_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.
“Hello!” exclaimed the banker. “Where are you bound for?”
“I presume for the same destination you are,” Mr. Whitely replied. “I
am going up to see Miss Walton, and if Mrs. Blodgett cannot give me a
night’s hospitality, I shall go to the hotel.”
“Plenty of room at My Fancy, and I’ll guarantee your welcome,” promised
Mr. Blodgett pleasantly. “Here’s the doctor going up for a bit of
nursing.”
Much to my surprise, my former employer entered the compartment, and,
offering me his hand, sat down by the lounge I was stretched upon.
“You’ve had a serious illness,” he remarked, with a bland attempt at
sympathy.