Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 20.
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I knew nothing of what immediately followed. When thought took up the thread of consciousness again, I was in a strange room, lying upon a bed. I believed myself alone, at first, but in the dim light of the chamber, soon saw Aunt Mary sitting by a table engaged in writing. I observed her for some minutes in silence, and then made a slight noise to attract attention. She left the table at once and came to the bedside.
"Can I get anything for you?" she asked. I did not observe any surprise in her manner at seeing me awake. The impression on my mind was that of a person just aroused from sleep.
"Nothing," I answered. I now saw that she began to look at me a little more curiously.
Again I surveyed the room, trying to make out some familiar article, but was unsuccessful.
"Where am I, Aunt Mary?" I arose and leaned on my arm.
She put her hand on me quickly, and showed some excitement of manner.
"Lie down, dear. You have been ill, and are very weak."
It needed not her words, to signify that I was but a child in strength, for the slight effort of rising up caused a faintness to come over me and I sank back on the pillow. After lying with closed eyes, for a few moments, still retaining clear consciousness, I repeated my question:
"Where am I, Aunt Mary?"
"You must not press that question now, dear. When you are stronger, I will answer."
I was not, of course, satisfied with this reply. But I felt too weak to press the matter; and closing my eyes again, tried to think back to the last incidents which were impressed on my memory. It was not long before that never-to-be-forgotten appearance of Edgar Holman was recalled, in all its startling particulars. His arraignment of my husband, and distinct recitation of circumstances by which his own innocence was attested, and the guilty complicity of my husband affirmed — were all before me. I remembered every emphatic word, and the effect also. In my mind, Edgar stood fully justified; and in these first minutes of returning consciousness, I lifted my heart and thanked God that it was so.
"We are not in Madisonville?" said I.
My voice was calmer than my feelings.
"No, dear; but you must not talk now." Aunt Mary laid her fingers on my lips; but I pressed them gently aside, and put the question:
"Where is Mr. Congreve?"
"Here," was answered.
"And Edgar?"
"I do not know, Edith." Her countenance began to grow anxious and troubled.
"What happened, Aunt Mary, after — after — ?" I could not say what was in my thoughts, but she understood me.
"You must wait until another time — until you are stronger, Edith."
I still questioned, but she would not answer explicitly. While we yet talked, the door opened, and Mr. Congreve came in. I gave a short cry of repulsion — and covered my face with the bedclothes. The very sight of him filled me with fear and hatred. He came to the bedside, and after saying a few words that I did not hear to Aunt Mary, went out.
"Has he gone?" I asked, uncovering my face.
"Yes," she replied.
"Don't let him come in here again, I can't bear it!" My manner was disturbed.
Aunt Mary only sighed.
I continued: "Tell him, will you, that I hate him!"
She laid her fingers over my mouth, but I pushed them off. I was growing more and more excited every instant.
"I hate and loathe him!" I flung out the words with all the emphasis my weak state permitted. "He is not my husband; but a fiend who thrust himself in between me and the man to whom my heart was, is, and will be forever married."
I had risen up, in the wild passion of the moment; but the strong fire burnt itself out quickly, and I fell back again into unconsciousness.
I did not ask, when thought and feeling returned, how long I had remained in happy oblivion. I was in the same room, with Aunt Mary. Florry sat on the floor, playing with some toys, and singing to herself in a sweet, low voice, which came pleasantly to my ears. She looked strangely matured; and I could hardly credit my eyes, when she got up from the floor, and walking firmly across the room to Aunt Mary, asked her a question in a voice that articulated each word distinctly. At this moment, the door was quietly opened, and before I saw who had come in, Florry clapped her little hands and uttered the word "Papa!"
Mr. Congreve then stepped into full view. It seemed as if a horrid demon had come into my presence; and as he reached out his hand to take my child, I gave a shriek of involuntary terror. Mr. Congreve startled, and putting Florry down hastily, came towards the bed; but I lifted my hands and cried out — "Keep away! Don't touch me!" in such a mad way, that he stopped at some paces distant, turned about, and left the room.
I was trembling all over, when Aunt Mary reached me. She drew her arm around my neck, and bent over me with a hand on my cheek, which she moved in the caressing way that a grieving child is sometimes quieted. Florry, who had been frightened by my sudden scream, now came clambering on to the bed, and nestling close against me. How her little hands, as they touched my neck and bosom, sent electric thrills to my heart!
"Is this Florry?" I said, as her lips came sealing themselves upon mine, and her golden curls covered my face.
"Yes, ma'am, I'm your Florry!"
What did all this mean? I thought, for I had never heard that voice, in clearly spoken words, before; I could not make it out.
Exhausted by the wild passion into which I had been thrown, I found myself so weak that I could only lie still, with shut eyes, and think feebly. Florry's head was close beside mine on the same pillow, and her hands around my neck. Aunt Mary tried to remove her, but I drew my arm and held, and her to her place.
As I lay there, all the desolate heart-aching past came out of the darkness, and spread itself before me, even to that maddening revelation which fell from the lips of Edgar Holman. From that period, though many months had passed, all was a blank.
I did not, then, say anything to Aunt Mary, though a few questions were revolving in my thoughts and restless for solution. I resolved to wait for a little while — to try and be calm, until more strength was received. I kept this resolution for an hour, perhaps, when I could no longer repress a single query.
"You must give me a direct answer to one question," I said.
"What is it?" Aunt Mary raised a finger to her lips as she spoke.
"Has any harm come to Edgar?"
The answer was unequivocal — "No."
That was a great relief. I closed my eyes and lay for some minutes.
"Where is he?" was my next inquiry.
"I do not know."
"Have you seen him since that day?"
"No."
"Nor heard of him?"
She put her finger on my lips and said:
"You asked for one direct answer — and I have given you three. I must keep you to your own stipulation; or rather, from exceeding it any further."
I shut my eyes again with a sense of relief. No harm had come to Edgar. "Thank God!" I said in my heart, fervently. There was hope in the world yet; I would live for him.
"Aunt Mary, one thing more."
She shook her head.
"If you desire life and reason for me — then keep that horrid man away from my presence. The sight of him fills me with anguish and hatred. If I had the strength, I would flee from him to the uttermost parts of the earth!"
Aunt Mary regarded me with a sad countenance, but made no reply. She left me alone with Florry, a little while afterwards, and remained away from the room for nearly a quarter of an hour. I heard, now and then, the murmur of voices in a distant room, and guessed that Aunt Mary was using her influence with Mr. Congreve to keep him, at least for a time, away from my presence. She was successful. I did not see him again while I remained in that room.
Gradually, strength began to return. In a week, I was able to sit up in a chair for half an hour at a time, once or twice during the day. Then I was able to get to the window and look out — a thing I had greatly desired. Aunt Mary had informed me that we were in Pittsburgh, where we had come on our way eastward. I had no recollection of the journey.
In three or four weeks, I was strong enough to ride out. I felt desirous to recover my strength, and willingly accepted the means that were offered. There was a new and precious hope in my heart — it is there still, an undying thing — the hope of meeting Edgar; of meeting him and being united. For this, I consented to live. Without it, I would have died long ago.
"I think," said Aunt Mary one day, "that you are now well enough to resume the journey which your illness required me to suspend."
I made no objection. The only concern I had was the fear of meeting Mr. Congreve during the journey, or on its termination. That he was not far distant, I had many evidences. I did not see him, however, during the long ride to this city. The house at the corner, to which we were brought, had been furnished, and there were servants ready to receive us. It was, I understood, to be our future home. A day or two passed without the appearance of Mr. Congreve, when, as I stood at the windows, looking into the street, I saw a carriage stop at the door. He had arrived! I ran upstairs to my room, and locked myself in, all trembling with excitement. After a while, Aunt Mary came and asked to be admitted. She brought a message from Mr. Congreve, who desired to see me; but I refused him in the most positive manner.
"Remember," she said, in her remonstrance, "that this is your husband's house."
"He is not my husband!" I cried back, half madly. "I reject the relation! That marriage was a fraud!"
"Don't speak in this way, my child," replied Aunt Mary. "It is sinful."
"The sin rests with him, not me," I answered, resolutely.
"You must see him, Edith. He is in earnest, and will take no denial."
"I will not see him!" My heart was growing strong within me. "Tell him that I hate him; and that if he approaches me, I will flee from him, as from my worst enemy!"
Aunt Mary might as well have talked to the wind as to me. All day I remained in my room alone with Florry. She asked, many times, that I would let her go and see her papa. But I would not consent. Twice, during the afternoon, he came to the door, and demanded that I should open it. But only the room's dead silence echoed his demands. I did not let even a whisper escape my lips; while, with a raised finger and look of authority, I kept my child voiceless, though tears ran over her scared face.
At last, he made an attempt to force the door open, and succeeded. But as he entered, I, losing all thought but that of escaping his detested presence, caught Florry in my arms, and made for the open window. He seized my garments in time to prevent me from throwing myself and child headlong to the pavement. You saw my little one in convulsions that evening — and now know the cause!
Since that time Mr. Congreve has steadily persisted in attempts to bend me to his will; but he might as well attempt to bend an iron beam. He has cursed my life, and that of one who is dearer to me than life. Have I not reason to loathe him, and to hate him? I have; and I do so loathe and hate him — that his presence either suffocates or maddens me.
He is hiding himself here at the East, from the sure retribution that is on his track. The plea of business is only a subterfuge. Edgar, if living, will never give up the pursuit. How long his coming is delayed! The wonder to me is that Mr. Congreve has not already been arrested for the crime which blackens his soul. I fear that he has committed, in some way, the death of Edgar Holman. Sometimes this idea gets possession of me so strongly, that I lose myself. I could not live, if I were certain that Edgar were dead. If I knew where he was, I would go to him. I have said so to Aunt Mary over and over again, and I will keep my word if ever that knowledge comes.
Mr. Congreve came back yesterday, after a longer absence than usual. I had begun to hope that he would never return. When he came under the roof which covered me, I passed from beneath its shelter, and I will not go under it again while he is there! Do not fear, my kind friend, that I mean long to trespass on you. This I have no right to do. But let me hide myself here for a little while. If he stays long, I will find another place of refuge from his presence.
And so you have my wretched story; and I know from your face that it has given you, as I said it would, the heartache.
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