_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.