Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 4.
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The shutters of the corner house were closed from parlor to third story, as I passed on the next morning; closed when I came home at dinner-time; and closed at evening twilight. My question: "Anything more from the Congreves?" was answered by a quiet shake of the head.
On the next day, the house gave no more intelligible sign; and no more on the next.
In the evening, Mrs. Wilkins came in. I saw, the moment she entered, that she had something to communicate. After sitting for a little while, she said:
"My husband had another customer in from Newton today, and it occurred to him to ask if there had been any strange or startling event in his town, recently, or within a year or two. The man didn't remember that there had been any unusual occurrence, when first questioned; but afterwards told Mr. Wilkins a sad story about the young wife of a planter, who had become infatuated with an Englishman. The husband's suspicions becoming aroused, he watched them with untiring jealousy; and, at last, discovering what he regarded as proofs of guilt — shot the lover in the presence of his horror-stricken wife. The planter was arrested, tried for the murder, and acquitted. Immediately, he sold his estates and left the neighborhood with his family. The wretched woman who had caused this fearful disaster, lost her reason, and was sent, he thinks, to one of our northern asylums. The event caused great excitement at the time."
"Did your husband ask the name of the family?" I inquired.
"Yes, and it was not Congreve. But, for all that, I think they are in our neighborhood."
"Have you any ground, beyond mere conjecture, for this belief?"
"Yes. My husband described Mr. Congreve, and the Southerner thought he must be the man. He had not seen him many times; but as far as he could remember him, the identity seemed clear."
"I don't believe he is the man," said my wife, in a tone that caused me to turn and look into her face. She was pale and agitated.
"I am sure of it," replied Mrs. Wilkins. "That lady in the corner house is deranged. You have only to look at her, to be assured of this."
"Her reason may be unsettled; but not by guilt." (My wife spoke confidently.) "I know a pure face when I see it — a pure face that reflects a pure mind — and this you have in Mrs. Congreve."
"Oh! as to that," said Mrs. Wilkins. "her husband's blind jealousy may have imagined guilt, where none existed. But she must have been strangely imprudent, for a pure woman. When a wife gives countenance to a lover, innocence dies in her heart. Poor child that she was! — her beauty bartered for gold; bartered before the girlish sweetness of tender seventeen had put on a woman's thought and feeling — no wonder that, when her heart's true impulses came into vigorous life, they drew her aside from virtue."
"You speak confidently," I remarked.
"The story that my husband heard, recited the case as I give it. She was very beautiful — and gold won the prize that many strove for eagerly. The rich planter, twice her age, and repulsive in person and appearance as another Bluebeard, bore her away to his home in triumph. But the young song-bird soon lost her voice in the gilded cage and narrow rooms which now imprisoned her. The happy-hearted girl, changed quickly to the sad-hearted woman. A few wretched years of a false life, and then a falser life began. There was no altar in her heart on which love's pure flame could burn; and so passion built a place on which to sacrifice to other gods, than those which preside over domestic peace. Her feet got bewildered in strange labyrinthine paths; she lost her way! Unhappy child-woman! We pity, more than we blame."
"Your picture, faintly outlined as it is," said I, "gives me a shudder. Whether your gold-bartered southern child-woman is our neighbor or not, she is a burden-bearer, whose stooping shoulders let the too heavy weight of remorse or anguish of unblessed love, fall crushingly upon her heart. Somewhere she sits in darkness — somewhere suffers — somewhere looks with fear into the black, hopeless future. Alas, for that blindest, that maddest of all follies — which sacrifices a heart on the altar of mammon! Are there notwrecks enough — for warning on the shores of every sea?"
"It would seem not," replied Mrs. Wilkins. Then added, following my own thought: "The maddest of all follies indeed! The heart of a woman, that loving thing, so wonderfully sensitive to all influences, and with such infinite capacities for joy or pain; so hard to indurate, though it lies for years in the petrifying waters of worldliness and sin; so tender and yielding to love, so passionate in revolt. A woman's heart! Oh, with what care should it be guarded! Yet, how is every door of evil influence opened upon it! It is assailed bypride, love of the world, wealth, and all blinding influences — before a true self-consciousness gives token of its own inherent wants, capacities, and powers. Alas! that this knowledge comes in so many cases too late; that chains which dare not be broken, have fettered it before the first yearnings for true freedom are known. And of all chains, thesegolden ones usually cut deepest into the palpitating flesh; for where gold is the power that binds, you rarely have the manly qualities which a true woman must recognize before love can spring to life in her heart. A bought slave cannot be held by affection; she will feel her fetters, no matter how costly may be the material, and seek to trample them under her feet!"
Alice had remained silent since her simple rejection of the supposed identity of Mrs. Congreve and the southern planter's wife referred to by Mrs. Wilkins. I glanced now and then at her face, and saw that it retained the shadow which had suddenly fallen over it.
"It is not well," she now said, in a voice that was unusually sober, "to take anything for granted in a case involving so much as this. Let us not prejudge and ill-judge these strangers, on no better evidence than yet appears."
"The presumptive evidence is very clear," remarked Mrs. Wilkins.
"Not to my mind," was answered. "Any other set of circumstances might be made to appear, just as conclusive against them. I'm afraid we are all more inclined to think the worst instead of the best, where any question or doubt exists. The rule 'innocent until proven guilty' which gives to a prisoner the benefit of a doubt — is sensible and humane."
Mrs. Wilkins had gone home, and my wife and I still talked of this new aspect which had been given to the case of our neighbors in the corner house, when a servant came to the room in which we were sitting, and said, in a hurried way:
"The servant-girl from Congreve's is downstairs, and wants to see you, ma'am, right quick!"
My wife started up at this summons, and ran down to the hall in which the girl was standing. I heard a few quick, eagerly spoken words pass between them, and then my wife called to me in an alarmed tone of voice.
"What is it?" I asked, as a few long strides brought me to the foot of the stairway.
"We are both needed in at the corner house!" And my wife grasped my arm in a nervous manner.
"What for?" I inquired.
"Heaven knows! But get your hat and come quickly. The girl looked pale with fright!"
"Where is she?"
"Gone! She flashed out, as if half beside herself."
I caught my hat from the rack, and hurried away with my wife. The door stood partly open, and we entered the corner house without ringing for admittance. I noticed, as my eye glanced into the parlors, that the furniture was scanty, rather than in profusion; and plain rather than elegant. The woman, whom I knew only as Aunt Mary, stood a few steps below the landing on the stairway, with a face of ashen paleness.
"Here! Quick! quick!" she called, as soon as we entered.
I sprang forward, and as I commenced ascending the stairs, she turned and flew up the next flight, and was at the door of the front chamber when I reached the upper landing.
"Quick!"
I was by her side in an instant.
"She's fastened herself in with Florry; and I can't get a word from her or hear a sound."
I understood, from the white terror in her face, that she was in fear of the worst that could happen; and so threw myself against the door with considerable force. But it did not yield.
"Edith! Edith!" called Aunt Mary, in wild fear.
But, though we listened, holding our breaths, no sound came from within that deathly silent room.
Again I assaulted the door, but from the firmness with which it withstood the shock, I felt sure that it was bolted as well as locked.
"Has the door a bolt?" I asked.
"Yes," came in a husky whisper.
"Have you an axe?" I spoke to the servant-girl.
"Yes, sir."
"Fly, fly for it!" exclaimed Aunt Mary, throwing her hands forward to give force to the injunction. Then looking into my face, she murmured, in a fluttering voice, "She's dead, dead! I'm sure of it!"
"Let us all throw ourselves against the door at once," I suggested. "It may yield."
And in the next moment, it gave way to this united assault. The fumes of burning charcoal filled my nostrils as I stepped into the room, and I cried out:
"Stand back, on your lives!"
Receding as I spoke, I bore back the two women, Aunt Mary and my wife, who were about entering with me. The room was in darkness; but I saw, indistinctly, two figures lying on the bed.
"Remain here," I said, imperatively, "until I can get the windows open."
Then, holding my breath, that the deadly gas might not enter my lungs, I dashed across the room, and threw open the sashes and shutters. As I turned, I saw on the floor, an ordinary clay stove, in which the red coals were still burning. Snatching this up, as I sprang back towards the door, I removed it from the room.
"Bring some cold water, instantly," said I to the servant, as I handed her the stove.
It now occurred to me, that the surest way to save the lives of Mrs. Congreve and her child, if the fatal work she had sought to accomplish were not already done — would be to remove them from the room. The thought was scarcely half formed in my mind, when I crossed to the bed, and lifting little Florry, handed her light form to my wife. Then going back, I gathered the slender, and to all appearance lifeless body of the mother in my arms, and bore it from the room also.
Side by side we laid them in the adjoining chamber. What a sight to be remembered it was! The pale face of Mrs. Congreve was a little darkened by the smoke; but it was as serene as the face of one who slept, dreaming peaceful dreams. Her black garments had been laid aside, and in their place she wore a snowy muslin night-dress. Her hair, which lay smoothly parted away from her delicate, feminine forehead, had been drawn behind her ears and knotted low down upon her neck, with womanly care. The act had evidently been soberly premeditated; and the preparations conducted with deliberation. Florry was also in her night-dress. Her countenance, like that of her mother, was slightly darkened, but showed no mark of suffering.
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