Out in the World CHAPTER 26.
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A YEAR AFTERWARDS
"She owes for three months now," said a hard, impatient voice.
"Not quite three months," was answered by a woman. The tones were mild and deprecating.
"Is she doing any work?"
"Yes. But not much."
"Send her adrift. She can't pay the rent."
"She will pay," said the woman. "I trust her. She's honest."
"Honest? Blah! What's the good of being honest, if you haven't anything to be honest with."
The woman did not answer.
"She must go; unless she settles up. I won't have her in the house a day beyond this quarter." The man spoke angrily.
"If she goes, we lose all," replied the woman. "But, if we let her stay, she will make every dollar of the rent good. I'll trust her for that."
"Why do we lose all if she goes?" asked the man, turning abruptly to his wife.
"She has nothing to pay with now."
"She has a bed and a bureau."
"But you'll not take them!"
"I'll have my rent. You may trust me for that."
The man, after saying this, went out. The wasted, shrinking figure of a woman, in years not beyond the prime of life, stood in the door of a small room, on the second story, listening to this conversation. At its close, she went back again, noiselessly, into the room from which the voices below had attracted her, and sitting down, with a weak, weary air — hid her face among the folds of some coarse cloth that was lying on a small work-table. One hand was held closely against her left side. She had remained thus, almost motionless, for several minutes, when the opening of her door caused her to look up. The visitor was her landlady, who came in with a serious face.
"Aren't you well today, Mrs. Spencer?" inquired the landlady, as she looked into the woman's exhausted and suffering countenance.
"About as usual," was replied. The woman was struggling for self-possession; for the moral strength by which she could be calm and rightly adjusted in the presence of an inferior who had power over her. Her success in this was only partial.
"You don't look so well," said the other, kindly.
A silence, embarrassing to both, followed.
"I didn't sleep soundly last night," said the woman, breaking through this silence.
"Were you sick, or in pain?"
"No, my thoughts kept me awake." Then she added, with that abruptness which is sometimes born of sudden resolution, "It's getting worse and worse, Mrs. Jackman. My rent is nearly three months behind, and the prospects do not grow brighter. I stint myself in every way; but earn so little that it seems impossible to get all right again. How would it suit you to take my bureau? It cost me sixteen dollars, and is as good as it was the day I bought it. You shall have it for twelve dollars, and then we shall be even again. I think, maybe, I can keep up in the future. After two or three weeks' trial, if I can't get along, I will leave your room, so that you can get a better tenant."
"I wouldn't like to take your bureau," said the landlady, in no pretended reluctance at the thought of accepting this proposal.
"It is my own offer," replied Mrs. Spencer; and if you can accept it — the obligation will be on my side."
"I will talk with my husband. If he doesn't object."
"Why should he object, Mrs. Jackman? He can send the bureau to auction and get the money for it whenever he pleases."
"He might not think so. Still I'll do my best with him. But, Mrs. Spencer, suppose you can't get along any better? What then?"
"I'll go away. You shall not be troubled with me any longer." She spoke in a tone of irrepressible sadness.
"Go away where? What will you do?"
"He knows." The eyes of Mrs. Spencer glanced upwards.
"Have you no friends, ma'am? You're not fit to be alone. If you've any friends, you'd better go to them. You're sick and can't work."
Mrs. Spencer did not respond to this. On the table near which she sat, some partly made unbleached muslin drawers were lying. She reached her hand for the work which she had laid down a little while before.
"Take my advice," said the landlady, "and go to bed. You're as pale as a sheet this blessed minute! My!" She started towards Mrs. Spencer as she made this exclamation. A faintness had come over the exhausted woman, and she would have fallen had not Mrs. Jackman been at her side. Large drops of perspiration covered her forehead, and stood beaded around her mouth. The faintness passed off in a few minutes — but not until Mrs. Spencer had been supported to her bed.
"It won't do no how!" said Mrs. Jackman, continuing her remonstrance. "You must stop and take rest. You'll be down with fever, or something worse; and then what'll become of you?"
"If I could only die!" was the answer, made, passionately, through a gushing flood of tears. "If God would only take me now!"
Mrs. Jackman stood over her, full of pity — but helpless for comfort.
"Isn't there somebody that I can see for you, ma'am?" she asked. "Some friend who would help you, now that you are too sick to help yourself? I'll go anywhere for you."
Mrs. Spencer made no answer.
"Now do think, ma'am," urged the sympathizing landlady. "I'm sure you can get help if you will only ask for it. We can't always let our pride have its way; and, maybe it wouldn't be best for us in the end. I've had to humble myself a great many times, though it did go hard."
"You are kind and good, Mrs. Jackman," replied Mrs. Spencer, with recovering self-possession. "I'll think about what you say, though I'm afraid nothing will come of it."
"That, maybe, will depend on yourself."
There was no reply to this.
"You don't try to do anything this morning. You just lie still in bed," urged Mrs. Jackman.
Mrs. Spencer shut her eyes and turned her face away. The landlady stood over her for a little while, and then went downstairs.
Not very far from the poor tenement in which this scene occurred, stood a large dwelling, crowded in every part with modern appliances of comfort. In one of the chambers a man sat alone. His form was stooping and wasted; his eyes sunken far back in the hollow orbits; his lips thin and white; his face of an ashen paleness. He sat alone, as we have said, in a back chamber. There was a book-case and secretary in the room, which was used as a kind of private office, or library. The man occupied a large easy chair, which had been drawn up to the secretary. He was engaged in looking over some papers. Pausing in this work, he reached his hand for a bell-cord that hung near, and pulled it. A servant answered the call.
"Tell Mrs. Jansen that I would like to see her," he said.
"She's gone out sir," replied the servant.
"Gone out!" He spoke in a tone of fretful disappointment.
"Yes, sir. She went out more than an hour ago. Is there anything that I can do for you?"
"No — no. I wished to see Mrs. Jansen. But no matter — no matter."
The servant withdrew. Again the reader has Mr. Jansen before him. A year has gone by since the exciting events at Newport. He was very ill there, and not well enough to be removed with safety to New York for nearly three weeks after the attack we have described. During this year, he has wasted gradually, growing sensibly weaker from day to day. There has been no return of the exhausting hemorrhages.
It had been a year of painful experience and retrospection. The neglect and indifference of his wife had become, to one in Mr. Jansen's condition, positive cruelty. There did not exist, in the bosom of Mrs. Jansen, a single spark of affection for her husband; and she had ceased to make a pretense of what she did not feel. His wealth gave her the means of self gratification; beyond that, she did not consider him. As to tying herself down to a fretful, unreasonable sick man — she would do no such thing! If he needed special attendance — let him get a nurse. He was able enough to employ one. So she thought, and her actions were in agreement with her thoughts.
After the servant went downstairs, Mr. Jansen resumed his work of examining certain papers taken from a drawer which had not been disturbed for a long time. Among them he came upon a letter enclosed in an envelop that bore his address. The hand writing he knew but too well, and the sight of it made his heart leap with a sudden throb. For a few moments, he sat holding this letter, his eyes fixed on the superscription, then he made a motion to put it away out of sight — but paused before this was half done. A good while he sat very still, communing with himself. Then, slowly — but with firm hands, like one who had made up his mind, he withdrew the letter from its envelop, unfolded it, and read —
"My Husband — I fear that we have come to a place in life where our paths must diverge: not however through my desire or my choice. As I look out into the world, and dimly realize what I must be, and do, and suffer, living apart from my husband — I faint in spirit — I shudder at the prospect. My heart turns back, glad to linger in the sheltered home where it took up two years ago its rest in peace and joy. But, you have dictated the only terms on which I can remain in this home. I must be inferior and obedient. You must be lord — and I serf. The free will that God gave me, I must lay at your feet. Alas for me! I cannot thus submit. As your equal, I can walk by your side, true as steel to honor, virtue, purity, and love; as your inferior there can be no dwelling together for us in the same house.
"Today, you have laid on me a command, and, deliberately, in face of all consequences, I resolve to act as freely as though it had not been spoken. At the same time, I shall give you credit for being in earnest, and refrain from coming back, after I leave your house, until you send me word that you desire my return. I go, because I will not live with you instrife; and the terms you dictate render concord impossible. I pray you not to misunderstand me! Too much for both of us is involved. I do not go away from you, because I desire to repudiate our marriage contract, nor because there lives on this earth a man whom my heart prefers before you. I go, because you will not let me live with you in the freedom to which every soul is entitled, and in the equality that I claim as right. Here is the simple issue, as Heaven is my witness! In whatever you elect to do, keep this in mind, Carl! Your wife asks for love, and will give love in return; but if you command obedience — love dies. She cannot dwell with you as a slave, and will not dwell with you in open contention.
"My heart is full, Carl, and my eyes so dim with tears, that I can scarcely see the page on which I am writing. If I were to let my feelings have sway, there would go to you such a wild, such an impassioned appeal, as no man living, whose heart was not of stone, could resist. The words are pressing, nay, almost imploring, for utterance. But, I press them back, and keep silence, for I will not be a beggar for the love you promised, nor a craven to submit. Equal, Carl! We must stand side by side as equals — or remain forever apart.
"It is vain to write more. If you cannot comprehend the stem necessity that is on me, after what I have said, further sentences will be idle. I go, because you have declared terms that make it impossible for me to remain. I will return, if you write a single line of invitation. If you say "come back," I will take it as a hopeful assurance for the future. If you keep silence, this separation is eternal! If you wish to see me, or write to me, call or send to number 560 Walnut Street. Madeline."
Two or three times, as Carl Jansen bent over this letter, he caught his breath, and repressed a choking sob. Two or three times he wiped away the tears that made his eyes too dim to read the sentences. Once, under the pressure of uncontrollable emotion, he laid his face down on the writing-desk before him and wept, actually moaning in his weakness from mental pain.
And this was the letter he had read, years before, in blind anger, and put away coldly and unrelentingly! — this letter, throbbing in every sentence with a love that could not die, though wronged, repressed, and trampled on. The true spirit and meaning of it were felt and comprehended now; but it was too late!
Carl Jansen folded the letter carefully, handling it like some precious thing; but, before returning it to the envelop, re-opened and read it through again. With every muscle of his face quivering in lines of anguish and remorse, he lifted his eyes upwards, and sobbed out, "O God forgive me!"
Not long afterwards, Mr. Jansen rung for a servant.
"Tell Edward to bring the carriage around," he said, when the servant appeared.
"Mrs. Jansen has the carriage," was replied.
"She has!" In a quick fretting voice.
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, very well. Then go and order me a carriage. I wish to ride out."
"187 Fourteenth Street," was the order given by Mr. Jansen as he took his seat.
A ride of fifteen minutes brought him to the number designated.
"Is Mrs. Lawrence at home?" he asked.
The answer being affirmative, he entered, handing his card for the lady. Mr. Jansen tried to be calm and self-possessed. But this was impossible. When Mrs. Lawrence met him in the parlor, she found him so agitated, that he spoke with difficulty. She was shocked at his wan and wasted appearance.
"Why, Mr. Jansen!" she exclaimed, in her surprise. "I would not have known you."
"I'm but a wreck," he answered sadly. Then recovering himself, as they sat down, he added — "You are of course, a little surprised at my visit. It concerns Madeline."
He spoke the name with a slight falling of the voice, in which Mrs. Lawrence was surprised to detect a quality of tenderness.
"The past is past," he added, "and cannot be recalled. We can only act in the present. Do you know where she is?"
Mrs. Lawrence shook her head.
"How long is it since you heard of her?"
"Not for several years."
"I saw her a year ago."
"You did! Where?"
"At Newport. I am going to talk with you very frankly — very plainly, Mrs. Lawrence. It may hurt and humble me; but I want your assistance, and I must lay off disguise. You are Madeline's true friend; I know that. You tried to save us from the misery we dragged down upon our heads; but we were blind and mad, both of us — I, the blindest, the maddest, the most to blame! I saw Madeline at Newport a year ago."
"What was she doing there?"
"She was in the family of Mr. Cooper, of Hyde Park."
"In what relation?"
Mr. Jansen did not reply immediately. The answer, when made, seemed to hurt him —
"As a nurse to his child."
"Poor Madeline!" The voice of Mrs. Lawrence trembled, and her eyes filled with tears.
"We met, for a few minutes, in a strangely agitating interview; one that I cannot describe. I did not see her again; in fact, I was ill and confined to my room for two or three weeks afterwards."
"How did she look?" asked Mrs. Lawrence, in the pause that followed.
"Pale, patient, saintly."
The face of Mrs. Lawrence brightened.
"She is still pure — still true to honor and virtue?"
"As pure as an angel!" said Mr. Jansen, with much feeling. He then bowed his head, and sat mute for awhile.
"What of her since?" asked Mrs. Lawrence.
"I know nothing. But, I can no longer remain idle in regard to her. She must be removed from this state of dependence. Madeline a servant! The thought torments me like a specter with bloody hands. I have an abundance, which she is justly entitled to share. I wish to dispense a portion of it for her benefit — to settle upon her a liberal income. Will you help me to accomplish this?"
"All that is in my power to do, shall be done," replied Mrs. Lawrence.
"First we must ascertain where she is."
"Yes."
"Will you write to Mr. or Mrs. Cooper, and ascertain if she is still in their family?"
"Yes; immediately. But, I'm afraid, Mr. Jansen, that she will not feel at liberty to accept of anything at your hands."
"Oh, she must! She must! Not at my hands as a gift, or gratuity. But, as an equitable transfer of what is her own. Her going away from me — our separation by divorce — was only a personal event. In all fairness it did not touch her right of property — gives me no honest claim to keep back what was justly her own. I now propose restitution. Personal matters are one thing. Rights in property another."
"Where man and wife are concerned, law and custom decide differently," said Mrs. Lawrence.
"I know; but that doesn't touch abstract rights. If custom and the courts decide unjustly and oppressively, it is no reason why my conscience should be bound. I wish to do justly. You see my standpoint."
"Oh yes."
"And you will do all in your power for Madeline?"
"As if she were my own sister."
"You will write at once."
" Today."
"The mail will go up this afternoon. There should be an answer by the day after tomorrow."
"Yes."
"This is Wednesday. I will call on Friday." And Mr. Jansen went away.
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