"I'm thankful we are in the shadow," you laughed, "so that my red cheeks don't show. You are taking a most thoroughgoing revenge."
"That was the last thought in my mind."
"Then, my woman's curiosity having been appeased, be doubly generous and spare my absurd blushes. I don't know when I have been made to feel so young and foolish."
"Clearly you are no hardened criminal, Miss Walton. Usually matchmakers glory in their shame."
"Perhaps I should if I had not been detected, or if I had succeeded better."
"You took, I fear, a difficult subject for what may truly be called your maiden experiment."
"Did I not? And yet – You see I recognized potentialities for loving in you. You can – Ah, you have suggested to me a revenge for your jokes. Did you – were you the man who coined the phrase that my eyes were too dressy for the daytime?"
"Yes," I confessed guiltily, "but" —
"No, don't dare to try to explain it away," you ordered. "How could you say it? We can never be friends, after all."
Though you spoke in evident gayety, I answered gravely: "You will forgive me when I tell you that it was to parry a thrust of Mrs. Polhemus's at you, and I made a joke of it only because I did not choose to treat her gibe seriously. I hoped it would not come back to you."
"Every friend I have has quoted it, not once, but a dozen times, in my presence. If you knew how I have been persecuted and teased with that remark! You are twice the criminal that I have been, for at least my libel was never published. Yet you are unblushing."
We both sat silent for a little while, and then you began: "You interrupted a question of mine just now. Was it a chance or a purposed diversion? You see," you added hastily, "I am presuming that henceforth we are to be candid."
"I confess to an intention in the dodging, not because I feared the question, for a simple negative was all it needed, but I was afraid of what might follow."
"I hoped, after the trust of the other day – You do not want to tell me your story?"
"Are there not some things that cannot be put into words, Miss Walton? Could you tell me your story?"
"But mine is no mystery," you replied. "It has been the world's property for years. Why, your very help to-night proves that it is known to you, – that you know, indeed, facts that were unknown to me."
"Facts, yes; feelings, no."
"Do you appreciate the subtilty of the compliment? You really care for such valueless and indefinable things as feelings?"
"Yes."
"A bargain, then, while you are in this mood of giving something for nothing. Question for question, if you choose."
"You can tell your secrets?"
"To you, yes, for you have told me your greatest."
"Then, with the privilege of silence for both, begin."
"Ah, you begin already to fear the gimlet! Yes. Nothing is to be told that – There again we lack a definition, do we not? Never mind. We shall understand. You knew her in Germany?"
"Yes."
"And she – You wear a mask, at moments even merry-faced, but now and again I have surprised a look of such sadness in your eyes that – Is that why you came to America? She" —
"No. She was, and is, in so different a class, that I never" —
"You should not allow that to be a bar! Any woman" —
"But even more, there are other claims upon me, which make marriage out of the question."
"And this is why you have resigned reputation for money-making? Is there no escape? Oh, it seems too cruel to be!"
"You draw it worse than it is, Miss Walton, forgetting that I told you of my happiness in loving."
"You make me proud to feel that we are friends, Dr. Hartzmann," you said gently. "I hope she is worthy of such a love?"
I merely nodded; and after a slight pause you remarked, "Now it is only fair to give you a turn."
I had been pondering, after my first impulsive assent, over my right to win your confidence, with the one inevitable conclusion that was so clear, and I answered, "I have no questions to ask, Miss Walton."
"Then I can ask no more, of course," you replied quietly, and at once turned the conversation into less personal subjects, until the time came for our return to My Fancy.
When we parted in the upper hall, that evening, you said to me, "I always value your opinion, and it usually influences me. Do you, as your speech to-night implied, think it right to go on loving baseness?"
"It is not a question of right and wrong, but only whether the love remains."
"Then you don't think it a duty to crush it out?"
"No. All love is noble that is distinct from self."
You held out your hand. "I am so glad you think so, and that you spoke your thought. You have done me a great kindness, – greater far than you can ever know. Thank you, and good-night."
Good-night, Maizie.
XX
March 11. When I left My Fancy, after my visit, Agnes had nothing but praise for me. "I was certain that you and Maizie would be friends if you ever really knew each other," she said triumphantly. Unfortunately, our first meeting in the city served only to prove the reverse. In one of my daily walks up-town, I met you and Agnes outside a shop where you had been buying Christmas gifts for the boys of your Neighborhood Guild. You were looking for the carriage, about which there had been some mistake, and I helped you search. When our hunt was unsuccessful, you both said you would rather walk than let me get a cab, having been deterred only by the growing darkness, and not by the snow. So chatting merrily, away we went, through the elfin flakes which seemed so eager to kiss your cheeks, till your home was reached.
"If we come in, will you give us some tea?" asked Agnes.
"Tea, cake, chocolates, and conversation," you promised.
"I am sorry," I said, "but I cannot spare the time."
I thought you and Agnes exchanged glances. "Please, Doc – " she began; but you interrupted her by saying proudly, "We must not take any more of Dr. Hartzmann's time, Agnes. Will you come in?"
"No," replied Agnes. "I'll go home before it's any darker. Good-night."
I started to walk with her the short distance, but the moment we were out of hearing she turned towards me and cried, "I hate you!" As I made no reply, she demanded impatiently, "What makes you behave so abominably?" When I was still silent she continued: "I told you how Maizie felt, and I thought it was all right, and now you do it again. It's too bad! Well, can't you say something? Why do you do it?"
"There is nothing for me to say, Miss Blodgett," I responded sadly.
"You might at least do it to please me," she persisted, "even if you don't like Maizie."
I made no answer, and we walked the rest of the distance in silence. At the stoop, however, Agnes asked, "Will you go with me to call on Maizie, some afternoon?"
I shook my head.
"Not even to please mamma and me?" she questioned.
Again I gave the same answer, and without a word of parting she left me and passed through the doorway. From that time she has treated me coldly.
Another complication only tended to increase the coldness, as well as to involve me with Mrs. Blodgett. In December, Mr. Blodgett came into Mr. Whitely's office and announced, "I've been taking a liberty with your name, doctor."
"For what kindness am I indebted now?" I inquired.
"I'm a member of the Philomathean," he said, – "not because I'm an author, or artist, or engineer, or scientist, but because I'm a big frog in my own puddle, and they want samples of us, provided we are good fellows, just to see what we're like. I was talking with Professor Eaton in September, and we agreed you ought to be one of us; so we stuck your name up, and Saturday evening the club elected you."
"I can't afford it" – I began; but he interrupted with: —
"I knew you'd say that, and so didn't tell you beforehand. I'll bet you your initiation fee and a year's dues against a share of R. T. common that you'll make enough out of your membership to pay you five times over."
"How can I do that?"
"All the editors and publishers are members," he replied, "and to meet them over the rum punch we serve on meeting nights is worth money to the most celebrated author living. Then you'll have the best club library in this country at your elbow for working purposes."
"I don't think I ought, Mr. Blodgett."
He was about to protest, when Mr. Whitely broke in upon us, saying, "Accept your membership, Dr. Hartzmann, and the paper shall pay your initiation and dues."
I do not know whether Mr. Blodgett or myself was the more surprised at this unexpected and liberal offer. Our amazement was so obvious that Mr. Whitely continued: "I think it'll be an excellent idea for the paper to have a member of its staff in the Philomathean, and so the office shall pay for it."
"Whitely," observed Mr. Blodgett admiringly, "you're a good business man, whatever else you are!"
"I wish, Blodgett," inquired Mr. Whitely, "you would tell me why I have been kept waiting so long?"
"Many a name's been up longer than yours," replied Mr. Blodgett in a comforting voice. "You don't seem to realize that the Philomathean's a pretty stiff club to get into."
"But I've been posted for over three years, while here Dr. Hartzmann is elected within four months of his proposing."
"Well, the doctor has the great advantage of being a sort of natural Philomath, you see," Mr. Blodgett explained genially. "He was born that way, and so is ripe for membership without any closet mellowing."
"But my reputation as a writer is greater than Dr." – began Mr. Whitely; but a laugh from Mr. Blodgett made him halt.
"Oh come, now, Whitely!"
"What's the matter?" asked my employer.
"Once St. Peter and St. Paul stopped at a tavern to quench their thirst," said Mr. Blodgett, "and when the time came to pay, they tossed dice for it. Paul threw double sixes, and smiled. Peter smiled back, and threw double sevens. What do you suppose Paul said, Whitely?"
"What?"
"'Oh, Peter, Peter! No miracles between friends.'"
"I don't follow you," rejoined Mr. Whitely.
Mr. Blodgett turned and said to me, "I'm going West for two months, and while I'm gone the Twelfth-night revel at the Philomathean is to come off. Will you see that the boss and Agnes get cards?" Then he faced about and remarked, "Whitely, I'd give a big gold certificate to know what nerve food you use!" and went out, laughing.
When I took the invitations to Mrs. Blodgett, I found you all with your heads full of a benefit for the Guild, to be given at your home, – a musical evening, with several well-known stars as magnets, and admission by invitation as an additional attraction. Mrs. Blodgett said to me in her decisive way, "Dr. Hartzmann, the invitations are five dollars each, and you are to take one."
I half suspected that it was only a device to get me within your doors, though every society woman feels at liberty to whitemail her social circle to an unlimited degree. But the fact that the entertainment was to be in your home, even more than my poverty, compelled me to refuse to be a victim of her charitable kindness or her charitable greed. I merely shook my head.
"Oh, but you must," she urged. "It will be a delightful evening, and then it's such a fine object."
"Do not ask it of Dr. Hartzmann," you protested, coming to my aid. "No one" —
"I'm sure it's very little to ask," remarked Mrs. Blodgett, in a disappointed way.
"Mrs. Blodgett," I said, in desperation, "for years I have denied myself every luxury and almost every comfort. I have lived at the cheapest of boarding-houses; I have walked down-town, rain or shine, to save ten cents a day; I have" – I stopped there, ashamed of my outbreak.
"I suppose, Dr. Hartzmann," retorted Agnes, with no attempt to conceal the irritation she felt toward me, "that the Philomathean is one of your ten-cent economies?"
Before I could speak you changed the subject, and the matter was dropped, – I hoped for all time. It was, however, to reappear, and to make my position more difficult and painful than ever.
At Mrs. Blodgett's request, made that very day, I sent you an invitation to the Philomathean ladies' day. It was with no hope of being there myself, since my editorial duties covered the hours of the exhibition; but good or bad fortune aided me, for Mr. Whitely asked me for a ticket, and his absence from the office set me free. The crowd was great, but, like most people who try for one thing only, I attained my desire by quickly finding you, and we spent an enjoyable hour together, studying the delicious jokes and pranks of our artist members. The truly marvelous admixture of absurdity and cleverness called out the real mirth of your nature, and our happiness and gayety over the pictures strangely recalled to me our similar days spent in Paris and elsewhere. You too, I think, remembered the same experience, for when we had finished, and were ascending the stairs to the dining-room, you remarked to me, "I never dreamed that one could be so merry after one had ceased to be a child. For the last hour I have felt as if teens were yet unventured lands."
I confess I sought a secluded spot in an alcove, hoping still to keep you to myself; but the project failed, for when I returned from getting you an ice, I found that Mr. Whitely had joined you. The pictures, of course, were the subject of discussion, and you asked him, "Are all the other members as clever in their own professions as your artists have shown themselves to be?"
"The Philomathean is made up of an able body of men," replied Mr. Whitely in a delightfully patronizing tone. "Some few of the very ablest, perhaps, do not care to be members; but of the second rank, you may say, broadly speaking, that it includes all men of prominence in this city."
"But why should the abler men not belong?"
"They are too occupied with more vital matters," explained my employer.
"Yet surely they must need a club, and what one so appropriate as this?"
"It is natural to reason so," assented the would-be member. "But as an actual fact, some of the most prominent men in this city are not members," and he mentioned three well-known names.
The inference was so unjust that I observed, "Should you not add, Mr. Whitely, that they are not members either because they know it is useless to apply, or because they have applied in vain; and that their exclusion, though superficially a small affair, probably means to them, by the implication it carries, one of the keenest mortifications of their lives?"
"You mean that the Philomathean refuses to admit such men as Mr. Whitely named?" you asked incredulously.
I smiled. "The worldly reputation and the professional reputation of men occasionally differ very greatly, Miss Walton. We do not accept a man here because his name appears often in the newspapers, but because of what the men of his own calling know and think of him."
"And of course they are always jealous of a man who has surpassed them," contended Mr. Whitely.
"There must be something more against a man than envy of his confrères to exclude him," I answered. "My loyalty to the Philomathean, Miss Walton, is due to the influence it exerts in this very matter. Errors are possible, but the intention is that no man shall be of our brotherhood who is not honestly doing something worth the doing, for other reasons than mere money-making. And for that very reason, we are supposed, within these walls, to be friends, whether or not there is acquaintance outside of them. We are the one club in New York which dares to trust its membership list implicitly to that extent. Charlatanry and dishonesty may succeed with the world, but here they fail. Money will buy much, but the poorest man stands on a par here with the wealthiest."
"You make me envious of you both," you sighed, just as Mrs. Blodgett and Agnes joined us.
"What are you envying them?" asked Agnes, as she shook hands with you, – "that they were monopolizing you? How selfish men are!"
"In monopolizing this club?"
"Was that what you envied them?" ejaculated Mrs. Blodgett. "I for one am glad there's a place to which I can't go, where I can send my husband when I want to be rid of him." Then she turned to Mr. Whitely, and with her usual directness remarked, "So they've let you in? Mr. Blodgett told me you would surely be rejected."
Mr. Whitely reddened and bit his lip, for which he is hardly to be blamed. But he only bowed slightly in reply, leaving the inference in your minds that he was a Philomath. How the man dares so often to —
The striking clock tells me it is later than I thought, and I must stop.
Good-night, dear heart.
XXI
March 12. Our talk at the Philomathean and Mr. Whitely's tacit assumption of membership had their penalty for me, – a penalty which, to reverse the old adage, I first thought an undisguised blessing. When we separated, he asked me to dinner the following evening, to fill in a place unexpectedly left vacant; and as I knew, from a chance allusion, that you were to be there, I accepted a courtesy at his hands.
Although there were several celebrities at the meal, it fell to my lot to sit on your right; my host, who took you down, evidently preferring to have no dangerous rival in your attention. But Mrs. Blodgett, who sat on his other side, engaged him as much as she chose, and thus gave me more of your time than I should otherwise have had. If you knew how happy it made me that, whenever she interrupted his monopoly of you, instead of making a trialogue with them, you never failed to turn to me!
"I have just re-read Mr. Whitely's book," you remarked, in one of these interruptions, "and I have been trying to express to him my genuine admiration for it. I thought of it highly when first I read it, last autumn, but on a second reading I have become really an enthusiast."
I suppose my face must have shown some of the joy your words gave me, for you continued, "Clearly, you like it too, and are pleased to hear it praised. But then it's notorious that writers are jealous of one another! Tell me what you think of it?"
I tried to keep all bitterness out of my voice as I laughed. "Think how unprofessional it would be in me to discuss my employer's book: if I praised it, how necessary; if I disparaged it, how disloyal!"
"You are as unsatisfactory as Mr. Whitely," you complained. "I can't get him to speak about it, either. He smiles and bows his head to my praise, but not a word can he be made to say. Evidently he has a form of modesty – not stage fright, but book fright – that I never before encountered. Every other author I have met was fatiguingly anxious to talk about his own writings."
"Remember in our behalf that a book stands very much in the same relation to a writer that a baby does to its mother. We are tolerant of her admiration; be equally lenient to the author's harmless prattle."
"I suppose, too," you went on, "that the historian is less liable to the disease, because his work is so much less his own flesh and blood; so much less emotional than that of the poet or novelist."
"No book worth reading ever fails to be steeped with the spirit of the person who wrote it. The man on the stage is instinct with emotion and feeling, but does he express more of his true individuality than the man in real life? The historian puts fewer of his own feelings into his work, but he plays far less to the gallery, and so is more truthful in what he reveals of himself."
"Your simile reminds me of a thought of my own, after my first reading of this book: that the novelist is the demagogue of letters, striving to please, and suing for public favor by catering to all its whims and weaknesses; but the historian is the aristocrat of literature, knowing the right, and proudly above taking heed of popular prejudice or moods. I liked Mr. Whitely's book for many things, but most of all for its fearless attitude towards whatever it touched upon. I felt that it was the truth, because the whole atmosphere told me that a man was writing, too brave to tell what was untrue. That evidently pleases you, again," you laughed. "Oh, it is horrible to see this consuming jealousy!"
When the ladies withdrew, the men, as usual, clustered at one end of the table; but my host beckoned me to join him, and sat down apart from his guests.
"Dr. Hartzmann, what is the matter at the Philomathean?" he demanded, in a low voice.
"Matter?" I questioned.
"Yes. What is the reason they don't elect me?"
"I am not on the membership committee, Mr. Whitely," I replied.
"Are you popular up there? Mr. Blodgett said that you were."
"I have some good friends," I answered.
"Then electioneer and get me put in," he explained, revealing to me in a flash why he had volunteered that the paper should pay the expenses of my membership.
"I am hardly in a position to do that."
"Why not?"
"I am a new member, and my position under you is so well known that it would be very indelicate in me to appear in the matter."
"For what do you suppose I helped you, then?" he asked severely.
"I did not understand till now."
"Well, then, drop your talk about delicacy, and get your friends to elect me."
"I do not think I can do that," I answered mildly.
"Then you won't earn your pay?"
"Mr. Whitely, when you made the offer, you put it on an entirely different ground, and it is unfair to claim that it involved any condition that was not then expressed."
"But you ought to be willing to do it. Haven't you any gratitude about you?"
"I understood that you wanted one of your staff a member of that club. Had you mentioned your present motive, I should certainly have refused to accept the offer; and under these circumstances I decline to recognize any cause for gratitude."
"What is your objection to doing it, though?" he persisted.
"Indeed, Mr. Whitely, I do not think I am called upon to say more than I have said."
"Do you want me in the club or not?" he demanded.
"I shall certainly never oppose your election in any way whatsoever."
"But you will not work for me?"
"No."
"Are you waiting to see how much I'll give?"
My hand trembled at the insult, but I made no reply.
"Come," he continued, "are you standing out in hopes I will offer you something?"
"No."
"How much?" he asked.
"I have been elected to the Philomathean, Mr. Whitely," I said, concluding that an explanation might be the easiest escape, after all, "and to it I owe a distinct duty. If you were not my employer, I should feel called upon to work against you."
"Why?" he exclaimed, in surprise.
"Is it necessary to say?" I answered.
"Yes. What is your objection to me?"
"Did you never read Æsop's fable of the jackdaw?" I asked.
"That's it, is it? And you are opposing my election?"
"By not the slightest act."
"Then why did Blodgett predict that I would surely be rejected? I've a reputation as a writer, as a philanthropist, and as a successful business man. What more do they want?"
"As I told Miss Walton yesterday," I explained, "a man's true and eventual reputation depends, not on what the world thinks of him, but on what his fellow-craft decide."
"Well?"
"There is scarcely an author or editor at the Philomathean who is not opposed to your election, Mr. Whitely."
"You have been telling tales," he muttered angrily.
"You should know better."
"Then what have they against me?"
"Any man who works with his pen learns that no one can write either editorials or books, of the kind credited to you, without years of training. The most embarrassing ordeal I have to undergo is the joking and questioning with which the fraternity tease me. But you need never fear my not keeping faith."
"Yet you won't help me into the Philomathean?"
"No."
"So you'll make money out of me, but think your club too good?"
"I owe my club a duty."
"I know," he went on smoothly, "that you're an awful screw, when there's a dollar in sight. How much do you want?"
My silence should have warned him, but he was too self-absorbed to feel anything but his own mood.
"How much do you want?" he repeated, and I still sat without speaking, though the room blurred, and I felt as if I were stifling. "The day I'm elected to the Philomathean, I'll give you" —
I rose and interrupted him, saying, "Mr. Whitely, if you wish me to leave your house and employment, you can obtain my absence in an easier way than by insulting me."
For a moment we faced each other in silence, and then he rose. "Hereafter, Dr. Hartzmann, you will pay those dues yourself," he said in a low voice, as he moved towards the door.
I only bowed, glad that the matter was so easily ended; and for nearly two months our relations have been of the most formal kind that can exist between employer and employed.
Far more bitter was another break. When the moment of farewell came, that evening, I waited to put you and Mrs. Blodgett into your carriages, and while we were delayed in the vestibule you thanked me again for the pleasure of the previous afternoon, and then continued: "I understand why you did not feel able to please Mrs. Blodgett about the concert. But won't you let me acknowledge the pleasure of yesterday by sending you a ticket? I have taken a number, and as all my circle have done the same, I am finding it rather difficult to get rid of them."
"That's all right, Maizie," interjected Mrs. Blodgett, who had caught, or inferred from an occasional word that she heard, what you were saying. "We took an extra ticket, and I am going to use the doctor for an escort that evening."
"I thank you both," I answered, "but I shall not be able to attend the concert."
"Nonsense!" sniffed Mrs. Blodgett, as I helped her into her carriage. "You're going to do as I tell you."
You did not speak in the moment we waited for your coupé to take its place, but as the tiger opened the door you looked in my face for the first time since my words, showing me eyes that told of the pain I had inflicted.
"I am sorry," you said quietly. "I had thought – hoped – that we were to be friends."
There was nothing for me to say, and we parted thus. From that time I have seen little of you, for when I meet you now you no longer make it possible for me to have much of your society. And my persistent refusal to go to the concert with Mrs. Blodgett and Agnes increased their irritation against me, so that I am no longer asked to their home, and thus have lost my most frequent opportunity of meeting you. But harder even than this deprivation is the thought that I have given you pain; made all the greater, perhaps, because so ill deserved and apparently unreasonable. I find myself longing for the hour when we shall meet at that far-away tribunal, where all our lives, and not alone that which is seen, will stand revealed. For two months I have not had a single moment of happiness or even hope. I am lonely and weary, while my strength and courage seem to lessen day by day. Oh, my darling, I pray God that thought of you will make me stronger and braver, that I may go on with my fight. Good-night.