this now," she answered. "Don't, let me beg of you, pursue it any further."
"But, I want to know what you think." I persisted in my interrogation.
"I don't know what to think," she replied, in a reluctant and distressed way. "But you will be stronger after a while, Edith, and then we can talk more on this subject. Enough has been said now."
She was sitting near the end of the sofa on which I reclined, and her hand was resting on my forehead. Its weight seemed to oppress me, and once or twice I made a movement to push it aside, as too heavy for endurance; but the strength or will to do so was lacking, and I remained passive. I seemed to be lapsing away into unconsciousness. And it was really so, for I had not the strength of mind or body sufficient to bear the news about Edgar which I had extorted from Aunt Mary.
Again I lay in that oppressive nightmare which had been broken for a little while, and did not come back to real life until after the trial was over. Then I came back only in part; for while I understood the facts which had transpired, the knowledge thereof did not reach, with acuteness, the region of pain. My mind was dull. Its sensitiveness had departed. I did not, as at my first awaking, urge my questions upon Aunt Mary in regard to the fate of Edgar. From her manner I inferred the worst, and my inference was correct. I felt that I would know all soon enough; that the whole truth, when it came, would lie upon my heart as a burden never to be thrown aside.
This was the fact I learned: On the trial, evidence of such an overwhelming character was produced, that no question of his guilt was left in my mind. The jury, with scarcely a pretense of consultation, rendered a verdict of guilty, and the Court considered the charge as so fully made out against him, that they awarded the heavy penalty of seven years in the State prison! Aunt Mary had given up the case entirely. All the evidence adduced, she had examined with the most scrupulous care, and she was able to reach no conclusion but the worst.
I could not think of him, however, as a man who had stained his soul with an evil deed. As singular as it may appear, he was always in my imagination as innocent as when I placed my hand in his, and gave him the love of a heart which knew no deceit. There lay between us, I felt, an ever-impassable gulf. He was to me, as one dead. Yet I thought of him with a sad tenderness, and wept weak, vain tears for him. His picture was still in my possession. I knew that it was something upon which no eye but mine could look without scorn; and so I kept it to gaze upon in secret. The pure, sweet, true eyes, which turned so lovingly to my face — they kept away all idea of crime. He was lost to me, I felt — yet in my heart, there was no veil upon his image. I knew him and thought of him only as he had been to me in the past. Months followed each other in a weary monotonous way. I found no interest in anything. Idly and listlessly the days passed. I would see no company, and resisted all attempts to get me out of the house for even a ride.
So my life moved on for nearly a year. How patient, how wise in her adaptations to my state, how loving — was dear Aunt Mary during all this time. My father often lost patience with me, and put on a harsh exterior in his efforts to break the spell that surrounded me; but she was never changing in her love, never weary with her unhappy and often capricious charge. What she seemed most to desire, was to get me interested in doing something. Occasionally she would ask me to perform for her some little service of needlework, which I did with a ready acquiescence that I saw gratified her. The pleasure which I felt in pleasing Aunt Mary, was the first available power that she gained over me. She did not use it in a way to weaken, but to strengthen it. A new request for service did not follow immediately a service performed, lest I should grow weary. And so she led me on, until I found occupation so much of a relief from dull, dreamy idleness, that my hands became busy all the day.
The first time I went out was on a mission of charity to a poor sick woman in our immediate neighborhood. Her thankful eyes were before me for many hours afterwards, and in looking at them, I had my reward. I went again; and the good I was thus able to do, strengthened me for a new and better life.
I was coming home one day from a visit paid to a sick neighbor, when I met Mr. Congreve for the first time in over a year. I saw him a little way in advance of me, as I came into the square on which our house stood, and endeavored to pass without recognizing him. But he stopped directly in front of me, and looking kindly into my face, said, in a tone of quiet interest, as he reached forth his hand:
"I am glad to see you out again, Miss Edith." His manner was so respectful, so kind, and so unobtrusive, that I could do no less than thank him for the interest he expressed, and permit him to take my hand.
"Your health is better, I hope?" he remarked, as he still held my hand.
I only said yes. My feeling towards him was one of entire indifference, when we first met. Not a pulse beat quicker at the sight of him. But, while he yet held my hand, and looked at me, I remembered that he had offered to go bail for Edgar Holman, and a throb of grateful emotion sent a conscious glow to my face. He could not have failed to notice the change. I now made a motion to pass on, and he bowed, respectfully, without any attempt to detain me.
As my health had begun to fail under such a long confinement to the house, and depression of spirits, my father was urgent that I should ride out with him, and get the benefit offresh air, exercise, and change of scene. The thought of going beyond the little circle that now included my range of charities in the immediate neighborhood, was painfully repugnant; but I yielded at last to my father's continued importunity. He drove me into the country, and amid scenery which stirred many old memories — softening me more than once to tears. He tried to get me into conversation; but I had no heart to talk, and remained silent for most of the drive.
I was better for this break in the dull monotony of my existence. Again I was driven out, and it did me good. From this time, I was gradually brought into social life. I tried to resist the pressure that was on me, but was not strong enough. A few old friends came closer around me, and then drew me back to themselves. But I was not the woman of a year ago. Of that, I was deeply conscious. Life had nothing to attract me. I saw no dear hope lying even dimly visible in the far-away future. Of Edgar, I tried to think as little as possible. He was lost. That impression was one of the most distinct that remained with me. He had passed beyond my sight and reach, in an all-involving disaster, and could never be restored again. I did not, as I have before said, think of his guilt as the separating gulf that lay between us. It was simply impossible for me to believe him capable of crime. But I had no power to reason on the subject. I was bewildered whenever it came into my mind.
In going back into society again, I met Mr. Congreve now and then. He was very kind, but did not annoy me with attentions. I saw that he was not so cheerful in look or manner, as he had been a year before. Often I noticed a shade of abstraction on his face which was almost painful. There was, evidently, something not pleasant to contemplate brooding in his thought.
Gradually, and by approaches so imperceptible that I did not notice them, he drew nearer to me. We met oftener than before. It happened, strangely I sometimes thought, that he would drop in where I would be spending an evening. Always at these times, he would express a little surprise at seeing me, as if he had not expected to find me there. I had reason, afterwards, to believe, that he was kept informed of these visits by my father, who, now and then, found himself unable to call for me, when Mr. Congreve became my escort home.
So the time moved on, and by steady advances, Mr. Congreve continued to draw nearer and nearer. My heart was in too palsied a condition to take the alarm. I felt something of the old repulsion; but not as strong as before. In fact, I was indifferent. I cannot better express my state of mind than by these words.
Next came visits. These were at first made under pretense of seeing my father. They appeared to have some business together. Mr. Congreve was largely engaged in land speculations, and he had initiated my father into the same business, though in a smaller way. Now and then he came when my father was out, and it happening on several of these occasions, that I was in the parlor, our meeting was natural.
Thus were we continually being thrown together, Mr. Congreve always showing a delicacy of feeling which made his company more agreeable than offensive.
At last I clearly understood him. What I had dimly seen from the beginning, became palpable. He came so much nearer, that mistake was impossible. Then my sluggish soul quickened into life, and I made a violent effort to disentangle myself from the gossamer threads he had been weaving around me so long, that they had become turned into strong cords. But I was feeble — feeble! Alas, for the blindness that left me to be snared by the fowler — and for the weakness of will that left me in his net!
Aunt Mary, to whom I went as my best and truest friend, counseled me right. Ah, why did I not heed her counsel? But my father was on the other side, and I yielded.
"You have no heart to give away in marriage to this man." So Aunt Mary spoke. "If you go to him, you will deceive him, and burden yourself with duties which you cannot perform. Remain as you are, my dear child. It were better, a thousand times."
But I felt that I was as nothing. That life had no blessing for me, and that it could not have, possibly, any bitterer cup than I had already drained to the dregs. If my father had so set his heart on the thing, if Mr. Congreve were so bent on gaining me for his wife — why should I disappoint them? I even argued with myself that self-sacrifice in the case, would be a virtue.
In my blindness and weakness, I yielded. My father was very happy when consent was given; but Aunt Mary looked so sad that I pitied her.
"You take it too much to heart," I said to her. "Remember, that I am nothing in the case. It cannot make me happier or more miserable. If they desire it, why should I say no?"
"It is something to you, Edith," she replied. "Everything to you! I would rather see you die — than become his wife. You cannot make him happy. It is impossible."
"It is too late now, Aunt Mary." I simply answered. And I felt then the beginning of a repugnance and antagonism which have steadily increased, until they are of maddening intensity.
Up to the last, Aunt Mary opposed my marriage with Mr. Congreve; but I had not strength sufficient to brave my father, and so went to the altar as a helpless lamb to be sacrificed.
About the time of my engagement to Mr. Congreve, I met a young man who had been a clerk in the store of Fairfield & Co. His name was Mr. Clyde. He seemed disposed to make himself familiar. I did not like him. There was a look in his eyes that always made me feel uncomfortable. Mr. Congreve knew him, I observed; but not, I inferred, as anagreeable acquaintance. Clyde often intruded upon him, I thought, judging from the expression of Mr. Congreve's face, when the young man engaged him in conversation.
The thought of Mr. Clyde came to me very frequently. Why, I could not imagine. Perhaps it was because he seemed to make himself disagreeably familiar with Mr. Congreve. I asked him once about the young man, but he seemed annoyed at the reference, and I did not intrude his name again.
Two years had passed since the separation of Edgar Holman from society, as a criminal, and I was within a week of my marriage-day. I had been spending the afternoon with a friend, and was returning home a little after sundown, when I heard the steps of a man approaching a little behind me. I was about turning to see who it was, when I heard my name pronounced.
"Mr. Clyde!" I ejaculated, with a startle, as I looked back.
"Excuse me," he said, in a hesitating, embarrassed way. "But I wish to say a word to you alone, and have intruded for the purpose."
"If you can call at my father's, we can be alone," I answered, as a vague fear crept into my heart.
"I must not be seen there," was his mysterious reply. "No, I will say it here, and it is this — don't marry Mr. Congreve. Remember, I have warned you!"
And he left me standing in such amazement, that I did not stir for some moments. This warning, given in a tone of deep solemnity, went shudderingly through every nerve. Why did I not heed it?
The incident disturbed me deeply. But I did not mention it to Aunt Mary. It would only give a new argument in her opposition to the approaching marriage, and I wished to be let alone.
"Remember, I have warned you!" I heard the injunction sounding in my ears for hours after its utterance, and with increasing, rather than diminishing, emphasis and solemnity.
I imagined, at my next meeting with Mr. Congreve, that he looked at me a little strangely and doubtfully at first. But the impression passed quickly away.
The time came down to within three days of the marriage. I was in the street, when a man passed quickly, flinging into my startled ears as he did so the words —
"Remember, I have warned you!"
I knew the voice too well. It seemed as if I would fall in the sudden withdrawal of strength. But, I managed to get home, and into my room, where I lay for an hour as weak as a little child.
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