XXIV
March 15. I was so miserable with my cough to-day that I could not summon the energy to drag myself to Mr. Blodgett's office, and did not leave my room till after eight, when your note came.
"Miss Walton," it read, "feels that she has the right to request Dr. Hartzmann to call this evening, in relation to the conversation uncompleted last night."
I understood the implied command, and thought that I owed what you claimed, while feeling that in obeying I could for this once forego my scruple of entering your door. The footman showed me into the library, and left me there. It was the first time I had seen it since my thirteenth year, and I cannot tell you the moment's surprise and joy I felt on finding it absolutely unchanged. Even the books were arranged as formerly, and my eye searched and found, as quickly as of yore, all the old volumes full of plates which had once given us such horror and delight. For the instant I forgot my physical suffering and the coming ordeal.
When you entered the room, you welcomed me only with a bow. Then seeing my paleness, you said kindly, "I forgot your cough, Dr. Hartzmann, or I would not have brought you out in such weather. Sit here by the fire." After a short pause you went on: "I hope that a day's thought has convinced you that common justice requires you to say more than you did last night?"
"Miss Walton," I replied, "to you, who know nothing of the difficult and hopeless position in which I stand, my conduct, I presume, seems most dishonorable and cowardly; yet I cannot say more than I said last night."
"You must."
"I can scarcely hope that what I then said will influence you, but if you will go to Mr. Blodgett and" —
"Does Mr. Blodgett know what you object to in Mr. Whitely?" you interrupted.
"Yes."
"I went to Mr. Blodgett this morning, and he told me that he knew of no reason why I should not marry Mr. Whitely."
"Then, Miss Walton," I answered, rising, "I cannot expect that you will be influenced by my opinion. I will withdraw what I said last night. Think of me as leniently as you can, for my purpose was honorable."
"But you ought to say more. You" —
"I cannot," I replied.
"You have no right to" – But here a servant entered, with a card.
"Dr. Hartzmann," you announced, when the man had gone, "I wrote Mr. Whitely yesterday afternoon, asking him to call this evening, with the intention of accepting his offer of marriage. He is now in the drawing-room, and unless you will have the fairness, the honesty, to explain what you meant, I shall tell him all that has occurred, and give him the opportunity to force you to speak."
"I shall only repeat to him, Miss Walton, what I have said to you."
You stood a moment looking at me, with a face blazing with indignation; then you exclaimed, "You at least owe it to him not to run away while I am gone!" and passed into the drawing-room.
You returned very soon, followed by Mr. Whitely.
"Dr. Hartzmann," you asked, "will you repeat what you said last night to me?"
"I advised you not to marry Mr. Whitely, Miss Walton."
"And you will not say why?" you demanded.
"I cannot."
"Mr. Whitely," you cried, "cannot you force him to speak?"
"Miss Walton," he replied suavely, and his very coolness in the strange condition made me feel that he was master of the situation, "I am as perplexed as you are at this extraordinary conduct in one who even now is eating bread from my hand. I have long since ceased to expect gratitude for benefits, but such malevolence surprises and grieves me, since I have never done Dr. Hartzmann any wrong, but, on the contrary, I have always befriended him."
"I have been in the employ of Mr. Whitely," I answered, "but every dollar he has paid me has been earned by my labor. I owe him no debt of gratitude that he does not owe me."
"You owe him the justice that every man owes another," you asserted indignantly. "To make vague charges behind one's back, and then refuse to be explicit, is a coward's and a slanderer's way of waging war."
"Miss Walton," I cried, "I should not have spoken, though God knows that my motive was only a wish to do you a service, and I would give my life to do as you ask!"
For an instant my earnestness seemed to sway you; indeed, I am convinced that this was so, since Mr. Whitely apparently had the same feeling, and spoke as if to neutralize my influence, saying to you: "Miss Walton, I firmly believe that Dr. Hartzmann's plea of honorable conduct is nothing but the ambush of a coward. But as he has been for two years in the most intimate and confidential position of private secretary to me, he may, through some error, have deluded himself into a conviction that gives a basis for his indefinite charges. I will not take advantage of the implied secrecy, and I say to him in your presence that if he has discovered anything which indicates that I have been either impure or criminal, I give him permission to speak."
Even in that moment of entanglement I could not but admire and marvel at the skill with which he had phrased his speech, so as to seem absolutely open, to slur me by innuendo, and yet avoid the risk of exposure. It left me helpless, and I could only say, "I have not charged Mr. Whitely with either impurity or criminality."
You turned to him and said, "This conduct is perfectly inexplicable."
"Except on one ground," he replied.
"Which is?" you questioned.
"That Dr. Hartzmann loves you," he answered.
"That is impossible!" you exclaimed.
"Not as impossible as for a man not to love you, Miss Walton," he averred.
"Tell Mr. Whitely how mistaken he is," you said to me.
I could only stand silent, and after waiting a little Mr. Whitely remarked, "You see!"
"It is incredible!" you protested. "You must deny it, Dr. Hartzmann!"
"I cannot, Miss Walton," I murmured, with bowed head.
"You love me?" you cried incredulously.
"I love you," I assented, and in spite of the circumstances it was happiness to say it to you.
You stood gazing at me in amazement, large-eyed as a startled deer. I wonder what your first words would have been to me if Mr. Whitely had not turned your mind into another channel by saying, "I do not think that we need search further for Dr. Hartzmann's motives in making his innuendoes."
"Miss Walton," I urged, "my love for you, far from making your faith in me less or my motive that of a rival, should convince you that I spoke only for your sake, since you yourself know that my love has been neither hopeful nor self-seeking."
I think you pitied me, for you answered gently, and all traces of the scorn and indignation you had shown just before were gone from your face and manner.
"Dr. Hartzmann," you said, "I cannot allow myself to listen to or weigh such indefinite imputations against Mr. Whitely. I will give you one week to explain or substantiate what you have implied; and unless within that time you do so, I shall accept the offer of marriage which he has honored me by making. Do not let me detain you further. Good-evening."
I passed out of the room a broken-hearted man, without strength enough to hold up my head, and hardly able in my weakness to crawl back to my study. As I sit and write, every breath brings with it the feeling that a knife is being thrust into my breast, and I am faint with the pain. But for this racking cough and burning fever I might have made a better fight, and have been able to think of some way of saving you. But even in my suffering I have reached one conclusion. To-morrow I shall go to Mr. Whitely and tell him that you must know the truth concerning the book, and that if he will not tell you I shall. I shall never be able to hold up my head again; but that is nothing, if I can but save you. Oh, my dearest love, the sacrifice of life, of honor, the meeting ignominy or death for your sake, will be nothing to me but hap
[Transcriber's Note: The text ends in the middle of a word. The remainder of this page is missing in the original image and other available editions.]
XXV
January 10, 1895. This evening I have for the first time re-read this – I know not what to call it, for it is neither diary nor letter – the story of my love; and as I read, the singular sensation came over me that I was following, not my own thoughts and experiences, but those of another man. Five years ago, half mad with grief, and physically and nervously exhausted to the brink of a breakdown, I spent my evenings writing my thoughts, in the hope that the fatigue of the task would bring the sleep I sought in vain. Little I then wrote seems to me now, in my new life, what I could ever possibly have confided to paper, much less have felt. Yet here is my own handwriting to vouch for every word, and to tell me that the morbid chronicle is no other than my own. I cannot believe that mere years have brought so startling a mental change, and I therefore think that much of it is an expression, not of myself, but of the illness which put an end to my writing. If proof were needed of the many kinds of men each man contains, this manuscript of mine would furnish it; for the being I have read about this evening is no more the Donald Maitland of to-night than – Ah, well, to my task of telling what has wrought this change, since it must be written.
For a month I was confined to my bed with pneumonia, and the attack so weakened me that I did not leave my room for five weeks more. During that time Mrs. Blodgett's kindness was constant, and her face is the only memory that stands out from the hours of my acute torture. While I was convalescing, she came once, and sometimes twice, each day, bringing me flowers, fruit, jellies, wines, and whatever else her love could suggest. It was amusing to see her domineer over the doctor, trained nurse, and landlady, and I soon learned to whom to make my pleas for extra liberty or special privileges. No request, however whimsical, seemed too much for her affection, though my demands were unceasing, in the selfishness of my invalidism. Only one thing I dared not ask her, and that was not from fear that it would be refused, but from cowardice. I longed to have her speak of you, but during those weeks she never mentioned your name.
The day before Mrs. Blodgett left town she took me for my first airing in her carriage, and told me that she was leaving a man and horses in town for a month longer in order that I should have a daily drive. "Mr. Blodgett really needs a carriage more in the summer than he does in the winter, but he never will consent to let me leave one for him, so I've used you as an excuse," was the way she explained her kindness. "By the end of the month I hope you will be well enough to come up and make us a visit in the Berkshires, for the change will be the very best thing for you."
"I hope to be at work again by that time," I said.
"You are not to see pen or paper till the first of October!" she ordered; and when I only shook my head, she continued, "For three years you've been overworking yourself, and now the doctor says you must take a long rest, and I'm going to see that you have it."
"You mean to be good to me, Mrs. Blodgett," I sighed, "but if you knew my situation, you would understand that I must get to work again as soon as possible."
"I don't care about your situation," she sniffed contemptuously, "and I do care about your health. I shall insist that you come up to My Fancy, if I have to come back to the city to bring you; and when I once get you there, I shan't let you go away till I choose."
Loving my tyrant, I did not protest further, though firm in my own mind as to my duty. As it turned out, I need not have denied her, for the end of the month found me with but little added strength; and though I tried to work two or three times, I was forced to abandon the attempts without accomplishing anything. My wonder is that I gained strength at all, in my discouragement over the loss of Mr. Whitely's work, my three months' idleness, the heavy doctor's bills, and the steadily accruing interest on the debt.
On the 21st of June Mr. Blodgett came to see me, as indeed he had done daily since Mrs. Blodgett left town.
"The boss writes," he announced, "ordering me to come up to-day, and directing that before I leave New York I am to do forty-seven things, ranging in importance from buying her the last novels to matching some white" – he looked at his letter, and spelled out – "'f-l-o-s-s' as per sample inclosed. I haven't time to do more than forty-five, and I'm afraid I'll never hear the last of the remaining two unless you'll save me."
"How?"
"Well, three times in her letter she tells me that I've got to bring you, the last time as good as saying that my life won't be an insurable risk if I don't. Since she puts so much stress on your presence, it's just possible that if I fill that order she'll forget the rest."
"I would go, Mr. Blodgett, but" —
"Oh, I understand all that," he interrupted. "Of course, if you stay in the cool fresh air of the city, you won't run any risk of the malaria the Berkshires are full of; I know the New York markets have peas as large and firm as bullets, while those in our garden are poor little shriveled affairs hardly worth the trouble of eating; our roads are not Belgian blocks, but only soft dirt, and we haven't got a decent flagged sidewalk within ten miles of My Fancy. I understand perfectly that you'll get well faster here, and so get to work sooner; but all the same, just as a favor, you might pull me out of this scrape."
I need not say I had to yield, and together we took the afternoon express. On the train we found Mr. Whitely, – as great a surprise, apparently, to Mr. Blodgett as it was to me.
"Hello!" exclaimed the banker. "Where are you bound for?"
"I presume for the same destination you are," Mr. Whitely replied. "I am going up to see Miss Walton, and if Mrs. Blodgett cannot give me a night's hospitality, I shall go to the hotel."
"Plenty of room at My Fancy, and I'll guarantee your welcome," promised Mr. Blodgett pleasantly. "Here's the doctor going up for a bit of nursing."
Much to my surprise, my former employer entered the compartment, and, offering me his hand, sat down by the lounge I was stretched upon. "You've had a serious illness," he remarked, with a bland attempt at sympathy.
I only nodded my head.
"I hope you will recover quickly, for you are needed in the office," he went on.
I could not have been more surprised if he had struck me, though I did not let it appear in my face.
"Whitely's been trying to go it alone on his editorials, and the papers have all been laughing at him," chuckled Mr. Blodgett. "Just read us your famous one, Whitely, – that one about The Tendency of Modern Art, with the original Hebrew from Solomon you put in."
I saw my employer redden, and in pity for his embarrassment I said, "I do not think I shall ever come back to the office, Mr. Whitely."
"Why not?" he exclaimed. "You committed an unwise action, but business is business, and I see no cause why we need let a single mistake terminate a relation mutually profitable."
"I have learned the lesson that one cannot sell one's honesty without wronging other people, and I shall never do it again."
"This is purely sentimental" – he began.
Mr. Blodgett, however, interrupted by saying, "Now don't go to exciting the doctor, for he's to sleep on the trip. Besides, I've got something in mind better than the job he's had under you, Whitely. Come and have a smoke, and leave him to nap a bit."
They left me, and I set to puzzling over many questions: how you would greet me at My Fancy; how you would welcome Mr. Whitely; what was the meaning of his friendliness towards me; and what new kindness Mr. Blodgett had in store for me. Finally I fell asleep, to be awakened only when we reached our destination.
Agnes met us at the station, and at the house Mrs. Blodgett gave me the warmest of welcomes, but not till I came downstairs before dinner did you and I meet. Your greeting was formal, yet courteous and gracious as of old, almost making me question if our last two interviews could be realities.
Before the dinner was finished Mrs. Blodgett ordered me to the divan on the veranda, and sent dessert and fruit out to me. You all joined me when the moment came for coffee and cigars; but the evening was cloudy and rather breezy, and presently Mrs. Blodgett said it was too cold for her, and suggested a game of whist indoors. "You must stay out here," she told me, "but if you feel cool be sure to use the shawl."
You turned and said to Mr. Whitely, "You will play, I hope?" and he assented so eagerly that it was all I could do to keep from laughing outright when you continued, "Agnes and Mr. Whitely will make your table, Mrs. Blodgett, so I will stay here and watch the clouds." The whole thing was so palpably with an object that I felt at once that you wished to see me alone, to learn if I had anything more to say concerning Mr. Whitely; and as I realized this, I braced myself for the coming ordeal.
For a few moments you stood watching the gathering storm, and then took a chair by the divan on which I lay.
"Are you too honorable," you began, – and though I could not see your face in the darkness, your voice told me you were excited, – "to pardon dishonorable conduct in others? For I have come to beg of you forgiveness for a wrong."
"Of me, Miss Walton?"
"Last April," you went on, "Mrs. Blodgett brought me a book and asked me to read it. A few paragraphs revealed to me that it was something written by an old friend of mine. After reading a little further, I realized for the first time that I was violating a confidence. Yet though I knew this, and struggled to close the book, I could not, but read it to the end. Can you forgive me?"
"Oh, Miss Walton!" I protested. "Why ask forgiveness of me? What is your act compared to the wrong" —
"Hush, Don," you said gently, and your use of my name, so long unheard, told me in a word that the feeling of our childhood days was come again. "Tell me you forgive me!" you entreated.
"I am not the one to forgive, Maizie."
"I did wrong, and I ask your pardon," you begged humbly. "Yet I'm not sorry in the least, and I should do it again," you instantly added, laughing merrily at your own perverseness. Then in a moment you were serious again, saying, "I never received the letters or the photograph, Donald. My uncle confesses that he put them in the fire." And before I could speak, a new thought seized you, for you continued sadly, "I shall never forgive myself for my harshness and cruelty when you were so ill."
"That is nothing," I replied, "since all our misunderstandings are gone. Why, even my debt, Maizie, ceases now to be a burden; in the future it will be only a joy to work."
"Donald!" you exclaimed. "You don't suppose I shall let you pay me another cent!"
"I must."
"But I am rich," you protested. "The money is nothing to me. You shall not ruin your career to pay it. I scorn myself when I think that I refused to see you that night, and so lost my only chance of saving you from what followed. My cowardice, my wicked cowardice! It drove you to death's door by overwork, to give me wealth I do not know how to spend. You parted with your library that I might let money lie idle in bank. I forced you to sell your book – your fame – to that thief. Oh, Donald, think of the wrong it has done already, and don't make it do greater!"
"Maizie, you do not understand" —
"I understand it all," you interrupted. "You must not – you shall not – I won't take it – I" —
"For his sake!"
"But I love him, too!" you pleaded. "Don't you see, Donald, that it was never the money, – that was nothing; but they told me his love – and yours, for they said you had known all the time – was only pretense, a method by which you might continue to rob me. And I came to believe it, – though I should have known better, – because, since you never wrote, it seemed to me you had both dropped me out of your thoughts as soon as you could no longer plunder me. Even then, scorning you, – like you in your feeling over my neglect of your letters, – I could not help loving you, for those Paris and Tyrol days were the happiest I have ever known; and though I knew, Don, that I ought to forget you, as I believed you had forgotten me, I could not do so. I have never dared to speak in public of either of you, for fear I should break down. Try as I might, I could not help loving you both as I have never loved any one else. That I turned you away from my house was because I did not dare to meet you, – I knew I could not control myself. After the man took the message, I sobbed over having to insult you by sending it by a servant. But for my want of courage – had I seen you as I ought – If I had only understood, as your journal has made me, – had only known that my name was on his lips when he died! No money could pay for what he gave to me. Could he ask me now for twice the sum, it would be my pleasure to give it to him, for I love him dearly, and" —
"If you love him, Maizie, you will let me clear his name as far as lies within my power."
For an instant you were silent, and then said softly, "You are right, Donald, we will clear his name."
I took your hand and touched it to my lips. "To hear you speak of him" – I could go no further, in my emotion.
There was a pause before you asked, "Donald, do you remember our talk here last autumn?"
"Every word."
You laughed gayly. "I want you to know, sir," you asserted, with a pretense of defiance, "that I don't believe in love, because I have never found any that was wholly free from self-indulgence or self-interest. And I still think" —
Just then Mrs. Blodgett joined us, and inquired, "Have you told Rudolph, Maizie?"
"Yes."
"I went to see how you were the moment I heard of your illness," she said, with a certain challenge in her voice, "and I found that book lying on your desk just where you stopped writing from weakness. I read it, and I took it to Maizie."
"It was kismet, I suppose," was all I could say, too happy to think of criticism, and instantly her manner changed and she wiped her eyes.
"I had to do it," she sobbed.
"You have been too good to me," I answered, rising and taking her hand.
"There, there," she continued, steadying herself. "I didn't come out to behave like this, but to tell you to go to bed at once. I'm going to your room to see that everything is right for our invalid, but don't you delay a minute after I'm gone," and she disappeared through the doorway.
I turned to you and held out my hand, bidding you, "Good-night, Maizie," and you took it, and replied, "Goodnight, Don." Then suddenly you leaned forward, and, kissing my forehead, added, "God keep you safe for me, my darling."
I took you in my arms, and gave you back your kiss twofold, while saying, "Good-night, my love."