Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 24.
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Tomorrow came, but not in sunshine. It opened on a day as dark as the previous one had been. Not a sign came to our troubled, waiting hearts. I spent the greater part of it in fruitless efforts to gain some intelligence of Mrs. Congreve.
Edgar, after his long, eager, passionate state of mind, had fallen into what seemed more like stupor than calmness. He sat brooding, rather than thinking, for hours at a time. After relating to us, in all the fervor of a life-realization, the sorrowful story of his past, he scarcely referred to it again.
On the third day, he went out for the first time. We felt anxious lest he should meet the truth which we were trying to conceal from him — face to face. But we had come, to some extent, into Aunt Mary's state of mind. The power to determine results according to our own judgment was not with us; and so we tried to wait patiently, and in the belief that all things would work to the best termination under the circumstances.
"It is night — dark night," we said. "But the earth is revolving, and morning is on its way."
In the evening, as we sat talking, Edgar said abruptly:
"Who lives in the corner house?"
My heart gave a sudden throb, for I perceived in the tone of his voice, a concealed interest in the question. Now, there was more than a single corner house in our neighborhood. Where two streets cross each other, there are usually four corner houses. So I answered, while my wife's eyes rested a little anxiously on my face —
"A Mr. Wetmore," giving the name of a gentleman who lived opposite the dwelling which Mr. Congreve had taken.
"Why did you ask?" I inquired, seeing that he made no further remark. I was too desirous to know the reason why he had put the question, to leave the matter in suspense. He answered, without much apparent interest in his tones:
"I thought I recognized a face at the window."
My wife and I exchanged startled glances.
"The name is Wetmore, you said?"
"Yes."
"It was the house on this side of the street and at the nearest corner," remarked Edgar.
Now Mr. Wetmore lived, as I have said, on the other side of the street. My cousin looked at me, as if for confirmation in regard to the occupancy, by Mr. Wetmore, of the particular house he had designated. I let my eyes fall away from his, and did not answer his questioning look.
"It was very much like her face," he said, after a while, speaking partly to himself.
"Like whose face?" asked my wife, who felt as I did, that something must be said, lest silence should awaken suspicion.
"Like the face of Edith's aunt. I saw it for only a moment, receding from the window, and turning from me in what I have thought a hurried way. But imagination may have deceived me; and it is not the first time." Both Alice and I looked away from Edgar. We feared that our countenances might betray us.
"There was a child at the window, also," said Edgar, "and it had a countenance like sunshine for beauty and brightness. I stopped to look at the rare, sweet face, and caught the image in my mind. I am not apt to be struck with children's faces; but this one impressed me in a peculiar way, and moved my feelings as if by a strain of old familiar music, heard after the lapse of years."
He fell away into a state of absent-mindedness, from which we did not seek to awaken him. He was about recurring to the incident again, when I turned his thought, by a question, into some other and safe direction.
On the next day, business took me into a part of the city far distant from that in which I lived. It was at the northern side, and near the suburbs. The man I wished to see lived in one of six rather ancient-looking houses, some of which had been modernized by new fronts, and other showy improvements, while three or four of them retained all the unsightly marks of time and not very careful usage. These had heavy wooden shutters to the third story, the large black iron bolt giving them a prison-like appearance. On the opposite side of the street, were six more of the same style of houses, showing much the same contrast between advancement and retrogression.
After finishing my business with the person upon whom I had called, he walked to the door with me, and we stood there conversing for some minutes. As I parted from him, and walked down the marble steps which led from his door, I noticed a small slip of paper, to which a narrow piece of black ribbon, not over two inches in length, was attached, fluttering down in the air, which was a little disturbed by wind. It fell upon the pavement a little in advance of me, and I was about passing it, when an impulse of curiosity induced me to stoop and pick it up. It had evidently been torn from the fly-leaf of a book, and in a hurried manner. The edges had a fresh appearance, as if the tear had just been made. The piece of ribbon was not cut at the ends, but ragged; and the hole in the paper through which it had been passed, had plainly been made with the fingers. But there was no ink or pencil mark on the paper, nor any scratch formed into an intelligible sign. Only a few pin-holes were visible; but I could make nothing of them. It looked like a child's work done in aimless play, and I was about throwing it down as a thing of no significance, when I changed my purpose and thrust it into my pocket.
My thought went away from the little slip of paper almost as soon as it was out of sight, but returned again in a few minutes. I took it from my pocket and looked at it again. The little perforations made with a pin, or some sharp instrument, now struck me as being more numerous than at first sight. But after examining them for a few moments, I crumpled the paper in my hand, and was about casting it from me, when a different impulse led me to place it again in my pocket.
I had to walk for a distance of several blocks before reaching a street railway line. As I took my place in a car, this suggestion crossed my mind.
"That piece of paper may have been a signal from Mrs. Congreve!"
For a moment or two I dwelt upon this, and then pushed it aside as improbable. But it returned after a little while, and held, for a considerable time, possession of my mind. I had heard of such things as private asylums for the insane, or of such people as powerful relatives might have an interest in secluding.
The thought dwelt with me so steadily, that I determined to call on Aunt Mary and show her the trifle I had picked up. She looked at me expectantly as I came in, but I shook my head, and met the question she would have asked with the words:
"No news."
She sighed deeply, and in a disappointed way. I then took the bit of paper and ribbon from my pocket and handed them to her without speaking.
"What is this?" she asked.
I did not answer. She looked at them closely. In an instant, I saw her face change.
"Where did you get this?" There was a low thrill of eagerness in her voice.
"I picked it up in the street."
She held it to her eyes again with a more careful scrutiny.
"Edith had on a mourning collar with a piece of ribbon in the edge just like this!"
"Are you certain?"
"Very certain."
It was difficult for either of us to repress the excitement we now felt.
"Let us examine the paper more carefully," said I. "There are pin marks all over it."
We brought it close to the light. At first we could make nothing out of these minute perforations. But we soon saw that they had a certain regularity.
"There is 'E', plainly enough! Can't you see it?"
Aunt Mary's eyes were quicker than mine. Yes. I saw it now. The letter E had been punctured by a pin or needle.
"And that is E — EC"
"Edith Congreve!" The words fell from me as we looked at each other in sudden astonishment.
"You picked this up in the street? "said Aunt Mary.
"Yes. It came down to me, fluttering in the wind, and I lifted it with no thought of its true significance."
"Did you see the house from which it came?"
"No. But it was from one of twelve. I will return there immediately."
"Go — go quickly!" exclaimed Aunt Mary. "The signal may be repeated. I am sure it was from Edith. If she saw you once, she may see you again."
Without waiting for a longer conference, I started forth, and taking a car, was soon on my way back to the neighborhood I had just left. There were in the block, as I have said, twelve houses. Originally, they had been built with heavy white shutters, from the first to the third stories. But about half of them had been altered in this particular, and the lighter Venetian blinds gave to them a less prison-like aspect. By contrast, the others were now gloomier, and more suggestive of warehouse contents, than the faces of happy wives and children.
On reaching the square, which was flanked on either side by these grim-looking dwellings, I ran my eyes in a rapid way along the dingy fronts, from house to house, with a kind of vague expectation. But the house gave no sign. Not a shutter moved, not a face appeared, no hand threw me a quick signal. I walked slowly along one side of the street, affecting not to be on the lookout, but with my eyes making quick passages from window to window, running backwards and forwards, up and down, like the fingers of a skillful player on the keys of an instrument. Then I crossed over and walked in the same way on the other side of the street. But to no better purpose.
Three times was this done, the same result following. In two of the prison-like houses on one side of the street, and in one of them on the other side, the shutters of the second and third stories were just a little bowed, as the ladies call it. In the others, they were as tightly closed as if the houses were tenantless. I conjectured that in one of the houses with the bowed shutters, Mrs. Congreve was confined, and I kept upon them, for the most part, my watchful eyes. But all proved in vain. Fearful of attracting a suspicious attention, I was about leaving the neighborhood, and had turned to walk away, when on throwing back a last glance, I noticed a small bit of paper floating down upon the air. It was midway between the houses, and when I first saw it, higher than the second story windows. It fell near the center of the street, and at some distance from where I stood. My heart beat rapidly.
Here was, I doubted not, another signal from the imprisoned lady. I marked the spot where the paper fell, and then glanced from house to house to see if anyone was observing me, or in a condition to observe me, should I attempt to get the little missive into my possession. No one being visible, I walked back along the pavement, until I came opposite to where the bit of paper lay, and was turning off from the pavement, when I heard a shutter pushed open just above my head. I glanced upwards, and the face of a woman looked down upon me. It was a hard, sallow, sinister face, and the eyes, as they rested for a moment on mine, had, I imagined, something evil in their look of quick inquiry.
Passing on, without securing the piece of paper, which I saw had a bit of black ribbon attached to it, I walked on as far as the corner and then crossed over, so that I could see the house opposite to which it was lying without turning purposely to do so. The shutter which had been pushed open, remained partly unclosed, and I saw the woman's head just far enough advanced to give her a good line of observation, up and down the street. Instead of returning by the other side, which would have been to draw the woman's more scrutinizing eyes upon me, and create suspicion, if there existed in her mind any ground of suspicion towards a too curious stranger — I passed the corner, along a cross street, and so out of the range of her vision.
In about ten minutes I returned by the same way. As I regained the corner, from which, at a glance, I could see the house before which the object I was so anxious to obtain lay, I saw that the shutter which had been opened so untimely, was closed. Quickly crossing to that side, and moving down to the point I wished to reach, I saw the bit of paper lying just where it had fallen. In an instant, it was in my possession. I did not examine it until I was in the cars, on my way back.
It was very similar to the piece of paper which I had picked up only a short time before, and had evidently been torn from a fly-leaf of the same book from which that had been torn. The two or three inches of black ribbon were broken off at the ends, instead of being cut, and the hole in the paper, through which it had been passed, was evidently one made with the fingers. Little perforations covered the face of this bit of paper, just as they had covered the one previously obtained. But as before, I could not make out any form of letters. For nearly the whole distance of my long ride in the cars, I endeavored to wrest from those little pin-marks, the important secret they kept too well; but all to no purpose. The perforations were so few and far apart that I was unable to connect them.
Aunt Mary's eyes were soon added to mine in the scrutiny. I expected her to read the signs at once, but after puzzling over them for ten minutes, she could only make out B C, and that did not unravel half that was written, or rather punctured. The form of every letter in the alphabet was applied to the irregular series of dots, but we could make no correspondence with either. At last Aunt Mary exclaimed:
"They are not letters but figures! This one is 5."
I saw the form, as with a pencil she united the points by dark lines.
"What is the next?" I said, all in a tremor of nervous excitement.
We pondered only for a few moments.
"It is the figure 4," said Aunt Mary; and her pencil made it clearly apparent to our eyes in a moment
"And now for the next!" I could not repress my eagerness. Before Aunt Mary had made out the last figure I saw the outline.
"It is 2!" I exclaimed. "542! The very number of the house from which that bad face looked out upon me with such a sharp expression. I noted it down as I passed."
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