_March 9._ What seemed my misfortune proved quite the reverse. You
evidently mentioned to Agnes my refusing to dine with you, and the next
time I saw her she took me to task for it.
“It’s too bad of you,” she told me, “when I have explained to you how
sensitive Maizie is, and how she has the idea that nice men do not like
her, that you should go and confirm her in the feeling by treating her
so! Why don’t you like her?”
“I do,” was all I said.
“No, you don’t,” she denied indignantly. “I suppose men dislike fine
women because they make them feel what poor things they are
themselves!”
“I like you, Miss Blodgett,” I replied.
“I don’t believe it,” she retorted, “or you would be nice to my best
friend. Besides, the idea of mentioning me in the same breath as
Maizie! Men are born geese.”
“Then you should pity rather than upbraid us,” I suggested.
“I’ll tell you what I intend to do,” went on Agnes. “You promised us a
visit this summer, and I am going to arrange for Maizie to be there at
the time, so that you can really get to know her. And then, if you
don’t like her, I’ll never forgive you.”
“Now, Agnes,” ordered Mrs. Blodgett crossly, “stop teasing the doctor.
I’m fond of Maizie, but I’m fairly tired with men falling in love with
her, and I am glad to find one who hasn’t.”
All last spring and summer, as I toiled over the proof sheets of my
history, I was waiting and dreaming of that promised fortnight with
you. I was so eager in my hope that when I found Agnes at the station,
it was all I could do not to make my greeting a question whether you
were visiting them. Luckily, she was almost as eager as I was, and
hardly was I seated in the trap when she announced,—
“Mamma wanted to ask you when we were alone, and wouldn’t hear at first
of even Maizie being with us; but I told papa of my plan, and he
insisted that Maizie should be invited. Wasn’t he an old love? And now,
Dr. Hartzmann, you’ll try to like Maizie, won’t you? And even if you
can’t, just pretend that you do, please.”
If the groom had not mounted the rumble at this point, I believe I
should have told her of my love for you, the impulse was so strong, in
my gratitude and admiration for the unselfish love she had for you.
A result of this misunderstanding was an amusing game of cross-purposes
between mother and daughter. Agnes was always throwing us together,
scarcely attempting to veil her wishes, while Mrs. Blodgett, thinking
that I did not care for you, was always interfering to save me from
your society. She proposed that I should teach Agnes chess, and left us
playing; but when you joined us, Agnes insisted that she could learn
more by watching us, only to play truant the moment you had taken her
place. I shall never forget Mrs. Blodgett’s amazement and irritation,
on her return, at finding us playing, and Agnes not to be seen. Equally
unsuccessful was an attempt to teach Agnes fencing, for she grew
frightened before the foils had really been crossed, and made you take
her place. At first I imagined she only pretended fear, but Mrs.
Blodgett became so very angry over her want of courage that I had to
think it genuine. When we went to drive as a party there was always
much discussion as to how we should sit; and in fact my two friends
kept at swords’ points most of the time, in their endeavors to make me
tolerate or save me from the companionship of the woman I loved. Even I
could see the comedy of the situation.
In one of our conversations you reverted to your novel, and questioned
my view of the impossibility of the heroine being happy in her
marriage, evidently influenced, but not convinced, by my opinion.
“To me it is perfectly conceivable,” you argued, “that, regardless of
her loving, a woman can be as happy married as single, and that it all
depends upon what she makes of her own life.”
“But in marriage,” I contended, “she is not free to make her life at
all.”
“Surely she is if her husband truly loves her.”
“Less so than if he does not.”
“You are not in earnest?”
“Yes. Love makes women less selfish, but with many men it often has the
opposite effect. The man you drew, Miss Walton, was so firm that he
would not be other than selfish, and if my reading of your heroine is
correct, she was a woman who would resign her own will, rather than
lower her self-respect by conflicts with her husband.”
“But he loved her.”
“In a selfish man’s way. If women knew better what that meant, there
would be fewer unhappy marriages.”
“Then you are sure my heroine did wrong?”
“I think she did what thousands of other women have done,—she married
the love rather than the lover.”
“No. I did not intend that. She married for quite other things than
love: for greater freedom, for”—
“Would she have married,” I interrupted, “if she had not been sure that
the hero loved her?”
You thought an instant, and then said, “No, I suppose not—and yet”—You
stopped, and then continued impulsively, “I wonder if I shall shock you
very much if I say that I have no faith in what we call love?”
“You do not shock me, Miss Walton, because I do not believe you.”
“It is true, nevertheless. Perhaps it is my own fault, but I have never
found any love that was wholly free from self-indulgence or
self-interest.”
“If you rate love so low, why did you make your heroine crave it?”
“One can desire love even when one cannot feel it.”
“Does one desire what one despises?”
“To scorn money does not imply a preference for poverty.”
“The scorn of money is as genuine as your incapacity to love, Miss
Walton.”
“You do not believe me?”
“A person incapable of love does not crave it. It is only a loving
nature which cares for love.”
“But if one cannot love, how can one believe in it?”
“The unlighted torch does not believe in fire.”
“But some substances are incombustible.”
“The sun melts anything.”
“The sun is trans-terrestrial.”
“So is love.”
You looked at me in silence for a moment, and then asked, “Is love so
much to you?”
“Love is the only thing worth striving for in this life,” I replied.
“And if one fails to win it?”
“One cannot fail, Miss Walton.”
“Why not?”
“Because the best love is in one’s own heart and depends only on one’s
self.”
“And if one has loved,” you responded hurriedly, with a mistiness in
your eyes which proved how deeply you were feeling, “if one gives
everything—only to find the object base—if”—You stopped speaking and
looked away.
“One still has the love, Miss Walton; for it is that which is given,
and not that which is received, that is worth the having.” I faltered
in my emotion, and then, almost unconscious of what I said, went on:
“For many years I have loved,—a love from the first impossible and
hopeless. Yet it is the one happiness of my present life, and rather
than”—I recovered control of myself, and became silent as I heard Mrs.
Blodgett coming along the veranda.
You leaned forward, saying softly, “Thank you for the confidence.”
Then, as Mrs. Blodgett joined us, you said, “I envy you your happiness,
Dr. Hartzmann.”
“What happiness is that?” asked Mrs. Blodgett, glancing from one to the
other curiously.
“Dr. Hartzmann,” you explained calmly, without a trace of the emotion
that had moved you a moment before, “has been proving to me that all
happiness is subjective, and as I have never been able to rise to such
a height I am very envious of him.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” remarked Mrs. Blodgett. “But if the
doctor wants to know what real happiness is, he had better marry some
nice girl and have his own home instead of living in a boarding-house.”
You laughed, and added, “Now our happiness becomes objective. Perhaps
it is the best, after all, Dr. Hartzmann.”
“Do _you_ think so, Miss Walton?” I asked, unable to prevent an
emphasis in the question.
You rose, saying, “I must dress for dinner.” But in the window you
turned, and answered, “I have always thought it was, but there are
evident exceptions, Dr. Hartzmann, and after what you have told me I
think you are one of them.”
“And not yourself?” I could not help asking.
You held up your hand warningly. “When the nature of dolls is too
deeply questioned into, they are found to contain only sawdust.”
“And we often open the oyster, to find sometimes a pearl.”
“The result of a morbid condition,” you laughed back.
“Better disease and a pearl than health without it.”
“But suppose one incapable of the ailment? Should one be blamed if no
pearl forms?”
“An Eastern poet said:—
Diving and finding no pearl in the sea,
Blame not the ocean,—the fault is in thee.
Have you ever tried to find a pearl, Miss Walton?”
You hesitated a moment. “Like the Englishman’s view of the conundrum,”
you finally parried archly, “that would be a good joke if there only
wasn’t something to ‘guess’ in it.”
“Do you know what Maizie is talking about?” demanded Mrs. Blodgett
discontentedly.
“Better than Miss Walton does herself, I think,” I averred.
You had started to go, but again you turned, and asked with interest,
“What _do_ I mean?”
“That you believe what you think you don’t.”
You stood looking at me for a moment. “We are becoming friends, Dr.
Hartzmann,” you affirmed, and passed through the window.
Good-night, dear friend.