Out in the World CHAPTER 9.
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Mrs. Windall was, as we have said, a small, pale-faced woman, with dark keen eyes and high forehead. She was rather showily dressed, in cheap, faded finery, the soils and creases therein marking her as an untidy person. She was one of those who, affecting a scorn for things feminine, have yet a weak love for gaudy attire — but neither taste norneatness. So in her wardrobe she made herself noticeable — but did not elicit admiration.
Years before she had quarreled with her husband, and they had ever since lived separately. As to the blame, it was about equally divided. Both had hung out false colors, she pretending to be an heiress — and he a thriving man of business. The mutual cheat was never forgiven on either side, and after a brief but stormy attempt to live before the world as man and wife, they had broken their fetters and swept asunder.
Previous to her marriage, Mrs. Windall had lived with a distant relative; but, on separating from her husband, the door of her old home did not open for her again. The fact was, she had been a burden to this relative, who felt no inclination to take it up again. Mrs. Windall, therefore, in leaving her husband, went out into the world alone. Just how she had managed to live for the past five or six years, no one knew. Frequent changes of boarding places, left with some, the inference that she was either difficult to please, or for some cause was not considered a desirable guest. The truth was, she had a slender purse, and did not pay as she went. The question of ways and means had become one of vital interest to Mrs. Windall. She would not, however, descend into any of the vulgarly useful employments, preferring to get money through appeals to sympathetic strangers, in whom she managed to excite pity for her wrongs and destitution.
She had "boarded round" and "begged round" in Philadelphia for nearly two years, until she became so well known that both doors and sympathy were shut against her. Then she found means to procure from three clergymen and two editors, letters of introduction to as many individuals in Boston of the same professions, where she went, and on the strength of these introductions, managed to get into respectable society. But she was both a moth and a drone — consuming yet not producing. For a time, she interested people of some cultivation, for her mind was active, and she was a fluent talker.
In Boston, she met with a number of men and women who were absorbed in social theories, joined their circle, and for awhile became a leader among them. Gradually, however, something in her was felt as repulsive. The circle did not harmonize with Mrs. Windall so near the center, and by tacit consent, she was gradually pressed to the circumference. She could talk glibly of "broad humanities;" of "noble aims and ends;" of their "high mission in the world;" of the "new gospel" they were sent to preach; but those who had the means of knowing her best — saw that she was idle and selfish — a taker on all sides — but not a giver.
For over two years Mrs. Windall managed to keep afloat in Boston; then she found it necessary to emigrate. Gradually the circle of her friends had diminished, and as it lessened, the character of her associates were of a lower grade. Light scandals touched her fame — whether justly or not, we cannot affirm. In the end, a few weak but well-meaning individuals, who pitied her destitution, obtained for her letters introductory, and a sum of money, with which she passed to New York. Here she had flourished for a while — but was now getting to be so well understood, that she found it difficult to hold her own.
Such in brief, was the woman into whose hands Mrs. Jansen had fallen. Coldly had the friend on whom Madeline counted, turned from her — the very friend who had first taught her the new doctrines of equality and independence, on which she was now acting. The friend on whom she had counted for everything in this the great crisis of her life, turned from and left her with a woman whose sphere had always been repellant, and held by whose hand she was now stepping out into an unknown and untried world.
The air of this new region struck upon her with a chill, and she felt an inward shudder as she walked away from Mrs. Woodbine's door, accompanied by Mrs. Windall. Had she been alone — most likely her feet would have turned back towards her own house. But she was committed to a degree that left retreat out of the question. She was too young and too strong in her self-will for a cool counting of the cost — for that sober reflection and hesitation which years of life-experiences, with their sufferings, are sure to bring.Pride was a dominant passion — this also held her to the course upon which she had so madly entered.
Mrs. Windall was boarding at No. 555 Washington street, in a house and neighborhood quite below the range of respectability in which Mrs. Jansen had been living with her husband. The latter held back, and gave her companion a look of surprised inquiry, as they stopped before a dingy dwelling.
"This is my home for the present, dear," said Mrs. Windall, with an encouraging smile. "Not as elegant as I could desire — but the people are so very kind that I can't take heart to leave them. Come!"
Mrs. Windall's hand was already on the bell. Madeline felt an impulse to turn away, and run as if for life; but she had not strength enough to break the spell that was upon her, and so stood passive, with her eyes cast down and half-closed, instinctively shutting away the unpleasing objects that were before them.
"Come dear!" The door had been opened by a sharp looking Irish girl, who glanced keenly at Mrs. Jansen as she entered on this invitation of her friend.
"Is my room in order, Kitty?" asked Mrs. Windall, when they stood in the narrow hall, the atmosphere of which was heavy with dining-room and kitchen odors.
"No ma'am," answered Kitty, with a curtness of tone that did not escape Mrs. Jansen.
"Will you put it in order right away, Kitty?"
Kitty did not give a verbal negative — but her manner said emphatically — "No!"
"Walk into the parlor, Mrs. Jansen," said Mrs. Windall, turning from the servant, whose sharp, curious eyes had already closely scanned the visitor's face.
The parlor was a small front room, of cheerless aspect. The air was close and impure, the furniture dingy, the painted walls dirty with head and hand marks. An old sofa, with a broken spring shining through the torn haircloth, stood on one side. In the center was a small round mahogany table, on which was a cheap lamp, surmounted by a globe, cracked on one side, and with a crescent-shaped piece scalloped out of the top. The bad odor of oil struck the nostrils as the eyes rested on this lamp. It was not imagination. Five ancient looking stuffed chairs were ranged about the room. The carpet had once been handsome; but that was a long time ago. It would have been difficult now to make out the figure clearly, the pile was so completely worn off in large spots, thus exposing the coarse grain of the canvas. Painted shades, which could hardly have seen less than ten years' service, darkened the windows. On the mantel stood a small French clock, the pendulum motionless. This article of ornament was flanked by two small, curiously spotted shells, the only clean and fresh looking things in the room. A few pictures, so called by courtesy, hung on the walls, the most noticeable being a barbarous looking picture.
"We'll sit here for a short time, until the servant gets my room ready," said Mrs. Windall, taking off her bonnet, and tossing it in a careless way on to the table, where stood the old lamp, untrimmed since the last night's burning. "She didn't expect me home so soon, or it would have been all right. When I' go out in the morning I hardly ever get home until dinner-time. And now, my child, while waiting for Kitty, we can talk."
Mrs. Jansen glanced towards the folding doors, that stood closed between the front and back rooms.
"There's no one there," said Mrs. Windall, understanding the significance of the glance.
A movement in the adjoining room contradicted her assertion, and she dropped her voice, as she remarked —
"Only a servant, I presume. But, we can talk low. And now let me repeat the assurances already made, that I am your friend, and feel deeply interested in your case. Do you know, dear, I've always felt drawn towards you. There's something about you so frank and outspoken — so womanly and so independent — so true to yourself. The step you are taking is a most painful one; but it is in pain that higher principles are born. We must go through the fire to purification. We must get strength for noble work by braving the tempest. Dear, dear child! don't give way to a weakness that is unworthy of the duty to which you are called!"
Poor Madeline! Her heart had failed her. Looking into the face of things as they were beginning to present themselves, she shuddered in affright. Her answer to Mrs. Windall was a trio of sobs, and a gush of tears.
"I know it is a hard thing for you, my dear," said Mrs. Windall, in a tenderly sympathizing voice, drawing an arm as she spoke, around Mrs. Jansen. "So young — so hopeful — so loving — yet so terribly disappointed! These wrongs to our gender set my blood on fire. I grow fierce with indignation when I see them. Poor child! This is but a momentary weakness. I understand how it is, for have I not also been in the furnace? You will be stronger in a little while."
"It is cruel — so cruel!" murmured Mrs. Jansen.
"All men are cruel. It is their nature," said Mrs. Windall. "Flatter them — yield to them in everything — call black white to humor their whims, and they can be as gentle as lambs; but set yourself in opposition; dare to call your soul your own, and instantly the fangs are seen. But you haven't told me all about this unhappy affair. I could only get vague hints from our conversation at Mrs. Woodbine's. And, by the way, Mrs. Woodbine acted very strangely. I thought more highly of her. To recommend you to go back, just for the sake of money and position — Ha!
"But you answered her nobly! Your language thrilled me with pleasure. I said, what a grand young soul! There was in your words the inspiration of a high purpose. I felt that the priestess for our new temple had come. And so I drew you away from the unworthy contact of such a woman as Mrs. Woodbine."
This speech was not without influence on Mrs. Jansen. She was pleased rather than disgusted, and so made blind instead of clear-seeing in regard to her friend. Her emotion had already subsided; calmness and strength were born of momentary weakness.
"How was it? Tell me all," said Mrs. Windall, resuming. Trust me, as one who loves you — as one who will make your cause her own — as a daughter would trust her mother."
Mrs. Windall could attract strongly. If one come fully within her sphere — that one was captive, at least for a time. Already Madeline was beginning to feel the influence of this subtle sphere. As she looked into the woman's face, its expression changed. What had been hard and repellant, was softened by more graceful lines. There was tenderness in the cold dark eyes, from whose strange intenseness she had so often turned away with an inward shiver. Madeline was in her power.
"Tell me all," repeated Mrs. Windall. Her tones had In them now more of command than solicitation — not offensive command — but that expectation of consent, which, from its subtlety, is so much more certain to prevail. And Madeline opened all her heart. She kept back nothing.
"Now I can advise you understandingly," said Mrs. Windall, when in full possession of the case. "Of course you cannot go back, unless your husband consents to the equality you have demanded. That would be to sink below the former level you held in his house. It would be acknowledging yourself an inferior — a serf, a slave. He would be tenfold more the tyrant. No — no; you have entered a path in which there is no turning back without loss of everything a woman holds dear. And now, let me ask a plain question or two as to your connections and prospects outside of your husband. The better I understand things, you see, the better I can advise you. What of your relatives?"
"Apart from my husband," replied Mrs. Jansen," I am nearly alone in the world."
"Ah!" There was a certain spring in Mrs. Windall's voice that indicated satisfaction.
"I lived with an aunt, my only near relative, at the time of my marriage. She has since died," added Mrs. Jansen.
"Have you an income? — Anything in your own right?"
"Nothing."
"So you stand alone in the world, trusting in your own strength?"
"Alone!" How the word echoed through all the chambers of Madeline's soul.
"And yet not alone," said Mrs. Windall. "As I have already affirmed, all true women are your friends; and you will find many noble spirits drawing to your side. They will encompass you as a defensive wall."
The parlor door was opened at this moment by Kitty, who had altered her first intention about Mrs. Windall's chamber.
"Your room is ready, ma'am," she said, with less curtness of speech than she had used when the ladies first came in.
"Oh! Thank you, Kitty," returned Mrs. Windall, with considerable blandness of manner.
After obtaining a good look at the visitor, the observant Kitty retired.
The room to which Mrs. Jansen now ascended, was in the third story, back. Its furniture was in the ordinary style of second and third class boarding houses — meager, dingy, cheerless. A cherry four poster, of scant dimensions and obsolete style, occupied a portion of the chamber. The bed was thin and covered by a faded calico spread, patched here and there with pieces of different patterns. There was no bureau. Two large trunks were, instead, the repositories of Mrs. Windall's clothing. A cheap mahogany framed glass hung against the wall, under which was placed a high and narrow pine dressing table. Two chairs, a small writing or work-table, a strip of carpet before the bed, a common maple washstand, and green paper blinds at the windows, made up the complement of furniture.
"It isn't very elegant," said Mrs. Windall, as she ushered her almost shrinking companion into this comfortless room. "But," she added, with affected indifference towards externalthings, "not in our surroundings does the heart find rest and satisfaction. Sweet peace, contentment, delight, come by an inner way. The poet who said, 'My mind my kingdom is,' understood life's true philosophy. How often do I repeat the words! How often have I repeated them in this poor little room, and felt their sublime meaning."
As she spoke, Mrs. Windall untied Madeline's bonnet strings and removed her bonnet. The unhappy young creature was stunned and passive. She felt herself in a weird atmosphere, every breath of which fed a strange, scarcely real life. There was a spell on her, which it seemed impossible to break. She distinctly recognized a power in this woman against which she had not, in the present, strength to act. She felt herself like a broken branch on a stream, borne away she knew not where.
"Don't look so miserable, dear," said Mrs. Windall, seeing in Mrs. Jansen's face, a picture of wretchedness and vague alarm. "The first sharp pain will soon be over. Then you will feel calm, strong, and full of self-confidence! I have gone by this way, and know every foot of the ground. It leads to freedom — to self-repose — to honorable independence. Only the first steps are painful and difficult."
Mrs. Jansen did not reply. After her bonnet and shawl had been taken off, she sat down by one of the windows and looked out. The prospect was neither soothing nor elevating. Dirty brick walls, chimneys, roofs — a dull sky over head — below, not a green thing. It was a glimpse of New York out of a back third story window on the east side of Washington street. A dreary gaze — shut eyes for a little while — then Mrs. Jansen turned from the prospect without, to the one within. The room seemed more desolate andrepulsive than at the first glance. It was a comfortless cell compared with the luxurious chamber she had, until within a few hours, called her own. What a heavy weight rested on her bosom! She almost panted for breath. It seemed as if something were crushing her life out. Then came a strong impulse to break away — to run from this woman as from anenemy, and from this dingy room as from a prison. She even rose with a sudden resoluteness of manner, and crossed towards the bed on which her shawl and bonnet were lying. Mrs. Windall, who was on the alert, read what was passing in her mind, and moving quickly to her side, drew an arm, around her and said —
"And now, my dear, going back to the subject of our conversation when Kitty interrupted us, take heart in the assurance that you do not stand alone. That all true women are your friends, and that purer and nobler spirits than you have yet known, will come to your side and claim you as a sister. Sit down again. I have a world of things to say."
And Mrs. Jansen, weak and bewildered, sat down; or, to speak more truly, permitted herself to be borne down upon the chair from which she had just arisen.
"And first, dear Mrs. Jansen, let me offer, with a free and loving heart, to share my poor room with you for a little while, until better arrangements can be made. A season of quiet is essential in your present state of mind. You need not join the family. I will arrange to have your meals sent up. Just as long as you may wish, shall you remain in perfect seclusion. In the mean time, we can survey the whole ground and determine your best course."
Mrs. Jansen, whose eyes had fallen to the floor, did not look up nor respond. She was thinking of the letter she had left for her husband, and whether he would send an answer. How was she to get the answer, if it were sent? She had given the number of Mrs. Woodbine's house, as that to which any communication for her should be directed. Could she go there again, after what had passed between her and Mrs. Woodbine? She felt, with keenness, the altered tone of this friend, upon whom she had counted for almost everything. She was hurt, alienated offended. When she passed through her door, on retiring, she had resolved never to re-enter it again. Of course, Mrs. Windall would call for her on the next day, and inquire for a letter! but, there came a hesitation in her thought — a certain lack of confidence was felt. Though captive, in a degree, to the stronger will of Mrs. Windall, the instincts of her purer nature warned her against implicit trust. No, she did not wish any communication from her husband to get into the hands of this woman; nor, in case a letter was received, did she wish to read it in her presence. In such a case, she felt that she would not be free to act as her own heart and judgment might dictate.
"You do not answer me," said Mrs. Windall, breaking in upon Madeline's perplexed thoughts. There was just a shade of offended pride in her voice.
"Forgive me, my kind friend," answered Mrs. Jansen, rousing herself. She shivered as if a cold wind had blown upon her. "Be patient with me. I do not see clearly."
"No mother could be more patient, or more loving than I will be, dear Mrs. Jansen! It is because my heart is so full of your case, that I seem to be intrusive. I know how it is with you. I see just where you stand, and see, also, the way opening easily before you. Ah, dear, if your eyes could perceive what is so plain to mine! But that, in your present state, is impossible."
Mrs. Windall drew an arm around Madeline and kissed her. How cold the lips were! They sent a chill down her nerves.
Weak — passive — silent. The strength, born of indignant purpose; the half heroic enthusiasm which had led Mrs. Jansen out from the home of her husband; the dominant will, ready to accept anything but submission — were all failing now, as she stood face to face with these first repulsive facts of her new life. Anything so poor, so base, so limited as this chamber of her friend, had not come within the range of her anticipation. Sacrifice; endurance; self-dependence; stern conflict in the life-battle that was before her, going out thus alone into the world, she had nerved herself to accept. But in so far as imagination had realized anything as actual, there was in its pictures of the future a certain grandness and heroism, with its poetical compensations, that would give strength to a nature like hers.
And here, at the initial step, as if to drive her back, she was met by a coarse and offensive reality, the first contact with which filled her with disgust. The admonition would have been effectual, had she not been under the influence of a will more subtle and powerful than her own. Weak — passive — silent she became, after a single effort to break away; and when, perceiving this state, Mrs. Windall urged her to lie down, she made no resistance. After her head was upon the pillow, Mrs. Windall sat close beside her. Madeline shut her eyes and turned partly away. Her face was pale; her eyelids wet; her mouth full of sadness.
Now a change flashed over Mrs. Windall's faded countenance — there was a gleam in her eyes — and the signs of an eager purpose about her thin, cold lips. With a repressed movement, she extended one of her hands, and laid it gently on Madeline's forehead. For nearly a minute she did not move this hand; then the fingers stirred, just as if the motion were involuntary. After that, she stroked the damp hair softly, gradually extending the touch down to the temples on each side. This was continued for some time, Mrs. Jansen remaining quiet.
If the half unconscious woman, lying there with closed lids, could have seen the countenance of Mrs. Windall as it was now, she would have started up and fled in terror from the room. But she was fast losing herself. The motion of Mrs. Windall's hand went on, gradually increasing in quickness, while her eyes fixed themselves with a snake-like intensity upon Madeline. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes elapsed, and still the hand of Mrs. Windall stroked the forehead and temple of the motionless woman lying before her — the expression of her face increasing all the while in its intense eagerness. At last she paused, still with her weird eyes on Madeline, and her hand held a few inches above the head she had been caressing. All remained as silent as death. Even the breathing of Mrs. Windall was suppressed.
Now she stood up and bent over, so as to get a full view of Madeline's face. The result was satisfactory. A light flashed into her countenance, a strange, unnatural, evil light. Again she laid her hand on her head, and as she did so, called her name in a low voice; but no response came. Then an arm was gently lifted — it remained, as raised, after being released — not falling back upon the bed by its own weight. Mrs. Windall pressed upon the arm, and it went down slowly. Again that gleam of light flashed over the woman's face which was full of conscious power. An eager thrill of triumph seemed to pervade her soul. Her slight form swelled into fuller proportions. "Mine!" she ejaculated, in a whisper."Mine!" And still she stood looking greedily at the unconscious Madeline — a dove just flown from her cage, and so soon in the hawk's talons!
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