Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 6.
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I sat pondering, conjecturing, and guessing, but with no satisfaction to myself, when my wife came downstairs, accompanied by the aunt of Mrs. Congreve. This woman was small in stature, of light frame, and with delicately cut features. Her eyes were of a dark hazel — you might take them for black at the first glance — and her complexion fair, and her skin of a pure, pearly transparency. Her nose and forehead would have given a fine Grecian outline, but for the slight aquiline rising of the former. Her chin advanced instead of receding, and rounded into something like a voluptuous fullness, which gave you rather the idea of self-reliance, than even a suggestion of sensuality. Grey tokens of years of suffering mingled in many silvery lines amid the masses of her glossy brown hair. Thought, endurance, self-conquest, and pain — had all been at work on her face — at work for years; but they had not cut away a line of that true womanly beauty, which is of the soul. They had scarred the flesh, only to let the spirit shine through with less obstruction. Her step had in it a dignity which made you feel yourself in the presence of one who had risen above all life's lower things.
I arose as she entered the room. But she said, in her low, evenly-modulated tones:
"I must keep you here a little while longer; so, please, be seated again."
"How is Mrs. Congreve?" I inquired, as I sat down.
"Safe from the danger which threatened her life, and sleeping."
"It was a narrow escape," said I.
"Fearful to think of!" And the lady shuddered.
"Has she ever attempted her life before?" I asked.
She looked at me half in doubt, I could see, for a little while before answering, and then said, with undisguised reluctance:
"Yes."
I regretted having asked the question. Aunt Mary — for so I must designate her as yet — felt embarrassed by my query. This was plain.
"I must," she said, looking up into my face — her eyes had been resting on the floor — "ask of you one thing: secrecy, for the present at least, in regard to what you have seen tonight. No good can arise from rumoring this frightful circumstance. And it will be painful to us in the extreme, to have it noised throughout the neighborhood."
"You have nothing to apprehend on that score," I answered quickly. "I can speak both for my wife and myself."
She gave me her hand from a grateful impulse, saying:
"I thank you sincerely; you make me twice your debtor."
"Think of us," I said, "as your friends, and call upon us freely for any service in our power to render."
Her hand, which still lay in mine, closed with a gentle, confiding pressure, and was then withdrawn. I was touched by her tone and manner — so quiet, and yet so full of feeling.
"Is Mr. Congreve away?" said I.
"Yes." She answered no further. The tone was different from that of a moment before.
"Can we serve you in anything more?" I asked.
"Not tonight," she replied.
"Do you think," inquired my wife, "that it will be safe to leave her alone?"
"Oh, I shall not leave her! I always sleep in the same room."
I saw that she was very pale, and was beginning to show considerable repressed nervousness.
"Would you care to have me remain with you all night, ma'am?" said my wife.
"Thank you for the kindness of heart which suggests the offer; but I will not tax your good-will that far."
I saw, that even while she declined the overture, it was in her heart to accept of it.
"My wife is entirely in earnest; I can speak for that," said I. "Had you not better take her at her word?"
Aunt Mary looked irresolute. My wife arose, saying,
"I do not think it well for you to be left alone tonight. This dreadful occurrence has shocked you severely. I know you need a friend — and I will be to you, for the present, that friend. In half an hour I will return, and stay until the morning."
"May He who gives, with every kind impulse that flows into the heart, a blessing — bless you, my stranger-friend. I will not refuse what I so much desire. Come!"
There were tears in her beautiful eyes as we turned away and left the room.
"You saw that picture?"
It was my first remark, as we sat down alone together, after reaching home.
"I did."
"And recognized it?"
"Yes."
"How did it get in her possession? What has she to do with him?"
"I am in a maze," replied my wife.
"Had he become entangled in any love affair, at the time of his fall?" I asked.
"I think something was said about a marriage engagement. Yes, I remember now. And it was reported that the young lady shut herself up from society for a long time afterwards."
"Evidently Mrs. Congreve knew him then — or since his release from prison; and this sad condition, in which we find her, is referable, I am sure, to some relation between them."
"The picture," said my wife, "gives us his face of ten years ago — not the face he must wear since that dreadful ordeal through which crime forced him to pass. Have you heard of him since he came out of prison?"
"Not a word."
"He was pardoned, I think."
"Yes. Some extenuating circumstances were urged upon the Governor, and some false witnesses alleged, I believe. At any rate, the unhappy young man was sent back into the world again. What became of him, I never learned."
"You remember the story Mrs. Wilkins told us a little while ago?"
"Yes." I felt a chill creep along my nerves.
"He may have been murdered by Mr. Congreve!" The blood went back from my wife's face.
"That is too terrible to think of! No, I will not believe it."
"But why, when seeking to destroy her own life, did she hold that picture in her hand?"
"I cannot say, Alice. There is a fearful mystery — tragedy, I fear — connected with her life!"
"And we have the clue to it in that picture. Poor Edgar! Who would have thought that, ten years ago, when all the future looked so bright and beautiful before him, when his praise was on all lips — that, in a little while, his feet would stray from the right paths, and his sky, all so blue and sunny, grow dark with tempest and ruin? He fell suddenly from a mountain-peak — and was bruised past sound recovery, I fear, in the fall. Unhappy young man! How often the thought of him has given me the heart-ache. His poor mother went down with the shock. But she, true to her mother-love, always said that he was innocent."
"His own assertion."
"Yes. He claimed to be the victim of a conspiracy."
"And may have been. Heaven knows, I would rather believe that, than guilt. But never was evidence clearer against any man."
My wife returned to the corner house, to stay with Aunt Mary, and I retired for the night to sleep fitfully, and with disturbing dreams, or lie in wakeful puzzlings of the unquiet brain, until day-dawn.
Alice came in very soon after sunrise. She looked pale and weary, like one who had passed the night in watching; but had little to communicate, which had an answer to the many questions pressing on both of our minds. She sat up with Aunt Mary until nearly twelve o'clock, talking; not, however, on any subject connected with the mystery which surrounded the family.
"There is something about her," said my wife, "which attracts like a magnet. I never met any one to whom I was drawn so powerfully. Her mind is rarely endowed; and she has a way of looking at things, which shows her to possess a deep religious trust."
"She has need of such a trust," I suggested.
"And this very need, it strikes me, has given birth to a faith that lifts, amid storm and darkness, its steady eyes upwards."
"Did she make no allusion to herself, or to her niece?" I asked.
"No direct intelligible allusion."
"What did you talk about?"
"Not so much of the outer — as of the inner world; not so much of events — as of mental states and conflicts. I noticed often as we conversed, forms of speech, views of life, and admitted experiences, which showed not only close thought and observation, but a profound knowledge of the human heart. She is no ordinary woman. And to think of her, shut out from circles of refinement and intelligence; hiding away from observation, and her life darkened by a mystery that is struggling for concealment — makes the heart sad."
"The very qualities she possesses are doubtless needed," said I, "to grapple with this mystery, and destroy, in the end, its power. There is no form of human evil, which has not its counter-balancing good; no disease, without an all-potent remedy. In His infinite adaptations of means to ends — God acts with unerring wisdom, and unfailing love. If she is the true woman you think — God has given her a work to do which no selfish, shallow weakling could perform. She may pass the days in pain now — but there shall follow a season of rest and peace in the time to come, when He makes up His jewels."
"Her mind struck me as breathing in a serene atmosphere now," replied my wife, "as dwelling in a house which, though beaten upon by the rain, and made to shudder in the wildly rushing winds, rested firm on its rocky foundations. There was nothing of a complaining or despondent spirit about her; but a brave lifting up of the heart and a steady eye in advance. Some of the sentiments which she uttered in our conversation, struck me as exceedingly beautiful; and they were given in words most fitly spoken. I have hardly met with her equal, as a woman of cultivated mind, and rare powers of conversation."
"The night passed without any further excitement, I suppose?" said I.
"No; as we sat talking in the room next to that in which Mrs. Congreve was sleeping, we were startled by a low, wailing cry, so full of inexpressible anguish, that my heart stood still and shuddered. Aunt Mary startled up, and I followed her rapid feet as she passed to the adjoining chamber. Mrs. Congreve was sitting up in bed, with a face of ghastly whiteness, and her eyes distended and protruding fearfully.
"'Oh, Aunt Mary!' she cried, falling forward, and hiding her face in her aunt's garments.
"'What is it, dear? What has frightened you?' asked Aunt Mary, in a gentle, soothing way.
"She glanced at me, became silent, and seemed, I thought, embarrassed. Aunt Mary did not reply to what she said. With a long, sad sigh, Mrs.Congreve fell back again on her pillow, shut her eyes, and turned her face to the wall.
"'You must be tired and sleepy,' said Aunt Mary, rising from the bed and turning to me. 'I have not been thoughtful in keeping you up so late. Dear me! It is nearly one o'clock.' She had drawn out her watch. 'Come, I will show you to your room.' And she led the way to a small chamber on the same floor.
"'Don't hesitate to call me, if I can be of any service,' said I, as she turned to leave me. 'I am not a sound sleeper; your lightest tap at my door will bring me wide awake.'
"'There will be no occasion for disturbing you, I trust,' she replied, as something like a smile lighted up her gentle face. 'Good night, and God bless you!'
"And no occasion came, if I am to judge from the fact that, after turning restlessly on my bed for two hours, unable from excitement of mind to lose myself in unconsciousness, I sank away to sleep at last, and did not wake until the morning sun looked in upon my face and drew me back from the land of dreams."
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