Part 11
I have thought out what my course must be. If it is true, as indeed I know it to be, that Mr. Whitely has won you, Mr. Blodgett shall have the truth. I shall tell him that I will put you out of my heart, as perforce I must, and that if he is still willing I will go to Agnes, tell her too the whole truth, and promise her such love and devotion as I can give. So sweet a girl deserves far more, and I cannot believe that she will accept the little I can offer; but if she does, it shall be the labor of my life to be to her a true and tender husband. And even if she were not what she is, the thought that through her I have made reparation for the wrong done you will make easy both tenderness and love for her.
For the last time, perhaps, I have the right to say, “Good-night, my love.”
XXIII
_March 14._ After dinner this evening I went to see Mrs. Blodgett; for, miserable as I felt, my mental suffering was greater than my physical. The footman told me she had just gone upstairs to dress for a ball, but I sent her a message begging for a moment’s interview; and when he returned, it was to take me to her boudoir,—a privilege which would in itself have shown me how thoroughly I was forgiven, even if her greeting had been less warm.
In a few halting and broken sentences I told her of my love for you. She was so amazed that at first she seemed unable to believe me serious; and when I had persuaded her that I was in earnest, her perplexity and curiosity were unbounded.
Why had I behaved so? For what reason had I never called on Maizie? Such and many more were the questions she indignantly poured out, and she only grew more angry when I answered each by “I cannot tell you.” Finally, in her irritation, she demanded, “What have you bothered me for, then?”
“I want you to tell me, if you have the right, whether Miss Walton is engaged to Mr. Whitely,” I answered.
“Practically,” she snapped.
“She has told you so?”
“I cannot tell you,” she replied; adding, “How do you like your own medicine?”
“Mrs. Blodgett,” I pleaded, “if you understood what it means to me to know the truth, you would not use this to punish me for what I cannot help. If I could tell any one the story of my life, I should tell you; for next to—to one other, you are dearer to me than any living person. If you love me at all, do not torture me with a suspense that is unbearable.”
She came and sat down by me on the lounge, and took my hand, saying, “Mr. Whitely asked Maizie to marry him four years ago, but she said she would not marry a business man. He wouldn’t give up trying, however, though he made no apparent headway. Indeed, Maizie told me herself, last spring, just before she sailed, that she could never love him, and she was convinced that loveless marriages were wrong, being sure to end in unhappiness or sacrifice of one or the other. So I thought it would come to nothing. But he persisted, and he’s succeeded, for she told me last week that she had changed her mind, and was going to marry him.”
“Do you know why she has done so?” I asked drearily.
“I think it is that book of his. Not merely is she pleased by the position it’s given him as a writer, but she says it has convinced her that he is different from what he appears in society; that no man but one of noble character and fine mind could write from such a standpoint.”
I sat there dumb and stolid, yet knowing that all my past suffering had been as nothing to this new grief. Oh, my blindness and wickedness! To think, my darling, that it was I who had aided him to win you, that my hand had made and set the trap! Why had I not ended my wretched existence three years ago, and so, at least, saved myself from this second wrong, tenfold worse than that I had endeavored to mend? For my own selfish pride and honor, I had juggled, deceived you, Maizie, the woman dearer to me than all else, and had myself doomed you to such a fate.
I suppose I must have shown some of the agony I felt, for Mrs. Blodgett put her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t take it so to heart, Rudolph,” she begged, giving me that name for the first time. “There can still be much true happiness in your life.”
I only kissed her hand in response, but she instantly pressed her lips on my forehead. “I am so sorry,” she sighed, “for I had hoped for something very different.”
“Mr. Blodgett told me,” I answered; and then I spoke of the resolution I had come to last night.
When I had finished, she said, “We won’t talk of it any more, Rudolph, for Agnes’ sake as well as yours, but perhaps by and by, when the suffering is over, you will come and talk to me again; for if you ever feel that you can be a good husband to my girl, I shall not be afraid to trust her to you, if you can gain her consent.”
I rose to go, and she remarked, “Yes. You mustn’t stay, for as it is, my dressing will make us very late. If the carriage is at the door, tell Maxwell to drive you home, and then return for us. You mustn’t walk in the slush with that horrid cough of yours. Does your landlady give you blankets enough? Well, tell her to make a steaming glass of whiskey toddy. Wrap some woolen round your throat and chest, and go straight to bed. Why, Rudolph, you are not going without kissing me good-night?” she continued, as if that had been my habit, adding, “Some day I shall make you tell me all about it.”
I went downstairs, intending to follow her directions; but as I passed the drawing-room door I heard the piano, and thought I recognized, from the touch, whose fingers were straying at random over the keys.
“Isn’t that Miss Walton?” I asked of the servant, as he brought me my hat and coat.
“Yes, Dr. Hartzmann. Miss Walton is to go to the ball with the ladies, and is waiting for them to come downstairs,” he told me.
I left him holding my coat, and passed noiselessly between the curtains of the portière. Your back was turned to me as you sat at the instrument, and I stood in silence watching you as you played, till suddenly—was it sympathy, or only the consciousness of something alien?—you looked around. I should almost think it was the former, for you expressed no surprise at seeing me standing there, even though you rose.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I begged.
“I was only beguiling the time I have to wait,” you replied.
“It will be a favor to me if you will go on,” I said, and without another word, with that simple grace and sweetness natural to you, you resumed your seat and went on playing, while I sat down on the divan.
Your bent, like mine, was for some reason a sad one, and what you played reflected your mood, stirring me deeply and making me almost forget my misery. Presently, however, I was seized with a paroxysm of coughing; and when I had recovered enough to be conscious of anything, I found you standing by me, looking both startled and compassionate.
“You are ill, Dr. Hartzmann,” you said, anxiously.
“It is nothing,” I managed to articulate.
“Can I do anything for you?” you asked.
“Nothing,” I replied, rising, more wretched than ever, because knowing how little I deserved your sympathy.
“It would be a pleasure to help you, Dr. Hartzmann, for I have never been able to show any gratefulness for your kindness over my book,” you went on, with a touch of timidity in your tones, as if you were asking a favor rather than conferring one.
Won by your manner, before I knew what I was doing, I spoke. “Miss Walton,” I burst out, “you see before you the most miserable being conceivable, and you can save me from the worst anguish I am suffering!”
Your eyes enlarged in surprise, both at my vehemence and at what I had uttered, while you stood looking at me, with slightly parted lips; then you said sweetly, “Tell me what I can do for you.”
I had spoken without thought, only conscious that I must try in some way to save you. For a moment I hesitated, and then exclaimed, “I beg of you not to marry Mr. Whitely!”
Like a goddess you drew yourself up, even before you could have appreciated the full import of my foolish speech, and never have I seen you look more beautiful or queenly than as you faced me. After a brief silence you answered, “You can hardly realize what you are saying, Dr. Hartzmann.”
“I am indeed mad in my unhappiness,” I groaned.
“You owe me an explanation for your extraordinary words,” you continued.
“Miss Walton,” I said, “Mr. Whitely is not a man to make you happy, and in hopes of saving you from him I spoke as I did. I had no right, as none can know better than myself, but perhaps you will forgive the impertinence when I say that my motive was only to save you from future misery.”
“Why should I not be happy in marrying Mr. Whitely?”
“Because you are deceiving yourself about him.”
“In what respect?”
“His character is other than you think it.”
“Be more specific.”
“That I cannot be.”
“Why not?”
“It would be dishonorable in me.”
“Not more so than to stop where you have.”
“I cannot say more.”
“I do not recognize your right to be silent. You have said too much or too little.”
“Maizie,” called Mrs. Blodgett from the hall, “come quickly, for we are very late.”
“I shall insist, at some future time, upon your speaking more clearly, Dr. Hartzmann,” you said, as a queen would speak, and picking up your wrap, without a parting word, you left me standing in the middle of the drawing-room.
I came home through the cold, and have sat here regretting my foolishness and groping for the right course to pursue. Oh, my darling, if I but had the right, I would gladly tell you the whole story of the miserable deception, even though I disgraced myself in your eyes. If it were merely my own honor which was at stake, I should not hesitate for an instant, but would sacrifice it to save you, though self-respect seems now the only thing left me. But try as I may to prove to myself that I have the right, I cannot, for I feel that more than my own honor is concerned. I have taken Mr. Whitely’s money, and cannot return it to him. To break faith would be worse than despicable. I shall speak to you of my employer’s hardness, and beg you to ask Mr. Blodgett if he would give Agnes to Mr. Whitely or advise you to marry him. My heart yearns to aid you in your peril, but I can think of nothing more that I can do. May God do what I cannot, my dearest. Good-night.
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.