University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
WAITING FOR THE SUMMONER.

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 could n'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.