harsh and needlessly loud, "to give me up those keys which you hold in
your hand. You have no right to their possession, and I grieve to think
that you took advantage of my great distress of mind not to return them
with the things of which I sent you a list by my brother William. I
cannot believe"--and now Mr. Tapster lied as only the very truthful can
lie on occasion--"I cannot believe, I say, that you have taken advantage
of my having overlooked them, and that you have ever before to-night
forced yourself into this house! Still less can I believe that you have
taught our--_my_--children to deceive their father!"
Even when uttering his first sentence, he had noticed that there had
come over Flossy's face--which was thinner, if quite as pretty and
youthful-looking, as when he had last seen it--an expression of
obstinacy which he had once well known and always dreaded. It had been
Flossy's one poor weapon against her husband's superior sense and power
of getting his own way, and sometimes it had vanquished him in that fair
fight which is always being waged between the average husband and wife.
"You are right," she cried passionately. "I have not taught the children
to deceive you! I have never come into this house until I felt sure that
they were asleep and alone, though I've often wondered that they never
woke up and knew that their own mother was there! But more than once,
James, I've felt like going after that society which looks after badly
treated children--for the last nurse you had for them was so cruel! If
she hadn't left you soon I should have _had_ to do something! I used to
feel desperate when I saw her shake Baby in her pram; why, one day, in
the Inclosure, a lady spoke to her about it, and threatened to tell
her--her mistress----"
Flossy's voice sank to a shamed whisper. The tears were rolling down her
cheeks; she was speaking in angry gasps, and what she said actually made
James Tapster feel, what he knew full well he had no reason to feel,
ashamed of himself. "That is why," she went on, "that is why I have, as
you say, forced myself into your house, and why, too, I have now come
here to ask you to forgive me--to take me back--just for the sake of the
children."
Mr. Tapster's mind was one that traveled surely, if slowly. He saw his
chance, and seized it. "And why," he said impressively, "had that
woman--the nurse, I mean--no mistress? Tell me that, Flossy. You should
have thought of all that before you behaved as you did!"
"I didn't know--I didn't think----"
Mr. Tapster finished the sentence for her: "You didn't think," he
observed impressively, "that I should ever find you out."
Then there came over him a morbid wish to discover--to learn from her
own lips--why Flossy had done such a shameful and extraordinary thing as
to be unfaithful to her marriage vow.
"Whatever made you behave so?" he asked in a low voice. "I wasn't unkind
to you, was I? You had a nice, comfortable home, hadn't you?"
"I was mad," she answered, with a touch of sharp weariness. "I don't
suppose I could ever make you understand; and yet,"--she looked at him
deprecatingly,--"I suppose, James, that you too were young once,
and--and--mad?"
Mr. Tapster stared at Flossy. What extraordinary things she said! Of
course he had been young once; for the matter of that, he didn't feel
old--not to say _old_--even now. But he had always been perfectly
sane--she knew that well enough! As for her calling herself mad, that
was a mere figure of speech. Of course, in a sense, she had been mad to
do what she had done, and he was glad that she now understood this; but
her saying so simply begged the whole question, and left him no wiser
than he was before.
There was a long, tense silence between them. Then Mr. Tapster slowly
rose from his arm-chair and faced his wife.
"I see," he said, "that William was right. I mean, I suppose I may take
it that that young fellow has gone and left you?"
"Yes," she said, with a curious indifference, "he has gone and left me.
His father made him take a job out in Brazil just after the case was
through."
"And what have you been doing since then?" asked Mr. Tapster
suspiciously. "How have you been living?"
"His father gives me a pound a week." Flossy still spoke with that
curious indifference. "I tried to get something to do"--she hesitated,
then offered the lame explanation--"just to have something to do, for
I've been awfully lonely and miserable, James; but I don't seem to be
able to get anything."
"If you had written to Mr. Greenfield or to William, they would have
told you that I had arranged for you to have an allowance," he said, and
then again he fell into silence....
Mr. Tapster was seeing a vision of himself, magnanimous,
forgiving--taking the peccant Flossy back to his heart and becoming once
more, in a material sense, comfortable! If he acceded to her wish, if he
made up his mind to forgive her, he would have to begin life all over
again, move away from Cumberland Crescent to some distant place where
the story was not known--perhaps to Clapham, where he had spent his
boyhood.
But how about Maud? How about William? How about the very considerable
expense to which he had been put in connection with the divorce
proceedings? Was all that money to be wasted? Mr. Tapster suddenly saw
the whole of his little world rising up in judgment, smiling pityingly
at his folly and weakness. During the whole of a long and of what had
been, till this last year, a very prosperous life, Mr. Tapster had
always steered his safe course by what may be called the compass of
public opinion, and now, when navigating an unknown sea, he could not
afford to throw that compass overboard, so----
"No," he said; "no, Flossy. It would not be right for me to take you
back. _It wouldn't do._"
"Wouldn't it?" she asked piteously. "Oh, James, don't say no like that,
all at once! People do forgive each other--sometimes. I don't ask you to
be as kind to me as you were before--only to let me come home and see
after the children!"
But Mr. Tapster shook his head. The children! Always the children! He
noticed, even now, that she didn't say a word of wanting to come back to
_him_; and yet, he had been such a kind, nay, if Maud were to be
believed, such a foolishly indulgent husband.
And then, Flossy looked so different. Mr. Tapster felt as if a stranger
were standing there before him. Her appearance of poverty shocked him.
Had she looked well and prosperous, he would have felt injured, and yet
her pinched face and shabby clothes certainly repelled him. So again he
shook his head, and there came into his face a look which Flossy had
always known in old days to spell finality, and when he again spoke she
saw that her knowledge had not misled her.
"I don't want to be unkind," he said ponderously. "If you will only go
to William, or write to him if you would rather not go to the
office,"--Mr. Tapster did not like to think that any one once closely
connected with him should "look like that" in his brother's office,--"he
will tell you what you had better do. I'm quite ready to make you a
handsome allowance--in fact, it is all arranged. You need not have
anything more to do with that fellow's father--an army colonel, isn't
he?--and his pound a week; but William thinks, and I must say I agree,
that you ought to go back to your maiden name, Flossy, as being more
fair to me."
"And am I never to see the children again?" she asked.
"No; it wouldn't be right for me to let you do so." He hesitated, then
added, "They don't miss you any more now"; with no unkindly intent he
concluded, "soon they'll have forgotten you altogether."
And then, just as Mr. Tapster was hesitating, seeking for a suitable and
not unkindly sentence of farewell, he saw a very strange, almost a
desperate look come over Flossy's face, and, to his surprise, she
suddenly turned and left the room, closing the door very carefully
behind her.
He stared after her. How very odd of her to say nothing! And what a
strange look had come over her face! He could not help feeling hurt that
she had not thanked him for what he knew to be a very generous and
unusual provision on the part of an injured husband.... Mr. Tapster took
a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and passed it twice over his face,
then once more he sought and sank into the arm-chair by the fire.
Even now he still felt keenly conscious of Flossy's nearness. What could
she be doing? Then he straightened himself and listened; yes, it was as
he feared; she had gone up-stairs--up-stairs to look at the children,
for now he could hear her coming down again. How obstinate she was, how
obstinate and ungrateful! Mr. Tapster wished he had the courage to go
out into the hall and face her, in order to tell her how wrong her
conduct was. Why, she had actually kept the keys--those keys that were
his property!
Suddenly he heard her light footsteps hurrying down the hall; now she
was opening the front door--it slammed, and again Mr. Tapster felt
pained to think how strangely indifferent Flossie was to his interests.
Why, what would the servants think, hearing the front door slam like
that?
But still, now that it was over, he was glad the interview had taken
place, for henceforth--or so, at least, Mr. Tapster believed--the Flossy
of the past, the bright, pretty, prosperous Flossy of whom he had been
so proud, would cease to haunt him. He remembered, with a feeling of
relief, that she was going to his brother William; of course, she would
then, among greater renunciations, be compelled to return the two
keys--for they, that is, his brother and himself, would have her in
their power. They would not behave unkindly to her--far from it; in
fact, they would arrange for her to live with some quiet, religious lady
in a country town a few hours from London.
[Illustration: "HE SAW THAT WHICH RATHER SURPRISED HIM, AND MADE HIM
FEEL ACTIVELY INDIGNANT"]
Then Mr. Tapster began going over each incident of the strange little
interview, for he wanted to tell his brother William exactly what had
taken place.
His conscience was quite clear, except with regard to one matter, and
that, after all, needn't be mentioned to William. He felt rather ashamed
of having asked the question which had provoked so strange and wild an
answer--so unexpected a retort. Mad? What had Flossy meant by asking him
if he had ever been mad? No one had ever used the word in connection
with James Tapster before--save once. Oddly enough, that occasion also
had been in a way connected with Flossy, for it had happened when he had
gone to tell William and Maud of his engagement.
It was on a fine day nine years ago come this May, and he had found
William and William's wife walking in their little garden on Havenstock
Hill. His kind brother, as always, had been most sympathetic, and had
even made a suitable joke--Mr. Tapster remembered it very sadly
to-night--concerning the spring and a young man's fancy; but Maud had
been really disagreeable. She had said, "It's no use talking to you,
James, for you're mad, quite mad!"
Strange that he should remember all this to-night, for, after all, it
had nothing to do with the present state of affairs.
Mr. Tapster felt rather shaken and nervous; he pulled out his repeater
watch, but, alas! it was still very early--only ten minutes to nine. He
couldn't go to bed yet. Perhaps he would do well to join a club. He had
always thought rather poorly of men who belonged to clubs--most of them
were idle, lazy fellows; but still, circumstances alter cases.
Suddenly he began to wish that Flossy had remained a little longer. He
thought of all sorts of things--improving, kindly remarks--he would have
liked to say to her. He blamed himself for not having offered her any
refreshment; she would probably have refused to take anything, but
still, it was wrong on his part not to have thought of it. A pound a
week for everything! No wonder she looked starved. Why, his own
household bills, exclusive of wine or beer, had worked out, since he had
had this new expensive housekeeper, at something like fifteen shillings
a head, a fact which he had managed to conceal from Maud, who "did" her
William so well on exactly ten shillings and ninepence all round!
* * * * *
It struck nine from the neighboring church, where Mr. Tapster had
sittings,--but where he seldom was able to go on Sunday mornings, for he
was proud of being among those old-fashioned folk who still regard
Sunday as essentially a day of rest,--and there came a sudden sound of
hoarse shouting from the road outside. Though he was glad of anything
that broke the oppressive silence with which he felt encompassed, Mr.
Tapster found time to tell himself that it was disgraceful that vulgar
street brawlers should invade so quiet a residential thoroughfare as
Cumberland Crescent. But order would soon be restored, for the sound of
a policeman's whistle cut sharply through the air.
The noise, however, continued; he could hear the tramp of feet hurrying
past his house and then leaving the pavement for the other side of the
road. What could be the matter? Something very exciting must be going on
just opposite his front door, that is, close to the Inclosure railings.
Mr. Tapster got up from his chair, and walked in a leisurely way to the
wide window. He drew aside the thick red rep curtains, and lifted a
corner of the blind. Then, through the slightly foggy haze, he saw that
which rather surprised him and made him feel actively indignant; for a
string of people, men, women, and boys, were hurrying into the Inclosure
Garden--that sacred place set apart for the exclusive use of the
nobility and gentry who lived in Cumberland Crescent and the adjoining
terraces.
What an abominable thing! Why, the grass would all be trampled down; and
these dirty people, these slum folk, who seem to spring out of the earth
when anything of a disagreeable or shameful nature is taking place,--a
fire, for instance, or a brawl,--might easily bring infectious diseases
on to those gravel paths where the little Tapsters and their like run
about, playing their innocent games. Some careless person had evidently
left the gate unlocked, and the fight, or whatever it was, must be
taking place inside the Inclosure!
Mr. Tapster tried in vain to see what was going on inside the railings,
but everything beyond the brightly lighted road was wrapped in gray
darkness. Some one suddenly held up high a flaming torch, and the
watcher at the window saw that the shadowy crowd which had managed to
force its way into the Park hung together, like bees swarming, on the
farther lawn through which flowed the Serpentine. With the gleaming of
the yellow, wavering light there had fallen a sudden hush and silence,
and Mr. Tapster wondered uneasily what those people were doing there,
and what it was they were pressing forward so eagerly to see.
[Illustration: "HE ... TURNED TO SEE HIS HALL INVADED BY A STRANGE AND
SINISTER QUARTET"]
Then he realized that it must have been a fight, after all, for now the
crowd was parting in two, and down the lane so formed Mr. Tapster saw
coming toward the gate, and so in a sense toward himself, a rather
pitiful little procession. Some one had evidently been injured, and that
seriously; for four men, bearing a sheep-hurdle on which lay a huddled
mass, were walking slowly toward the gate, and he heard distinctly the
gruffly uttered words: "Stand back, please--back, there! We're going
across the road." The now large crowd suddenly swayed forward; indeed,
to Mr. Tapster's astonished eyes, they seemed to be actually making a
rush for his house, and a moment later they were pressing around his
area-railings.
Looking down on the upturned faces below him, Mr. Tapster was very glad
that a stout pane of glass stood between himself and the
sinister-looking men and women who seemed to be staring up at him, or
rather at his windows, with faces full of cruel, wolfish curiosity. He
let the blind fall to gently. His interest in the vulgar, sordid scene
had suddenly died down; the drama was now over; in a moment the crowd
would disperse, the human vermin (but Mr. Tapster would never have used,
even to himself, so coarse an expression) would be on their way back to
their burrows. But before he had even time to rearrange the curtains in
their right folds, there came a sudden loud, persistent knocking at his
front door.
Mr. Tapster turned around sharply, feeling justly incensed. Of course,
he knew what it was--some good-for-nothing urchin finding a vent for his
excited feelings. His parlor-maid, who was never in any hurry to open
the door,--she had once kept him waiting ten minutes when he had
forgotten his latch-key,--would certainly take no notice of this
unseemly noise, but he, James Tapster, would himself hurry out and try
to catch the delinquent, take his name and address, and thoroughly
frighten him.
As he reached the door of the dining-room, Mr. Tapster heard the front
door open--open, too,--and this was certainly very surprising,--from the
outside! In the hall he saw that it was a policeman--in fact, the
officer on point duty close by--who had opened his front door, and
apparently with a latch-key.
The constable spoke, as constables always do to the Mr. Tapsters of this
world, in respectful and subdued tones:
"Can I just come in and speak to you, sir? There's been a sad
accident--your lady fallen in the water; we found these keys in her
pocket, and then some one said she was Mrs. Tapster"; and the policeman
held out the two keys which had played a not unimportant part in Mr.
Tapster's interview with Flossy. "A man on the bridge saw her go in,"
went on the policeman, "so she wasn't in the water long,--something like
a quarter of an hour,--for we soon found her. I suppose you would like
her taken up-stairs, sir?"
"No, no," stammered Mr. Tapster, "not up-stairs; the children are
up-stairs."
Mr. Tapster's round, prominent eyes were shadowed with a great horror
and an even greater surprise. He stood staring at the man before him,
his hands clasped in a wholly unconscious gesture of supplication.
The constable gradually edged himself backward into the dining-room.
Realizing that he must take on himself the onus of decision, he gave a
quiet look round.
"If that's the case," he said firmly, "we had better bring her in here;
that sofa that you have there, sir, will do nicely for her to be laid
upon while they try to bring her round. We've got a doctor already."
Mr. Tapster bent his head; he was too much bewildered to propose any
other plan; and then he turned, turned to see his hall invaded by a
strange and sinister quartet. It was composed of two policemen and of
two of those loafers of whom he so greatly disapproved. They were
carrying a hurdle from which Mr. Tapster quickly averted his eyes. But,
though he was able to shut out the sight he feared to see, he could not
prevent himself from hearing certain sounds, those, for instance, made
by the two loafers, who breathed with ostentatious difficulty as if to
show they were unaccustomed to bearing even so comparatively light a
burden as Flossy drowned.
There came a sudden short whisper-filled delay. The doorway of the
dining-room was found to be too narrow, and the hurdle was perforce left
in the hall.
An urgent voice, full of wholly unconscious irony, muttered in Mr.
Tapster's ear: "Of course, you would like to see her, sir," and he felt
himself being propelled forward. Making an effort to bear himself so
that he should not feel afterward ashamed of his lack of nerve, he
forced himself to stare with dread-filled yet fascinated eyes at that
which had just been laid upon the leather sofa.
Flossy's hat, the shabby hat which had shocked Mr. Tapster's sense of
what was seemly, was gone; her fair hair had all come down, and hung in
pale-gold wisps about the face already fixed in the soft dignity which
seems so soon to drape the features of those who die by drowning. Her
widely opened eyes were now wholly emptied of the anguish with which
they had gazed on Mr. Tapster in this very room less than an hour ago.
Her mean brown serge gown, from which the water was still dripping,
clung closely to her limbs, revealing the slender body which had four
times endured, on behalf of Mr. Tapster, the greatest of woman's natural
ordeals. But that thought, it is scarcely necessary to say, did not come
to add an extra pang to those which that unfortunate man was now
suffering, for Mr. Tapster naturally thought maternity was in every
married woman's day's work--and pleasure.
* * * * *
It might have been a moment, for all that he knew, or it might have been
an hour, when at last something came to relieve the unbearable tension
of Mr. Tapster's feelings. He had been standing aside, helpless, aware
of and yet not watching the efforts made to restore Flossy to
consciousness.
The doctor raised himself and straightened his cramped shoulders and
tired arms. With a look of great concern on his face, he approached the
bereaved husband.
"I'm afraid it's no good," he said; "the shock of the plunge in the cold
water probably killed her. She was evidently in poor health, and--and
ill-nourished; but, of course, we shall go on for some time longer,
and----"
But whatever he had meant to say remained unspoken, for a telegraph-boy,
with the impudence natural to his kind, was forcing his way into and
through the crowded room. "James Tapster, Esquire?" he cried in a high,
childish treble.
The master of the house held out his hand mechanically. He took the buff
envelop and stared down at it, sufficiently master of himself to
perceive that some fool had apparently imagined Cumberland Crescent to
be in South London; before his eyes swam the line, "Delayed in
transmission." Then, opening the envelop, he saw the message for which
he had now been waiting so eagerly for some days; but it was with
indifference that he read the words,
"_The Decree has been made Absolute._"
PRESIDENT JOHNSON AND HIS WAR ON CONGRESS
BY
CARL SCHURZ
ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS
I was on the point of returning to the West when I received a message
from Horace Greeley, the famous editor of the New York _Tribune_, asking
me to take charge of the news bureau of that journal in Washington, as
its chief correspondent. Although the terms offered by Mr. Greeley were
tempting, I was disinclined to accept, because I doubted whether the
work would be congenial to me, and because it would keep me in the East.
But Mr. Greeley, as well as some of my friends in Congress, persuaded me
that, since I had studied the condition of things in the South and could
give reliable information concerning it, my presence in Washington might
be useful while the Southern question was under debate. This determined
me to assent, with the understanding, however, that I should not
consider myself bound beyond the pending session of Congress.