Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 19.
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Mr. Congreve had been gone, maybe an hour, when I saw my father's carriage enter the grounds, and drive up the smoothly-beaten road. As it drew near, I noticed that it contained no one but his office-boy. He brought me a hastily written note from Aunt Mary, saying that my father had been taken ill, and she wished me to come without delay. Edward, the boy, could give no satisfactory answers to my questions. My father had been sick since yesterday, and was worse today. He did not know, however, the cause or nature of his sickness, and seemed to me singularly in the dark. I was ready to accompany him in ten minutes after his arrival. My baby and nurse went with me.
I found my father in a raging fever, and delirious. From Aunt Mary's account, he had been as well as usual on the morning of the previous day, and she saw no change in him at dinner-time. In the evening, he returned later than usual, but instead of going into the office, went to his room. He did not come down when the tea-bell rang; and as it was an unusual circumstance, Aunt Mary went upstairs and knocked at his door. He did not answer at first, but on her knocking a second time, he said that he didn't feel very well, and would not be down to tea. She felt a little uneasy, and as he did not make his appearance after the lapse of nearly an hour, went again to his room and spoke to him. He replied as before, that he was not very well. His voice did not sound right to her ears. She asked if he would have anything, but he said no. He remained in his room all the evening, declining to see several office patients who called for medicines or consultation. At ten o'clock, Aunt Mary visited him again. He had gone to bed, and replied to her questions as to how he felt, that he had some headache, but would be well after a night's sleep.
In the morning he had not made his appearance at breakfast-time, and on going to his room, Aunt Mary found him in considerable fever, and unable to rise. His mind seemed to be in a dull, confused state, as if there were pressure on the brain. A physician was called in, who bled him immediately, and with some apparent relief. But the fever had continued to increase, until it was violent, as when I saw him. He knew me on entering his room and coming to the bedside, but my presence gave him evident pain, and excited him in a way that had in it, to me, something fearful. He put up his hands instantly, as if to push me away, then covered his face and groaned like one in anguish of soul. I laid my hand on his forehead and kissed him. But at the touch of my lips, he shuddered, and said strange words, the meaning of which I could not understand. As my presence continued to disturb him, I went from the room at Aunt Mary's whispered suggestion. The sound of the closing door caused him to uncover his face, and he looked all around the room, as if to satisfy himself that I had withdrawn.
"Has she gone?" he asked in a whisper.
Aunt Mary said "Yes."
"Don't let her come in here again, will you?" he said. "I can't look at her. Poor child! poor child! it will kill her!"
"What will kill her?" inquired Aunt Mary; alarmed by this strange language.
"Don't you know?" He looked half-wonderingly at her.
She shook her head.
"Oh! I thought everybody knew it. It's town talk by this time."
"Knew what, Doctor?"
"Is he dead yet?" My father spoke in a whisper.
"Who?"
"Mr. Carson. Have you heard?"
But Aunt Mary knew no one by that name. He looked at her in a strange, mournful way, then shut his eyes, and lay quietly for a long time. When I again ventured into the room, and he became aware of my presence, he grew excited as before, and resolutely hid his face from me. All this was dreadful! What could it mean?
"Won't you take her away?" I heard him whisper to Aunt Mary, who led me from the room again. When I ventured in once more, after half an hour had gone by, I found him in a heavy stupor, with his face so dark that it was almost purple. His appearance alarmed me greatly. The physician in attendance called again at this time. I saw by his countenance, the moment his eyes rested on my father, that his symptoms had changed for the worse. He said something in a low tone to Aunt Mary, who went from the room and called the servant, Edward. In a few moments I heard the boy's rapid feet going down the path to the garden gate. He had gone for a consulting physician. But it was too late. When he arrived, my father's condition was hopeless. He died that night; the physicians said from stroke.
I had left word for Mr. Congreve to come for me, on his arrival at home, and I was surprised, and a little troubled, that he did not make his appearance during the evening. In the morning, I looked for him early, but he did not arrive until long past noon. An exclamation of surprise fell from my lips on seeing him, he was so changed.
"Are you sick?" I asked.
He said "Yes," in a strange, evasive way, his eyes glancing past mine, instead of into them.
"This is very dreadful, Edith," he added, before I could make inquiry as to what ailed him.
"Why did you not come last night?" I inquired. "I looked for you every moment."
He answered that it was after dark when he got home, and he felt too unwell to ride back to the city. I was not satisfied at his late appearance that day. He had been too sick, he said, to leave home earlier. But I afterwards learned, incidentally, from a servant, that he had not been home all night, nor until past meridian of the day following that on which my father died.
I was a great deal shattered by this sudden death of my father, around which, to me, there dwelt a dark mystery. There was, I felt, something more than stroke, as a simple disease, involved. Antecedent to the physical disease, was some fearfully exciting mental cause. What was it? How was it connected with me? Over these questions, in the darkness that followed, I brooded like some night-bird.
After my father's death, Aunt Mary came to live with me. Mr. Congreve was a different man from what he had been. In all my strange moods and capriciousness, he had, for the most part, treated me with a kindness which ever sought to win the love he must have been too conscious of not possessing. But now, I saw indifference and coldness creeping over him — yet I was without concern. I had never loved him. Not once, from our marriage-day till now, had my heart beat a single true throb for him; and I felt thatestrangement on his part would be sweeter to me, than loving attentions. He had committed a great error in constraining me into a marriage that he knew was in opposition to my feelings; and the fruit of that error, had been bitter to his taste from the beginning. It was yet to become as gall and wormwood!
I saw nothing more of Mr. Clyde. If he still continued to annoy Mr. Congreve — and it was plain that he had active sources of annoyance — he did so by letter, or personally in the city, where Mr. Congreve went every day.
"I'm afraid," said Aunt Mary, about this time, "that things are getting wrong with Mr. Congreve. Has he said anything to you about moving from here?"
I replied that he had not.
"He more than hinted as much to me, yesterday," continued Aunt Mary.
I was in no way disturbed by the suggestion. In fact, I had grown weary of the life I was leading, and felt a restless desire for change. I had, long ago, ceased to find any pleasure in the external things around me; and in new conditions, no matter what — there was a suggestion of relief from a dull monotony that was eating into my very soul, and destroying the little vitality that remained. I was not, therefore, in the least disturbed, when Mr. Congreve said to me a few days afterwards:
"Edith, circumstances have occurred that will make it necessary for us to move from here. I am sorry to have you disturbed in your pleasant home; but necessity knows no law."
I saw that he was surprised, as well as greatly relieved, that I made no objection.
"Do we go to the city?" I asked.
"No," he replied.
"Where?" I queried.
"East, probably."
This surprised me.
"To the East!" I said. "Why to the East?"
"Business will require me to go there."
"Soon?"
"Immediately." His manner was disturbed, and he did not, while talking with me, look, except for a moment at a time, steadily into my face.
"Where do you think of going?" I asked.
"To New York, in all probability; but I cannot as yet determine. I have found a gentleman who would like to purchase this property. He will take everything — furniture and all, as it stands; and that will save us the unpleasant notoriety of a sale and break-up. We can pass away as quietly, as though going upon a summer tour. You will like that best, I know."
No arrangement could have been more agreeable. On the next day, Mr. Congreve brought out a man who looked through the house and over the grounds. I was informed, after he went away, that he had agreed to purchase.
"How soon can you get ready to start for the East?" was Mr. Congreve's inquiry, on the evening of that very day.
I said in a month; Aunt Mary mentioned two or three weeks; but Mr. Congreve said —
"You must be ready to start in one week from today."
"That is simply impossible," I replied.
"What is to hinder?" he asked, showing considerable impatience.
"I have no traveling dresses," was my answer.
"Buy them tomorrow, and have them made up. A week is long enough to get an outfit for traveling the world over."
I objected, but Aunt Mary came in, as usual when a difference occurred, and told Mr. Congreve that if it was of importance to get away at the time stated, she would undertake to have everything ready.
"It is of the first importance," he replied.
The week that followed, I passed in a whirl of busy preparation for our hurried flight. I often questioned with myself as to its meaning. It was plain enough, from Mr. Congreve's manner, that something of a serious nature had occurred. He was never still, it seemed, for a moment, when at home, but went restlessly about the house, or over the grounds, often in an absent way, that showed a mind in troubled abstraction. He slept but little through the night, frequently leaving his bed and walking the floor. Every day he went to the city, from which he rarely returned until late in the afternoon.
The morning of the day fixed for our departure, had come. Trunks were packed, and nearly everything in the way of preparation completed. The house was to be left in the care of servants, who, on our retiring, became, according to arrangement, responsible to the family by which we were to be succeeded.
We had left the breakfast-table — Mr. Congreve, Aunt Mary, and I — and were sitting in one of the smaller parlors that looked out upon a lawn and garden, talking over some last matters, when a man stood suddenly at one of the French windows, and pushing it open, stepped into the room.
I gave a short, low cry, as I recognized Edgar Holman! Changed, oh, how sadly changed! but with a face as familiar as though I had looked upon it only a day gone by. He came a few paces into the room and then stood still. His air was that of a man trembling in some eager impulse, yet irresolute as to action. Mr. Congreve was sitting in a position that enabled me to see his face, when he saw and recognized Edgar. He grew deathly pale, but did not stir. His lips fell apart, and his eyes stood out like one transfixed in sudden terror. I could neither move nor speak.
The first moments of surprise over, Mr. Congreve started up and exclaimed:
"How dare you come here?" His face was still white. I saw him thrust his hand into his bosom as if searching for a weapon; but happily none was there.
"I can dare anything for justice and retribution!" he was answered, and in a voice so calm and stern, that it seemed to push Mr. Congreve from his feet, for he sat down again in a weak, nerveless kind of way.
"And that time has now come!" added Mr. Holman, as he took a chair, in a deliberate way, which stood right in front of us.
"I am at liberty again, you see, Mr. Congreve," he went on; "and not only at liberty, but with all the proofs in hand to establish my innocence — and your guilt. Did it never occur to you, sir, that there was a God in Heaven? I fear not — or you would have hesitated."
Mr. Congreve was on his feet once more. But Mr. Holman fixed his eyes on him, and held him as still by his gaze, as an animal is sometimes held.
"Sit down again, sir." The tones in which this was said were scarcely above a whisper, but they were like the pressure of a giant's hand on Mr. Congreve.
"You worked hard to prevent my pardon by the Governor, and I do not wonder. But the proofs of innocence were too strong, and here I am! Why, it is not needful I should say. You know full well. Frederick Carson did not die without making a confession — for all your efforts to the contrary. He could not venture into the next world with the guilt of perjury, unconfessed, upon his soul — though you would have sent him, without a throb of pity, to eternal ruin, in order that your evil work might be covered from human sight. But that was not to be! He died — and his testimony remains. John Clyde — Yes, sir, you may well startle at the name! Accomplices in crime are rarely unselfish parties. You should have remembered that evil tools are sharp, and may cut both ways! John Clyde is revengeful as well as debased. He had you completely in his power, and the temptation to exercise that power on one whom he had reason to hate, was too strong to be resisted. They say that revenge is sweet to the wicked — and he is tasting this wild honey.
"But I must be explicit, for I speak to other ears. There was a maiden's heart all my own — as pure, true, and sweet as spring's first blossoms. You could not rob me of her heart — it turned from you with instinctive loathing, as an angel turns from a demon! And so you plotted to destroy me. A corrupt young man, a fellow-clerk of mine, was bought with your money — I use plain speech — and induced to impersonate me in a forgery. John Clyde accomplished his work most skillfully, and then perjured himself to make my ruin complete. Poor Carson, more weak than wicked, was bribed heavily to swear that I bought a watch at a store where he was salesman; and he even produced similar bank bills to those paid by the teller on the forged check, and afterwards found on my person, in evidence of my guilt.
"The web of circumstances woven by you and Clyde so skillfully, it was not in my power to unravel. But I never wholly despaired. I did not lose all faith in God and justice — as dark as was the night in which I had to sit down, and long as it continued, before there came even a dim precursor of morning.
"It has broken at last. But what wrecks do I see as tokens of the storm raised by your infernal incantations! Poor, miserable Carson, repentant but cowardly, gave out just enough of the truth to make an application to the Governor for a pardon successful. You discovered what was in progress, and tried hard to obstruct a movement which was setting in the right direction — but tried in vain. The terrors of fast-coming death, were more potent than any influence you possessed — I am well posted, you see, sir — and the dying man made a full confession. How fatal did it prove to one, at least! He made it to Edith's father, and the horror of mind occasioned thereby, led to brain fever, stroke, and death. I don't wonder at your quivering nerves and ghastly paleness. Your enemy has found you out — and he will not spare!"
I don't know how it was that I was able to sit calmly and hear all this. But while my ears drank in every word and believed it, my heart kept its even beat. He went on.
"I am here now to claim her who should have been my lawful wife. To take her from the prison of your arms. To bear her away from one who has cursed her life. Edith!"
He uttered my name in a kind of suppressed cry, rising and holding out his arms. I did not think, nor pause — but sprang into them, and felt myself clutched to his bosom!
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