WAITING FOR THE SUMMONER.
“So every spirit, as it is more pure,
And hath in it the more of heavenly light,
So it the fairer body doth procure,
To habit in, and it more fairly dight
With cheerful grace and amiable sight.
For of the soul the body form doth take,
For soul is form, and doth the body make.”
_Edmund Spenser._
In the best chamber of the house of Pierre Toussaint in Franklin Street,
looking out on blossoming grape-vines and a nectarine-tree in the area,
sat Mrs. Charlton in an arm-chair, and propped by pillows. Her wasted
features showed that disease had made rapid progress since the glance we
had of her in the mirror.
A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of Toussaint.
“Well, Toussaint, what’s the news to-day?” asked the invalid.
Toussaint replied in French: “I do not find much of new in the morning
papers, madame. Is madame ready for her breakfast?”
“Yes, any time now. I see my little Lulu is washing himself.”
Lulu was the canary-bird. Toussaint quitted the room and returned in a
few minutes, bringing in a tray, spread with the whitest of napkins, and
holding a silver urn of boiling water, a pitcher of cream, and two
little shining pots, one filled with coffee, the other with tea. The
viands were a small roll, with butter, an omelette, and a piece of
fresh-broiled salmon.
“Sit down and talk with me, Toussaint, while I eat,” said the invalid.
“Have you seen my husband lately?”
“Not, madame, since he called to recover the box.”
“Has he sent to make inquiry in regard to my health?”
“Not once, to my knowledge.”
“I cannot reconcile my husband’s indifference with his fondness for
money. He must know that my death will deprive him of twelve hundred a
year. How do you account for it, Toussaint?”
“Pardon me, madame, but I would rather not say.”
“And why not?”
“My surmise may be uncharitable, or it might give you pain.”
“Do not fear that, Toussaint. I have surrendered what they say is the
last thing a woman surrenders,—all personal vanity. So speak freely.”
“Mr. Charlton is young and good-looking, madame, and he is probably well
aware that, in the event of his being left a widower, it would not be
difficult for him to form a marriage connection that would bring him a
much larger income than that you supply.”
“Nothing more likely, Toussaint. How strange that I can talk of these
things so calmly,—eating my breakfast, thus! They say that a woman who
has once truly loved must always love. What do you think, Toussaint?”
“This, madame, that if we love a thing because we think it good, and
then find, on trial, that it is not good, but very bad, our love cannot
continue the same.”
“But do we not, in marriage, promise to love, honor, and obey?”
“Not by the Catholic form, madame. Try to force love, you kill it. It is
like trying to force an appetite. You make yourself sick at the stomach
in the attempt.”
Here there was a ring at the door-bell, and Toussaint left the room. On
his return he said: “The husband of madame is below. He wishes to speak
with madame.”
Surprised and disturbed, Mrs. Charlton said, “Take away the breakfast
things.”
“But madame has not touched the salmon nor the omelette, and only a poor
little bit of the crust of this roll,” murmured Toussaint.
“I have had enough, my good Toussaint. Take them away, and let Mr.
Charlton come in.”
Then, as if by way of contradicting what she had said a moment before,
she began smoothing her hair and arranging her shawl. The inconsistency
between her practice and her profession seemed to suggest itself to her
suddenly, for she smiled sadly, and murmured, “After all, I have not
quite outlived my folly!”
Charlton entered unaccompanied. His manner was that of a man who has a
big scheme in his head, which he is trying to disguise and undervalue.
Moved by an unwonted excitement, he strove to appear calm and
indifferent, but, like a bad actor, he overdid his part.
“I have come, Emily,” said he, “to ask your pardon for the past.”
“Indeed! Then you want something. What can I do for you?”
“You misapprehend me, my dear. Affairs have gone wrong with me of late;
but my prospects are brightening now, and my wish is that you should
have the benefit of the change.”
“My time for this world’s benefits is likely to be short,” said the
invalid.
“Not so, my dear! You are looking ten per cent better than when I saw
you last.”
“My glass tells me you do not speak truly in that. Come, deal frankly
with me. What do you want?”
“As I was saying, my love,” resumed Charlton, “my business is improving;
but I need a somewhat more extended credit, and you can help me to it.”
“I thought there was something wanted,” returned the invalid, with a
scornful smile; “but you overrate my ability. How can I help your
credit? The annuity allowed by Mr. Berwick ends with my life. I have no
property, real or personal,—except my canary-bird, and what few clothes
you can find in yonder wardrobe.”
“But, my dear,” urged Charlton, “many persons imagine that you have
property; and if I could only show them an authenticated instrument
under which you bequeath, in the event of your death, all your estate,
real and personal, to your husband, it would aid me materially in
raising money.”
“That, sir, would be raising money under false pretences. I shall lend
myself to no such attempt. Why not tell the money-lenders the truth? Why
not tell them your wife has nothing except what she receives from the
charity of her step-son?”
Enraged at seeing how completely his victim had thrown off his
influence, and at the same time indulging a vague hope that he might
recover it, Charlton’s lips began to work as if he were hesitating
whether to try his old game of browbeating or to adopt a conciliatory
course. A suspicion that the lady was disenchanted, and no longer
subject to any spell he could throw upon her, led him to fall back on
the more prudent policy; and he replied: “I have concealed nothing from
the parties with whom I am negotiating. I have told them the precise
situation of our affairs; but they have urged this contingency: your
wife, it is true, is dependent, but her rich relatives may die and leave
her a bequest. We will give you the money you want, if you will satisfy
us that you are her heir.”
“You fatigue me,” said the invalid. “You wish me to make a will in your
favor. You have the instruments all drawn up and ready for my signature
in your pocket; and on the opposite side of the street you have three
men in waiting who may serve as witnesses.”
“But who told you this?” exclaimed Charlton, confounded.
“Your own brain by its motions told it,” replied the wife. “I am rather
sensitive to impressions, you see. Strike one of the chords of a musical
instrument, and a corresponding chord in its duplicate near by will be
agitated. Your drift is apparent. The allusions under which I have
labored in regard to you have vanished, never, never to return! How I
deferred the moment of final, irrevocable estrangement! How I strove, by
meekness, love, and devotion, to win you to the better choice! How I
shut my eyes to your sordid traits! But now the infatuation is ended.
You are powerless to wound or to move me. The love you spurned has
changed, not to hate, but to indifference. Free to choose between God
and Mammon, you have chosen Mammon, and nothing I can say can make you
reconsider your election.”
“You do me injustice, my wife, my dearest—”
“Psha! Do not blaspheme. We understand each other at last. Now to
business. You want me to sign a will in your favor, leaving you all the
property I may be possessed of at the time of my death. Would you know
when that time will be?”
“Do not speak so, Emily,” said Charlton, in tones meant to be pathetic.
“It may be an agreeable surprise to you,” continued the invalid, “to
learn that my time in this world will be up the tenth of next month. I
will sign the will, on one condition.”
“Name it!” said Charlton, eagerly.
“The condition is, that you pay Toussaint a thousand dollars cash down
as an indemnity for the expense he has been at on my account, and to
cover the costs of my funeral.”
With difficulty Charlton curbed his rage so far as to be content with
the simple utterance, “Impossible!”
“Then please go,” said the invalid, taking up a silver bell to ring it.
“Stop! stop!” cried Charlton. “Give me a minute to consider. Three
hundred dollars will more than cover all the expenses,—medical
attendance, undertaker’s charges,—all. At least, I know an undertaker
who charges less than half what such fellows as Brown of Grace pile on.
Say three hundred dollars.”
With a smile of indescribable scorn, the invalid touched the bell.
“Stop! We’ll call it five hundred,” groaned the conveyancer.
A louder ring by the lady, and the old negro’s step was heard on the
stairs.
“Seven hundred,—eight hundred: O, I couldn’t possibly afford more than
eight hundred!” said Charlton, in a tone the pathos of which was no
longer feigned.
The invalid now rang the bell with energy.
“It shall be a thousand, then!” exclaimed Charlton, just as Toussaint
entered the room.
“Toussaint,” said the invalid, “Mr. Charlton has a paper he wishes me to
sign. I have promised to do it on his paying you a thousand dollars.
Accept it without demur. Do you understand?”
Toussaint bowed his assent; and Charlton, leaving the room, returned
with his three witnesses. The sum stipulated was paid to Toussaint, and
the will was duly signed and witnessed. Possessed of the document,
Charlton’s first impulse was to vent his wrath upon his wife; but he
discreetly remembered that, while life remained, it was in her power to
revoke what she had done; so he dismissed his witnesses, and began to
play the fawner once more. But he was checked abruptly.
“There! you weary me. Go, if you please,” said she. “If I have occasion,
I will send for you.”
“May I not call daily to see how you are getting on?” whined Charlton.
“I really don’t see any use in it,” replied the invalid. “If you will
look in the newspapers under the obituary head the eleventh or twelfth
of next month, you will probably get all the information in regard to me
that will be important.”
“Cruel and unjust!” said the husband. “Have you no forgiveness in your
heart?”
“Forgiveness? Trampled on, my heart has given out love and duty in the
hope of finding some spot in your own heart which avarice and
self-seeking had not yet petrified. But I despair of doing aught to
change your nature. I must leave you to God and circumstance. Neither
you nor any other offender shall lack my forgiveness, however; for in
that I only give what I supremely need. Farewell.”
“Good by, since you will not let me try to make amends for the past,”
said Charlton; and he quitted the room.
Half sorry for her own harshness, and thinking she might have misjudged
her husband’s present feelings, the invalid got Toussaint to help her
into the next room, where she could look through the blinds. No sooner
was Charlton in the street than he drew from his pocket the will, and
walked slowly on as if feasting his eyes on its contents. With a gesture
of exultation, he finally returned the paper to his pocket, and strode
briskly up the street to Broadway.
“You see!” said the invalid, bitterly. “And I loved that man once! And
there are worthy people who would say I ought to love him still. Love
him? Tell my little Lulu to love a cat or a hawk. How can I love what I
find on testing to be repugnant to my own nature? Tell me, Toussaint,
does God require we should love what we know to be impure, unjust,
cruel?”
“Ah, madame, the good God, I suppose, would have us love the wicked so
far as to help them to get rid of their wickedness.”
“But there are some who will not be helped,” said the invalid. “Take the
wickedness out of some persons, and we should deprive them of their very
individuality, and practically annihilate them.”
“God knows,” replied Toussaint; “time is short, and eternity is
long,—long enough, perhaps, to bleach the filthiest nature, with
Christ’s help.”
“Right, Toussaint. What claim have I to judge of the capacities for
redemption in a human soul? But there is a terrible mystery to me in
these false conjunctions of man and woman. Why should the loving be
united to the unloving and the brutal?”
“Simply, madame, because this is earth, and not heaven. In the next life
all masks must be dropped. What will the hypocrite and the impostor do
then? Then the loving will find the loving, and the pure will find the
pure. Then our bodies will be fair or ugly, black or white, according to
our characters.”
“I believe it!” exclaimed the invalid. “Yes, there is an infinite
compassion over all. God lives, and the soul does not die, and the
mistakes, the infelicities, the shortcomings of this life shall be as
fuel to kindle our aspirations and illumine our path in another stage of
being.”
Here a clamorous newsboy stopped on the other side of the way to sell a
gentleman an Extra.
“What is that boy crying?” asked the invalid.
“A great steamboat accident on the Mississippi,” replied Toussaint.