Out in the World CHAPTER 21.
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"I will give her one year to repent and return."
On the third day after Madeline's departure, Carl Jansen had reached this decision. It meant, that he would not break up their home until twelve months had expired.
"The door shall not be fastened against her; but, if it opens to let her in — her own hand must give the pressure. She went out of her own will; and of her own will, she must return."
To this purpose, feeling and thought had crystallized. The year had closed. It found Jansen with clearly visible pain-marks on his face. Cold, resolute, self-approving, he had kept to his decision without wavering until the full period given to his wife had expired; but it was not in human nature to go through such a year without intense suffering. He had taken many draughts from a bitter cup, and the drugged portion had fevered his blood in heart and brain. The loneliness, the desolation of hope, the restless disquietude, the doubt, the questionings, the uncertainty of this period — would have left disfiguring signs on one of sterner stuff than Carl Jansen.
The year had closed. Nothing had been changed, as to the external order of things, in the household, during all that time. Not a drawer or wardrobe belonging to Madeline had been meddled with. If she had returned, on any day of the year, she would have found everything that was personally her own, just where she had left it. But, the fixed time had closed. No matter what change of feeling had taken place with Jansen towards his wife; no matter as to what evil-hearted rumor had reported; no matter as to how far belief had accepted slander; up to the last day and hour, he remained true to his first intention — "I will give her one year to repent and return!"
The year had closed, and now there must come a change. This state of things was no longer possible. He must destroy this marred and desecrated temple which had been erected to the household god — must pull down these altars from which the holy fires had long ago departed. Through the last night of the last day, nothing was disturbed. A vague, restless pause in Jansen's life, seemed like the shadow of that coming presence for which through a long year he had waited. Up to the final instant of grace, he would keep the door of entrance unfastened. But, all was at last over. A new day in the new year of his fate began; and the door was barred!
Three large trunks, locked and strapped down, contained at the close of this day — all the clothing and personal effects of Madeline, once the beloved wife of Carl Jansen, now self-repudiated, and a wanderer out in the world. Where, and under what circumstances, the husband knew not. Upon their contents, he had gazed for the last time. Nothing would ever induce him again to touch or look upon the garments in which she had often appeared so beautiful in his eyes. He had shivered many times, as one article after another, passing under his hands, had quickened bright memories of the past, and set the beautiful being he had once clasped with such tender joy to his heart against a background of all things pure and lovely.
The purpose of Jansen was to send these trunks to Madeline; and now, for the first time since her abandonment of home, he began making inquiries in regard to her. With an almost business-like coldness of purpose, he settled in his mind the proper methods of procedure, and then went to work systematically. First, he called on Mrs. Woodbine. That lady gave him a courteous reception, and freely answered all his inquiries; but could give no information as to Madeline's present abode.
"When did you last see or hear from her?" asked Jansen.
"I have neither seen her, nor heard from her in six months. In fact, sir, she has kept away from me ever since she took that fatal step. Before, her visits were frequent. But, I did not approve the course she was taking, and urged her so strongly to go back, that she became offended."
"You saw her six months ago?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"She called here one day about that time."
"Ah! For what purpose?"
"To ask if there was a letter for her."
"A letter! Did she receive letters directed to your care?"
"None ever came here for her."
"From whom did she expect a letter?"
"From you."
"From me!" The surprise on Mr. Jansen's part was not pretended.
"Yes, sir. When she went away from home, she left a letter, so she told me, in which she informed you, that if you would write to her and say 'Come back,' she would return. She fully counted, I think, on your taking her at her word. She expected a letter, and the invitation to come back. For full six months, as is plain from her calling here, did she cherish this hope."
A deep, irrepressible sigh, struggled up from the bosom of Carl Jansen. He sat very still and silent for some moments, his face turned partly away from Mrs. Woodbine, who was observing him with the keen eye of a curious woman.
"In which she was doomed to disappointment," he said, in a low, husky voice, speaking as if to himself.
"Bitter, heart-aching disappointment," said Mrs. Woodbine.
"You think so?" Jansen looked up almost with a start.
"I know it. Nothing but pride kept her from going back. If you had opened the door for her, even so much as an inch — she would have crowded through. You were too hardand unyielding, Mr. Jansen. You did not understand the woman you had asked, in her tender, confiding girlhood to become your wife. She was loving and true — but proud andself-willed. You should have considered the whole of her character — should have let the good overbalance defect. It was a hard thing in you as her husband, to drive her as you did to desperation. Before Heaven, sir, you are not guiltless in this matter! If she suffers harm, a cast-out and a wanderer in this hard and evil world, something of the sin will lie at your door. Pardon this plain speech, Mr. Jansen; but I am an outspoken woman; and it may be well for you to know what others think of your conduct."
"By my own act, I am willing to stand or fall," replied Mr. Jansen, with slight signs of displeasure. "A husband may, surely, have freedom to approve or disapprove of his wife's conduct; and even to speak strongly if she sets herself defiantly against him. I did no more than this — and simply for this, she went away, thinking to force me into concessionwhich no man with a true, manly character will ever make. Of her own will — she left her home. The door was not locked against her. At any time within the last twelve months she could have returned. She had only to push open the door which she had closed herself. But, not choosing to do so — not willing to bend the neck of her self-will — she remained on the outside. Who is to blame? Not Carl Jansen! His conscience is clear on that head. But, excuse me, Mrs. Woodbine, I had rather not go on with this discussion. The argument will be fruitless on either side. Madeline called here, you say, about six months ago?"
"Yes, sir."
"And asked for a letter?"
"Yes, sir."
"Had you any conversation with her at the time?"
"None. The interview was brief. She did not come in."
"Do you know where she went, after leaving your house?"
"No, sir."
"Have you heard of her since?"
"Nothing directly."
"What indirectly?"
Mrs. Woodbine thought for a little while:
"It must be over three months ago, that I heard a lady say that she met her, or a person singularly like her, on one of the Albany boats going up the river."
"And beyond this, you know nothing?"
"Nothing at all, Mr. Jansen."
"Perhaps you know of someone who might be able to give me the clue for which I am seeking."
"She was, for a while, very intimate with a woman named Mrs. Windall; and, I am told, went away from the city with her seven or eight months ago."
"Who is Mrs. Windall?"
"Not a very good kind of person, I regret to say. She is an adventurer, and, I think, attached herself to your wife in the hope of using her in some way to her own advantage. It was intimated, at one time, that she was training Mrs. Jansen for a public reader, or to go on the stage. Indeed, the story runs, that a public reading was given in Boston or Philadelphia. But, I cannot vouch for this."
"How can I find Mrs. Windall?"
"She has not been seen in New York for a long time."
"Is there anyone who is likely to know her address?"
"She stayed for awhile, I believe, with a Mrs. Barling, in Jersey City. Your wife was there also, now that I remember. Mrs. Windall and Mrs. Bailing trained her, so I have heard, for elocutionary readings."
"Do you know Mrs. Barling's exact location in Jersey City?"
"I do not."
Mr. Jansen went away, feeling less comfortable in mind than when he called. Some things said by Mrs. Woodbine went down to sore places and hurt; and some things disturbed the self-approving states which he had formed. He was not so well satisfied with himself — not so sure that he had been altogether right in his dealings with Madeline.
His interview with Mrs. Barling did not help his state of mind. She corroborated what Mrs. Woodbine had suggested, and gave him the particulars of Madeline's appearance at the Musical Fund Hall in Philadelphia. In fact, read to him the letter of Mrs. Windall, in which she gave a description of Madeline's brilliant success, and subsequent disappearance. As Mrs. Jansen did not return to her house, nor communicate with her, Mrs. Barling could not furnish any present information in regard to Madeline. Nor was she able to give the address of Mrs. Windall.
Next he called upon Mrs. Lawrence, in Brooklyn. To his inquiry as to when she had seen his wife, he received the answer —
"She was here in the Spring."
"How long did she remain?"
"Only an hour or two."
"Have you met with her since?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know where she is at this present time?"
Mrs. Lawrence answered in the negative, further remarking, that she believed it was her intention to leave the city. "She was not communicative," Mrs. Lawrence said. "I pressed her with questions as to her future; but all her answers were vague. I do not think she had any settled plans. She was very unhappy. My heart ached for her. What have you heard, Mr. Jansen?"
"Nothing! She has never had any communication with me since she went away. I am entirely ignorant of her condition or locality. My present desire is to get her address, in order to send her three trunks containing her clothing and personal effects. If you should learn anything about her, will you be kind enough to let me know?"
"If I hear of her, you shall know it immediately!" said Mrs. Lawrence.
Observing a certain sternness in Mr. Jansen, amounting almost to anger towards his wife — this kind, true friend, of the unhappy woman felt called upon to say a word for her early and beloved companion.
"I do not wish to intrude upon you," she said, "in a matter so painful and delicate; but you must permit me to speak in favor of one whom I have known intimately and loved tenderly."
Mr. Jansen knit his cold brows — but Mrs. Lawrence went on.
"There is among most men and women, a bad inclination to suppose evil instead of good — to give to each other's acts the worst, instead of the best interpretation. I trust you are keeping this in mind. A woman standing to society in Mrs. Jansen's unfortunate relation, would be evil spoken of, were she as pure as an angel. Don't forget this, and if any evil surmise, or positive assertion of wrong, comes to your ears, do not give credence. She erred sadly in leaving her home. As to the extent of mutual blame, I know nothing; but I will not believe her to have been all wrong — and you all right. I must say this in cause of my friend. A woman of her pure, true and loving nature, would never have broken away so madly from a home in which all material good abounded — if there had not been laid upon her some things intolerable to be borne.
"Excuse me," said Mr. Jansen, rising. "The past is past, and we will not uncover it. I understand my own position thoroughly, and, of course, better than you or anyone else can understand it. My conscience is clear in the matter."
"Nay, excuse me, sir! Sit down again, and hear me for my friend," answered Mrs. Lawrence, with that mild resolution which subdues quicker than anger. "I will not be rude nor insulting. What I desire is, to speak for her on the side of kindness and charity. There will be enough to whisper detraction — to suggest evil — to assert as facts the mere creations of a vile imagination. For a night and a day she was with me after leaving your house. I looked a way down in her heart, and scanned it with a jealous fear that somethingevil might be lurking there — something disloyal to her husband, I mean, and to her marriage vows. I found pride and self-will — but not impurity — not disloyalty. These were her words. I shall not soon forget them. She said, 'As a wife and equal, I will cling to my husband through good and evil report — in sickness, poverty, disgrace — under any and all circumstances of outside wrong and oppression. His love would bind me by cords impossible to be broken.' Again she said, 'If my husband writes to me, and says, simply,Come back, I will accept it gladly as an evidence that I am to live with him as an equal. If he does not ask my return — will not concede anything — then the dice is cast — we stand apart forever.'
"Ah, sir, not to many men are given a woman of her high quality. Alas! that you did not comprehend her. As your loving equal, she would have stood up by your side, brave and strong, amid the direst calamities — a wife of whom the proudest might be proud. If you could have had faith in her — if you could have understood her, and wisely forborne where opposition could only blind! She was not perfect. Are you and I? But she was loving, and pure, and true. Let evil tongues speak what they may; all are liars, who touch her name with a vile word! I who knew her as girl and woman; I who have looked down deeper into her heart, as to some of its hidden chambers, than even her husband, say this boldly in the face of all.
"Ah, sir! she has taken up a heavy burden; and, in all your thought of her in the time to come, Mr. Jansen, do not forget that your hands helped to make that burden, nor that a single word from your lips would have lifted it from her shoulders. My heart so aches for her, that I say boldly under the excitement of pain, what otherwise could not have passed my lips. O, sir! Let me implore you to bend a little from your high position. Will you not say to her those two little words for which I know she has been all the time thirsting in this desert of her life — 'Come back?' They would thrill through her desolate soul! By all that is sacred in life, I implore you to speak those words!"
"It is too late!" answered Carl Jansen; the sternness of manner he strove to assume, broken and veiled by conflicting emotions. For several painful moments the husband and friend of Madeline stood gazing into each other's eyes. Then the interview closed. Silently bowing Jansen retired. He had not felt so miserable since the day of Madeline's departure.
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