“I hope you will recover quickly, for you are needed in the office,” he
went on.
I could not have been more surprised if he had struck me, though I did
not let it appear in my face.
“Whitely’s been trying to go it alone on his editorials, and the papers
have all been laughing at him,” chuckled Mr. Blodgett. “Just read us
your famous one, Whitely,—that one about The Tendency of Modern Art,
with the original Hebrew from Solomon you put in.”
I saw my employer redden, and in pity for his embarrassment I said, “I
do not think I shall ever come back to the office, Mr. Whitely.”
“Why not?” he exclaimed. “You committed an unwise action, but business
is business, and I see no cause why we need let a single mistake
terminate a relation mutually profitable.”
“I have learned the lesson that one cannot sell one’s honesty without
wronging other people, and I shall never do it again.”
“This is purely sentimental”—he began.
Mr. Blodgett, however, interrupted by saying, “Now don’t go to exciting
the doctor, for he’s to sleep on the trip. Besides, I’ve got something
in mind better than the job he’s had under you, Whitely. Come and have
a smoke, and leave him to nap a bit.”
They left me, and I set to puzzling over many questions: how you would
greet me at My Fancy; how you would welcome Mr. Whitely; what was the
meaning of his friendliness towards me; and what new kindness Mr.
Blodgett had in store for me. Finally I fell asleep, to be awakened
only when we reached our destination.
Agnes met us at the station, and at the house Mrs. Blodgett gave me the
warmest of welcomes, but not till I came downstairs before dinner did
you and I meet. Your greeting was formal, yet courteous and gracious as
of old, almost making me question if our last two interviews could be
realities.
Before the dinner was finished Mrs. Blodgett ordered me to the divan on
the veranda, and sent dessert and fruit out to me. You all joined me
when the moment came for coffee and cigars; but the evening was cloudy
and rather breezy, and presently Mrs. Blodgett said it was too cold for
her, and suggested a game of whist indoors. “You must stay out here,”
she told me, “but if you feel cool be sure to use the shawl.”
You turned and said to Mr. Whitely, “You will play, I hope?” and he
assented so eagerly that it was all I could do to keep from laughing
outright when you continued, “Agnes and Mr. Whitely will make your
table, Mrs. Blodgett, so I will stay here and watch the clouds.” The
whole thing was so palpably with an object that I felt at once that you
wished to see me alone, to learn if I had anything more to say
concerning Mr. Whitely; and as I realized this, I braced myself for the
coming ordeal.
For a few moments you stood watching the gathering storm, and then took
a chair by the divan on which I lay.
“Are you too honorable,” you began,—and though I could not see your
face in the darkness, your voice told me you were excited,—“to pardon
dishonorable conduct in others? For I have come to beg of you
forgiveness for a wrong.”
“Of me, Miss Walton?”
“Last April,” you went on, “Mrs. Blodgett brought me a book and asked
me to read it. A few paragraphs revealed to me that it was something
written by an old friend of mine. After reading a little further, I
realized for the first time that I was violating a confidence. Yet
though I knew this, and struggled to close the book, I could not, but
read it to the end. Can you forgive me?”
“Oh, Miss Walton!” I protested. “Why ask forgiveness of me? What is
your act compared to the wrong”—
“Hush, Don,” you said gently, and your use of my name, so long unheard,
told me in a word that the feeling of our childhood days was come
again. “Tell me you forgive me!” you entreated.
“I am not the one to forgive, Maizie.”
“I did wrong, and I ask your pardon,” you begged humbly. “Yet I’m not
sorry in the least, and I should do it again,” you instantly added,
laughing merrily at your own perverseness. Then in a moment you were
serious again, saying, “I never received the letters or the photograph,
Donald. My uncle confesses that he put them in the fire.” And before I
could speak, a new thought seized you, for you continued sadly, “I
shall never forgive myself for my harshness and cruelty when you were
so ill.”
“That is nothing,” I replied, “since all our misunderstandings are
gone. Why, even my debt, Maizie, ceases now to be a burden; in the
future it will be only a joy to work.”
“Donald!” you exclaimed. “You don’t suppose I shall let you pay me
another cent!”
“I must.”
“But I am rich,” you protested. “The money is nothing to me. You shall
not ruin your career to pay it. I scorn myself when I think that I
refused to see you that night, and so lost my only chance of saving you
from what followed. My cowardice, my wicked cowardice! It drove you to
death’s door by overwork, to give me wealth I do not know how to spend.
You parted with your library that I might let money lie idle in bank. I
forced you to sell your book—your fame—to that thief. Oh, Donald, think
of the wrong it has done already, and don’t make it do greater!”
“Maizie, you do not understand”—
“I understand it all,” you interrupted. “You must not—you shall not—I
won’t take it—I”—
“For his sake!”
“But I love him, too!” you pleaded. “Don’t you see, Donald, that it was
never the money,—that was nothing; but they told me his love—and yours,
for they said you had known all the time—was only pretense, a method by
which you might continue to rob me. And I came to believe it,—though I
should have known better,—because, since you never wrote, it seemed to
me you had both dropped me out of your thoughts as soon as you could no
longer plunder me. Even then, scorning you,—like you in your feeling
over my neglect of your letters,—I could not help loving you, for those
Paris and Tyrol days were the happiest I have ever known; and though I
knew, Don, that I ought to forget you, as I believed you had forgotten
me, I could not do so. I have never dared to speak in public of either
of you, for fear I should break down. Try as I might, I could not help
loving you both as I have never loved any one else. That I turned you
away from my house was because I did not dare to meet you,—I knew I
could not control myself. After the man took the message, I sobbed over
having to insult you by sending it by a servant. But for my want of
courage—had I seen you as I ought—If I had only understood, as your
journal has made me,—had only known that my name was on his lips when
he died! No money could pay for what he gave to me. Could he ask me now
for twice the sum, it would be my pleasure to give it to him, for I
love him dearly, and”—
“If you love him, Maizie, you will let me clear his name as far as lies
within my power.”
For an instant you were silent, and then said softly, “You are right,
Donald, we will clear his name.”
I took your hand and touched it to my lips. “To hear you speak of
him”—I could go no further, in my emotion.
There was a pause before you asked, “Donald, do you remember our talk
here last autumn?”
“Every word.”
You laughed gayly. “I want you to know, sir,” you asserted, with a
pretense of defiance, “that I don’t believe in love, because I have
never found any that was wholly free from self-indulgence or
self-interest. And I still think”—
Just then Mrs. Blodgett joined us, and inquired, “Have you told
Rudolph, Maizie?”
“Yes.”
“I went to see how you were the moment I heard of your illness,” she
said, with a certain challenge in her voice, “and I found that book
lying on your desk just where you stopped writing from weakness. I read
it, and I took it to Maizie.”
“It was kismet, I suppose,” was all I could say, too happy to think of
criticism, and instantly her manner changed and she wiped her eyes.
“I had to do it,” she sobbed.
“You have been too good to me,” I answered, rising and taking her hand.
“There, there,” she continued, steadying herself. “I didn’t come out to
behave like this, but to tell you to go to bed at once. I’m going to
your room to see that everything is right for our invalid, but don’t
you delay a minute after I’m gone,” and she disappeared through the
doorway.
I turned to you and held out my hand, bidding you, “Good-night,
Maizie,” and you took it, and replied, “Goodnight, Don.” Then suddenly
you leaned forward, and, kissing my forehead, added, “God keep you safe
for me, my darling.”
I took you in my arms, and gave you back your kiss twofold, while
saying, “Good-night, my love.”