Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 22.
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I did not think it well to alarm my wife, by repeating all the threatening intimations of Mr. Congreve. It would only create uneasiness of mind, without doing any good. Mrs. Congreve did not show any strong interest in the fact of her husband's visit. He was so hateful to her, that she did not care to speak of him.
"You needn't tell me," she said, "if he comes again. I wish to be as one dead to him. I am only sorry that he has annoyed you, that his breath has polluted the air of your home; but I will not trouble you long."
In the morning, Aunt Mary came in with little Florry. She mentioned that Mr. Congreve had gone away soon after breakfast, saying that he would not return for a week. This information caused Mrs. Congreve to go back to her own house.
When I learned this fact, I was relieved in mind. I took it as an indication that Mr. Congreve had been influenced by my resolute manner, and would, for the present at least, refrain from all compulsory measures in regard to his wife. During the short period that she was with us, she remained in a tolerably tranquil state. My wife, even in this time, found her heart going out towards her with an unusual tenderness; and Mrs. Congreve was already leaning upon her and confiding in her with something of filial confidence.
"It is very clear," said my wife, "that for some good end, divine providence been brought into this close and confidential relation to Mrs. Congreve. I feel it more and more sensibly every day. She needs a friendly interest such as we have begun to feel; and counselors such as I trust God will give us the wisdom to be."
"Great prudence must be exercised on our part. Edgar will find her out, and then — "
"What then?" asked my wife.
"Ah, that is the difficult question. If he is of the same purpose now as when he gained that first interview with Mrs. Congreve, there will be a state of things hard to keep in a right moral adjustment. But the way, I trust, will be made plain for all of us."
"When a wrong path is entered," said my wife, "what human foresight is able to reach the possible termination? Such paths never lead to happiness."
"Never," I replied; "and yet the world takes them with a blind folly which is inconceivable. The father of Mrs. Congreve was, we may suppose, a man of ordinary intelligence in the common affairs of life — had, in most things, a discriminating mind; yet what fool could have acted with a madder insanity! Did he love himself — or his child, most? Ah, it was his self-love which blinded him to her good; which made him fill the cup of her life with gall. He knew from reason, observation, and written life-histories, that the most wretched of all women, are those unhappily married; and yet he literally forced his child into marriage with a man who was, as he had every reason to believe, loathed in her heart! Could such bad seed produce anything but a harvest of misery? And was there any guarantee that himself would not be one of the reapers? The misery came too surely; and he had to gather his garners full.
"And Mr. Congreve. How the law of cause and result, with the quality of the cause, active in the result — has been proved in his case. He sowed the wind — and truly is he reaping the whirlwind! To gain, by unfair means, or through wicked devices — is not really to possess. What looked like gold in the distance — turns, in all such cases, to some worthless substance in the hand, which wounds and poisons it, perhaps. Mr. Congreve has fully illustrated that old fable of the physician king. Tantalus-like, he is thirsty — with cool water below and around him; and hungry — with fair fruit bending in luscious sweetness from full boughs overhead. Yet, when he stoops to drink — the waters recede from his lips; when he stretches forth his hands — the full laden branches lift themselves beyond his grasp."
"If in his folly and wickedness, he had cursed no heart but his own," said my wife in some bitterness of spirit, "we might think of his suffering without regret. We might even feel glad in his pain."
"No," I remarked, "not glad, but sorrowful. Misery of any kind, bodily or mental, is a thing to excite our pity — not our joy."
"I spoke from indignation, and that is oftener cruel than merciful," was answered. "But we are only human, and the heart will rebel."
"Think and feel as we may," I said, "we must pity those who suffer the consequences of their evil ways — or rejoice in the sure retribution which has found them. The law which makes pain the certain accompaniment of wrong done from a bad end, will ever act with unerring certainty. The bad man's enemy, misery, will surely find him out."
"And the good man's friend, delight — find him out also."
"Just as surely," I replied. "The law works in either case, without variableness or shadow of turning."
"Do you think," said my wife, "that Mr. Congreve will make any serious attempt to get his wife into an asylum? The thought every now and then flits through my mind and troubles me. He has reason enough for wishing to remove her from all interaction with people in the neighborhood."
"There is no way that he can do this, that I can imagine. If she were in the habit of riding out with him, or with any friend in his confidence and willing to act with him — it might be an easy thing to drive her to an asylum, and leave her there. But as she never goes out riding with anyone, the difficulties in the way are almost insurmountable."
My wife's mind seemed rather more at ease on this subject after we had talked it over, and looked at it from all points of view.
One evening — it was the third or fourth from that on which I had received a visit from Mr. Congreve — Aunt Mary came in. It was between nine and ten o'clock. She had evidently, from the expression of her face, a purpose beyond a mere call; and both myself and wife waited in expectation of some request, or communication of interest. Nearly five minutes passed in ordinary conversation, when Aunt Mary said:
"You wished to see me?"
"No, no." Aunt Mary's countenance changed, and she spoke quickly:
"You sent word for me to call in."
"Who by?"
"I don't know. Somebody came to our door, and said that you wished to see me."
"I sent no such word," replied my wife.
"That's strange!" Aunt Mary had risen, and her face was looking slightly alarmed. "You are certain that you did not send for me?"
"Positive!"
"I can't understand it. What can it mean?" Our visitor stood with a perplexed manner for a little while, and then added: "I must run home again. Edith was asleep on the sofa when I left."
I took up my hat to accompany her home. She objected, saying that it was only a step, and she would not trouble me. But I felt a vague suspicion that something was wrong, and I went with her.
"What does that mean!" she exclaimed, as we reached the pavement.
I turned my eyes towards the corner. There was a carriage at the door, and I saw, indistinctly, a man enter it. Then the carriage started, the horses moving with a sudden spring, and whirling away, passed out of sight in the darkness before we reached the spot on which it had been standing. The door of the house stood wide open. As we entered, I detected the smell of ether. Aunt Mary ran upstairs swiftly, and I heard her, a moment afterwards, calling in an alarmed voice for the servant. The girl answered from one of the rooms in the third story.
"Where is Mrs. Congreve?" asked Aunt Mary, as the servant came downstairs.
"She's lying on the sofa," replied the girl.
"No, she's not in the room where I left her."
"Maybe she's gone to bed," said the girl.
"No, she's not in her chamber. Who came in that carriage?"
I had gone upstairs, and now stood in the passage on the second floor. The servant looked bewildered at these questions, and in a hurried, alarmed voice, said:
"I didn't see any carriage, ma'am," she replied. "Nobody's been here."
"Somebody has been here! I saw a carriage drive away, and found the front door open. Edith!" Aunt Mary called the name in a quick and eager manner. But there came no reply.
"What strange odor is that?" she turned her ashen face upon me.
I did not reply that it was ether. She was alarmed enough already.
"When did you go upstairs?" Aunt Mary spoke to the servant.
"Just after you went out," she replied.
"Was Mrs. Congreve asleep on the sofa, then?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Who told you that I had been sent for?"
"A girl came to the door, ma'am, and said you were wanted there for a little while."
I looked narrowly at the servant as she answered these questions. Something in her manner did not satisfy me.
"You heard a carriage drive away just now?" said I.
"I heard a carriage," she replied, "but didn't know it was from our house." Her eyes were not lifted from the floor as she answered me.
We now went to the sitting-room. As I entered, I noticed that the smell of ether was stronger here than in the passage. There was no doubt on my mind, as to what it meant. The truth had flashed on me the instant I perceived the peculiar odor mentioned. Mr. Congreve, or someone employed by him, had entered the house soon after Aunt Mary left, and by means of ether, produced unconsciousness in Mrs. Congreve, and then removed her, noiselessly, to the carriage! The truth, I saw, had now reached the thought of Aunt Mary; for she sat down in a feeble way, and looked into my face despairingly.
"Do you think he has done this?" she asked, in a choking voice.
"There is no doubt of it!" I replied.
"For what purpose?"
I did not answer.
"Where is Florry?" Aunt Mary started up suddenly.
"She's all right, ma'am! She's in her bed," said the servant in a positive way.
"How do you know?"
"Oh, I'm sure of it, ma'am."
But no assurance, except that of her own eyes, could satisfy Aunt Mary. She ran over into the chamber where the child slept, and found her there.
I noticed this positive manner in the servant, and yet she had not been in Florry's chamber since she came downstairs. How did she know that the child had not been taken away with the mother? I felt suspicion against her increasing in my mind.
What was to be done? Our case seemed, for that night at least, helpless and hopeless. Edith had been abducted in the darkness, and there was no sign as to the direction which had been taken. Pursuit, for the time being, therefore, would be a vain effort, and was not attempted. In my own thought, there was no question as to the agency at the work, and the purpose in view. Mrs. Congreve would be removed to an insane asylum, in order to prevent communication with my family, and with any other people to whom she might be led to speak of things that were likely to involve her husband in serious consequences. My greatest anxiety was for the effect on Mrs. Congreve, when she awakened from insensibility. I feared this shock would complete the ruin of an already disturbed intellect, which, under right influence, might have been restored to its normal condition.
Nothing could be done for that night. My wife remained with Aunt Mary, and I lay awake in perplexed thought pondering the uncertain work, and doubtful result, which were before me on the next day.
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