A man does not willingly spread on paper the sweetest and tenderest
moments of his life. When half crazed with grief and illness I might
express my suffering, much as, in physical pain, some groan aloud; but
the deepest happiness is silent, for it is too great to be told. And
lest, my dears, you think me even less manly than I am, I choose to add
here the reason for my writing the last few pages of this story of my
love, that if you ever read it you may know the motive which made me
tell what till to-night I have kept locked in my heart.
This evening the dearest woman in the world came to me, as I sat at my
desk in the old library, and asked, “Are you busy, Donald?”
“I am reading the one hundred and forty-seventh complimentary review of
my History of the Moors, and I am so sick of sweets that your
interruption comes as an unalloyed pleasure.”
“Am I bitter or acid?” she asked, leaning over my shoulder and
arranging my hair, which is one of her ways of pleasing me.
“You are my exact opposite,” I said gravely.
“How uncomplimentary you are!” she cried, with a pretense of anger in
her voice.
“An historian must tell the truth now and then, for variety’s sake.”
“Then tell me if you are too engaged to spare me a minute. Any other
time will do.”
“You are seriously mistaken, because no other time will do. And nothing
about me is ever engaged, as regards you, except my affections, and
they are permanently so.”
“I’ve come to ask a great favor of you.”
“Out of the question; but you may tell me what it is.”
“Ah, Donald, say you will grant it before I tell you?”
“Concealment bespeaks a guilty conscience.”
“But sometimes you are so funny and obstinate about things!”
“That is what Mr. Whitely used to say.”
“Don’t mention that wretch’s name to me! To think of that miserable
little Western college making him an LL. D. because of your book!”
“Never mind, Maizie; here’s a letter I received an hour ago from
Jastrow, which tells me the University of Leipzig is going to give me a
degree.”
“That he should steal your fame!”
“My Moor is five times the chap my Turk was.”
“But you might have had both!”
“And gone without you? Don’t fret over it, my darling.”
“I can’t help”—
She always ends this vein by abusing herself, which I wouldn’t allow
another human being to do, and which I don’t like to hear, so I
interrupted: “Jastrow says he’ll come over in March to visit us, and
threatens to bring the manuscript of his whole seventeen volumes, for
me to take a final look at it before he sends it to press.”
“The dear old thing!” she said tenderly. “I love him so for what he was
to you that I believe I shall welcome him with a kiss.”
“Why make the rest of his life unhappy?”
“Is that the way it affects you?”
“Woman is born illogical, and even the cleverest of her sex cannot
entirely overcome the taint. After you give me a kiss I bear in mind
that I am to have another, and that makes me very happy. But if you
kiss Jastrow, the poor fellow will go back to Germany and pine away
into his grave. Even his fifty-two dialects will not satisfy him after
your labial.”
“Oh, you silly!” she exclaimed; but, my dears, I think she is really,
in her secret heart, fond of silliness, for she leaned over and—There,
I’ll stop being what she called me.
“We’ll give him a great reception,” she continued, “and have every one
worth knowing to meet him.”
“He is the shyest of beings.”
“How books and learning do refine men!” she said.
“I am afraid they do make weaklings of us.”
“Will you never get over the idea that you are weak?” she cried; for it
is one of her pet superstitions that I am not.
“You’ll frighten me out of it if you speak like that.”
“You are—well—that is really what I came to ask for. Just to please
your own wife, you will, Donald, won’t you?”
“The distinction between ‘will’ and ‘won’t’ is clearly set forth in a
somewhat well-known song concerning a spider and a fly.”
“Oh, you bad boy!”
“Adsum.”
“I’m really serious.”
“I never was less so.”
“I should not have become your wife if I had dreamed you would be such
a brute!”
“You’ll please remember that I never asked you to marry me.”
She laughed deliciously over the insult, and after that I could not
resist her.
“You have,” I said, “a bundle in your left hand, wrapped in tissue
paper and tied with a blue ribbon, which you sedulously keep from my
sight, but of which I caught a glimpse as you entered.”
“And you’ve known it all this time! Perhaps you know too what I want?”
“Last spring,” I answered, “I knocked at the door of your morning-room
twice, and receiving no response, I went in, to find you reading
something that you instantly hid from sight. There were on the lounge,
I remember, a sheet of tissue paper and a blue ribbon. I suspect a
connection.”
“Well?”
“My theory is that you have some really improper book wrapped in the
paper, and that is why you so guiltily hide it from me.”
“Oh, Donald, it gives me such happiness to read it!”
“That was the reason I asked you why you had tears in your eyes, when I
surprised you that day. Your happiness was most enviable!”
“Men never understand women!”
“Deo gratias.”
“But I love it.”
“I don’t like to hear you express such sentiments for so erotic a
book.”
“Oh, don’t apply such a word to it!” she cried, in a pained voice.
“A word,” I explained, “taken from the Greek _erotikos_, which is
derived from _erao_, meaning ‘I love passionately.’ It is singularly
descriptive, Maizie.”
“If it means that, I like it, but I thought you were insulting my
book.”
“Almost five years ago,” I remarked, “a volume was stolen from my room,
which I have never since been able to recover. Now a woman of excessive
honesty calmly calls it hers.”
“You know you don’t want it.”
“I want it very much.”
“Really?”
“To put it in the fire.”
“Don!”
“Once upon a time a most bewitching woman wrote a story, and in a vain
moment her husband asked her to give it to him. She”—
“But, my darling, it was so foolish that I had to burn it up. Think of
my making the heroine marry that creature!”
“Since you married the poor chap to the other girl, there was no other
ending possible. If the book were only in existence, I think Agnes and
her husband would enjoy reading it almost as much as I should.”
“How silly I was! But at least the book made you write the ending which
prevented me from accepting him that winter. What a lot of trouble I
gave my poor dear!”
“I met the ‘poor dear’ yesterday, looking very old and unhappy despite
his LL. D.”
“Oh, you idiot!” she laughed. And she must like imbeciles, too,
for—well, I’m not going to tell even you how I know that she’s fond of
idiots.
“Why do you suppose he’s unhappy?” she asked.
“My theory is that he’s miserable because he lost—lost me.”
“I’m so glad he is!” joyously asserted the tenderest of women.
“Nevertheless,” I resumed, “it was a book I should have valued as much
as you do that one in tissue paper, and you ought not to have burned
it.”
“I am very sorry I did, Donald, since you would really have liked it,”
she said, wistfully and sorrowfully. “I should have thought of your
feelings, and not of mine.”
This is a mood I cannot withstand. “Dear heart,” I responded, “I have
you, and all the books in the world are not worth a breath in
comparison. What favor do you want me to do?”
“To write a sort of last chapter—an ending, you know—telling
about—about the rest.”
“Have you forgotten it?”
“I? Never! I couldn’t. But I want to have it all in the book, so that
when Foster and Mai are older they can read it.”
“I have no intention of sharing, even with our children, my
under-the-rose idyl with the loveliest of girls. And when the children
are older, they’ll be far more interested in their own heart secrets
than they are in ours.”
“Still, dear,” she pleaded, “they may hear from others some unkind and
perverted allusions to our story; for you know what foolish things were
said at the time of our marriage.”
“If I remember rightly, some one—was it my mother or Mr. Whitely?”—
“Both,” she answered.
“—spread it abroad that I had trapped an heiress into marriage by means
of an alias.”
“Wasn’t it a delicious version!” she laughed merrily. “But no matter
what’s ever tattled in the future, if Foster and Mai have your journal,
they will always understand it.”
“Maizie,” I urged, “if you let those imps of mischief read of our
childish doings in this old library, they’ll either finish painting the
plates in Kingsborough, or burn the house down in trying to realize an
Inca of Peru at the stake.”
“But I won’t read them those parts,” she promised; “especially if you
write a nice ending, which they’ll like.”
“Won’t it do to add just a paragraph, saying that our fairy godmamma
found and gave you the journal, and that then we ‘lived happily ever
after’?”
“No, Donald,” she begged. “I want the whole story, to match the rest.”
“Five years ago I knew the saddest and most dejected of fellows, whose
misery was so great that he wailed it out on paper. But now I know only
the happiest of mortals, and he cannot write in the lugubrious tone of
yore—unless a lady of his acquaintance will banish him from her
presence or do something else equally joy-destroying.”
“Are you trying to bribe me into giving you a rest from my presence for
a time?”
“Undoubtedly,” I assented. “It’s a fearful strain to live up to you,
and it is beginning to tell on me.”
“If I didn’t know you were teasing, I should really be hurt. But I
should like to ask you one thing.”
“And that is?”
“In your journal—well—of course I know that you were—that I am not—that
your love made you think me what I never was in the least, Donald,” she
faltered, “but still, perhaps—Do you remember what Mr. Blodgett said
about his not giving Mrs. Blodgett for ten of the women he—? I hope you
like my reality as much as your ideal.”
“Haven’t you changed your idea of me, Maizie?”
“Oh yes.”
“And therefore you don’t love me as much?”
“But that’s different, Donald,” she observed seriously.
“How?”
“Why, you treated me so strangely that, inevitably, I didn’t know what
you were like; and though you interested me very much, and though your
journal brought back my old love for you, still, what I did was more in
pity and admiration and reparation than—and so I could fall deeper in
love. While you, being so much in love already, and with such a totally
different woman”—
“Only went from bad to worse,” I groaned. “Yes, I own up. My sin is one
of the lowest man can commit. I have fallen in love with a married
woman. And the strange thing about it is that you are not jealous of
her! Indeed, I really believe that you are magnanimous enough to love
her too, though it’s natural you should not like her as much as you do
some others. But next August I’ll leave her and go to India to study
for my new book.”
“The married woman will go too,” she predicted calmly.
“I shouldn’t dare risk her among those hill tribes.”
“And she won’t risk you where it isn’t safe for her to go.”
“I was only thinking of your lovely complexion,” I explained.
“Old mahogany is very fashionable,” she laughed.
“Can nothing make you stay at home?” I asked beseechingly.
“I wonder if there ever was a husband who did not love to tease his
wife?”
“The divorce courts have records of many such unloving wretches.”
“What I want,” she told me, returning to her wish, “is to have you take
it up just where you left off. Tell about your pneumonia, and how Mrs.
Blodgett found your journal, but didn’t dare give it to me till the
doctor was certain you would recover; and then tell of my sending you
flowers and jellies and everything I could think of, by her, to help
you get well. How”—
“I should have eaten twice as much and recovered much more quickly if
she had only let me know from whom they really came,” I interjected in
an aggrieved tone.
“And tell how I wouldn’t listen to that scoundrel till you should have
a chance to justify yourself; how, the moment I had read your diary, I
wrote and rejected him, and would not see him when he called; how he
would not accept his dismissal, but followed me to the country; tell
how dreadfully in the way he was that evening, till Mrs. Blodgett and
Agnes and I trapped him into a game of whist”—
“You Machiavellis!”
“Tell all about my confession, and how we all spoiled you for those
months at My Fancy. Oh, weren’t they lovely, Donald?”
“I thought so then.”
“But not now?”
“A gooseberry is good till you taste a strawberry. There was a good
deal too much gooseberry, as I remember.”
“Then tell how the papers and people chattered about your assuming your
true name; and how they gabbled when we were married,—and how, on our
wedding day, we endowed the hospital ward”—
“Haven’t you made a slip in the pronoun?”
“I’ll box your ears if you even suggest it again; half of the money was
what you earned—endowed the hospital ward in memory of _our_ dear
father, and how happy we’ve been since.”
“You’ve made a mistake in the last pronoun, I’m certain.”
“You will write it to please me, Donald?”
“Oh, Maizie, I can’t. It’s all too dear to me.”
“Please, Don, try?”
“But”—
She interrupted my protest. “Donald,” she said, the tenderness in her
face and voice softening her words, “before knowing that I loved you,
you insisted that debt must be paid. Won’t you pay me now, dear?”
“I don’t merely owe you money, Maizie!” I cried. “I owe you everything,
and I’m a brute to the most generous of women. Give me the book, dear
heart.”
“You’ll make it nice, like the rest, won’t you?” she begged.
“I’ll try.” And then I laughingly added, “Maizie, you still have the
technical part of story-telling to learn.”
“How?”
“I can’t write all you wish and make it symmetrical. In the first
place, we don’t want to spend so much time on Whitely as to give him a
fictitious value; and next, to be artistic, we must end with our
good-night that evening.”
“Well, that will do, if you’ll only tell it nicely.”
And that, my dears, is why I write again of those old days, so distant
now in time and mood. What is told here is shared with you only to
please my love, and I ask of you that it shall be a confidence. And of
Another I beg that each of you in time may find a love as strong as
that told here; that each may be as true and noble as your mother, and
as happy as your father.
Good-night, my children. Good-night, my love. May God be as good to you
as he has been to me.