Out in the World CHAPTER 7.
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At his desk that morning, as Carl Jansen sat over the letters of correspondents, the writing would fade under his eyes, and in its place, there would look up towards him, the stony image of his wife, as he parted from her at the breakfast table. He could not read the newspaper for that interposing image. It overlaid the prices current; the report of the stock exchange; the sales of real estate; the foreign news. If he opened a ledger to examine an account, he soon found himself gazing at his wife's statue on the page, which concealed all the figures, and hindered the results for which he was searching. He found it in his check book, his bill book, his day book; among invoices, and accounts current; on bits of paper taken up casually. Everywhere he encountered it. The eyes did not look into his; but, with a strange, fearful expression, past him, at something beyond.
Jansen went out upon the street; partly for business purposes — partly to escape the haunting image. But it pursued him everywhere. Looking at him, or rather past him into the dark beyond, from the faces of men and women — from pictures in shop windows — from all objects, animate and inanimate towards which his eyes were bent. There was no change of expression in the countenance — none in the hard, fearful eyes — none in the marble attitude. He went back to his store, to find the specter there, among books, papers, accounts — among articles of merchandise — in customers faces — standing out bodily, in the atmosphere.
But, he had crossed the "point of no return" of his own and his wife's destiny. There might come regret, fear, even a shuddering sense of approaching evil — but no return. Carl Jansen could not go to his wife and say, "I was wrong!" He could not take back the words last spoken. They must stand, though hearts broke, and the home-temple fell into a shapeless ruin!
At dinner-time, as Carl laid his hand upon his own door, there came a brief cessation of heart-beats — a brief stoppage of the breath. Then he passed in. He did not find his wife. She had gone out, the servant said, several hours before, and had not yet returned. Jansen felt uneasy. Then a weight dropped down upon him, so heavy as to produce a feeling of suffocation. Doubts began to obscure his mind. What if he had driven this sensitive, high-spirited woman to desperation? What if she had gone away, never again to return, except through his confession of wrong, and consequent humiliation of himself to a woman? This last thought, coming in with doubt and fear, stung his pride, steadied his shaking nerves, and restored him to inflexibility.
"If she is strong enough," he said, bitterly, to himself "surely I am! If a woman accepts this ordeal, shall a man shrink from it? No — no! By all that manhood claims of strength and superiority — no!"
Thus, he further entrenched himself in the position he had taken. Pride sustained him through natural weakness. Pride helped him when pity, tenderness, mercy, and the old love assaulted his strong places — and gave him the victory.
On the bureau, in their chamber, he found a letter. As he reached forth to take this letter, his hand shook — shook in spite of all his natural impassiveness and habitual self-control; shook so that he laid it down and moved back some paces. But, he could not endure suspense in this great crisis. The letter was in his hand again, and as he unfolded the sheet, the irrepressible tremor of his nerves made it rattle in the air. The writing was Madeline's; clear and accurate at the beginning — but irregular, blotted, and bearing evidence of deep feeling in the progress and conclusion.
"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 belord — 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, as true as steel to honor, virtue, purity, and love. But 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 beg 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 thefreedom 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 — then 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 coward 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 stern necessity that is on me, after what I have said, further sentences will be idle. I go, because you have declared termsthat 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 560 Walnut Street. Madeline."
After reading this letter, in an excited and prejudiced state of mind, Jansen threw it from him, under a first impulse of indignant rejection, and sat for some time in stern isolation of spirit — hard, angry, accusing, implacable. In the reading, pride had recognized only an assault upon himself and his rights as a husband; and he chafed in spirit. A calmer state followed. He read the letter again; but still failed to comprehend its true meaning. In his view, it was rebellious and defiant; proudly stating terms to which he must submit, or his wife would permanently abandon him. If he had read this letter a third time, he might better have comprehended Madeline, and the true, pure, loving woman he had driven from his heart and home. But, he folded it with a stern spirit — crushing the paper unconsciously — and threw it into a drawer away from sight.
"If she thinks I will stoop to solicit her return — that I will humble myself at her feet — she is grievously mistaken!" he said. "I am not made of that kind of stuff. If she had known me, she would never have tried this mad experiment. It will fail — miserably fail! Go to her! Solicit her to come back! Promise to be submissive to her will! Give up manhood — self-respect — prerogative — duty — rights! No, never! I shall stand just where I stand. I am her husband — and this is her home. If she, of her own choice, abandons both, what then ? She persists or repents — I am passive. So all rests in her hands. I did not thrust her from my door, and it shall never be closed against her, so long as her life is without stain. But, I cannot solicit her to come back — I will not solicit her!"
Jansen was not a man of half purposes; nor of the disposition that reviews determined lines of action, hesitating, doubting, repenting. There was something of the stubborn quality in his mind; determinations "set" quickly, and were not resolved again into free thought. Madeline was not wholly ignorant of this, when she took bold issue with her husband. She knew him to be narrow, selfish, proud, and stubbornly persistent in any line of conduct he might adopt. Yet, she braved all consequences, in her blindness; abandoning duty, love, ease, comfort, wealth — the absence of which is so wounding to all women of sensitive feelings and high spirit.
As men and women are born with selfish inclinations, and inherited peculiarities — mutual concession is an essential rule of action in marriage. If this rule is not observed — then strife must surely come. Were we in original purity of soul — or, through observance of divine laws restored to that purity — then no conflicts could arise. Love would be the governing law. In the degree that any individual is so restored, or influenced by the spiritual life in the soul — so far will that individual, even in the case of a woman unhappily married, submit to things unjust and hard to bear, rather than abandon all — trusting by patience, gentleness, and a loving observance of every duty, to lift her husband into a juster perception of the relation they bear to each other. She will give up many innocent things, because his warped or narrow views will not let him regard them as allowable. Nay, she will even submit to arbitrary rule and dictation — rather than grapple with him in a conflict that can only end in perpetual strife, or separation. And what is true of the woman, whose soul is rising out of the dominion of natural evils, is in like manner true of the man. He will bear and forbear — will yield and even submit in much — rather than break the most sacred of all bonds. And all this may be done without any real abandonment of that free will, whose highest office is to reject evil and choose good.
But, where there is no law of spiritual life in the soul, leading to concession for another's good — then let the law of truth in the understanding, which everyone may accept, act as a controlling force, and hold all things in allegiance to higher duties, though the way in which the feet must walk are difficult, often going down into the valley of humiliation.
Madeline was wrong. Both were wrong. False views, stimulated by passion and stubborn self-will — had made a breach between them. Neither had the spirit of concession — but, instead, the spirit of accusation; and there was no angel in their hearts to bridge the widening chasm with love. Jansen had acted with inconsiderate haste, pressing an decree upon his wife while she was yet too blind to see all that she might have seen of duty and prudence, had he dealt with her more tenderly and wisely. And Madeline, with equal haste and lack of regard for her husband's excited state of mind, had set him at defiance. So, in mutual blame — they had been driven asunder.
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