I am a plain, elderly, unmarried man, and I board at Mrs. Mason's. A
great deal of what I am about to relate came under my own observation;
and the remainder was confided to me from time to time by my landlady,
with whom I am upon terms of friendship and intimacy, having had a home
in her house for a period of seven years.
Mrs. Mason lives in her own tenement, in a quiet part of the city; and
besides myself, has usually three or four other boarders, generally
teachers, or poor young authors--some person always of the class that,
having few other pleasures, makes it a point to secure rooms with a fine
view of the bay. When Miss Jorgensen came to us, we were a quiet,
studious, yet harmonious and happy family; so well satisfied with our
little community that we did not take kindly to the proposed addition to
our circle when Mrs. Mason mentioned it. Neither did our landlady seem
to desire any change; but she explained to us that the young person
applying had made a strong appeal; that her classes (she was a teacher
of French) were principally in our part of the city; and that she would
be satisfied with a mere closet for a room. The only privilege for which
she stipulated was the use of the common parlor twice a week to receive
her company in.
"But I cannot agree to give up the parlor any single evening," Mrs.
Mason replied, "because it is used by all the family, every evening. You
will be entitled to the same privileges with the others." After some
hesitation this was agreed to, and our new boarder was installed in the
upper hall bed-room, which, when it had received the necessary furniture
and a saratoga trunk, with numerous boxes and baskets, would scarcely
allow space enough to dress in. However, Mrs. Mason reported that the
tenant professed real satisfaction with her quarters; and we all were on
tiptoe with curiosity to see the new inmate.
"Miss Jorgensen," said Mrs. Mason, that evening, as she escorted to the
dinner-table a small, pale, dark-eyed young person, in deep mourning;
and we being severally and separately presented afterward, endeavored to
place this little lonely scrap of humanity at ease with ourselves. But
in this well-intentioned effort Miss Jorgensen did not seem to meet us
half way. On the contrary, she repelled us. She was reserved without
being diffident; mercilessly critical, and fierily disputatious--all of
which we found out in less than a week. She never entered or left a room
without somehow disturbing the mental atmosphere of it, and giving the
inmates a little shock; so that Mr. Quivey, our dramatic writer, soon
took to calling her the "Electrical Eel," substituting "E. E." when the
person indicated was within ear-shot possibly or probably. In return, as
we afterward discovered, Miss Jorgensen told Miss Flower, our other
young lady boarder, that she had christened Mr. Quivey "I.
I."--"Incurable Idiot." How the "E. E." came to her knowledge was never
made plain. Before three months were past, she had quarreled with every
one in the house except Mrs. Mason and myself; though, to her credit be
it said, she always apologized for her temper when they were over, with
a frankness that disarmed resentment. Nevertheless, she was so
frequently in a hostile attitude toward one or another in the family,
that the mere mention of Miss Jorgensen's name was sure to arrest
attention and excite expectations. Thus, when I only chanced to whisper
to Mrs. Mason at breakfast one morning, "Miss Jorgensen keeps late
hours," every one at the table glanced our way inquiringly, as much as
to ask, "What has the little woman done now?" And when she appeared at
the close of the meal with pale face and swollen eyes, explaining her
tardiness by saying she had a headache, no one gave her sympathizing
looks except the landlady.
That kind-hearted person confided to me, later in the day, that her new
boarder troubled and puzzled her very much. "She will sit up until one
or two o'clock every night, writing something or other, and that makes
her late to breakfast. She goes out teaching every morning, and comes
back tired and late to luncheon; and you see she is never in her place
at dinner until the soup is removed, and every one at the table helped.
When I once suggested that she ought not to sit up so long at night, and
that her classes should be arranged not to fatigue her so much, with
other bits of friendly advice, she gave me to understand, very promptly,
that her ways were her own, and not to be interfered with by any one.
And directly afterward the tears came into her eyes. I confess I did not
understand her at all."
"What about the young man who calls here twice a week?" I inquired.
"She is engaged to him, she says."
"What sort of a person does he seem to be?"
"He looks well enough, only rather shabby, is very quiet, very attentive
to her, and what you might call obedient to her requirements. She often
seems displeased with him, but what she says to him at such times is
unknown to me, for she does her scolding all in French; and he usually
then invites her out to walk, by way of diversion, I suppose."
"Do you know that he comes every morning and carries her books for her?
He certainly cannot be employed, or he would not have time for such
gallantries."
"Perhaps he is engaged on one of the morning papers, and so is off duty
in the forenoon. I cannot think so industrious a person as she would
take up with a man both poor and idle. But you never know what a woman
will do," sighed Mrs. Mason, who had known something of heart-troubles
in her youth, and could sympathize with other unlucky women. "Excuse me;
I must not stand here gossiping." And the good lady went about her house
affairs.
A few moments later I was hurrying down town to my office, when I
overtook Miss Jorgensen and Mr. Hurst. As usual, she was leaning upon
his arm, and he was carrying her books. She was talking excitedly, in
French, and I thought her to be crying, though her face was covered with
a black veil. The few words I caught before she recognized me reminded
me of my conversation with Mrs. Mason.
"You _must_ get something to do, Harry," she was saying. "You know that
I work every instant of the time, yet how little I can save if I have to
supply you with money. It is a shame to be so idle and helpless, when
there is so much to be done before----"
She perceived me and stopped short. "So," I thought, "this precious
scamp is living off the earnings of the little French teacher, is he? A
pretty fellow, truly! I'll get him his _congé_ if I have to make love to
her myself." Which latter conceit so amused me, that I had forgotten to
be indignant with Mr. Hurst before I reached my office and plunged into
the business of the day.
But I never made love to Miss Jorgensen. She was not the kind of person
even a flirtish man would choose to talk sentiment with, and I was
always far enough from being a gallant. So our affairs went on in just
the usual way at Mrs. Mason's for three or four months. Miss Jorgensen
and Mr. Quivey let fly their arrows of satire at each other; Miss
Flower, the assistant high-school teacher, enacted the amiable
go-between; our "promising young artist" was wisely neutral; Mrs. Mason
and myself were presumed to be old enough to be out of the reach of
boarding-house tiffs, and preserved a prudent unconsciousness. Mr. Hurst
continued to call twice a week in the evening, and Miss Jorgensen kept
on giving French lessons by day, and writing out translations for the
press at night. She was growing very thin, very pale, and cried a good
deal, as I had reason to know, for her room adjoined mine, and more than
a few times I had listened to her sobbing, until I felt almost forced to
interfere; but interfered I never had yet.
One foggy July evening, on coming home to dinner, I encountered Miss
Jorgensen in the hall. She appeared to be just going out, a circumstance
which surprised me somewhat, on account of the hour. I however opened
the door for her without comment, when by the fading daylight I
perceived that her face was deathly pale, and her black eyes burning.
She passed me without remark, and hurried off into the foggy twilight.
Nor did she appear at dinner; but came in about eight o'clock and went
directly to her own room. When Mrs. Mason knocked at her door to inquire
if she was not going to take some refreshments, the only reply that
could be elicited was, that she had a headache, and could not be induced
to eat or drink--spoken through the closed door.
"She's been having a row with that sunflower of hers," was Mr. Quivey's
comment, when he overheard Mrs. Mason's report to me, made in an
undertone. Truth to tell, Mr. Quivey, from associating so much with
theatrical people in the capacity of playwright, had come to be rather
stagy in his style at times. "By the way, he was not on escort duty this
morning. I saw her proceeding along Powell street alone, and anxiously
peering up and down all the cross streets, evidently on the lookout, but
he failed to put in an appearance."
"Which was very unkind of him, if she expected that he would," put in
Miss Flower, glancing from under her long lashes at the speaker.
"That is so," returned Quivey; "for the fellow does nothing else, I do
believe, but play lackey to Miss Jorgensen; and if that is his sole
occupation, he ought to perform that duty faithfully. I do not see, for
my part, how he pays his way."
"Perhaps it pays him to be a lackey," I suggested, remembering what I
had once overheard between them. Mrs. Mason gave me a cautioning glance,
which she need not have done, for I had no intention of making known
Miss Jorgensen's secrets.
"Well," said Miss Flower, as if she had been debating the question in
her mind for some time previous, "I doubt if a woman can love a man who
submits to her will as subserviently as Mr. Hurst seems to, to Miss
Jorgensen. I know _some women_ could not."
"By which you mean _you_ could not," Mrs. Mason returned, smiling. "I do
not see that the case need be very different with men. Subserviency
never won anybody's respect or love either. Neither does willful
opposition, any more. Proper self-respect and a fair share of self-love
is more sure of winning admiration, from men or women, than too little
self-assertion or too much."
"But where the self-assertion is all on one side, and the self-abasement
all on the other--as in the case of Miss Jorgensen and Mr. Hurst--then
how would you establish an equilibrium, Mrs. Mason?"
"It establishes itself in that case, I should say," clipped in Mr.
Quivey. "Oil and water do not mix, but each keeps its own place
perfectly, and without disturbance."
I do not know how long this conversation might have gone on in this
half-earnest, half-facetious style, with Miss Jorgensen for its object,
had not something happened just here to bring it abruptly to a close;
and that something was the report of a pistol over our very heads.
"Great heaven!" ejaculated Miss Flower, losing all her color and
self-possession together.
"E. E., as I live--she has shot herself!" cried Quivey, half doubting,
half convinced.
I caught these words as I made a rapid movement toward the staircase.
They struck me as so undeniably true that I never hesitated in making an
assault upon her door. It was locked on the inside, and I could hear
nothing except a faint moaning sound within. Fearing the worst, I threw
my whole weight and strength against it, and it flew open with a crash.
There lay Miss Jorgensen upon the floor, in the middle of her little
room, uttering low moaning sobs, though apparently not unconscious. I
stooped over and lifted her in my arms to lay her upon the bed, and as I
did so, a small pocket-pistol fell at my feet, and I discovered blood
upon the carpet.
"Yes, Miss Jorgensen had certainly shot herself, I told Mrs. Mason, and
the rest who crowded after us into the little woman's room; but whether
dangerously or not, I could not say, nor whether purposely or
accidentally. Probably not dangerously, as she was already making signs
to me to exclude people from the apartment.
"You had better bring a surgeon," I said to Quivey, who turned away
muttering, followed by Miss Flower.
With Mrs. Mason's assistance, I soon made out the location of the wound,
which was in the flesh of the upper part of the left arm, and
consequently not so alarming as it would be painful during treatment.
"Could she have meant to shoot herself through the heart, and failed
through agitation?" whispered Mrs. Mason to me, aside.
"No, no; it was an accident," murmured the victim, whose quick ear had
caught the words. "I did not mean to shoot myself."
"Poor child, I am very sorry for you," returned Mrs. Mason gently, whose
kind heart had always leaned toward the little French teacher, in spite
of her singular ways. "It is very unfortunate; but you shall receive
careful nursing until you recover. You need not worry about yourself,
but try to bear it the best you can."
"O, I cannot bear it--I _must_ be well to-morrow. O, what shall I do!"
moaned Miss Jorgensen. "O, that this should have happened to-night!" And
momently, after this thought occurred to her, her restlessness seemed to
increase, until the surgeon came and began an examination of the wound.
While this was going on, notwithstanding the sickening pain, the
sufferer seemed anxious only about the opinion to be given upon the
importance of the wound as interfering with her usual pursuits.
When, in answer to a direct appeal, she was told that it must be some
weeks before she could resume going out, a fainting fit immediately
followed, which gave us no little trouble and alarm.
Before taking leave, the doctor accompanied me to my own apartment and
proceeded to question me.
"What is the history of the case?" said he. "Is there anything peculiar
in the life or habits of Miss Jorgensen, to account for her great
anxiety to get well immediately?"
"She fears to lose her classes, I presume; and there may be other
engagements which are unknown to us." I still had a great reluctance to
saying what I suspected might be troubling Miss Jorgensen.
"Neither of which accounts for all that I observe in her case," returned
the doctor. "What are her connections?--has she any family ties--any
lover, even?"
"I believe she told Mrs. Mason she was engaged to a young man who calls
here twice a week."
"Ah! Do you know where this young man is to be found? It might be best
to communicate with him, in the morning. Possibly he may be able to
dispel this anxious fear of hers, from whatever cause it arises."
I promised the Doctor to speak to Mrs. Mason about it, and he soon after
took leave, having first satisfied himself that the unlucky pistol was
incapable of doing further mischief, and safely hidden from Miss
Jorgensen.
Naturally, the next morning, the table-talk turned upon the incident of
the evening previous.
"She need not tell me that it was an accident," Mr. Quivey was saying,
very decidedly. "She is just the sort of woman for desperate remedies;
and she is tired of living, with that vampire friend of hers draining
her life-blood!"
I confess I felt startled by the correspondence of Quivey's opinion with
my own; for I had heretofore believed that myself and Mrs. Mason were
the only persons who suspected that Hurst was dependent upon Miss
Jorgensen for the means of living. In my surprise I said: "You know that
he does this?"
"I know that Craycroft paid him yesterday for a long translation done by
Miss Jorgensen, and I do not believe he had an order for it, other than
verbal. Craycroft seeing them so much together, paid the money, and took
a receipt."
"Perhaps he paid the money to Mr. Hurst by her instructions, for her own
use," suggested Miss Flower. "But then he did not see her last evening,
did he? I hope he does not rob Miss Jorgensen. Such a delicate little
woman has enough to do to look out for herself, I should think."
"One thing is certain," interposed Mrs. Mason, "Miss Jorgensen does what
she does, and permits what she permits, intelligently; and our
speculations concerning her affairs will not produce a remedy for what
we fancy we see wrong in them." Which hint had the effect of silencing
the discussion for that time.
Before I left the house that morning, I had a consultation with Mrs.
Mason, who had passed the night in attendance upon Miss Jorgensen, and
who had informed me that she had been very restless, in spite of the
quieting prescription left by the doctor. "I wish you would go up and
speak to her," Mrs. Mason said. "Perhaps you can do something for her
which I could not; and I am sure she needs some such service."
Thus urged, I obeyed an impulse of my own, which had been to do this
very thing. When I tapped softly at her door, she said, "Come in!" in a
pained and petulant tone, as if any interruption was wearisome to her;
but when she saw who it was, her countenance assumed an eager and
animated expression, which rewarded me at once for the effort I was
making.
"Thank you for coming to see me," said she quickly. "I was almost on the
point of sending for you." Pausing for a moment, while her eyes searched
my face, she continued: "I am in trouble, which cannot be all explained,
and which will force you, if you do a service for me, to take me very
much upon trust; but I will first assure you that what you may do for me
will not involve _you_ in any difficulty. More than this I cannot now
say. Will you do this service for me, and keep your agency in the matter
secret? The service is slight, the importance of secrecy great."
I expressed my willingness to do anything which would not compromise me
with myself, and that, I told her, I did not fear her requiring.
She then proceeded, with some embarrassment, to say that she wished a
note conveyed to Mr. Hurst; upon which I smiled, and answered, "I had
conjectured as much."
"But you must not conjecture anything," she replied, with some asperity;
"for you are sure to go wide of the truth. You think I have only to send
for Mr. Hurst to bring him here; but you are mistaken. He cannot come,
because he _dare_ not. He is in hiding, but I cannot tell you why. Only
do not betray him; I ask no more. You are not called upon to do any
more--to do anything against him, I mean." Seeing me hesitate, she
continued: "I need not tell you that I believe my life is in your hands.
I have been living a long time with all my faculties upon a severe
strain, so severe that I feel I shall go mad if the pressure is
increased. I entreat you not to refuse me."
"Very well," I answered, "I will do what you require."
"It is only to take this"--she pulled a note from beneath her pillow,
addressed to "Mr. Harry Hurst," and handed it to me--"to the address,
which you will have no difficulty in finding, though I am sorry to have
to send you on a walk so out of your way. And please take this
also"--handing me a roll of coin, marked $100. "No answer is expected. Of
course, you will not give these things to any one but Mr. Hurst. That is
all." And she sunk back wearily upon her pillow, with closed eyes, as if
she had no further interest in the affair.
I know as well as if she had told me that this note was a warning to
fly, and this money the means to make flight good. I had promised to
deliver them on her simple entreaty and assurance that I should not
dishonor myself. But might I not wrong society? Might not she be herself
deceived about Hurst? The assertion of Quivey that he had collected
money from her employers the day before occurred to me. Did she know it
or not? I questioned, while regarding the thin, pale, weary face on the
pillow before me. While I hesitated she opened her eyes with a
wondering, impatient gaze.
"Do you repent?" she asked.
"I deliberate, rather," I replied. "I chanced to learn yesterday, that
Mr. Hurst had drawn money from Craycroft & Co., and was thinking that if
you knew it, you might not wish to send this also."
For an instant her black eyes blazed with anger, but whether at me or at
Mr. Hurst I could not tell, and she seemed to hesitate, as I had done.
"Yes, take it," she said, with hopeless sadness in her tone, "He may
need it; and for myself, what does it matter now?"
"I shall do as you bid me," I replied, "but it is under protest; for it
is my impression that you are doing yourself an injury, and Mr. Hurst no
good."
"You don't understand," she returned, sharply. "Now go, please."
"Very well; I am gone. But I promise you that if you exact services of
me, I shall insist on your taking care of your health, by way of return.
You are in a fever at this moment, which I warn you will be serious if
not checked. Here comes the doctor. Good-morning."
I pass over the trifling incidents of my visit to the residence of Mr.
Hurst. Suffice to say that Mr. Hurst had departed to parts unknown, and
that I had to carry about all day Miss Jorgensen's letter and money. On
returning home to dinner that afternoon, I found a stranger occupying
Miss Jorgensen's place at table. He was a shrewd-looking man of about
forty years, talkative, versatile, and what you might call "jolly."
Nothing escaped his observation; nothing was uttered that he did not
hear, often replying most unexpectedly to what was not intended for
him--a practice that would have been annoying but for a certain tact and
good humor which disarmed criticism. The whole family, while admitting
that our new day-boarder was not exactly congenial, confessed to liking
his amusing talk immensely.
"He quite brightens us up; don't you think so, Mr. Quivey?" was Miss
Flower's method of indorsing him.
"He does very well just now," replied Quivey, "though I'd lots rather
see E. E. back in that place. When one gets used to pickles or pepper,
one wants pickles or pepper; honey palls on the appetite."
"I thought you had almost too much pepper sometimes," said Miss Flower,
remembering the "I. I."
"It's a healthful stimulant," returned Quivey, ignoring the covert
reminder.
"But not always an agreeable one."
I suspected that Miss Flower, who had an intense admiration for dramatic
talent, entertained her own reasons for jogging Mr. Quivey's memory; and
being willing to give her every opportunity to promote her own views, I
took this occasion to make my report to Miss Jorgensen. As might have
been expected, she had been feverishly anticipating my visit. I had no
sooner entered the room than she uttered her brief interrogation:
"Well?"