Part 10

_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.

XXII

_March 13._ Last night, at the Philomathean, Mr. Blodgett joined me, and asked me why I had not dined with them lately. He returned only a few days ago, and was thus ignorant that I have not been inside his door for weeks. I hesitated for an instant, and then replied, “I have been working very hard.”

“What are you usually doing?” he asked, smiling. “Come in to Sunday dinner to-morrow.”

“I shall be too busy with a lot of manuscripts I have on hand, that must be read,” I told him.

“Stop killing yourself,” he ordered. “As it is, you look as if you were on the brink of a bad illness. You won’t get on a bit faster by dying young.”

There the matter rested, and I did not go to dinner to-day, being indeed glad to stay indoors; for I very foolishly walked up town yesterday through the slush, and caught a bad cold. While I was trying to keep warm, this evening, a note was brought me from Mr. Blodgett, asking me to come to him at once; and fearing something important, I braved the cold without delay, ill though I felt. I was shown at once into his den, which was so cheerful with its open fire that I felt it was a good exchange for my cold room, where I had sat coughing and shivering all the afternoon.

“Twice in my life I’ve really lost my temper with the boss,” he began, before I had even sat down, though he closed the door while speaking. “Never mind about the first time, but to-day I got mad enough to last me for the rest of my life.”

“May I sit down?” I interrupted.

He nodded his head, and took a position in front of me, with his back to the fire, as he continued: “Women are enough to make a man frantic when they get a fixed idea! Now, to-day, at dinner, I said I’d invited you, and I saw in a moment something was in the wind; so when we had finished I told them to come in here, and it didn’t take me long to find out the trouble.”

“I didn’t like to”—I began; but he went on:—

“And that was the beginning of their trouble. I tell you, there was Cain here for about ten minutes, and there weren’t two worse scared women this side of the grave, while I was ranting; for the boss remembered the other time, and Agnes had never seen me break loose. I told them they’d done their best to drive you crazy with grief; that if they’d searched for ten years they couldn’t have found a meaner or crueler thing, or one that would have hurt you more; that nine men out of ten, in your shoes, would have acted dishonestly or cut their throat, but that you had toed the chalk-line right along, and never once winced. And I let them know that for five dollars they’d added the last straw of pain to a fellow who deserved only kindness and help from them.”

“Really, Mr. Blodgett”—I protested.

“Hold on. Don’t attempt to stop me, for the fit’s on me still,” he growled. “They tried to come the surprised, and then the offended, but they didn’t fool me. I never let up on them till I had said all I wanted to say, and they won’t forget it for a day or two. When I sent Agnes upstairs, she was sobbing her eyes out, and the boss would have given her pin money for ten years to have escaped with her.”

“It’s too bad to”—

“That’s just what it was!” he cried. “To think of those screws trying to blackmail you, and then telling me you were a skinflint because you wouldn’t do what they wanted! Well, after Agnes had gone, I gave the boss a supplementary and special dose of her own. I told her she could double discount you on meanness, and then give you forty-nine points; and to make sure of good measurement, I added in the whole female sex along with her. I told her that if she knew the facts of your life, she’d get down on her knees and crawl round to your place to ask your pardon, and then she wouldn’t be fit to have it. I told her that when the day of judgment came, she’d just go the other way in preference to hearing what the recording angel had written of her.”

“I am afraid that your intended kindness will make my welcome scantier than ever.”

“Not a bit of it. I’m the master of this house, as they found out this afternoon, and I say who’ll come into it, and who’ll not. I shan’t need to interfere in your case, for you’ll get a warm welcome from both.”

“You didn’t tell them?” I exclaimed, starting forward in my seat.

“Not a word, though the boss nearly went crazy with curiosity. But I did say that you were making a splendid up-hill fight, and if they knew the facts of the case they’d be proud to black your boots. My word goes in this family about as well as it does on the Street, and you’ll get all the welcome you can stand from now on.”

“You make me very proud and happy.”

“You have reason to be proud,” he asserted. “I’m not a man who slobbers much, but I’m going to tell you what I think of you. When you first came here, I sized you up as rather a softy, your manner was so quiet and gentle. I got over that delusion precious quick, and I want to say that for pluck and grit you’re a trump, and there’s my hand on it.”

He went to the table, poured out a couple of glasses of whiskey and seltzer, and brought them to the fire. “You need something for that graveyard cough of yours,” he said, handing one to me. “Well,” he went on, “I didn’t bring you out such a night as this to tell you of my scrap; but after the row, the boss was so ashamed of herself that she trumped up an A 1 excuse (as she thought) for having treated you as she had, and that led to a talk, and that’s why I sent round for you. What do you suppose she has got into her head?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“I needn’t tell you,” he remarked, “that women always know an awful lot that isn’t so. But just because they do, they every now and then discover a truth that can’t be come at in any other way. Now the boss thinks she’s done this, and I’m not sure that she hasn’t. She says you are in love.”

“I never knew a man who wasn’t,” I replied, trying to smile. “If it isn’t with a woman, then it’s always with himself.”

“But the boss thinks she knows the girl, and has a down on you because you—because you don’t try for her.”

I laughed bitterly, and said, “You needed no explanation for that.”

“That’s what made the boss’s idea reasonable to me,” he explained. “She couldn’t conceive why you should keep silent, and so was ready to pitch into you on the slightest pretense. Women haven’t much use for a man who falls in love and doesn’t say so. But of course I knew that your debt put marriage out of the question.”

I merely nodded my head, for even to him I could not speak of my love for you, it was so sacred to me.

He drew up a chair to the fire, and continued: “There isn’t another man to whom I’d care to say what I’m going to say to you, but you’ve got a heart and a head both, and won’t misunderstand me.” He finished his glass, and set it on the mantel. “Now I don’t have to tell you that the boss is fond of you, and when I told her that I knew of a reason why you couldn’t marry, she forgave you on the spot. What’s more, she first wished to learn what it was; and failing in that, she then wanted to know if it could be remedied, so that you might have a chance to win the girl.”

“She of course knows nothing of my position?”

“No,” he said, “but she knows something of your character, and she’s ordered me that, if it’s possible, I’m to help you get the girl you care for.”

“But my debt!” I exclaimed.

“How much is it now?” he queried.

“One hundred and eighteen thousand.”

“Well, I’ll lend Agnes’s husband one hundred and eighteen thousand dollars at three per cent, and leave her the note when I die. From what I know of marriage, I venture to assert that if she squeezes him for payment it will be his own fault.”

I sat speechless for a moment, too bewildered by the unexpected turn to even think.

“I was as surprised as you look,” he went on, “for although I had seen that you and Agnes”—

“Indeed, Mr. Blodgett,” I exclaimed hastily, “I am no more to Miss Agnes than a dozen of her friends! I”—

“So the boss says,” he interrupted. “But that doesn’t mean that you can’t be. Though to speak the truth, my boy,” he continued, resting his hand on my knee, “this wasn’t my plan. I had hoped that you and Maizie would take a shine to each other, and so kiss the chalk-marks off that old score. But when I spoke of the scheme to the boss, this evening, she told me there had never been a chance of it; that you didn’t like Mai, and that she is practically engaged to Whitely, and is only—Better have some more whiskey, or that cough will shake you to pieces.”

I could only shake my head in my misery, but after a moment I was able to say, “Mr. Blodgett, I did not understand—I”—

“I want to tell you,” he broke in, “before you say anything more, that I never believe in putting one’s fingers into love affairs, and I shouldn’t in this case if the boss didn’t feel so keen about it, but I don’t choose to be the one to stand in her way. And now I’m not offering my daughter’s hand. You know as well as I that Agnes isn’t the kind of girl who needs a prospectus or a gold clause to work her off. If she dropped her handkerchief to-morrow, fifty men would be scrambling for it, eh?”

“Yes.” Then I added, “And, Mr. Blodgett, I can’t find the words to tell how I thank you both for such a compliment. If”—

“I knew you wouldn’t misunderstand me,” he went on. “It’s a good deal of a start in life to be born a gentleman.”

“But, Mr. Blodgett,” I said, “there has been a mistake. I—it is hard to say, but”—then I faltered.

He looked at me keenly for a moment. “So the boss was wrong? It’s only friendship, not love?”

“Just what she has given to me,” I answered.

“Very well. Then if you want to please the boss—and me—let that friendship grow into something better. But don’t misunderstand me. You must win Agnes, if she is won. We do nothing.”

“Mr. Blodgett, should you be willing to let me try to win Miss Agnes, if I tell you that I do not love her as a man should love the woman he seeks for his wife?”

“Marriage is a funny business,” he responded. “Now there’s the boss. When I married her I thought she was so and so; little by little I found she wasn’t; but by the time I had found it out I wouldn’t have swapped her for ten of the women I had thought she was. Some men have no business to marry unless they’re pretty strongly attached, for they don’t run steady; but you’re a fellow that would keep in the traces no matter what happened, and before long you’d find yourself mighty fond of Agnes. A sense of duty is about as good a basis to marry on, if there’s natural sympathy and liking, as all this ideal make-believe. I don’t think you dislike Agnes, do you?”

“Indeed, no!” I exclaimed. “Nobody could. She is too charming and sweet for any one to do that. Miss Agnes deserves far more than I can bring her. What have I to give in return for all this?”

“You can settle that with Agnes,” he laughed; and then, as if to lessen my poverty in my own eyes, he kindly added, “In the first place, I’ll get a son-in-law chock-full of heart and grit and brains; and I’ve had pretty good evidence that he isn’t fortune-hunting, which is Agnes’s great danger. But that isn’t all, and I want you to know I’m not a fool. I’m a big fellow down in Wall Street, and even on the Royal Exchange, but do you think I don’t know my position? They kept me up over two years at the Philomathean, and you four months. After you’ve worked ten years over books with your own name on them, you’ll be received and kotowed to by people who wouldn’t crook a finger to know me. You won’t be famous as I am, for the number of naughts I can write after a figure, but your name will be known everywhere, and will be familiar long after mine has been forgotten. Who were the bankers and rich men fifty years ago? There isn’t one person in a thousand can tell you. But who hasn’t heard of Thackeray and Hawthorne, Macaulay and Motley? My girl will have more money than she’ll need; so if she gets a good husband, and one with reputation, she can’t do better. Don’t you see I’m doing my level best for Agnes, and making a regular Jew bargain?”

“Perhaps Miss Agnes will not agree.”

“We’ve got to take that chance; but she likes you, and good women think a heap more of brains than they do of money. If you’ll let me tell her your story, it won’t be long before she’ll take notice. I shouldn’t have had to ask the boss twice if I’d had any such trump card as you’ve got, and she was a sight less tender-hearted than Agnes!”

“Mr. Blodgett,” I said, “I can’t tell you the gratitude I feel, but I must be frank.”

“Hold on!” he cried. “I don’t want you to say anything now. You are to take a week on it, and not give me your answer till the end. If you have half the gratitude in you that you pretend, you’ll do as the boss wants.”

I had manned myself to tell him of my love for you, but I bowed assent, for indeed, I was too bewildered to think clearly, and was glad to have a respite. We shook hands without further parley, and I came back here, to cough and shiver while trying to think it all out. An hour ago I went to bed, but I was wakeful, and so sit here trying to write myself into sleepiness.