Our Neighbours in the Corner House CHAPTER 8.
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It would be hard to forget that day, and that scene. As clear as was the evidence against Edgar Holman, plain to all eyes, as it was, that the jury had little question of his guilt when they left the box to deliberate on a verdict — I yet saw hope in the wretched young man's face when he was brought into court by the officer who had him in charge, to hear the verdict. A dead blank of hopelessness, I had rather seen; for then there could be no shock of feeling to a lower depth. The cup would have been full, the circle of fire complete, the pain half deadened by its accumulated intensity.
When the Judge directed him to stand up and hear the verdict, he caught, with nervous eagerness, at the railing by which he sat, and drew himself to his feet. There came a flush upon his wan face, and I could see his eyes gleam as he turned them upon the foreman of the jury, on whose first utterance hung his fate. Too soon, also, came the fatal word. As it struck harshly upon the still air — it staggered him like a heavy blow. The faint flush went out from his face like the sudden extinguishment of a candle. I never saw such a face before, with a live heart beating in the bosom beneath. How was it, that he had dared to hope? Yet it was plain that, in spite of the mountain weight of evidence which had been brought against him, he had looked for a different result. Could it have been anything more than the hope of a felon, who stretches his eyes eagerly beyond the crowd assembled, to see the last tragedy in his life enacted, in vain expectation of a reprieve? I know not; but this result, which all had looked for, found him alone unprepared. His head sank forward after a moment of statue-like stillness, and he dropped down into the chair from which he had just arisen, apparently unconscious of what was passing around him. The Judge directed his removal to prison, there to await sentence of the law.
On the next day, I was permitted to see him. He was greatly changed. The restless nervousness which had shown itself before the trial, was gone. He appeared like one who had been stunned by a shock, from the effects of which he still suffered. No reference was made to the trial or verdict. I did not speak of it, and he omitted even the remotest allusion thereto. What could I say to him? Oh! words had nothing in them for such a case. I believed him guilty, and he could not but have seen it. What an embarrassing interview it was — embarrassing beyond anything I had ever known!
On the following day, he was sentenced to seven years' imprisonment at hard labor in the State Prison; and all men said the sentence was just. I saw him once again after the sentence, and for the last time. The dead stupor that fell upon him at the rendition of the verdict, which cut him off from hope, had passed away, and his mind was clear and calm. Once only did I refer to his position, as a man convicted of crime, in the remark, that I trusted the few years of expiation that lay before him, would do a beneficial work. His eyes flashed instantly, and he looked at me with a gaze of such fiery intensity, that I turned my face partly aside.
"You will see my poor mother," he remarked, in a failing voice, as I was about leaving him.
"Yes. What shall I say to her, Edgar?"
"Only this from me — that I am innocent!"
He did not take his sad eyes from mine even for an instant, as he said this.
"Nothing more?" I asked, after a pause.
"Nothing more," he replied, in a mournful voice. "They are the only words of comfort in my power to send. She will believe them."
And so I parted from him. Yes, his mother believed them. In her eyes — he was innocent, though to all else — he was guilty, and the law exacted, in stern retribution, the penalty of guilt. But faith in her son could not give strength sufficient for her day of trial. In less than a year after his imprisonment, she passed to her everlasting rest.
Five years of the term allotted to him were served out by Edgar, when in some way, the particulars of which did not reach me, interest was made for him with the Governor of the State, who granted a pardon.
All the circumstances of the case were brought back vividly to my mind, by the singular fact of his picture being found in the possession of Mrs. Congreve.
"You were satisfied of his guilt," said my wife, as we talked over the matter a few days afterwards.
"Not a doubt of it crossed my mind after listening to the evidence adduced at the trial. And yet the expression of his face, and the steady gaze, and almost fiery flash of his eyes, when I assumed his guilt as a settled thing, at our last interview, have often been remembered, and not always without a question as to what they really meant. Were they assumed to impress me for his mother's sake — or were they the signs of innocence?"
"Let us believe them to be the signs of innocence," said my wife, a new interest in her unhappy awakening in her mind.
I answered, "I was almost his only friend in that darkest time of his life; and when I turned from him and left him to his fate, how the blackness of midnight must have fallen around him! Innocent! No, Alice. He was not innocent. The thought almost suffocates me."
"Better innocent — better a thousand times!" answered my wife. "The suffering of guilt is a Hell, down into which no white-robed angel comes with words of hope and comfort."
"True — true. Yes, better innocent — better a thousand times! It is now nearly two years since his release from imprisonment?"
"Yes."
"And we have heard nothing of him since that time?"
"No."
"Was it not said that evidence in proof of some false swearing on the part of witnesses, was brought to the Governor?"
"Yes. We heard that."
I let my thoughts run back over the intervening seven years, and recalled, as distinctly as possible, the several witnesses. There was one of these who gave his name, I remembered, with rather an unseemly interest in his affirmations, as if he were particularly desirous that his evidence should be conclusive against the prisoner. He it was who testified to the fact of Holman's having worn the shawl and cap by which the teller identified him. I noticed his appearance at the time, and was affected by it unpleasantly. But the idea of a perjured witness did not cross my mind. Now the circumstance began to have a significance. This young man might have committed the forgery himself? I could not find, however, much to sustain the hypothesis; and soon dismissed it from my thoughts.
"We shall get lower down into the heart of this matter before long," said my wife.
"Through our strange neighbors in the corner house?"
"Yes."
"And uncover, it may be, a tragedy that might better sleep. You have not forgotten the story told by Mrs. Wilkins?"
"I am not willing to believe in the story — not, at least, as applied to this case. It is so short a time after his release from prison, Edgar could not have become thus involved."
"As the story goes, it was a young Englishman. He might have assumed that character by way of disguise."
But my wife would not give the suggestion any credence.
Two or three days passed without our seeing or hearing from the Congreves. Mrs. Wilkins, whose curiosity had become greatly piqued in regard to them, and whose dwelling was so situated that she could keep the corner house under surveillance, came in almost every day to see my wife, and, as she supposed, compare notes. But the showing of notes was all on her side. My wife had gained so much of a personal interest in the family, to say nothing of her promise to Aunt Mary, that her own lips were guarded with jealous care. She received all that Mrs. Wilkins had to give — and kept her own discoveries to herself. But Mrs. Wilkins had nothing of interest to communicate. Two or three times she had seen Aunt Mary go out and come in. A few parcels had been left. Once an express-wagon stopped at the door, and a large box was delivered. And there had been at least two telegrams to somebody in the house; she knew this must be so, for a boy had handed in a little book, with a letter, on both occasions, and received back answers.
"That telegraph business," said Mrs. Wilkins, "looks to me suspicious. Two dispatches to a private house, in two consecutive days — and there may have been a dozen. I could not watch all the while, you know — it is not a usual circumstance, by any means."
"Did you see anything of Mr. Congreve?" asked my wife.
"No, not a sign of him. And that's a little singular."
Every circumstance becomes magnified into singularity, where suspicion is an admitted guest.
"I have my own notions about him," added Mrs. Wilkins.
"What are they?"
"I don't believe he is away from home."
"Why do you doubt his absence?"
"It's just my opinion that he is within those four brick walls at the corner, hiding away in dread of discovery."
"Then you will have him to be the murderer of that young Englishman."
"I believe it in my heart."
My wife did not attempt to remove this impression. It was to her, a most painful view of the case — painful, as involving Mrs. Congreve in the charge of infidelity, but significant of the fate of her cousin.
"I've seen a suspicious-looking man loitering about the neighborhood, and especially near the corner house, for several days past," said Mrs. Wilkins. "Once he walked up to the door and rang the bell. I would have given something handsome to have heard what passed between him and the servant who came to the door. It was plain that the answer she gave to his questions did not satisfy him, for he stood talking to her for some time, and once, after going partly down the steps, returned to say something more."
On the third evening after the nearly fatal attempt of Mrs. Congreve to take her own life and that of her child, Alice ventured upon a call. She had said to Aunt Mary, "Be sure to send for me if I can serve you in anything." But Aunt Mary had not sent for her during this period, and she did not feel free to intrude herself. Now, however, a sufficient time had passed to admit of a friendly visit without the appearance of any curious interest, which all people occupying an equivocal position must feel as annoying. I own to having awaited her appearance with a certain degree of restlessness which I could not overcome. Her countenance wore its usual quiet expression when she came in. I saw at a glance that nothing had occurred to excite her mind, or to answer the questions we were both so anxious to solve.
"How did you find Mrs. Congreve?" I asked.
"Very different from the state in which I found her on my previous visits. She was calm, gentle, and lady-like in her manners; though silent for much of the time. I did not see anything of the wildness displayed on the occasion of her sudden appearance here; nor of the restlessness and querulousness I had once noticed. Indeed nothing occurred to indicate a disordered mind. She was singularly pale, as when I first saw her, and the sadness of her mouth and eyes was not once, during the evening, softened by a smile. Aunt Mary was lovelier than ever. So gentle, so sweet, so intelligent. Such noble views of life! Such a profound trust in divine Providence! Once, as Mrs. Congreve expressed a doubt in regard to all things being adjusted for our highest good, Aunt Mary said, with a countenance full of divine confidence — 'Though He slays me — yet will I trust in Him.'
"Mrs. Congreve shook her head in a doubting manner, and turning to me, said:
"'Aunt Mary's faith exceeds mine, as well as her patience and resignation. She is one of those who can kiss the hand which holds the rod. I am not as submissive, however. She looks through every dark cloud, and sees sunshine above; through every high mountain which lies across her path, and sees green fields and pleasant rivers beyond. All will come out right. That is the anchor of her soul. Ah, if I could only think so — only think so!'
"Her voice grew mournful — she sighed deeply — her eyes fell to the floor, and she sat very still.
"'Aunt Mary is right,' said I. 'God's providence acts by unerring laws. There can be no miscalculations where infinite intelligence and wisdom directs in the affairs of men.'
"She turned her eyes upon my face with a strange, questioning look, and said:
"'Where innocence is cruelly struck down — when a fair name is blighted by falsehood — when the pure and honorable are made to bear the penalty that is demanded for crime — do you say that there is no miscalculation?'
"She grew excited; I saw her eyes dilating, her lips arching, and her thin nostrils beginning to widen. But now Aunt Mary leaned towards her, and laying her hand upon her restless hand, said, with a most loving tenderness, and a smile that an angel's face might have worn —
"'Don't wander away, darling, into this maze of doubt! It will all grow clear — as clear as noonday. Night only endures, in any life, for a season. There is a golden morning to break over the mountains; and its time is sure.'
"Mrs. Congreve looked steadily into the face that bent near her own, as if she understood it to possess a magical power. And truly I believe it did, for her perturbed spirit. The fluttering heart soon folded its startled wings, and settled down quietly in her bosom. She did not speak again, except in some casual remark, but sat busily knitting, with her eyes, for the most part, on the work in her hands."
"You stayed late," said I.
"It was because the time glided pleasantly away in Aunt Mary's company. I scarcely noted the passing moments. There is a spiritual beauty in her character not often seen. She is gentle and wise. A true lady, because a true woman. I could sit and listen unwearied to her true words for hours, and come away stronger for duty and humanity."
"These states of aberration, on the part of Mrs. Congreve," said I, "are not permanent, it would seem."
"No; her condition tonight shows that."
"Did you not think her remark about innocence being struck down, and a fair name blighted by falsehood — singular under the circumstances?"
"I was struck by it. Evidently, she believes Edgar to have been the victim of a base conspiracy," said my wife, "and doubtless she is in possession of facts unknown to us. I will accept her view, and believe him innocent. But where is he? And what is his relation to this heart-stricken, unhappy woman? These are questions which grow more and more clamorous for solution every hour."
"We must wait for a while yet," said I. "The clue is in our own hands, I think, and time will bring us to the heart of this mystery."
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