diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 36439-0.txt | 6545 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 36439-0.zip | bin | 0 -> 120968 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 36439-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 582887 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 36439-h/36439-h.htm | 9141 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 36439-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 455992 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 36439-h/images/front.png | bin | 0 -> 1113 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/36439-8.txt | 6491 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/36439-8.zip | bin | 0 -> 120242 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/36439.txt | 6492 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/36439.zip | bin | 0 -> 120254 bytes |
13 files changed, 28685 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/36439-0.txt b/36439-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e173688 --- /dev/null +++ b/36439-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6545 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Story of an Untold Love, by Paul Leicester Ford + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Story of an Untold Love + +Author: Paul Leicester Ford + +Release Date: June 15, 2011 [eBook #June 15, 2011] +[Most recently updated: January 28, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Lee Moffitt, Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE STORY OF AN +UNTOLD LOVE + +by PAUL LEICESTER FORD + + +Frontispiece Image + +NEW YORK + +GROSSET & DUNLAP +PUBLISHERS + +COPYRIGHT 1897 BY PAUL LEICESTER FORD + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + +SIXTY-FIFTH THOUSAND + + +CONTENTS + + I + II + III + IV + V + VI + VII + VIII + IX + X + XI + XII + XIII + XIV + XV + XVI + XVII + XVIII + XIX + XX + XXI + XXII + XXIII + XXIV + XXV + XXVI + + + + +I + + +_February 20, 1890._ There is not a moment of my life that you have +shared with me which I cannot recall with a distinctness fairly sunlit. +My joys and my sorrows, my triumphs and my failures, have faded one by +one from emotions into memories, quickening neither pulse nor thought +when they recur to me, while you alone can set both throbbing. And +though for years I have known that if you enshrined any one in your +heart it would be some one worthier of you, yet I have loved you truly, +and whatever I have been in all else, in that one thing, at least, I +have been strong. Nor would I part with my tenderness for you, even +though it has robbed me of contentment; for all the pleasures of which +I can dream cannot equal the happiness of loving you. To God I owe +life, and you, Maizie, have filled that life with love; and to both I +bow my spirit in thanks, striving not to waste his gift lest I be +unworthy of the devotion I feel for you. + +If I were a stronger man, I should not now be sobbing out my heart’s +blood through the tip of a pen. Instead of writing of my sorrow, I +should have battled for my love despite all obstacles. But I am no +Alexander to cut the knot of entanglements which the fates have woven +about me, and so, Midas-like, I sit morbidly whispering the hidden +grief, too great for me to bear in silence longer. + +I can picture my first glimpse of you as vividly as my last. That dull +rainy day of indoor imprisonment seems almost to have been arranged as +a shadowbox to intensify the image graved so deeply on my memory. The +sun came, as you did, towards the end of the afternoon, as if light and +warmth were your couriers. When I shyly entered the library in answer +to my father’s call, you were standing in the full sunlight, and the +thought flashed through my mind that here was one of the angels of whom +I had read. You were only a child of seven,—to others, I suppose, +immature and formless; yet even then your eyes were as large and as +serious as they are to-day, and your curling brown hair had already a +touch of fire, as if sunshine had crept thereinto, and, liking its +abiding-place, had lingered lovingly. + +“Don,” cried my father, as I stood hesitating in the doorway, “here’s a +new plaything for you. Give it a welcome and a kiss.” + +I hung back, half in shyness, and half in fear that you were of heaven, +and not of earth, but you came forward and kissed me without the +slightest hesitation. The details are so clear that I remember you +hardly had to raise your head, though I was three years the older. Your +kiss dispelled all my timidity, and from the moment of that caress I +loved you. Not that I am so foolish as to believe I then felt for you +what now I feel, but by the clear light of retrospect I can see that +your coming brought a new element into my life,—an element which I +loved from the first, though with steadily deepening intensity, and I +cannot even now determine at what point a boy’s devotion became a +lover’s. + +To the silent and lonely lad you were an inspiration. What I might have +grown to be had you not been my father’s ward I do not like to think, +for I was not a strong boy, and my shyness and timidity had prompted me +to much solitude and few friends, to much reading and to little play. +But it was decreed that you were to be the controlling influence of my +life, and in the first week you worked a revolution in my habits. I +wonder if now, when you see so many men eager to gratify your slightest +wish, you ever think of your earliest slave, whom you enticed to the +roof to drop pebbles or water on the passers-by, and into the cellar to +bury a toy soldier deep in the coal? Does memory ever bring back to you +how we started to paint the illustrations in Kingsborough’s Mexican +Antiquities, or how we built a fire round a doll on the library rug, in +imitation of the death of an Inca of Peru as pictured in dear old +Garcilasso de la Vega’s Royal Commentaries? You were a lazy child about +reading, but when not tempting me into riotous mischief, you would sit +by me in the library and let me show you the pictures in the old books, +and I smile now to think what my running versions of the texts must +have been. Our favorite books were the Nuremberg Chronicle and De Bry’s +Voyages, for the pictures of which, since the Latin was beyond me, I +invented explanations and even whole stories,—stories over which you +grew big-eyed and sleepless, and which we both came to believe so +firmly that we never dreamed them to be the cause for the occasional +outburst of laughter from my father, when he was in the library. + +Even in those days you veiled your witchery and mischief-loving nature +behind that serious face with its curved but unsmiling mouth. Keen as +many of our pleasures were and blithe as were our pranks, I can +scarcely remember a smile upon your face. Now and then the merriest of +laughs rang out, fairly infectious in its happiness and joy, but of so +rare recurrence as to win for you the sobriquet of “Madam Gravity.” +Your inscrutability allured and charmed me then as I have seen it +fascinate others since. I shall never understand you, and yet I think I +misunderstand you less than others do, for you cannot hide from me the +quick thought and merry nature which you keep so well hidden from them; +and often when others think you most abstracted or sedate, I know you +are holding high carnival with Puck and Momus. Again and again I have +noted your gravity in the most humorous situations or with the most +ridiculous of persons, and have smiled in secret with you. Last summer, +when my mother won such a laugh by telling, as something that had +happened to her personally, the old story from Peele’s “Merrie +Conceits” which we had read as children, you looked grave, though the +incident had twice the humor to you that it had to the others. In my +own merriment I could not help glancing at you, and though neither of +us laughed, we understood each other’s amusement. Evidently you were +not used to having your mood comprehended, for after a moment you +seemed to realize that I was responding to what you had thought unknown +to all. You looked startled and then puzzled, and I suppose that I +became even more of a mystery to you than ever. You could not know that +my knowledge of you came from those early days when your nature was +taking shape. Without my memory of you as a child you would be as great +an enigma to me as to the rest of your friends, and so no doubt it is a +small thing in which to glory. But it gives me joy to feel that I +understand you better, and at this very moment know more of your +thoughts than your husband ever will. + +I owe to you many dark closetings and whippings that I never deserved. +My mother complained that from being a troublesome child I had become a +fiend of mischief, but my father laughed and predicted that you would +make a man of me. I wonder if you ever think of him, and what your +thought is? We both so loved him that I cannot believe he has passed +entirely out of your heart. How ready he was to be our comrade! Whether +tired or busy he would join us, not as mentor but as playfellow; and +now that I know what there was to depress his spirits at that time, I +marvel at his cheer and courage. Would that I had one half of the +bravery with which he met his troubles! + +Perhaps he was right in his assumption that you would have made a man +of me. I do not recollect any act of mine which bore the semblance of +courage except the rescue of the street dog from those boys. I hated to +see the poor beast tortured, but I feared the roughs, and so stood +faltering while you charged among them. Not till one of them struck you +was I driven to help, but I can still feel the fury which then took +possession of me. I was blind with rage, and a great weight seemed +pressing on my chest as I rushed among the boys and fought, hardly +conscious of the blows I gave or received; indeed, the whole thing was +a haze until I found myself sitting on the sidewalk, crying. For days I +went about with a bandage over my eye; but my father drank my health +that night, and I remember his pat of approval, and hear his “Bravo, +Donald, I’m proud of you.” It was significant that I received all the +praise, and you none; my courage was questionable, yours was not. + +Those happy, thoughtless years! The one kill-joy was my mother, and she +made your life and mine so grievous with her needless harshness, quick +temper, and neglect of our comfort that I think she must have made my +father’s equally miserable. Dimly I can recollect her sudden gusts of +temper, and his instant dismissal of us from the room when they began. +Do you remember how he used to come up to the nursery to smoke, often +staying till our bedtime, and then how we could hear him go downstairs +and out of the front door? We did not know that he went to his club, +nor at what hour he returned; and if we had it would have meant nothing +to us. But we both knew he found no pleasure with my mother, and we +felt he was right, for in avoiding her he was but doing what was our +chief endeavor. I have heard many express admiration for her beauty, +for her church and charitable work, for her brilliancy in society, for +her executive ability, and for her general public spirit. Her neglect +of family duties, her extravagance, her frequent absences, and her +fatigued petulance when at home were known only to her household. Our +servants rarely remained a month with us,—were changed so often as to +destroy all possibility of comfort; but we three were not free to +follow their example, and so our misery made us the dearer to one +another. I am proud to think that, close as we drew together, my father +never uttered in my presence a single word of criticism or complaint +against my mother, and I should be the better man if, instead of +writing these unfilial words, I left them unsaid. Indeed, I will not +spend more of my evening on these old memories, but begin on my work. + +Do you remember, Maizie, how my father taught us to give him and each +other a parting word? “Good-night, father. Good-night, Maizie. God +bless you both,” it used to be. He sleeps now in his grave, and three +years ago you barred your door to me, but still I can say as of old, +“Good-night, Maizie. God bless and keep you, dear.” + + + + +II + + +_February 21._ To put all this on paper is weak and aimless, yet it +seems to ease my sadness. I suppose a scribbler unconsciously comes to +write out whatever he feels, as a nervous woman plays her emotions away +on a piano. If this is so, why should not I salve my grief in any way +that lessens it? Those old days had such happiness in them that the +mere memory brings some to me, and to sit here at my study table and +write of the past is better than idle dwelling on the present. + +You were jubilant when first told that we were all to go to Europe for +a summer, and laughed at my fears and despondency. Could I have had an +intuition of coming evil, or was my alarm due to the engravings of +those terrible sea-monsters with which Mercator populated the oceans in +his “Atlas sive Cosmographicæ,” and to the pictures and tales in +bloodthirsty old Exquemelin’s “Bucaniers of America”? Our notions of +what the trip meant were evidently not very clear, for at once we set +to storing up provisions, and weeks before the time of sailing we were +the proud possessors of a cracker-box full of assorted edibles, a jar +of olives we had pilfered, and a small pie you had cajoled the cook +into making for us. How we loved and gloated over that pie! Daily we +sorted our sea-stores, added new supplies, and ate what clearly could +be kept no longer. My mother found us one day deeply engrossed in the +occupation, cuffed us both, and sent the olives back to the pantry and +the tin box to the ash-barrel. As for the pie, such hot words passed +about it between “Madame” and “Monsieur Philippe” that our cook left us +without warning. We were again punished for being the cause of his +desertion, and that evening father dined at his club. + +The different effects my mother’s gusts of anger had on you and on me +were curiously distinctive. You met them fearlessly and stubbornly, +while to me the moments of her fury were moments in which I could +scarcely breathe, and of which I felt the terror for hours after. I +sometimes wonder if the variance was because I had learned to fear the +outbursts even as a baby, whereas your character had partly formed +before you encountered them. Who knows but a change of circumstances +might have made me the fearless one, and you the timorous? At least I +should be glad to think that I might have been like you in courage and +spirit, even though it is impossible to imagine that you could ever be +like me. It is a singular turn of life’s whirligig that when my mother +tried to pain you last autumn by her cruel remarks, you were helpless +to retort, and owed your escape to my help. + +What a delight the ocean voyage was to us! Those were the times of +ten-day trips, still dear to all true lovers of the sea; and had our +wishes been consulted, thrice ten would have been none too long for our +passage. The officers, the crew, the stewards, and the passengers were +no more proof against your indefinable spell than was I, and it seemed +quite as if the boat were your private yacht, with all on board seeking +only to serve you. Our pleasure was so intense that we planned an ideal +future, in which I was to become the captain of a steam-ship, and you +were to live on the vessel in some equally delightful if impossible +capacity. + +The last time I was in Paris, I walked several miles merely to look at +the outside of our pension, and then went on and sat dreaming in the +little park near it in which we passed so many hours of our stay in +that city. As of old, the place was full of children and nurses, and I +understood what had puzzled me not a little in recollection,—how you +and I, without mingling with them, had learned so quickly the language +they chattered. Do you remember their friendly advances, met only by +rebuffs? My coldness flowed from shyness, and yours from a trait that +people to this day call haughtiness, but which I know to be only a +fastidious refinement that yields acquaintance to few and friendship to +fewer. From the moment you came into my life I craved no other friend, +and you seemed equally content. What was there in me that won for me +what you gave so rarely? Was there an instinct of natural sympathy, or +was it merely pity for me in the loving heart you masked behind that +subtle face? + +It is indicative of what children we still were that during the whole +of our sojourn in Paris neither of us was conscious that our standard +of living had changed. We lodged in a cheap pension; instead of our own +carriage we used the omnibus; and a thousand other evidences told the +story of real economy; yet not one we observed except the disappearance +of our _bonne_, and this was noted, not as a loss, but as a joy to +both. + +After the nurse was gone my father became more than ever our comrade, +and a better one two children never had. Oh, those long excursions to +Versailles, Montmartre, and Fontainebleau, our boat trips up and down +the Seine, and our shorter jaunts within the city! What happiness it +was to us when he came in whistling and cried, “Donald, Maizie, you are +horribly bad children, and I’m going to take you on a lark to punish +you!” After time spent in filling our lunch-basket with big rolls +bought at the _boulangerie_, a few sous’ worth of cherries or other +fruit lengthily bargained for with the _fruitier_, and a half litre of +cheap wine, plus whatever other luxuries our imaginations or our +appetites could suggest, away we would go for a long day of pure +delight, whether passed under green trees or wandering through +galleries and museums. My father was an encyclopædia of information, +and had the knack of making knowledge interesting to the child mind. He +could re-create a bygone period from a battle-axe or a _martel de fer_, +the personality of a queen from her lace ruff or stomacher, and the +history of plant growth from a fern or flower. If his mind had been +allowed to expand when he was young, instead of being stunted in a +broker’s office, I believe he might have been one of the world’s great +writers or critics. + +Under such stimulating tutelage our progress in those two years was +really wonderful. No subject my father touched upon could remain dull; +we were at a receptive age when the mind is fresh and elastic for all +that interests it, and Paris was a great picture-book to illustrate +what he taught us. We did not know we were studying far deeper into +subjects than many educated people ever go. I laugh still at your +telling the old German on the train to Sèvres the history of the Faust +plot, and at his amazed “Ach, zo!” to hear such erudition pour from +your childish lips. I think you were the cleverer and the quicker, but +there was no competition, only fellowship about our learning. I suppose +you were above rivalry, as you are above all mean things. + +And that is your chief glory to me. In those seven years of closest +companionship, and in these last three years of lesser intercourse but +far keener observation, I have never known you to do a mean thing or to +speak a mean thought. I almost feel it treason to couple the word with +you, or deny a trait so impossible for you to possess, and of which you +have always shown such scorn and hatred. At this moment I know that I +should only have to speak to part you forever from—Ah, what foolishness +I am writing, tempting me to even greater meanness than his, and so to +deserve the greater contempt from you! Thinking me base, you closed +your doors to me three years ago, and I love you the better that not +even for auld lang syne could you pardon what is so alien to you. If +the day ever comes when you again admit me to your friendship, I shall +be happy in knowing that you think me above baseness or meanness; for +you would not compound with them, Maizie, be the circumstances what +they might. + +Our Paris life would not have been so happy and careless but for the +slight part my mother had in it. So little did we see of her in those +years that I think of her scarcely as one of us. I remember dimly a +scene of hot anger between her and my father,—he standing passively by +the high porcelain stove, while she raged about the room. So great was +her fury that once, in passing, as I crouched scared and silent on the +sofa, she struck me,—a blow which brought my father to my side, where +he stood protectingly while the storm lasted, with his hand resting +lovingly on my shoulder. My vague impression is that the outburst was +only a protest against the poor lodgings, but it may have occurred when +some explanation took place between my parents. I can see my mother +now, sitting on the little balcony overlooking the garden of our +pension, snarling an ill-natured word at us as you and I tried to play +consultation games of chess against my father. He gave us odds at first +of the rook and two pawns, but finally only of a knight. Oh, the +triumph of those victories! How we gloried in them, and how delighted +our antagonist was when we conquered him! Little we minded what my +mother did except when we happened to be alone with her, and I think +that the dear father played bad chess with us rather than good at the +cafés, and made us his companions wherever he went, to save us from her +severity. + +I can recall very clearly her constant difficulties with our landlady +and the servants, which finally culminated in a request that we should +seek lodgings elsewhere. Do you recollect Madame Vanott’s clasping us +both in her arms and filling our hands with bonbons, when the time of +parting came? I do not know where we removed to, my sole remembrance of +the next few weeks being of my mother’s complaints of lodgings, food, +servants, and French life generally. We moved three times within a +month, fairly expelled by our landlords because they could not live at +peace with “la Madame.” Our last exodus began in an angry scene between +her and the housewife, in which a gendarme played a part, and from +which you and I fled. The next morning we learned that my mother had +determined to return to America, and leave us to live our own life. +Three days later we said emotionless good-bys, my father going as far +as Havre with her. + +Her departure set us asking questions, and my father’s replies +explained many things which, in our childish talks, we had gravely +discussed. He told us how his own wealth had been lost in Wall Street, +barely enough being left for a competence even in Europe. Of my +mother’s leaving us he spoke sadly. “She never pretended to care for +me,” he said, “but I loved her and was willing to marry her. The wrong +was mine, and we should not blame her if, when I can no longer give +what was her price, she does not choose to continue the one-sided +bargain.” At the time her absence seemed to you and me only a relief, +but now, as I look back, I know that my father never ceased to love +her,—all the more, perhaps, because his love had never been +requited,—and that separation must have been the final wrecking of his +life. Yet from the day she left us I never heard him speak an angry +word, and sorrow that would have crushed most men seemed to make him +the gentler and sweeter. I wish—Ah! the clock is striking three, and if +I am to bring working power to working hours I must stop writing. + +Good-night, dear one. + + + + +III + + +_February 22._ After my mother left us we did not stay in Paris, but +went to Ischl, which we made merely the point of departure for walking +tours which often lasted for weeks. Several times I have spoken of the +region to you, hoping to draw from you some remark proving a +recollection of those days, but you always avoid reply. Yet I am sure +they are not forgotten, for miles of the Tyrol and Alps are as familiar +to me as the garnishings of a breakfast-table. My father had the tact +and kindly humor that make a man equally at home and welcome in +_Gasthaus_ and _Schloss_. Though we traveled with only a knapsack, his +breeding and education were so patent to whomsoever we met that we +spent many a night inside of doors with armorial coats of many +quarterings carved above them, and many a day’s shooting and fishing +followed. Yet pleasant as was this impromptu and “gentle” hospitality, +I think we were all quite as happy when our evenings were spent among +the peasants, drinking beer, talking of farming and forestry, singing +songs, or listening to the blare of the peripatetic military band. + +My father was a fine German scholar, and you and I acquired the +language as quickly and as easily as we learned French. We always had +books in our pockets, and used to lie for hours under the trees, +reading aloud. Long discussions followed over what we had conned, +enriched by the thousand side-lights my father could throw on any +subject. To most people reading is a resort to save themselves from +thinking, but my father knew that pitfall, and made us use books as a +basis for thought on our own part. After a volume was finished we would +each write a criticism of it, and the comparison of my boyish attempts +with his brilliant, comprehensive, and philosophic work taught me more +of writing than all the tuition I ever had. + +My craving for knowledge, always strong, became inordinate, probably +because the acquisition of it was made so fascinating that I learned +without real exertion. I began to find limits even to my father’s +erudition, and chafed under them. He reviewed his Greek that he might +impart it to us, as he had long before taught us Latin, and together we +all three studied Spanish and Italian. I was not satisfied, for my +desire for the one thing my father was unable to teach was not appeased +by the twenty which he could. I begged for regular tuition, and, +indulgent as he always was, he took us to Heidelberg, where I was +enrolled in the gymnasium. Yet the long hours of separation that this +entailed made little difference in our relations, since except for +these we were inseparable. Whenever my school-work left us time to quit +Heidelberg we made walking tours, and we availed ourselves of the +summer holiday to see far-away lands. The great libraries were our +chief goals, but everything interested us, from the archaic plough we +saw in the field to the masterpiece of the gallery. I do not know +whether I was dull for my years, but I do know that you were precocious +and had no difficulty in keeping up with me in my studies. Indeed, +thanks to your own brightness and to the long hours spent with my +father while I was reciting, you went ahead of me in many respects. It +makes me very happy now to think of what you two were to each other, +and to know that you are so largely indebted to him for the depth and +brilliance of mind that I hear so often commented upon. And I love you +all the better because you made those years so happy to him by your +love and companionship. + +Last winter Mrs. Blodgett accused me of being a misogynist, and proved +her point by asking me to tell the color of Agnes’s eyes. You and Agnes +only laughed when I miscolored them, but Mrs. Blodgett was really +nettled. “There!” she said. “Apparently, Agnes and I are the only women +you ever go to see or pretend to care for, and yet you think so little +of us that you don’t know the color of our eyes.” Had she only asked me +to describe your eyes in place of Agnes’s I should not have erred, but +I suppose even then the world would be justified in thinking I do not +care for woman’s society. Certainly you, of all others, have the right +to think so, after my twice refusing your friendship; and yet it is my +love of you far more than my studies or shyness that has made me +indifferent to other women. And so far from being a misogynist, I care +for as few men as women. You perhaps recall how much apart I kept +myself from my fellow students, and how my father had to urge me to +join them in the fencing and chess contests? Later, at the university, +after you had left us, I entered more eagerly into the two pastimes, +and succeeded in making myself a skilled swordsman. As for chess, I +learned to play the game you tested last October on the veranda of My +Fancy. You looked courteously grave when, after our initial battle, I +had to ask from you the odds of a pawn, and never dreamed that I +fathomed your secret triumph over your victory. You are so delightfully +human and womanly, after all, Maizie, to any one who can read your +thoughts. It is a pleasure to see your happiness in the consciousness +of your own power, and I grudge you victory over me no more than over +other men. Yet while you play better chess, I think you could not +conquer me quite as easily if I were not much more interested in +studying the player than the play. Perhaps but for you I should have +made friends, for later, at Leipzig, despite my shyness and +studiousness, I seemed fairly popular; but so long as I had you I cared +for no other friend, and after our separation I could form no new tie. +Neither in love nor in friendship have you ever had a rival in my +heart. + +Our happiness ended the day when Johann, the poor factotum of our +lodging-place, found us in the castle park and summoned us back to the +house, where my father and Mr. Walton were awaiting you. The news that +we were to be parted came so suddenly that we could not believe it. I +stood in stunned silence, while you declared that you would not go with +your uncle; even in that terrible moment speaking more like a queen +issuing orders than like a rebel resisting authority. We both appealed +to my father, and the tears stood in his eyes as he told us we must be +parted. Mr. Walton sat with the cool and slightly bored look that his +worldly face wears so constantly, and I presume it was impossible for +him to understand our emotion. + +Your luggage had been packed while we were being summoned, and I +carried your bag down to the carriage, in the endeavor to do you some +last little service. We did not even go through the form of a farewell, +but, tearless and speechless, held each other’s hands till my father +gently separated us. To this day the snap of a whip causes me to catch +my breath, it brings back so vividly the crack with which Mr. Walton’s +cabman whipped up his horse. Fate was merciful, for she gave me no +glimpse of the future, and so left me the hope that we should not be +parted long. I question if the delicate lad of those days could have +borne the thought that our separation, enforced by others, would in +time be continued by you. + +The life was too happy to last; and yet I do not know why I write that, +for I do not believe that God’s children are born to be wretched, and I +would sooner renounce my faith in him than believe him so cruel to his +own creations. The sadness and estrangement in my life are all of human +origin, and mine, it seems to me, has been a fuller cup of bitterness +than most men have to drink. Or am I only magnifying my own sufferings, +and diminishing those of my fellow mortals? To the world I am a +fortunate man, with promise of even greater success. Do all the people +about me, who seem to be equally prosperous, bury away from sight some +grief like mine that beggars joy? + +Can you, Maizie, in the tide and triumph of your beauty and wealth, +hide any such death-wound to all true happiness? Pray God you do not. +Good-night, my darling. + + + + +IV + + +_February 23._ After you were gone I fled to my room, crawling under +the window-seat, much as a mortally wounded animal tries to hide +itself. Here my father found me many hours later, speechless and +shivering. He drew me from my retreat, and I still remember the sting +of the brandy as he poured it down my throat. Afterwards the doctor +came, to do nothing; but all that night my father sat beside me, and +towards morning he broke down my silence, and we talked together over +the light which had gone out of our lives, till I fell asleep. He told +me that the death of your two aunts had made you a great heiress, and +rendered your continuance with us, in our poverty, impossible. “She’s +gone away out of our class, Donald,” my father said sadly, “and in the +change of circumstances her mother wouldn’t have made me her guardian. +It was better for all of us to let her uncle take her back to New +York.” Even in my own grief I felt his sorrow, and though he did not +dodge my questions, I could see how the subject pained him, and avoided +it thenceforth. How strangely altered my life would have been if I had +insisted on knowing more! + +The doctor came several times afterwards, for I did not rally as I +should have done, and at last he ordered a year’s cessation of studies +and plenty of exercise. It was a terrible blow to me at the time, for I +was on the point of entering the University of Leipzig; but now I can +see it was all for the best, since the time given to our tours through +Spain and Italy was well spent, and the delay made me better able to +get the full value of the lectures. Moreover, that outdoor life added +three inches to the height and seventeen pounds to the weight of the +hitherto puny boy. For a time my father made my health his care, and +insisted on my walking and fencing daily; but after that long holiday +he need not have given it a thought, for I grew steadily to my present +height, and while always of slender build, I can outwalk or outwork +many a stockier man. + +My university career was successful; it could hardly have failed to be, +with my training. I fear that I became over-elated with my success, not +appreciating how much it was due to my father’s aid and to the kindness +of two of my instructors. For my Ph. D. I made a study of the great +race movements of the world, in which my predilection for philology, +ethnology, and history gave me an especial interest. I so delighted my +professor of philology by my enthusiasm and tirelessness that he stole +long hours from the darling of his heart to aid me. (I need hardly add +that I do not allude to Frau Jastrow, but to his Verb-Roots of +Fifty-Two Languages and Dialects of Indo-Germanic Origin, to be +published some day in seventeen volumes, quarto.) He even brought me +bundles of his manuscript to read and criticise. Our relations were as +intimate as were possible between a professor and a student, and +despite his reputation for ill temper the only evidence he ever gave me +of it was a certain querulousness over the gaps in human knowledge. + +My doctor’s thesis on A Study of the Influence of Religion in the +Alienation and Mixture of Races—which, with a vanity I now laugh over, +I submitted not merely in Latin, but as an original work in four other +languages—was not only the delight of both my dear professors, but was +well considered outside the university. At Jastrow’s urging, poor +Buchholtz printed editions in all five languages; and as only the +German had any sale worth mentioning, he ever after looked gloomy at a +mere allusion to the title. But though it earned me no royalties, it +won me the Kellermann prize, given every fifth year for the best +original work on an historical subject. + +On our first arrival in Leipzig my father sought literary employment +from the great publishers of that city of books, and soon obtained all +the “review” and “hack” writing that he wished. He encouraged me to +help him in the work, and in my training probably lay his chief +inducement, for he was paid at starvation rates in that land of hungry +authors. The labor quickly taught me the technical part of authorship, +the rock which has wrecked so many hopes. Our work brought us, too, the +acquaintance of many literary men, and thus gave us our pleasantest +society, and one peculiarly fitted to develop me. Furthermore, we +secured command of the unlimited books stored on the publishers’ +shelves, which we used as freely as if they were our own private +library. + +Very quickly I began to do more than help my father in his work; I +myself tried to write. He put many a manuscript in the fire, after +going over the faults with me, but finally I wrote something that he +let me send to an editor. His admirable judgment must have been warped +by his fatherly love, for the article was rejected. A like fate befell +many others, but at last one was accepted, and I do not know which of +us was the more delighted when it was published in the “Zeitschrift für +Deutsche Philologie.” By my father’s advice it was signed with a +pseudonym; for he pointed out that I was still too young for editors +who knew me to give my manuscript a reading, and that a German name +would command greater respect from them than an English one. + +I received twenty marks for that first article, and spent it in secret +the next day. Had you known of my pleasure in the gift, and the hopes +that went with it, I think you would have sent a line of acknowledgment +to the hungry-hearted fellow who, after four years of separation, still +longed for a token from you. Three times had I written, without +response, but I thought the beauty of the photograph would so appeal to +you that it must bring me back a word from you, and lived in the hope +for six months. My father joked me genially about what I had done with +that vast wealth, pretending at moments that he believed it had been +avariciously hoarded, and at other times that it had been squandered in +riotous living, till one day, when all hope of acknowledgment had died, +his chaff wrung from me an exclamation of pain, suppressed too late to +be concealed from him. So closely attuned had we become that he +understood in an instant what it meant, and, laying his hand on my +shoulder, he appealed, “Forgive me, my boy! I have been very cruel in +my thoughtlessness!” + +Nothing more was said then, but later that evening, when we rose from +our work, he asked, “She never replied?” and when I shook my head, the +saddest look I ever saw in him came upon his face. He seemed about to +speak impulsively, faltered, checked himself, and finally entreated, +“Bear up, Donald, and try to forget her.” I could only shake my head +again, but he understood. “She’s feminine quicksilver,” he groaned, +“and I can’t get the dear girl out of my blood, either.” We gripped +each other’s hands for a moment, and I said, “Good-night, father,” and +he replied, “God help you, my boy.” How happy we should have been could +we have bidden you, “Good-night, Maizie!” + + + + +V + + +_February 24._ I cannot clearly fix the time when first I decided upon +a life of letters, and presume it was my father’s influence which +determined me. After the publication of my first article, all the time +I could spare from my studies was devoted to writing. Most of it was +magazine work, but two text-books were more ambitious flights. +Undertaken at my father’s suggestion, the books were revised by him, +till they should have been published with his name, and not my +pseudonym, on the title-page. This I urged, but he would not hear of +it, insisting that his work was trivial compared with mine. I +understand his motive now, and see how wise and loving he was in all +his plans. Thanks to his skill in clarifying knowledge and fitting it +to the immature mind, both books attained a large sale almost +immediately on their publication. + +My father’s abnegation went further, and occasioned the only quarrel we +ever had. After the publication of several of my articles, in reading +the Deutsche Rundschau I found an interesting critique signed with the +name I had adopted as a pseudonym. I laughingly called my father’s +attention to it, yet really feeling a little sore that the credit of my +work should go to another, for the first literary offspring are very +dear to an author’s heart. From that time I was constantly meeting with +the name, but stupidly failed to recognize my father’s brilliant, +luminous touch till the publication of another article of my writing +revealed the truth to me; for at the end of this I found again my +pseudonym, though I had signed my own name. On my sending an indignant +letter to the editor, he returned me the revised proof of my article, +at the bottom of which “Donald Maitland” was struck out, and “Rudolph +Hartzmann” substituted. My father had made the change in the last +revision, and had returned the sheets without letting me see them. + +In a moment the veil was gone from my eyes, and, grieved and angry, I +charged him with the deception. I do not like to think of what I said +or of the gentleness with which he took it. The next day, when I was +cooler, he pleaded with me to let him continue signing the name to his +articles; but I insisted that I would not permit the double use, and +the only concession he could win from me was that I would still keep +the name provided he refrained from using it again. How could I resist +his “Don, I never asked anything but this of you. I am an old man with +no possibility of a career. You are all I have to love or work for in +this world. Let me try to help you gain a name.” Oh, father, if I had +only understood, I would not have been so cruel as to deny your +request, but would have sacrificed my own honesty and allowed the lie +rather than have refused what now I know to have been so dear a wish. I +even resented what I thought a foolish joke of his, when he registered +us constantly at hotels as “Rudolph Hartzmann and father.” It is poetic +justice that in time I should stoop to so much greater dishonesty than +that which I was intolerant of in him. + +Owing as much to his articles as to those I subsequently wrote, my +pseudonym became a recognized one in the world of letters, and my work +soon commanded a good price. Furthermore, considerable interest was +excited as to the author. There is a keen delight in anonymous +publication, for one does not get the one-sided chatter that +acknowledged authors receive, and often I have sat in the midst of a +group of littérateurs and scholars and heard my articles talked over. I +was tempted even to discuss one,—disparaging it, of course,—and can +remember the way my father hid his laughter when a member of the party +said, “Maitland, you ought to write an article refuting Hartzmann, for +you’ve got the knowledge to do it.” It amuses me to think how vain and +elated I became over what now I see was only ’prentice work. I am glad +you did not know me in those years of petty victory, and that before we +met I had been saddened and humbled. + +Some one at Mr. Whitely’s dinner, this winter, asked what was a +sufficient income, and you, Maizie, gravely answered, “A little more +than one has,” which made us all laugh. If you had not been the quicker +and the wittier, and thus forestalled me, I should have said, “Enough +to satisfy the few or many wishes each person creates within himself +which money can satisfy.” Thanks to my prize, my writings, and the +profits of my text-books, I obtained this. In fact, the three so +lengthened my purse that I fancy few millionaires have ever felt so +truly rich; for I was enabled to gratify my greatest wish. In our +visits to Spain, Italy, and Constantinople, I had garnered all that I +could find bearing on the two great race movements of the Moors and +Turks, which so changed the world’s history; but I had discovered that +I needed more than the documentary materials to write clearly of them. +I longed to go to their source, and then follow the channels along +which those racial floods had rushed, till, encountering the steel +armor and gunpowder of Europe, they had dashed in scattered spray, +never to gather force again. In my eagerness I had been for making the +attempt before, but my father had urged our limited means and the +shortness of my university vacations as bars to my wishes. My degree +removed the one objection, and my earnings and prize the other. Few +persons would care to undertake the travel we planned with the pittance +we had earned, but it was enough for us. How fortunate it is for me +that my student life and travels trained me to absolute self-denial and +frugality! Otherwise these last three years of closest economy and +niggardliness would have been hard to bear. + +By the influence of Professor Humzel, working first through his former +pupil, Baron Weiseman, secondly through Giers, and thirdly through I +know not whom, we secured permission to join a Russian surveying party, +and thus safely and expeditiously reached the mountains of the Altai +range. We did not stay with the party after they began their work, but +assuming native dress we turned southward; plunging instantly among the +medley of peoples and tongues which actually realizes the mythical +Babel. Turkish, Hebrew, Arabic, and Sanskrit I had mastered in varying +degrees, and they were an “open sesame” to the dialects we encountered, +while the hot sun and open-air life soon colored us so deeply that we +passed for men of a distant but not alien race. Following nature’s +routes, once man’s only paths, we wandered leisurely: to Tashkend on +horseback, to Bokhara on foot, by boat down the Amoo to Khiva, and on +to Teheran, then by caravan to Bagdad, up the Euphrates, gradually +working through Asia Minor. Stopping at Smyrna for a brief rest, we +took boat to Cyprus, from thence crossed to Damascus, and from +Jerusalem traveled along the caravan route to Mecca. Passing over the +Red Sea to Egypt, we skirted the south coast of the Mediterranean, till +we reached the Pillars of Hercules. + +You ought to have made that pilgrimage. In speaking of my book you +expressed the wish that you might make such a trip, and those years +would have been as great a playtime to you as to us. You could have +borne the exposure, rough though the life was, and it would have been +as compound oxygen to your brave and venturesome nature. I confess I do +not like to think of that dazzlingly pure skin burned to any such +blackness as I saw in my mirror on reaching the end of our journeyings; +for truly no better Arab in verisimilitude strolled about the native +quarter of Tangier in May, 1886, than Donald Maitland. + +My long study of those older races and three years’ life spent among +them have not made me accept their dogma of fatalism, yet I must +believe that something stronger than chance produced our meeting in +that Moorish town. Down streams, over mountains, and across deserts, +seas, and oceans, our paths had converged; on foot, mounted, by rail or +boat, we came together as if some hidden magnet were drawing us both. A +thousand chances were against our meeting, even when we were in the +same town; for you were housed in the best hotel, while we lodged in a +little Jewish place in the Berber quarter. In another day my father and +I should have crossed to Spain, without so much as a visit to the +European section. But for that meeting I should have returned to +Leipzig, and passed a contented life as a Herr Doctor and Professor; +for though my heart was still warm with love of you, it had been denied +and starved too long to have the strength to draw me from the path my +head had marked out. Yet I would not now accept the unemotional and +peaceful career I had planned in lieu of my present life; for if my +love is without hope, it is still love, and though you turned me away +from your door with far less courtesy than you would shut out a beggar, +yet I am near you and see you constantly, and that is worth more to me +than peace. Good-night, my love. God bless you. + + + + +VI + + +_February 25._ It was thought of you which led to our meeting. After +the evening meal of dried salt fish, pancakes, dates, and coffee, my +father and I wandered out to the Sok, and, as was our wont, sat down +among the people. Refusing the hasheesh water and sweetmeats which the +venders urged upon us, “to make you dream of your love joyfully,” we +listened to the story-tellers and the singers. Some one with a fine +natural voice sang presently an Arabic love-song:— + +“My love, so lovely yet so cruel, +Why came you so to torture me? +Could I but know the being who +Has caused you thus to hate me! +Once I saw and gazed upon your lovely form each hour, +But now you ever shun me. +Yet still each night you come in dreams +For me to ask, Who sent you? +Your answer is, Him whom I love, +And you bid me then forget my passion. +But I reply, If it was not for love, how could the world go on?” + + +It was a song I had heard and loved in many lands and many dialects, +but that night it stirred me deeply, and brought to mind your image, +ever dear. I sat and dreamed of you till the farrago about me became +unbearable; and whispering a word to my father, I rose and strode away, +with a yearning truly mastering. I could have had no thought that you +were near, for when we stood far closer I was still unconscious of your +presence. But if not an intuition, I ask what could it be? + +Wandering through the narrow streets without purpose or goal, I +presently saw looming above me the great hill on which stands the +Alcassaba. Climbing in the brilliant moonlight up the steep and +ill-conditioned road, and passing that jumble of buildings upon which +so many races and generations have left their impress, I strolled along +the wall to a ruined embrasure at the corner overlooking the sea. How +long I stood there leaning upon the parapet I do not know. Not till you +were close upon me was I conscious that my solitude was ended. + +I heard footsteps, but was too incurious to turn and glance at the +intruders. Nay, more, when that harsh, strident, American voice +demanded, “There, isn’t that great?” I felt so irritated by both tone +and words that but for the seeming rudeness I should have moved away at +once. You spoke so low I could not hear your reply, and I wonder what +you said,—for his “great” applied to such beauty must have rasped much +more on your artistic sense than it did on mine. + +“And this black fellow in the turban standing here,” continued the +strident voice, “he fits, too, like the paper on the wall, though +probably he’s a sentry taking forty winks on the sly. It makes an +American mad to see how slack things are run over here.” + +I heard a gentle “Hush,” and then a murmur as you went on speaking. + +“None of these black fellows speak English,” came the self-assured +voice again. Then, though I could have heard his natural tone full +fifty feet away, the man called much louder: “Hey! what’s the name of +that point out there?” + +I should have chosen to make no answer; but remembering the courtesy +and dignity of the race I was impersonating, I replied without turning, +“Cape Spartel.” + +You must have said something, for a moment later he laughed, saying, +“Not a bit of it. Now see me jolly him up.” I heard footsteps, and then +some one leaned against the parapet, close beside me. “Backsheesh,” he +intimated, and jingled some coins in his pocket. + +I stood silent, so he tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Are you one +of the palace guards?” Unsuppressed by my monosyllabic “No,” he +persisted by saying, “What’s your business, then?” jingling his coins +again. “Stop pulling me, Mai,” he added, as an aside. + +“I am a stranger in Tangier,” I answered quietly. + +“From whereabouts?” he questioned. + +“The East.” + +“Oh, you’re one of the wise men, are you?” he observed jocosely. “Are +you a Jew or a Mohammedan?” + +“Not the latter, fortunately for you.” + +“And why fortunately?” he nagged. + +“Because a true believer would have taken the question as a deadly +insult.” + +“They’d be welcome,” he laughed, “though it is rather irritating to be +mistaken for a Jew. I shouldn’t like it myself.” + +I thought of the dignified Jew traders who had made part of our caravan +in the journey from Bagdad to Damascus, and answered, “There is little +danger of that.” + +“I guess not,” he assented. “But if you aren’t a Jew or a Mohammedan, +what are you?” + +He had spoiled my mood, and since it was gone I thought I would amuse +myself with the man. “A seeker of knowledge from the Altai Mountains,” +I responded. + +“Never heard of them,” he announced; “or is it your Choctaw for those?” +he added, pointing towards the dark masses of the Atlas Mountains. + +I smiled and answered, “They are many moons’ travel from here.” + +“Oh!” he exclaimed. “How did you happen to come?” + +“To follow after those gone before.” + +“I see,” he said. “Relatives, I suppose? Hope you found them well?” + +“No,” I replied, carrying on the humor, “dying.” + +He jingled his coins, and asked, “Anything to be done for them?” + +“Nothing.” + +“What’s the complaint?” + +“Civilization in the abstract, repeating rifles and rapid-firing guns +in the concrete.” + +“Eh!” he ejaculated. + +Then the lowest and sweetest of voices said, “Won’t you tell us what +you mean?” + +Was it my irritation that the man before me, rather than the +subtler-passioned people I knew so well, was the dominant type of the +moment, or was it the sympathy your voice stirred within me, which made +me speak? In a moment I was sketching broadly the inhumanity of this +thing we call Christian civilization, which, more grasping than the +Inquisition, has overrun the world, tearing the lands from their +owners, and, not content with this spoliation, demands of its victims +that they shall give up the customs of many centuries’ evolution, and +conform to habits, governments, and religions which their very +instincts make impossible; and because they cannot change, but break +out, these believers in the golden rule shoot them down. I protested at +the mockery of calling civilized a world held at peace by constant +slaughter, or of styling the national Jack Ketches of humanity +Christian nations! I protested against the right of one man to hold +another barbaric because he will not welcome his master, greet with joy +the bands of steel we call railroads, and crush his nature within the +walls of vast factories, to make himself the threefold slave of +society, government, and employer. And finally, I gloried in the fact +that though the white races had found a weapon against the black and +yellow ones which enabled them to overrun and subjugate, yet nature had +provided nature’s people with the defense of climate,—a death-line to +the whites; and behind that line the colored races are unconquerable in +the sense of conquest being extinction. I knew the other side, that +altruistic tenet of political economy defined in brief as “the greatest +good of the greatest number,” and in my mind held the even balance of +the historian between the two; but to this utilitarian, modern, +self-satisfied American I had to urge the rights of races thousands of +years our senior, and far in advance of us in the knowledge and +amenities that make life worth the most. + +You both were silent till I ended; but I had best left unspoken what +your companion could not understand, for when I finished he inquired, +“What mountains did you say you came from?” And when I told him, he +added laughingly, “You must have some pretty good stump speaking in +your elections.” + +“We are very grateful for your explanation,” you thanked me gently. + +“Never been in America?” he surmised; and except for you I should have +told him that I was his countryman, it would have been so adequate a +retort to his inference. But your voice and manner had made me so +ashamed of my earlier mood that I merely answered, “Yes.” + +“Humph!” he grunted in surprise; and as if to prove his incorrigibility +he continued, “Thought your ideas were too back-number for that.” + +I could not help laughing, and the moment my laugh became articulate +yours too overflowed your lips, as a spring breaks past its edges and +falls rippling over pebbles. + +That laugh, so well remembered, revealed your presence to me. My heart +beat quickly and my head whirled dizzily, and in my bewilderment I took +a step backward, quite forgetting the embrasure, till a stone gave way +and I felt that I was falling. Then my consciousness went from me, and +when thought came surging backward I lay a moment quiet, thinking it +must have been a dream. + +“He’s coming round all right,” I heard, and at the sound I opened my +eyes. You were leaning over me with the moonlight shining on your face, +and I caught my breath, you were so beautiful. + +“You’ve given us a scare,” continued the man, on whose knee my head was +resting. “You want to keep your wits about you better. Pretty poor +business tumbling off walls, but that’s what comes of having ruins. You +won’t be quite so cocky in the future about your run-out races.” + +I felt his laughter justified, but hardly heeded it, my thoughts were +so engaged. You were wetting my forehead with brandy, and I lay there +too happy to speak. + +“Now let me raise you a bit higher,” the man offered kindly, “so you +can get your addled senses back.” He lifted me, and I groaned at the +sudden terrible pain that shot up my leg. + +“Hello!” he cried, laying me gently down. “Something wrong, after all? +What is it?” + +“My leg,” I moaned. + +“Here, Maizie, hold his head, while I appoint an investigating +committee,” he ordered, and in another moment I felt your arms about +me, and in my joy at your touch I almost forgot my torture. + +“Well, you’ve broken one of your walking-sticks,” the man informed me, +after a gentler touching of it than I thought possible to his nature. +“Now, Maizie, if you’ll sit and hold his head, I’ll get a litter. You +won’t mind staying here alone, will you?” + +“It is my wish,” you acceded calmly. + +“O. K.,” he said, rising, and even in his kindness he could not help +but seize the opportunity to glorify his country. “If this had happened +in New York, Mr. Altai, we’d have had an ambulance here five minutes +ago! Civilization isn’t all bad, I tell you, as you’d find out if you’d +give it a chance.” + +The moment he was gone I tried to speak, and murmured “Maizie;” but you +let me get no further, saying “Hush,” and putting your hand softly over +my lips. I suppose you thought me merely repeating the name he had +called you, while I loved your touch too deeply to resist the hand I +longed to kiss. Now I am glad I did not speak, for if I had it would +have robbed me of my last sweet moment with you. + +Long before I thought it possible, and far too soon, indeed, despite my +suffering, we heard men approaching. When the torch-bearers came +climbing over the rocks, my first desire was to see how much of your +beauty was owing to the moonlight, and my heart leaped with exultation +to find that you were beautiful even in the livid glare of the torches. + +“Now, Mr. Altai,” your companion remarked, “where shall we take you?” +and I gave him the name of the hotel. A moment later, as they lifted +me, I again fainted, but not till I had kissed your hand. You snatched +it away, and did not hear my weakly whispered “Good-night, Maizie.” + + + + +VII + + +_February 26._ The setting of my leg, that night, was so long and +exhausting an operation that after it was done I was given an opiate. +Instead of bringing oblivion the drug produced a dreamy condition, in +which I was cognizant of nothing that happened about me, and saw only +your face. I knew I ought to sleep, and did my best to think of other +things; but try as I might, my thought would return and dwell upon your +beauty. + +I have often wished I had been born an artist, that I might try to +paint your portrait, for words can no more picture you than they can +transmit the fragrance of a violet. Indeed, to me the only word which +even expresses your charm is “radiant,” and that to others, who have +never seen you, would suggest little. No real beauty can be described, +for it rests in nothing that is tangible. In truth, to speak of your +glorious hair, the whiteness of your brow and throat, the brilliant +softness of your eyes, or the sweetness yet strength of your tender +though unsmiling lips is to make but a travesty of description. I have +heard painters talk of your hair and try to convey an idea of its +beauty, but I know it too well even to make the attempt. When we were +gazing at the rainbow, last autumn, and you said that if its tints +could be transferred to a palette you believed it would be possible to +paint anything, I could not help correcting, “Except your hair.” You +laughed, and declared, “I did not know you ever made that kind of a +speech!” whereupon Agnes cried, “Didn’t I ever tell you, Maizie, the +compliment the doctor paid you last winter?” I thought she was alluding +to my retort when my mother asserted that your eyes were so large and +lustrous that, to her, they were “positively loud.” Indignant at such a +remark, Agnes had appealed to me to deny it. Not caring to treat the +malicious speech seriously, I had answered that I could not agree, +though I had sometimes thought your eyes “too dressy for the +daytime,”—a joke I have heard so often quoted that it is apparently in +a measure descriptive, yet one which I should have felt mortified at +hearing repeated to you. Fortunately Agnes’s reference was to another +remark of mine, in which, speaking of your mouth, I had crudely +translated a couple of lines from a Persian poem:— + +“In vain you strive to speak a bitter word— +It meets the sweetness of your lips ere it is heard.” + + +You were too used to compliments to be embarrassed when the lines were +repeated, and only looked at me in a puzzled way. I do not wonder you +were surprised at the implied admiration of the two speeches, after my +apparent coldness and indifference. My behavior must seem to you as +full of contradictions as your beauty is to me. To say your great +attraction is the radiance—the verve, spirit, and capacity for +enthusiasm—of which one cannot fail to be conscious is to deny the calm +dignity with which you bear yourself, yet both these qualities belong +to you. The world insists that you are proud and distant, and your face +has the clean-cut features which we associate with patrician blood, +while your height and figure, and the set and carriage of your head +upon that slender throat, suggest a goddess. But I, who understand you +so much better than the world, know that your proud face overlies the +tenderest of natures, and is not an index, but a mask of feelings you +do not care to show. As for the people who criticise you most, they +would be the last to do so if they were not conscious of the very +superiority they try to lessen.—Ah, how foolish it is to write all +this, as if I needed to convince myself of what I know so well! And +even if this were for the eye of others, to those who know you not it +would be but the extravagant idealism for which a lover is proverbial. + +When I awoke from the sleep my dreaming had drifted into, my first +request of my father was to find your whereabouts. He told me that a +dragoman had come that morning to inquire for me,—and had left what now +he showed me,—a great bunch of roses and a basket of fruit, with the +card of “Mr. Foster G. Blodgett, 547 Fifth Avenue,” on the back of +which was written:— + +“With sincere regrets that a previously formed plan of leaving Tangier +this morning prevents our seeing our courteous instructor of last +night, and with hopes that he may have a quick and easy recovery from +his accident.” + +The card was a man’s, but the handwriting was feminine, and the moment +my father turned his back I kissed it. I was further told that the +servant had asked my name and taken it down, giving me the instant hope +that when you knew to whom you had been so merciful, you would even +disarrange your plans to let me have a moment’s glimpse of you. But +though I listened all the afternoon hopefully and expectantly, you +never came. I felt such shyness about you, I did not speak to my father +of your beauty, and he did not question me at all. + +Our native hotel, built in Eastern fashion about a court, with only +blank outside walls, was no place in which to pass a long invalidism, +and three days later my father had me carried to the steamer, and, +crossing to Gibraltar, we traveled by easy railroad trips to Leipzig. +We had left our belongings with Jastrow, and he begged us, on our +arrival, to become members of his household, which we were only too +glad to do for a time. His joy over my return was most touching, and he +and Humzel both seemed to regard me very much as if I were the creation +of their own brains, who was to bring them immortal fame in time. My +father had long before counseled me to be a pursuer of knowledge, and +not of money; telling me the winning of the latter narrowed the +intellect and stunted the finer qualities of one’s nature, making all +men natural enemies, while the acquisition of the former broadened +one’s mind, developed the nobility within, and engendered love of one’s +associates. These two men illustrated his theory, and had my tendency +been avaricious I think their unselfish love and example would have +made me otherwise. And yet, how dare I claim to be free from +sordidness, when all my thoughts and hopes and daily life are now bent +on winning money? + +My leg was far too troublesome to permit me to sit at a desk, but my +father insisted on being my scribe; and thus, lying on a lounge, I +began part of the work I had so long planned, taking up for my first +book the Turkish irruption, the crusades against the Saracens, and +their subsequent history. Thinking so much of you, both as the child +who had won my boyish heart and as the beautiful woman whose face had +fascinated and moved me so deeply, I do not know how, except for my +work, I should have lived through those long and weary months of +enforced inaction while my leg so slowly knit. + +More as recreation from this serious endeavor than as supplementary +labor, I gathered the articles I had written for the Deutsche Rundshau +and the Revue des Deux Mondes from time to time in our travels, and +with new material from my journal I worked the whole into a popular +account of what we had seen and done. While I still used a +walking-stick I was reading proof of the German edition, and my English +replica, rather than translation, was under negotiation through my +publisher for London and New York editions. My father, who busied +himself with a French version, insisted that the book would be a great +success, and the articles under my assumed name had been so well +noticed that I was myself hopeful of what better work in book form +might do for my reputation; for against his advice, I had determined to +abandon my pseudonym. + +But all these schemes and hopes were forgotten in the illness of my +father. Contrary to my wishes, he had overworked himself in the French +translation, while his life, for months of my enforced inactivity, had +been one long service, impossible for me to avoid or refuse without +giving him pain. This double exertion proved too great a strain. The +day after he sent the manuscript to Paris, as he sat conning the sheets +of the concluding chapter of my history, he laid them down without a +word, and, leaning forward, quietly rested his head upon the table. I +was by his side and had him on the sofa in an instant, where he lay +unconscious till the doctor came. We were told that it was a slight +stroke, and by the next day he seemed quite well. But slowly he lost +the use of one side, and within a week was helpless. I like to remember +that I was well enough to tend him as he had tended me. He lingered for +a month, sweet and gentle as always; then, one evening, as I sat beside +him, he opened his eyes and said, “Good-night, Don. Good-night, +Maizie.” And with those words his loving soul went back to its Creator. + +I found about his neck a ribbon to which was attached a locket +containing the long tress you cut off for him that day in the Bois, one +of my mother’s curls, and a little tow-colored lock which I suppose was +my own hair before it darkened,—a locket I have since worn unchanged, +because, sadly discordant though such association has become, I cannot +bring myself to separate what he tied together. It seems to symbolize +his love for all of us. + +The kindness of my friends I can never forget. I was so broken down as +really to be unfit for thought, and their generous foresight did +everything possible to spare me trouble or pain. Especially to +Professor and Frau Jastrow do I owe an unpayable debt, for they made me +feel that there was still some one in whose love I stood first; and had +I been the child who had never come to them, I question if they could +have done more for me than they did. + +One thing that I had to do myself was to notify my mother of my +father’s death. From the time she had quitted us my father and I had +avoided mention of her; but during his illness he asked me to write in +case of his death, and gave me her New York address, from which I +inferred that in some way he had kept himself informed concerning her, +though I feel very certain that she had never written him. That I had +never tried to learn anything myself was due to the estrangement, but +still more to my interest in my studies and work. Now I wrote her, as I +had promised, telling her briefly the circumstances of my father’s +illness and death, and offering to write fuller details if she wished +to know them. I would not feign love for her, but I wrote tenderly of +him and without coldness to her. She never replied. + +Kind as were all my intimates, I craved more than friendship, however +loving it might be. One of the two great loves of my life had gone out +from it, and, in the gap it left, the other became doubly dear to me. +The wish to see you grew and strengthened each day, until at last it +shaped my plans, and I announced my intention to visit America; making +the specious explanation that, after my long invalidism and grief, the +change would be the best specific for me. + +At this time I received the offer of appointment as professor +extraordinarius of philology and ethnology under Jastrow, another +manifestation of his love; but till I had seen you I would not bind +myself by accepting, and through his influence I was given three months +to consider my answer. I seem doomed never to requite the services of +those I love the most, but I am glad that in the nine months which I +passed under his roof my knowledge of the Eastern dialects had pushed +his work so much nearer completion. + +Leaving all my possessions behind except the manuscript of my history, +I started on my voyage of love. For two days I tarried in Paris, +settling my little property. I had long known that the flotsam of my +father’s fortune, wrecked in Wall Street, was a few bonds deposited +with Paris bankers; and when I called upon the firm it was merely to +continue the old arrangement, by which they cut the coupons and placed +them to my bank credit. It was in this visit that I searched out our +old pension, and sat dreaming in the park. How could I imagine, +remembering those days of closest love and sympathy, and knowing too +your kindness to one you thought a mere Eastern stroller, that you +could have changed so to your former friend? + +The most curious fact to me, in looking back upon that time, is that +the idea never occurred to me that you were a married woman. It never +entered my thoughts that a beauty which fascinated and drew me so far +from my natural orbit must be an equally powerful charm to other men. +As for Mr. Blodgett, I never gave him a second thought, not even +accounting for his relations with you. My foolishness, I suppose, is +typical of the scholar’s abstraction and impracticality. + +As the steamer neared New York, my impatience to see you increased +apace. Far from longing for our old ten-day passage, I found a voyage +of seven days too long. Ridiculous as it may seem, I almost lost my +temper at the slowness of the customs examination. I believe I was half +mad, and only marvel that I did so sane a thing as to go to a hotel, +change my clothes, and dine, before attempting to see you. + +I ascertained Mr. Walton’s address the moment I reached my hotel, and +sent a messenger there to inquire your whereabouts. He brought me back +word that Mr. Walton was absent from the city, but the servant had +informed him that you still lived with your uncle and that you were in +town. + +I cannot tell you the surprise and joy I felt when, on arriving at your +house on Madison Avenue that evening, I discovered it to be our old +habitat. It seemed as if your selection of that as your home, probably +from sentiment, was a bow of promise for the future, and I rang the +bell, almost trembling with emotion and happiness. + +The footman showed me to the drawing-room and took my card. All inside, +so far as I could see, was changed past the point of recognition, but +everything was beautiful, and I felt in that one room that no +decorator’s conventional taste had formed its harmony, but that an +artistic sense had planned the whole. What a contrast it was to the old +days of untasteful and untidy richness! + +I sat but a moment before the footman returned. Looking not at me, but +over my head, and with an attitude and air as deferential as if I were +the guest of all others most welcome, he said, “Miss Walton declines +the honor of Mr. Maitland’s acquaintance, and begs to be excused.” + +The blow came so suddenly, and was so crushing, that for a moment I +lost my dignity. “There must be some mistake!” I exclaimed. “You gave +Miss Walton my card?” + +The footman only bowed assent. + +“Go to Miss Walton and say I must see her a moment.” + +“Miss Walton instructed me to add, in case Mr. Maitland persisted, that +she prefers to hold no intercourse with Mr. Maitland and will receive +no messages from him.” + +Pride came to my rescue, and I passed silently into the hall. The +servant opened the door, and I went out from my old home, never to +enter it more. At the foot of the steps I turned and looked back, +hardly yet believing what I had been told. Even in the sting and +humiliation of that moment my love was stronger than the newer +sensations. I said, “Good-night, Maizie. God keep you,” and walked +away. + + + + +VIII + + +_February 27._ I sat for hours in my room, that night, trying to find +some solution of the mystery and groping for a future course of action. +I thought of a visit to my mother, on the chance that she would give me +the key to the puzzle, but could not bring myself to it. Rejecting that +idea, I decided to seek out Mr. Blodgett, who, being your friend, might +know the reason for what you had done. + +Finding on inquiry, the next morning, that Mr. Blodgett was a member of +one of the chief banking firms of New York, I went to his office. The +ante-room was well filled with people anxious to see the great banker, +and the door-boy refused me access to him without giving my name and +business. Knowing that “Donald Maitland” would mean nothing to Mr. +Blodgett, and might even fail to secure me an audience, I wrote on a +slip of paper, “A seeker of knowledge from the Altai Mountains.” Nor +was I wrong, for the boy, on his return, gave me immediate entrance, +and another moment brought me face to face with my once-disliked +countryman. + +His hand was extended to greet me, but as he looked at my face his arm +dropped in surprise. “Your name, please?” he demanded, with a +business-like clip to his voice, at the same time picking up and +glancing quickly at three or four cards and slips of paper that were on +the corner of his desk. + +“I am the attorney for ancient peoples,” I announced, smiling, “come to +thank the New World for its kindness to a broken-legged man.” + +Instantly Mr. Blodgett smiled too, and again extended his hand. “Glad +to see you,” he said. “Sit down.” Then looking at me keenly, he added, +“You’ve done a lot of bleaching or scrubbing since we met.” + +“In the interval my face has been hidden from the sun-god of my +fathers.” + +“Ah!” Then his Americanism cropped out by a question: “Are you European +or Asiatic?—for you are too dark to be the one, and too white to be the +other.” + +“My parents were American, and I was born in New York.” + +“The deuce you were! Then why were you masquerading in Arab dress and +with a brown face in Tangier, and why did you say you came from some +mountains in Asia?” + +“I was for the time an Arab, and I was last from the Altai Mountains,” +I explained, and smilingly added, “Is my explanation satisfactory?” + +“Well, I suppose you spoke by the book,” he replied. “Wherever you were +born, I’m glad to see—Hold on!” he cried, interrupting his own speech. +“Why did you call yourself Dr. Rudolph Hartzmann, of Leipzig, if you +were an American?” + +“I did not,” I denied, startled by his question, for my identity with +the pseudonym was known only to my professors and publishers. + +“You weren’t living in Tangier under the name of Hartzmann?” he +inquired. + +“No.” + +“Then how came it that when my servant was sent to leave some fruit and +flowers for you and inquire your name, he was told that you were Dr. +Rudolph Hartzmann, of Leipzig?” + +“Are you serious?” I questioned, as much puzzled as he for the moment. + +“Never more so. I remember our astonishment to think that any European +should have so dark a skin and live in the native quarter.” + +“Mr. Blodgett,” I explained, “I did not know till this moment that a +pen name I have used to sign my writings had been given you, but it was +a joke of my father’s to register me under it, and my only theory is +that he had given some one in the hotel that name, and, by mischance, +your servant was misinformed.” + +He was too good a business man to look as skeptical as he probably +felt, and merely asked, “What is your real name, then?” + +“Donald Maitland, son of William Maitland.” + +His eyes gave a startled wink and he screwed his lips into position for +a whistle, but checking the inclination, he merely turned his +revolving-chair so that he looked out of a window. He sat thus for a +moment, and then, facing me, he questioned, with a sudden curtness of +voice and manner, “What is your business with me?” + +“I have taken the liberty of calling on the supposition that you are a +friend of Miss Walton.” + +“I am.” + +“Miss Walton was once my father’s ward, yet last night she refused to +see me. Can you tell me why?” + +“The reason is rather obvious,” he asserted crisply. + +“Will you tell me what it is?” + +He looked at me from under his gray eyebrows. “Is that all you want of +me?” he demanded. + +“Yes.” + +“Well, then, Miss Walton refused to see you because she despises you.” + +I felt my cheeks burn, but I gripped the arm of my chair and waited +till I could speak coolly; then I asked, “For what?” + +“You are ignorant of the fact that your father embezzled a part of Miss +Walton’s fortune, and that you and he have since lived upon it?” he +exclaimed, with no veiling of his contempt. + +I sat calmly, for the idea was too new, and I had too many connecting +links to recall, to have the full horror of the disgrace come home to +me at once. He did not give me time for thought, but interrogated, +“Well?” + +Having to speak, I asked, “You are sure of what you say?” + +“Sure!” he ejaculated. “Why, it’s been known to every one for years, +and I was one of the trustees appointed by the court to look out for +Miss Walton’s interest in what property your father couldn’t take with +him!” + +“If you are a trustee of Miss Walton,” I said, growing cool in my agony +of shame, “can you spare me five minutes and answer some questions?” + +That I did not deny knowledge of the wrong seemed to raise me in his +opinion, for he nodded his head and looked less stern. + +“How much did my father—How much did Miss Walton lose?” I inquired. + +“One hundred and thirty thousand was all the property he could +negotiate, and we succeeded, by bidding in his house over the mortgage +and by taking the library at a valuation, in recovering twenty-six +thousand.” + +“Was that amount net?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then in 1879 the amount due Miss Walton was one hundred and four +thousand dollars?” + +“Yes.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Blodgett,” I added, rising. “I am only sorry, after +your former kindness, to have given you this further trouble. I am +grateful for both.” In my shame I did not dare to offer him my hand, +but he held out his. + +“Mr. Maitland,” he rejoined, “I’m a pretty good judge of men, and I +don’t believe you have done wrong knowingly.” + +“I never dreamed it,” I almost sobbed, shaking his hand. + +“It’s pretty rough,” he said. “I hope you won’t show the white feather +by doing anything desperate?” + +I shook my head, and walked to the door. As I reached it a new thought +occurred to me, and, turning, I asked, “What has the legal rate of +interest been since 1879?” + +For reply he touched an electric button on his desk, and I heard the +lock click in the door by which I stood. He pulled a chair near his +own, and commanded, “Come here and sit down,” in such a peremptory tone +that I obeyed. “Why did you ask that question?” he catechised. + +“That I may find out how much I owe Miss Walton.” + +“What for?” + +“To attempt restitution.” + +“I hope you know what you’re talking about?” + +“I’m still rather confused, but so much I can see clearly enough.” + +“How much property have you?” + +“My father left me something over thirty-one thousand dollars.” + +“Thirty-one from one hundred and four leaves seventy-three.” + +“And interest,” I corrected. + +“I thought that was what you were driving at,” he surmised calmly. He +pulled out a volume from its repository in his desk, and turned +backwards and forwards in the book for a few moments, taking off +figures on a sheet of paper. “Eight years at five per cent makes the +whole over one hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars less +thirty-one.” + +“Thank you.” + +“Where can you get the balance?” + +“I must earn it.” + +He looked at me with a slightly quizzical expression and asked, “How?” + +“That I have yet to think out.” + +“Any business?” + +“I have the offer of a professorship at Leipzig, but that’s out of the +question now.” + +“Why?” + +“It would give me only two thousand a year at first, and the interest +on the debt will be over six thousand annually.” + +“What do you know?” he questioned. + +“Most of the languages and dialects of Europe and Asia, and a good deal +of history and ethnology. I am fairly read in arts, sciences, and +religions, and I know something of writing,” I answered, smiling at the +absurdity of mentioning such knowledge in the face of such a condition. + +“Humph! And you’d have sold all that for two thousand a year?” + +“I think so.” + +“Well, that only proves that a man had better cultivate his gumption, +and not his brains!” + +“If he wishes to make money,” I could not help retorting gently. + +“You’re just like Maizie!” he sniffed, and his going back to your +familiar name in my presence was the best compliment he could have paid +me. “You two ought to have died young and gone to heaven, where there’s +nothing to do but cultivate the soul.” + +“I wish we had!” + +“Why don’t you go to your mother?” + +“For what?” + +“For the money.” + +“Has she money?” + +“Yes. She had a little money when she married your father, which she +kept tight hold of; her mother’s death, two years ago, gave her more, +and she has just married a rich man.” + +“I don’t know yet what I shall do,” I replied, rising. + +“Well,” he advised kindly, “before you blow your brains out or do +anything else that’s a waste of good material, come and see me again.” + +“Thank you,” I responded. “And, Mr. Blodgett, as a favor, I ask that +all I have told you, and even my presence in New York, shall be +confidential between us.” + +“Nonsense!” he growled. “I shall tell Maizie all about it.” + +“Miss Walton least of any,” I begged. + +“Why don’t you insist, too, that Mrs. Blodgett, who intends that I +shall inform her nightly of everything I know, sha’n’t be told?” he +queried. + +“It grieves me to be a marplot of connubial confidences,” I rejoined, +responding to his smile, “but this must be between us.” + +“Have your own way,” he acceded, and then laughed. “I’ll have a good +time over it, for I’ll let Mrs. Blodgett see there is a secret, and +she’ll go crazy trying to worm it out of me.” + +He shook my hand again, and I felt ashamed to think that his voice and +manner had once made me hold him in contempt. + +I went back to the hotel, and thought over the past, seeing how blind I +had been. Now for the first time everything became clear. I understood +the trip to Europe and our remaining there, why my mother had left us, +why Mr. Walton had been permitted to take you from us without protest, +why we had not mingled with Americans, and my father’s motives in +making me write under a pen name, in registering me at hotels by it, +and in giving that name to your servant. Now it was obvious why he +never signed his articles, and why he appealed to me to let him aid me +to make a reputation: it was his endeavor to atone to me for the wrong +he had done. + +Good-night, my love. + + + + +IX + + +_February 28._ Many times in the last three years I have begun a letter +to you, for the thought that you, like the rest of the world, may rank +my father with other embezzlers stings me almost to desperation. Each +time it has been to tear the attempted justification—or I should say, +extenuation—into fragments, long before it was completed. In all my +trials I have come to realize that nothing I can say can stand him in +stead; for whatever I urge is open to suspicion, not merely because it +is my interest to condone his act, but still more because it inevitably +becomes an indirect justification of myself, and therefore, in a sense, +a plea for pardon. + +At moments, too, when with you, I have had to exercise the greatest +self-control not to tell you what I feel. If I were only some one else +than Donald Maitland, so that I might say to you:— + +“You should know that your guardian was incapable of the lowness the +world imputes to him! I am not trying to belittle the sin, but to +distinguish the motive. His wrong was no mean attempt to enrich himself +at the expense of one he loved, for his nature was wholly unmercenary, +and his transgression originated, not through greed, but through lack +of it. Like all men of true intellect, he was heedless in money +matters, and I am conscious that there was in him, as there is in me, +the certain weakness which is almost inevitable with mind +cultivation,—an engulfing, as it were, of the big principles of right +and wrong in the complexities and the refinements of cultivated +thought. His birthright was scholarship, but in place of the life he +was fitted for he was forced into Wall Street, and toiled there without +sympathy or aptitude for his work. Do you not remember how, aside from +our companionship, his books were his one great pleasure? The wealth of +mind he gave to us tells the story of how he must have neglected his +office in favor of his library. Yet though this preference might have +made him a poor man, I cannot think his studies would ever have led him +into dishonesty. I have never had the heart to trace the history of his +act, but Mr. Blodgett tells me that shortly after his marriage he first +began to speculate, and knowing as I do my mother’s extravagance and my +father’s love for her, I can understand the motive. The inevitable +result came presently, and, as a temporary expedient, a small part of +your property was used. Then a desperate attempt was made to recover +this by the risking of a larger portion, and after that there was +nothing left but confession or flight. I wish he had spoken, but the +weakness that produced the first wrong accounts for the second, and I +believe his chief thought was of me, and how I might be saved from the +consequences of his guilt. Unless you have put him wholly out of your +heart, you must appreciate that it was no sordid scheme to cheat you, +but a surrender to the love strong enough to overcome his honesty. You +must know that he loved you too well to wrong you willingly, and I +think with pain of what I am sure he must have suffered in his shame at +having robbed you. Do you not remember the sadness in his face in those +later years, and his tenderness to both of us? Can you not see that his +kindness, his patience, and his care of us were his endeavored +atonement?” + +Oh, Maizie, I ask nothing for myself, but if you could be brought to +think of him, to love him, as you once did, my greatest grief would be +ended. + +Bitter as my misery was after Mr. Blodgett’s revelation, there was +still some sweetness to make it bearable. For years I had thought of +you as heartless and forgetful, and even in my love had hated and +despised you at moments, as only love can hate and despise. The world +thinks that animosity is always strongest against enemies, though daily +it sees the intensest feuds between those nations and individuals who +are most closely related, and never learns that the deepest hatred +comes from love. Now I knew that you had cause for slighting my letters +and gift, and the knowledge of my injustice and the thought that you +were more lovable than ever were the silver lining to my cloud of +shame. + +My first meeting with you was a pure chance, yet it shaped my life. For +three weeks after my call on Mr. Blodgett I pondered and vacillated +over what I should do, without reaching any decision. At the end of +that time I went to his office again. + +“Mr. Blodgett has asked two or three times if you hadn’t called,” the +boy informed me; adding, as he opened the door to the private office, +“He told me, if you ever came again, sir, to show you right in.” + +I passed through the doorway, and then faltered, for you were sitting +beside the banker, overlooking a paper that he was commenting upon. +Could I have escaped unnoticed, I should have done so; but you both +glanced up as I entered. + +The moment you saw me you rose, with an exclamation of recognition and +surprise, which meant to me that you knew your old friend in spite of +the changes. Do you wonder that, not foreseeing what was to come, I +stood there as if turned to stone? My manner evidently made you +question your own eyes, for you asked, “Is not this Dr. Hartzmann?” + +“Of course it is!” cried Mr. Blodgett, with a quickness and heartiness +which proved that your question was almost as great a relief to him as +it was to me. + +“I did not think, Miss Walton,” I replied, steadying my voice as best I +could, “that you saw my face clearly enough that evening, to recollect +it?” + +“The moonlight was so strong,” you explained, “that I should have known +you anywhere.” + +“Then your eyes are better than mine,” asserted Mr. Blodgett. “I +accused the doctor of using blondine, to atone for my not recognizing +him, though I must confess he will have to use a good deal more if he +wants to be thought anything but Italian.” + +“Then you have met before?” you questioned. + +“Yes,” replied Mr. Blodgett. “I was going to tell you when we got +through with that mortgage. I knew you would be interested to hear that +the doctor was in New York. Seems like Tangier, doesn’t it?” + +“In reminiscence,” I assented, merely to gain time. + +“None of your rickety ruins,” chuckled Mr. Blodgett. + +“But more ruin,” you said. + +“And more danger,” I added, pointing out of the window at the +passers-by in Wall Street. “Nowhere in my travels, even among races +that have to go armed, have I ever seen so many anxious and careworn +faces.” + +“Most of them look worried,” suggested Mr. Blodgett, “only because they +are afraid they’ll take more than three minutes to eat their lunch.” + +For a moment you spoke with Mr. Blodgett on business, and then offered +me your hand in farewell, saying, “I am very glad, Dr. Hartzmann, for +this chance reunion. Mr. Blodgett and I have often spoken of the +mysterious Oriental who fell in—and out—of our knowledge so strangely.” + +“I have wished to meet you, Miss Walton,” I responded warmly, “to thank +you for your kindness and help to me when”— + +“That was nothing, Dr. Hartzmann,” you interrupted, in evident +deprecation of my thanks. “Indeed, I have always felt that we were in a +measure responsible for your accident, and that we made but a poor +return by the little we did. Good-morning.” + +Mr. Blodgett took you to your carriage, and when he returned he gave a +whistle. “Well!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t gone through such a +ten-second scare since I proposed to my superior moiety.” + +“I ought”—I began. + +But he went on: “There’s nothing frightens me so much as a wrought-up +woman. Dynamite or volcanoes aren’t a circumstance to her, because they +have limits; but woman!” + +I laughed and said, “The Hindoos have a paradox to the effect that +women fear mice, mice fear men, and men fear women.” + +“She got so much better and longer look at you in Tangier than I did +that I don’t wonder she recognized Dr. Hartzmann when I didn’t. But why +did she stop there in her recollections?” + +“It appeared incomprehensible to me for a moment, yet, as a fact, her +knowing me as Donald Maitland would have been the greater marvel of the +two. When she knew me, I was an undersized, pallid, stooping lad of +seventeen. In the ten years since, my hair and skin have both darkened +greatly, I have grown a mustache, and my voice has undergone the change +that comes with manhood, as well as that which comes by speaking +foreign tongues. Your very question as to whether I was of Eastern +birth tells the whole story, for such a doubt would seem absurd to one +who remembered the boy of ten years ago. Then, too, Miss Walton, having +recognized me as Dr. Hartzmann, was, as it were, disarmed of all +suspicion by having no question-mark in her mind as to my exact +identity.” + +Mr. Blodgett nodded his head in assent. “And you don’t know it all,” he +informed me. “I’m going to be frank, doctor, and acknowledge that I’ve +expressed a pretty low opinion of you to her more than once. If Maizie +were asked what man in this world she’d be least likely to meet in my +office on a friendly footing, she would probably think of you. Your +presence here was equivalent to saying that you weren’t Donald +Maitland, let alone the fact that I greeted you as Dr. Hartzmann, and +that she could never dream of my having a reason to deceive her in your +identity.” + +“Such a chain of circumstances almost makes one believe in kismet,” I +sighed. Then I laughed, and added, “How easy it is to show that one +need not be scared—after the danger is all over!” + +“That isn’t the only scare I owe to you,” muttered Mr. Blodgett. “I +didn’t take your address because I told you to come again. Why didn’t +you?” + +“I am here.” + +“Yes. But for three weeks I’ve been worrying over what you were doing +with yourself, and not knowing that you hadn’t cut your throat.” + +“I am sorry to have troubled you. I stayed away to save troubling you.” + +“You’re as considerate as the Fiji islander was of the missionary, when +he asked him if he had rather be cooked _à la maître d’hôtel_ or _en +papillote_. What have you been doing?” + +“Very little to any purpose. I have written to my publisher, offering +to sell my rights in my text-books; to a friend, asking him to learn +for what price he can sell my library; and to my bankers, directing +them to send me the bonds and a draft for my balance. I received the +securities and a bill of exchange yesterday, and am so ignorant of +business methods that I came to you this morning to learn how to turn +them into cash.” + +“I’ll do better than that,” volunteered Mr. Blodgett, touching a +button. “Give them to me, and I’ll have it done.” Then, after he had +turned the matter over to a clerk, he asked, “What does your publisher +offer?” + +“Thirty-five hundred.” + +“And what are your royalties?” + +“Last year they were over six hundred dollars.” + +“Humph! That’s equivalent to investing money at eighteen per cent. You +ought to get more than that.” + +“A little more or less is nothing compared with paying so much on my +debt.” + +“What will your library bring?” + +“Perhaps four thousand, if I can find some one who wants so technical a +collection.” + +“And you can get along without it?” + +“I must,” I declared, though wincing a little. + +“Rather goes against the grain, eh?” he rejoined kindly. + +I tried to laugh, and said, “My books have been such good comrades that +I haven’t quite accustomed myself yet to thinking of them as +merchandise. I feel a little as the bankrupt planter must have felt +when he saw his slave children offered for sale.” + +“And what do you plan to do with yourself?” + +“I haven’t been able to make up my mind.” + +We were interrupted at this point by some business matter, and I took +my leave. The next morning Mr. Blodgett called at my boarding-place on +his way down town. + +“I haven’t come to talk business,” he announced. “I told my wife and +daughter, last night, about the fellow from the backwoods of Asia, and +made them so curious that Mrs. Blodgett has given me permission to +furnish him board and lodgings for a week. I’ll promise you a better +room than this,” he added, glancing at the box I had moved into as soon +as I realized how much worse than a pauper I was. + +I could hardly express my gratitude as I tried to thank him, but he +pretended not to perceive my emotion, and said briskly: “That’s +settled, then. Send your stuff round any time to-day, and be on deck +for a seven-o’clock dinner.” + +You, who know Mrs. Blodgett so much better than I, can understand my +bewilderment during the first day or two of my visit. Her husband had +jokingly pictured me as of an Eastern race, which made the meeting +rather embarrassing; but the moment she comprehended that I did not +habitually sit on the floor, did not carry a scimiter or kris, and was +not unwashed and ferine, but only a dark skinned, dark haired, and very +silent German scholar, she took possession of me as I have seen her do +of others. She preceded me to my room, ringing for a servant on the +way, made me open my trunk, and directed the maid where to put each +article it contained. She told me what time to be ready for dinner, +what to wear for it, and at that meal she had me helped twice to such +dishes as she chose, while refusing to let me have more than one cup of +coffee. To a man who had never had any one to look after him in small +things it was a novel and rather pleasant if surprising experience, and +when I grew accustomed to it I easily understood Mr. Blodgett’s +chuckles of enjoyment when she told him he shouldn’t have a third +cigar, when she decided how close he was to sit to the fire, and +finally when she made all of us—Agnes, Mr. Blodgett, and myself—go to +bed at her own hour for retiring. Best of all I understood Mr. +Blodgett’s familiar name for her, “the boss.” That visit was a perfect +revelation to me of affectionate, thoughtful, and persistently minute +domineering. I do not believe that the man lives, though he be the +veriest woman-hater, who could help loving her after a fortnight of her +tyranny. Certainly I could not. + +By Mr. Blodgett’s aid I secured a “paper” cable transfer of the money +realized from the bonds and draft, in order that it might seem to come +from Europe, and sent it to you, writing at his suggestion, “The +inclosed draft on Foster G. Blodgett & Co. for the sum of thirty-three +thousand dollars is part payment of principal and interest due you from +estate of William G. Maitland.” I wonder what your thoughts were as you +read the unsigned and typewritten note? + +It was your greeting of me by my alias that led me to accept the +incognito. Perhaps it was cowardly to shirk my shame by such a means, +but it was not done from cowardice; the thought did not even occur to +me until it opened a way to knowing you. And in that hope my very +misery became almost happiness, for its possibilities seemed those of +the Oriental poet who wrote:— + +“My love once offered me a bitter draught +From which in cowardice I flinched. +But still she tendered to me; +And bowing to her wish, I then no longer shrank, +But took the cup and put it to my lips. +Oh, marvel! gazing still at her, +The potion turned to sweetness as I drank.” + + +If your old friend, Donald Maitland, were dead to you, your new lover, +Rudolph Hartzmann, might fill his place. I never stopped to think if +such trickery were right, or rather my love was stronger than my +conscience. + +Good-night, my dearest. + + + + +X + + +_March 1._ During my visit I heard much about you from Mrs. Blodgett +and Agnes, for your name was constantly on their lips. From them I +learned that your birth, wealth, and the influence of your uncle had +involved you in a fashionable society for which you cared nothing, and +that, aside from the gayety which that circle forced upon you, your +time was spent in travel, and in reading, music, and charitable work. +Except for themselves, they averred, you had no intimate friends, and +their explanation of this fact proved to me that you had taken our +separation as seriously as had I. + +“After Mr. Walton brought her to America she spent the first few months +with us,” Mrs. Blodgett told me, “and was the loneliest child I ever +saw. Her big eyes used to look so wistfully at times that I could +hardly bear it, yet not a word did she ever speak of her sorrow. And +all on account of that wretch and his son! I think the worse men are, +the more a good woman loves them! When Maizie was old enough to +understand, and Mr. Walton told her how she had been robbed, she +wouldn’t believe him till Mr. Blodgett confirmed the story. She used to +be always talking of the two, but she has never spoken of them since +that night.” + +Even more cruel to me was something Agnes related. She worshiped you +with the love and admiration a girl of eighteen sometimes feels for a +girl of twenty-three, and in singing your praises,—to a most willing +listener,—one day, she exclaimed, “Oh, I wish I were a man, so that I +could be her lover! I’d make her believe in love.” Then seeing my +questioning look, Agnes continued: “What with her selfish old uncle, +and the men who want to marry her for her money, and those hateful +Maitlands, she has been made to distrust all love and friendship. She +has the idea that she isn’t lovable,—that people don’t like her for +herself; and I really think she will never marry, just because of it.” + +Better far than this knowledge of you at second-hand was Mr. Blodgett’s +telling me that you were to dine with them during my visit. It may seem +absurd, but not the least part of my eagerness that night was to see +you in evening dress. If I had not loved you already, I should have +done so from that meeting; and although you are dear to me for many +things besides your beauty, I understand why men love you so deeply who +know nothing of your nature. That all men should not love you is my +only marvel whenever I recall that first glimpse of you as you entered +the Blodgetts’ drawing-room. + +Before we had finished our greetings Mr. Whitely entered, and though I +little realized how vital a part he was to be of my life, I yet +regarded him with instant interest, for something in his manner towards +you suggested to me that he coveted the hand you offered him. + +A lover does not view a rival kindly, but I am compelled to own that he +is handsome. If I had the right to cavil, I could criticise only his +mouth, which it seems to me has slyness with a certain cruel firmness; +but I did not notice this until I knew him better, and perhaps it is +only my imagination, born of later knowledge. I am not so blinded by my +jealousy as to deny his perfect manner, for one feels the polished +surface, touch the outside where one will. + +Your demeanor towards him was friendly, yet with all its graciousness +it seemed to me to have a quality not so much of aloofness as of limit; +conveying in an indefinable way the fact that such relations as then +existed between you were the only possible ones. It was a shading so +imperceptible that I do not think the Blodgetts realized it, and I +should have questioned if Mr. Whitely himself were conscious of it, but +for one or two things he said in the course of the evening, which had +to me, under the veil of a general topic, individual suggestion. + +We were discussing that well-worn question of woman’s education, Mrs. +Blodgett having introduced the apple of discord by a sweeping +disapproval of college education for women, on the ground that it +prevented their marrying. + +“They get to know too much, eh?” laughed Mr. Blodgett. + +“No,” cried Mrs. Blodgett, “they get to know too little! While they +ought to be out in the world studying life and men, so as to choose +wisely, they’re shut up in dormitories filling their brains with Greek +and mathematics.” + +“You would limit a woman’s arithmetic to the solution of how to make +one and one, one?” I asked, smiling. + +“Surely, Mrs. Blodgett, you do not mean that an uncultivated woman +makes the best wife?” inquired Mr. Whitely. + +“I mean,” rejoined Mrs. Blodgett, “that women who know much of books +know little of men. That’s why over-intellectual women always marry +fools.” + +“How many intellectual wives there must be!” you said. + +“I shouldn’t mind if they only married fools,” continued Mrs. Blodgett, +“but half the time they don’t marry at all.” + +“Does that prove or disprove their intellect?” you asked. + +“It means,” replied Mrs. Blodgett, “that they are so puffed up with +their imaginary knowledge that they think no man good enough for them.” + +“I’ve known one or two college boys graduate with the same large +ideas,” remarked Mr. Blodgett. + +“But a man gets over it after a few years,” urged Mrs. Blodgett, “and +is none the worse off; but by the time a girl overcomes the idea, she’s +so old that no man worth having will look at her.” + +“I rather think, Mrs. Blodgett,” said Mr. Whitely, in that charmingly +deferential manner he has with women, “that some men do not try to win +highly educated women because they are abashed by a sense of their own +inferiority.” + +“Where do those men hide themselves, Whitely?” interrogated Mr. +Blodgett. + +“I’ll not question the reason,” retorted Mrs. Blodgett. “The fact that +over-educated girls think themselves above men is all I claim.” + +“I don’t think, Mrs. Blodgett,” you corrected, “it is so much a feeling +of superiority as it is a change in the aims of marriage. Formerly, +woman married to gain a protector, and man to gain a housewife. Now, +matrimony is sought far less for service, and far more for +companionship.” + +“But, Miss Walton,” questioned Mr. Whitely, “does not the woman ask too +much nowadays? She has the leisure to read and study, but a business +man cannot spare the time. Is it fair, then, to expect that he shall be +as cultivated as she can make herself?” + +“That is, I think, the real cause for complaint,” you answered. “The +business man is so absorbed in money-making that he sacrifices his +whole time to it. I can understand a woman falling in love with a lance +or a sword, dull companions though they must have been, but it seems to +me impossible for any woman to love a minting-machine, even though she +might be driven to marry it for its product.” + +“That’s rough on us, Whitely,” laughed Mr. Blodgett good-naturedly; but +Mr. Whitely reddened, and you, as if to divert the subject from this +personal tendency, turned and surmised to me:— + +“I suppose that as a German, Dr. Hartzmann, you think a woman should be +nothing more than a housekeeper?” + +“Why not suggest, Miss Walton,” I replied, smiling, “that as an +Orientalist I must think the seraglio woman’s proper sphere?” + +“But, Miss Walton,” persisted Mr. Whitely, not accepting your +diversion, “a man, to be successful nowadays, must give all his +attention to his business. + +“I presume that is so,” you acceded; “but could he not be content with +a little less success in money-making, and strive to acquire a few more +amenities?” + +“Maizie wants us all to be painters and poets and musicians,” asserted +Mr. Blodgett. + +“Not at all,” you denied. + +“Oh, Maizie!” cried Agnes. “You know you said the other day that you +hoped I wouldn’t marry a business man.” + +“I said ‘_only_ a business man,’ Agnes,” you replied, without a trace +of the embarrassment so many women would have shown. “Because men +cannot all be clergymen is no reason for their knowing nothing of +religion. There would be no painters, poets, or musicians if there were +no dilettanti.” + +“Yet I think,” argued Mr. Whitely, still as if he were trying to +convince you of something, “that the successful business man has as +much brain as most writers or artists.” + +“I have no doubt that is true,” you assented. “So, too, a day laborer +may have a good mind. But of what avail is a brain if it has never been +trained, or has been trained to know only one thing?” + +“But authors and painters are only specialists,” urged Mr. Whitely. + +“They are specialists of a very different type,” you responded, “from +the man whose daily thoughts are engrossed with the prices of pig-iron +or cotton sheetings. I think one reason why American girls frequently +marry Europeans is that the foreign man is so apt to be more broadly +cultivated.” + +“That’s what I mean by saying that books unfit women to marry wisely,” +interjected Mrs. Blodgett. “They marry foreigners because they are more +cultivated, without a thought of character.” + +“Indeed, Mrs. Blodgett,” you observed, “has not the day gone by for +thinking dullness a sign of honesty? And certainly a business career is +far more likely to corrupt and harden men’s natures than the higher +professions, for its temptations and strifes are so much greater.” + +Your opinion was so in accord with what my father had often preached +that I could not but wonder if his teachings still colored your +thoughts. To test this idea as well as to learn your present view, I +recurred to another theory of his by saying, “Does not the broader and +more sensitive nature of the scholar or artist involve defects fully as +serious as the hardness and narrowness of the business man? Some one +has said that ‘to marry a literary man is to domesticate a bundle of +nerves.’” + +“A nervous irritability,” you replied, “which came from fine mental +exertion, would be as nothing compared to my own fretting over enforced +companionship with an unsympathetic or sordid nature.” Then you +laughed, and added, “I must have a very bad temper, for it is the only +one which ever really annoys me.” + +That last speech told me how thoroughly the woman of twenty-three was a +development of the child of fourteen, for I remembered how little my +mother’s anger used to disturb you, but how deeply and strongly your +emotions affected you. I suppose it was absurd, but I felt happy to +think that you had changed so little in character from the time when I +knew you so well. And from that evening I never for an instant believed +that you would marry Mr. Whitely, for I was sure that you could never +love him. How could I dream that you, with beauty, social position, and +wealth, would make a loveless marriage? + +Good-night, my love. + + + + +XI + + +_March 2._ The truth of the difference of quality between the business +man and the scholar was quickly brought home to me. On the last evening +of my visit, Mr. Blodgett revealed the reason for his latest kindness. +“I got you here,” he explained, “to look you over and see what you were +fit for, thinking I might work you in somewhere. No,” he continued, as +he saw the questioning hopefulness on my face, “you wouldn’t do in +business. You’ve got a sight too much conscience and sympathy, and a +sight too little drive. All business is getting the best of somebody +else, and you’re the kind of chap who’d let a fellow up just because +you’d got him down.” Seeing the sadness in my face, for I knew too well +he had fathomed me, he added kindly, “Don’t get chicken-hearted over +what I say. It’s easy enough to outwit a man; the hard thing is not to +do it. I’d go out of the trade to-morrow, if it weren’t for the boss +and Agnes, for I get tired of the meanness of the whole thing. But they +want to cut a figure, and that isn’t to be done in this town for +nothing. I’ll find something for you yet that sha’n’t make you sell +your heart and your soul as well as your time.” + +I was too full of my love and my purpose, however, for this to +discourage me. The moment my determination to remain in New York was +taken, I wrote to Jastrow, Humzel, and others of my German friends, +telling them that for business reasons I had decided to be known as +Rudolph Hartzmann, and asking if they would stretch friendship so far +as to give me letters in that name to such American publishers and +editors as they knew. Excepting Jastrow, they all responded with +introductions so flattering that I was almost ashamed to present them, +and he wrote me that he had not offered my books for sale, and begged +me to reconsider my refusal of the professorship. He even offered, if I +would accept the appointment, to divide with me his tuition fees, and +suggested that his own advancing years were a pledge that his position +would erelong be vacant for me to step into. It almost broke my heart +to have to write him that I could not accept his generous offer. In +July I received a second letter from him, most touching in its attempt +to keep back the grief he felt, but yielding to my determination. He +sent me many good introductions, and submitted a bid for my library +from a bookseller; but knowing the books to be worth at least double +the offer, I held the sale in abeyance. + +My first six months in New York disheartened me greatly, though now I +know that I succeeded far better than I could have expected to do, in +the dullness of the summer. My work was the proof-reading of my book of +travel in its varying polyglots, seeing through the press English +versions of my two text-books, and writing a third in both English and +German. Furthermore, my letters of introduction had made me known to a +number of the professors of Columbia College, and by their influence I +received an appointment to deliver a course of lectures on race +movements the following winter; so I prepared my notes in this leisure +time. But this work was far too little to fill my time, and I wrote all +kinds of editorials, essays, and reviews, fairly wearing out the +editors of the various magazines and newspapers with my frequent calls +and articles. Finally I attempted to sell my books to several +libraries; but though the tomes and the price both tempted several, +none had the money to spend on such a collection. + +My book of travel was published in September, was praised by the +reviews, and at once sprang into a good sale for a work of that class; +for Europe is interested in whatever bears on her cancer growth, +commonly called the Eastern question. Since Europeans approved the +book, Americans at once bought and discussed it; to prove, I suppose, +that as a nation we are no longer tainted with provincialism,—as if +that very subservience to transatlantic opinion were not the best proof +that the virus still works within us. It was issued anonymously, +through the fear that if I put my pseudonym on the title-page it might +lead to inquiry about the author which would reveal his identity with +Donald Maitland, for whom I only wished oblivion. As a result the +question of authorship was much mooted, some declaring a well-known +Oxford professor to be the man, others ascribing the volume to a famous +German traveler, and Humzel being named by some; but most of the +reviews suggested that it was the work of an Eastern savant, and I +presume that my style was tinged with orientalism. + +You cannot tell what a delight it was to me to learn, at our first +meeting in the autumn, that you had read my book. I went in November to +the Lenox Library to verify a date, and found you there. I could not +help interrupting your reading for a moment,—I had so longed for a +glimpse and a word,—and you took my intrusion in good part. I drew a +book and pretended to read, merely to veil my covert watching of you; +and when you rose to go, I asked permission to walk with you. + +“Your notebook suggests that you are a writer by profession, Dr. +Hartzmann?” you surmised. + +“Yes.” + +“And you have to come to America for material?” + +“I have come to America permanently.” + +“How unusual!” + +“In what respect?” + +“For a European writer to come to New York to do more than lecture +about himself, have his vanity and purse fed, and return home to write +a book about us that we alone read.” + +I laughed and said, “You make me very glad that I am the exception to +the rule.” + +“I presume more would make the venture if they found the atmosphere +less uncongenial. New York as a whole is so absorbed in the task of +trans-shipping the products of the busiest nations of two continents +that everything is ranked as secondary that does not subserve that end: +and the Muses starve.” + +“I suppose New York is not the best of places in which to live by art +or letters, if compared with London or Paris; yet if a man can do what +the world wants done, he can earn a livelihood here.” + +“But he cannot gain the great prizes that alone are worth the winning, +I fear. I have noticed that American writers only reach American +audiences, while European authors not merely win attention at home, but +have vogue and sale here. The London or Paris label is quite as +effective in New York or Chicago in selling books as in selling +clothes.” + +“I suppose cultivated Europe is as heedless of the newer peoples as the +peoples of the Orient are of those of the Occident. Yet I think that if +as good work were turned out in this country as in the Old World, the +place of its production would not seriously militate against its +success.” + +“And have you found it so?” + +“Nothing I have yet written in this country merits Continental +attention.” + +“I hope you have succeeded to your own satisfaction?” + +“It may amuse you to know that though I had many good letters of +introduction to editors in this country, I could not get a single +article accepted till some friends of mine in Asia came to my aid.” + +“You speak in riddles.” + +“Perhaps you remember reading, last August, of an outbreak of some +tribes in the Hindoo Kush? Those hill peoples are in a state of +perennial ferment, and usually Europe pays no attention to their +bellicose proceedings; but luckily for me, the English premier, at that +particular moment, was holding his unwilling Parliament together in an +attempt to pass something, and finding it intractable in that matter, +he cleverly used this outbreak to divert attention and excite +enthusiasm. Rising in the House of Commons, he virtually charged the +outbreak to Russian machination against the beloved Emir, and pledged +the nation to support that civilized humanitarian against the barbaric +despot of Russia. At once the papers were full of unintelligible +cablegrams telling of the doings in those far-away mountains; and my +hurriedly written editorials and articles, which nevertheless showed +some comprehension of the geography and people, were snapped up avidly, +and from that time I have found papers or periodicals glad to print +what I write.” + +You laughed, and said, “How strangely the world is tied together in +these days, that the speech of an English prime minister about some +Asian septs should give a German author entrée to New York editorial +sanctums!” + +“The cables have done more in aid of the brotherhood of man than all +the efforts of the missionaries.” + +“I thought you were a conservative, and disapproved of modern +innovations,” you suggested archly. + +“With innovators, yes.” + +“Then the Levantine does not entirely disapprove of our Hesperian +city?” + +“My knowledge of New York is about as deep,” I answered, smiling, “as +my Eastern blood.” + +“Only skin-deep,” you said. + +“Just sufficient for a disguise.” + +“As long as you are silent, yes.” + +“Is my English so unmistakable?” + +“Not your tongue, but your thought. Of course your vicinage, costume, +and complexion made me for a moment accept your joke of nationality, at +that first meeting, but before you had uttered half your defense of the +older races I felt sure that you were not a product of one of them.” + +“Why was that?” + +“Because it is only Christians who recognize and speak for the rights +of other peoples.” + +“You forget that the religion of Buddha is toleration. We Christians +preach the doctrine, but practice extermination, forgiving our enemies +after killing them,” I corrected. “I do not think we differ much in +works from even El Mahdi.” + +“Would El Mahdi ever have spoken for other races?” + +“You know the weak spot in my armor, Miss Walton,” I was obliged to +confess. + +“That is due to you, Dr. Hartzmann. What you stated that night +interested me so deeply that I have been reading up about the Eastern +races and problems. I wonder if you have seen this new book of travel, +The Debatable Lands between the East and West?” + +“Yes,” I assented, thinking that twenty over-lookings of it in +manuscript and proof entitled me to make the claim. + +“You will be amused to hear that, when reading it, I thought of you as +the probable writer, not merely because it begins in the Altai range +and ends at Tangier, but as well because some of the ideas resemble +yours. Mr. Whitely, however, tells me he has private information that +Professor Humzel is the author. Do you know him?” + +“He was my professor of history at Leipzig.” + +“That accounts for the agreement in thought. You admire the book?” + +“I think it is a conscientious attempt to describe what the author +saw.” + +“Ah, it is much more than that!” you exclaimed. “At a dinner in London, +this autumn, I sat next the Earl—— next a member of the Indian Council, +and he told me he considered it a far more brilliant book than +Kinglake’s Eothen.” + +I knew I had no right to continue this subject, but I could not help +asking, “You liked it?” + +“Very much. It seems to me a deep and philosophic study of present and +future problems, besides being a vivid picture of most interesting +countries and peoples. It made me long to be a nomad myself, and wander +as the author did. The thought of three years of such life, of such +freedom, seems to stir in me all the inherited tendency to prowl that +we women supposedly get from Mother Sphinx.” + +“Civilization steals nature from us and compounds the theft with art.” + +“Tell me about Professor Humzel,” you went on, “for I know I should +like him, merely from the way he writes. One always pictures the German +professor as a dried-up mind in a dried-up body, but in this book one +is conscious of real flesh and blood. He is a young man, I’m sure.” + +“Sixty-two.” + +“He has a young heart, then,” you asserted. “Is he as interesting to +talk with as he makes himself in his book?” + +“Professor Humzel is very silent.” + +“The people who have something to say are usually so,” you sighed. + +“A drum must be empty to make a noise,” I said, smiling, “and perhaps +the converse is true.” + +I cannot say what there was in that walk which cheered me so, except +your praise of my book,—sweeter far though that was than the world’s +kindly opinion; yet over and above that, in our brief interchange of +words, I was made conscious that there was sympathy between us,—a +sympathy so positive that something like our old-time friendship seemed +beginning. And the thought made me so happy that for a time my troubles +were almost forgotten. + +Good-night, Maizie. + + + + +XII + + +_March 3._ Fate seemed determined that our lives should be closely +connected. In December Mr. Blodgett wrote asking me to call at his +office, and he was already smiling when his boy passed me through the +door at which so many had to tarry. + +“There are a good many kinds of fools,” was his welcoming remark, “but +one of the commonest is the brand who think because they can do one +thing well, they ought to be able to do the exact opposite. I’ve known +men who could grow rich out of brewing beer, who kept themselves poor +through thinking they knew all about horses; I’ve known women who +queened it in parlors, who went to smash because they believed +themselves inspired actresses; I’ve sat here in this office thirty +years, and grown rich through the belief of clergymen, doctors, +merchants, farmers,—the whole box and dice,—that they were heaven-born +financiers, and could play us Wall Street men even at our own game. +Whatever else you do in this world, doctor, don’t think that because +you can talk a dozen languages, they fit you to be a successful mute.” + +“When you are in this mood, Mr. Blodgett, I can be nothing else,” I +interpolated, as he paused a moment for breath. + +“Alexander Whitely,” he went on, smiling, “probably knows more about +petroleum and kerosene than any other man in the world, and he’s made +himself rich by his knowledge. But it doesn’t satisfy him to be on the +top of his own heap; he wants to get on the top of some other fellow’s. +In short, he has an itch to be something he isn’t, and the darned +fool’s gone and bought a daily newspaper with the idea that he is going +to be a great editor!” + +“His lamp of genius will not go out for want of oil,” I remarked. + +“For a moment he showed one glimmer of sense: he came to me for +advice,” said Mr. Blodgett in evident enjoyment. “I told him to get an +A 1 business manager, to make you chief editor, let you pick your +staff, and then blow in all the money you and the business end asked +for, and never go inside the building himself. It was too good sense +for him, for he’s daft with the idea of showing the world how to edit a +paper. But my advice simmered down to this: if you want to be his +private secretary, at four thousand a year, and pretend to revise his +editorials, but really write them for him, I guess you can have the +position. Of course he is to think he writes the rubbish.” + +“A Voltaire in miniature,” I laughed. + +“A what?” + +“The great Frederic thought himself a poet, and induced Voltaire to +come and be his literary counselor. The latter showed a bundle of +manuscripts to some one and sneered, ‘See all this dirty linen of the +king’s he has sent me to wash.’” + +“That was one for his nibs,” chuckled Mr. Blodgett appreciatively. “But +you mustn’t make such speeches as that of Whitely.” + +“In spite of my many tongues, I can be mute.” + +“Do you think I haven’t seen that? And I’ve seen something more, which +is that you always give a dollar’s worth of work for seventy-five cents +of wages. Now, Whitely’s a hard man, and if you made the terms with him +he’d be sure to get the better of you. So I’ve arranged to have him +meet you here, and I’m going to see fair play. I’ve told him you won’t +do it for less than four thousand, and he’ll not get you a cent +cheaper. The work will be very light.” + +“The work is easy,” I assented, “but is it honest?” + +“Seems to me we had better leave that to Whitely to settle.” + +“And is Mr. Whitely an honest man?” + +Mr. Blodgett smiled as he looked at me, and observed, “Whitely wouldn’t +steal a red-hot stove unless it had handles! But he probably thinks +this all right. Few people know how much successful men use other men’s +brains. Here’s a report on a Southern railroad by an expert in my +employ. I’ve never even been over the road, yet I’ll sign my name to +the report as if it was my work. Now, in oil Whitely hires all kinds of +men to do different things for him, and he gets whatever credit +follows; and I suppose he thinks that if he pays you to write +editorials, they are as much his as any other thing he buys.” + +“He must be conscious of a distinction.” + +“That’s his lookout, if he is. Don’t start in to keep other people’s +consciences in order, doctor, for it’s the hardest-worked and +poorest-paid trade in the world.” + +When Mr. Whitely arrived, Mr. Blodgett was as good as his word, taking +the matter practically out of my hands, and letting me sit a passive +and amused spectator of the contest between the two shrewd men, who +dropped all thought of personal friendship while they discussed the +matter. Mr. Blodgett won, and made the further stipulation that since +Mr. Whitely intended to be at the office only in the afternoon, I might +be equally privileged as to my hours of attendance. His forethought and +kindness did more, for his last speech to Mr. Whitely was, “Then it’s +understood that the doctor writes your letters and revises your +editorials, but nothing else.” And as soon as we were alone he +intimated, “Remember that, or before you know it he’ll be screwing you +to death. Don’t you write anything extra for him unless there’s extra +pay. Now, don’t waste my time by thanks in business hours, but come in +to-night to dinner, so as to let the boss and Agnes congratulate you.” + +My employment began the first of the year, at which time the paper came +into the hands of its new proprietor; and it amuses me to recall him as +he sat at his desk that first day, thrumming it nervously, and trying +to dictate an editorial on The Outlook for the New Year. A more +hopeless bit of composition I have seldom read, and four times it was +rewritten as I built it into shape. + +The man has no more sense of form than he has of English. Even worse, +he is almost without ideas. It has become his invariable custom to +remark to me suavely, as he takes his seat at his desk about two +o’clock, “Dr. Hartzmann, possibly you can suggest a good subject for me +to write about to-day?” And when I propose one, he continues: “That is +satisfactory. Jot down what you think I had better say, while I run +over my mail.” An hour later I lay the typewritten sheets before him, +and, after reading them with the most evident pleasure, he puts his +initials at the top and sends the editorial out to the managing editor; +to have a second pleasure when, after two hours, the galley slips of +proof come back to him. + +Fortunately for me, he cares no more for politics than I do, and thus +saves me from the necessity of studying and mastering that shifting +quicksand against which beat the tides of men, ebbing as private greed +obtains the mastery, and flowing in those curious revulsions of +selfishly altruistic public spirit called patriotism. Except for this +subject his taste is catholic, and his foible is to pose as omniscient. +“I wish new subjects,—something, if possible, that intellectual people +do not know about,”—is his constant command; and nothing delights him +more than an editorial on a subject of which he has never heard. +Speaking only his mother tongue, he has an inordinate desire for +foreign words, and will observe, “A quotation in another language gives +an editorial page an air of culture which I desire my paper to have.” +Our composing-room, I imagine, is the only one in New York which has +Greek type, and if I gave him the smallest encouragement he would buy +fonts of Sanskrit and Hebrew characters. He always makes me teach him +how to pronounce the sentences, catching them with a wonderful +parrot-like facility. Usually he carries clippings of the last half +dozen editorials with him, and his delight is to make an opportunity to +read one aloud, prefaced by the announcement that he is the writer. +Sometimes, indeed, he cannot contain his pleasure over the articles +till their appearance in type, and I repeatedly hear him request a +visitor, “If you have ten minutes to spare, let me read you this +editorial I have just written for to-morrow’s issue.” + +At first, in spite of Mr. Blodgett’s explanation, I thought this real +dishonesty, and despised not merely him, but myself as well for aiding +in such trickery. As I grow to know him better, however, I find he is +not cozening the public so much as imposing on himself. The man has a +fervent and untrained imagination, which has never, in the +practicalities of oil, had a safety-valve. As a result, it has rioted +in dreams of which he is the hero, until it has brought him to the +point of thinking his wildest fancies quite possible realities. His +self-faith is so great that his imagination sets no limit to his +powers, and thus he can believe everything of himself. I have heard him +tell what he would do under given circumstances, and, with my knowledge +of him, I know he is conceiving himself to be actually doing what he +describes. Thus, in a smaller sense, he really imagines that he writes +the editorials, and he even reads them to Mr. Blodgett, apparently +unconscious that there can be the slightest question of authorship in +the latter’s mind. + +With this singular weakness the man is yet a strong one. His capacity +to judge and manage men or facts is truly marvelous. He rules his paper +as he rules everything, with the firmest hand, and not a man in his +employ but knows who is master. Within a year he turned the journal +into a great earner of money, and in the business office they have to +confess that it is all his work, ignorant though he is to this day of +the details. He knows by instinct where money should be spent, and +where it should be scrimped. Yet with all this business shrewdness he +cares not half so much that his investment is paying him twenty per +cent as that people are talking about his ability as an editor, and my +only influence over him even now is the praise my editorials have won +him. + +Perhaps the most singular quality of his nature is his heedlessness of +individual opinion, and his dread of it in mass. He is so absolutely +self-centred—every thought directed inward—that he never tries to make +the individual like him, yet he craves intensely the world’s esteem. He +longs for notoriety, and even stoops to an almost daily mention of +himself in his paper, taking endless pains to get his name into other +journals as well. Even his philanthropy, for which the world admires +him, is used for this purpose. Ridiculous as it may seem, the most +grating task I have to do is the writing of the fulsome press +dispatches which he invariably sends out whenever he makes one of his +gifts. He writes, too, to his fellow editors, asking them to comment on +the largess; and since he makes it a point to cultivate the pleasantest +relations with his confrères, they give him good measure, though with +many a smile and wink among themselves when they get together. “Mr. +White-Lie” is his sobriquet in the fraternity. + +How curiously diverse the same man is to different people! To the world +Mr. Whitely is a man of great business ability, of wide knowledge, of +great benevolence, and of fine manners. I do not wonder, Maizie, that +he imposes on you; for though you have discernment, yet you are not of +a suspicious nature, and his acting is so wonderful and his manner so +frank, through his own unconsciousness of his self-deceit, that not a +dozen people dream the man is other than he seems. You might, perhaps, +in spite of his taciturnity, have discovered his charlatan pretense of +learning if you had been born inquisitive, but you take his writings +for the measure of his intellect, and have no more reason to suspect +that his skillful reservations are the refuge of a sciolist than that +my silence covers such little erudition as I have. + +Why I can do naught else but sit here and write of the past I do not +understand. Until a month ago I was working every evening till far into +the night, but now, try as I may, I can no longer force myself to my +task. I should think it was physical exhaustion, were it not that I can +chronicle this stale record of what I know so well. I suppose it is +mental discouragement at my slight progress in reducing that crushing +debt, and, even more, my sadness at the thought of you as his wife. + +Good-night, my darling. May happiness be yours. + + + + +XIII + + +_March 4._ My impressions of that first winter in New York are +curiously dim except for the extreme loneliness of my life, which, +after the close companionship with my father for so many years, seemed +at times almost unbearable. Indeed, I doubt if I could have borne the +long hours of solitude and toil but for my occasional glimpses of you. +I should think myself fatuous in claiming that you influence me +physically,—that I am conscious of a material glow, ecstasy, thrill, +call it what you please, when with you,—if I had not once heard Agnes +declare that she always felt, when you were in the room, as if she had +been drinking champagne; showing that I am not the only one you can +thus affect. + +My pleasantest recollection is of our long talk in my employer’s study; +and strangely enough, it was my books which gained it for me. Mr. +Whitely, when I first came into his service, had just endowed a free +library in one of the Western cities where some of his oil interests +centred, and I hinted to him the purchase of my books as a further gift +to his hobby. The suggestion did not meet with his approval,—I fear +because there was not the self-advertising in it that there is in a +money gift,—but after a week he told me that he might buy the +collection to furnish his editorial study. “I plan,” he said, “to make +my office attractive, and then have informal literary receptions once a +week. I shall therefore require some books, and as your library should +be marked by breadth and depth of learning, I presume it will serve my +purpose.” + +“There are quite a number of Eastern manuscripts of value,” I told him, +“and few of the books are in languages that can be read by the average +New Yorker.” + +“That gives the suggestion of scholarship which I wish,” he +acknowledged. + +We easily came to terms under these circumstances, and I cannot tell +you how happy I was to find myself once more surrounded by my books. As +soon as they were in place and the study was handsomely furnished, my +employer issued cards; and though he had nothing in common with the +literary and artistic set, the mere fact that he controlled the columns +of a great paper brought them all flocking to his afternoons. It is a +case of mutual cultivation, and I am sick of being told to write puffs +of books and pictures. Even foreigners do not seem above this +log-rolling, and toady to the editor of the influential journal. And +yet we think Johnson mean-spirited for standing at Chesterfield’s door! +It humiliates me to see writers and artists stooping so low merely to +get notices that are worthless in a critical sense, and doubly am I +degraded that mine is the pen that aids in this contemptible chicane. + +You, Mrs. Blodgett, and Agnes came to one of these afternoons, and made +me happy, not alone by your presence, but by an insinuated reproof, +which meant, I thought, that you had become enough interested in me to +care what I did. You expressed surprise at my being there, and so I +explained to you that I had become Mr. Whitely’s secretary. + +“And is your work congenial?” you asked. + +I shrugged my shoulders, and quoted, “Civilized man cannot live without +dining.” + +“But you told me you were making a living. Is not a crust with +independence and a chance to make a name better than such work?” + +“If one is free, yes. But if one must earn money?” + +“I had somehow fixed it in my mind that you were _en garçon_. One’s +fancies are sometimes very ridiculous. Who invented the mot that a +woman’s intuitions were what she had when she was wrong?” + +“Some man, of course,” I laughed. “And you were right in supposing me a +bachelor.” + +“How little people really know about one another,” you observed, “and +yet we talk of the realism of life! I believe it is only in fiction +that we get it.” + +“Napoleon said, ‘Take away history and give me a novel: I wish the +truth!’ Certainly, our present romance writers attempt it.” + +“Only to prove that truth is not art.” + +“How so?” + +“To photograph life in literature is no more art than a reproduction of +our street sounds would be music.” + +“Painting and sculpture are copying.” + +“And the closer the copy, the less the art.” + +“Then you would define art as”— + +“The vivifying of work with the personality of the workman.” + +“That is not very far from Saadi’s thought that art is never produced +without love.” + +“I have to confess that you mention an author of whom I had never even +heard till I read The Debatable Lands. The extracts printed there made +me think he must be one of the great philosopher poets of the world. +Yet there is no copy of his works at the Lenox.” + +“There are copies of all his writings here.” + +“I think I shall disobey Polonius by trying to be a borrower,” you +announced, and turning to Mr. Whitely, you asked, “Do you ever loan +your books?” + +“To lend to you would be a pleasure, and give added value to the +volume,” assented Mr. Whitely, joining us. “Take anything you wish.” + +“Thank you so much. Will you let me see what you have of Saadi, so that +I may take my choice?” + +“You were speaking of”—hemmed Mr. Whitely. + +“Saadi.” + +“Ah, yes. Dr. Hartzmann knows where it is.” + +When I had led the way to the proper shelf, you selected the Gulistan, +opened it, and then laughed. “You have the best protection against +borrowers. I envy both of you the ability to read him in the original, +but it is beyond me.” + +“As you read Latin, you can read Gentius’ translation of the Bostan,” I +suggested, taking the book down. + +“How do you know that I can read Latin?” you asked. + +I faltered for a moment, too much taken aback to think what to reply, +and fortunately Mr. Whitely interposed quickly, “Miss Walton’s +reputation for learning is so well recognized that knowledge of Latin +is taken for granted.” + +Taking advantage of the compliment, I surmised, “Perhaps you will care +less to read the poet if I quote a stanza of his:— + +‘Seek truth from life, and not from books, O fool! +Look at the sky to find the stars, not in the pool.’” + + +“You only make me the more eager,” you said, running over the pages. + +“The book is worth reading,” vouched Mr. Whitely. + +“How good that is!” you appealed to him, laying your finger on lines to +the effect that a dozen poor men will sleep in peace on a straw heap, +while the greatest empire is too narrow for two kings. + +“Very,” answered my employer, after looking at the text with a critical +air. If you could only have enjoyed the joke with me! + +Suddenly, as I watched you, you became pale, and glancing down to learn +the cause, I saw a manuscript note in my father’s handwriting on the +margin of the page. “Mr. Whitely,” you asked huskily, “how did you get +this book?” + +Had you looked at me you would have seen one paler than yourself, as I +stood there expecting the axe to fall. Oh! the relief when Mr. Whitely +replied, “I bought it in Germany.” + +You closed the volume, remarking, “I do not think I will ask the loan, +after all. He seems an author one ought to own.” + +“I hoped you would add an association to the book,” urged Mr. Whitely. + +“Thank you,” you parried gravely, “but so old a volume can hardly be +lacking in association. I think we must be going.” + +I took you down to the carriage, and Mrs. Blodgett kindly offered me +the fourth seat. You were absolutely silent in the drive up-town, and I +was scarcely less so as I tried to read your thoughts. What feelings +had that scrap of writing stirred in you? + +I have often since then recalled our parting words that afternoon, and +wondered if I allowed a mere scruple—a cobweb that a stronger man would +have brushed aside without a second thought—to wreck my life. If I had +taken what you offered? Perhaps the time might have come when I could +have told you of my trick, and you would have forgiven it. Perhaps— + +You said to me graciously, when we separated at your door, “I shall be +very happy, Dr. Hartzmann, if you will come to see me.” + +I flushed with pleasure, for I felt it was not a privilege you gave to +many. But even as I hesitated for words with which to express my +gratitude, I realized that I had no moral right to gain your +hospitality by means of my false name; and when I spoke it was to +respond, “I thank you for the favor most deeply, Miss Walton, but I am +too busy a man for social calls.” + +Oh, my darling, if you had known what those few words cost me, and the +struggle it was to keep my voice steady as I spoke them! For I knew you +could only take them to mean that I declined your friendship. Hide my +shame as I might try to do, I could not escape its pains. God keep you +from such suffering, Maizie, and good-night. + + + + +XIV + + +_March 5._ Though I committed the rudeness of refusing to call, you +never in our subsequent intercourse varied your manner by the slightest +shade, treating me always with a courtesy I ill deserved. After such a +rebuff, it is true, you were too self-respecting to offer me again any +favor tending to a better acquaintance, but otherwise you bore yourself +towards me as you did towards the thousand other men whom you were +obliged to meet. + +Your life as a social favorite, and mine as a literary hack, gave +little opportunity for our seeing each other, yet we met far more +frequently than would have seemed possible. Occasionally I found you at +the Blodgetts’, though not as often as our informal footing in that +household had led me to hope; for you were in such social demand that +your morning hours were the time you usually took to run in upon them. +But now and then we lunched or dined there, and Mrs. Blodgett little +dreamed how willingly I obeyed her positive command that I was to come +to every one of her afternoons when Agnes told me that you were to +receive or pour tea. Little I had of your attention, for you were a +magnet to many, but I could stand near you and could watch and listen, +and that was happiness. + +A cause of meeting more discordant to me was furnished by my employer. +I wrote for him an editorial on the folk-leid basis of the Wagner +trilogy, which I suppose he sent or read to you; for it resulted in a +box-party to attend the series, and I was asked to be one of the +guests. “Nothing like having your books of reference under your arm,” +was Mr. Whitely’s way of telling me for what purpose I was wanted; and +I presume that was, in truth, the light in which he viewed me. Though I +scorned such service, the mere fact that you were to be there was +enough to make me accept. How low love can bring a man if his spirit is +once mastered by it! + +I would have sunk far deeper, I believe, to obtain what I earned, for +there were delightful moments of mutually absorbing discussions, only +too quickly interrupted by Mr. Whitely or others of the party breaking +in on our conversation. What was equal happiness to me was the +association of you in my mind with the noblest of music. I can never +hear certain movements of those operas without your image coming before +me as clearly as if I saw your reflection in a mirror. And from that +time one of my keenest pleasures has been to beg tickets from the +musical critic of our staff, whenever one of the trilogy is to be +given, and sit through the opera dreaming of those hours. I could write +here every word you uttered, but what especially impressed itself upon +my memory was something called out by the fate of Brunhilde. As we +stood in the lobby waiting for the carriages, at the end of Die +Walküre, you withdrew a little, as if still feeling the beauty and +tragedy of the last act too deeply to take part in the chit-chat with +which the rest of the party beguiled the time. I stood near you, but, +respecting your mood, was silent too, until you finally broke the pause +by saying, “I do not know whether it is Wagner’s music or because +Brunhilde appeals to me, but I always feel that I have suffered as she +does. It almost makes me believe in the theory of metempsychosis.” + +“Is it so much consciousness of a past, Miss Walton,” I suggested, “as +prescience of the future? Woman’s story is so unvaryingly that of +self-sacrifice for love that I should suppose Brunhilde’s fate would +appeal to the sex as a prophecy rather than as a memory.” + +“Her punishment could have been far worse.” + +“Left a defenseless prey to the first comer?” + +“But surrounded by fire, so that the first comer must be a brave man.” + +“Do you value courage so highly?” + +“Yes. The truly brave, I think, cannot be mean, and without meanness +there must be honor. I almost envy Brunhilde her walls of fire, which +put to absolute proof any man who sought her. The most successful of +men; the most intellectually brilliant, may be—By what can we to-day +test courage and honor?” + +“There is as much as ever, Miss Walton. Is it no gain that courage has +become moral rather than physical?” + +“Is it no loss that of all the men I know, there is not one of whom I +can say with certainty, ‘He is a brave man’?” + +Our numbers were called at this point, and the conversation was never +continued. Every word you had said recalled to me my former friend, and +I understood your repugnance for anything cowardly. + +At the last of these operas, by another perverse joke of Dame Fortune, +who seems to have so many laughs at my expense, I was introduced to the +chaperon, “Mrs. Polhemus.” Looking up, I found myself facing my mother. +I cannot tell you how strangely I felt in making my bow. She was as +handsome as ever, it appeared to me, and the smooth rich olive +complexion seemed to have given her an undying youth. For a moment I +feared recognition, but the difference was too great between the pallid +stooping boy of fifteen she had last seen in Paris and the straight +bronzed man of twenty-seven. As of old she was magnificently dressed +and fairly glittered with diamonds, which curiously enough instantly +brought to my mind the face of my father as I kissed him last. Was it +the strong connection of contrast, or was it a quirk of my brain? + +This chance meeting had a sequel that pains me to this day. Dining the +next evening at the Blodgetts’ with you and your uncle, the latter +spoke of my mother’s diamonds. Mrs. Blodgett said, with a laugh, “One +would think, after her rich marriage, that she might pay up the money +her first husband stole from Maizie.” + +“She could have done that years ago if she had cared to,” sneered Mr. +Walton. + +Your eyes were lowered, and you still kept them so as you replied, “I +would not accept the money from Mrs. Polhemus.” + +In my suffering I sat rigid and speechless, wincing inwardly at each +blow of the lash, when Mr. Blodgett, with a kindness I can never reward +or even acknowledge, observed, “I believe it was his wife’s +extravagance which made William Maitland a bankrupt and an embezzler. +Till his marriage with her he was a man of simple habits and of +unquestioned business honesty, but he was caught by her looks, just as +Polhemus has been. In those first years he could deny her nothing, and +when the disillusionment came he was too deep in to prevent the wreck.” + +“You’ve been revising your views a bit,” retorted Mr. Walton. “I never +expected to hear you justify any of that family.” + +“Perhaps I have reason to,” replied Mr. Blodgett. + +“I don’t believe any of those Maitlands have the least honesty!” +exclaimed Agnes. “How I hate them!” + +“It is not a subject of which I like to speak,” you stated in an +evidently controlled voice, still with lowered eyes, “but it is only +right to say that some one—I suppose the son—is beginning to pay back +the debt.” + +“Pay back the money, Maizie!” ejaculated Mr. Walton. “Why haven’t you +told me of it?” + +“It did not seem necessary,” you answered. + +“I’m sure it’s a trick,” asserted Agnes. “He’s probably trying to worm +his way back to your friendship, to get something more out of you.” + +“How much”—began Mr. Walton; but you interrupted him there by saying, +“I would rather not talk about it.” + +The subject was changed at once, but when we were smoking, Mr. Walton +asked, “Blodgett, do you know anything about that Maitland affair?” + +“A little,” replied the host. + +“The debt really is being paid?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you don’t know by whom?” + +“So Maizie tells me.” + +“Has she made no attempt to find out?” + +“When the first payment was made she came to me for advice.” + +“Well?” asked Mr. Walton eagerly. + +“She got it,” declared Mr. Blodgett. + +“What did she do?” persisted Mr. Walton. + +Mr. Blodgett was silent for a moment, and then responded, “The exact +opposite of what I advised. Do you know, Walton, you and I remind me of +the warm-hearted elephant who tried to hatch the ostrich eggs by +sitting on them.” + +“In what respect?” + +“We decided that we must break up Maizie’s love of the Maitlands for +her own good.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, we made the whole thing so mean to her that finally we did break +something. Then, manlike, we were satisfied. What was it we broke?” + +“Nonsense!” growled Mr. Walton, sipping his wine. + +Mr. Blodgett laughed slightly. “That’s rather a good name for it,” he +assented; “but the trouble is, Walton, that nonsense is a very big part +of every woman’s life. You’ll never get me to fool with it again.” + +I often ponder over those three brief remarks of yours, and of what you +said to me last autumn, in our ride and in the upper hall of My Fancy, +trying to learn, if possible, what your feeling is towards us. Can you, +despite all that has intervened, still feel any tenderness and love for +my father and me? Perhaps it was best that you were silent; if you had +spoken of him with contempt, I think—I know you would not, my darling, +for you loved him once, and that, to you, would be reason enough to be +merciful to the dead, however sinning. + +Dear love, good-night. + + + + +XV + + +_March 6._ You once said to me that you could conceive of no +circumstances that would justify dishonesty; for, no matter what the +seeming benefits might be, the indirect consequences and the effect on +the misdoer’s character more than neutralized them. The wrong I have +done has only proved your view, and I have come to scorn myself for the +dishonorable part I have played. Yet I think that you would pity more +than blame me, if you could but know my sacrifices. I drifted into the +fraud unconsciously, and cannot now decide at what point the actual +stifling of my conscience began. I suppose the first misstep was when I +entered Mr. Whitely’s employment; yet though I knew it to be +unscrupulous in him to impose my editorials as his own, it still seemed +to me no distinct transgression in me to write them for him. With that +first act those that followed became possible, and each involved so +slight an increase in the moral lapse, and my debt to you was so potent +an excuse to blind me, that at the time I truly thought I was doing +right. I wonder what you would have done had you been in my position? + +Mr. Blodgett’s shrewdness in stipulating what work I was to do for Mr. +Whitely quickly proved itself. One of the magazines asked my employer +to contribute an article on The Future of Journalism. Handing me the +letter, he said, “Dr. Hartzmann, kindly write a couple of thousand +words on that subject.” + +“That surely is not part of my duty, Mr. Whitely,” I had the courage to +respond. + +He looked at me quickly, and his mouth stiffened into a straight line. +“Does that mean that you do not choose to do it?” he asked suavely. + +My heart failed me at the thought that if I lost my position I might +never get so good a one, and should drag my debt through life. For once +thought of you made me cowardly. I answered, “I will write it, Mr. +Whitely;” and he said, “I thank you,” as if I had done him a favor. + +I told Mr. Blodgett of the incident, that evening, with a wry face and +a laugh over my bravery, and he was furious at me. + +“Why, you—you”—he stuttered. “Haven’t you learned yet that the man +wouldn’t part with you for anything? He’s so stuck up over his +editorials and what people say of them that he’d as soon think of +discharging his own mother before she weaned him.” + +Not content with venting his anger on me, he came into the office the +next day and told Mr. Whitely I should not be imposed on, and finally +forced him to agree that I should receive whatever the review paid for +the article. + +After this I wrote several magazine articles for Mr. Whitely, and soon +another development of our curious relations occurred. One afternoon he +informed me, “The Library trustees request me to deliver an address at +the dedication of the building. I shall be grateful for any suggestions +you can make of a proper subject.” + +“Books?” I replied, with an absolutely grave face. + +“That is eminently suitable,” he responded. “Possibly you can spare the +time to compose such a paper; and as it should be of a scholarly +character some Greek and Latin seem to me advisable.” + +“How much?” I asked, inwardly amused to note if he would understand my +question, or would suppose it referred to the quantity of dead +languages I was to inject. + +“What is the labor worth?” he inquired, setting my doubt at rest, and +proving his business ability to recognize the most distant allusion to +a dollar. When I named a price, he continued: “That is excessive. The +profession of authorship is so little recompensed that there are many +good writers in New York who would gladly do it for less.” + +“I can do it cheaper, if, like them, I crib it from books at the +Astor,” I asserted. + +“I do not see why an address composed in the Astor Library should not +be entirely satisfactory?” he questioned, in his smooth, +self-controlled manner. + +“Did you never hear of the man who left the theatre in the middle of +Hamlet because, he said, he didn’t care to hear a play that was all +quotations?” I asked, with a touch of irony. + +“I presume the story has some connection in your mind with the subject +in hand, but I am unable to see the appositeness?” he said +interrogatively and evidently puzzled. + +“I merely mentioned it lest you might not know that Pope never lived in +Grub Street.” + +He looked at me, still ignorant that I was laughing at him. “You think +it injudicious to have it done by Mather?” he questioned, naming a +fellow who did special work for the paper at times. + +“Not at all,” I replied, “provided you label the address ‘hash,’ so +that people who have some discrimination won’t suppose you ignorant +that it is twice-cooked meat you are giving them,” and, turning, I went +on with my work as if the matter were ended. + +But the next day he told me, “I have concluded to have you compose that +oration, Dr. Hartzmann;” and from that moment of petty victory I have +not feared my employer. + +I wrote the address, and it so pleased Mr. Whitely that, not content +with delivering it, he had it handsomely printed, and sent copies to +all his friends. + +The resulting praise he received clearly whetted his appetite for +authorship, for not long after he said to me, “Dr. Hartzmann, you told +me, when you sold me this library, that you were writing a history of +the Turks. How nearly completed is it?” + +“I hope to have it ready for press within three months.” + +“For some time,” he remarked, “I have meditated the writing of a book, +and possibly yours will serve my purpose.” + +I was so taken by surprise that for a moment I merely gazed at him, +since it seemed impossible that even egotism so overwhelming as his +could be capable of such blindness; but he was in earnest, and I could +only revert to Mr. Blodgett’s idea that a business man comes to think +in time that anything he can buy is his. I smiled, and answered, “My +book is not petroleum, Mr. Whitely.” + +“If it is what I desire, I will amply remunerate you,” he offered. + +“It is not for sale.” + +“I presume,” he replied, “that you know what disposition of your book +suits you best. I have, however, noticed in you a strong desire to +obtain money, and I feel sure that we could arrange terms that will +bring you more than you would otherwise receive.” + +Even before Mr. Whitely finished speaking, I realized that I was not a +free agent. I owed a debt, and till it was paid I had no right to think +of my own ambition or feelings. I caught my breath in anguish at the +thought, and then, fearing that my courage would fail me, I spoke +hastily: “What do you offer me?” + +He smiled blandly as he predicted: “It is hardly a work that will have +a large sale. The Turkish nation has not played an important part in +history.” + +“Only conquered the key of the Old World, caused the Crusades, forced +the discovery of America and of the Cape passage, compelled Europe to +develop its own civilization instead of adopting that of the East, and +furnished a question to modern statesmen that they have yet found no +Œdipus to answer,” I retorted. + +“Your special pleading does tend to magnify their position,” he +assented. “I shall be happy to look the work over, leaving the terms to +be decided later.” + +I am ashamed to confess what a night of suffering I went through, +battling with the love and pride that had grown into my heart for my +book. I knew from the first moment his proposition had been suggested +that he would give me more than I could ever hope to make from the +work, and therefore my course was only too plain; but I had a terrible +struggle to force myself to carry my manuscript to him the following +afternoon. + +For the next week he was full of what he was reading; and had the +circumstances been different, I could have asked no higher compliment +as regards its popular interest than the enthusiasm of this unlettered +business man for my book. + +“It is quite as diverting as a romance!” he exclaimed. “I can already +see how astonished people will be when they read of the far-reaching +influence of that nation.” + +Since the pound of flesh was to be sold, I took advantage of this mood. +After much haggling, which irritated and pained me more than it should, +Mr. Whitely agreed to give me six thousand dollars and the royalties. +Good as the terms were, my heart nearly broke, the day the manuscript +left my hands, for I had put so much thought into the book that it had +almost become part of myself. My father, too, had toiled over it, with +fondest predictions of the fame it would bring me; spending, as it +proved, his very life in the endeavor to make it a great work. That his +love, that the love of my dear professors, and that my own hopes should +all be brought to market and sold as if they were mere merchandise was +so mercenary and cruel that at the last moment it was all I could do to +bring myself to fulfill the bargain. Nothing but my small progress in +paying my debt would have forced me to sell, and I hope nothing but +that would have led me to join in such dishonesty. It was, after all, +part of the price I was paying for the original wrong, and but just +retribution against which I had no right to cry out. Yet for a month I +was so sad that I could scarcely go through my day’s toil; and though +that was a year ago, I have never been able to work with the same vim, +life seems to have so little left in it for me. And idle as the thought +is, when I think of your praise of the book I cannot help dreaming of +what might have been if it had been published in my name; if—Ah, well, +to talk of “ifs” is only to confess that I am beaten, and that I will +not do. Nor is the fight over. I never hoped nor attempted to gain your +love, and that he has won you does not mean failure. To pay my debt is +all I have to do, and though I may feel more ill and disheartened than +I do to-night, I will pay it, come what may. + +Good-night, my darling. + + + + +XVI + + +_March 7._ It is little to be proud of, yet I like to think that though +I have behaved dishonestly, I have not entirely lost my sense of right +and wrong. Twice at least have I faced temptation and been strong +enough to resist. + +When I carried to Mr. Blodgett the money I received for my book, I was +so profoundly discouraged that my mood was only too apparent. In his +kindness he suggested that I buy certain bonds of a railroad his firm +was then reorganizing,—telling me from his inside knowledge that a +year’s holding would give me a profit of thirty per cent. It was so +sore a temptation to make money without exertion and practically +without risk that I assented, and authorized him to buy the securities; +but a night’s reflection made the dishonesty of my act clear to me, and +the next morning I went to his office and told him I wished to +countermand my order. + +“What’s that for?” he inquired. + +“I have thought better of the matter, and do not think I have the +right.” + +“Why not?” + +“If this money were a trust in my hands, it would not be honest to use +it in speculation, would it?” + +“No.” + +“That is practically what it is, since it was stolen from a trust, and +is to be returned to it.” + +He smiled rather grimly. “It’s lucky for Wall Street,” he said, “that +you literary fellows don’t have the making and enforcing of laws; and +it’s luckier still that you don’t have to earn your living down here, +for the money you’d make wouldn’t pay your burial insurance.” Yet +though he laughed cynically, he shook my hand, I thought, more warmly +than usual when we parted, as if he felt at heart that I had done +right. + +Much easier to resist was an offer of another kind. Very foolishly, I +told Mr. Whitely that I had received a letter from the literary editor +of the leading American review asking if I would write the criticism of +the History of the Turks. + +“That is a singular piece of good fortune,” Mr. Whitely said +cheerfully, “and guarantees me a complimentary notice in a periodical +that rarely praises.” + +“That is by no means certain,” I answered. “You know as well as I that +it does not gloze a poor book, nor pass over defects in silence.” + +“But you can hardly write critically of your own book!” cried Mr. +Whitely, for once giving me a share in our literary partnership. “For +if there are defects you ought to have corrected them in proof.” + +“Of course I do not intend to write the review!” I exclaimed. + +“Not write it? Why not?” he questioned in amazement equal to mine. + +“Because I am absolutely unfitted to do it.” + +“Why, you know all about the subject!” + +“I mean that no author can for a moment write discriminatingly of his +own work; and besides, the offer would never have been made if my +connection with the book were known.” + +“But they will never know.” + +“I should.” + +“You mean to say you do not intend to do it?” + +“I shall write to-night declining.” + +“But I want you to do it.” + +“And I don’t.” + +“What would they probably pay you for it?” + +“What it is worth.” + +“If you will reconsider your determination, I will double the amount.” + +“Unfortunately,” I laughed bitterly, “there are limits to what even _I_ +will sell.” + +“I will give you two hundred and fifty dollars if you will write a +laudatory review of my book,” he offered. + +“Have you ever dealt in consciences, Mr. Whitely?” I asked. + +“Occasionally.” + +“Did you ever get any as cheap as that?” + +“Many.” + +“I’m afraid you were buying shopworn and second-hand articles,” I +retorted; “or you may have gone to some bargain counter where they make +a specialty of ninety-eight and forty-nine cent goods.” + +He never liked this satirical mood into which he sometimes drove me. He +hesitated an instant, and then bid, “Three hundred.” + +“This reminds me of Faust,” I remarked; but he was too intent on the +matter in hand to see the point. + +“I suppose it’s only a question of amount?” he suggested blandly. + +“You are quite right, Mr. Whitely. I will write you that review if you +will pay me my price,” I assented. + +“I knew it,” he asserted exultingly. “But you are mistaken if you think +I will pay any fancy price.” + +“Then it’s a waste of time to talk any more about it,” I answered, and +resumed my work. + +“It isn’t worth three hundred, even,” he argued, “but you may tell me +what you will do it for.” + +“I will write that review for one hundred and twenty-one thousand +dollars,” I replied. + +“What!” + +“And from that price I will not abate one cent,” I added. + +Strangely enough, I did not write the notice. + +It was amusing to see his eagerness for the criticisms of the book. The +three American critical journals had notices eminently characteristic +of them. The first was scholarly, praising moderately, with a touch of +lemon-juice in the final paragraph that really only heightened its +earlier commendation, but which made the book’s putative author wince; +the second was discriminating and balanced, with far more that was +complimentary; while the third was the publisher’s puff so regularly +served up,—a colorless, sugary mush,—which my employer swallowed with +much delectation. I am ashamed to say that I greatly enjoyed his pain +over any harsh words. He always took for granted that the criticisms +were correct, never realizing that as between an author, who has spent +years on a book, and the average critic, who is at best superficial in +his knowledge of a subject, the former is the more often right of the +two. I tried to make this clear to him one day by asking him if he had +never read Lord Brougham’s review of Byron or Baron Jeffrey’s review of +Coleridge, and even brought him the astonishing tirades of those +world-renowned critics; but it was time wasted. He preferred a +flattering panegyric in the most obscure of little sheets to a really +careful notice which praised less inordinately; yet while apparently +believing all the flattery, he believed all the censoriousness as well, +even in those cases known to every author where one critic praises what +another blames. + +“A Western paper says you do not know how to write English,” he +complained one day. “You ought to have taken more pains with the book, +Dr. Hartzmann.” + +“The Academy and The Athenæum both thought my style had merit,” I +answered, smiling. + +“Nevertheless there must be something wrong, or this critic, who in +other respects praises with remarkable discrimination, would certainly +not have gone out of his way to mention it,” he replied discontentedly. + +Fortunately, unfavorable criticism, both in Europe and in America, was +the exception, and not the rule; the book was generally praised, and +sprang into an instant sale that encouraged and cheered me. Mr. Whitely +was immensely gratified at the sudden reputation it achieved for him, +and even while drinking deep of the mead of fresh authorship told me he +thought he would publish another book. I knew it was an opportunity to +make more money, but for some reason I felt unequal to beginning anew +on what would be a purely mercenary task. I mentioned my plan of a work +on the Moors, and promised, when I felt able to commence it, I would +talk with him about terms. That was three months ago, yet every day I +seem to feel less inclination, and in fact less ability, to undertake +the labor. For three years I have toiled to the utmost of my strength, +and forced myself to endure the most rigid economy. It is cowardly, but +at times I find myself hoping my present want of spirit and energy is +the forerunner of an illness which will end the hopeless struggle. + +Good-night, dear heart. + + + + +XVII + + +_March 8._ Each day I determine to spend my evening usefully, but try +as I may, when the time comes I feel too weary to do good work, and so +morbidly recur to these memories. I ought to fight the tendency, the +more that in reverting to the past I seem only to dwell on its sadness, +thus intensifying my own depression. Let me see if I cannot for one +night write of the good fortune that has come to me in the last three +years. + +Pleased with the success of my book of travel and text-books, and +knowing of my wish for work, the American publishers offered me the +position of assistant editor of their magazine and reader of +manuscripts. By hard work and late hours the task could be done in my +mornings and evenings, allowing me to continue in Mr. Whitely’s employ; +so I eagerly accepted the position. I can imagine few worse fates than +reading the hopeless and impossible trash that comes to every +publisher; but this was not my lot, for I was to read only the +manuscripts that had been winnowed of the chaff. Yet this very +immunity, as it proved, nearly lost me an opportunity of trying to be +of service to you. + +Returning a bundle of stuff to the manuscript clerk one day, I saw “M. +Walton, 287 Madison Avenue, New York City,” in your handwriting, on the +cover of a bulky pile of sheets on his desk. Startled, I demanded, +“What is this?” + +“It’s a rejected manuscript I was on the point of wrapping to return,” +the clerk answered. + +Opening the cover, I saw, “A Woman’s Problem, a Novel, by Aimez +Lawton.” It needed little perception to detect your name in the +anagram. + +“Mrs. Graham has rejected it?” I asked, and he nodded. + +“Give me the file about it, please,” I requested; and after a moment’s +search he handed me the envelope, and I glanced over its meagre +contents: a brief formal note from you, submitting it, and the short +opinion of the woman reader. “Traces of amateurishness, but a work of +considerable power and feeling, marred by an inconclusive ending,” was +the epitome of her opinion, coupled with the recommendation not to +accept. + +“Register it on my list, and I’ll take it and look it over,” I said, +and went to my little editorial cuddy, feeling actually rich in the +possession of the manuscript. Indeed, it was all I could do to go +through my morning quota of proof-reading and “making up” dummy forms +for the magazine’s next issue, I was so eager for your book. + +A single reading told me you had put the problem of your life into the +story. It is true the heroine was different enough in many respects to +make analogy hardly perceptible, though she too was a tender, noble +woman. She had never felt the slightest responsive warmth for any of +her lovers, but she was cramped by the social conventions regarding +unmarried women, and questioned whether her life would not be more +potent if she married, even without love. One of her lovers was a man +of force, brains, wealth, and ambition, outwardly an admirable match, +respected by the world, and, most of all, able to draw about him the +men of genius and intellect she wished to know, but whom her society +lot debarred her from meeting. Yet your heroine was conscious of +faults: she felt in him a touch of the soil that repels every woman +instinctively; at times his nature seemed hard and unsympathetic, and +his scientific work, for which he was famous, had narrowed his strong +mind to think only of facts and practicalities, to the exclusion of +everything ideal or beautiful. In the end, however, his persistent +wooing convinced her of the strength of his feeling; and though she was +conscious that she could never love him as she wished to love, the tale +ended by her marrying him. Am I to blame for reading in this the story +of Mr. Whitely’s courtship of you? I only marveled at how much of his +true character you had detected under his veneer. + +To me the story was sweet and noble. I loved your heroine from +beginning to end. She was so strong even in her weaknesses; for you +made her no unsubstantial ideal. I understood her craving something +more than her allotted round of social amusements, and her desire for +intercourse and friendship with finer and more purposeful people than +she daily met. I even understood her willingness to accept love, when +not herself feeling it; for my own life was so hungry-hearted that I +had come to yearn for the slightest tenderness, no matter who the giver +might be. + +As soon as I realized that the story was your own, I hoped it might +tell me something of your thoughts of my father and myself; but that +part of your life you passed over as if it never had been. Was the +omission due to too much feeling or too little? I have always suspected +that I served as a model for one of your minor characters: a dreamy, +unsocial being, curiously variable in mood; at times talking learnedly +and even wittily, but more often absolutely silent. He was by +profession an artist, and you made him content to use his talent on +book and magazine illustration, apparently without a higher purpose in +life than to earn enough to support himself, in order that he might +pass the remainder of his time in an intellectual indulgence scarcely +higher in motive than more material dissipation. His evident sadness +and lack of ambition was finally discovered to be due to a +disappointment in love; and as a cure, your heroine introduced him to +her best friend,—a young girl,—and through her influence he was roused +to some ambition, and in the end he dutifully fell in love as your +heroine wished. It was a sketch that made me wince, and yet at which I +could not help but laugh. I suppose it was a true picture, and I am +quite conscious that at times I must seem ridiculous to you; for often +my mood is such, or my interest in you is so strong, that I forget even +the ordinary courtesies and conventions. There is a general idea that a +lover is always at his best when with the woman he loves, but, from my +own experience, I think he is quite as likely to be at his worst. To +watch your graceful movements, to delight in the play of expression on +your face, and to catch every inflection in your voice and every word +you speak are pleasures so engrossing to me that I must appear to you +even more abstracted than I ordinarily am, though a dreamer at best. +And yet now and then I have thought you were conscious of a tenderness +in me, which, try as I will, I cannot altogether hide. + +The main fault of the novel was unquestionably that most accented by +the reader, and, recognizing the story as the problem of your life, I +understood why you supplied no solution to the riddle. You begged the +question you propounded; the fact that your heroine married the hero +being no answer, since only by the results of that marriage would it be +possible to say if she had chosen the better part. It was this that +convinced me you were putting on paper your own thoughts and mood. You +were debating this theme, and could carry it in imagination to the +point of marriage; but what lay beyond that was unknowable, and you +made no attempt to invent a conclusion, the matter being too real to +you to be merely a subject for artistic idealism and invention. +Hitherto I had classed Mr. Whitely with your other lovers, feeling sure +that you could not love him any more than you could any of them; but +now for the first time I began to fear his success. + +After reading the story three times I carried it back to the manuscript +clerk; and when I had allowed sufficient time for it to be returned, I +wrote you a long letter, telling how I had come to read the story, and +making a careful criticism and analysis of both its defects and its +merits. I cannot tell you what a labor of love that letter was, or how +much greater pains I took over your book than I have ever taken over +any writing of my own. What was perhaps unfair, after pointing out the +inconclusiveness of your ending, I sketched what I claimed was the +logical end to the story. Thinking as I did that I knew the original in +your mind, I was more influenced by my knowledge of him than I was by +the character in your book, and therefore possibly my inference was +unjust. But in hopes of saving you from Mr. Whitely, I pictured a +sequel in which your heroine found only greater loneliness in her +loveless union, her husband’s love proving a tax, and not a boon; and +marriage, instead of broadening her life, only bent and narrowed it by +just so much as a strong-willed and selfish man would inevitably cramp +the life of one over whom law and public opinion gave him control. + +I was richly rewarded by your letter of thanks. You were so winning in +your sweet acceptance of all my criticisms, and so lovable in your +simple gratitude, that I would have done a thousand times the work to +earn such a letter. Yet even in this guerdon I could not escape the +sting of my unhappy lot; for, unable to reconcile my distant conduct +with the apparent trouble I had taken, you asked me to dinner, leaving +me to select the day, and spoke of the pleasure it would give you to +have an opportunity to talk over the book with me. + +I can think of few greater delights than to have gone over your story, +line by line and incident by incident. My love pleaded with me to take +the chance, pointing out that it would do you no harm, but on the +contrary aid you, and I found a dozen specious reasons; but tempt me as +they might, I always came back to the truth that if you knew who I +really was you would not invite me, nor accept a favor at my hands. In +the end I wrote you that my time was so mortgaged that I must deny +myself the pleasure. A small compensation was my offer that if you +chose to rewrite the story and send me the manuscript, I would gladly +read it over again and make any further suggestions which occurred to +me. You thanked me by letter gracefully, but I was conscious of your +bewilderment in the very care with which you phrased your note; and +when next we met I could see that I had become more an enigma than +ever,—for which there is indeed small wonder. + +God keep you, my darling. + + + + +XVIII + + +_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. + + + + +XIX + + +_March 10._ For the remainder of my visit, it seemed as if your +prophecy of friendship were to be fulfilled. From the moment of my +confidence to you, all the reserves that had been raised by my +slighting of your invitations disappeared, perhaps because the secret I +had shared with you served to make my past conduct less unreasonable; +still more, I believe, because of the faith in you it evidenced in me. +Certain I am that in the following week I felt able to be my true self +when with you, for the first time since we were boy and girl together. +The difference was so marked that you commented on the change. + +“Do you remember,” you asked me, “our conversation in Mr. Whitely’s +study, when I spoke of how little people really knew one another? Here +we have been meeting for over three years, and yet I find that I +haven’t in the least known you.” + +It is a pleasure to me to recall that whole conversation, for it was by +far the most intimate that we ever had,—so personal that I think I +should but have had to question to learn what I long to know. In +response to my slight assistance, to the sympathy I had shown, you +opened for the moment your heart; willing, apparently, that I should +fathom your true nature. + +We had gone to dinner at the Grangers’ merely to please Mrs. Blodgett, +for we mutually agreed that in the country formal dinners were a +weariness of the flesh; and I presume that with you, as with me, this +general objection of ours was greatly strengthened when we found Mrs. +Polhemus among the guests. It is always painful to me to be near her, +and her dislike of you is obvious enough to make me sure that her +presence is equally disagreeable to you. It is a strange warp and woof +life weaves, that I owe to one for whom we both feel such repulsion the +most sympathetic, the tenderest conversation I have ever had with you. + +I was talking with Miss Granger, and thus did not hear the beginning of +my mother’s girds at you; but Agnes, who sat on my left, told me later +that, as usual, Mrs. Polhemus set out to bait you by remarks +superficially inoffensive, but covertly planned to embarrass or sting. +The first thing which attracted my notice was her voice distinctly +raised, as if she wished the whole table to listen, and in fact loud +enough to make Miss Granger stop in the middle of a sentence and draw +our attention to the speaker. + +“—sound very well,” Mrs. Polhemus was saying, “and are to be expected +from any one who strives to be thought romantically sentimental.” + +“I did not know,” you replied in a low voice, “that a ‘romantically +sentimental’ nature was needed to produce belief in honesty.” + +“It is easy enough to talk the high morals of honesty,” retorted your +assailant, “and I suppose, Miss Walton, that for you it is not +difficult to live up to your conversational ideals. But we unfortunate +earthly creatures, who cannot achieve so rarefied a life, dare not make +a parade of our ethical natures. The saintly woman is an enormously +difficult rôle to play since miracles went out of style.” + +“Oh, leave us an occasional ideal, Mrs. Polhemus,” laughed a guest. “I +for one wish that fairy rings and genii were still the vogue.” + +“But we have some kinds of miracles,” asserted Mrs. Granger. “Remember +the distich,— + +‘God still works wonders now and then: +Behold! two lawyers, honest men!’” + + +“With all due deference to Miss Walton’s championing of absolute +perfection,” continued my mother, with a cleverly detached manner, to +veil what lay back of the sneer, “I find it much easier to accept the +miracle of an honest lawyer than that of an absolutely uncattish +woman,”—a speech which, like most of those of Mrs. Polhemus, drew a +laugh from the men. + +“That’s because you don’t know Miss Walton!” exclaimed Agnes warmly, +evidently fretted by such conduct towards you. + +“On the contrary,” answered my mother, speaking coolly and evenly, “I +presume I have known Miss Walton longer and better than any one else in +this room; and I remember when her views of honesty were such that her +ideal was personified by a pair of embezzlers.” + +You had been meeting her gaze across the table as she spoke, but now +you dropped your lids, hiding your eyes behind their long lashes; and +nothing but the color receding from your cheeks, leaving them as white +as your throat and brow, told of what you felt. + +“Oh, say something,” appealed Agnes to me in a whisper. “Anything to +divert the”— + +“And I really think,” went on Mrs. Polhemus, smiling sweetly, with her +eyes on you, “that if you were as thoroughly honest with us as, a +moment ago, you were insistent on the world’s being, you would confess +to a _tendresse_ still felt for that particular form of obliquity.” + +I shall recall the moment which followed that speech if it shall ever +fall to me to sit in the jury-box and pass judgment on a murderer, for +I know that had I been armed, and my mother a man, I should have killed +her; and it taught me that murder is in every man’s heart. Yet I was +not out of my head, but was curiously clear-minded. Though allusion to +my shame had hitherto always made me dumb, I was able to speak now +without the slightest difficulty; I imagine because the thought of your +pain made me forget my own. + +“Which is better, Mrs. Polhemus,” I asked, with a calmness I marveled +at afterwards, “to love dishonesty or to dishonestly love?” + +“Is this a riddle?” she said, though not removing her eyes from you. + +“I suppose, since right and wrong are evolutionary,” I rejoined, “that +every ethical question is more or less of a conundrum. But the thought +in my mind was that there is only nobility in a love so great that it +can outlast even wrongdoing.” Then, in my controlled passion, I stabbed +her as deeply as I could make words stab. “Compare such a love, for +instance, with another of which I have heard,—that of a woman who so +valued the world’s opinion that she would not get a divorce from an +embezzling husband, because of the social stigma it involved, yet who +remarried within a week of hearing of her first husband’s death, +because she thought that fact could not be known. Which love is the +higher?” + +The color blazed up in my mother’s cheeks, as she turned from you to +look at me, with eyes that would have killed if they could; and it was +her manner, far more than even the implication of my words, which told +the rest of the table that my nominally impersonal case was truly a +thrust of the knife. A moment’s appalling pause followed, and then, +though the fruit was being passed, the hostess broke the terrible spell +by rising, as if the time had come for the ladies to withdraw. + +When, later, the men followed them, Agnes intercepted me at the door, +and whispered, “Oh, doctor, it was magnificent! I was so afraid Maizie +would break down if—I never dreamed you could do it so splendidly. +You’re almost as much of a love as papa! It will teach the cat to let +Maizie alone! Now, do you want to be extra good?” + +“So long as you don’t want any more vitriol-throwing,” I assented, +smiling. “Remember that a hostess deserves some consideration.” + +“I told Mrs. Granger that you did it at my request, and there wasn’t a +woman in the room who didn’t want to cheer. We all love Maizie, and +hate Mrs. Polhemus; and it isn’t a bit because you geese of men think +she’s handsome and clever, either. Poor Maizie wanted to be by herself, +and went out on the veranda. I think she’s had time enough, and that +it’s best for some one to go to her. Won’t you slip out quietly?” + +I nodded, and instantly she spoke aloud of the moon, and we went to the +French window on the pretense of looking at it, where, after a moment, +I left her. At first I could not discover you, the vines so shadowed +your retreat; and when I did, it was to find you with bowed head buried +in your arms as they rested on the veranda rail. The whole attitude was +so suggestive of grief that I did not dare to speak, and moved to go +away. Just as I turned, however, you looked up, as if suddenly +conscious of some presence. + +“I did not intend to intrude, Miss Walton, and don’t let me disturb +you. I will rejoin”— + +“If you came out for the moonlight and quiet, sit down here,” you said, +making room for me. + +I seated myself beside you, but made no reply, thinking your allusion +to quiet perhaps voiced your own preference. + +“It seems needless,” you began, after a slight pause, “to ignore your +kindness, even though it was veiled. I never felt so completely in +another’s power, and though I tried to—to say something—to strike +back—I couldn’t. Did my face so betray me that you knew I needed help?” + +“Your face told nothing, it seemed to me.” + +“But that makes it positively uncanny. Over and over again you appear +to divine my thoughts or moods. Do you?” + +“Little more than any one can of a person in whom one is interested +enough to notice keenly.” + +“Yet no one else does it with me. And several times, when we have +caught each other’s eyes, we have—at least I have felt sure that you +were laughing with me, though your face was grave.” + +“Who was uncannily mind-reading then?” + +“An adequate _tu quoque_,” you said, laughing; then you went on +seriously; “Still, to be frank, as now I think we can be, I have never +made any pretense that I wasn’t very much interested in you—while +you—well—till very lately, I haven’t been able to make up my mind that +you did not actually—no, not dislike—for I knew that you—I could not be +unconscious of the genuine esteem you have made so evident—yet there +has always been, until the last two weeks, an indefinable barrier, of +your making, as it appeared to me, and from that I could only infer +some—I can give it no name.” + +“Were there no natural barriers to a friendship between a struggling +writer and Miss Walton?” + +“Surely you are above that!” you exclaimed. “You have not let such a +distinction—Oh no, for it has not stood in the way of friendship with +the Blodgetts.” + +A moment’s silence ensued, and then you spoke again: “Perhaps there was +a motive that explains it. Please don’t reply, if it is a question I +ought not to put, but after your confidence of last week I feel as if +you had given me the privilege to ask it. I have always thought—or +rather hoped—that you cared for Agnes? If”— + +“And so you married me to her in the novel,” I interrupted, in an +effort to change the subject, dreading to what it might lead. + +You laughed merrily as you said, “Oh, I’m so glad you spoke of that. I +have often wondered if you recognized the attempted portrait,—which now +I know is not a bit of a likeness,—and have longed to ask you. I never +should have dared to sketch it, but I thought my pen name would conceal +my criminality; and then what a fatality for you to read it! I never +suspected you were the publisher’s reader. What have you thought of +me?” + +“That you drew a very pleasant picture of my supposed mental and moral +attainments, at the expense of my ambition and will. My true sympathy, +however, went out to the girl whom you offered up as a heart-restorer +for my earlier attachment.” + +“I’m thankful we are in the shadow,” you laughed, “so that my red +cheeks don’t show. You are taking a most thoroughgoing revenge.” + +“That was the last thought in my mind.” + +“Then, my woman’s curiosity having been appeased, be doubly generous +and spare my absurd blushes. I don’t know when I have been made to feel +so young and foolish.” + +“Clearly you are no hardened criminal, Miss Walton. Usually matchmakers +glory in their shame.” + +“Perhaps I should if I had not been detected, or if I had succeeded +better.” + +“You took, I fear, a difficult subject for what may truly be called +your maiden experiment.” + +“Did I not? And yet—You see I recognized potentialities for loving in +you. You can—Ah, you have suggested to me a revenge for your jokes. Did +you—were you the man who coined the phrase that my eyes were too dressy +for the daytime?” + +“Yes,” I confessed guiltily, “but”— + +“No, don’t dare to try to explain it away,” you ordered. “How could you +say it? We can never be friends, after all.” + +Though you spoke in evident gayety, I answered gravely: “You will +forgive me when I tell you that it was to parry a thrust of Mrs. +Polhemus’s at you, and I made a joke of it only because I did not +choose to treat her gibe seriously. I hoped it would not come back to +you.” + +“Every friend I have has quoted it, not once, but a dozen times, in my +presence. If you knew how I have been persecuted and teased with that +remark! You are twice the criminal that I have been, for at least my +libel was never published. Yet you are unblushing.” + +We both sat silent for a little while, and then you began: “You +interrupted a question of mine just now. Was it a chance or a purposed +diversion? You see,” you added hastily, “I am presuming that henceforth +we are to be candid.” + +“I confess to an intention in the dodging, not because I feared the +question, for a simple negative was all it needed, but I was afraid of +what might follow.” + +“I hoped, after the trust of the other day—You do not want to tell me +your story?” + +“Are there not some things that cannot be put into words, Miss Walton? +Could you tell me your story?” + +“But mine is no mystery,” you replied. “It has been the world’s +property for years. Why, your very help to-night proves that it is +known to you,—that you know, indeed, facts that were unknown to me.” + +“Facts, yes; feelings, no.” + +“Do you appreciate the subtilty of the compliment? You really care for +such valueless and indefinable things as feelings?” + +“Yes.” + +“A bargain, then, while you are in this mood of giving something for +nothing. Question for question, if you choose.” + +“You can tell your secrets?” + +“To you, yes, for you have told me your greatest.” + +“Then, with the privilege of silence for both, begin.” + +“Ah, you begin already to fear the gimlet! Yes. Nothing is to be told +that—There again we lack a definition, do we not? Never mind. We shall +understand. You knew her in Germany?” + +“Yes.” + +“And she—You wear a mask, at moments even merry-faced, but now and +again I have surprised a look of such sadness in your eyes that—Is that +why you came to America? She”— + +“No. She was, and is, in so different a class, that I never”— + +“You should not allow that to be a bar! Any woman”— + +“But even more, there are other claims upon me, which make marriage out +of the question.” + +“And this is why you have resigned reputation for money-making? Is +there no escape? Oh, it seems too cruel to be!” + +“You draw it worse than it is, Miss Walton, forgetting that I told you +of my happiness in loving.” + +“You make me proud to feel that we are friends, Dr. Hartzmann,” you +said gently. “I hope she is worthy of such a love?” + +I merely nodded; and after a slight pause you remarked, “Now it is only +fair to give you a turn.” + +I had been pondering, after my first impulsive assent, over my right to +win your confidence, with the one inevitable conclusion that was so +clear, and I answered, “I have no questions to ask, Miss Walton.” + +“Then I can ask no more, of course,” you replied quietly, and at once +turned the conversation into less personal subjects, until the time +came for our return to My Fancy. + +When we parted in the upper hall, that evening, you said to me, “I +always value your opinion, and it usually influences me. Do you, as +your speech to-night implied, think it right to go on loving baseness?” + +“It is not a question of right and wrong, but only whether the love +remains.” + +“Then you don’t think it a duty to crush it out?” + +“No. All love is noble that is distinct from self.” + +You held out your hand. “I am so glad you think so, and that you spoke +your thought. You have done me a great kindness,—greater far than you +can ever know. Thank you, and good-night.” + +Good-night, Maizie. + + + + +XX + + +_March 11._ When I left My Fancy, after my visit, Agnes had nothing but +praise for me. “I was certain that you and Maizie would be friends if +you ever really knew each other,” she said triumphantly. Unfortunately, +our first meeting in the city served only to prove the reverse. In one +of my daily walks up-town, I met you and Agnes outside a shop where you +had been buying Christmas gifts for the boys of your Neighborhood +Guild. You were looking for the carriage, about which there had been +some mistake, and I helped you search. When our hunt was unsuccessful, +you both said you would rather walk than let me get a cab, having been +deterred only by the growing darkness, and not by the snow. So chatting +merrily, away we went, through the elfin flakes which seemed so eager +to kiss your cheeks, till your home was reached. + +“If we come in, will you give us some tea?” asked Agnes. + +“Tea, cake, chocolates, and conversation,” you promised. + +“I am sorry,” I said, “but I cannot spare the time.” + +I thought you and Agnes exchanged glances. “Please, Doc—” she began; +but you interrupted her by saying proudly, “We must not take any more +of Dr. Hartzmann’s time, Agnes. Will you come in?” + +“No,” replied Agnes. “I’ll go home before it’s any darker. Good-night.” + +I started to walk with her the short distance, but the moment we were +out of hearing she turned towards me and cried, “I hate you!” As I made +no reply, she demanded impatiently, “What makes you behave so +abominably?” When I was still silent she continued: “I told you how +Maizie felt, and I thought it was all right, and now you do it again. +It’s too bad! Well, can’t you say something? Why do you do it?” + +“There is nothing for me to say, Miss Blodgett,” I responded sadly. + +“You might at least do it to please me,” she persisted, “even if you +don’t like Maizie.” + +I made no answer, and we walked the rest of the distance in silence. At +the stoop, however, Agnes asked, “Will you go with me to call on +Maizie, some afternoon?” + +I shook my head. + +“Not even to please mamma and me?” she questioned. + +Again I gave the same answer, and without a word of parting she left me +and passed through the doorway. From that time she has treated me +coldly. + +Another complication only tended to increase the coldness, as well as +to involve me with Mrs. Blodgett. In December, Mr. Blodgett came into +Mr. Whitely’s office and announced, “I’ve been taking a liberty with +your name, doctor.” + +“For what kindness am I indebted now?” I inquired. + +“I’m a member of the Philomathean,” he said,—“not because I’m an +author, or artist, or engineer, or scientist, but because I’m a big +frog in my own puddle, and they want samples of us, provided we are +good fellows, just to see what we’re like. I was talking with Professor +Eaton in September, and we agreed you ought to be one of us; so we +stuck your name up, and Saturday evening the club elected you.” + +“I can’t afford it”—I began; but he interrupted with:— + +“I knew you’d say that, and so didn’t tell you beforehand. I’ll bet you +your initiation fee and a year’s dues against a share of R. T. common +that you’ll make enough out of your membership to pay you five times +over.” + +“How can I do that?” + +“All the editors and publishers are members,” he replied, “and to meet +them over the rum punch we serve on meeting nights is worth money to +the most celebrated author living. Then you’ll have the best club +library in this country at your elbow for working purposes.” + +“I don’t think I ought, Mr. Blodgett.” + +He was about to protest, when Mr. Whitely broke in upon us, saying, +“Accept your membership, Dr. Hartzmann, and the paper shall pay your +initiation and dues.” + +I do not know whether Mr. Blodgett or myself was the more surprised at +this unexpected and liberal offer. Our amazement was so obvious that +Mr. Whitely continued: “I think it’ll be an excellent idea for the +paper to have a member of its staff in the Philomathean, and so the +office shall pay for it.” + +“Whitely,” observed Mr. Blodgett admiringly, “you’re a good business +man, whatever else you are!” + +“I wish, Blodgett,” inquired Mr. Whitely, “you would tell me why I have +been kept waiting so long?” + +“Many a name’s been up longer than yours,” replied Mr. Blodgett in a +comforting voice. “You don’t seem to realize that the Philomathean’s a +pretty stiff club to get into.” + +“But I’ve been posted for over three years, while here Dr. Hartzmann is +elected within four months of his proposing.” + +“Well, the doctor has the great advantage of being a sort of natural +Philomath, you see,” Mr. Blodgett explained genially. “He was born that +way, and so is ripe for membership without any closet mellowing.” + +“But my reputation as a writer is greater than Dr.”—began Mr. Whitely; +but a laugh from Mr. Blodgett made him halt. + +“Oh come, now, Whitely!” + +“What’s the matter?” asked my employer. + +“Once St. Peter and St. Paul stopped at a tavern to quench their +thirst,” said Mr. Blodgett, “and when the time came to pay, they tossed +dice for it. Paul threw double sixes, and smiled. Peter smiled back, +and threw double sevens. What do you suppose Paul said, Whitely?” + +“What?” + +“‘Oh, Peter, Peter! No miracles between friends.’” + +“I don’t follow you,” rejoined Mr. Whitely. + +Mr. Blodgett turned and said to me, “I’m going West for two months, and +while I’m gone the Twelfth-night revel at the Philomathean is to come +off. Will you see that the boss and Agnes get cards?” Then he faced +about and remarked, “Whitely, I’d give a big gold certificate to know +what nerve food you use!” and went out, laughing. + +When I took the invitations to Mrs. Blodgett, I found you all with your +heads full of a benefit for the Guild, to be given at your home,—a +musical evening, with several well-known stars as magnets, and +admission by invitation as an additional attraction. Mrs. Blodgett said +to me in her decisive way, “Dr. Hartzmann, the invitations are five +dollars each, and you are to take one.” + +I half suspected that it was only a device to get me within your doors, +though every society woman feels at liberty to whitemail her social +circle to an unlimited degree. But the fact that the entertainment was +to be in your home, even more than my poverty, compelled me to refuse +to be a victim of her charitable kindness or her charitable greed. I +merely shook my head. + +“Oh, but you must,” she urged. “It will be a delightful evening, and +then it’s such a fine object.” + +“Do not ask it of Dr. Hartzmann,” you protested, coming to my aid. “No +one”— + +“I’m sure it’s very little to ask,” remarked Mrs. Blodgett, in a +disappointed way. + +“Mrs. Blodgett,” I said, in desperation, “for years I have denied +myself every luxury and almost every comfort. I have lived at the +cheapest of boarding-houses; I have walked down-town, rain or shine, to +save ten cents a day; I have”—I stopped there, ashamed of my outbreak. + +“I suppose, Dr. Hartzmann,” retorted Agnes, with no attempt to conceal +the irritation she felt toward me, “that the Philomathean is one of +your ten-cent economies?” + +Before I could speak you changed the subject, and the matter was +dropped,—I hoped for all time. It was, however, to reappear, and to +make my position more difficult and painful than ever. + +At Mrs. Blodgett’s request, made that very day, I sent you an +invitation to the Philomathean ladies’ day. It was with no hope of +being there myself, since my editorial duties covered the hours of the +exhibition; but good or bad fortune aided me, for Mr. Whitely asked me +for a ticket, and his absence from the office set me free. The crowd +was great, but, like most people who try for one thing only, I attained +my desire by quickly finding you, and we spent an enjoyable hour +together, studying the delicious jokes and pranks of our artist +members. The truly marvelous admixture of absurdity and cleverness +called out the real mirth of your nature, and our happiness and gayety +over the pictures strangely recalled to me our similar days spent in +Paris and elsewhere. You too, I think, remembered the same experience, +for when we had finished, and were ascending the stairs to the +dining-room, you remarked to me, “I never dreamed that one could be so +merry after one had ceased to be a child. For the last hour I have felt +as if teens were yet unventured lands.” + +I confess I sought a secluded spot in an alcove, hoping still to keep +you to myself; but the project failed, for when I returned from getting +you an ice, I found that Mr. Whitely had joined you. The pictures, of +course, were the subject of discussion, and you asked him, “Are all the +other members as clever in their own professions as your artists have +shown themselves to be?” + +“The Philomathean is made up of an able body of men,” replied Mr. +Whitely in a delightfully patronizing tone. “Some few of the very +ablest, perhaps, do not care to be members; but of the second rank, you +may say, broadly speaking, that it includes all men of prominence in +this city.” + +“But why should the abler men not belong?” + +“They are too occupied with more vital matters,” explained my employer. + +“Yet surely they must need a club, and what one so appropriate as +this?” + +“It is natural to reason so,” assented the would-be member. “But as an +actual fact, some of the most prominent men in this city are not +members,” and he mentioned three well-known names. + +The inference was so unjust that I observed, “Should you not add, Mr. +Whitely, that they are not members either because they know it is +useless to apply, or because they have applied in vain; and that their +exclusion, though superficially a small affair, probably means to them, +by the implication it carries, one of the keenest mortifications of +their lives?” + +“You mean that the Philomathean refuses to admit such men as Mr. +Whitely named?” you asked incredulously. + +I smiled. “The worldly reputation and the professional reputation of +men occasionally differ very greatly, Miss Walton. We do not accept a +man here because his name appears often in the newspapers, but because +of what the men of his own calling know and think of him.” + +“And of course they are always jealous of a man who has surpassed +them,” contended Mr. Whitely. + +“There must be something more against a man than envy of his confrères +to exclude him,” I answered. “My loyalty to the Philomathean, Miss +Walton, is due to the influence it exerts in this very matter. Errors +are possible, but the intention is that no man shall be of our +brotherhood who is not honestly doing something worth the doing, for +other reasons than mere money-making. And for that very reason, we are +supposed, within these walls, to be friends, whether or not there is +acquaintance outside of them. We are the one club in New York which +dares to trust its membership list implicitly to that extent. +Charlatanry and dishonesty may succeed with the world, but here they +fail. Money will buy much, but the poorest man stands on a par here +with the wealthiest.” + +“You make me envious of you both,” you sighed, just as Mrs. Blodgett +and Agnes joined us. + +“What are you envying them?” asked Agnes, as she shook hands with +you,—“that they were monopolizing you? How selfish men are!” + +“In monopolizing this club?” + +“Was that what you envied them?” ejaculated Mrs. Blodgett. “I for one +am glad there’s a place to which I can’t go, where I can send my +husband when I want to be rid of him.” Then she turned to Mr. Whitely, +and with her usual directness remarked, “So they’ve let you in? Mr. +Blodgett told me you would surely be rejected.” + +Mr. Whitely reddened and bit his lip, for which he is hardly to be +blamed. But he only bowed slightly in reply, leaving the inference in +your minds that he was a Philomath. How the man dares so often to— + +The striking clock tells me it is later than I thought, and I must +stop. + +Good-night, dear heart. + + + + +XXI + + +_March 12._ Our talk at the Philomathean and Mr. Whitely’s tacit +assumption of membership had their penalty for me,—a penalty which, to +reverse the old adage, I first thought an undisguised blessing. When we +separated, he asked me to dinner the following evening, to fill in a +place unexpectedly left vacant; and as I knew, from a chance allusion, +that you were to be there, I accepted a courtesy at his hands. + +Although there were several celebrities at the meal, it fell to my lot +to sit on your right; my host, who took you down, evidently preferring +to have no dangerous rival in your attention. But Mrs. Blodgett, who +sat on his other side, engaged him as much as she chose, and thus gave +me more of your time than I should otherwise have had. If you knew how +happy it made me that, whenever she interrupted his monopoly of you, +instead of making a trialogue with them, you never failed to turn to +me! + +“I have just re-read Mr. Whitely’s book,” you remarked, in one of these +interruptions, “and I have been trying to express to him my genuine +admiration for it. I thought of it highly when first I read it, last +autumn, but on a second reading I have become really an enthusiast.” + +I suppose my face must have shown some of the joy your words gave me, +for you continued, “Clearly, you like it too, and are pleased to hear +it praised. But then it’s notorious that writers are jealous of one +another! Tell me what you think of it?” + +I tried to keep all bitterness out of my voice as I laughed. “Think how +unprofessional it would be in me to discuss my employer’s book: if I +praised it, how necessary; if I disparaged it, how disloyal!” + +“You are as unsatisfactory as Mr. Whitely,” you complained. “I can’t +get him to speak about it, either. He smiles and bows his head to my +praise, but not a word can he be made to say. Evidently he has a form +of modesty—not stage fright, but book fright—that I never before +encountered. Every other author I have met was fatiguingly anxious to +talk about his own writings.” + +“Remember in our behalf that a book stands very much in the same +relation to a writer that a baby does to its mother. We are tolerant of +her admiration; be equally lenient to the author’s harmless prattle.” + +“I suppose, too,” you went on, “that the historian is less liable to +the disease, because his work is so much less his own flesh and blood; +so much less emotional than that of the poet or novelist.” + +“No book worth reading ever fails to be steeped with the spirit of the +person who wrote it. The man on the stage is instinct with emotion and +feeling, but does he express more of his true individuality than the +man in real life? The historian puts fewer of his own feelings into his +work, but he plays far less to the gallery, and so is more truthful in +what he reveals of himself.” + +“Your simile reminds me of a thought of my own, after my first reading +of this book: that the novelist is the demagogue of letters, striving +to please, and suing for public favor by catering to all its whims and +weaknesses; but the historian is the aristocrat of literature, knowing +the right, and proudly above taking heed of popular prejudice or moods. +I liked Mr. Whitely’s book for many things, but most of all for its +fearless attitude towards whatever it touched upon. I felt that it was +the truth, because the whole atmosphere told me that a man was writing, +too brave to tell what was untrue. That evidently pleases you, again,” +you laughed. “Oh, it is horrible to see this consuming jealousy!” + +When the ladies withdrew, the men, as usual, clustered at one end of +the table; but my host beckoned me to join him, and sat down apart from +his guests. + +“Dr. Hartzmann, what is the matter at the Philomathean?” he demanded, +in a low voice. + +“Matter?” I questioned. + +“Yes. What is the reason they don’t elect me?” + +“I am not on the membership committee, Mr. Whitely,” I replied. + +“Are you popular up there? Mr. Blodgett said that you were.” + +“I have some good friends,” I answered. + +“Then electioneer and get me put in,” he explained, revealing to me in +a flash why he had volunteered that the paper should pay the expenses +of my membership. + +“I am hardly in a position to do that.” + +“Why not?” + +“I am a new member, and my position under you is so well known that it +would be very indelicate in me to appear in the matter.” + +“For what do you suppose I helped you, then?” he asked severely. + +“I did not understand till now.” + +“Well, then, drop your talk about delicacy, and get your friends to +elect me.” + +“I do not think I can do that,” I answered mildly. + +“Then you won’t earn your pay?” + +“Mr. Whitely, when you made the offer, you put it on an entirely +different ground, and it is unfair to claim that it involved any +condition that was not then expressed.” + +“But you ought to be willing to do it. Haven’t you any gratitude about +you?” + +“I understood that you wanted one of your staff a member of that club. +Had you mentioned your present motive, I should certainly have refused +to accept the offer; and under these circumstances I decline to +recognize any cause for gratitude.” + +“What is your objection to doing it, though?” he persisted. + +“Indeed, Mr. Whitely, I do not think I am called upon to say more than +I have said.” + +“Do you want me in the club or not?” he demanded. + +“I shall certainly never oppose your election in any way whatsoever.” + +“But you will not work for me?” + +“No.” + +“Are you waiting to see how much I’ll give?” + +My hand trembled at the insult, but I made no reply. + +“Come,” he continued, “are you standing out in hopes I will offer you +something?” + +“No.” + +“How much?” he asked. + +“I have been elected to the Philomathean, Mr. Whitely,” I said, +concluding that an explanation might be the easiest escape, after all, +“and to it I owe a distinct duty. If you were not my employer, I should +feel called upon to work against you.” + +“Why?” he exclaimed, in surprise. + +“Is it necessary to say?” I answered. + +“Yes. What is your objection to me?” + +“Did you never read Æsop’s fable of the jackdaw?” I asked. + +“That’s it, is it? And you are opposing my election?” + +“By not the slightest act.” + +“Then why did Blodgett predict that I would surely be rejected? I’ve a +reputation as a writer, as a philanthropist, and as a successful +business man. What more do they want?” + +“As I told Miss Walton yesterday,” I explained, “a man’s true and +eventual reputation depends, not on what the world thinks of him, but +on what his fellow-craft decide.” + +“Well?” + +“There is scarcely an author or editor at the Philomathean who is not +opposed to your election, Mr. Whitely.” + +“You have been telling tales,” he muttered angrily. + +“You should know better.” + +“Then what have they against me?” + +“Any man who works with his pen learns that no one can write either +editorials or books, of the kind credited to you, without years of +training. The most embarrassing ordeal I have to undergo is the joking +and questioning with which the fraternity tease me. But you need never +fear my not keeping faith.” + +“Yet you won’t help me into the Philomathean?” + +“No.” + +“So you’ll make money out of me, but think your club too good?” + +“I owe my club a duty.” + +“I know,” he went on smoothly, “that you’re an awful screw, when +there’s a dollar in sight. How much do you want?” + +My silence should have warned him, but he was too self-absorbed to feel +anything but his own mood. + +“How much do you want?” he repeated, and I still sat without speaking, +though the room blurred, and I felt as if I were stifling. “The day I’m +elected to the Philomathean, I’ll give you”— + +I rose and interrupted him, saying, “Mr. Whitely, if you wish me to +leave your house and employment, you can obtain my absence in an easier +way than by insulting me.” + +For a moment we faced each other in silence, and then he rose. +“Hereafter, Dr. Hartzmann, you will pay those dues yourself,” he said +in a low voice, as he moved towards the door. + +I only bowed, glad that the matter was so easily ended; and for nearly +two months our relations have been of the most formal kind that can +exist between employer and employed. + +Far more bitter was another break. When the moment of farewell came, +that evening, I waited to put you and Mrs. Blodgett into your +carriages, and while we were delayed in the vestibule you thanked me +again for the pleasure of the previous afternoon, and then continued: +“I understand why you did not feel able to please Mrs. Blodgett about +the concert. But won’t you let me acknowledge the pleasure of yesterday +by sending you a ticket? I have taken a number, and as all my circle +have done the same, I am finding it rather difficult to get rid of +them.” + +“That’s all right, Maizie,” interjected Mrs. Blodgett, who had caught, +or inferred from an occasional word that she heard, what you were +saying. “We took an extra ticket, and I am going to use the doctor for +an escort that evening.” + +“I thank you both,” I answered, “but I shall not be able to attend the +concert.” + +“Nonsense!” sniffed Mrs. Blodgett, as I helped her into her carriage. +“You’re going to do as I tell you.” + +You did not speak in the moment we waited for your coupé to take its +place, but as the tiger opened the door you looked in my face for the +first time since my words, showing me eyes that told of the pain I had +inflicted. + +“I am sorry,” you said quietly. “I had thought—hoped—that we were to be +friends.” + +There was nothing for me to say, and we parted thus. From that time I +have seen little of you, for when I meet you now you no longer make it +possible for me to have much of your society. And my persistent refusal +to go to the concert with Mrs. Blodgett and Agnes increased their +irritation against me, so that I am no longer asked to their home, and +thus have lost my most frequent opportunity of meeting you. But harder +even than this deprivation is the thought that I have given you pain; +made all the greater, perhaps, because so ill deserved and apparently +unreasonable. I find myself longing for the hour when we shall meet at +that far-away tribunal, where all our lives, and not alone that which +is seen, will stand revealed. For two months I have not had a single +moment of happiness or even hope. I am lonely and weary, while my +strength and courage seem to lessen day by day. Oh, my darling, I pray +God that thought of you will make me stronger and braver, that I may go +on with my fight. Good-night. + + + + +XXII + + +_March 13._ Last night, at the Philomathean, Mr. Blodgett joined me, +and asked me why I had not dined with them lately. He returned only a +few days ago, and was thus ignorant that I have not been inside his +door for weeks. I hesitated for an instant, and then replied, “I have +been working very hard.” + +“What are you usually doing?” he asked, smiling. “Come in to Sunday +dinner to-morrow.” + +“I shall be too busy with a lot of manuscripts I have on hand, that +must be read,” I told him. + +“Stop killing yourself,” he ordered. “As it is, you look as if you were +on the brink of a bad illness. You won’t get on a bit faster by dying +young.” + +There the matter rested, and I did not go to dinner to-day, being +indeed glad to stay indoors; for I very foolishly walked up town +yesterday through the slush, and caught a bad cold. While I was trying +to keep warm, this evening, a note was brought me from Mr. Blodgett, +asking me to come to him at once; and fearing something important, I +braved the cold without delay, ill though I felt. I was shown at once +into his den, which was so cheerful with its open fire that I felt it +was a good exchange for my cold room, where I had sat coughing and +shivering all the afternoon. + +“Twice in my life I’ve really lost my temper with the boss,” he began, +before I had even sat down, though he closed the door while speaking. +“Never mind about the first time, but to-day I got mad enough to last +me for the rest of my life.” + +“May I sit down?” I interrupted. + +He nodded his head, and took a position in front of me, with his back +to the fire, as he continued: “Women are enough to make a man frantic +when they get a fixed idea! Now, to-day, at dinner, I said I’d invited +you, and I saw in a moment something was in the wind; so when we had +finished I told them to come in here, and it didn’t take me long to +find out the trouble.” + +“I didn’t like to”—I began; but he went on:— + +“And that was the beginning of their trouble. I tell you, there was +Cain here for about ten minutes, and there weren’t two worse scared +women this side of the grave, while I was ranting; for the boss +remembered the other time, and Agnes had never seen me break loose. I +told them they’d done their best to drive you crazy with grief; that if +they’d searched for ten years they couldn’t have found a meaner or +crueler thing, or one that would have hurt you more; that nine men out +of ten, in your shoes, would have acted dishonestly or cut their +throat, but that you had toed the chalk-line right along, and never +once winced. And I let them know that for five dollars they’d added the +last straw of pain to a fellow who deserved only kindness and help from +them.” + +“Really, Mr. Blodgett”—I protested. + +“Hold on. Don’t attempt to stop me, for the fit’s on me still,” he +growled. “They tried to come the surprised, and then the offended, but +they didn’t fool me. I never let up on them till I had said all I +wanted to say, and they won’t forget it for a day or two. When I sent +Agnes upstairs, she was sobbing her eyes out, and the boss would have +given her pin money for ten years to have escaped with her.” + +“It’s too bad to”— + +“That’s just what it was!” he cried. “To think of those screws trying +to blackmail you, and then telling me you were a skinflint because you +wouldn’t do what they wanted! Well, after Agnes had gone, I gave the +boss a supplementary and special dose of her own. I told her she could +double discount you on meanness, and then give you forty-nine points; +and to make sure of good measurement, I added in the whole female sex +along with her. I told her that if she knew the facts of your life, +she’d get down on her knees and crawl round to your place to ask your +pardon, and then she wouldn’t be fit to have it. I told her that when +the day of judgment came, she’d just go the other way in preference to +hearing what the recording angel had written of her.” + +“I am afraid that your intended kindness will make my welcome scantier +than ever.” + +“Not a bit of it. I’m the master of this house, as they found out this +afternoon, and I say who’ll come into it, and who’ll not. I shan’t need +to interfere in your case, for you’ll get a warm welcome from both.” + +“You didn’t tell them?” I exclaimed, starting forward in my seat. + +“Not a word, though the boss nearly went crazy with curiosity. But I +did say that you were making a splendid up-hill fight, and if they knew +the facts of the case they’d be proud to black your boots. My word goes +in this family about as well as it does on the Street, and you’ll get +all the welcome you can stand from now on.” + +“You make me very proud and happy.” + +“You have reason to be proud,” he asserted. “I’m not a man who slobbers +much, but I’m going to tell you what I think of you. When you first +came here, I sized you up as rather a softy, your manner was so quiet +and gentle. I got over that delusion precious quick, and I want to say +that for pluck and grit you’re a trump, and there’s my hand on it.” + +He went to the table, poured out a couple of glasses of whiskey and +seltzer, and brought them to the fire. “You need something for that +graveyard cough of yours,” he said, handing one to me. “Well,” he went +on, “I didn’t bring you out such a night as this to tell you of my +scrap; but after the row, the boss was so ashamed of herself that she +trumped up an A 1 excuse (as she thought) for having treated you as she +had, and that led to a talk, and that’s why I sent round for you. What +do you suppose she has got into her head?” + +“I can’t imagine.” + +“I needn’t tell you,” he remarked, “that women always know an awful lot +that isn’t so. But just because they do, they every now and then +discover a truth that can’t be come at in any other way. Now the boss +thinks she’s done this, and I’m not sure that she hasn’t. She says you +are in love.” + +“I never knew a man who wasn’t,” I replied, trying to smile. “If it +isn’t with a woman, then it’s always with himself.” + +“But the boss thinks she knows the girl, and has a down on you because +you—because you don’t try for her.” + +I laughed bitterly, and said, “You needed no explanation for that.” + +“That’s what made the boss’s idea reasonable to me,” he explained. “She +couldn’t conceive why you should keep silent, and so was ready to pitch +into you on the slightest pretense. Women haven’t much use for a man +who falls in love and doesn’t say so. But of course I knew that your +debt put marriage out of the question.” + +I merely nodded my head, for even to him I could not speak of my love +for you, it was so sacred to me. + +He drew up a chair to the fire, and continued: “There isn’t another man +to whom I’d care to say what I’m going to say to you, but you’ve got a +heart and a head both, and won’t misunderstand me.” He finished his +glass, and set it on the mantel. “Now I don’t have to tell you that the +boss is fond of you, and when I told her that I knew of a reason why +you couldn’t marry, she forgave you on the spot. What’s more, she first +wished to learn what it was; and failing in that, she then wanted to +know if it could be remedied, so that you might have a chance to win +the girl.” + +“She of course knows nothing of my position?” + +“No,” he said, “but she knows something of your character, and she’s +ordered me that, if it’s possible, I’m to help you get the girl you +care for.” + +“But my debt!” I exclaimed. + +“How much is it now?” he queried. + +“One hundred and eighteen thousand.” + +“Well, I’ll lend Agnes’s husband one hundred and eighteen thousand +dollars at three per cent, and leave her the note when I die. From what +I know of marriage, I venture to assert that if she squeezes him for +payment it will be his own fault.” + +I sat speechless for a moment, too bewildered by the unexpected turn to +even think. + +“I was as surprised as you look,” he went on, “for although I had seen +that you and Agnes”— + +“Indeed, Mr. Blodgett,” I exclaimed hastily, “I am no more to Miss +Agnes than a dozen of her friends! I”— + +“So the boss says,” he interrupted. “But that doesn’t mean that you +can’t be. Though to speak the truth, my boy,” he continued, resting his +hand on my knee, “this wasn’t my plan. I had hoped that you and Maizie +would take a shine to each other, and so kiss the chalk-marks off that +old score. But when I spoke of the scheme to the boss, this evening, +she told me there had never been a chance of it; that you didn’t like +Mai, and that she is practically engaged to Whitely, and is only—Better +have some more whiskey, or that cough will shake you to pieces.” + +I could only shake my head in my misery, but after a moment I was able +to say, “Mr. Blodgett, I did not understand—I”— + +“I want to tell you,” he broke in, “before you say anything more, that +I never believe in putting one’s fingers into love affairs, and I +shouldn’t in this case if the boss didn’t feel so keen about it, but I +don’t choose to be the one to stand in her way. And now I’m not +offering my daughter’s hand. You know as well as I that Agnes isn’t the +kind of girl who needs a prospectus or a gold clause to work her off. +If she dropped her handkerchief to-morrow, fifty men would be +scrambling for it, eh?” + +“Yes.” Then I added, “And, Mr. Blodgett, I can’t find the words to tell +how I thank you both for such a compliment. If”— + +“I knew you wouldn’t misunderstand me,” he went on. “It’s a good deal +of a start in life to be born a gentleman.” + +“But, Mr. Blodgett,” I said, “there has been a mistake. I—it is hard to +say, but”—then I faltered. + +He looked at me keenly for a moment. “So the boss was wrong? It’s only +friendship, not love?” + +“Just what she has given to me,” I answered. + +“Very well. Then if you want to please the boss—and me—let that +friendship grow into something better. But don’t misunderstand me. You +must win Agnes, if she is won. We do nothing.” + +“Mr. Blodgett, should you be willing to let me try to win Miss Agnes, +if I tell you that I do not love her as a man should love the woman he +seeks for his wife?” + +“Marriage is a funny business,” he responded. “Now there’s the boss. +When I married her I thought she was so and so; little by little I +found she wasn’t; but by the time I had found it out I wouldn’t have +swapped her for ten of the women I had thought she was. Some men have +no business to marry unless they’re pretty strongly attached, for they +don’t run steady; but you’re a fellow that would keep in the traces no +matter what happened, and before long you’d find yourself mighty fond +of Agnes. A sense of duty is about as good a basis to marry on, if +there’s natural sympathy and liking, as all this ideal make-believe. I +don’t think you dislike Agnes, do you?” + +“Indeed, no!” I exclaimed. “Nobody could. She is too charming and sweet +for any one to do that. Miss Agnes deserves far more than I can bring +her. What have I to give in return for all this?” + +“You can settle that with Agnes,” he laughed; and then, as if to lessen +my poverty in my own eyes, he kindly added, “In the first place, I’ll +get a son-in-law chock-full of heart and grit and brains; and I’ve had +pretty good evidence that he isn’t fortune-hunting, which is Agnes’s +great danger. But that isn’t all, and I want you to know I’m not a +fool. I’m a big fellow down in Wall Street, and even on the Royal +Exchange, but do you think I don’t know my position? They kept me up +over two years at the Philomathean, and you four months. After you’ve +worked ten years over books with your own name on them, you’ll be +received and kotowed to by people who wouldn’t crook a finger to know +me. You won’t be famous as I am, for the number of naughts I can write +after a figure, but your name will be known everywhere, and will be +familiar long after mine has been forgotten. Who were the bankers and +rich men fifty years ago? There isn’t one person in a thousand can tell +you. But who hasn’t heard of Thackeray and Hawthorne, Macaulay and +Motley? My girl will have more money than she’ll need; so if she gets a +good husband, and one with reputation, she can’t do better. Don’t you +see I’m doing my level best for Agnes, and making a regular Jew +bargain?” + +“Perhaps Miss Agnes will not agree.” + +“We’ve got to take that chance; but she likes you, and good women think +a heap more of brains than they do of money. If you’ll let me tell her +your story, it won’t be long before she’ll take notice. I shouldn’t +have had to ask the boss twice if I’d had any such trump card as you’ve +got, and she was a sight less tender-hearted than Agnes!” + +“Mr. Blodgett,” I said, “I can’t tell you the gratitude I feel, but I +must be frank.” + +“Hold on!” he cried. “I don’t want you to say anything now. You are to +take a week on it, and not give me your answer till the end. If you +have half the gratitude in you that you pretend, you’ll do as the boss +wants.” + +I had manned myself to tell him of my love for you, but I bowed assent, +for indeed, I was too bewildered to think clearly, and was glad to have +a respite. We shook hands without further parley, and I came back here, +to cough and shiver while trying to think it all out. An hour ago I +went to bed, but I was wakeful, and so sit here trying to write myself +into sleepiness. + +I have thought out what my course must be. If it is true, as indeed I +know it to be, that Mr. Whitely has won you, Mr. Blodgett shall have +the truth. I shall tell him that I will put you out of my heart, as +perforce I must, and that if he is still willing I will go to Agnes, +tell her too the whole truth, and promise her such love and devotion as +I can give. So sweet a girl deserves far more, and I cannot believe +that she will accept the little I can offer; but if she does, it shall +be the labor of my life to be to her a true and tender husband. And +even if she were not what she is, the thought that through her I have +made reparation for the wrong done you will make easy both tenderness +and love for her. + +For the last time, perhaps, I have the right to say, “Good-night, my +love.” + + + + +XXIII + + +_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. + + + + +XXIV + + +_March 15._ I was so miserable with my cough to-day that I could not +summon the energy to drag myself to Mr. Blodgett’s office, and did not +leave my room till after eight, when your note came. + +“Miss Walton,” it read, “feels that she has the right to request Dr. +Hartzmann to call this evening, in relation to the conversation +uncompleted last night.” + +I understood the implied command, and thought that I owed what you +claimed, while feeling that in obeying I could for this once forego my +scruple of entering your door. The footman showed me into the library, +and left me there. It was the first time I had seen it since my +thirteenth year, and I cannot tell you the moment’s surprise and joy I +felt on finding it absolutely unchanged. Even the books were arranged +as formerly, and my eye searched and found, as quickly as of yore, all +the old volumes full of plates which had once given us such horror and +delight. For the instant I forgot my physical suffering and the coming +ordeal. + +When you entered the room, you welcomed me only with a bow. Then seeing +my paleness, you said kindly, “I forgot your cough, Dr. Hartzmann, or I +would not have brought you out in such weather. Sit here by the fire.” +After a short pause you went on: “I hope that a day’s thought has +convinced you that common justice requires you to say more than you did +last night?” + +“Miss Walton,” I replied, “to you, who know nothing of the difficult +and hopeless position in which I stand, my conduct, I presume, seems +most dishonorable and cowardly; yet I cannot say more than I said last +night.” + +“You must.” + +“I can scarcely hope that what I then said will influence you, but if +you will go to Mr. Blodgett and”— + +“Does Mr. Blodgett know what you object to in Mr. Whitely?” you +interrupted. + +“Yes.” + +“I went to Mr. Blodgett this morning, and he told me that he knew of no +reason why I should not marry Mr. Whitely.” + +“Then, Miss Walton,” I answered, rising, “I cannot expect that you will +be influenced by my opinion. I will withdraw what I said last night. +Think of me as leniently as you can, for my purpose was honorable.” + +“But you ought to say more. You”— + +“I cannot,” I replied. + +“You have no right to”—But here a servant entered, with a card. + +“Dr. Hartzmann,” you announced, when the man had gone, “I wrote Mr. +Whitely yesterday afternoon, asking him to call this evening, with the +intention of accepting his offer of marriage. He is now in the +drawing-room, and unless you will have the fairness, the honesty, to +explain what you meant, I shall tell him all that has occurred, and +give him the opportunity to force you to speak.” + +“I shall only repeat to him, Miss Walton, what I have said to you.” + +You stood a moment looking at me, with a face blazing with indignation; +then you exclaimed, “You at least owe it to him not to run away while I +am gone!” and passed into the drawing-room. + +You returned very soon, followed by Mr. Whitely. + +“Dr. Hartzmann,” you asked, “will you repeat what you said last night +to me?” + +“I advised you not to marry Mr. Whitely, Miss Walton.” + +“And you will not say why?” you demanded. + +“I cannot.” + +“Mr. Whitely,” you cried, “cannot you force him to speak?” + +“Miss Walton,” he replied suavely, and his very coolness in the strange +condition made me feel that he was master of the situation, “I am as +perplexed as you are at this extraordinary conduct in one who even now +is eating bread from my hand. I have long since ceased to expect +gratitude for benefits, but such malevolence surprises and grieves me, +since I have never done Dr. Hartzmann any wrong, but, on the contrary, +I have always befriended him.” + +“I have been in the employ of Mr. Whitely,” I answered, “but every +dollar he has paid me has been earned by my labor. I owe him no debt of +gratitude that he does not owe me.” + +“You owe him the justice that every man owes another,” you asserted +indignantly. “To make vague charges behind one’s back, and then refuse +to be explicit, is a coward’s and a slanderer’s way of waging war.” + +“Miss Walton,” I cried, “I should not have spoken, though God knows +that my motive was only a wish to do you a service, and I would give my +life to do as you ask!” + +For an instant my earnestness seemed to sway you; indeed, I am +convinced that this was so, since Mr. Whitely apparently had the same +feeling, and spoke as if to neutralize my influence, saying to you: +“Miss Walton, I firmly believe that Dr. Hartzmann’s plea of honorable +conduct is nothing but the ambush of a coward. But as he has been for +two years in the most intimate and confidential position of private +secretary to me, he may, through some error, have deluded himself into +a conviction that gives a basis for his indefinite charges. I will not +take advantage of the implied secrecy, and I say to him in your +presence that if he has discovered anything which indicates that I have +been either impure or criminal, I give him permission to speak.” + +Even in that moment of entanglement I could not but admire and marvel +at the skill with which he had phrased his speech, so as to seem +absolutely open, to slur me by innuendo, and yet avoid the risk of +exposure. It left me helpless, and I could only say, “I have not +charged Mr. Whitely with either impurity or criminality.” + +You turned to him and said, “This conduct is perfectly inexplicable.” + +“Except on one ground,” he replied. + +“Which is?” you questioned. + +“That Dr. Hartzmann loves you,” he answered. + +“That is impossible!” you exclaimed. + +“Not as impossible as for a man not to love you, Miss Walton,” he +averred. + +“Tell Mr. Whitely how mistaken he is,” you said to me. + +I could only stand silent, and after waiting a little Mr. Whitely +remarked, “You see!” + +“It is incredible!” you protested. “You must deny it, Dr. Hartzmann!” + +“I cannot, Miss Walton,” I murmured, with bowed head. + +“You love me?” you cried incredulously. + +“I love you,” I assented, and in spite of the circumstances it was +happiness to say it to you. + +You stood gazing at me in amazement, large-eyed as a startled deer. I +wonder what your first words would have been to me if Mr. Whitely had +not turned your mind into another channel by saying, “I do not think +that we need search further for Dr. Hartzmann’s motives in making his +innuendoes.” + +“Miss Walton,” I urged, “my love for you, far from making your faith in +me less or my motive that of a rival, should convince you that I spoke +only for your sake, since you yourself know that my love has been +neither hopeful nor self-seeking.” + +I think you pitied me, for you answered gently, and all traces of the +scorn and indignation you had shown just before were gone from your +face and manner. + +“Dr. Hartzmann,” you said, “I cannot allow myself to listen to or weigh +such indefinite imputations against Mr. Whitely. I will give you one +week to explain or substantiate what you have implied; and unless +within that time you do so, I shall accept the offer of marriage which +he has honored me by making. Do not let me detain you further. +Good-evening.” + +I passed out of the room a broken-hearted man, without strength enough +to hold up my head, and hardly able in my weakness to crawl back to my +study. As I sit and write, every breath brings with it the feeling that +a knife is being thrust into my breast, and I am faint with the pain. +But for this racking cough and burning fever I might have made a better +fight, and have been able to think of some way of saving you. But even +in my suffering I have reached one conclusion. To-morrow I shall go to +Mr. Whitely and tell him that you must know the truth concerning the +book, and that if he will not tell you I shall. I shall never be able +to hold up my head again; but that is nothing, if I can but save you. +Oh, my dearest love, the sacrifice of life, of honor, the meeting +ignominy or death for your sake, will be nothing to me but hap + + +[Transcriber’s Note: The text ends in the middle of a word. The +remainder of this page is missing in the original image and other +available editions.] + + + + + +XXV + + +_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. + +I only nodded my head. + +“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.” + + + + +XXVI + + +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. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where + you are located before using this eBook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that: + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without +widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + diff --git a/36439-0.zip b/36439-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3da3ec8 --- /dev/null +++ b/36439-0.zip diff --git a/36439-h.zip b/36439-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..697f8d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/36439-h.zip diff --git a/36439-h/36439-h.htm b/36439-h/36439-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fbbb9d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/36439-h/36439-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9141 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Story Of An Untold Love, by Paul Leicester Ford</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +.center {text-align: center;} + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Story of an Untold Love, by Paul Leicester Ford</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Story of an Untold Love</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Paul Leicester Ford</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: June 15, 2011 [eBook #June 15, 2011]<br /> +[Most recently updated: January 28, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Lee Moffitt, Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>THE STORY OF AN<br/>UNTOLD LOVE</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by PAUL LEICESTER FORD</h2> + +<p class="center"><img src="images/front.png" alt="Frontispiece Image" /></p> + +<p class="center">NEW YORK<br/> +GROSSET & DUNLAP</p> + +<p class="center"> +PUBLISHERS<br/></p> +<p class="center">COPYRIGHT 1897 BY PAUL LEICESTER FORD<br/><br/> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br/></p> + +<p class="center">SIXTY-FIFTH THOUSAND<br/><br/></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I">I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II">II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III">III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#IV">IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#V">V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#VI">VI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#VII">VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#VIII">VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#IX">IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#X">X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XI">XI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XII">XII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XIII">XIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XIV">XIV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XV">XV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XVI">XVI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XVII">XVII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XVIII">XVIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XIX">XIX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XX">XX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XXI">XXI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XXII">XXII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XXIII">XXIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XXIV">XXIV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XXV">XXV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#XXVI">XXVI</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h2> + +<p> +<i>February 20, 1890.</i> There is not a moment of my life that you have shared +with me which I cannot recall with a distinctness fairly sunlit. My joys and my +sorrows, my triumphs and my failures, have faded one by one from emotions into +memories, quickening neither pulse nor thought when they recur to me, while you +alone can set both throbbing. And though for years I have known that if you +enshrined any one in your heart it would be some one worthier of you, yet I +have loved you truly, and whatever I have been in all else, in that one thing, +at least, I have been strong. Nor would I part with my tenderness for you, even +though it has robbed me of contentment; for all the pleasures of which I can +dream cannot equal the happiness of loving you. To God I owe life, and you, +Maizie, have filled that life with love; and to both I bow my spirit in thanks, +striving not to waste his gift lest I be unworthy of the devotion I feel for +you. +</p> + +<p> +If I were a stronger man, I should not now be sobbing out my heart’s +blood through the tip of a pen. Instead of writing of my sorrow, I should have +battled for my love despite all obstacles. But I am no Alexander to cut the +knot of entanglements which the fates have woven about me, and so, Midas-like, +I sit morbidly whispering the hidden grief, too great for me to bear in silence +longer. +</p> + +<p> +I can picture my first glimpse of you as vividly as my last. That dull rainy +day of indoor imprisonment seems almost to have been arranged as a shadowbox to +intensify the image graved so deeply on my memory. The sun came, as you did, +towards the end of the afternoon, as if light and warmth were your couriers. +When I shyly entered the library in answer to my father’s call, you were +standing in the full sunlight, and the thought flashed through my mind that +here was one of the angels of whom I had read. You were only a child of +seven,—to others, I suppose, immature and formless; yet even then your +eyes were as large and as serious as they are to-day, and your curling brown +hair had already a touch of fire, as if sunshine had crept thereinto, and, +liking its abiding-place, had lingered lovingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Don,” cried my father, as I stood hesitating in the doorway, +“here’s a new plaything for you. Give it a welcome and a +kiss.” +</p> + +<p> +I hung back, half in shyness, and half in fear that you were of heaven, and not +of earth, but you came forward and kissed me without the slightest hesitation. +The details are so clear that I remember you hardly had to raise your head, +though I was three years the older. Your kiss dispelled all my timidity, and +from the moment of that caress I loved you. Not that I am so foolish as to +believe I then felt for you what now I feel, but by the clear light of +retrospect I can see that your coming brought a new element into my +life,—an element which I loved from the first, though with steadily +deepening intensity, and I cannot even now determine at what point a +boy’s devotion became a lover’s. +</p> + +<p> +To the silent and lonely lad you were an inspiration. What I might have grown +to be had you not been my father’s ward I do not like to think, for I was +not a strong boy, and my shyness and timidity had prompted me to much solitude +and few friends, to much reading and to little play. But it was decreed that +you were to be the controlling influence of my life, and in the first week you +worked a revolution in my habits. I wonder if now, when you see so many men +eager to gratify your slightest wish, you ever think of your earliest slave, +whom you enticed to the roof to drop pebbles or water on the passers-by, and +into the cellar to bury a toy soldier deep in the coal? Does memory ever bring +back to you how we started to paint the illustrations in Kingsborough’s +Mexican Antiquities, or how we built a fire round a doll on the library rug, in +imitation of the death of an Inca of Peru as pictured in dear old Garcilasso de +la Vega’s Royal Commentaries? You were a lazy child about reading, but +when not tempting me into riotous mischief, you would sit by me in the library +and let me show you the pictures in the old books, and I smile now to think +what my running versions of the texts must have been. Our favorite books were +the Nuremberg Chronicle and De Bry’s Voyages, for the pictures of which, +since the Latin was beyond me, I invented explanations and even whole +stories,—stories over which you grew big-eyed and sleepless, and which we +both came to believe so firmly that we never dreamed them to be the cause for +the occasional outburst of laughter from my father, when he was in the library. +</p> + +<p> +Even in those days you veiled your witchery and mischief-loving nature behind +that serious face with its curved but unsmiling mouth. Keen as many of our +pleasures were and blithe as were our pranks, I can scarcely remember a smile +upon your face. Now and then the merriest of laughs rang out, fairly infectious +in its happiness and joy, but of so rare recurrence as to win for you the +sobriquet of “Madam Gravity.” Your inscrutability allured and +charmed me then as I have seen it fascinate others since. I shall never +understand you, and yet I think I misunderstand you less than others do, for +you cannot hide from me the quick thought and merry nature which you keep so +well hidden from them; and often when others think you most abstracted or +sedate, I know you are holding high carnival with Puck and Momus. Again and +again I have noted your gravity in the most humorous situations or with the +most ridiculous of persons, and have smiled in secret with you. Last summer, +when my mother won such a laugh by telling, as something that had happened to +her personally, the old story from Peele’s “Merrie Conceits” +which we had read as children, you looked grave, though the incident had twice +the humor to you that it had to the others. In my own merriment I could not +help glancing at you, and though neither of us laughed, we understood each +other’s amusement. Evidently you were not used to having your mood +comprehended, for after a moment you seemed to realize that I was responding to +what you had thought unknown to all. You looked startled and then puzzled, and +I suppose that I became even more of a mystery to you than ever. You could not +know that my knowledge of you came from those early days when your nature was +taking shape. Without my memory of you as a child you would be as great an +enigma to me as to the rest of your friends, and so no doubt it is a small +thing in which to glory. But it gives me joy to feel that I understand you +better, and at this very moment know more of your thoughts than your husband +ever will. +</p> + +<p> +I owe to you many dark closetings and whippings that I never deserved. My +mother complained that from being a troublesome child I had become a fiend of +mischief, but my father laughed and predicted that you would make a man of me. +I wonder if you ever think of him, and what your thought is? We both so loved +him that I cannot believe he has passed entirely out of your heart. How ready +he was to be our comrade! Whether tired or busy he would join us, not as mentor +but as playfellow; and now that I know what there was to depress his spirits at +that time, I marvel at his cheer and courage. Would that I had one half of the +bravery with which he met his troubles! +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps he was right in his assumption that you would have made a man of me. I +do not recollect any act of mine which bore the semblance of courage except the +rescue of the street dog from those boys. I hated to see the poor beast +tortured, but I feared the roughs, and so stood faltering while you charged +among them. Not till one of them struck you was I driven to help, but I can +still feel the fury which then took possession of me. I was blind with rage, +and a great weight seemed pressing on my chest as I rushed among the boys and +fought, hardly conscious of the blows I gave or received; indeed, the whole +thing was a haze until I found myself sitting on the sidewalk, crying. For days +I went about with a bandage over my eye; but my father drank my health that +night, and I remember his pat of approval, and hear his “Bravo, Donald, +I’m proud of you.” It was significant that I received all the +praise, and you none; my courage was questionable, yours was not. +</p> + +<p> +Those happy, thoughtless years! The one kill-joy was my mother, and she made +your life and mine so grievous with her needless harshness, quick temper, and +neglect of our comfort that I think she must have made my father’s +equally miserable. Dimly I can recollect her sudden gusts of temper, and his +instant dismissal of us from the room when they began. Do you remember how he +used to come up to the nursery to smoke, often staying till our bedtime, and +then how we could hear him go downstairs and out of the front door? We did not +know that he went to his club, nor at what hour he returned; and if we had it +would have meant nothing to us. But we both knew he found no pleasure with my +mother, and we felt he was right, for in avoiding her he was but doing what was +our chief endeavor. I have heard many express admiration for her beauty, for +her church and charitable work, for her brilliancy in society, for her +executive ability, and for her general public spirit. Her neglect of family +duties, her extravagance, her frequent absences, and her fatigued petulance +when at home were known only to her household. Our servants rarely remained a +month with us,—were changed so often as to destroy all possibility of +comfort; but we three were not free to follow their example, and so our misery +made us the dearer to one another. I am proud to think that, close as we drew +together, my father never uttered in my presence a single word of criticism or +complaint against my mother, and I should be the better man if, instead of +writing these unfilial words, I left them unsaid. Indeed, I will not spend more +of my evening on these old memories, but begin on my work. +</p> + +<p> +Do you remember, Maizie, how my father taught us to give him and each other a +parting word? “Good-night, father. Good-night, Maizie. God bless you +both,” it used to be. He sleeps now in his grave, and three years ago you +barred your door to me, but still I can say as of old, “Good-night, +Maizie. God bless and keep you, dear.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2> + +<p> +<i>February 21.</i> To put all this on paper is weak and aimless, yet it seems +to ease my sadness. I suppose a scribbler unconsciously comes to write out +whatever he feels, as a nervous woman plays her emotions away on a piano. If +this is so, why should not I salve my grief in any way that lessens it? Those +old days had such happiness in them that the mere memory brings some to me, and +to sit here at my study table and write of the past is better than idle +dwelling on the present. +</p> + +<p> +You were jubilant when first told that we were all to go to Europe for a +summer, and laughed at my fears and despondency. Could I have had an intuition +of coming evil, or was my alarm due to the engravings of those terrible +sea-monsters with which Mercator populated the oceans in his “Atlas sive +Cosmographicæ,” and to the pictures and tales in bloodthirsty old +Exquemelin’s “Bucaniers of America”? Our notions of what the +trip meant were evidently not very clear, for at once we set to storing up +provisions, and weeks before the time of sailing we were the proud possessors +of a cracker-box full of assorted edibles, a jar of olives we had pilfered, and +a small pie you had cajoled the cook into making for us. How we loved and +gloated over that pie! Daily we sorted our sea-stores, added new supplies, and +ate what clearly could be kept no longer. My mother found us one day deeply +engrossed in the occupation, cuffed us both, and sent the olives back to the +pantry and the tin box to the ash-barrel. As for the pie, such hot words passed +about it between “Madame” and “Monsieur Philippe” that +our cook left us without warning. We were again punished for being the cause of +his desertion, and that evening father dined at his club. +</p> + +<p> +The different effects my mother’s gusts of anger had on you and on me +were curiously distinctive. You met them fearlessly and stubbornly, while to me +the moments of her fury were moments in which I could scarcely breathe, and of +which I felt the terror for hours after. I sometimes wonder if the variance was +because I had learned to fear the outbursts even as a baby, whereas your +character had partly formed before you encountered them. Who knows but a change +of circumstances might have made me the fearless one, and you the timorous? At +least I should be glad to think that I might have been like you in courage and +spirit, even though it is impossible to imagine that you could ever be like me. +It is a singular turn of life’s whirligig that when my mother tried to +pain you last autumn by her cruel remarks, you were helpless to retort, and +owed your escape to my help. +</p> + +<p> +What a delight the ocean voyage was to us! Those were the times of ten-day +trips, still dear to all true lovers of the sea; and had our wishes been +consulted, thrice ten would have been none too long for our passage. The +officers, the crew, the stewards, and the passengers were no more proof against +your indefinable spell than was I, and it seemed quite as if the boat were your +private yacht, with all on board seeking only to serve you. Our pleasure was so +intense that we planned an ideal future, in which I was to become the captain +of a steam-ship, and you were to live on the vessel in some equally delightful +if impossible capacity. +</p> + +<p> +The last time I was in Paris, I walked several miles merely to look at the +outside of our pension, and then went on and sat dreaming in the little park +near it in which we passed so many hours of our stay in that city. As of old, +the place was full of children and nurses, and I understood what had puzzled me +not a little in recollection,—how you and I, without mingling with them, +had learned so quickly the language they chattered. Do you remember their +friendly advances, met only by rebuffs? My coldness flowed from shyness, and +yours from a trait that people to this day call haughtiness, but which I know +to be only a fastidious refinement that yields acquaintance to few and +friendship to fewer. From the moment you came into my life I craved no other +friend, and you seemed equally content. What was there in me that won for me +what you gave so rarely? Was there an instinct of natural sympathy, or was it +merely pity for me in the loving heart you masked behind that subtle face? +</p> + +<p> +It is indicative of what children we still were that during the whole of our +sojourn in Paris neither of us was conscious that our standard of living had +changed. We lodged in a cheap pension; instead of our own carriage we used the +omnibus; and a thousand other evidences told the story of real economy; yet not +one we observed except the disappearance of our <i>bonne</i>, and this was +noted, not as a loss, but as a joy to both. +</p> + +<p> +After the nurse was gone my father became more than ever our comrade, and a +better one two children never had. Oh, those long excursions to Versailles, +Montmartre, and Fontainebleau, our boat trips up and down the Seine, and our +shorter jaunts within the city! What happiness it was to us when he came in +whistling and cried, “Donald, Maizie, you are horribly bad children, and +I’m going to take you on a lark to punish you!” After time spent in +filling our lunch-basket with big rolls bought at the <i>boulangerie</i>, a few +sous’ worth of cherries or other fruit lengthily bargained for with the +<i>fruitier</i>, and a half litre of cheap wine, plus whatever other luxuries +our imaginations or our appetites could suggest, away we would go for a long +day of pure delight, whether passed under green trees or wandering through +galleries and museums. My father was an encyclopædia of information, and had +the knack of making knowledge interesting to the child mind. He could re-create +a bygone period from a battle-axe or a <i>martel de fer</i>, the personality of +a queen from her lace ruff or stomacher, and the history of plant growth from a +fern or flower. If his mind had been allowed to expand when he was young, +instead of being stunted in a broker’s office, I believe he might have +been one of the world’s great writers or critics. +</p> + +<p> +Under such stimulating tutelage our progress in those two years was really +wonderful. No subject my father touched upon could remain dull; we were at a +receptive age when the mind is fresh and elastic for all that interests it, and +Paris was a great picture-book to illustrate what he taught us. We did not know +we were studying far deeper into subjects than many educated people ever go. I +laugh still at your telling the old German on the train to Sèvres the history +of the Faust plot, and at his amazed “Ach, zo!” to hear such +erudition pour from your childish lips. I think you were the cleverer and the +quicker, but there was no competition, only fellowship about our learning. I +suppose you were above rivalry, as you are above all mean things. +</p> + +<p> +And that is your chief glory to me. In those seven years of closest +companionship, and in these last three years of lesser intercourse but far +keener observation, I have never known you to do a mean thing or to speak a +mean thought. I almost feel it treason to couple the word with you, or deny a +trait so impossible for you to possess, and of which you have always shown such +scorn and hatred. At this moment I know that I should only have to speak to +part you forever from—Ah, what foolishness I am writing, tempting me to +even greater meanness than his, and so to deserve the greater contempt from +you! Thinking me base, you closed your doors to me three years ago, and I love +you the better that not even for auld lang syne could you pardon what is so +alien to you. If the day ever comes when you again admit me to your friendship, +I shall be happy in knowing that you think me above baseness or meanness; for +you would not compound with them, Maizie, be the circumstances what they might. +</p> + +<p> +Our Paris life would not have been so happy and careless but for the slight +part my mother had in it. So little did we see of her in those years that I +think of her scarcely as one of us. I remember dimly a scene of hot anger +between her and my father,—he standing passively by the high porcelain +stove, while she raged about the room. So great was her fury that once, in +passing, as I crouched scared and silent on the sofa, she struck me,—a +blow which brought my father to my side, where he stood protectingly while the +storm lasted, with his hand resting lovingly on my shoulder. My vague +impression is that the outburst was only a protest against the poor lodgings, +but it may have occurred when some explanation took place between my parents. I +can see my mother now, sitting on the little balcony overlooking the garden of +our pension, snarling an ill-natured word at us as you and I tried to play +consultation games of chess against my father. He gave us odds at first of the +rook and two pawns, but finally only of a knight. Oh, the triumph of those +victories! How we gloried in them, and how delighted our antagonist was when we +conquered him! Little we minded what my mother did except when we happened to +be alone with her, and I think that the dear father played bad chess with us +rather than good at the cafés, and made us his companions wherever he went, to +save us from her severity. +</p> + +<p> +I can recall very clearly her constant difficulties with our landlady and the +servants, which finally culminated in a request that we should seek lodgings +elsewhere. Do you recollect Madame Vanott’s clasping us both in her arms +and filling our hands with bonbons, when the time of parting came? I do not +know where we removed to, my sole remembrance of the next few weeks being of my +mother’s complaints of lodgings, food, servants, and French life +generally. We moved three times within a month, fairly expelled by our +landlords because they could not live at peace with “la Madame.” +Our last exodus began in an angry scene between her and the housewife, in which +a gendarme played a part, and from which you and I fled. The next morning we +learned that my mother had determined to return to America, and leave us to +live our own life. Three days later we said emotionless good-bys, my father +going as far as Havre with her. +</p> + +<p> +Her departure set us asking questions, and my father’s replies explained +many things which, in our childish talks, we had gravely discussed. He told us +how his own wealth had been lost in Wall Street, barely enough being left for a +competence even in Europe. Of my mother’s leaving us he spoke sadly. +“She never pretended to care for me,” he said, “but I loved +her and was willing to marry her. The wrong was mine, and we should not blame +her if, when I can no longer give what was her price, she does not choose to +continue the one-sided bargain.” At the time her absence seemed to you +and me only a relief, but now, as I look back, I know that my father never +ceased to love her,—all the more, perhaps, because his love had never +been requited,—and that separation must have been the final wrecking of +his life. Yet from the day she left us I never heard him speak an angry word, +and sorrow that would have crushed most men seemed to make him the gentler and +sweeter. I wish—Ah! the clock is striking three, and if I am to bring +working power to working hours I must stop writing. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, dear one. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2> + +<p> +<i>February 22.</i> After my mother left us we did not stay in Paris, but went +to Ischl, which we made merely the point of departure for walking tours which +often lasted for weeks. Several times I have spoken of the region to you, +hoping to draw from you some remark proving a recollection of those days, but +you always avoid reply. Yet I am sure they are not forgotten, for miles of the +Tyrol and Alps are as familiar to me as the garnishings of a breakfast-table. +My father had the tact and kindly humor that make a man equally at home and +welcome in <i>Gasthaus</i> and <i>Schloss</i>. Though we traveled with only a +knapsack, his breeding and education were so patent to whomsoever we met that +we spent many a night inside of doors with armorial coats of many quarterings +carved above them, and many a day’s shooting and fishing followed. Yet +pleasant as was this impromptu and “gentle” hospitality, I think we +were all quite as happy when our evenings were spent among the peasants, +drinking beer, talking of farming and forestry, singing songs, or listening to +the blare of the peripatetic military band. +</p> + +<p> +My father was a fine German scholar, and you and I acquired the language as +quickly and as easily as we learned French. We always had books in our pockets, +and used to lie for hours under the trees, reading aloud. Long discussions +followed over what we had conned, enriched by the thousand side-lights my +father could throw on any subject. To most people reading is a resort to save +themselves from thinking, but my father knew that pitfall, and made us use +books as a basis for thought on our own part. After a volume was finished we +would each write a criticism of it, and the comparison of my boyish attempts +with his brilliant, comprehensive, and philosophic work taught me more of +writing than all the tuition I ever had. +</p> + +<p> +My craving for knowledge, always strong, became inordinate, probably because +the acquisition of it was made so fascinating that I learned without real +exertion. I began to find limits even to my father’s erudition, and +chafed under them. He reviewed his Greek that he might impart it to us, as he +had long before taught us Latin, and together we all three studied Spanish and +Italian. I was not satisfied, for my desire for the one thing my father was +unable to teach was not appeased by the twenty which he could. I begged for +regular tuition, and, indulgent as he always was, he took us to Heidelberg, +where I was enrolled in the gymnasium. Yet the long hours of separation that +this entailed made little difference in our relations, since except for these +we were inseparable. Whenever my school-work left us time to quit Heidelberg we +made walking tours, and we availed ourselves of the summer holiday to see +far-away lands. The great libraries were our chief goals, but everything +interested us, from the archaic plough we saw in the field to the masterpiece +of the gallery. I do not know whether I was dull for my years, but I do know +that you were precocious and had no difficulty in keeping up with me in my +studies. Indeed, thanks to your own brightness and to the long hours spent with +my father while I was reciting, you went ahead of me in many respects. It makes +me very happy now to think of what you two were to each other, and to know that +you are so largely indebted to him for the depth and brilliance of mind that I +hear so often commented upon. And I love you all the better because you made +those years so happy to him by your love and companionship. +</p> + +<p> +Last winter Mrs. Blodgett accused me of being a misogynist, and proved her +point by asking me to tell the color of Agnes’s eyes. You and Agnes only +laughed when I miscolored them, but Mrs. Blodgett was really nettled. +“There!” she said. “Apparently, Agnes and I are the only +women you ever go to see or pretend to care for, and yet you think so little of +us that you don’t know the color of our eyes.” Had she only asked +me to describe your eyes in place of Agnes’s I should not have erred, but +I suppose even then the world would be justified in thinking I do not care for +woman’s society. Certainly you, of all others, have the right to think +so, after my twice refusing your friendship; and yet it is my love of you far +more than my studies or shyness that has made me indifferent to other women. +And so far from being a misogynist, I care for as few men as women. You perhaps +recall how much apart I kept myself from my fellow students, and how my father +had to urge me to join them in the fencing and chess contests? Later, at the +university, after you had left us, I entered more eagerly into the two +pastimes, and succeeded in making myself a skilled swordsman. As for chess, I +learned to play the game you tested last October on the veranda of My Fancy. +You looked courteously grave when, after our initial battle, I had to ask from +you the odds of a pawn, and never dreamed that I fathomed your secret triumph +over your victory. You are so delightfully human and womanly, after all, +Maizie, to any one who can read your thoughts. It is a pleasure to see your +happiness in the consciousness of your own power, and I grudge you victory over +me no more than over other men. Yet while you play better chess, I think you +could not conquer me quite as easily if I were not much more interested in +studying the player than the play. Perhaps but for you I should have made +friends, for later, at Leipzig, despite my shyness and studiousness, I seemed +fairly popular; but so long as I had you I cared for no other friend, and after +our separation I could form no new tie. Neither in love nor in friendship have +you ever had a rival in my heart. +</p> + +<p> +Our happiness ended the day when Johann, the poor factotum of our +lodging-place, found us in the castle park and summoned us back to the house, +where my father and Mr. Walton were awaiting you. The news that we were to be +parted came so suddenly that we could not believe it. I stood in stunned +silence, while you declared that you would not go with your uncle; even in that +terrible moment speaking more like a queen issuing orders than like a rebel +resisting authority. We both appealed to my father, and the tears stood in his +eyes as he told us we must be parted. Mr. Walton sat with the cool and slightly +bored look that his worldly face wears so constantly, and I presume it was +impossible for him to understand our emotion. +</p> + +<p> +Your luggage had been packed while we were being summoned, and I carried your +bag down to the carriage, in the endeavor to do you some last little service. +We did not even go through the form of a farewell, but, tearless and +speechless, held each other’s hands till my father gently separated us. +To this day the snap of a whip causes me to catch my breath, it brings back so +vividly the crack with which Mr. Walton’s cabman whipped up his horse. +Fate was merciful, for she gave me no glimpse of the future, and so left me the +hope that we should not be parted long. I question if the delicate lad of those +days could have borne the thought that our separation, enforced by others, +would in time be continued by you. +</p> + +<p> +The life was too happy to last; and yet I do not know why I write that, for I +do not believe that God’s children are born to be wretched, and I would +sooner renounce my faith in him than believe him so cruel to his own creations. +The sadness and estrangement in my life are all of human origin, and mine, it +seems to me, has been a fuller cup of bitterness than most men have to drink. +Or am I only magnifying my own sufferings, and diminishing those of my fellow +mortals? To the world I am a fortunate man, with promise of even greater +success. Do all the people about me, who seem to be equally prosperous, bury +away from sight some grief like mine that beggars joy? +</p> + +<p> +Can you, Maizie, in the tide and triumph of your beauty and wealth, hide any +such death-wound to all true happiness? Pray God you do not. Good-night, my +darling. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h2> + +<p> +<i>February 23.</i> After you were gone I fled to my room, crawling under the +window-seat, much as a mortally wounded animal tries to hide itself. Here my +father found me many hours later, speechless and shivering. He drew me from my +retreat, and I still remember the sting of the brandy as he poured it down my +throat. Afterwards the doctor came, to do nothing; but all that night my father +sat beside me, and towards morning he broke down my silence, and we talked +together over the light which had gone out of our lives, till I fell asleep. He +told me that the death of your two aunts had made you a great heiress, and +rendered your continuance with us, in our poverty, impossible. +“She’s gone away out of our class, Donald,” my father said +sadly, “and in the change of circumstances her mother wouldn’t have +made me her guardian. It was better for all of us to let her uncle take her +back to New York.” Even in my own grief I felt his sorrow, and though he +did not dodge my questions, I could see how the subject pained him, and avoided +it thenceforth. How strangely altered my life would have been if I had insisted +on knowing more! +</p> + +<p> +The doctor came several times afterwards, for I did not rally as I should have +done, and at last he ordered a year’s cessation of studies and plenty of +exercise. It was a terrible blow to me at the time, for I was on the point of +entering the University of Leipzig; but now I can see it was all for the best, +since the time given to our tours through Spain and Italy was well spent, and +the delay made me better able to get the full value of the lectures. Moreover, +that outdoor life added three inches to the height and seventeen pounds to the +weight of the hitherto puny boy. For a time my father made my health his care, +and insisted on my walking and fencing daily; but after that long holiday he +need not have given it a thought, for I grew steadily to my present height, and +while always of slender build, I can outwalk or outwork many a stockier man. +</p> + +<p> +My university career was successful; it could hardly have failed to be, with my +training. I fear that I became over-elated with my success, not appreciating +how much it was due to my father’s aid and to the kindness of two of my +instructors. For my Ph. D. I made a study of the great race movements of the +world, in which my predilection for philology, ethnology, and history gave me +an especial interest. I so delighted my professor of philology by my enthusiasm +and tirelessness that he stole long hours from the darling of his heart to aid +me. (I need hardly add that I do not allude to Frau Jastrow, but to his +Verb-Roots of Fifty-Two Languages and Dialects of Indo-Germanic Origin, to be +published some day in seventeen volumes, quarto.) He even brought me bundles of +his manuscript to read and criticise. Our relations were as intimate as were +possible between a professor and a student, and despite his reputation for ill +temper the only evidence he ever gave me of it was a certain querulousness over +the gaps in human knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +My doctor’s thesis on A Study of the Influence of Religion in the +Alienation and Mixture of Races—which, with a vanity I now laugh over, I +submitted not merely in Latin, but as an original work in four other +languages—was not only the delight of both my dear professors, but was +well considered outside the university. At Jastrow’s urging, poor +Buchholtz printed editions in all five languages; and as only the German had +any sale worth mentioning, he ever after looked gloomy at a mere allusion to +the title. But though it earned me no royalties, it won me the Kellermann +prize, given every fifth year for the best original work on an historical +subject. +</p> + +<p> +On our first arrival in Leipzig my father sought literary employment from the +great publishers of that city of books, and soon obtained all the +“review” and “hack” writing that he wished. He +encouraged me to help him in the work, and in my training probably lay his +chief inducement, for he was paid at starvation rates in that land of hungry +authors. The labor quickly taught me the technical part of authorship, the rock +which has wrecked so many hopes. Our work brought us, too, the acquaintance of +many literary men, and thus gave us our pleasantest society, and one peculiarly +fitted to develop me. Furthermore, we secured command of the unlimited books +stored on the publishers’ shelves, which we used as freely as if they +were our own private library. +</p> + +<p> +Very quickly I began to do more than help my father in his work; I myself tried +to write. He put many a manuscript in the fire, after going over the faults +with me, but finally I wrote something that he let me send to an editor. His +admirable judgment must have been warped by his fatherly love, for the article +was rejected. A like fate befell many others, but at last one was accepted, and +I do not know which of us was the more delighted when it was published in the +“Zeitschrift für Deutsche Philologie.” By my father’s advice +it was signed with a pseudonym; for he pointed out that I was still too young +for editors who knew me to give my manuscript a reading, and that a German name +would command greater respect from them than an English one. +</p> + +<p> +I received twenty marks for that first article, and spent it in secret the next +day. Had you known of my pleasure in the gift, and the hopes that went with it, +I think you would have sent a line of acknowledgment to the hungry-hearted +fellow who, after four years of separation, still longed for a token from you. +Three times had I written, without response, but I thought the beauty of the +photograph would so appeal to you that it must bring me back a word from you, +and lived in the hope for six months. My father joked me genially about what I +had done with that vast wealth, pretending at moments that he believed it had +been avariciously hoarded, and at other times that it had been squandered in +riotous living, till one day, when all hope of acknowledgment had died, his +chaff wrung from me an exclamation of pain, suppressed too late to be concealed +from him. So closely attuned had we become that he understood in an instant +what it meant, and, laying his hand on my shoulder, he appealed, “Forgive +me, my boy! I have been very cruel in my thoughtlessness!” +</p> + +<p> +Nothing more was said then, but later that evening, when we rose from our work, +he asked, “She never replied?” and when I shook my head, the +saddest look I ever saw in him came upon his face. He seemed about to speak +impulsively, faltered, checked himself, and finally entreated, “Bear up, +Donald, and try to forget her.” I could only shake my head again, but he +understood. “She’s feminine quicksilver,” he groaned, +“and I can’t get the dear girl out of my blood, either.” We +gripped each other’s hands for a moment, and I said, “Good-night, +father,” and he replied, “God help you, my boy.” How happy we +should have been could we have bidden you, “Good-night, Maizie!” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h2> + +<p> +<i>February 24.</i> I cannot clearly fix the time when first I decided upon a +life of letters, and presume it was my father’s influence which +determined me. After the publication of my first article, all the time I could +spare from my studies was devoted to writing. Most of it was magazine work, but +two text-books were more ambitious flights. Undertaken at my father’s +suggestion, the books were revised by him, till they should have been published +with his name, and not my pseudonym, on the title-page. This I urged, but he +would not hear of it, insisting that his work was trivial compared with mine. I +understand his motive now, and see how wise and loving he was in all his plans. +Thanks to his skill in clarifying knowledge and fitting it to the immature +mind, both books attained a large sale almost immediately on their publication. +</p> + +<p> +My father’s abnegation went further, and occasioned the only quarrel we +ever had. After the publication of several of my articles, in reading the +Deutsche Rundschau I found an interesting critique signed with the name I had +adopted as a pseudonym. I laughingly called my father’s attention to it, +yet really feeling a little sore that the credit of my work should go to +another, for the first literary offspring are very dear to an author’s +heart. From that time I was constantly meeting with the name, but stupidly +failed to recognize my father’s brilliant, luminous touch till the +publication of another article of my writing revealed the truth to me; for at +the end of this I found again my pseudonym, though I had signed my own name. On +my sending an indignant letter to the editor, he returned me the revised proof +of my article, at the bottom of which “Donald Maitland” was struck +out, and “Rudolph Hartzmann” substituted. My father had made the +change in the last revision, and had returned the sheets without letting me see +them. +</p> + +<p> +In a moment the veil was gone from my eyes, and, grieved and angry, I charged +him with the deception. I do not like to think of what I said or of the +gentleness with which he took it. The next day, when I was cooler, he pleaded +with me to let him continue signing the name to his articles; but I insisted +that I would not permit the double use, and the only concession he could win +from me was that I would still keep the name provided he refrained from using +it again. How could I resist his “Don, I never asked anything but this of +you. I am an old man with no possibility of a career. You are all I have to +love or work for in this world. Let me try to help you gain a name.” Oh, +father, if I had only understood, I would not have been so cruel as to deny +your request, but would have sacrificed my own honesty and allowed the lie +rather than have refused what now I know to have been so dear a wish. I even +resented what I thought a foolish joke of his, when he registered us constantly +at hotels as “Rudolph Hartzmann and father.” It is poetic justice +that in time I should stoop to so much greater dishonesty than that which I was +intolerant of in him. +</p> + +<p> +Owing as much to his articles as to those I subsequently wrote, my pseudonym +became a recognized one in the world of letters, and my work soon commanded a +good price. Furthermore, considerable interest was excited as to the author. +There is a keen delight in anonymous publication, for one does not get the +one-sided chatter that acknowledged authors receive, and often I have sat in +the midst of a group of littérateurs and scholars and heard my articles talked +over. I was tempted even to discuss one,—disparaging it, of +course,—and can remember the way my father hid his laughter when a member +of the party said, “Maitland, you ought to write an article refuting +Hartzmann, for you’ve got the knowledge to do it.” It amuses me to +think how vain and elated I became over what now I see was only ’prentice +work. I am glad you did not know me in those years of petty victory, and that +before we met I had been saddened and humbled. +</p> + +<p> +Some one at Mr. Whitely’s dinner, this winter, asked what was a +sufficient income, and you, Maizie, gravely answered, “A little more than +one has,” which made us all laugh. If you had not been the quicker and +the wittier, and thus forestalled me, I should have said, “Enough to +satisfy the few or many wishes each person creates within himself which money +can satisfy.” Thanks to my prize, my writings, and the profits of my +text-books, I obtained this. In fact, the three so lengthened my purse that I +fancy few millionaires have ever felt so truly rich; for I was enabled to +gratify my greatest wish. In our visits to Spain, Italy, and Constantinople, I +had garnered all that I could find bearing on the two great race movements of +the Moors and Turks, which so changed the world’s history; but I had +discovered that I needed more than the documentary materials to write clearly +of them. I longed to go to their source, and then follow the channels along +which those racial floods had rushed, till, encountering the steel armor and +gunpowder of Europe, they had dashed in scattered spray, never to gather force +again. In my eagerness I had been for making the attempt before, but my father +had urged our limited means and the shortness of my university vacations as +bars to my wishes. My degree removed the one objection, and my earnings and +prize the other. Few persons would care to undertake the travel we planned with +the pittance we had earned, but it was enough for us. How fortunate it is for +me that my student life and travels trained me to absolute self-denial and +frugality! Otherwise these last three years of closest economy and +niggardliness would have been hard to bear. +</p> + +<p> +By the influence of Professor Humzel, working first through his former pupil, +Baron Weiseman, secondly through Giers, and thirdly through I know not whom, we +secured permission to join a Russian surveying party, and thus safely and +expeditiously reached the mountains of the Altai range. We did not stay with +the party after they began their work, but assuming native dress we turned +southward; plunging instantly among the medley of peoples and tongues which +actually realizes the mythical Babel. Turkish, Hebrew, Arabic, and Sanskrit I +had mastered in varying degrees, and they were an “open sesame” to +the dialects we encountered, while the hot sun and open-air life soon colored +us so deeply that we passed for men of a distant but not alien race. Following +nature’s routes, once man’s only paths, we wandered leisurely: to +Tashkend on horseback, to Bokhara on foot, by boat down the Amoo to Khiva, and +on to Teheran, then by caravan to Bagdad, up the Euphrates, gradually working +through Asia Minor. Stopping at Smyrna for a brief rest, we took boat to +Cyprus, from thence crossed to Damascus, and from Jerusalem traveled along the +caravan route to Mecca. Passing over the Red Sea to Egypt, we skirted the south +coast of the Mediterranean, till we reached the Pillars of Hercules. +</p> + +<p> +You ought to have made that pilgrimage. In speaking of my book you expressed +the wish that you might make such a trip, and those years would have been as +great a playtime to you as to us. You could have borne the exposure, rough +though the life was, and it would have been as compound oxygen to your brave +and venturesome nature. I confess I do not like to think of that dazzlingly +pure skin burned to any such blackness as I saw in my mirror on reaching the +end of our journeyings; for truly no better Arab in verisimilitude strolled +about the native quarter of Tangier in May, 1886, than Donald Maitland. +</p> + +<p> +My long study of those older races and three years’ life spent among them +have not made me accept their dogma of fatalism, yet I must believe that +something stronger than chance produced our meeting in that Moorish town. Down +streams, over mountains, and across deserts, seas, and oceans, our paths had +converged; on foot, mounted, by rail or boat, we came together as if some +hidden magnet were drawing us both. A thousand chances were against our +meeting, even when we were in the same town; for you were housed in the best +hotel, while we lodged in a little Jewish place in the Berber quarter. In +another day my father and I should have crossed to Spain, without so much as a +visit to the European section. But for that meeting I should have returned to +Leipzig, and passed a contented life as a Herr Doctor and Professor; for though +my heart was still warm with love of you, it had been denied and starved too +long to have the strength to draw me from the path my head had marked out. Yet +I would not now accept the unemotional and peaceful career I had planned in +lieu of my present life; for if my love is without hope, it is still love, and +though you turned me away from your door with far less courtesy than you would +shut out a beggar, yet I am near you and see you constantly, and that is worth +more to me than peace. Good-night, my love. God bless you. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h2> + +<p> +<i>February 25.</i> It was thought of you which led to our meeting. After the +evening meal of dried salt fish, pancakes, dates, and coffee, my father and I +wandered out to the Sok, and, as was our wont, sat down among the people. +Refusing the hasheesh water and sweetmeats which the venders urged upon us, +“to make you dream of your love joyfully,” we listened to the +story-tellers and the singers. Some one with a fine natural voice sang +presently an Arabic love-song:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“My love, so lovely yet so cruel,<br/> +Why came you so to torture me?<br/> +Could I but know the being who<br/> +Has caused you thus to hate me!<br/> +Once I saw and gazed upon your lovely form each hour,<br/> +But now you ever shun me.<br/> +Yet still each night you come in dreams<br/> +For me to ask, Who sent you?<br/> +Your answer is, Him whom I love,<br/> +And you bid me then forget my passion.<br/> +But I reply, If it was not for love, how could the world go on?”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +It was a song I had heard and loved in many lands and many dialects, but that +night it stirred me deeply, and brought to mind your image, ever dear. I sat +and dreamed of you till the farrago about me became unbearable; and whispering +a word to my father, I rose and strode away, with a yearning truly mastering. I +could have had no thought that you were near, for when we stood far closer I +was still unconscious of your presence. But if not an intuition, I ask what +could it be? +</p> + +<p> +Wandering through the narrow streets without purpose or goal, I presently saw +looming above me the great hill on which stands the Alcassaba. Climbing in the +brilliant moonlight up the steep and ill-conditioned road, and passing that +jumble of buildings upon which so many races and generations have left their +impress, I strolled along the wall to a ruined embrasure at the corner +overlooking the sea. How long I stood there leaning upon the parapet I do not +know. Not till you were close upon me was I conscious that my solitude was +ended. +</p> + +<p> +I heard footsteps, but was too incurious to turn and glance at the intruders. +Nay, more, when that harsh, strident, American voice demanded, “There, +isn’t that great?” I felt so irritated by both tone and words that +but for the seeming rudeness I should have moved away at once. You spoke so low +I could not hear your reply, and I wonder what you said,—for his +“great” applied to such beauty must have rasped much more on your +artistic sense than it did on mine. +</p> + +<p> +“And this black fellow in the turban standing here,” continued the +strident voice, “he fits, too, like the paper on the wall, though +probably he’s a sentry taking forty winks on the sly. It makes an +American mad to see how slack things are run over here.” +</p> + +<p> +I heard a gentle “Hush,” and then a murmur as you went on speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“None of these black fellows speak English,” came the self-assured +voice again. Then, though I could have heard his natural tone full fifty feet +away, the man called much louder: “Hey! what’s the name of that +point out there?” +</p> + +<p> +I should have chosen to make no answer; but remembering the courtesy and +dignity of the race I was impersonating, I replied without turning, “Cape +Spartel.” +</p> + +<p> +You must have said something, for a moment later he laughed, saying, “Not +a bit of it. Now see me jolly him up.” I heard footsteps, and then some +one leaned against the parapet, close beside me. “Backsheesh,” he +intimated, and jingled some coins in his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +I stood silent, so he tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Are you one +of the palace guards?” Unsuppressed by my monosyllabic “No,” +he persisted by saying, “What’s your business, then?” +jingling his coins again. “Stop pulling me, Mai,” he added, as an +aside. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a stranger in Tangier,” I answered quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“From whereabouts?” he questioned. +</p> + +<p> +“The East.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you’re one of the wise men, are you?” he observed +jocosely. “Are you a Jew or a Mohammedan?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the latter, fortunately for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why fortunately?” he nagged. +</p> + +<p> +“Because a true believer would have taken the question as a deadly +insult.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’d be welcome,” he laughed, “though it is rather +irritating to be mistaken for a Jew. I shouldn’t like it myself.” +</p> + +<p> +I thought of the dignified Jew traders who had made part of our caravan in the +journey from Bagdad to Damascus, and answered, “There is little danger of +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I guess not,” he assented. “But if you aren’t a Jew or +a Mohammedan, what are you?” +</p> + +<p> +He had spoiled my mood, and since it was gone I thought I would amuse myself +with the man. “A seeker of knowledge from the Altai Mountains,” I +responded. +</p> + +<p> +“Never heard of them,” he announced; “or is it your Choctaw +for those?” he added, pointing towards the dark masses of the Atlas +Mountains. +</p> + +<p> +I smiled and answered, “They are many moons’ travel from +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he exclaimed. “How did you happen to come?” +</p> + +<p> +“To follow after those gone before.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” he said. “Relatives, I suppose? Hope you found them +well?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” I replied, carrying on the humor, “dying.” +</p> + +<p> +He jingled his coins, and asked, “Anything to be done for them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the complaint?” +</p> + +<p> +“Civilization in the abstract, repeating rifles and rapid-firing guns in +the concrete.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh!” he ejaculated. +</p> + +<p> +Then the lowest and sweetest of voices said, “Won’t you tell us +what you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +Was it my irritation that the man before me, rather than the subtler-passioned +people I knew so well, was the dominant type of the moment, or was it the +sympathy your voice stirred within me, which made me speak? In a moment I was +sketching broadly the inhumanity of this thing we call Christian civilization, +which, more grasping than the Inquisition, has overrun the world, tearing the +lands from their owners, and, not content with this spoliation, demands of its +victims that they shall give up the customs of many centuries’ evolution, +and conform to habits, governments, and religions which their very instincts +make impossible; and because they cannot change, but break out, these believers +in the golden rule shoot them down. I protested at the mockery of calling +civilized a world held at peace by constant slaughter, or of styling the +national Jack Ketches of humanity Christian nations! I protested against the +right of one man to hold another barbaric because he will not welcome his +master, greet with joy the bands of steel we call railroads, and crush his +nature within the walls of vast factories, to make himself the threefold slave +of society, government, and employer. And finally, I gloried in the fact that +though the white races had found a weapon against the black and yellow ones +which enabled them to overrun and subjugate, yet nature had provided +nature’s people with the defense of climate,—a death-line to the +whites; and behind that line the colored races are unconquerable in the sense +of conquest being extinction. I knew the other side, that altruistic tenet of +political economy defined in brief as “the greatest good of the greatest +number,” and in my mind held the even balance of the historian between +the two; but to this utilitarian, modern, self-satisfied American I had to urge +the rights of races thousands of years our senior, and far in advance of us in +the knowledge and amenities that make life worth the most. +</p> + +<p> +You both were silent till I ended; but I had best left unspoken what your +companion could not understand, for when I finished he inquired, “What +mountains did you say you came from?” And when I told him, he added +laughingly, “You must have some pretty good stump speaking in your +elections.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are very grateful for your explanation,” you thanked me gently. +</p> + +<p> +“Never been in America?” he surmised; and except for you I should +have told him that I was his countryman, it would have been so adequate a +retort to his inference. But your voice and manner had made me so ashamed of my +earlier mood that I merely answered, “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humph!” he grunted in surprise; and as if to prove his +incorrigibility he continued, “Thought your ideas were too back-number +for that.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not help laughing, and the moment my laugh became articulate yours too +overflowed your lips, as a spring breaks past its edges and falls rippling over +pebbles. +</p> + +<p> +That laugh, so well remembered, revealed your presence to me. My heart beat +quickly and my head whirled dizzily, and in my bewilderment I took a step +backward, quite forgetting the embrasure, till a stone gave way and I felt that +I was falling. Then my consciousness went from me, and when thought came +surging backward I lay a moment quiet, thinking it must have been a dream. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s coming round all right,” I heard, and at the sound I +opened my eyes. You were leaning over me with the moonlight shining on your +face, and I caught my breath, you were so beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve given us a scare,” continued the man, on whose knee +my head was resting. “You want to keep your wits about you better. Pretty +poor business tumbling off walls, but that’s what comes of having ruins. +You won’t be quite so cocky in the future about your run-out +races.” +</p> + +<p> +I felt his laughter justified, but hardly heeded it, my thoughts were so +engaged. You were wetting my forehead with brandy, and I lay there too happy to +speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Now let me raise you a bit higher,” the man offered kindly, +“so you can get your addled senses back.” He lifted me, and I +groaned at the sudden terrible pain that shot up my leg. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello!” he cried, laying me gently down. “Something wrong, +after all? What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“My leg,” I moaned. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Maizie, hold his head, while I appoint an investigating +committee,” he ordered, and in another moment I felt your arms about me, +and in my joy at your touch I almost forgot my torture. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ve broken one of your walking-sticks,” the man +informed me, after a gentler touching of it than I thought possible to his +nature. “Now, Maizie, if you’ll sit and hold his head, I’ll +get a litter. You won’t mind staying here alone, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is my wish,” you acceded calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“O. K.,” he said, rising, and even in his kindness he could not +help but seize the opportunity to glorify his country. “If this had +happened in New York, Mr. Altai, we’d have had an ambulance here five +minutes ago! Civilization isn’t all bad, I tell you, as you’d find +out if you’d give it a chance.” +</p> + +<p> +The moment he was gone I tried to speak, and murmured “Maizie;” but +you let me get no further, saying “Hush,” and putting your hand +softly over my lips. I suppose you thought me merely repeating the name he had +called you, while I loved your touch too deeply to resist the hand I longed to +kiss. Now I am glad I did not speak, for if I had it would have robbed me of my +last sweet moment with you. +</p> + +<p> +Long before I thought it possible, and far too soon, indeed, despite my +suffering, we heard men approaching. When the torch-bearers came climbing over +the rocks, my first desire was to see how much of your beauty was owing to the +moonlight, and my heart leaped with exultation to find that you were beautiful +even in the livid glare of the torches. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. Altai,” your companion remarked, “where shall we +take you?” and I gave him the name of the hotel. A moment later, as they +lifted me, I again fainted, but not till I had kissed your hand. You snatched +it away, and did not hear my weakly whispered “Good-night, Maizie.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII</h2> + +<p> +<i>February 26.</i> The setting of my leg, that night, was so long and +exhausting an operation that after it was done I was given an opiate. Instead +of bringing oblivion the drug produced a dreamy condition, in which I was +cognizant of nothing that happened about me, and saw only your face. I knew I +ought to sleep, and did my best to think of other things; but try as I might, +my thought would return and dwell upon your beauty. +</p> + +<p> +I have often wished I had been born an artist, that I might try to paint your +portrait, for words can no more picture you than they can transmit the +fragrance of a violet. Indeed, to me the only word which even expresses your +charm is “radiant,” and that to others, who have never seen you, +would suggest little. No real beauty can be described, for it rests in nothing +that is tangible. In truth, to speak of your glorious hair, the whiteness of +your brow and throat, the brilliant softness of your eyes, or the sweetness yet +strength of your tender though unsmiling lips is to make but a travesty of +description. I have heard painters talk of your hair and try to convey an idea +of its beauty, but I know it too well even to make the attempt. When we were +gazing at the rainbow, last autumn, and you said that if its tints could be +transferred to a palette you believed it would be possible to paint anything, I +could not help correcting, “Except your hair.” You laughed, and +declared, “I did not know you ever made that kind of a speech!” +whereupon Agnes cried, “Didn’t I ever tell you, Maizie, the +compliment the doctor paid you last winter?” I thought she was alluding +to my retort when my mother asserted that your eyes were so large and lustrous +that, to her, they were “positively loud.” Indignant at such a +remark, Agnes had appealed to me to deny it. Not caring to treat the malicious +speech seriously, I had answered that I could not agree, though I had sometimes +thought your eyes “too dressy for the daytime,”—a joke I have +heard so often quoted that it is apparently in a measure descriptive, yet one +which I should have felt mortified at hearing repeated to you. Fortunately +Agnes’s reference was to another remark of mine, in which, speaking of +your mouth, I had crudely translated a couple of lines from a Persian +poem:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“In vain you strive to speak a bitter word—<br/> +It meets the sweetness of your lips ere it is heard.” +</p> + +<p> +You were too used to compliments to be embarrassed when the lines were +repeated, and only looked at me in a puzzled way. I do not wonder you were +surprised at the implied admiration of the two speeches, after my apparent +coldness and indifference. My behavior must seem to you as full of +contradictions as your beauty is to me. To say your great attraction is the +radiance—the verve, spirit, and capacity for enthusiasm—of which +one cannot fail to be conscious is to deny the calm dignity with which you bear +yourself, yet both these qualities belong to you. The world insists that you +are proud and distant, and your face has the clean-cut features which we +associate with patrician blood, while your height and figure, and the set and +carriage of your head upon that slender throat, suggest a goddess. But I, who +understand you so much better than the world, know that your proud face +overlies the tenderest of natures, and is not an index, but a mask of feelings +you do not care to show. As for the people who criticise you most, they would +be the last to do so if they were not conscious of the very superiority they +try to lessen.—Ah, how foolish it is to write all this, as if I needed to +convince myself of what I know so well! And even if this were for the eye of +others, to those who know you not it would be but the extravagant idealism for +which a lover is proverbial. +</p> + +<p> +When I awoke from the sleep my dreaming had drifted into, my first request of +my father was to find your whereabouts. He told me that a dragoman had come +that morning to inquire for me,—and had left what now he showed +me,—a great bunch of roses and a basket of fruit, with the card of +“Mr. Foster G. Blodgett, 547 Fifth Avenue,” on the back of which +was written:— +</p> + +<p> +“With sincere regrets that a previously formed plan of leaving Tangier +this morning prevents our seeing our courteous instructor of last night, and +with hopes that he may have a quick and easy recovery from his accident.” +</p> + +<p> +The card was a man’s, but the handwriting was feminine, and the moment my +father turned his back I kissed it. I was further told that the servant had +asked my name and taken it down, giving me the instant hope that when you knew +to whom you had been so merciful, you would even disarrange your plans to let +me have a moment’s glimpse of you. But though I listened all the +afternoon hopefully and expectantly, you never came. I felt such shyness about +you, I did not speak to my father of your beauty, and he did not question me at +all. +</p> + +<p> +Our native hotel, built in Eastern fashion about a court, with only blank +outside walls, was no place in which to pass a long invalidism, and three days +later my father had me carried to the steamer, and, crossing to Gibraltar, we +traveled by easy railroad trips to Leipzig. We had left our belongings with +Jastrow, and he begged us, on our arrival, to become members of his household, +which we were only too glad to do for a time. His joy over my return was most +touching, and he and Humzel both seemed to regard me very much as if I were the +creation of their own brains, who was to bring them immortal fame in time. My +father had long before counseled me to be a pursuer of knowledge, and not of +money; telling me the winning of the latter narrowed the intellect and stunted +the finer qualities of one’s nature, making all men natural enemies, +while the acquisition of the former broadened one’s mind, developed the +nobility within, and engendered love of one’s associates. These two men +illustrated his theory, and had my tendency been avaricious I think their +unselfish love and example would have made me otherwise. And yet, how dare I +claim to be free from sordidness, when all my thoughts and hopes and daily life +are now bent on winning money? +</p> + +<p> +My leg was far too troublesome to permit me to sit at a desk, but my father +insisted on being my scribe; and thus, lying on a lounge, I began part of the +work I had so long planned, taking up for my first book the Turkish irruption, +the crusades against the Saracens, and their subsequent history. Thinking so +much of you, both as the child who had won my boyish heart and as the beautiful +woman whose face had fascinated and moved me so deeply, I do not know how, +except for my work, I should have lived through those long and weary months of +enforced inaction while my leg so slowly knit. +</p> + +<p> +More as recreation from this serious endeavor than as supplementary labor, I +gathered the articles I had written for the Deutsche Rundshau and the Revue des +Deux Mondes from time to time in our travels, and with new material from my +journal I worked the whole into a popular account of what we had seen and done. +While I still used a walking-stick I was reading proof of the German edition, +and my English replica, rather than translation, was under negotiation through +my publisher for London and New York editions. My father, who busied himself +with a French version, insisted that the book would be a great success, and the +articles under my assumed name had been so well noticed that I was myself +hopeful of what better work in book form might do for my reputation; for +against his advice, I had determined to abandon my pseudonym. +</p> + +<p> +But all these schemes and hopes were forgotten in the illness of my father. +Contrary to my wishes, he had overworked himself in the French translation, +while his life, for months of my enforced inactivity, had been one long +service, impossible for me to avoid or refuse without giving him pain. This +double exertion proved too great a strain. The day after he sent the manuscript +to Paris, as he sat conning the sheets of the concluding chapter of my history, +he laid them down without a word, and, leaning forward, quietly rested his head +upon the table. I was by his side and had him on the sofa in an instant, where +he lay unconscious till the doctor came. We were told that it was a slight +stroke, and by the next day he seemed quite well. But slowly he lost the use of +one side, and within a week was helpless. I like to remember that I was well +enough to tend him as he had tended me. He lingered for a month, sweet and +gentle as always; then, one evening, as I sat beside him, he opened his eyes +and said, “Good-night, Don. Good-night, Maizie.” And with those +words his loving soul went back to its Creator. +</p> + +<p> +I found about his neck a ribbon to which was attached a locket containing the +long tress you cut off for him that day in the Bois, one of my mother’s +curls, and a little tow-colored lock which I suppose was my own hair before it +darkened,—a locket I have since worn unchanged, because, sadly discordant +though such association has become, I cannot bring myself to separate what he +tied together. It seems to symbolize his love for all of us. +</p> + +<p> +The kindness of my friends I can never forget. I was so broken down as really +to be unfit for thought, and their generous foresight did everything possible +to spare me trouble or pain. Especially to Professor and Frau Jastrow do I owe +an unpayable debt, for they made me feel that there was still some one in whose +love I stood first; and had I been the child who had never come to them, I +question if they could have done more for me than they did. +</p> + +<p> +One thing that I had to do myself was to notify my mother of my father’s +death. From the time she had quitted us my father and I had avoided mention of +her; but during his illness he asked me to write in case of his death, and gave +me her New York address, from which I inferred that in some way he had kept +himself informed concerning her, though I feel very certain that she had never +written him. That I had never tried to learn anything myself was due to the +estrangement, but still more to my interest in my studies and work. Now I wrote +her, as I had promised, telling her briefly the circumstances of my +father’s illness and death, and offering to write fuller details if she +wished to know them. I would not feign love for her, but I wrote tenderly of +him and without coldness to her. She never replied. +</p> + +<p> +Kind as were all my intimates, I craved more than friendship, however loving it +might be. One of the two great loves of my life had gone out from it, and, in +the gap it left, the other became doubly dear to me. The wish to see you grew +and strengthened each day, until at last it shaped my plans, and I announced my +intention to visit America; making the specious explanation that, after my long +invalidism and grief, the change would be the best specific for me. +</p> + +<p> +At this time I received the offer of appointment as professor extraordinarius +of philology and ethnology under Jastrow, another manifestation of his love; +but till I had seen you I would not bind myself by accepting, and through his +influence I was given three months to consider my answer. I seem doomed never +to requite the services of those I love the most, but I am glad that in the +nine months which I passed under his roof my knowledge of the Eastern dialects +had pushed his work so much nearer completion. +</p> + +<p> +Leaving all my possessions behind except the manuscript of my history, I +started on my voyage of love. For two days I tarried in Paris, settling my +little property. I had long known that the flotsam of my father’s +fortune, wrecked in Wall Street, was a few bonds deposited with Paris bankers; +and when I called upon the firm it was merely to continue the old arrangement, +by which they cut the coupons and placed them to my bank credit. It was in this +visit that I searched out our old pension, and sat dreaming in the park. How +could I imagine, remembering those days of closest love and sympathy, and +knowing too your kindness to one you thought a mere Eastern stroller, that you +could have changed so to your former friend? +</p> + +<p> +The most curious fact to me, in looking back upon that time, is that the idea +never occurred to me that you were a married woman. It never entered my +thoughts that a beauty which fascinated and drew me so far from my natural +orbit must be an equally powerful charm to other men. As for Mr. Blodgett, I +never gave him a second thought, not even accounting for his relations with +you. My foolishness, I suppose, is typical of the scholar’s abstraction +and impracticality. +</p> + +<p> +As the steamer neared New York, my impatience to see you increased apace. Far +from longing for our old ten-day passage, I found a voyage of seven days too +long. Ridiculous as it may seem, I almost lost my temper at the slowness of the +customs examination. I believe I was half mad, and only marvel that I did so +sane a thing as to go to a hotel, change my clothes, and dine, before +attempting to see you. +</p> + +<p> +I ascertained Mr. Walton’s address the moment I reached my hotel, and +sent a messenger there to inquire your whereabouts. He brought me back word +that Mr. Walton was absent from the city, but the servant had informed him that +you still lived with your uncle and that you were in town. +</p> + +<p> +I cannot tell you the surprise and joy I felt when, on arriving at your house +on Madison Avenue that evening, I discovered it to be our old habitat. It +seemed as if your selection of that as your home, probably from sentiment, was +a bow of promise for the future, and I rang the bell, almost trembling with +emotion and happiness. +</p> + +<p> +The footman showed me to the drawing-room and took my card. All inside, so far +as I could see, was changed past the point of recognition, but everything was +beautiful, and I felt in that one room that no decorator’s conventional +taste had formed its harmony, but that an artistic sense had planned the whole. +What a contrast it was to the old days of untasteful and untidy richness! +</p> + +<p> +I sat but a moment before the footman returned. Looking not at me, but over my +head, and with an attitude and air as deferential as if I were the guest of all +others most welcome, he said, “Miss Walton declines the honor of Mr. +Maitland’s acquaintance, and begs to be excused.” +</p> + +<p> +The blow came so suddenly, and was so crushing, that for a moment I lost my +dignity. “There must be some mistake!” I exclaimed. “You gave +Miss Walton my card?” +</p> + +<p> +The footman only bowed assent. +</p> + +<p> +“Go to Miss Walton and say I must see her a moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Walton instructed me to add, in case Mr. Maitland persisted, that +she prefers to hold no intercourse with Mr. Maitland and will receive no +messages from him.” +</p> + +<p> +Pride came to my rescue, and I passed silently into the hall. The servant +opened the door, and I went out from my old home, never to enter it more. At +the foot of the steps I turned and looked back, hardly yet believing what I had +been told. Even in the sting and humiliation of that moment my love was +stronger than the newer sensations. I said, “Good-night, Maizie. God keep +you,” and walked away. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII</h2> + +<p> +<i>February 27.</i> I sat for hours in my room, that night, trying to find some +solution of the mystery and groping for a future course of action. I thought of +a visit to my mother, on the chance that she would give me the key to the +puzzle, but could not bring myself to it. Rejecting that idea, I decided to +seek out Mr. Blodgett, who, being your friend, might know the reason for what +you had done. +</p> + +<p> +Finding on inquiry, the next morning, that Mr. Blodgett was a member of one of +the chief banking firms of New York, I went to his office. The ante-room was +well filled with people anxious to see the great banker, and the door-boy +refused me access to him without giving my name and business. Knowing that +“Donald Maitland” would mean nothing to Mr. Blodgett, and might +even fail to secure me an audience, I wrote on a slip of paper, “A seeker +of knowledge from the Altai Mountains.” Nor was I wrong, for the boy, on +his return, gave me immediate entrance, and another moment brought me face to +face with my once-disliked countryman. +</p> + +<p> +His hand was extended to greet me, but as he looked at my face his arm dropped +in surprise. “Your name, please?” he demanded, with a business-like +clip to his voice, at the same time picking up and glancing quickly at three or +four cards and slips of paper that were on the corner of his desk. +</p> + +<p> +“I am the attorney for ancient peoples,” I announced, smiling, +“come to thank the New World for its kindness to a broken-legged +man.” +</p> + +<p> +Instantly Mr. Blodgett smiled too, and again extended his hand. “Glad to +see you,” he said. “Sit down.” Then looking at me keenly, he +added, “You’ve done a lot of bleaching or scrubbing since we +met.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the interval my face has been hidden from the sun-god of my +fathers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” Then his Americanism cropped out by a question: “Are +you European or Asiatic?—for you are too dark to be the one, and too +white to be the other.” +</p> + +<p> +“My parents were American, and I was born in New York.” +</p> + +<p> +“The deuce you were! Then why were you masquerading in Arab dress and +with a brown face in Tangier, and why did you say you came from some mountains +in Asia?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was for the time an Arab, and I was last from the Altai +Mountains,” I explained, and smilingly added, “Is my explanation +satisfactory?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I suppose you spoke by the book,” he replied. +“Wherever you were born, I’m glad to see—Hold on!” he +cried, interrupting his own speech. “Why did you call yourself Dr. +Rudolph Hartzmann, of Leipzig, if you were an American?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not,” I denied, startled by his question, for my identity +with the pseudonym was known only to my professors and publishers. +</p> + +<p> +“You weren’t living in Tangier under the name of Hartzmann?” +he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then how came it that when my servant was sent to leave some fruit and +flowers for you and inquire your name, he was told that you were Dr. Rudolph +Hartzmann, of Leipzig?” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you serious?” I questioned, as much puzzled as he for the +moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Never more so. I remember our astonishment to think that any European +should have so dark a skin and live in the native quarter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Blodgett,” I explained, “I did not know till this moment +that a pen name I have used to sign my writings had been given you, but it was +a joke of my father’s to register me under it, and my only theory is that +he had given some one in the hotel that name, and, by mischance, your servant +was misinformed.” +</p> + +<p> +He was too good a business man to look as skeptical as he probably felt, and +merely asked, “What is your real name, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Donald Maitland, son of William Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +His eyes gave a startled wink and he screwed his lips into position for a +whistle, but checking the inclination, he merely turned his revolving-chair so +that he looked out of a window. He sat thus for a moment, and then, facing me, +he questioned, with a sudden curtness of voice and manner, “What is your +business with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have taken the liberty of calling on the supposition that you are a +friend of Miss Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Walton was once my father’s ward, yet last night she refused +to see me. Can you tell me why?” +</p> + +<p> +“The reason is rather obvious,” he asserted crisply. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you tell me what it is?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me from under his gray eyebrows. “Is that all you want of +me?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, Miss Walton refused to see you because she despises +you.” +</p> + +<p> +I felt my cheeks burn, but I gripped the arm of my chair and waited till I +could speak coolly; then I asked, “For what?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are ignorant of the fact that your father embezzled a part of Miss +Walton’s fortune, and that you and he have since lived upon it?” he +exclaimed, with no veiling of his contempt. +</p> + +<p> +I sat calmly, for the idea was too new, and I had too many connecting links to +recall, to have the full horror of the disgrace come home to me at once. He did +not give me time for thought, but interrogated, “Well?” +</p> + +<p> +Having to speak, I asked, “You are sure of what you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure!” he ejaculated. “Why, it’s been known to every +one for years, and I was one of the trustees appointed by the court to look out +for Miss Walton’s interest in what property your father couldn’t +take with him!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you are a trustee of Miss Walton,” I said, growing cool in my +agony of shame, “can you spare me five minutes and answer some +questions?” +</p> + +<p> +That I did not deny knowledge of the wrong seemed to raise me in his opinion, +for he nodded his head and looked less stern. +</p> + +<p> +“How much did my father—How much did Miss Walton lose?” I +inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“One hundred and thirty thousand was all the property he could negotiate, +and we succeeded, by bidding in his house over the mortgage and by taking the +library at a valuation, in recovering twenty-six thousand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was that amount net?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then in 1879 the amount due Miss Walton was one hundred and four +thousand dollars?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mr. Blodgett,” I added, rising. “I am only sorry, +after your former kindness, to have given you this further trouble. I am +grateful for both.” In my shame I did not dare to offer him my hand, but +he held out his. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Maitland,” he rejoined, “I’m a pretty good judge +of men, and I don’t believe you have done wrong knowingly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never dreamed it,” I almost sobbed, shaking his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s pretty rough,” he said. “I hope you won’t +show the white feather by doing anything desperate?” +</p> + +<p> +I shook my head, and walked to the door. As I reached it a new thought occurred +to me, and, turning, I asked, “What has the legal rate of interest been +since 1879?” +</p> + +<p> +For reply he touched an electric button on his desk, and I heard the lock click +in the door by which I stood. He pulled a chair near his own, and commanded, +“Come here and sit down,” in such a peremptory tone that I obeyed. +“Why did you ask that question?” he catechised. +</p> + +<p> +“That I may find out how much I owe Miss Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“What for?” +</p> + +<p> +“To attempt restitution.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you know what you’re talking about?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m still rather confused, but so much I can see clearly +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much property have you?” +</p> + +<p> +“My father left me something over thirty-one thousand dollars.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty-one from one hundred and four leaves seventy-three.” +</p> + +<p> +“And interest,” I corrected. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought that was what you were driving at,” he surmised calmly. +He pulled out a volume from its repository in his desk, and turned backwards +and forwards in the book for a few moments, taking off figures on a sheet of +paper. “Eight years at five per cent makes the whole over one hundred and +fifty-five thousand dollars less thirty-one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where can you get the balance?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must earn it.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me with a slightly quizzical expression and asked, +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I have yet to think out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any business?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have the offer of a professorship at Leipzig, but that’s out of +the question now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would give me only two thousand a year at first, and the interest on +the debt will be over six thousand annually.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you know?” he questioned. +</p> + +<p> +“Most of the languages and dialects of Europe and Asia, and a good deal +of history and ethnology. I am fairly read in arts, sciences, and religions, +and I know something of writing,” I answered, smiling at the absurdity of +mentioning such knowledge in the face of such a condition. +</p> + +<p> +“Humph! And you’d have sold all that for two thousand a +year?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that only proves that a man had better cultivate his gumption, and +not his brains!” +</p> + +<p> +“If he wishes to make money,” I could not help retorting gently. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re just like Maizie!” he sniffed, and his going back to +your familiar name in my presence was the best compliment he could have paid +me. “You two ought to have died young and gone to heaven, where +there’s nothing to do but cultivate the soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish we had!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you go to your mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“For what?” +</p> + +<p> +“For the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has she money?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. She had a little money when she married your father, which she kept +tight hold of; her mother’s death, two years ago, gave her more, and she +has just married a rich man.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know yet what I shall do,” I replied, rising. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he advised kindly, “before you blow your brains out +or do anything else that’s a waste of good material, come and see me +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” I responded. “And, Mr. Blodgett, as a favor, I +ask that all I have told you, and even my presence in New York, shall be +confidential between us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” he growled. “I shall tell Maizie all about +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Walton least of any,” I begged. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you insist, too, that Mrs. Blodgett, who intends that I +shall inform her nightly of everything I know, sha’n’t be +told?” he queried. +</p> + +<p> +“It grieves me to be a marplot of connubial confidences,” I +rejoined, responding to his smile, “but this must be between us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have your own way,” he acceded, and then laughed. +“I’ll have a good time over it, for I’ll let Mrs. Blodgett +see there is a secret, and she’ll go crazy trying to worm it out of +me.” +</p> + +<p> +He shook my hand again, and I felt ashamed to think that his voice and manner +had once made me hold him in contempt. +</p> + +<p> +I went back to the hotel, and thought over the past, seeing how blind I had +been. Now for the first time everything became clear. I understood the trip to +Europe and our remaining there, why my mother had left us, why Mr. Walton had +been permitted to take you from us without protest, why we had not mingled with +Americans, and my father’s motives in making me write under a pen name, +in registering me at hotels by it, and in giving that name to your servant. Now +it was obvious why he never signed his articles, and why he appealed to me to +let him aid me to make a reputation: it was his endeavor to atone to me for the +wrong he had done. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, my love. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX</h2> + +<p> +<i>February 28.</i> Many times in the last three years I have begun a letter to +you, for the thought that you, like the rest of the world, may rank my father +with other embezzlers stings me almost to desperation. Each time it has been to +tear the attempted justification—or I should say, extenuation—into +fragments, long before it was completed. In all my trials I have come to +realize that nothing I can say can stand him in stead; for whatever I urge is +open to suspicion, not merely because it is my interest to condone his act, but +still more because it inevitably becomes an indirect justification of myself, +and therefore, in a sense, a plea for pardon. +</p> + +<p> +At moments, too, when with you, I have had to exercise the greatest +self-control not to tell you what I feel. If I were only some one else than +Donald Maitland, so that I might say to you:— +</p> + +<p> +“You should know that your guardian was incapable of the lowness the +world imputes to him! I am not trying to belittle the sin, but to distinguish +the motive. His wrong was no mean attempt to enrich himself at the expense of +one he loved, for his nature was wholly unmercenary, and his transgression +originated, not through greed, but through lack of it. Like all men of true +intellect, he was heedless in money matters, and I am conscious that there was +in him, as there is in me, the certain weakness which is almost inevitable with +mind cultivation,—an engulfing, as it were, of the big principles of +right and wrong in the complexities and the refinements of cultivated thought. +His birthright was scholarship, but in place of the life he was fitted for he +was forced into Wall Street, and toiled there without sympathy or aptitude for +his work. Do you not remember how, aside from our companionship, his books were +his one great pleasure? The wealth of mind he gave to us tells the story of how +he must have neglected his office in favor of his library. Yet though this +preference might have made him a poor man, I cannot think his studies would +ever have led him into dishonesty. I have never had the heart to trace the +history of his act, but Mr. Blodgett tells me that shortly after his marriage +he first began to speculate, and knowing as I do my mother’s extravagance +and my father’s love for her, I can understand the motive. The inevitable +result came presently, and, as a temporary expedient, a small part of your +property was used. Then a desperate attempt was made to recover this by the +risking of a larger portion, and after that there was nothing left but +confession or flight. I wish he had spoken, but the weakness that produced the +first wrong accounts for the second, and I believe his chief thought was of me, +and how I might be saved from the consequences of his guilt. Unless you have +put him wholly out of your heart, you must appreciate that it was no sordid +scheme to cheat you, but a surrender to the love strong enough to overcome his +honesty. You must know that he loved you too well to wrong you willingly, and I +think with pain of what I am sure he must have suffered in his shame at having +robbed you. Do you not remember the sadness in his face in those later years, +and his tenderness to both of us? Can you not see that his kindness, his +patience, and his care of us were his endeavored atonement?” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, Maizie, I ask nothing for myself, but if you could be brought to think of +him, to love him, as you once did, my greatest grief would be ended. +</p> + +<p> +Bitter as my misery was after Mr. Blodgett’s revelation, there was still +some sweetness to make it bearable. For years I had thought of you as heartless +and forgetful, and even in my love had hated and despised you at moments, as +only love can hate and despise. The world thinks that animosity is always +strongest against enemies, though daily it sees the intensest feuds between +those nations and individuals who are most closely related, and never learns +that the deepest hatred comes from love. Now I knew that you had cause for +slighting my letters and gift, and the knowledge of my injustice and the +thought that you were more lovable than ever were the silver lining to my cloud +of shame. +</p> + +<p> +My first meeting with you was a pure chance, yet it shaped my life. For three +weeks after my call on Mr. Blodgett I pondered and vacillated over what I +should do, without reaching any decision. At the end of that time I went to his +office again. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Blodgett has asked two or three times if you hadn’t +called,” the boy informed me; adding, as he opened the door to the +private office, “He told me, if you ever came again, sir, to show you +right in.” +</p> + +<p> +I passed through the doorway, and then faltered, for you were sitting beside +the banker, overlooking a paper that he was commenting upon. Could I have +escaped unnoticed, I should have done so; but you both glanced up as I entered. +</p> + +<p> +The moment you saw me you rose, with an exclamation of recognition and +surprise, which meant to me that you knew your old friend in spite of the +changes. Do you wonder that, not foreseeing what was to come, I stood there as +if turned to stone? My manner evidently made you question your own eyes, for +you asked, “Is not this Dr. Hartzmann?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course it is!” cried Mr. Blodgett, with a quickness and +heartiness which proved that your question was almost as great a relief to him +as it was to me. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not think, Miss Walton,” I replied, steadying my voice as +best I could, “that you saw my face clearly enough that evening, to +recollect it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The moonlight was so strong,” you explained, “that I should +have known you anywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then your eyes are better than mine,” asserted Mr. Blodgett. +“I accused the doctor of using blondine, to atone for my not recognizing +him, though I must confess he will have to use a good deal more if he wants to +be thought anything but Italian.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you have met before?” you questioned. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Mr. Blodgett. “I was going to tell you when we +got through with that mortgage. I knew you would be interested to hear that the +doctor was in New York. Seems like Tangier, doesn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“In reminiscence,” I assented, merely to gain time. +</p> + +<p> +“None of your rickety ruins,” chuckled Mr. Blodgett. +</p> + +<p> +“But more ruin,” you said. +</p> + +<p> +“And more danger,” I added, pointing out of the window at the +passers-by in Wall Street. “Nowhere in my travels, even among races that +have to go armed, have I ever seen so many anxious and careworn faces.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most of them look worried,” suggested Mr. Blodgett, “only +because they are afraid they’ll take more than three minutes to eat their +lunch.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment you spoke with Mr. Blodgett on business, and then offered me your +hand in farewell, saying, “I am very glad, Dr. Hartzmann, for this chance +reunion. Mr. Blodgett and I have often spoken of the mysterious Oriental who +fell in—and out—of our knowledge so strangely.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have wished to meet you, Miss Walton,” I responded warmly, +“to thank you for your kindness and help to me when”— +</p> + +<p> +“That was nothing, Dr. Hartzmann,” you interrupted, in evident +deprecation of my thanks. “Indeed, I have always felt that we were in a +measure responsible for your accident, and that we made but a poor return by +the little we did. Good-morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Blodgett took you to your carriage, and when he returned he gave a whistle. +“Well!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t gone through such a +ten-second scare since I proposed to my superior moiety.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought”—I began. +</p> + +<p> +But he went on: “There’s nothing frightens me so much as a +wrought-up woman. Dynamite or volcanoes aren’t a circumstance to her, +because they have limits; but woman!” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed and said, “The Hindoos have a paradox to the effect that women +fear mice, mice fear men, and men fear women.” +</p> + +<p> +“She got so much better and longer look at you in Tangier than I did that +I don’t wonder she recognized Dr. Hartzmann when I didn’t. But why +did she stop there in her recollections?” +</p> + +<p> +“It appeared incomprehensible to me for a moment, yet, as a fact, her +knowing me as Donald Maitland would have been the greater marvel of the two. +When she knew me, I was an undersized, pallid, stooping lad of seventeen. In +the ten years since, my hair and skin have both darkened greatly, I have grown +a mustache, and my voice has undergone the change that comes with manhood, as +well as that which comes by speaking foreign tongues. Your very question as to +whether I was of Eastern birth tells the whole story, for such a doubt would +seem absurd to one who remembered the boy of ten years ago. Then, too, Miss +Walton, having recognized me as Dr. Hartzmann, was, as it were, disarmed of all +suspicion by having no question-mark in her mind as to my exact +identity.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Blodgett nodded his head in assent. “And you don’t know it +all,” he informed me. “I’m going to be frank, doctor, and +acknowledge that I’ve expressed a pretty low opinion of you to her more +than once. If Maizie were asked what man in this world she’d be least +likely to meet in my office on a friendly footing, she would probably think of +you. Your presence here was equivalent to saying that you weren’t Donald +Maitland, let alone the fact that I greeted you as Dr. Hartzmann, and that she +could never dream of my having a reason to deceive her in your identity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Such a chain of circumstances almost makes one believe in kismet,” +I sighed. Then I laughed, and added, “How easy it is to show that one +need not be scared—after the danger is all over!” +</p> + +<p> +“That isn’t the only scare I owe to you,” muttered Mr. +Blodgett. “I didn’t take your address because I told you to come +again. Why didn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But for three weeks I’ve been worrying over what you were +doing with yourself, and not knowing that you hadn’t cut your +throat.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to have troubled you. I stayed away to save troubling +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re as considerate as the Fiji islander was of the missionary, +when he asked him if he had rather be cooked <i>à la maître d’hôtel</i> +or <i>en papillote</i>. What have you been doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very little to any purpose. I have written to my publisher, offering to +sell my rights in my text-books; to a friend, asking him to learn for what +price he can sell my library; and to my bankers, directing them to send me the +bonds and a draft for my balance. I received the securities and a bill of +exchange yesterday, and am so ignorant of business methods that I came to you +this morning to learn how to turn them into cash.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do better than that,” volunteered Mr. Blodgett, +touching a button. “Give them to me, and I’ll have it done.” +Then, after he had turned the matter over to a clerk, he asked, “What +does your publisher offer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty-five hundred.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what are your royalties?” +</p> + +<p> +“Last year they were over six hundred dollars.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humph! That’s equivalent to investing money at eighteen per cent. +You ought to get more than that.” +</p> + +<p> +“A little more or less is nothing compared with paying so much on my +debt.” +</p> + +<p> +“What will your library bring?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps four thousand, if I can find some one who wants so technical a +collection.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you can get along without it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must,” I declared, though wincing a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Rather goes against the grain, eh?” he rejoined kindly. +</p> + +<p> +I tried to laugh, and said, “My books have been such good comrades that I +haven’t quite accustomed myself yet to thinking of them as merchandise. I +feel a little as the bankrupt planter must have felt when he saw his slave +children offered for sale.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what do you plan to do with yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t been able to make up my mind.” +</p> + +<p> +We were interrupted at this point by some business matter, and I took my leave. +The next morning Mr. Blodgett called at my boarding-place on his way down town. +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t come to talk business,” he announced. “I +told my wife and daughter, last night, about the fellow from the backwoods of +Asia, and made them so curious that Mrs. Blodgett has given me permission to +furnish him board and lodgings for a week. I’ll promise you a better room +than this,” he added, glancing at the box I had moved into as soon as I +realized how much worse than a pauper I was. +</p> + +<p> +I could hardly express my gratitude as I tried to thank him, but he pretended +not to perceive my emotion, and said briskly: “That’s settled, +then. Send your stuff round any time to-day, and be on deck for a +seven-o’clock dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +You, who know Mrs. Blodgett so much better than I, can understand my +bewilderment during the first day or two of my visit. Her husband had jokingly +pictured me as of an Eastern race, which made the meeting rather embarrassing; +but the moment she comprehended that I did not habitually sit on the floor, did +not carry a scimiter or kris, and was not unwashed and ferine, but only a dark +skinned, dark haired, and very silent German scholar, she took possession of me +as I have seen her do of others. She preceded me to my room, ringing for a +servant on the way, made me open my trunk, and directed the maid where to put +each article it contained. She told me what time to be ready for dinner, what +to wear for it, and at that meal she had me helped twice to such dishes as she +chose, while refusing to let me have more than one cup of coffee. To a man who +had never had any one to look after him in small things it was a novel and +rather pleasant if surprising experience, and when I grew accustomed to it I +easily understood Mr. Blodgett’s chuckles of enjoyment when she told him +he shouldn’t have a third cigar, when she decided how close he was to sit +to the fire, and finally when she made all of us—Agnes, Mr. Blodgett, and +myself—go to bed at her own hour for retiring. Best of all I understood +Mr. Blodgett’s familiar name for her, “the boss.” That visit +was a perfect revelation to me of affectionate, thoughtful, and persistently +minute domineering. I do not believe that the man lives, though he be the +veriest woman-hater, who could help loving her after a fortnight of her +tyranny. Certainly I could not. +</p> + +<p> +By Mr. Blodgett’s aid I secured a “paper” cable transfer of +the money realized from the bonds and draft, in order that it might seem to +come from Europe, and sent it to you, writing at his suggestion, “The +inclosed draft on Foster G. Blodgett & Co. for the sum of thirty-three +thousand dollars is part payment of principal and interest due you from estate +of William G. Maitland.” I wonder what your thoughts were as you read the +unsigned and typewritten note? +</p> + +<p> +It was your greeting of me by my alias that led me to accept the incognito. +Perhaps it was cowardly to shirk my shame by such a means, but it was not done +from cowardice; the thought did not even occur to me until it opened a way to +knowing you. And in that hope my very misery became almost happiness, for its +possibilities seemed those of the Oriental poet who wrote:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“My love once offered me a bitter draught<br/> +From which in cowardice I flinched.<br/> +But still she tendered to me;<br/> +And bowing to her wish, I then no longer shrank,<br/> +But took the cup and put it to my lips.<br/> +Oh, marvel! gazing still at her,<br/> +The potion turned to sweetness as I drank.”<br/> +</p> + +<p> +If your old friend, Donald Maitland, were dead to you, your new lover, Rudolph +Hartzmann, might fill his place. I never stopped to think if such trickery were +right, or rather my love was stronger than my conscience. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, my dearest. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 1.</i> During my visit I heard much about you from Mrs. Blodgett and +Agnes, for your name was constantly on their lips. From them I learned that +your birth, wealth, and the influence of your uncle had involved you in a +fashionable society for which you cared nothing, and that, aside from the +gayety which that circle forced upon you, your time was spent in travel, and in +reading, music, and charitable work. Except for themselves, they averred, you +had no intimate friends, and their explanation of this fact proved to me that +you had taken our separation as seriously as had I. +</p> + +<p> +“After Mr. Walton brought her to America she spent the first few months +with us,” Mrs. Blodgett told me, “and was the loneliest child I +ever saw. Her big eyes used to look so wistfully at times that I could hardly +bear it, yet not a word did she ever speak of her sorrow. And all on account of +that wretch and his son! I think the worse men are, the more a good woman loves +them! When Maizie was old enough to understand, and Mr. Walton told her how she +had been robbed, she wouldn’t believe him till Mr. Blodgett confirmed the +story. She used to be always talking of the two, but she has never spoken of +them since that night.” +</p> + +<p> +Even more cruel to me was something Agnes related. She worshiped you with the +love and admiration a girl of eighteen sometimes feels for a girl of +twenty-three, and in singing your praises,—to a most willing +listener,—one day, she exclaimed, “Oh, I wish I were a man, so that +I could be her lover! I’d make her believe in love.” Then seeing my +questioning look, Agnes continued: “What with her selfish old uncle, and +the men who want to marry her for her money, and those hateful Maitlands, she +has been made to distrust all love and friendship. She has the idea that she +isn’t lovable,—that people don’t like her for herself; and I +really think she will never marry, just because of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Better far than this knowledge of you at second-hand was Mr. Blodgett’s +telling me that you were to dine with them during my visit. It may seem absurd, +but not the least part of my eagerness that night was to see you in evening +dress. If I had not loved you already, I should have done so from that meeting; +and although you are dear to me for many things besides your beauty, I +understand why men love you so deeply who know nothing of your nature. That all +men should not love you is my only marvel whenever I recall that first glimpse +of you as you entered the Blodgetts’ drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +Before we had finished our greetings Mr. Whitely entered, and though I little +realized how vital a part he was to be of my life, I yet regarded him with +instant interest, for something in his manner towards you suggested to me that +he coveted the hand you offered him. +</p> + +<p> +A lover does not view a rival kindly, but I am compelled to own that he is +handsome. If I had the right to cavil, I could criticise only his mouth, which +it seems to me has slyness with a certain cruel firmness; but I did not notice +this until I knew him better, and perhaps it is only my imagination, born of +later knowledge. I am not so blinded by my jealousy as to deny his perfect +manner, for one feels the polished surface, touch the outside where one will. +</p> + +<p> +Your demeanor towards him was friendly, yet with all its graciousness it seemed +to me to have a quality not so much of aloofness as of limit; conveying in an +indefinable way the fact that such relations as then existed between you were +the only possible ones. It was a shading so imperceptible that I do not think +the Blodgetts realized it, and I should have questioned if Mr. Whitely himself +were conscious of it, but for one or two things he said in the course of the +evening, which had to me, under the veil of a general topic, individual +suggestion. +</p> + +<p> +We were discussing that well-worn question of woman’s education, Mrs. +Blodgett having introduced the apple of discord by a sweeping disapproval of +college education for women, on the ground that it prevented their marrying. +</p> + +<p> +“They get to know too much, eh?” laughed Mr. Blodgett. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” cried Mrs. Blodgett, “they get to know too little! +While they ought to be out in the world studying life and men, so as to choose +wisely, they’re shut up in dormitories filling their brains with Greek +and mathematics.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would limit a woman’s arithmetic to the solution of how to +make one and one, one?” I asked, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, Mrs. Blodgett, you do not mean that an uncultivated woman makes +the best wife?” inquired Mr. Whitely. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean,” rejoined Mrs. Blodgett, “that women who know much +of books know little of men. That’s why over-intellectual women always +marry fools.” +</p> + +<p> +“How many intellectual wives there must be!” you said. +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t mind if they only married fools,” continued Mrs. +Blodgett, “but half the time they don’t marry at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does that prove or disprove their intellect?” you asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It means,” replied Mrs. Blodgett, “that they are so puffed +up with their imaginary knowledge that they think no man good enough for +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve known one or two college boys graduate with the same large +ideas,” remarked Mr. Blodgett. +</p> + +<p> +“But a man gets over it after a few years,” urged Mrs. Blodgett, +“and is none the worse off; but by the time a girl overcomes the idea, +she’s so old that no man worth having will look at her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I rather think, Mrs. Blodgett,” said Mr. Whitely, in that +charmingly deferential manner he has with women, “that some men do not +try to win highly educated women because they are abashed by a sense of their +own inferiority.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where do those men hide themselves, Whitely?” interrogated Mr. +Blodgett. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll not question the reason,” retorted Mrs. Blodgett. +“The fact that over-educated girls think themselves above men is all I +claim.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think, Mrs. Blodgett,” you corrected, “it is +so much a feeling of superiority as it is a change in the aims of marriage. +Formerly, woman married to gain a protector, and man to gain a housewife. Now, +matrimony is sought far less for service, and far more for +companionship.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Miss Walton,” questioned Mr. Whitely, “does not the +woman ask too much nowadays? She has the leisure to read and study, but a +business man cannot spare the time. Is it fair, then, to expect that he shall +be as cultivated as she can make herself?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is, I think, the real cause for complaint,” you answered. +“The business man is so absorbed in money-making that he sacrifices his +whole time to it. I can understand a woman falling in love with a lance or a +sword, dull companions though they must have been, but it seems to me +impossible for any woman to love a minting-machine, even though she might be +driven to marry it for its product.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s rough on us, Whitely,” laughed Mr. Blodgett +good-naturedly; but Mr. Whitely reddened, and you, as if to divert the subject +from this personal tendency, turned and surmised to me:— +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that as a German, Dr. Hartzmann, you think a woman should be +nothing more than a housekeeper?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not suggest, Miss Walton,” I replied, smiling, “that as +an Orientalist I must think the seraglio woman’s proper sphere?” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Miss Walton,” persisted Mr. Whitely, not accepting your +diversion, “a man, to be successful nowadays, must give all his attention +to his business. +</p> + +<p> +“I presume that is so,” you acceded; “but could he not be +content with a little less success in money-making, and strive to acquire a few +more amenities?” +</p> + +<p> +“Maizie wants us all to be painters and poets and musicians,” +asserted Mr. Blodgett. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” you denied. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Maizie!” cried Agnes. “You know you said the other day +that you hoped I wouldn’t marry a business man.” +</p> + +<p> +“I said ‘<i>only</i> a business man,’ Agnes,” you +replied, without a trace of the embarrassment so many women would have shown. +“Because men cannot all be clergymen is no reason for their knowing +nothing of religion. There would be no painters, poets, or musicians if there +were no dilettanti.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet I think,” argued Mr. Whitely, still as if he were trying to +convince you of something, “that the successful business man has as much +brain as most writers or artists.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt that is true,” you assented. “So, too, a day +laborer may have a good mind. But of what avail is a brain if it has never been +trained, or has been trained to know only one thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“But authors and painters are only specialists,” urged Mr. Whitely. +</p> + +<p> +“They are specialists of a very different type,” you responded, +“from the man whose daily thoughts are engrossed with the prices of +pig-iron or cotton sheetings. I think one reason why American girls frequently +marry Europeans is that the foreign man is so apt to be more broadly +cultivated.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I mean by saying that books unfit women to marry +wisely,” interjected Mrs. Blodgett. “They marry foreigners because +they are more cultivated, without a thought of character.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Mrs. Blodgett,” you observed, “has not the day gone +by for thinking dullness a sign of honesty? And certainly a business career is +far more likely to corrupt and harden men’s natures than the higher +professions, for its temptations and strifes are so much greater.” +</p> + +<p> +Your opinion was so in accord with what my father had often preached that I +could not but wonder if his teachings still colored your thoughts. To test this +idea as well as to learn your present view, I recurred to another theory of his +by saying, “Does not the broader and more sensitive nature of the scholar +or artist involve defects fully as serious as the hardness and narrowness of +the business man? Some one has said that ‘to marry a literary man is to +domesticate a bundle of nerves.’” +</p> + +<p> +“A nervous irritability,” you replied, “which came from fine +mental exertion, would be as nothing compared to my own fretting over enforced +companionship with an unsympathetic or sordid nature.” Then you laughed, +and added, “I must have a very bad temper, for it is the only one which +ever really annoys me.” +</p> + +<p> +That last speech told me how thoroughly the woman of twenty-three was a +development of the child of fourteen, for I remembered how little my +mother’s anger used to disturb you, but how deeply and strongly your +emotions affected you. I suppose it was absurd, but I felt happy to think that +you had changed so little in character from the time when I knew you so well. +And from that evening I never for an instant believed that you would marry Mr. +Whitely, for I was sure that you could never love him. How could I dream that +you, with beauty, social position, and wealth, would make a loveless marriage? +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, my love. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 2.</i> The truth of the difference of quality between the business man +and the scholar was quickly brought home to me. On the last evening of my +visit, Mr. Blodgett revealed the reason for his latest kindness. “I got +you here,” he explained, “to look you over and see what you were +fit for, thinking I might work you in somewhere. No,” he continued, as he +saw the questioning hopefulness on my face, “you wouldn’t do in +business. You’ve got a sight too much conscience and sympathy, and a +sight too little drive. All business is getting the best of somebody else, and +you’re the kind of chap who’d let a fellow up just because +you’d got him down.” Seeing the sadness in my face, for I knew too +well he had fathomed me, he added kindly, “Don’t get +chicken-hearted over what I say. It’s easy enough to outwit a man; the +hard thing is not to do it. I’d go out of the trade to-morrow, if it +weren’t for the boss and Agnes, for I get tired of the meanness of the +whole thing. But they want to cut a figure, and that isn’t to be done in +this town for nothing. I’ll find something for you yet that +sha’n’t make you sell your heart and your soul as well as your +time.” +</p> + +<p> +I was too full of my love and my purpose, however, for this to discourage me. +The moment my determination to remain in New York was taken, I wrote to +Jastrow, Humzel, and others of my German friends, telling them that for +business reasons I had decided to be known as Rudolph Hartzmann, and asking if +they would stretch friendship so far as to give me letters in that name to such +American publishers and editors as they knew. Excepting Jastrow, they all +responded with introductions so flattering that I was almost ashamed to present +them, and he wrote me that he had not offered my books for sale, and begged me +to reconsider my refusal of the professorship. He even offered, if I would +accept the appointment, to divide with me his tuition fees, and suggested that +his own advancing years were a pledge that his position would erelong be vacant +for me to step into. It almost broke my heart to have to write him that I could +not accept his generous offer. In July I received a second letter from him, +most touching in its attempt to keep back the grief he felt, but yielding to my +determination. He sent me many good introductions, and submitted a bid for my +library from a bookseller; but knowing the books to be worth at least double +the offer, I held the sale in abeyance. +</p> + +<p> +My first six months in New York disheartened me greatly, though now I know that +I succeeded far better than I could have expected to do, in the dullness of the +summer. My work was the proof-reading of my book of travel in its varying +polyglots, seeing through the press English versions of my two text-books, and +writing a third in both English and German. Furthermore, my letters of +introduction had made me known to a number of the professors of Columbia +College, and by their influence I received an appointment to deliver a course +of lectures on race movements the following winter; so I prepared my notes in +this leisure time. But this work was far too little to fill my time, and I +wrote all kinds of editorials, essays, and reviews, fairly wearing out the +editors of the various magazines and newspapers with my frequent calls and +articles. Finally I attempted to sell my books to several libraries; but though +the tomes and the price both tempted several, none had the money to spend on +such a collection. +</p> + +<p> +My book of travel was published in September, was praised by the reviews, and +at once sprang into a good sale for a work of that class; for Europe is +interested in whatever bears on her cancer growth, commonly called the Eastern +question. Since Europeans approved the book, Americans at once bought and +discussed it; to prove, I suppose, that as a nation we are no longer tainted +with provincialism,—as if that very subservience to transatlantic opinion +were not the best proof that the virus still works within us. It was issued +anonymously, through the fear that if I put my pseudonym on the title-page it +might lead to inquiry about the author which would reveal his identity with +Donald Maitland, for whom I only wished oblivion. As a result the question of +authorship was much mooted, some declaring a well-known Oxford professor to be +the man, others ascribing the volume to a famous German traveler, and Humzel +being named by some; but most of the reviews suggested that it was the work of +an Eastern savant, and I presume that my style was tinged with orientalism. +</p> + +<p> +You cannot tell what a delight it was to me to learn, at our first meeting in +the autumn, that you had read my book. I went in November to the Lenox Library +to verify a date, and found you there. I could not help interrupting your +reading for a moment,—I had so longed for a glimpse and a word,—and +you took my intrusion in good part. I drew a book and pretended to read, merely +to veil my covert watching of you; and when you rose to go, I asked permission +to walk with you. +</p> + +<p> +“Your notebook suggests that you are a writer by profession, Dr. +Hartzmann?” you surmised. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have to come to America for material?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to America permanently.” +</p> + +<p> +“How unusual!” +</p> + +<p> +“In what respect?” +</p> + +<p> +“For a European writer to come to New York to do more than lecture about +himself, have his vanity and purse fed, and return home to write a book about +us that we alone read.” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed and said, “You make me very glad that I am the exception to the +rule.” +</p> + +<p> +“I presume more would make the venture if they found the atmosphere less +uncongenial. New York as a whole is so absorbed in the task of trans-shipping +the products of the busiest nations of two continents that everything is ranked +as secondary that does not subserve that end: and the Muses starve.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose New York is not the best of places in which to live by art or +letters, if compared with London or Paris; yet if a man can do what the world +wants done, he can earn a livelihood here.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he cannot gain the great prizes that alone are worth the winning, I +fear. I have noticed that American writers only reach American audiences, while +European authors not merely win attention at home, but have vogue and sale +here. The London or Paris label is quite as effective in New York or Chicago in +selling books as in selling clothes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose cultivated Europe is as heedless of the newer peoples as the +peoples of the Orient are of those of the Occident. Yet I think that if as good +work were turned out in this country as in the Old World, the place of its +production would not seriously militate against its success.” +</p> + +<p> +“And have you found it so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing I have yet written in this country merits Continental +attention.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you have succeeded to your own satisfaction?” +</p> + +<p> +“It may amuse you to know that though I had many good letters of +introduction to editors in this country, I could not get a single article +accepted till some friends of mine in Asia came to my aid.” +</p> + +<p> +“You speak in riddles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you remember reading, last August, of an outbreak of some tribes +in the Hindoo Kush? Those hill peoples are in a state of perennial ferment, and +usually Europe pays no attention to their bellicose proceedings; but luckily +for me, the English premier, at that particular moment, was holding his +unwilling Parliament together in an attempt to pass something, and finding it +intractable in that matter, he cleverly used this outbreak to divert attention +and excite enthusiasm. Rising in the House of Commons, he virtually charged the +outbreak to Russian machination against the beloved Emir, and pledged the +nation to support that civilized humanitarian against the barbaric despot of +Russia. At once the papers were full of unintelligible cablegrams telling of +the doings in those far-away mountains; and my hurriedly written editorials and +articles, which nevertheless showed some comprehension of the geography and +people, were snapped up avidly, and from that time I have found papers or +periodicals glad to print what I write.” +</p> + +<p> +You laughed, and said, “How strangely the world is tied together in these +days, that the speech of an English prime minister about some Asian septs +should give a German author entrée to New York editorial sanctums!” +</p> + +<p> +“The cables have done more in aid of the brotherhood of man than all the +efforts of the missionaries.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you were a conservative, and disapproved of modern +innovations,” you suggested archly. +</p> + +<p> +“With innovators, yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the Levantine does not entirely disapprove of our Hesperian +city?” +</p> + +<p> +“My knowledge of New York is about as deep,” I answered, smiling, +“as my Eastern blood.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only skin-deep,” you said. +</p> + +<p> +“Just sufficient for a disguise.” +</p> + +<p> +“As long as you are silent, yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is my English so unmistakable?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not your tongue, but your thought. Of course your vicinage, costume, and +complexion made me for a moment accept your joke of nationality, at that first +meeting, but before you had uttered half your defense of the older races I felt +sure that you were not a product of one of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it is only Christians who recognize and speak for the rights of +other peoples.” +</p> + +<p> +“You forget that the religion of Buddha is toleration. We Christians +preach the doctrine, but practice extermination, forgiving our enemies after +killing them,” I corrected. “I do not think we differ much in works +from even El Mahdi.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would El Mahdi ever have spoken for other races?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know the weak spot in my armor, Miss Walton,” I was obliged to +confess. +</p> + +<p> +“That is due to you, Dr. Hartzmann. What you stated that night interested +me so deeply that I have been reading up about the Eastern races and problems. +I wonder if you have seen this new book of travel, The Debatable Lands between +the East and West?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I assented, thinking that twenty over-lookings of it in +manuscript and proof entitled me to make the claim. +</p> + +<p> +“You will be amused to hear that, when reading it, I thought of you as +the probable writer, not merely because it begins in the Altai range and ends +at Tangier, but as well because some of the ideas resemble yours. Mr. Whitely, +however, tells me he has private information that Professor Humzel is the +author. Do you know him?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was my professor of history at Leipzig.” +</p> + +<p> +“That accounts for the agreement in thought. You admire the book?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is a conscientious attempt to describe what the author +saw.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it is much more than that!” you exclaimed. “At a dinner +in London, this autumn, I sat next the Earl—— next a member of the +Indian Council, and he told me he considered it a far more brilliant book than +Kinglake’s Eothen.” +</p> + +<p> +I knew I had no right to continue this subject, but I could not help asking, +“You liked it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very much. It seems to me a deep and philosophic study of present and +future problems, besides being a vivid picture of most interesting countries +and peoples. It made me long to be a nomad myself, and wander as the author +did. The thought of three years of such life, of such freedom, seems to stir in +me all the inherited tendency to prowl that we women supposedly get from Mother +Sphinx.” +</p> + +<p> +“Civilization steals nature from us and compounds the theft with +art.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me about Professor Humzel,” you went on, “for I know I +should like him, merely from the way he writes. One always pictures the German +professor as a dried-up mind in a dried-up body, but in this book one is +conscious of real flesh and blood. He is a young man, I’m sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sixty-two.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has a young heart, then,” you asserted. “Is he as +interesting to talk with as he makes himself in his book?” +</p> + +<p> +“Professor Humzel is very silent.” +</p> + +<p> +“The people who have something to say are usually so,” you sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“A drum must be empty to make a noise,” I said, smiling, “and +perhaps the converse is true.” +</p> + +<p> +I cannot say what there was in that walk which cheered me so, except your +praise of my book,—sweeter far though that was than the world’s +kindly opinion; yet over and above that, in our brief interchange of words, I +was made conscious that there was sympathy between us,—a sympathy so +positive that something like our old-time friendship seemed beginning. And the +thought made me so happy that for a time my troubles were almost forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, Maizie. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 3.</i> Fate seemed determined that our lives should be closely +connected. In December Mr. Blodgett wrote asking me to call at his office, and +he was already smiling when his boy passed me through the door at which so many +had to tarry. +</p> + +<p> +“There are a good many kinds of fools,” was his welcoming remark, +“but one of the commonest is the brand who think because they can do one +thing well, they ought to be able to do the exact opposite. I’ve known +men who could grow rich out of brewing beer, who kept themselves poor through +thinking they knew all about horses; I’ve known women who queened it in +parlors, who went to smash because they believed themselves inspired actresses; +I’ve sat here in this office thirty years, and grown rich through the +belief of clergymen, doctors, merchants, farmers,—the whole box and +dice,—that they were heaven-born financiers, and could play us Wall +Street men even at our own game. Whatever else you do in this world, doctor, +don’t think that because you can talk a dozen languages, they fit you to +be a successful mute.” +</p> + +<p> +“When you are in this mood, Mr. Blodgett, I can be nothing else,” I +interpolated, as he paused a moment for breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Alexander Whitely,” he went on, smiling, “probably knows +more about petroleum and kerosene than any other man in the world, and +he’s made himself rich by his knowledge. But it doesn’t satisfy him +to be on the top of his own heap; he wants to get on the top of some other +fellow’s. In short, he has an itch to be something he isn’t, and +the darned fool’s gone and bought a daily newspaper with the idea that he +is going to be a great editor!” +</p> + +<p> +“His lamp of genius will not go out for want of oil,” I remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“For a moment he showed one glimmer of sense: he came to me for +advice,” said Mr. Blodgett in evident enjoyment. “I told him to get +an A 1 business manager, to make you chief editor, let you pick your staff, and +then blow in all the money you and the business end asked for, and never go +inside the building himself. It was too good sense for him, for he’s daft +with the idea of showing the world how to edit a paper. But my advice simmered +down to this: if you want to be his private secretary, at four thousand a year, +and pretend to revise his editorials, but really write them for him, I guess +you can have the position. Of course he is to think he writes the +rubbish.” +</p> + +<p> +“A Voltaire in miniature,” I laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“A what?” +</p> + +<p> +“The great Frederic thought himself a poet, and induced Voltaire to come +and be his literary counselor. The latter showed a bundle of manuscripts to +some one and sneered, ‘See all this dirty linen of the king’s he +has sent me to wash.’” +</p> + +<p> +“That was one for his nibs,” chuckled Mr. Blodgett appreciatively. +“But you mustn’t make such speeches as that of Whitely.” +</p> + +<p> +“In spite of my many tongues, I can be mute.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think I haven’t seen that? And I’ve seen something +more, which is that you always give a dollar’s worth of work for +seventy-five cents of wages. Now, Whitely’s a hard man, and if you made +the terms with him he’d be sure to get the better of you. So I’ve +arranged to have him meet you here, and I’m going to see fair play. +I’ve told him you won’t do it for less than four thousand, and +he’ll not get you a cent cheaper. The work will be very light.” +</p> + +<p> +“The work is easy,” I assented, “but is it honest?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seems to me we had better leave that to Whitely to settle.” +</p> + +<p> +“And is Mr. Whitely an honest man?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Blodgett smiled as he looked at me, and observed, “Whitely +wouldn’t steal a red-hot stove unless it had handles! But he probably +thinks this all right. Few people know how much successful men use other +men’s brains. Here’s a report on a Southern railroad by an expert +in my employ. I’ve never even been over the road, yet I’ll sign my +name to the report as if it was my work. Now, in oil Whitely hires all kinds of +men to do different things for him, and he gets whatever credit follows; and I +suppose he thinks that if he pays you to write editorials, they are as much his +as any other thing he buys.” +</p> + +<p> +“He must be conscious of a distinction.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s his lookout, if he is. Don’t start in to keep other +people’s consciences in order, doctor, for it’s the hardest-worked +and poorest-paid trade in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Whitely arrived, Mr. Blodgett was as good as his word, taking the +matter practically out of my hands, and letting me sit a passive and amused +spectator of the contest between the two shrewd men, who dropped all thought of +personal friendship while they discussed the matter. Mr. Blodgett won, and made +the further stipulation that since Mr. Whitely intended to be at the office +only in the afternoon, I might be equally privileged as to my hours of +attendance. His forethought and kindness did more, for his last speech to Mr. +Whitely was, “Then it’s understood that the doctor writes your +letters and revises your editorials, but nothing else.” And as soon as we +were alone he intimated, “Remember that, or before you know it +he’ll be screwing you to death. Don’t you write anything extra for +him unless there’s extra pay. Now, don’t waste my time by thanks in +business hours, but come in to-night to dinner, so as to let the boss and Agnes +congratulate you.” +</p> + +<p> +My employment began the first of the year, at which time the paper came into +the hands of its new proprietor; and it amuses me to recall him as he sat at +his desk that first day, thrumming it nervously, and trying to dictate an +editorial on The Outlook for the New Year. A more hopeless bit of composition I +have seldom read, and four times it was rewritten as I built it into shape. +</p> + +<p> +The man has no more sense of form than he has of English. Even worse, he is +almost without ideas. It has become his invariable custom to remark to me +suavely, as he takes his seat at his desk about two o’clock, “Dr. +Hartzmann, possibly you can suggest a good subject for me to write about +to-day?” And when I propose one, he continues: “That is +satisfactory. Jot down what you think I had better say, while I run over my +mail.” An hour later I lay the typewritten sheets before him, and, after +reading them with the most evident pleasure, he puts his initials at the top +and sends the editorial out to the managing editor; to have a second pleasure +when, after two hours, the galley slips of proof come back to him. +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately for me, he cares no more for politics than I do, and thus saves me +from the necessity of studying and mastering that shifting quicksand against +which beat the tides of men, ebbing as private greed obtains the mastery, and +flowing in those curious revulsions of selfishly altruistic public spirit +called patriotism. Except for this subject his taste is catholic, and his +foible is to pose as omniscient. “I wish new subjects,—something, +if possible, that intellectual people do not know about,”—is his +constant command; and nothing delights him more than an editorial on a subject +of which he has never heard. Speaking only his mother tongue, he has an +inordinate desire for foreign words, and will observe, “A quotation in +another language gives an editorial page an air of culture which I desire my +paper to have.” Our composing-room, I imagine, is the only one in New +York which has Greek type, and if I gave him the smallest encouragement he +would buy fonts of Sanskrit and Hebrew characters. He always makes me teach him +how to pronounce the sentences, catching them with a wonderful parrot-like +facility. Usually he carries clippings of the last half dozen editorials with +him, and his delight is to make an opportunity to read one aloud, prefaced by +the announcement that he is the writer. Sometimes, indeed, he cannot contain +his pleasure over the articles till their appearance in type, and I repeatedly +hear him request a visitor, “If you have ten minutes to spare, let me +read you this editorial I have just written for to-morrow’s issue.” +</p> + +<p> +At first, in spite of Mr. Blodgett’s explanation, I thought this real +dishonesty, and despised not merely him, but myself as well for aiding in such +trickery. As I grow to know him better, however, I find he is not cozening the +public so much as imposing on himself. The man has a fervent and untrained +imagination, which has never, in the practicalities of oil, had a safety-valve. +As a result, it has rioted in dreams of which he is the hero, until it has +brought him to the point of thinking his wildest fancies quite possible +realities. His self-faith is so great that his imagination sets no limit to his +powers, and thus he can believe everything of himself. I have heard him tell +what he would do under given circumstances, and, with my knowledge of him, I +know he is conceiving himself to be actually doing what he describes. Thus, in +a smaller sense, he really imagines that he writes the editorials, and he even +reads them to Mr. Blodgett, apparently unconscious that there can be the +slightest question of authorship in the latter’s mind. +</p> + +<p> +With this singular weakness the man is yet a strong one. His capacity to judge +and manage men or facts is truly marvelous. He rules his paper as he rules +everything, with the firmest hand, and not a man in his employ but knows who is +master. Within a year he turned the journal into a great earner of money, and +in the business office they have to confess that it is all his work, ignorant +though he is to this day of the details. He knows by instinct where money +should be spent, and where it should be scrimped. Yet with all this business +shrewdness he cares not half so much that his investment is paying him twenty +per cent as that people are talking about his ability as an editor, and my only +influence over him even now is the praise my editorials have won him. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps the most singular quality of his nature is his heedlessness of +individual opinion, and his dread of it in mass. He is so absolutely +self-centred—every thought directed inward—that he never tries to +make the individual like him, yet he craves intensely the world’s esteem. +He longs for notoriety, and even stoops to an almost daily mention of himself +in his paper, taking endless pains to get his name into other journals as well. +Even his philanthropy, for which the world admires him, is used for this +purpose. Ridiculous as it may seem, the most grating task I have to do is the +writing of the fulsome press dispatches which he invariably sends out whenever +he makes one of his gifts. He writes, too, to his fellow editors, asking them +to comment on the largess; and since he makes it a point to cultivate the +pleasantest relations with his confrères, they give him good measure, though +with many a smile and wink among themselves when they get together. “Mr. +White-Lie” is his sobriquet in the fraternity. +</p> + +<p> +How curiously diverse the same man is to different people! To the world Mr. +Whitely is a man of great business ability, of wide knowledge, of great +benevolence, and of fine manners. I do not wonder, Maizie, that he imposes on +you; for though you have discernment, yet you are not of a suspicious nature, +and his acting is so wonderful and his manner so frank, through his own +unconsciousness of his self-deceit, that not a dozen people dream the man is +other than he seems. You might, perhaps, in spite of his taciturnity, have +discovered his charlatan pretense of learning if you had been born inquisitive, +but you take his writings for the measure of his intellect, and have no more +reason to suspect that his skillful reservations are the refuge of a sciolist +than that my silence covers such little erudition as I have. +</p> + +<p> +Why I can do naught else but sit here and write of the past I do not +understand. Until a month ago I was working every evening till far into the +night, but now, try as I may, I can no longer force myself to my task. I should +think it was physical exhaustion, were it not that I can chronicle this stale +record of what I know so well. I suppose it is mental discouragement at my +slight progress in reducing that crushing debt, and, even more, my sadness at +the thought of you as his wife. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, my darling. May happiness be yours. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 4.</i> My impressions of that first winter in New York are curiously +dim except for the extreme loneliness of my life, which, after the close +companionship with my father for so many years, seemed at times almost +unbearable. Indeed, I doubt if I could have borne the long hours of solitude +and toil but for my occasional glimpses of you. I should think myself fatuous +in claiming that you influence me physically,—that I am conscious of a +material glow, ecstasy, thrill, call it what you please, when with +you,—if I had not once heard Agnes declare that she always felt, when you +were in the room, as if she had been drinking champagne; showing that I am not +the only one you can thus affect. +</p> + +<p> +My pleasantest recollection is of our long talk in my employer’s study; +and strangely enough, it was my books which gained it for me. Mr. Whitely, when +I first came into his service, had just endowed a free library in one of the +Western cities where some of his oil interests centred, and I hinted to him the +purchase of my books as a further gift to his hobby. The suggestion did not +meet with his approval,—I fear because there was not the self-advertising +in it that there is in a money gift,—but after a week he told me that he +might buy the collection to furnish his editorial study. “I plan,” +he said, “to make my office attractive, and then have informal literary +receptions once a week. I shall therefore require some books, and as your +library should be marked by breadth and depth of learning, I presume it will +serve my purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are quite a number of Eastern manuscripts of value,” I told +him, “and few of the books are in languages that can be read by the +average New Yorker.” +</p> + +<p> +“That gives the suggestion of scholarship which I wish,” he +acknowledged. +</p> + +<p> +We easily came to terms under these circumstances, and I cannot tell you how +happy I was to find myself once more surrounded by my books. As soon as they +were in place and the study was handsomely furnished, my employer issued cards; +and though he had nothing in common with the literary and artistic set, the +mere fact that he controlled the columns of a great paper brought them all +flocking to his afternoons. It is a case of mutual cultivation, and I am sick +of being told to write puffs of books and pictures. Even foreigners do not seem +above this log-rolling, and toady to the editor of the influential journal. And +yet we think Johnson mean-spirited for standing at Chesterfield’s door! +It humiliates me to see writers and artists stooping so low merely to get +notices that are worthless in a critical sense, and doubly am I degraded that +mine is the pen that aids in this contemptible chicane. +</p> + +<p> +You, Mrs. Blodgett, and Agnes came to one of these afternoons, and made me +happy, not alone by your presence, but by an insinuated reproof, which meant, I +thought, that you had become enough interested in me to care what I did. You +expressed surprise at my being there, and so I explained to you that I had +become Mr. Whitely’s secretary. +</p> + +<p> +“And is your work congenial?” you asked. +</p> + +<p> +I shrugged my shoulders, and quoted, “Civilized man cannot live without +dining.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you told me you were making a living. Is not a crust with +independence and a chance to make a name better than such work?” +</p> + +<p> +“If one is free, yes. But if one must earn money?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had somehow fixed it in my mind that you were <i>en garçon</i>. +One’s fancies are sometimes very ridiculous. Who invented the mot that a +woman’s intuitions were what she had when she was wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +“Some man, of course,” I laughed. “And you were right in +supposing me a bachelor.” +</p> + +<p> +“How little people really know about one another,” you observed, +“and yet we talk of the realism of life! I believe it is only in fiction +that we get it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Napoleon said, ‘Take away history and give me a novel: I wish the +truth!’ Certainly, our present romance writers attempt it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only to prove that truth is not art.” +</p> + +<p> +“How so?” +</p> + +<p> +“To photograph life in literature is no more art than a reproduction of +our street sounds would be music.” +</p> + +<p> +“Painting and sculpture are copying.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the closer the copy, the less the art.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you would define art as”— +</p> + +<p> +“The vivifying of work with the personality of the workman.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is not very far from Saadi’s thought that art is never +produced without love.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have to confess that you mention an author of whom I had never even +heard till I read The Debatable Lands. The extracts printed there made me think +he must be one of the great philosopher poets of the world. Yet there is no +copy of his works at the Lenox.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are copies of all his writings here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I shall disobey Polonius by trying to be a borrower,” you +announced, and turning to Mr. Whitely, you asked, “Do you ever loan your +books?” +</p> + +<p> +“To lend to you would be a pleasure, and give added value to the +volume,” assented Mr. Whitely, joining us. “Take anything you +wish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you so much. Will you let me see what you have of Saadi, so that I +may take my choice?” +</p> + +<p> +“You were speaking of”—hemmed Mr. Whitely. +</p> + +<p> +“Saadi.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes. Dr. Hartzmann knows where it is.” +</p> + +<p> +When I had led the way to the proper shelf, you selected the Gulistan, opened +it, and then laughed. “You have the best protection against borrowers. I +envy both of you the ability to read him in the original, but it is beyond +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you read Latin, you can read Gentius’ translation of the +Bostan,” I suggested, taking the book down. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that I can read Latin?” you asked. +</p> + +<p> +I faltered for a moment, too much taken aback to think what to reply, and +fortunately Mr. Whitely interposed quickly, “Miss Walton’s +reputation for learning is so well recognized that knowledge of Latin is taken +for granted.” +</p> + +<p> +Taking advantage of the compliment, I surmised, “Perhaps you will care +less to read the poet if I quote a stanza of his:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘Seek truth from life, and not from books, O fool!<br/> +Look at the sky to find the stars, not in the pool.’” +</p> + +<p> +“You only make me the more eager,” you said, running over the +pages. +</p> + +<p> +“The book is worth reading,” vouched Mr. Whitely. +</p> + +<p> +“How good that is!” you appealed to him, laying your finger on +lines to the effect that a dozen poor men will sleep in peace on a straw heap, +while the greatest empire is too narrow for two kings. +</p> + +<p> +“Very,” answered my employer, after looking at the text with a +critical air. If you could only have enjoyed the joke with me! +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, as I watched you, you became pale, and glancing down to learn the +cause, I saw a manuscript note in my father’s handwriting on the margin +of the page. “Mr. Whitely,” you asked huskily, “how did you +get this book?” +</p> + +<p> +Had you looked at me you would have seen one paler than yourself, as I stood +there expecting the axe to fall. Oh! the relief when Mr. Whitely replied, +“I bought it in Germany.” +</p> + +<p> +You closed the volume, remarking, “I do not think I will ask the loan, +after all. He seems an author one ought to own.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hoped you would add an association to the book,” urged Mr. +Whitely. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” you parried gravely, “but so old a volume can +hardly be lacking in association. I think we must be going.” +</p> + +<p> +I took you down to the carriage, and Mrs. Blodgett kindly offered me the fourth +seat. You were absolutely silent in the drive up-town, and I was scarcely less +so as I tried to read your thoughts. What feelings had that scrap of writing +stirred in you? +</p> + +<p> +I have often since then recalled our parting words that afternoon, and wondered +if I allowed a mere scruple—a cobweb that a stronger man would have +brushed aside without a second thought—to wreck my life. If I had taken +what you offered? Perhaps the time might have come when I could have told you +of my trick, and you would have forgiven it. Perhaps— +</p> + +<p> +You said to me graciously, when we separated at your door, “I shall be +very happy, Dr. Hartzmann, if you will come to see me.” +</p> + +<p> +I flushed with pleasure, for I felt it was not a privilege you gave to many. +But even as I hesitated for words with which to express my gratitude, I +realized that I had no moral right to gain your hospitality by means of my +false name; and when I spoke it was to respond, “I thank you for the +favor most deeply, Miss Walton, but I am too busy a man for social +calls.” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, my darling, if you had known what those few words cost me, and the struggle +it was to keep my voice steady as I spoke them! For I knew you could only take +them to mean that I declined your friendship. Hide my shame as I might try to +do, I could not escape its pains. God keep you from such suffering, Maizie, and +good-night. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 5.</i> Though I committed the rudeness of refusing to call, you never +in our subsequent intercourse varied your manner by the slightest shade, +treating me always with a courtesy I ill deserved. After such a rebuff, it is +true, you were too self-respecting to offer me again any favor tending to a +better acquaintance, but otherwise you bore yourself towards me as you did +towards the thousand other men whom you were obliged to meet. +</p> + +<p> +Your life as a social favorite, and mine as a literary hack, gave little +opportunity for our seeing each other, yet we met far more frequently than +would have seemed possible. Occasionally I found you at the Blodgetts’, +though not as often as our informal footing in that household had led me to +hope; for you were in such social demand that your morning hours were the time +you usually took to run in upon them. But now and then we lunched or dined +there, and Mrs. Blodgett little dreamed how willingly I obeyed her positive +command that I was to come to every one of her afternoons when Agnes told me +that you were to receive or pour tea. Little I had of your attention, for you +were a magnet to many, but I could stand near you and could watch and listen, +and that was happiness. +</p> + +<p> +A cause of meeting more discordant to me was furnished by my employer. I wrote +for him an editorial on the folk-leid basis of the Wagner trilogy, which I +suppose he sent or read to you; for it resulted in a box-party to attend the +series, and I was asked to be one of the guests. “Nothing like having +your books of reference under your arm,” was Mr. Whitely’s way of +telling me for what purpose I was wanted; and I presume that was, in truth, the +light in which he viewed me. Though I scorned such service, the mere fact that +you were to be there was enough to make me accept. How low love can bring a man +if his spirit is once mastered by it! +</p> + +<p> +I would have sunk far deeper, I believe, to obtain what I earned, for there +were delightful moments of mutually absorbing discussions, only too quickly +interrupted by Mr. Whitely or others of the party breaking in on our +conversation. What was equal happiness to me was the association of you in my +mind with the noblest of music. I can never hear certain movements of those +operas without your image coming before me as clearly as if I saw your +reflection in a mirror. And from that time one of my keenest pleasures has been +to beg tickets from the musical critic of our staff, whenever one of the +trilogy is to be given, and sit through the opera dreaming of those hours. I +could write here every word you uttered, but what especially impressed itself +upon my memory was something called out by the fate of Brunhilde. As we stood +in the lobby waiting for the carriages, at the end of Die Walküre, you withdrew +a little, as if still feeling the beauty and tragedy of the last act too deeply +to take part in the chit-chat with which the rest of the party beguiled the +time. I stood near you, but, respecting your mood, was silent too, until you +finally broke the pause by saying, “I do not know whether it is +Wagner’s music or because Brunhilde appeals to me, but I always feel that +I have suffered as she does. It almost makes me believe in the theory of +metempsychosis.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it so much consciousness of a past, Miss Walton,” I suggested, +“as prescience of the future? Woman’s story is so unvaryingly that +of self-sacrifice for love that I should suppose Brunhilde’s fate would +appeal to the sex as a prophecy rather than as a memory.” +</p> + +<p> +“Her punishment could have been far worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Left a defenseless prey to the first comer?” +</p> + +<p> +“But surrounded by fire, so that the first comer must be a brave +man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you value courage so highly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. The truly brave, I think, cannot be mean, and without meanness +there must be honor. I almost envy Brunhilde her walls of fire, which put to +absolute proof any man who sought her. The most successful of men; the most +intellectually brilliant, may be—By what can we to-day test courage and +honor?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is as much as ever, Miss Walton. Is it no gain that courage has +become moral rather than physical?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it no loss that of all the men I know, there is not one of whom I can +say with certainty, ‘He is a brave man’?” +</p> + +<p> +Our numbers were called at this point, and the conversation was never +continued. Every word you had said recalled to me my former friend, and I +understood your repugnance for anything cowardly. +</p> + +<p> +At the last of these operas, by another perverse joke of Dame Fortune, who +seems to have so many laughs at my expense, I was introduced to the chaperon, +“Mrs. Polhemus.” Looking up, I found myself facing my mother. I +cannot tell you how strangely I felt in making my bow. She was as handsome as +ever, it appeared to me, and the smooth rich olive complexion seemed to have +given her an undying youth. For a moment I feared recognition, but the +difference was too great between the pallid stooping boy of fifteen she had +last seen in Paris and the straight bronzed man of twenty-seven. As of old she +was magnificently dressed and fairly glittered with diamonds, which curiously +enough instantly brought to my mind the face of my father as I kissed him last. +Was it the strong connection of contrast, or was it a quirk of my brain? +</p> + +<p> +This chance meeting had a sequel that pains me to this day. Dining the next +evening at the Blodgetts’ with you and your uncle, the latter spoke of my +mother’s diamonds. Mrs. Blodgett said, with a laugh, “One would +think, after her rich marriage, that she might pay up the money her first +husband stole from Maizie.” +</p> + +<p> +“She could have done that years ago if she had cared to,” sneered +Mr. Walton. +</p> + +<p> +Your eyes were lowered, and you still kept them so as you replied, “I +would not accept the money from Mrs. Polhemus.” +</p> + +<p> +In my suffering I sat rigid and speechless, wincing inwardly at each blow of +the lash, when Mr. Blodgett, with a kindness I can never reward or even +acknowledge, observed, “I believe it was his wife’s extravagance +which made William Maitland a bankrupt and an embezzler. Till his marriage with +her he was a man of simple habits and of unquestioned business honesty, but he +was caught by her looks, just as Polhemus has been. In those first years he +could deny her nothing, and when the disillusionment came he was too deep in to +prevent the wreck.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been revising your views a bit,” retorted Mr. Walton. +“I never expected to hear you justify any of that family.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I have reason to,” replied Mr. Blodgett. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe any of those Maitlands have the least +honesty!” exclaimed Agnes. “How I hate them!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not a subject of which I like to speak,” you stated in an +evidently controlled voice, still with lowered eyes, “but it is only +right to say that some one—I suppose the son—is beginning to pay +back the debt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pay back the money, Maizie!” ejaculated Mr. Walton. “Why +haven’t you told me of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It did not seem necessary,” you answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure it’s a trick,” asserted Agnes. +“He’s probably trying to worm his way back to your friendship, to +get something more out of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much”—began Mr. Walton; but you interrupted him there by +saying, “I would rather not talk about it.” +</p> + +<p> +The subject was changed at once, but when we were smoking, Mr. Walton asked, +“Blodgett, do you know anything about that Maitland affair?” +</p> + +<p> +“A little,” replied the host. +</p> + +<p> +“The debt really is being paid?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you don’t know by whom?” +</p> + +<p> +“So Maizie tells me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has she made no attempt to find out?” +</p> + +<p> +“When the first payment was made she came to me for advice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” asked Mr. Walton eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“She got it,” declared Mr. Blodgett. +</p> + +<p> +“What did she do?” persisted Mr. Walton. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Blodgett was silent for a moment, and then responded, “The exact +opposite of what I advised. Do you know, Walton, you and I remind me of the +warm-hearted elephant who tried to hatch the ostrich eggs by sitting on +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what respect?” +</p> + +<p> +“We decided that we must break up Maizie’s love of the Maitlands +for her own good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we made the whole thing so mean to her that finally we did break +something. Then, manlike, we were satisfied. What was it we broke?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” growled Mr. Walton, sipping his wine. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Blodgett laughed slightly. “That’s rather a good name for +it,” he assented; “but the trouble is, Walton, that nonsense is a +very big part of every woman’s life. You’ll never get me to fool +with it again.” +</p> + +<p> +I often ponder over those three brief remarks of yours, and of what you said to +me last autumn, in our ride and in the upper hall of My Fancy, trying to learn, +if possible, what your feeling is towards us. Can you, despite all that has +intervened, still feel any tenderness and love for my father and me? Perhaps it +was best that you were silent; if you had spoken of him with contempt, I +think—I know you would not, my darling, for you loved him once, and that, +to you, would be reason enough to be merciful to the dead, however sinning. +</p> + +<p> +Dear love, good-night. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 6.</i> You once said to me that you could conceive of no circumstances +that would justify dishonesty; for, no matter what the seeming benefits might +be, the indirect consequences and the effect on the misdoer’s character +more than neutralized them. The wrong I have done has only proved your view, +and I have come to scorn myself for the dishonorable part I have played. Yet I +think that you would pity more than blame me, if you could but know my +sacrifices. I drifted into the fraud unconsciously, and cannot now decide at +what point the actual stifling of my conscience began. I suppose the first +misstep was when I entered Mr. Whitely’s employment; yet though I knew it +to be unscrupulous in him to impose my editorials as his own, it still seemed +to me no distinct transgression in me to write them for him. With that first +act those that followed became possible, and each involved so slight an +increase in the moral lapse, and my debt to you was so potent an excuse to +blind me, that at the time I truly thought I was doing right. I wonder what you +would have done had you been in my position? +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Blodgett’s shrewdness in stipulating what work I was to do for Mr. +Whitely quickly proved itself. One of the magazines asked my employer to +contribute an article on The Future of Journalism. Handing me the letter, he +said, “Dr. Hartzmann, kindly write a couple of thousand words on that +subject.” +</p> + +<p> +“That surely is not part of my duty, Mr. Whitely,” I had the +courage to respond. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me quickly, and his mouth stiffened into a straight line. +“Does that mean that you do not choose to do it?” he asked suavely. +</p> + +<p> +My heart failed me at the thought that if I lost my position I might never get +so good a one, and should drag my debt through life. For once thought of you +made me cowardly. I answered, “I will write it, Mr. Whitely;” and +he said, “I thank you,” as if I had done him a favor. +</p> + +<p> +I told Mr. Blodgett of the incident, that evening, with a wry face and a laugh +over my bravery, and he was furious at me. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you—you”—he stuttered. “Haven’t you +learned yet that the man wouldn’t part with you for anything? He’s +so stuck up over his editorials and what people say of them that he’d as +soon think of discharging his own mother before she weaned him.” +</p> + +<p> +Not content with venting his anger on me, he came into the office the next day +and told Mr. Whitely I should not be imposed on, and finally forced him to +agree that I should receive whatever the review paid for the article. +</p> + +<p> +After this I wrote several magazine articles for Mr. Whitely, and soon another +development of our curious relations occurred. One afternoon he informed me, +“The Library trustees request me to deliver an address at the dedication +of the building. I shall be grateful for any suggestions you can make of a +proper subject.” +</p> + +<p> +“Books?” I replied, with an absolutely grave face. +</p> + +<p> +“That is eminently suitable,” he responded. “Possibly you can +spare the time to compose such a paper; and as it should be of a scholarly +character some Greek and Latin seem to me advisable.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much?” I asked, inwardly amused to note if he would understand +my question, or would suppose it referred to the quantity of dead languages I +was to inject. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the labor worth?” he inquired, setting my doubt at rest, +and proving his business ability to recognize the most distant allusion to a +dollar. When I named a price, he continued: “That is excessive. The +profession of authorship is so little recompensed that there are many good +writers in New York who would gladly do it for less.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can do it cheaper, if, like them, I crib it from books at the +Astor,” I asserted. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not see why an address composed in the Astor Library should not be +entirely satisfactory?” he questioned, in his smooth, self-controlled +manner. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you never hear of the man who left the theatre in the middle of +Hamlet because, he said, he didn’t care to hear a play that was all +quotations?” I asked, with a touch of irony. +</p> + +<p> +“I presume the story has some connection in your mind with the subject in +hand, but I am unable to see the appositeness?” he said interrogatively +and evidently puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“I merely mentioned it lest you might not know that Pope never lived in +Grub Street.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me, still ignorant that I was laughing at him. “You think it +injudicious to have it done by Mather?” he questioned, naming a fellow +who did special work for the paper at times. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” I replied, “provided you label the address +‘hash,’ so that people who have some discrimination won’t +suppose you ignorant that it is twice-cooked meat you are giving them,” +and, turning, I went on with my work as if the matter were ended. +</p> + +<p> +But the next day he told me, “I have concluded to have you compose that +oration, Dr. Hartzmann;” and from that moment of petty victory I have not +feared my employer. +</p> + +<p> +I wrote the address, and it so pleased Mr. Whitely that, not content with +delivering it, he had it handsomely printed, and sent copies to all his +friends. +</p> + +<p> +The resulting praise he received clearly whetted his appetite for authorship, +for not long after he said to me, “Dr. Hartzmann, you told me, when you +sold me this library, that you were writing a history of the Turks. How nearly +completed is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope to have it ready for press within three months.” +</p> + +<p> +“For some time,” he remarked, “I have meditated the writing +of a book, and possibly yours will serve my purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +I was so taken by surprise that for a moment I merely gazed at him, since it +seemed impossible that even egotism so overwhelming as his could be capable of +such blindness; but he was in earnest, and I could only revert to Mr. +Blodgett’s idea that a business man comes to think in time that anything +he can buy is his. I smiled, and answered, “My book is not petroleum, Mr. +Whitely.” +</p> + +<p> +“If it is what I desire, I will amply remunerate you,” he offered. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not for sale.” +</p> + +<p> +“I presume,” he replied, “that you know what disposition of +your book suits you best. I have, however, noticed in you a strong desire to +obtain money, and I feel sure that we could arrange terms that will bring you +more than you would otherwise receive.” +</p> + +<p> +Even before Mr. Whitely finished speaking, I realized that I was not a free +agent. I owed a debt, and till it was paid I had no right to think of my own +ambition or feelings. I caught my breath in anguish at the thought, and then, +fearing that my courage would fail me, I spoke hastily: “What do you +offer me?” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled blandly as he predicted: “It is hardly a work that will have a +large sale. The Turkish nation has not played an important part in +history.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only conquered the key of the Old World, caused the Crusades, forced the +discovery of America and of the Cape passage, compelled Europe to develop its +own civilization instead of adopting that of the East, and furnished a question +to modern statesmen that they have yet found no Œdipus to answer,” +I retorted. +</p> + +<p> +“Your special pleading does tend to magnify their position,” he +assented. “I shall be happy to look the work over, leaving the terms to +be decided later.” +</p> + +<p> +I am ashamed to confess what a night of suffering I went through, battling with +the love and pride that had grown into my heart for my book. I knew from the +first moment his proposition had been suggested that he would give me more than +I could ever hope to make from the work, and therefore my course was only too +plain; but I had a terrible struggle to force myself to carry my manuscript to +him the following afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +For the next week he was full of what he was reading; and had the circumstances +been different, I could have asked no higher compliment as regards its popular +interest than the enthusiasm of this unlettered business man for my book. +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite as diverting as a romance!” he exclaimed. “I can +already see how astonished people will be when they read of the far-reaching +influence of that nation.” +</p> + +<p> +Since the pound of flesh was to be sold, I took advantage of this mood. After +much haggling, which irritated and pained me more than it should, Mr. Whitely +agreed to give me six thousand dollars and the royalties. Good as the terms +were, my heart nearly broke, the day the manuscript left my hands, for I had +put so much thought into the book that it had almost become part of myself. My +father, too, had toiled over it, with fondest predictions of the fame it would +bring me; spending, as it proved, his very life in the endeavor to make it a +great work. That his love, that the love of my dear professors, and that my own +hopes should all be brought to market and sold as if they were mere merchandise +was so mercenary and cruel that at the last moment it was all I could do to +bring myself to fulfill the bargain. Nothing but my small progress in paying my +debt would have forced me to sell, and I hope nothing but that would have led +me to join in such dishonesty. It was, after all, part of the price I was +paying for the original wrong, and but just retribution against which I had no +right to cry out. Yet for a month I was so sad that I could scarcely go through +my day’s toil; and though that was a year ago, I have never been able to +work with the same vim, life seems to have so little left in it for me. And +idle as the thought is, when I think of your praise of the book I cannot help +dreaming of what might have been if it had been published in my name; +if—Ah, well, to talk of “ifs” is only to confess that I am +beaten, and that I will not do. Nor is the fight over. I never hoped nor +attempted to gain your love, and that he has won you does not mean failure. To +pay my debt is all I have to do, and though I may feel more ill and +disheartened than I do to-night, I will pay it, come what may. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, my darling. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 7.</i> It is little to be proud of, yet I like to think that though I +have behaved dishonestly, I have not entirely lost my sense of right and wrong. +Twice at least have I faced temptation and been strong enough to resist. +</p> + +<p> +When I carried to Mr. Blodgett the money I received for my book, I was so +profoundly discouraged that my mood was only too apparent. In his kindness he +suggested that I buy certain bonds of a railroad his firm was then +reorganizing,—telling me from his inside knowledge that a year’s +holding would give me a profit of thirty per cent. It was so sore a temptation +to make money without exertion and practically without risk that I assented, +and authorized him to buy the securities; but a night’s reflection made +the dishonesty of my act clear to me, and the next morning I went to his office +and told him I wished to countermand my order. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that for?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“I have thought better of the matter, and do not think I have the +right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“If this money were a trust in my hands, it would not be honest to use it +in speculation, would it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is practically what it is, since it was stolen from a trust, and is +to be returned to it.” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled rather grimly. “It’s lucky for Wall Street,” he +said, “that you literary fellows don’t have the making and +enforcing of laws; and it’s luckier still that you don’t have to +earn your living down here, for the money you’d make wouldn’t pay +your burial insurance.” Yet though he laughed cynically, he shook my +hand, I thought, more warmly than usual when we parted, as if he felt at heart +that I had done right. +</p> + +<p> +Much easier to resist was an offer of another kind. Very foolishly, I told Mr. +Whitely that I had received a letter from the literary editor of the leading +American review asking if I would write the criticism of the History of the +Turks. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a singular piece of good fortune,” Mr. Whitely said +cheerfully, “and guarantees me a complimentary notice in a periodical +that rarely praises.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is by no means certain,” I answered. “You know as well +as I that it does not gloze a poor book, nor pass over defects in +silence.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can hardly write critically of your own book!” cried Mr. +Whitely, for once giving me a share in our literary partnership. “For if +there are defects you ought to have corrected them in proof.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I do not intend to write the review!” I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Not write it? Why not?” he questioned in amazement equal to mine. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I am absolutely unfitted to do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you know all about the subject!” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that no author can for a moment write discriminatingly of his own +work; and besides, the offer would never have been made if my connection with +the book were known.” +</p> + +<p> +“But they will never know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean to say you do not intend to do it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall write to-night declining.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I want you to do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“What would they probably pay you for it?” +</p> + +<p> +“What it is worth.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you will reconsider your determination, I will double the +amount.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unfortunately,” I laughed bitterly, “there are limits to +what even <i>I</i> will sell.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will give you two hundred and fifty dollars if you will write a +laudatory review of my book,” he offered. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you ever dealt in consciences, Mr. Whitely?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Occasionally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever get any as cheap as that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Many.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid you were buying shopworn and second-hand +articles,” I retorted; “or you may have gone to some bargain +counter where they make a specialty of ninety-eight and forty-nine cent +goods.” +</p> + +<p> +He never liked this satirical mood into which he sometimes drove me. He +hesitated an instant, and then bid, “Three hundred.” +</p> + +<p> +“This reminds me of Faust,” I remarked; but he was too intent on +the matter in hand to see the point. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it’s only a question of amount?” he suggested +blandly. +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right, Mr. Whitely. I will write you that review if you +will pay me my price,” I assented. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew it,” he asserted exultingly. “But you are mistaken if +you think I will pay any fancy price.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it’s a waste of time to talk any more about it,” I +answered, and resumed my work. +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t worth three hundred, even,” he argued, “but +you may tell me what you will do it for.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will write that review for one hundred and twenty-one thousand +dollars,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” +</p> + +<p> +“And from that price I will not abate one cent,” I added. +</p> + +<p> +Strangely enough, I did not write the notice. +</p> + +<p> +It was amusing to see his eagerness for the criticisms of the book. The three +American critical journals had notices eminently characteristic of them. The +first was scholarly, praising moderately, with a touch of lemon-juice in the +final paragraph that really only heightened its earlier commendation, but which +made the book’s putative author wince; the second was discriminating and +balanced, with far more that was complimentary; while the third was the +publisher’s puff so regularly served up,—a colorless, sugary +mush,—which my employer swallowed with much delectation. I am ashamed to +say that I greatly enjoyed his pain over any harsh words. He always took for +granted that the criticisms were correct, never realizing that as between an +author, who has spent years on a book, and the average critic, who is at best +superficial in his knowledge of a subject, the former is the more often right +of the two. I tried to make this clear to him one day by asking him if he had +never read Lord Brougham’s review of Byron or Baron Jeffrey’s +review of Coleridge, and even brought him the astonishing tirades of those +world-renowned critics; but it was time wasted. He preferred a flattering +panegyric in the most obscure of little sheets to a really careful notice which +praised less inordinately; yet while apparently believing all the flattery, he +believed all the censoriousness as well, even in those cases known to every +author where one critic praises what another blames. +</p> + +<p> +“A Western paper says you do not know how to write English,” he +complained one day. “You ought to have taken more pains with the book, +Dr. Hartzmann.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Academy and The Athenæum both thought my style had merit,” I +answered, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Nevertheless there must be something wrong, or this critic, who in other +respects praises with remarkable discrimination, would certainly not have gone +out of his way to mention it,” he replied discontentedly. +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately, unfavorable criticism, both in Europe and in America, was the +exception, and not the rule; the book was generally praised, and sprang into an +instant sale that encouraged and cheered me. Mr. Whitely was immensely +gratified at the sudden reputation it achieved for him, and even while drinking +deep of the mead of fresh authorship told me he thought he would publish +another book. I knew it was an opportunity to make more money, but for some +reason I felt unequal to beginning anew on what would be a purely mercenary +task. I mentioned my plan of a work on the Moors, and promised, when I felt +able to commence it, I would talk with him about terms. That was three months +ago, yet every day I seem to feel less inclination, and in fact less ability, +to undertake the labor. For three years I have toiled to the utmost of my +strength, and forced myself to endure the most rigid economy. It is cowardly, +but at times I find myself hoping my present want of spirit and energy is the +forerunner of an illness which will end the hopeless struggle. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, dear heart. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a>XVII</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 8.</i> Each day I determine to spend my evening usefully, but try as I +may, when the time comes I feel too weary to do good work, and so morbidly +recur to these memories. I ought to fight the tendency, the more that in +reverting to the past I seem only to dwell on its sadness, thus intensifying my +own depression. Let me see if I cannot for one night write of the good fortune +that has come to me in the last three years. +</p> + +<p> +Pleased with the success of my book of travel and text-books, and knowing of my +wish for work, the American publishers offered me the position of assistant +editor of their magazine and reader of manuscripts. By hard work and late hours +the task could be done in my mornings and evenings, allowing me to continue in +Mr. Whitely’s employ; so I eagerly accepted the position. I can imagine +few worse fates than reading the hopeless and impossible trash that comes to +every publisher; but this was not my lot, for I was to read only the +manuscripts that had been winnowed of the chaff. Yet this very immunity, as it +proved, nearly lost me an opportunity of trying to be of service to you. +</p> + +<p> +Returning a bundle of stuff to the manuscript clerk one day, I saw “M. +Walton, 287 Madison Avenue, New York City,” in your handwriting, on the +cover of a bulky pile of sheets on his desk. Startled, I demanded, “What +is this?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a rejected manuscript I was on the point of wrapping to +return,” the clerk answered. +</p> + +<p> +Opening the cover, I saw, “A Woman’s Problem, a Novel, by Aimez +Lawton.” It needed little perception to detect your name in the anagram. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Graham has rejected it?” I asked, and he nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Give me the file about it, please,” I requested; and after a +moment’s search he handed me the envelope, and I glanced over its meagre +contents: a brief formal note from you, submitting it, and the short opinion of +the woman reader. “Traces of amateurishness, but a work of considerable +power and feeling, marred by an inconclusive ending,” was the epitome of +her opinion, coupled with the recommendation not to accept. +</p> + +<p> +“Register it on my list, and I’ll take it and look it over,” +I said, and went to my little editorial cuddy, feeling actually rich in the +possession of the manuscript. Indeed, it was all I could do to go through my +morning quota of proof-reading and “making up” dummy forms for the +magazine’s next issue, I was so eager for your book. +</p> + +<p> +A single reading told me you had put the problem of your life into the story. +It is true the heroine was different enough in many respects to make analogy +hardly perceptible, though she too was a tender, noble woman. She had never +felt the slightest responsive warmth for any of her lovers, but she was cramped +by the social conventions regarding unmarried women, and questioned whether her +life would not be more potent if she married, even without love. One of her +lovers was a man of force, brains, wealth, and ambition, outwardly an admirable +match, respected by the world, and, most of all, able to draw about him the men +of genius and intellect she wished to know, but whom her society lot debarred +her from meeting. Yet your heroine was conscious of faults: she felt in him a +touch of the soil that repels every woman instinctively; at times his nature +seemed hard and unsympathetic, and his scientific work, for which he was +famous, had narrowed his strong mind to think only of facts and practicalities, +to the exclusion of everything ideal or beautiful. In the end, however, his +persistent wooing convinced her of the strength of his feeling; and though she +was conscious that she could never love him as she wished to love, the tale +ended by her marrying him. Am I to blame for reading in this the story of Mr. +Whitely’s courtship of you? I only marveled at how much of his true +character you had detected under his veneer. +</p> + +<p> +To me the story was sweet and noble. I loved your heroine from beginning to +end. She was so strong even in her weaknesses; for you made her no +unsubstantial ideal. I understood her craving something more than her allotted +round of social amusements, and her desire for intercourse and friendship with +finer and more purposeful people than she daily met. I even understood her +willingness to accept love, when not herself feeling it; for my own life was so +hungry-hearted that I had come to yearn for the slightest tenderness, no matter +who the giver might be. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as I realized that the story was your own, I hoped it might tell me +something of your thoughts of my father and myself; but that part of your life +you passed over as if it never had been. Was the omission due to too much +feeling or too little? I have always suspected that I served as a model for one +of your minor characters: a dreamy, unsocial being, curiously variable in mood; +at times talking learnedly and even wittily, but more often absolutely silent. +He was by profession an artist, and you made him content to use his talent on +book and magazine illustration, apparently without a higher purpose in life +than to earn enough to support himself, in order that he might pass the +remainder of his time in an intellectual indulgence scarcely higher in motive +than more material dissipation. His evident sadness and lack of ambition was +finally discovered to be due to a disappointment in love; and as a cure, your +heroine introduced him to her best friend,—a young girl,—and +through her influence he was roused to some ambition, and in the end he +dutifully fell in love as your heroine wished. It was a sketch that made me +wince, and yet at which I could not help but laugh. I suppose it was a true +picture, and I am quite conscious that at times I must seem ridiculous to you; +for often my mood is such, or my interest in you is so strong, that I forget +even the ordinary courtesies and conventions. There is a general idea that a +lover is always at his best when with the woman he loves, but, from my own +experience, I think he is quite as likely to be at his worst. To watch your +graceful movements, to delight in the play of expression on your face, and to +catch every inflection in your voice and every word you speak are pleasures so +engrossing to me that I must appear to you even more abstracted than I +ordinarily am, though a dreamer at best. And yet now and then I have thought +you were conscious of a tenderness in me, which, try as I will, I cannot +altogether hide. +</p> + +<p> +The main fault of the novel was unquestionably that most accented by the +reader, and, recognizing the story as the problem of your life, I understood +why you supplied no solution to the riddle. You begged the question you +propounded; the fact that your heroine married the hero being no answer, since +only by the results of that marriage would it be possible to say if she had +chosen the better part. It was this that convinced me you were putting on paper +your own thoughts and mood. You were debating this theme, and could carry it in +imagination to the point of marriage; but what lay beyond that was unknowable, +and you made no attempt to invent a conclusion, the matter being too real to +you to be merely a subject for artistic idealism and invention. Hitherto I had +classed Mr. Whitely with your other lovers, feeling sure that you could not +love him any more than you could any of them; but now for the first time I +began to fear his success. +</p> + +<p> +After reading the story three times I carried it back to the manuscript clerk; +and when I had allowed sufficient time for it to be returned, I wrote you a +long letter, telling how I had come to read the story, and making a careful +criticism and analysis of both its defects and its merits. I cannot tell you +what a labor of love that letter was, or how much greater pains I took over +your book than I have ever taken over any writing of my own. What was perhaps +unfair, after pointing out the inconclusiveness of your ending, I sketched what +I claimed was the logical end to the story. Thinking as I did that I knew the +original in your mind, I was more influenced by my knowledge of him than I was +by the character in your book, and therefore possibly my inference was unjust. +But in hopes of saving you from Mr. Whitely, I pictured a sequel in which your +heroine found only greater loneliness in her loveless union, her +husband’s love proving a tax, and not a boon; and marriage, instead of +broadening her life, only bent and narrowed it by just so much as a +strong-willed and selfish man would inevitably cramp the life of one over whom +law and public opinion gave him control. +</p> + +<p> +I was richly rewarded by your letter of thanks. You were so winning in your +sweet acceptance of all my criticisms, and so lovable in your simple gratitude, +that I would have done a thousand times the work to earn such a letter. Yet +even in this guerdon I could not escape the sting of my unhappy lot; for, +unable to reconcile my distant conduct with the apparent trouble I had taken, +you asked me to dinner, leaving me to select the day, and spoke of the pleasure +it would give you to have an opportunity to talk over the book with me. +</p> + +<p> +I can think of few greater delights than to have gone over your story, line by +line and incident by incident. My love pleaded with me to take the chance, +pointing out that it would do you no harm, but on the contrary aid you, and I +found a dozen specious reasons; but tempt me as they might, I always came back +to the truth that if you knew who I really was you would not invite me, nor +accept a favor at my hands. In the end I wrote you that my time was so +mortgaged that I must deny myself the pleasure. A small compensation was my +offer that if you chose to rewrite the story and send me the manuscript, I +would gladly read it over again and make any further suggestions which occurred +to me. You thanked me by letter gracefully, but I was conscious of your +bewilderment in the very care with which you phrased your note; and when next +we met I could see that I had become more an enigma than ever,—for which +there is indeed small wonder. +</p> + +<p> +God keep you, my darling. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a>XVIII</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 9.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do,” was all I said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, you don’t,” she denied indignantly. “I suppose men +dislike fine women because they make them feel what poor things they are +themselves!” +</p> + +<p> +“I like you, Miss Blodgett,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you should pity rather than upbraid us,” I suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But in marriage,” I contended, “she is not free to make her +life at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely she is if her husband truly loves her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Less so than if he does not.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not in earnest?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he loved her.” +</p> + +<p> +“In a selfish man’s way. If women knew better what that meant, +there would be fewer unhappy marriages.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you are sure my heroine did wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think she did what thousands of other women have done,—she +married the love rather than the lover.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I did not intend that. She married for quite other things than love: +for greater freedom, for”— +</p> + +<p> +“Would she have married,” I interrupted, “if she had not been +sure that the hero loved her?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not shock me, Miss Walton, because I do not believe you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you rate love so low, why did you make your heroine crave it?” +</p> + +<p> +“One can desire love even when one cannot feel it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does one desire what one despises?” +</p> + +<p> +“To scorn money does not imply a preference for poverty.” +</p> + +<p> +“The scorn of money is as genuine as your incapacity to love, Miss +Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not believe me?” +</p> + +<p> +“A person incapable of love does not crave it. It is only a loving nature +which cares for love.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if one cannot love, how can one believe in it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The unlighted torch does not believe in fire.” +</p> + +<p> +“But some substances are incombustible.” +</p> + +<p> +“The sun melts anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“The sun is trans-terrestrial.” +</p> + +<p> +“So is love.” +</p> + +<p> +You looked at me in silence for a moment, and then asked, “Is love so +much to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Love is the only thing worth striving for in this life,” I +replied. +</p> + +<p> +“And if one fails to win it?” +</p> + +<p> +“One cannot fail, Miss Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because the best love is in one’s own heart and depends only on +one’s self.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What happiness is that?” asked Mrs. Blodgett, glancing from one to +the other curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +You laughed, and added, “Now our happiness becomes objective. Perhaps it +is the best, after all, Dr. Hartzmann.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do <i>you</i> think so, Miss Walton?” I asked, unable to prevent +an emphasis in the question. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And not yourself?” I could not help asking. +</p> + +<p> +You held up your hand warningly. “When the nature of dolls is too deeply +questioned into, they are found to contain only sawdust.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we often open the oyster, to find sometimes a pearl.” +</p> + +<p> +“The result of a morbid condition,” you laughed back. +</p> + +<p> +“Better disease and a pearl than health without it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But suppose one incapable of the ailment? Should one be blamed if no +pearl forms?” +</p> + +<p> +“An Eastern poet said:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Diving and finding no pearl in the sea,<br/> +Blame not the ocean,—the fault is in thee. +</p> + +<p> +Have you ever tried to find a pearl, Miss Walton?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what Maizie is talking about?” demanded Mrs. Blodgett +discontentedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Better than Miss Walton does herself, I think,” I averred. +</p> + +<p> +You had started to go, but again you turned, and asked with interest, +“What <i>do</i> I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“That you believe what you think you don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +You stood looking at me for a moment. “We are becoming friends, Dr. +Hartzmann,” you affirmed, and passed through the window. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, dear friend. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a>XIX</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 10.</i> For the remainder of my visit, it seemed as if your prophecy +of friendship were to be fulfilled. From the moment of my confidence to you, +all the reserves that had been raised by my slighting of your invitations +disappeared, perhaps because the secret I had shared with you served to make my +past conduct less unreasonable; still more, I believe, because of the faith in +you it evidenced in me. Certain I am that in the following week I felt able to +be my true self when with you, for the first time since we were boy and girl +together. The difference was so marked that you commented on the change. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember,” you asked me, “our conversation in Mr. +Whitely’s study, when I spoke of how little people really knew one +another? Here we have been meeting for over three years, and yet I find that I +haven’t in the least known you.” +</p> + +<p> +It is a pleasure to me to recall that whole conversation, for it was by far the +most intimate that we ever had,—so personal that I think I should but +have had to question to learn what I long to know. In response to my slight +assistance, to the sympathy I had shown, you opened for the moment your heart; +willing, apparently, that I should fathom your true nature. +</p> + +<p> +We had gone to dinner at the Grangers’ merely to please Mrs. Blodgett, +for we mutually agreed that in the country formal dinners were a weariness of +the flesh; and I presume that with you, as with me, this general objection of +ours was greatly strengthened when we found Mrs. Polhemus among the guests. It +is always painful to me to be near her, and her dislike of you is obvious +enough to make me sure that her presence is equally disagreeable to you. It is +a strange warp and woof life weaves, that I owe to one for whom we both feel +such repulsion the most sympathetic, the tenderest conversation I have ever had +with you. +</p> + +<p> +I was talking with Miss Granger, and thus did not hear the beginning of my +mother’s girds at you; but Agnes, who sat on my left, told me later that, +as usual, Mrs. Polhemus set out to bait you by remarks superficially +inoffensive, but covertly planned to embarrass or sting. The first thing which +attracted my notice was her voice distinctly raised, as if she wished the whole +table to listen, and in fact loud enough to make Miss Granger stop in the +middle of a sentence and draw our attention to the speaker. +</p> + +<p> +“—sound very well,” Mrs. Polhemus was saying, “and are +to be expected from any one who strives to be thought romantically +sentimental.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know,” you replied in a low voice, “that a +‘romantically sentimental’ nature was needed to produce belief in +honesty.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is easy enough to talk the high morals of honesty,” retorted +your assailant, “and I suppose, Miss Walton, that for you it is not +difficult to live up to your conversational ideals. But we unfortunate earthly +creatures, who cannot achieve so rarefied a life, dare not make a parade of our +ethical natures. The saintly woman is an enormously difficult rôle to play +since miracles went out of style.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, leave us an occasional ideal, Mrs. Polhemus,” laughed a guest. +“I for one wish that fairy rings and genii were still the vogue.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we have some kinds of miracles,” asserted Mrs. Granger. +“Remember the distich,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘God still works wonders now and then:<br/> +Behold! two lawyers, honest men!’” +</p> + +<p> +“With all due deference to Miss Walton’s championing of absolute +perfection,” continued my mother, with a cleverly detached manner, to +veil what lay back of the sneer, “I find it much easier to accept the +miracle of an honest lawyer than that of an absolutely uncattish +woman,”—a speech which, like most of those of Mrs. Polhemus, drew a +laugh from the men. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s because you don’t know Miss Walton!” exclaimed +Agnes warmly, evidently fretted by such conduct towards you. +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary,” answered my mother, speaking coolly and evenly, +“I presume I have known Miss Walton longer and better than any one else +in this room; and I remember when her views of honesty were such that her ideal +was personified by a pair of embezzlers.” +</p> + +<p> +You had been meeting her gaze across the table as she spoke, but now you +dropped your lids, hiding your eyes behind their long lashes; and nothing but +the color receding from your cheeks, leaving them as white as your throat and +brow, told of what you felt. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, say something,” appealed Agnes to me in a whisper. +“Anything to divert the”— +</p> + +<p> +“And I really think,” went on Mrs. Polhemus, smiling sweetly, with +her eyes on you, “that if you were as thoroughly honest with us as, a +moment ago, you were insistent on the world’s being, you would confess to +a <i>tendresse</i> still felt for that particular form of obliquity.” +</p> + +<p> +I shall recall the moment which followed that speech if it shall ever fall to +me to sit in the jury-box and pass judgment on a murderer, for I know that had +I been armed, and my mother a man, I should have killed her; and it taught me +that murder is in every man’s heart. Yet I was not out of my head, but +was curiously clear-minded. Though allusion to my shame had hitherto always +made me dumb, I was able to speak now without the slightest difficulty; I +imagine because the thought of your pain made me forget my own. +</p> + +<p> +“Which is better, Mrs. Polhemus,” I asked, with a calmness I +marveled at afterwards, “to love dishonesty or to dishonestly +love?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this a riddle?” she said, though not removing her eyes from +you. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose, since right and wrong are evolutionary,” I rejoined, +“that every ethical question is more or less of a conundrum. But the +thought in my mind was that there is only nobility in a love so great that it +can outlast even wrongdoing.” Then, in my controlled passion, I stabbed +her as deeply as I could make words stab. “Compare such a love, for +instance, with another of which I have heard,—that of a woman who so +valued the world’s opinion that she would not get a divorce from an +embezzling husband, because of the social stigma it involved, yet who remarried +within a week of hearing of her first husband’s death, because she +thought that fact could not be known. Which love is the higher?” +</p> + +<p> +The color blazed up in my mother’s cheeks, as she turned from you to look +at me, with eyes that would have killed if they could; and it was her manner, +far more than even the implication of my words, which told the rest of the +table that my nominally impersonal case was truly a thrust of the knife. A +moment’s appalling pause followed, and then, though the fruit was being +passed, the hostess broke the terrible spell by rising, as if the time had come +for the ladies to withdraw. +</p> + +<p> +When, later, the men followed them, Agnes intercepted me at the door, and +whispered, “Oh, doctor, it was magnificent! I was so afraid Maizie would +break down if—I never dreamed you could do it so splendidly. You’re +almost as much of a love as papa! It will teach the cat to let Maizie alone! +Now, do you want to be extra good?” +</p> + +<p> +“So long as you don’t want any more vitriol-throwing,” I +assented, smiling. “Remember that a hostess deserves some +consideration.” +</p> + +<p> +“I told Mrs. Granger that you did it at my request, and there +wasn’t a woman in the room who didn’t want to cheer. We all love +Maizie, and hate Mrs. Polhemus; and it isn’t a bit because you geese of +men think she’s handsome and clever, either. Poor Maizie wanted to be by +herself, and went out on the veranda. I think she’s had time enough, and +that it’s best for some one to go to her. Won’t you slip out +quietly?” +</p> + +<p> +I nodded, and instantly she spoke aloud of the moon, and we went to the French +window on the pretense of looking at it, where, after a moment, I left her. At +first I could not discover you, the vines so shadowed your retreat; and when I +did, it was to find you with bowed head buried in your arms as they rested on +the veranda rail. The whole attitude was so suggestive of grief that I did not +dare to speak, and moved to go away. Just as I turned, however, you looked up, +as if suddenly conscious of some presence. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not intend to intrude, Miss Walton, and don’t let me disturb +you. I will rejoin”— +</p> + +<p> +“If you came out for the moonlight and quiet, sit down here,” you +said, making room for me. +</p> + +<p> +I seated myself beside you, but made no reply, thinking your allusion to quiet +perhaps voiced your own preference. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems needless,” you began, after a slight pause, “to +ignore your kindness, even though it was veiled. I never felt so completely in +another’s power, and though I tried to—to say something—to +strike back—I couldn’t. Did my face so betray me that you knew I +needed help?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your face told nothing, it seemed to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that makes it positively uncanny. Over and over again you appear to +divine my thoughts or moods. Do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Little more than any one can of a person in whom one is interested +enough to notice keenly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet no one else does it with me. And several times, when we have caught +each other’s eyes, we have—at least I have felt sure that you were +laughing with me, though your face was grave.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was uncannily mind-reading then?” +</p> + +<p> +“An adequate <i>tu quoque</i>,” you said, laughing; then you went +on seriously; “Still, to be frank, as now I think we can be, I have never +made any pretense that I wasn’t very much interested in you—while +you—well—till very lately, I haven’t been able to make up my +mind that you did not actually—no, not dislike—for I knew that +you—I could not be unconscious of the genuine esteem you have made so +evident—yet there has always been, until the last two weeks, an +indefinable barrier, of your making, as it appeared to me, and from that I +could only infer some—I can give it no name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were there no natural barriers to a friendship between a struggling +writer and Miss Walton?” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely you are above that!” you exclaimed. “You have not let +such a distinction—Oh no, for it has not stood in the way of friendship +with the Blodgetts.” +</p> + +<p> +A moment’s silence ensued, and then you spoke again: “Perhaps there +was a motive that explains it. Please don’t reply, if it is a question I +ought not to put, but after your confidence of last week I feel as if you had +given me the privilege to ask it. I have always thought—or rather +hoped—that you cared for Agnes? If”— +</p> + +<p> +“And so you married me to her in the novel,” I interrupted, in an +effort to change the subject, dreading to what it might lead. +</p> + +<p> +You laughed merrily as you said, “Oh, I’m so glad you spoke of +that. I have often wondered if you recognized the attempted +portrait,—which now I know is not a bit of a likeness,—and have +longed to ask you. I never should have dared to sketch it, but I thought my pen +name would conceal my criminality; and then what a fatality for you to read it! +I never suspected you were the publisher’s reader. What have you thought +of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“That you drew a very pleasant picture of my supposed mental and moral +attainments, at the expense of my ambition and will. My true sympathy, however, +went out to the girl whom you offered up as a heart-restorer for my earlier +attachment.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m thankful we are in the shadow,” you laughed, “so +that my red cheeks don’t show. You are taking a most thoroughgoing +revenge.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was the last thought in my mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, my woman’s curiosity having been appeased, be doubly +generous and spare my absurd blushes. I don’t know when I have been made +to feel so young and foolish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Clearly you are no hardened criminal, Miss Walton. Usually matchmakers +glory in their shame.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I should if I had not been detected, or if I had succeeded +better.” +</p> + +<p> +“You took, I fear, a difficult subject for what may truly be called your +maiden experiment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did I not? And yet—You see I recognized potentialities for loving +in you. You can—Ah, you have suggested to me a revenge for your jokes. +Did you—were you the man who coined the phrase that my eyes were too +dressy for the daytime?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I confessed guiltily, “but”— +</p> + +<p> +“No, don’t dare to try to explain it away,” you ordered. +“How could you say it? We can never be friends, after all.” +</p> + +<p> +Though you spoke in evident gayety, I answered gravely: “You will forgive +me when I tell you that it was to parry a thrust of Mrs. Polhemus’s at +you, and I made a joke of it only because I did not choose to treat her gibe +seriously. I hoped it would not come back to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Every friend I have has quoted it, not once, but a dozen times, in my +presence. If you knew how I have been persecuted and teased with that remark! +You are twice the criminal that I have been, for at least my libel was never +published. Yet you are unblushing.” +</p> + +<p> +We both sat silent for a little while, and then you began: “You +interrupted a question of mine just now. Was it a chance or a purposed +diversion? You see,” you added hastily, “I am presuming that +henceforth we are to be candid.” +</p> + +<p> +“I confess to an intention in the dodging, not because I feared the +question, for a simple negative was all it needed, but I was afraid of what +might follow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hoped, after the trust of the other day—You do not want to tell +me your story?” +</p> + +<p> +“Are there not some things that cannot be put into words, Miss Walton? +Could you tell me your story?” +</p> + +<p> +“But mine is no mystery,” you replied. “It has been the +world’s property for years. Why, your very help to-night proves that it +is known to you,—that you know, indeed, facts that were unknown to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Facts, yes; feelings, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you appreciate the subtilty of the compliment? You really care for +such valueless and indefinable things as feelings?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“A bargain, then, while you are in this mood of giving something for +nothing. Question for question, if you choose.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can tell your secrets?” +</p> + +<p> +“To you, yes, for you have told me your greatest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, with the privilege of silence for both, begin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you begin already to fear the gimlet! Yes. Nothing is to be told +that—There again we lack a definition, do we not? Never mind. We shall +understand. You knew her in Germany?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And she—You wear a mask, at moments even merry-faced, but now and +again I have surprised a look of such sadness in your eyes that—Is that +why you came to America? She”— +</p> + +<p> +“No. She was, and is, in so different a class, that I never”— +</p> + +<p> +“You should not allow that to be a bar! Any woman”— +</p> + +<p> +“But even more, there are other claims upon me, which make marriage out +of the question.” +</p> + +<p> +“And this is why you have resigned reputation for money-making? Is there +no escape? Oh, it seems too cruel to be!” +</p> + +<p> +“You draw it worse than it is, Miss Walton, forgetting that I told you of +my happiness in loving.” +</p> + +<p> +“You make me proud to feel that we are friends, Dr. Hartzmann,” you +said gently. “I hope she is worthy of such a love?” +</p> + +<p> +I merely nodded; and after a slight pause you remarked, “Now it is only +fair to give you a turn.” +</p> + +<p> +I had been pondering, after my first impulsive assent, over my right to win +your confidence, with the one inevitable conclusion that was so clear, and I +answered, “I have no questions to ask, Miss Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I can ask no more, of course,” you replied quietly, and at +once turned the conversation into less personal subjects, until the time came +for our return to My Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +When we parted in the upper hall, that evening, you said to me, “I always +value your opinion, and it usually influences me. Do you, as your speech +to-night implied, think it right to go on loving baseness?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not a question of right and wrong, but only whether the love +remains.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you don’t think it a duty to crush it out?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. All love is noble that is distinct from self.” +</p> + +<p> +You held out your hand. “I am so glad you think so, and that you spoke +your thought. You have done me a great kindness,—greater far than you can +ever know. Thank you, and good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, Maizie. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XX" id="XX"></a>XX</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 11.</i> When I left My Fancy, after my visit, Agnes had nothing but +praise for me. “I was certain that you and Maizie would be friends if you +ever really knew each other,” she said triumphantly. Unfortunately, our +first meeting in the city served only to prove the reverse. In one of my daily +walks up-town, I met you and Agnes outside a shop where you had been buying +Christmas gifts for the boys of your Neighborhood Guild. You were looking for +the carriage, about which there had been some mistake, and I helped you search. +When our hunt was unsuccessful, you both said you would rather walk than let me +get a cab, having been deterred only by the growing darkness, and not by the +snow. So chatting merrily, away we went, through the elfin flakes which seemed +so eager to kiss your cheeks, till your home was reached. +</p> + +<p> +“If we come in, will you give us some tea?” asked Agnes. +</p> + +<p> +“Tea, cake, chocolates, and conversation,” you promised. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” I said, “but I cannot spare the time.” +</p> + +<p> +I thought you and Agnes exchanged glances. “Please, Doc—” she +began; but you interrupted her by saying proudly, “We must not take any +more of Dr. Hartzmann’s time, Agnes. Will you come in?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Agnes. “I’ll go home before it’s +any darker. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +I started to walk with her the short distance, but the moment we were out of +hearing she turned towards me and cried, “I hate you!” As I made no +reply, she demanded impatiently, “What makes you behave so +abominably?” When I was still silent she continued: “I told you how +Maizie felt, and I thought it was all right, and now you do it again. +It’s too bad! Well, can’t you say something? Why do you do +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing for me to say, Miss Blodgett,” I responded sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“You might at least do it to please me,” she persisted, “even +if you don’t like Maizie.” +</p> + +<p> +I made no answer, and we walked the rest of the distance in silence. At the +stoop, however, Agnes asked, “Will you go with me to call on Maizie, some +afternoon?” +</p> + +<p> +I shook my head. +</p> + +<p> +“Not even to please mamma and me?” she questioned. +</p> + +<p> +Again I gave the same answer, and without a word of parting she left me and +passed through the doorway. From that time she has treated me coldly. +</p> + +<p> +Another complication only tended to increase the coldness, as well as to +involve me with Mrs. Blodgett. In December, Mr. Blodgett came into Mr. +Whitely’s office and announced, “I’ve been taking a liberty +with your name, doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +“For what kindness am I indebted now?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a member of the Philomathean,” he said,—“not +because I’m an author, or artist, or engineer, or scientist, but because +I’m a big frog in my own puddle, and they want samples of us, provided we +are good fellows, just to see what we’re like. I was talking with +Professor Eaton in September, and we agreed you ought to be one of us; so we +stuck your name up, and Saturday evening the club elected you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t afford it”—I began; but he interrupted +with:— +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you’d say that, and so didn’t tell you beforehand. +I’ll bet you your initiation fee and a year’s dues against a share +of R. T. common that you’ll make enough out of your membership to pay you +five times over.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I do that?” +</p> + +<p> +“All the editors and publishers are members,” he replied, +“and to meet them over the rum punch we serve on meeting nights is worth +money to the most celebrated author living. Then you’ll have the best +club library in this country at your elbow for working purposes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I ought, Mr. Blodgett.” +</p> + +<p> +He was about to protest, when Mr. Whitely broke in upon us, saying, +“Accept your membership, Dr. Hartzmann, and the paper shall pay your +initiation and dues.” +</p> + +<p> +I do not know whether Mr. Blodgett or myself was the more surprised at this +unexpected and liberal offer. Our amazement was so obvious that Mr. Whitely +continued: “I think it’ll be an excellent idea for the paper to +have a member of its staff in the Philomathean, and so the office shall pay for +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whitely,” observed Mr. Blodgett admiringly, “you’re a +good business man, whatever else you are!” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish, Blodgett,” inquired Mr. Whitely, “you would tell me +why I have been kept waiting so long?” +</p> + +<p> +“Many a name’s been up longer than yours,” replied Mr. +Blodgett in a comforting voice. “You don’t seem to realize that the +Philomathean’s a pretty stiff club to get into.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’ve been posted for over three years, while here Dr. +Hartzmann is elected within four months of his proposing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the doctor has the great advantage of being a sort of natural +Philomath, you see,” Mr. Blodgett explained genially. “He was born +that way, and so is ripe for membership without any closet mellowing.” +</p> + +<p> +“But my reputation as a writer is greater than Dr.”—began Mr. +Whitely; but a laugh from Mr. Blodgett made him halt. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh come, now, Whitely!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” asked my employer. +</p> + +<p> +“Once St. Peter and St. Paul stopped at a tavern to quench their +thirst,” said Mr. Blodgett, “and when the time came to pay, they +tossed dice for it. Paul threw double sixes, and smiled. Peter smiled back, and +threw double sevens. What do you suppose Paul said, Whitely?” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh, Peter, Peter! No miracles between friends.’” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t follow you,” rejoined Mr. Whitely. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Blodgett turned and said to me, “I’m going West for two months, +and while I’m gone the Twelfth-night revel at the Philomathean is to come +off. Will you see that the boss and Agnes get cards?” Then he faced about +and remarked, “Whitely, I’d give a big gold certificate to know +what nerve food you use!” and went out, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +When I took the invitations to Mrs. Blodgett, I found you all with your heads +full of a benefit for the Guild, to be given at your home,—a musical +evening, with several well-known stars as magnets, and admission by invitation +as an additional attraction. Mrs. Blodgett said to me in her decisive way, +“Dr. Hartzmann, the invitations are five dollars each, and you are to +take one.” +</p> + +<p> +I half suspected that it was only a device to get me within your doors, though +every society woman feels at liberty to whitemail her social circle to an +unlimited degree. But the fact that the entertainment was to be in your home, +even more than my poverty, compelled me to refuse to be a victim of her +charitable kindness or her charitable greed. I merely shook my head. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but you must,” she urged. “It will be a delightful +evening, and then it’s such a fine object.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not ask it of Dr. Hartzmann,” you protested, coming to my aid. +“No one”— +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure it’s very little to ask,” remarked Mrs. +Blodgett, in a disappointed way. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Blodgett,” I said, in desperation, “for years I have +denied myself every luxury and almost every comfort. I have lived at the +cheapest of boarding-houses; I have walked down-town, rain or shine, to save +ten cents a day; I have”—I stopped there, ashamed of my outbreak. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose, Dr. Hartzmann,” retorted Agnes, with no attempt to +conceal the irritation she felt toward me, “that the Philomathean is one +of your ten-cent economies?” +</p> + +<p> +Before I could speak you changed the subject, and the matter was +dropped,—I hoped for all time. It was, however, to reappear, and to make +my position more difficult and painful than ever. +</p> + +<p> +At Mrs. Blodgett’s request, made that very day, I sent you an invitation +to the Philomathean ladies’ day. It was with no hope of being there +myself, since my editorial duties covered the hours of the exhibition; but good +or bad fortune aided me, for Mr. Whitely asked me for a ticket, and his absence +from the office set me free. The crowd was great, but, like most people who try +for one thing only, I attained my desire by quickly finding you, and we spent +an enjoyable hour together, studying the delicious jokes and pranks of our +artist members. The truly marvelous admixture of absurdity and cleverness +called out the real mirth of your nature, and our happiness and gayety over the +pictures strangely recalled to me our similar days spent in Paris and +elsewhere. You too, I think, remembered the same experience, for when we had +finished, and were ascending the stairs to the dining-room, you remarked to me, +“I never dreamed that one could be so merry after one had ceased to be a +child. For the last hour I have felt as if teens were yet unventured +lands.” +</p> + +<p> +I confess I sought a secluded spot in an alcove, hoping still to keep you to +myself; but the project failed, for when I returned from getting you an ice, I +found that Mr. Whitely had joined you. The pictures, of course, were the +subject of discussion, and you asked him, “Are all the other members as +clever in their own professions as your artists have shown themselves to +be?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Philomathean is made up of an able body of men,” replied Mr. +Whitely in a delightfully patronizing tone. “Some few of the very ablest, +perhaps, do not care to be members; but of the second rank, you may say, +broadly speaking, that it includes all men of prominence in this city.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should the abler men not belong?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are too occupied with more vital matters,” explained my +employer. +</p> + +<p> +“Yet surely they must need a club, and what one so appropriate as +this?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is natural to reason so,” assented the would-be member. +“But as an actual fact, some of the most prominent men in this city are +not members,” and he mentioned three well-known names. +</p> + +<p> +The inference was so unjust that I observed, “Should you not add, Mr. +Whitely, that they are not members either because they know it is useless to +apply, or because they have applied in vain; and that their exclusion, though +superficially a small affair, probably means to them, by the implication it +carries, one of the keenest mortifications of their lives?” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that the Philomathean refuses to admit such men as Mr. Whitely +named?” you asked incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +I smiled. “The worldly reputation and the professional reputation of men +occasionally differ very greatly, Miss Walton. We do not accept a man here +because his name appears often in the newspapers, but because of what the men +of his own calling know and think of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And of course they are always jealous of a man who has surpassed +them,” contended Mr. Whitely. +</p> + +<p> +“There must be something more against a man than envy of his confrères to +exclude him,” I answered. “My loyalty to the Philomathean, Miss +Walton, is due to the influence it exerts in this very matter. Errors are +possible, but the intention is that no man shall be of our brotherhood who is +not honestly doing something worth the doing, for other reasons than mere +money-making. And for that very reason, we are supposed, within these walls, to +be friends, whether or not there is acquaintance outside of them. We are the +one club in New York which dares to trust its membership list implicitly to +that extent. Charlatanry and dishonesty may succeed with the world, but here +they fail. Money will buy much, but the poorest man stands on a par here with +the wealthiest.” +</p> + +<p> +“You make me envious of you both,” you sighed, just as Mrs. +Blodgett and Agnes joined us. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you envying them?” asked Agnes, as she shook hands with +you,—“that they were monopolizing you? How selfish men are!” +</p> + +<p> +“In monopolizing this club?” +</p> + +<p> +“Was that what you envied them?” ejaculated Mrs. Blodgett. “I +for one am glad there’s a place to which I can’t go, where I can +send my husband when I want to be rid of him.” Then she turned to Mr. +Whitely, and with her usual directness remarked, “So they’ve let +you in? Mr. Blodgett told me you would surely be rejected.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Whitely reddened and bit his lip, for which he is hardly to be blamed. But +he only bowed slightly in reply, leaving the inference in your minds that he +was a Philomath. How the man dares so often to— +</p> + +<p> +The striking clock tells me it is later than I thought, and I must stop. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, dear heart. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XXI" id="XXI"></a>XXI</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 12.</i> Our talk at the Philomathean and Mr. Whitely’s tacit +assumption of membership had their penalty for me,—a penalty which, to +reverse the old adage, I first thought an undisguised blessing. When we +separated, he asked me to dinner the following evening, to fill in a place +unexpectedly left vacant; and as I knew, from a chance allusion, that you were +to be there, I accepted a courtesy at his hands. +</p> + +<p> +Although there were several celebrities at the meal, it fell to my lot to sit +on your right; my host, who took you down, evidently preferring to have no +dangerous rival in your attention. But Mrs. Blodgett, who sat on his other +side, engaged him as much as she chose, and thus gave me more of your time than +I should otherwise have had. If you knew how happy it made me that, whenever +she interrupted his monopoly of you, instead of making a trialogue with them, +you never failed to turn to me! +</p> + +<p> +“I have just re-read Mr. Whitely’s book,” you remarked, in +one of these interruptions, “and I have been trying to express to him my +genuine admiration for it. I thought of it highly when first I read it, last +autumn, but on a second reading I have become really an enthusiast.” +</p> + +<p> +I suppose my face must have shown some of the joy your words gave me, for you +continued, “Clearly, you like it too, and are pleased to hear it praised. +But then it’s notorious that writers are jealous of one another! Tell me +what you think of it?” +</p> + +<p> +I tried to keep all bitterness out of my voice as I laughed. “Think how +unprofessional it would be in me to discuss my employer’s book: if I +praised it, how necessary; if I disparaged it, how disloyal!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are as unsatisfactory as Mr. Whitely,” you complained. +“I can’t get him to speak about it, either. He smiles and bows his +head to my praise, but not a word can he be made to say. Evidently he has a +form of modesty—not stage fright, but book fright—that I never +before encountered. Every other author I have met was fatiguingly anxious to +talk about his own writings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Remember in our behalf that a book stands very much in the same relation +to a writer that a baby does to its mother. We are tolerant of her admiration; +be equally lenient to the author’s harmless prattle.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose, too,” you went on, “that the historian is less +liable to the disease, because his work is so much less his own flesh and +blood; so much less emotional than that of the poet or novelist.” +</p> + +<p> +“No book worth reading ever fails to be steeped with the spirit of the +person who wrote it. The man on the stage is instinct with emotion and feeling, +but does he express more of his true individuality than the man in real life? +The historian puts fewer of his own feelings into his work, but he plays far +less to the gallery, and so is more truthful in what he reveals of +himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your simile reminds me of a thought of my own, after my first reading of +this book: that the novelist is the demagogue of letters, striving to please, +and suing for public favor by catering to all its whims and weaknesses; but the +historian is the aristocrat of literature, knowing the right, and proudly above +taking heed of popular prejudice or moods. I liked Mr. Whitely’s book for +many things, but most of all for its fearless attitude towards whatever it +touched upon. I felt that it was the truth, because the whole atmosphere told +me that a man was writing, too brave to tell what was untrue. That evidently +pleases you, again,” you laughed. “Oh, it is horrible to see this +consuming jealousy!” +</p> + +<p> +When the ladies withdrew, the men, as usual, clustered at one end of the table; +but my host beckoned me to join him, and sat down apart from his guests. +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Hartzmann, what is the matter at the Philomathean?” he +demanded, in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Matter?” I questioned. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. What is the reason they don’t elect me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not on the membership committee, Mr. Whitely,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you popular up there? Mr. Blodgett said that you were.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have some good friends,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Then electioneer and get me put in,” he explained, revealing to me +in a flash why he had volunteered that the paper should pay the expenses of my +membership. +</p> + +<p> +“I am hardly in a position to do that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a new member, and my position under you is so well known that it +would be very indelicate in me to appear in the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“For what do you suppose I helped you, then?” he asked severely. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not understand till now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, drop your talk about delicacy, and get your friends to elect +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think I can do that,” I answered mildly. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you won’t earn your pay?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Whitely, when you made the offer, you put it on an entirely +different ground, and it is unfair to claim that it involved any condition that +was not then expressed.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you ought to be willing to do it. Haven’t you any gratitude +about you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I understood that you wanted one of your staff a member of that club. +Had you mentioned your present motive, I should certainly have refused to +accept the offer; and under these circumstances I decline to recognize any +cause for gratitude.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is your objection to doing it, though?” he persisted. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Mr. Whitely, I do not think I am called upon to say more than I +have said.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want me in the club or not?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall certainly never oppose your election in any way +whatsoever.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you will not work for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you waiting to see how much I’ll give?” +</p> + +<p> +My hand trembled at the insult, but I made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he continued, “are you standing out in hopes I will +offer you something?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been elected to the Philomathean, Mr. Whitely,” I said, +concluding that an explanation might be the easiest escape, after all, +“and to it I owe a distinct duty. If you were not my employer, I should +feel called upon to work against you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” he exclaimed, in surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it necessary to say?” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. What is your objection to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you never read Æsop’s fable of the jackdaw?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it, is it? And you are opposing my election?” +</p> + +<p> +“By not the slightest act.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why did Blodgett predict that I would surely be rejected? +I’ve a reputation as a writer, as a philanthropist, and as a successful +business man. What more do they want?” +</p> + +<p> +“As I told Miss Walton yesterday,” I explained, “a +man’s true and eventual reputation depends, not on what the world thinks +of him, but on what his fellow-craft decide.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is scarcely an author or editor at the Philomathean who is not +opposed to your election, Mr. Whitely.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have been telling tales,” he muttered angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“You should know better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what have they against me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Any man who works with his pen learns that no one can write either +editorials or books, of the kind credited to you, without years of training. +The most embarrassing ordeal I have to undergo is the joking and questioning +with which the fraternity tease me. But you need never fear my not keeping +faith.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet you won’t help me into the Philomathean?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you’ll make money out of me, but think your club too +good?” +</p> + +<p> +“I owe my club a duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” he went on smoothly, “that you’re an awful +screw, when there’s a dollar in sight. How much do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +My silence should have warned him, but he was too self-absorbed to feel +anything but his own mood. +</p> + +<p> +“How much do you want?” he repeated, and I still sat without +speaking, though the room blurred, and I felt as if I were stifling. “The +day I’m elected to the Philomathean, I’ll give you”— +</p> + +<p> +I rose and interrupted him, saying, “Mr. Whitely, if you wish me to leave +your house and employment, you can obtain my absence in an easier way than by +insulting me.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment we faced each other in silence, and then he rose. +“Hereafter, Dr. Hartzmann, you will pay those dues yourself,” he +said in a low voice, as he moved towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +I only bowed, glad that the matter was so easily ended; and for nearly two +months our relations have been of the most formal kind that can exist between +employer and employed. +</p> + +<p> +Far more bitter was another break. When the moment of farewell came, that +evening, I waited to put you and Mrs. Blodgett into your carriages, and while +we were delayed in the vestibule you thanked me again for the pleasure of the +previous afternoon, and then continued: “I understand why you did not +feel able to please Mrs. Blodgett about the concert. But won’t you let me +acknowledge the pleasure of yesterday by sending you a ticket? I have taken a +number, and as all my circle have done the same, I am finding it rather +difficult to get rid of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right, Maizie,” interjected Mrs. Blodgett, who +had caught, or inferred from an occasional word that she heard, what you were +saying. “We took an extra ticket, and I am going to use the doctor for an +escort that evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you both,” I answered, “but I shall not be able to +attend the concert.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” sniffed Mrs. Blodgett, as I helped her into her +carriage. “You’re going to do as I tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +You did not speak in the moment we waited for your coupé to take its place, but +as the tiger opened the door you looked in my face for the first time since my +words, showing me eyes that told of the pain I had inflicted. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” you said quietly. “I had +thought—hoped—that we were to be friends.” +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing for me to say, and we parted thus. From that time I have seen +little of you, for when I meet you now you no longer make it possible for me to +have much of your society. And my persistent refusal to go to the concert with +Mrs. Blodgett and Agnes increased their irritation against me, so that I am no +longer asked to their home, and thus have lost my most frequent opportunity of +meeting you. But harder even than this deprivation is the thought that I have +given you pain; made all the greater, perhaps, because so ill deserved and +apparently unreasonable. I find myself longing for the hour when we shall meet +at that far-away tribunal, where all our lives, and not alone that which is +seen, will stand revealed. For two months I have not had a single moment of +happiness or even hope. I am lonely and weary, while my strength and courage +seem to lessen day by day. Oh, my darling, I pray God that thought of you will +make me stronger and braver, that I may go on with my fight. Good-night. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XXII" id="XXII"></a>XXII</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 13.</i> Last night, at the Philomathean, Mr. Blodgett joined me, and +asked me why I had not dined with them lately. He returned only a few days ago, +and was thus ignorant that I have not been inside his door for weeks. I +hesitated for an instant, and then replied, “I have been working very +hard.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you usually doing?” he asked, smiling. “Come in to +Sunday dinner to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be too busy with a lot of manuscripts I have on hand, that must +be read,” I told him. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop killing yourself,” he ordered. “As it is, you look as +if you were on the brink of a bad illness. You won’t get on a bit faster +by dying young.” +</p> + +<p> +There the matter rested, and I did not go to dinner to-day, being indeed glad +to stay indoors; for I very foolishly walked up town yesterday through the +slush, and caught a bad cold. While I was trying to keep warm, this evening, a +note was brought me from Mr. Blodgett, asking me to come to him at once; and +fearing something important, I braved the cold without delay, ill though I +felt. I was shown at once into his den, which was so cheerful with its open +fire that I felt it was a good exchange for my cold room, where I had sat +coughing and shivering all the afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“Twice in my life I’ve really lost my temper with the boss,” +he began, before I had even sat down, though he closed the door while speaking. +“Never mind about the first time, but to-day I got mad enough to last me +for the rest of my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I sit down?” I interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +He nodded his head, and took a position in front of me, with his back to the +fire, as he continued: “Women are enough to make a man frantic when they +get a fixed idea! Now, to-day, at dinner, I said I’d invited you, and I +saw in a moment something was in the wind; so when we had finished I told them +to come in here, and it didn’t take me long to find out the +trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t like to”—I began; but he went on:— +</p> + +<p> +“And that was the beginning of their trouble. I tell you, there was Cain +here for about ten minutes, and there weren’t two worse scared women this +side of the grave, while I was ranting; for the boss remembered the other time, +and Agnes had never seen me break loose. I told them they’d done their +best to drive you crazy with grief; that if they’d searched for ten years +they couldn’t have found a meaner or crueler thing, or one that would +have hurt you more; that nine men out of ten, in your shoes, would have acted +dishonestly or cut their throat, but that you had toed the chalk-line right +along, and never once winced. And I let them know that for five dollars +they’d added the last straw of pain to a fellow who deserved only +kindness and help from them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Mr. Blodgett”—I protested. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold on. Don’t attempt to stop me, for the fit’s on me +still,” he growled. “They tried to come the surprised, and then the +offended, but they didn’t fool me. I never let up on them till I had said +all I wanted to say, and they won’t forget it for a day or two. When I +sent Agnes upstairs, she was sobbing her eyes out, and the boss would have +given her pin money for ten years to have escaped with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s too bad to”— +</p> + +<p> +“That’s just what it was!” he cried. “To think of those +screws trying to blackmail you, and then telling me you were a skinflint +because you wouldn’t do what they wanted! Well, after Agnes had gone, I +gave the boss a supplementary and special dose of her own. I told her she could +double discount you on meanness, and then give you forty-nine points; and to +make sure of good measurement, I added in the whole female sex along with her. +I told her that if she knew the facts of your life, she’d get down on her +knees and crawl round to your place to ask your pardon, and then she +wouldn’t be fit to have it. I told her that when the day of judgment +came, she’d just go the other way in preference to hearing what the +recording angel had written of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid that your intended kindness will make my welcome scantier +than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit of it. I’m the master of this house, as they found out +this afternoon, and I say who’ll come into it, and who’ll not. I +shan’t need to interfere in your case, for you’ll get a warm +welcome from both.” +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t tell them?” I exclaimed, starting forward in my +seat. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a word, though the boss nearly went crazy with curiosity. But I did +say that you were making a splendid up-hill fight, and if they knew the facts +of the case they’d be proud to black your boots. My word goes in this +family about as well as it does on the Street, and you’ll get all the +welcome you can stand from now on.” +</p> + +<p> +“You make me very proud and happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have reason to be proud,” he asserted. “I’m not a +man who slobbers much, but I’m going to tell you what I think of you. +When you first came here, I sized you up as rather a softy, your manner was so +quiet and gentle. I got over that delusion precious quick, and I want to say +that for pluck and grit you’re a trump, and there’s my hand on +it.” +</p> + +<p> +He went to the table, poured out a couple of glasses of whiskey and seltzer, +and brought them to the fire. “You need something for that graveyard +cough of yours,” he said, handing one to me. “Well,” he went +on, “I didn’t bring you out such a night as this to tell you of my +scrap; but after the row, the boss was so ashamed of herself that she trumped +up an A 1 excuse (as she thought) for having treated you as she had, and that +led to a talk, and that’s why I sent round for you. What do you suppose +she has got into her head?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t imagine.” +</p> + +<p> +“I needn’t tell you,” he remarked, “that women always +know an awful lot that isn’t so. But just because they do, they every now +and then discover a truth that can’t be come at in any other way. Now the +boss thinks she’s done this, and I’m not sure that she +hasn’t. She says you are in love.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never knew a man who wasn’t,” I replied, trying to smile. +“If it isn’t with a woman, then it’s always with +himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the boss thinks she knows the girl, and has a down on you because +you—because you don’t try for her.” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed bitterly, and said, “You needed no explanation for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what made the boss’s idea reasonable to me,” he +explained. “She couldn’t conceive why you should keep silent, and +so was ready to pitch into you on the slightest pretense. Women haven’t +much use for a man who falls in love and doesn’t say so. But of course I +knew that your debt put marriage out of the question.” +</p> + +<p> +I merely nodded my head, for even to him I could not speak of my love for you, +it was so sacred to me. +</p> + +<p> +He drew up a chair to the fire, and continued: “There isn’t another +man to whom I’d care to say what I’m going to say to you, but +you’ve got a heart and a head both, and won’t misunderstand +me.” He finished his glass, and set it on the mantel. “Now I +don’t have to tell you that the boss is fond of you, and when I told her +that I knew of a reason why you couldn’t marry, she forgave you on the +spot. What’s more, she first wished to learn what it was; and failing in +that, she then wanted to know if it could be remedied, so that you might have a +chance to win the girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“She of course knows nothing of my position?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, “but she knows something of your character, +and she’s ordered me that, if it’s possible, I’m to help you +get the girl you care for.” +</p> + +<p> +“But my debt!” I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“How much is it now?” he queried. +</p> + +<p> +“One hundred and eighteen thousand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll lend Agnes’s husband one hundred and eighteen +thousand dollars at three per cent, and leave her the note when I die. From +what I know of marriage, I venture to assert that if she squeezes him for +payment it will be his own fault.” +</p> + +<p> +I sat speechless for a moment, too bewildered by the unexpected turn to even +think. +</p> + +<p> +“I was as surprised as you look,” he went on, “for although I +had seen that you and Agnes”— +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Mr. Blodgett,” I exclaimed hastily, “I am no more to +Miss Agnes than a dozen of her friends! I”— +</p> + +<p> +“So the boss says,” he interrupted. “But that doesn’t +mean that you can’t be. Though to speak the truth, my boy,” he +continued, resting his hand on my knee, “this wasn’t my plan. I had +hoped that you and Maizie would take a shine to each other, and so kiss the +chalk-marks off that old score. But when I spoke of the scheme to the boss, +this evening, she told me there had never been a chance of it; that you +didn’t like Mai, and that she is practically engaged to Whitely, and is +only—Better have some more whiskey, or that cough will shake you to +pieces.” +</p> + +<p> +I could only shake my head in my misery, but after a moment I was able to say, +“Mr. Blodgett, I did not understand—I”— +</p> + +<p> +“I want to tell you,” he broke in, “before you say anything +more, that I never believe in putting one’s fingers into love affairs, +and I shouldn’t in this case if the boss didn’t feel so keen about +it, but I don’t choose to be the one to stand in her way. And now +I’m not offering my daughter’s hand. You know as well as I that +Agnes isn’t the kind of girl who needs a prospectus or a gold clause to +work her off. If she dropped her handkerchief to-morrow, fifty men would be +scrambling for it, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” Then I added, “And, Mr. Blodgett, I can’t find +the words to tell how I thank you both for such a compliment. If”— +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you wouldn’t misunderstand me,” he went on. +“It’s a good deal of a start in life to be born a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mr. Blodgett,” I said, “there has been a mistake. +I—it is hard to say, but”—then I faltered. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me keenly for a moment. “So the boss was wrong? It’s +only friendship, not love?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just what she has given to me,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Then if you want to please the boss—and me—let +that friendship grow into something better. But don’t misunderstand me. +You must win Agnes, if she is won. We do nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Blodgett, should you be willing to let me try to win Miss Agnes, if +I tell you that I do not love her as a man should love the woman he seeks for +his wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“Marriage is a funny business,” he responded. “Now +there’s the boss. When I married her I thought she was so and so; little +by little I found she wasn’t; but by the time I had found it out I +wouldn’t have swapped her for ten of the women I had thought she was. +Some men have no business to marry unless they’re pretty strongly +attached, for they don’t run steady; but you’re a fellow that would +keep in the traces no matter what happened, and before long you’d find +yourself mighty fond of Agnes. A sense of duty is about as good a basis to +marry on, if there’s natural sympathy and liking, as all this ideal +make-believe. I don’t think you dislike Agnes, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, no!” I exclaimed. “Nobody could. She is too charming +and sweet for any one to do that. Miss Agnes deserves far more than I can bring +her. What have I to give in return for all this?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can settle that with Agnes,” he laughed; and then, as if to +lessen my poverty in my own eyes, he kindly added, “In the first place, +I’ll get a son-in-law chock-full of heart and grit and brains; and +I’ve had pretty good evidence that he isn’t fortune-hunting, which +is Agnes’s great danger. But that isn’t all, and I want you to know +I’m not a fool. I’m a big fellow down in Wall Street, and even on +the Royal Exchange, but do you think I don’t know my position? They kept +me up over two years at the Philomathean, and you four months. After +you’ve worked ten years over books with your own name on them, +you’ll be received and kotowed to by people who wouldn’t crook a +finger to know me. You won’t be famous as I am, for the number of naughts +I can write after a figure, but your name will be known everywhere, and will be +familiar long after mine has been forgotten. Who were the bankers and rich men +fifty years ago? There isn’t one person in a thousand can tell you. But +who hasn’t heard of Thackeray and Hawthorne, Macaulay and Motley? My girl +will have more money than she’ll need; so if she gets a good husband, and +one with reputation, she can’t do better. Don’t you see I’m +doing my level best for Agnes, and making a regular Jew bargain?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps Miss Agnes will not agree.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve got to take that chance; but she likes you, and good women +think a heap more of brains than they do of money. If you’ll let me tell +her your story, it won’t be long before she’ll take notice. I +shouldn’t have had to ask the boss twice if I’d had any such trump +card as you’ve got, and she was a sight less tender-hearted than +Agnes!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Blodgett,” I said, “I can’t tell you the gratitude +I feel, but I must be frank.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold on!” he cried. “I don’t want you to say anything +now. You are to take a week on it, and not give me your answer till the end. If +you have half the gratitude in you that you pretend, you’ll do as the +boss wants.” +</p> + +<p> +I had manned myself to tell him of my love for you, but I bowed assent, for +indeed, I was too bewildered to think clearly, and was glad to have a respite. +We shook hands without further parley, and I came back here, to cough and +shiver while trying to think it all out. An hour ago I went to bed, but I was +wakeful, and so sit here trying to write myself into sleepiness. +</p> + +<p> +I have thought out what my course must be. If it is true, as indeed I know it +to be, that Mr. Whitely has won you, Mr. Blodgett shall have the truth. I shall +tell him that I will put you out of my heart, as perforce I must, and that if +he is still willing I will go to Agnes, tell her too the whole truth, and +promise her such love and devotion as I can give. So sweet a girl deserves far +more, and I cannot believe that she will accept the little I can offer; but if +she does, it shall be the labor of my life to be to her a true and tender +husband. And even if she were not what she is, the thought that through her I +have made reparation for the wrong done you will make easy both tenderness and +love for her. +</p> + +<p> +For the last time, perhaps, I have the right to say, “Good-night, my +love.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XXIII" id="XXIII"></a>XXIII</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 14.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want you to tell me, if you have the right, whether Miss Walton is +engaged to Mr. Whitely,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Practically,” she snapped. +</p> + +<p> +“She has told you so?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell you,” she replied; adding, “How do you like +your own medicine?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know why she has done so?” I asked drearily. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Blodgett told me,” I answered; and then I spoke of the +resolution I had come to last night. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t that Miss Walton?” I asked of the servant, as he +brought me my hat and coat. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I begged. +</p> + +<p> +“I was only beguiling the time I have to wait,” you replied. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are ill, Dr. Hartzmann,” you said, anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing,” I managed to articulate. +</p> + +<p> +“Can I do anything for you?” you asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” I replied, rising, more wretched than ever, because +knowing how little I deserved your sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am indeed mad in my unhappiness,” I groaned. +</p> + +<p> +“You owe me an explanation for your extraordinary words,” you +continued. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I not be happy in marrying Mr. Whitely?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you are deceiving yourself about him.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what respect?” +</p> + +<p> +“His character is other than you think it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be more specific.” +</p> + +<p> +“That I cannot be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be dishonorable in me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not more so than to stop where you have.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot say more.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not recognize your right to be silent. You have said too much or +too little.” +</p> + +<p> +“Maizie,” called Mrs. Blodgett from the hall, “come quickly, +for we are very late.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XXIV" id="XXIV"></a>XXIV</h2> + +<p> +<i>March 15.</i> I was so miserable with my cough to-day that I could not +summon the energy to drag myself to Mr. Blodgett’s office, and did not +leave my room till after eight, when your note came. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Walton,” it read, “feels that she has the right to +request Dr. Hartzmann to call this evening, in relation to the conversation +uncompleted last night.” +</p> + +<p> +I understood the implied command, and thought that I owed what you claimed, +while feeling that in obeying I could for this once forego my scruple of +entering your door. The footman showed me into the library, and left me there. +It was the first time I had seen it since my thirteenth year, and I cannot tell +you the moment’s surprise and joy I felt on finding it absolutely +unchanged. Even the books were arranged as formerly, and my eye searched and +found, as quickly as of yore, all the old volumes full of plates which had once +given us such horror and delight. For the instant I forgot my physical +suffering and the coming ordeal. +</p> + +<p> +When you entered the room, you welcomed me only with a bow. Then seeing my +paleness, you said kindly, “I forgot your cough, Dr. Hartzmann, or I +would not have brought you out in such weather. Sit here by the fire.” +After a short pause you went on: “I hope that a day’s thought has +convinced you that common justice requires you to say more than you did last +night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Walton,” I replied, “to you, who know nothing of the +difficult and hopeless position in which I stand, my conduct, I presume, seems +most dishonorable and cowardly; yet I cannot say more than I said last +night.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can scarcely hope that what I then said will influence you, but if you +will go to Mr. Blodgett and”— +</p> + +<p> +“Does Mr. Blodgett know what you object to in Mr. Whitely?” you +interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I went to Mr. Blodgett this morning, and he told me that he knew of no +reason why I should not marry Mr. Whitely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Miss Walton,” I answered, rising, “I cannot expect +that you will be influenced by my opinion. I will withdraw what I said last +night. Think of me as leniently as you can, for my purpose was +honorable.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you ought to say more. You”— +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“You have no right to”—But here a servant entered, with a +card. +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Hartzmann,” you announced, when the man had gone, “I +wrote Mr. Whitely yesterday afternoon, asking him to call this evening, with +the intention of accepting his offer of marriage. He is now in the +drawing-room, and unless you will have the fairness, the honesty, to explain +what you meant, I shall tell him all that has occurred, and give him the +opportunity to force you to speak.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall only repeat to him, Miss Walton, what I have said to you.” +</p> + +<p> +You stood a moment looking at me, with a face blazing with indignation; then +you exclaimed, “You at least owe it to him not to run away while I am +gone!” and passed into the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +You returned very soon, followed by Mr. Whitely. +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Hartzmann,” you asked, “will you repeat what you said +last night to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I advised you not to marry Mr. Whitely, Miss Walton.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you will not say why?” you demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Whitely,” you cried, “cannot you force him to +speak?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Walton,” he replied suavely, and his very coolness in the +strange condition made me feel that he was master of the situation, “I am +as perplexed as you are at this extraordinary conduct in one who even now is +eating bread from my hand. I have long since ceased to expect gratitude for +benefits, but such malevolence surprises and grieves me, since I have never +done Dr. Hartzmann any wrong, but, on the contrary, I have always befriended +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been in the employ of Mr. Whitely,” I answered, “but +every dollar he has paid me has been earned by my labor. I owe him no debt of +gratitude that he does not owe me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You owe him the justice that every man owes another,” you asserted +indignantly. “To make vague charges behind one’s back, and then +refuse to be explicit, is a coward’s and a slanderer’s way of +waging war.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Walton,” I cried, “I should not have spoken, though God +knows that my motive was only a wish to do you a service, and I would give my +life to do as you ask!” +</p> + +<p> +For an instant my earnestness seemed to sway you; indeed, I am convinced that +this was so, since Mr. Whitely apparently had the same feeling, and spoke as if +to neutralize my influence, saying to you: “Miss Walton, I firmly believe +that Dr. Hartzmann’s plea of honorable conduct is nothing but the ambush +of a coward. But as he has been for two years in the most intimate and +confidential position of private secretary to me, he may, through some error, +have deluded himself into a conviction that gives a basis for his indefinite +charges. I will not take advantage of the implied secrecy, and I say to him in +your presence that if he has discovered anything which indicates that I have +been either impure or criminal, I give him permission to speak.” +</p> + +<p> +Even in that moment of entanglement I could not but admire and marvel at the +skill with which he had phrased his speech, so as to seem absolutely open, to +slur me by innuendo, and yet avoid the risk of exposure. It left me helpless, +and I could only say, “I have not charged Mr. Whitely with either +impurity or criminality.” +</p> + +<p> +You turned to him and said, “This conduct is perfectly +inexplicable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Except on one ground,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Which is?” you questioned. +</p> + +<p> +“That Dr. Hartzmann loves you,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“That is impossible!” you exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Not as impossible as for a man not to love you, Miss Walton,” he +averred. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell Mr. Whitely how mistaken he is,” you said to me. +</p> + +<p> +I could only stand silent, and after waiting a little Mr. Whitely remarked, +“You see!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is incredible!” you protested. “You must deny it, Dr. +Hartzmann!” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot, Miss Walton,” I murmured, with bowed head. +</p> + +<p> +“You love me?” you cried incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +“I love you,” I assented, and in spite of the circumstances it was +happiness to say it to you. +</p> + +<p> +You stood gazing at me in amazement, large-eyed as a startled deer. I wonder +what your first words would have been to me if Mr. Whitely had not turned your +mind into another channel by saying, “I do not think that we need search +further for Dr. Hartzmann’s motives in making his innuendoes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Walton,” I urged, “my love for you, far from making +your faith in me less or my motive that of a rival, should convince you that I +spoke only for your sake, since you yourself know that my love has been neither +hopeful nor self-seeking.” +</p> + +<p> +I think you pitied me, for you answered gently, and all traces of the scorn and +indignation you had shown just before were gone from your face and manner. +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Hartzmann,” you said, “I cannot allow myself to listen +to or weigh such indefinite imputations against Mr. Whitely. I will give you +one week to explain or substantiate what you have implied; and unless within +that time you do so, I shall accept the offer of marriage which he has honored +me by making. Do not let me detain you further. Good-evening.” +</p> + +<p> +I passed out of the room a broken-hearted man, without strength enough to hold +up my head, and hardly able in my weakness to crawl back to my study. As I sit +and write, every breath brings with it the feeling that a knife is being thrust +into my breast, and I am faint with the pain. But for this racking cough and +burning fever I might have made a better fight, and have been able to think of +some way of saving you. But even in my suffering I have reached one conclusion. +To-morrow I shall go to Mr. Whitely and tell him that you must know the truth +concerning the book, and that if he will not tell you I shall. I shall never be +able to hold up my head again; but that is nothing, if I can but save you. Oh, +my dearest love, the sacrifice of life, of honor, the meeting ignominy or death +for your sake, will be nothing to me but hap +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +[Transcriber’s Note: The text ends in the middle of a word. The remainder +of this page is missing in the original image and other available editions.] +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XXV" id="XXV"></a>XXV</h2> + +<p> +<i>January 10, 1895.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope to be at work again by that time,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +On the 21st of June Mr. Blodgett came to see me, as indeed he had done daily +since Mrs. Blodgett left town. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would go, Mr. Blodgett, but”— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello!” exclaimed the banker. “Where are you bound +for?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I only nodded my head. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you will recover quickly, for you are needed in the +office,” he went on. +</p> + +<p> +I could not have been more surprised if he had struck me, though I did not let +it appear in my face. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have learned the lesson that one cannot sell one’s honesty +without wronging other people, and I shall never do it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is purely sentimental”—he began. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +For a few moments you stood watching the gathering storm, and then took a chair +by the divan on which I lay. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of me, Miss Walton?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Miss Walton!” I protested. “Why ask forgiveness of me? +What is your act compared to the wrong”— +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not the one to forgive, Maizie.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Donald!” you exclaimed. “You don’t suppose I shall let +you pay me another cent!” +</p> + +<p> +“I must.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Maizie, you do not understand”— +</p> + +<p> +“I understand it all,” you interrupted. “You must +not—you shall not—I won’t take it—I”— +</p> + +<p> +“For his sake!” +</p> + +<p> +“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”— +</p> + +<p> +“If you love him, Maizie, you will let me clear his name as far as lies +within my power.” +</p> + +<p> +For an instant you were silent, and then said softly, “You are right, +Donald, we will clear his name.” +</p> + +<p> +I took your hand and touched it to my lips. “To hear you speak of +him”—I could go no further, in my emotion. +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause before you asked, “Donald, do you remember our talk +here last autumn?” +</p> + +<p> +“Every word.” +</p> + +<p> +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”— +</p> + +<p> +Just then Mrs. Blodgett joined us, and inquired, “Have you told Rudolph, +Maizie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I had to do it,” she sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been too good to me,” I answered, rising and taking her +hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +I took you in my arms, and gave you back your kiss twofold, while saying, +“Good-night, my love.” +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> </div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="XXVI" id="XXVI"></a>XXVI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I bitter or acid?” she asked, leaning over my shoulder and +arranging my hair, which is one of her ways of pleasing me. +</p> + +<p> +“You are my exact opposite,” I said gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“How uncomplimentary you are!” she cried, with a pretense of anger +in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“An historian must tell the truth now and then, for variety’s +sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then tell me if you are too engaged to spare me a minute. Any other time +will do.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve come to ask a great favor of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Out of the question; but you may tell me what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Donald, say you will grant it before I tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Concealment bespeaks a guilty conscience.” +</p> + +<p> +“But sometimes you are so funny and obstinate about things!” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what Mr. Whitely used to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That he should steal your fame!” +</p> + +<p> +“My Moor is five times the chap my Turk was.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you might have had both!” +</p> + +<p> +“And gone without you? Don’t fret over it, my darling.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t help”— +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why make the rest of his life unhappy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that the way it affects you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll give him a great reception,” she continued, “and +have every one worth knowing to meet him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is the shyest of beings.” +</p> + +<p> +“How books and learning do refine men!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid they do make weaklings of us.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll frighten me out of it if you speak like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are—well—that is really what I came to ask for. Just to +please your own wife, you will, Donald, won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“The distinction between ‘will’ and ‘won’t’ +is clearly set forth in a somewhat well-known song concerning a spider and a +fly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you bad boy!” +</p> + +<p> +“Adsum.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m really serious.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never was less so.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should not have become your wife if I had dreamed you would be such a +brute!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll please remember that I never asked you to marry me.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed deliciously over the insult, and after that I could not resist her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ve known it all this time! Perhaps you know too what I +want?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Donald, it gives me such happiness to read it!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Men never understand women!” +</p> + +<p> +“Deo gratias.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I love it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like to hear you express such sentiments for so erotic a +book.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t apply such a word to it!” she cried, in a pained +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“A word,” I explained, “taken from the Greek <i>erotikos</i>, +which is derived from <i>erao</i>, meaning ‘I love passionately.’ +It is singularly descriptive, Maizie.” +</p> + +<p> +“If it means that, I like it, but I thought you were insulting my +book.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know you don’t want it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want it very much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really?” +</p> + +<p> +“To put it in the fire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don!” +</p> + +<p> +“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”— +</p> + +<p> +“But, my darling, it was so foolish that I had to burn it up. Think of my +making the heroine marry that creature!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I met the ‘poor dear’ yesterday, looking very old and +unhappy despite his LL. D.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you suppose he’s unhappy?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“My theory is that he’s miserable because he lost—lost +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m so glad he is!” joyously asserted the tenderest of +women. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“To write a sort of last chapter—an ending, you know—telling +about—about the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you forgotten it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I remember rightly, some one—was it my mother or Mr. +Whitely?”— +</p> + +<p> +“Both,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“—spread it abroad that I had trapped an heiress into marriage by +means of an alias.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I won’t read them those parts,” she promised; +“especially if you write a nice ending, which they’ll like.” +</p> + +<p> +“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’?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Donald,” she begged. “I want the whole story, to match +the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you trying to bribe me into giving you a rest from my presence for a +time?” +</p> + +<p> +“Undoubtedly,” I assented. “It’s a fearful strain to +live up to you, and it is beginning to tell on me.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I didn’t know you were teasing, I should really be hurt. But I +should like to ask you one thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you changed your idea of me, Maizie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And therefore you don’t love me as much?” +</p> + +<p> +“But that’s different, Donald,” she observed seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“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”— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The married woman will go too,” she predicted calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t dare risk her among those hill tribes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And she won’t risk you where it isn’t safe for her to +go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was only thinking of your lovely complexion,” I explained. +</p> + +<p> +“Old mahogany is very fashionable,” she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Can nothing make you stay at home?” I asked beseechingly. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder if there ever was a husband who did not love to tease his +wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“The divorce courts have records of many such unloving wretches.” +</p> + +<p> +“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”— +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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”— +</p> + +<p> +“You Machiavellis!” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell all about my confession, and how we all spoiled you for those +months at My Fancy. Oh, weren’t they lovely, Donald?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought so then.” +</p> + +<p> +“But not now?” +</p> + +<p> +“A gooseberry is good till you taste a strawberry. There was a good deal +too much gooseberry, as I remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“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”— +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you made a slip in the pronoun?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>our</i> +dear father, and how happy we’ve been since.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve made a mistake in the last pronoun, I’m +certain.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will write it to please me, Donald?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Maizie, I can’t. It’s all too dear to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, Don, try?” +</p> + +<p> +“But”— +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll make it nice, like the rest, won’t you?” she +begged. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try.” And then I laughingly added, “Maizie, you +still have the technical part of story-telling to learn.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that will do, if you’ll only tell it nicely.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Good-night, my children. Good-night, my love. May God be as good to you as he +has been to me. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. +</div> + +<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person +or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: +</div> + +<blockquote> + <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most + other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions + whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms + of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online + at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you + are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws + of the country where you are located before using this eBook. + </div> +</blockquote> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: +</div> + +<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</div> + +</body> + +</html> diff --git a/36439-h/images/cover.jpg b/36439-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..53ff25e --- /dev/null +++ b/36439-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/36439-h/images/front.png b/36439-h/images/front.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7ddec4 --- /dev/null +++ b/36439-h/images/front.png diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f82bbc9 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #36439 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36439) diff --git a/old/36439-8.txt b/old/36439-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad17c0d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/36439-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6491 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Story of an Untold Love, by Paul Leicester Ford + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Story of an Untold Love + +Author: Paul Leicester Ford + +Release Date: June 15, 2011 [EBook #36439] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE *** + + + + +Produced by Lee Moffitt, Juliet Sutherland and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + + THE STORY OF AN + UNTOLD LOVE + + PAUL LEICESTER FORD + + [Illustration] + + NEW YORK + GROSSET & DUNLAP + PUBLISHERS + + COPYRIGHT 1897 BY PAUL LEICESTER FORD + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + SIXTY-FIFTH THOUSAND + + + + +THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE + + + + +I + + +_February 20, 1890._ There is not a moment of my life that you have +shared with me which I cannot recall with a distinctness fairly sunlit. +My joys and my sorrows, my triumphs and my failures, have faded one by +one from emotions into memories, quickening neither pulse nor thought +when they recur to me, while you alone can set both throbbing. And +though for years I have known that if you enshrined any one in your +heart it would be some one worthier of you, yet I have loved you truly, +and whatever I have been in all else, in that one thing, at least, I +have been strong. Nor would I part with my tenderness for you, even +though it has robbed me of contentment; for all the pleasures of which I +can dream cannot equal the happiness of loving you. To God I owe life, +and you, Maizie, have filled that life with love; and to both I bow my +spirit in thanks, striving not to waste his gift lest I be unworthy of +the devotion I feel for you. + +If I were a stronger man, I should not now be sobbing out my heart's +blood through the tip of a pen. Instead of writing of my sorrow, I +should have battled for my love despite all obstacles. But I am no +Alexander to cut the knot of entanglements which the fates have woven +about me, and so, Midas-like, I sit morbidly whispering the hidden +grief, too great for me to bear in silence longer. + +I can picture my first glimpse of you as vividly as my last. That dull +rainy day of indoor imprisonment seems almost to have been arranged as a +shadowbox to intensify the image graved so deeply on my memory. The sun +came, as you did, towards the end of the afternoon, as if light and +warmth were your couriers. When I shyly entered the library in answer to +my father's call, you were standing in the full sunlight, and the +thought flashed through my mind that here was one of the angels of whom +I had read. You were only a child of seven,--to others, I suppose, +immature and formless; yet even then your eyes were as large and as +serious as they are to-day, and your curling brown hair had already a +touch of fire, as if sunshine had crept thereinto, and, liking its +abiding-place, had lingered lovingly. + +"Don," cried my father, as I stood hesitating in the doorway, "here's a +new plaything for you. Give it a welcome and a kiss." + +I hung back, half in shyness, and half in fear that you were of heaven, +and not of earth, but you came forward and kissed me without the +slightest hesitation. The details are so clear that I remember you +hardly had to raise your head, though I was three years the older. Your +kiss dispelled all my timidity, and from the moment of that caress I +loved you. Not that I am so foolish as to believe I then felt for you +what now I feel, but by the clear light of retrospect I can see that +your coming brought a new element into my life,--an element which I +loved from the first, though with steadily deepening intensity, and I +cannot even now determine at what point a boy's devotion became a +lover's. + +To the silent and lonely lad you were an inspiration. What I might have +grown to be had you not been my father's ward I do not like to think, +for I was not a strong boy, and my shyness and timidity had prompted me +to much solitude and few friends, to much reading and to little play. +But it was decreed that you were to be the controlling influence of my +life, and in the first week you worked a revolution in my habits. I +wonder if now, when you see so many men eager to gratify your slightest +wish, you ever think of your earliest slave, whom you enticed to the +roof to drop pebbles or water on the passers-by, and into the cellar to +bury a toy soldier deep in the coal? Does memory ever bring back to you +how we started to paint the illustrations in Kingsborough's Mexican +Antiquities, or how we built a fire round a doll on the library rug, in +imitation of the death of an Inca of Peru as pictured in dear old +Garcilasso de la Vega's Royal Commentaries? You were a lazy child about +reading, but when not tempting me into riotous mischief, you would sit +by me in the library and let me show you the pictures in the old books, +and I smile now to think what my running versions of the texts must have +been. Our favorite books were the Nuremberg Chronicle and De Bry's +Voyages, for the pictures of which, since the Latin was beyond me, I +invented explanations and even whole stories,--stories over which you +grew big-eyed and sleepless, and which we both came to believe so firmly +that we never dreamed them to be the cause for the occasional outburst +of laughter from my father, when he was in the library. + +Even in those days you veiled your witchery and mischief-loving nature +behind that serious face with its curved but unsmiling mouth. Keen as +many of our pleasures were and blithe as were our pranks, I can scarcely +remember a smile upon your face. Now and then the merriest of laughs +rang out, fairly infectious in its happiness and joy, but of so rare +recurrence as to win for you the sobriquet of "Madam Gravity." Your +inscrutability allured and charmed me then as I have seen it fascinate +others since. I shall never understand you, and yet I think I +misunderstand you less than others do, for you cannot hide from me the +quick thought and merry nature which you keep so well hidden from them; +and often when others think you most abstracted or sedate, I know you +are holding high carnival with Puck and Momus. Again and again I have +noted your gravity in the most humorous situations or with the most +ridiculous of persons, and have smiled in secret with you. Last summer, +when my mother won such a laugh by telling, as something that had +happened to her personally, the old story from Peele's "Merrie Conceits" +which we had read as children, you looked grave, though the incident had +twice the humor to you that it had to the others. In my own merriment I +could not help glancing at you, and though neither of us laughed, we +understood each other's amusement. Evidently you were not used to having +your mood comprehended, for after a moment you seemed to realize that I +was responding to what you had thought unknown to all. You looked +startled and then puzzled, and I suppose that I became even more of a +mystery to you than ever. You could not know that my knowledge of you +came from those early days when your nature was taking shape. Without my +memory of you as a child you would be as great an enigma to me as to the +rest of your friends, and so no doubt it is a small thing in which to +glory. But it gives me joy to feel that I understand you better, and at +this very moment know more of your thoughts than your husband ever will. + +I owe to you many dark closetings and whippings that I never deserved. +My mother complained that from being a troublesome child I had become a +fiend of mischief, but my father laughed and predicted that you would +make a man of me. I wonder if you ever think of him, and what your +thought is? We both so loved him that I cannot believe he has passed +entirely out of your heart. How ready he was to be our comrade! Whether +tired or busy he would join us, not as mentor but as playfellow; and +now that I know what there was to depress his spirits at that time, I +marvel at his cheer and courage. Would that I had one half of the +bravery with which he met his troubles! + +Perhaps he was right in his assumption that you would have made a man of +me. I do not recollect any act of mine which bore the semblance of +courage except the rescue of the street dog from those boys. I hated to +see the poor beast tortured, but I feared the roughs, and so stood +faltering while you charged among them. Not till one of them struck you +was I driven to help, but I can still feel the fury which then took +possession of me. I was blind with rage, and a great weight seemed +pressing on my chest as I rushed among the boys and fought, hardly +conscious of the blows I gave or received; indeed, the whole thing was a +haze until I found myself sitting on the sidewalk, crying. For days I +went about with a bandage over my eye; but my father drank my health +that night, and I remember his pat of approval, and hear his "Bravo, +Donald, I'm proud of you." It was significant that I received all the +praise, and you none; my courage was questionable, yours was not. + +Those happy, thoughtless years! The one kill-joy was my mother, and she +made your life and mine so grievous with her needless harshness, quick +temper, and neglect of our comfort that I think she must have made my +father's equally miserable. Dimly I can recollect her sudden gusts of +temper, and his instant dismissal of us from the room when they began. +Do you remember how he used to come up to the nursery to smoke, often +staying till our bedtime, and then how we could hear him go downstairs +and out of the front door? We did not know that he went to his club, nor +at what hour he returned; and if we had it would have meant nothing to +us. But we both knew he found no pleasure with my mother, and we felt +he was right, for in avoiding her he was but doing what was our chief +endeavor. I have heard many express admiration for her beauty, for her +church and charitable work, for her brilliancy in society, for her +executive ability, and for her general public spirit. Her neglect of +family duties, her extravagance, her frequent absences, and her fatigued +petulance when at home were known only to her household. Our servants +rarely remained a month with us,--were changed so often as to destroy +all possibility of comfort; but we three were not free to follow their +example, and so our misery made us the dearer to one another. I am proud +to think that, close as we drew together, my father never uttered in my +presence a single word of criticism or complaint against my mother, and +I should be the better man if, instead of writing these unfilial words, +I left them unsaid. Indeed, I will not spend more of my evening on +these old memories, but begin on my work. + +Do you remember, Maizie, how my father taught us to give him and each +other a parting word? "Good-night, father. Good-night, Maizie. God bless +you both," it used to be. He sleeps now in his grave, and three years +ago you barred your door to me, but still I can say as of old, +"Good-night, Maizie. God bless and keep you, dear." + + + + +II + + +_February 21._ To put all this on paper is weak and aimless, yet it +seems to ease my sadness. I suppose a scribbler unconsciously comes to +write out whatever he feels, as a nervous woman plays her emotions away +on a piano. If this is so, why should not I salve my grief in any way +that lessens it? Those old days had such happiness in them that the mere +memory brings some to me, and to sit here at my study table and write of +the past is better than idle dwelling on the present. + +You were jubilant when first told that we were all to go to Europe for a +summer, and laughed at my fears and despondency. Could I have had an +intuition of coming evil, or was my alarm due to the engravings of +those terrible sea-monsters with which Mercator populated the oceans in +his "Atlas sive Cosmographic," and to the pictures and tales in +bloodthirsty old Exquemelin's "Bucaniers of America"? Our notions of +what the trip meant were evidently not very clear, for at once we set to +storing up provisions, and weeks before the time of sailing we were the +proud possessors of a cracker-box full of assorted edibles, a jar of +olives we had pilfered, and a small pie you had cajoled the cook into +making for us. How we loved and gloated over that pie! Daily we sorted +our sea-stores, added new supplies, and ate what clearly could be kept +no longer. My mother found us one day deeply engrossed in the +occupation, cuffed us both, and sent the olives back to the pantry and +the tin box to the ash-barrel. As for the pie, such hot words passed +about it between "Madame" and "Monsieur Philippe" that our cook left us +without warning. We were again punished for being the cause of his +desertion, and that evening father dined at his club. + +The different effects my mother's gusts of anger had on you and on me +were curiously distinctive. You met them fearlessly and stubbornly, +while to me the moments of her fury were moments in which I could +scarcely breathe, and of which I felt the terror for hours after. I +sometimes wonder if the variance was because I had learned to fear the +outbursts even as a baby, whereas your character had partly formed +before you encountered them. Who knows but a change of circumstances +might have made me the fearless one, and you the timorous? At least I +should be glad to think that I might have been like you in courage and +spirit, even though it is impossible to imagine that you could ever be +like me. It is a singular turn of life's whirligig that when my mother +tried to pain you last autumn by her cruel remarks, you were helpless +to retort, and owed your escape to my help. + +What a delight the ocean voyage was to us! Those were the times of +ten-day trips, still dear to all true lovers of the sea; and had our +wishes been consulted, thrice ten would have been none too long for our +passage. The officers, the crew, the stewards, and the passengers were +no more proof against your indefinable spell than was I, and it seemed +quite as if the boat were your private yacht, with all on board seeking +only to serve you. Our pleasure was so intense that we planned an ideal +future, in which I was to become the captain of a steam-ship, and you +were to live on the vessel in some equally delightful if impossible +capacity. + +The last time I was in Paris, I walked several miles merely to look at +the outside of our pension, and then went on and sat dreaming in the +little park near it in which we passed so many hours of our stay in +that city. As of old, the place was full of children and nurses, and I +understood what had puzzled me not a little in recollection,--how you +and I, without mingling with them, had learned so quickly the language +they chattered. Do you remember their friendly advances, met only by +rebuffs? My coldness flowed from shyness, and yours from a trait that +people to this day call haughtiness, but which I know to be only a +fastidious refinement that yields acquaintance to few and friendship to +fewer. From the moment you came into my life I craved no other friend, +and you seemed equally content. What was there in me that won for me +what you gave so rarely? Was there an instinct of natural sympathy, or +was it merely pity for me in the loving heart you masked behind that +subtle face? + +It is indicative of what children we still were that during the whole of +our sojourn in Paris neither of us was conscious that our standard of +living had changed. We lodged in a cheap pension; instead of our own +carriage we used the omnibus; and a thousand other evidences told the +story of real economy; yet not one we observed except the disappearance +of our _bonne_, and this was noted, not as a loss, but as a joy to both. + +After the nurse was gone my father became more than ever our comrade, +and a better one two children never had. Oh, those long excursions to +Versailles, Montmartre, and Fontainebleau, our boat trips up and down +the Seine, and our shorter jaunts within the city! What happiness it was +to us when he came in whistling and cried, "Donald, Maizie, you are +horribly bad children, and I'm going to take you on a lark to punish +you!" After time spent in filling our lunch-basket with big rolls bought +at the _boulangerie_, a few sous' worth of cherries or other fruit +lengthily bargained for with the _fruitier_, and a half litre of cheap +wine, plus whatever other luxuries our imaginations or our appetites +could suggest, away we would go for a long day of pure delight, whether +passed under green trees or wandering through galleries and museums. My +father was an encyclopdia of information, and had the knack of making +knowledge interesting to the child mind. He could re-create a bygone +period from a battle-axe or a _martel de fer_, the personality of a +queen from her lace ruff or stomacher, and the history of plant growth +from a fern or flower. If his mind had been allowed to expand when he +was young, instead of being stunted in a broker's office, I believe he +might have been one of the world's great writers or critics. + +Under such stimulating tutelage our progress in those two years was +really wonderful. No subject my father touched upon could remain dull; +we were at a receptive age when the mind is fresh and elastic for all +that interests it, and Paris was a great picture-book to illustrate +what he taught us. We did not know we were studying far deeper into +subjects than many educated people ever go. I laugh still at your +telling the old German on the train to Svres the history of the Faust +plot, and at his amazed "Ach, zo!" to hear such erudition pour from your +childish lips. I think you were the cleverer and the quicker, but there +was no competition, only fellowship about our learning. I suppose you +were above rivalry, as you are above all mean things. + +And that is your chief glory to me. In those seven years of closest +companionship, and in these last three years of lesser intercourse but +far keener observation, I have never known you to do a mean thing or to +speak a mean thought. I almost feel it treason to couple the word with +you, or deny a trait so impossible for you to possess, and of which you +have always shown such scorn and hatred. At this moment I know that I +should only have to speak to part you forever from--Ah, what +foolishness I am writing, tempting me to even greater meanness than his, +and so to deserve the greater contempt from you! Thinking me base, you +closed your doors to me three years ago, and I love you the better that +not even for auld lang syne could you pardon what is so alien to you. If +the day ever comes when you again admit me to your friendship, I shall +be happy in knowing that you think me above baseness or meanness; for +you would not compound with them, Maizie, be the circumstances what they +might. + +Our Paris life would not have been so happy and careless but for the +slight part my mother had in it. So little did we see of her in those +years that I think of her scarcely as one of us. I remember dimly a +scene of hot anger between her and my father,--he standing passively by +the high porcelain stove, while she raged about the room. So great was +her fury that once, in passing, as I crouched scared and silent on the +sofa, she struck me,--a blow which brought my father to my side, where +he stood protectingly while the storm lasted, with his hand resting +lovingly on my shoulder. My vague impression is that the outburst was +only a protest against the poor lodgings, but it may have occurred when +some explanation took place between my parents. I can see my mother now, +sitting on the little balcony overlooking the garden of our pension, +snarling an ill-natured word at us as you and I tried to play +consultation games of chess against my father. He gave us odds at first +of the rook and two pawns, but finally only of a knight. Oh, the triumph +of those victories! How we gloried in them, and how delighted our +antagonist was when we conquered him! Little we minded what my mother +did except when we happened to be alone with her, and I think that the +dear father played bad chess with us rather than good at the cafs, and +made us his companions wherever he went, to save us from her severity. + +I can recall very clearly her constant difficulties with our landlady +and the servants, which finally culminated in a request that we should +seek lodgings elsewhere. Do you recollect Madame Vanott's clasping us +both in her arms and filling our hands with bonbons, when the time of +parting came? I do not know where we removed to, my sole remembrance of +the next few weeks being of my mother's complaints of lodgings, food, +servants, and French life generally. We moved three times within a +month, fairly expelled by our landlords because they could not live at +peace with "la Madame." Our last exodus began in an angry scene between +her and the housewife, in which a gendarme played a part, and from which +you and I fled. The next morning we learned that my mother had +determined to return to America, and leave us to live our own life. +Three days later we said emotionless good-bys, my father going as far as +Havre with her. + +Her departure set us asking questions, and my father's replies explained +many things which, in our childish talks, we had gravely discussed. He +told us how his own wealth had been lost in Wall Street, barely enough +being left for a competence even in Europe. Of my mother's leaving us he +spoke sadly. "She never pretended to care for me," he said, "but I loved +her and was willing to marry her. The wrong was mine, and we should not +blame her if, when I can no longer give what was her price, she does not +choose to continue the one-sided bargain." At the time her absence +seemed to you and me only a relief, but now, as I look back, I know that +my father never ceased to love her,--all the more, perhaps, because his +love had never been requited,--and that separation must have been the +final wrecking of his life. Yet from the day she left us I never heard +him speak an angry word, and sorrow that would have crushed most men +seemed to make him the gentler and sweeter. I wish--Ah! the clock is +striking three, and if I am to bring working power to working hours I +must stop writing. + +Good-night, dear one. + + + + +III + + +_February 22._ After my mother left us we did not stay in Paris, but +went to Ischl, which we made merely the point of departure for walking +tours which often lasted for weeks. Several times I have spoken of the +region to you, hoping to draw from you some remark proving a +recollection of those days, but you always avoid reply. Yet I am sure +they are not forgotten, for miles of the Tyrol and Alps are as familiar +to me as the garnishings of a breakfast-table. My father had the tact +and kindly humor that make a man equally at home and welcome in +_Gasthaus_ and _Schloss_. Though we traveled with only a knapsack, his +breeding and education were so patent to whomsoever we met that we spent +many a night inside of doors with armorial coats of many quarterings +carved above them, and many a day's shooting and fishing followed. Yet +pleasant as was this impromptu and "gentle" hospitality, I think we were +all quite as happy when our evenings were spent among the peasants, +drinking beer, talking of farming and forestry, singing songs, or +listening to the blare of the peripatetic military band. + +My father was a fine German scholar, and you and I acquired the language +as quickly and as easily as we learned French. We always had books in +our pockets, and used to lie for hours under the trees, reading aloud. +Long discussions followed over what we had conned, enriched by the +thousand side-lights my father could throw on any subject. To most +people reading is a resort to save themselves from thinking, but my +father knew that pitfall, and made us use books as a basis for thought +on our own part. After a volume was finished we would each write a +criticism of it, and the comparison of my boyish attempts with his +brilliant, comprehensive, and philosophic work taught me more of writing +than all the tuition I ever had. + +My craving for knowledge, always strong, became inordinate, probably +because the acquisition of it was made so fascinating that I learned +without real exertion. I began to find limits even to my father's +erudition, and chafed under them. He reviewed his Greek that he might +impart it to us, as he had long before taught us Latin, and together we +all three studied Spanish and Italian. I was not satisfied, for my +desire for the one thing my father was unable to teach was not appeased +by the twenty which he could. I begged for regular tuition, and, +indulgent as he always was, he took us to Heidelberg, where I was +enrolled in the gymnasium. Yet the long hours of separation that this +entailed made little difference in our relations, since except for these +we were inseparable. Whenever my school-work left us time to quit +Heidelberg we made walking tours, and we availed ourselves of the summer +holiday to see far-away lands. The great libraries were our chief goals, +but everything interested us, from the archaic plough we saw in the +field to the masterpiece of the gallery. I do not know whether I was +dull for my years, but I do know that you were precocious and had no +difficulty in keeping up with me in my studies. Indeed, thanks to your +own brightness and to the long hours spent with my father while I was +reciting, you went ahead of me in many respects. It makes me very happy +now to think of what you two were to each other, and to know that you +are so largely indebted to him for the depth and brilliance of mind that +I hear so often commented upon. And I love you all the better because +you made those years so happy to him by your love and companionship. + +Last winter Mrs. Blodgett accused me of being a misogynist, and proved +her point by asking me to tell the color of Agnes's eyes. You and Agnes +only laughed when I miscolored them, but Mrs. Blodgett was really +nettled. "There!" she said. "Apparently, Agnes and I are the only women +you ever go to see or pretend to care for, and yet you think so little +of us that you don't know the color of our eyes." Had she only asked me +to describe your eyes in place of Agnes's I should not have erred, but I +suppose even then the world would be justified in thinking I do not care +for woman's society. Certainly you, of all others, have the right to +think so, after my twice refusing your friendship; and yet it is my love +of you far more than my studies or shyness that has made me indifferent +to other women. And so far from being a misogynist, I care for as few +men as women. You perhaps recall how much apart I kept myself from my +fellow students, and how my father had to urge me to join them in the +fencing and chess contests? Later, at the university, after you had +left us, I entered more eagerly into the two pastimes, and succeeded in +making myself a skilled swordsman. As for chess, I learned to play the +game you tested last October on the veranda of My Fancy. You looked +courteously grave when, after our initial battle, I had to ask from you +the odds of a pawn, and never dreamed that I fathomed your secret +triumph over your victory. You are so delightfully human and womanly, +after all, Maizie, to any one who can read your thoughts. It is a +pleasure to see your happiness in the consciousness of your own power, +and I grudge you victory over me no more than over other men. Yet while +you play better chess, I think you could not conquer me quite as easily +if I were not much more interested in studying the player than the play. +Perhaps but for you I should have made friends, for later, at Leipzig, +despite my shyness and studiousness, I seemed fairly popular; but so +long as I had you I cared for no other friend, and after our separation +I could form no new tie. Neither in love nor in friendship have you ever +had a rival in my heart. + +Our happiness ended the day when Johann, the poor factotum of our +lodging-place, found us in the castle park and summoned us back to the +house, where my father and Mr. Walton were awaiting you. The news that +we were to be parted came so suddenly that we could not believe it. I +stood in stunned silence, while you declared that you would not go with +your uncle; even in that terrible moment speaking more like a queen +issuing orders than like a rebel resisting authority. We both appealed +to my father, and the tears stood in his eyes as he told us we must be +parted. Mr. Walton sat with the cool and slightly bored look that his +worldly face wears so constantly, and I presume it was impossible for +him to understand our emotion. + +Your luggage had been packed while we were being summoned, and I carried +your bag down to the carriage, in the endeavor to do you some last +little service. We did not even go through the form of a farewell, but, +tearless and speechless, held each other's hands till my father gently +separated us. To this day the snap of a whip causes me to catch my +breath, it brings back so vividly the crack with which Mr. Walton's +cabman whipped up his horse. Fate was merciful, for she gave me no +glimpse of the future, and so left me the hope that we should not be +parted long. I question if the delicate lad of those days could have +borne the thought that our separation, enforced by others, would in time +be continued by you. + +The life was too happy to last; and yet I do not know why I write that, +for I do not believe that God's children are born to be wretched, and I +would sooner renounce my faith in him than believe him so cruel to his +own creations. The sadness and estrangement in my life are all of human +origin, and mine, it seems to me, has been a fuller cup of bitterness +than most men have to drink. Or am I only magnifying my own sufferings, +and diminishing those of my fellow mortals? To the world I am a +fortunate man, with promise of even greater success. Do all the people +about me, who seem to be equally prosperous, bury away from sight some +grief like mine that beggars joy? + +Can you, Maizie, in the tide and triumph of your beauty and wealth, hide +any such death-wound to all true happiness? Pray God you do not. +Good-night, my darling. + + + + +IV + + +_February 23._ After you were gone I fled to my room, crawling under the +window-seat, much as a mortally wounded animal tries to hide itself. +Here my father found me many hours later, speechless and shivering. He +drew me from my retreat, and I still remember the sting of the brandy as +he poured it down my throat. Afterwards the doctor came, to do nothing; +but all that night my father sat beside me, and towards morning he broke +down my silence, and we talked together over the light which had gone +out of our lives, till I fell asleep. He told me that the death of your +two aunts had made you a great heiress, and rendered your continuance +with us, in our poverty, impossible. "She's gone away out of our class, +Donald," my father said sadly, "and in the change of circumstances her +mother wouldn't have made me her guardian. It was better for all of us +to let her uncle take her back to New York." Even in my own grief I felt +his sorrow, and though he did not dodge my questions, I could see how +the subject pained him, and avoided it thenceforth. How strangely +altered my life would have been if I had insisted on knowing more! + +The doctor came several times afterwards, for I did not rally as I +should have done, and at last he ordered a year's cessation of studies +and plenty of exercise. It was a terrible blow to me at the time, for I +was on the point of entering the University of Leipzig; but now I can +see it was all for the best, since the time given to our tours through +Spain and Italy was well spent, and the delay made me better able to get +the full value of the lectures. Moreover, that outdoor life added three +inches to the height and seventeen pounds to the weight of the hitherto +puny boy. For a time my father made my health his care, and insisted on +my walking and fencing daily; but after that long holiday he need not +have given it a thought, for I grew steadily to my present height, and +while always of slender build, I can outwalk or outwork many a stockier +man. + +My university career was successful; it could hardly have failed to be, +with my training. I fear that I became over-elated with my success, not +appreciating how much it was due to my father's aid and to the kindness +of two of my instructors. For my Ph. D. I made a study of the great race +movements of the world, in which my predilection for philology, +ethnology, and history gave me an especial interest. I so delighted my +professor of philology by my enthusiasm and tirelessness that he stole +long hours from the darling of his heart to aid me. (I need hardly add +that I do not allude to Frau Jastrow, but to his Verb-Roots of Fifty-Two +Languages and Dialects of Indo-Germanic Origin, to be published some day +in seventeen volumes, quarto.) He even brought me bundles of his +manuscript to read and criticise. Our relations were as intimate as were +possible between a professor and a student, and despite his reputation +for ill temper the only evidence he ever gave me of it was a certain +querulousness over the gaps in human knowledge. + +My doctor's thesis on A Study of the Influence of Religion in the +Alienation and Mixture of Races--which, with a vanity I now laugh over, +I submitted not merely in Latin, but as an original work in four other +languages--was not only the delight of both my dear professors, but was +well considered outside the university. At Jastrow's urging, poor +Buchholtz printed editions in all five languages; and as only the German +had any sale worth mentioning, he ever after looked gloomy at a mere +allusion to the title. But though it earned me no royalties, it won me +the Kellermann prize, given every fifth year for the best original work +on an historical subject. + +On our first arrival in Leipzig my father sought literary employment +from the great publishers of that city of books, and soon obtained all +the "review" and "hack" writing that he wished. He encouraged me to help +him in the work, and in my training probably lay his chief inducement, +for he was paid at starvation rates in that land of hungry authors. The +labor quickly taught me the technical part of authorship, the rock which +has wrecked so many hopes. Our work brought us, too, the acquaintance of +many literary men, and thus gave us our pleasantest society, and one +peculiarly fitted to develop me. Furthermore, we secured command of the +unlimited books stored on the publishers' shelves, which we used as +freely as if they were our own private library. + +Very quickly I began to do more than help my father in his work; I +myself tried to write. He put many a manuscript in the fire, after going +over the faults with me, but finally I wrote something that he let me +send to an editor. His admirable judgment must have been warped by his +fatherly love, for the article was rejected. A like fate befell many +others, but at last one was accepted, and I do not know which of us was +the more delighted when it was published in the "Zeitschrift fr +Deutsche Philologie." By my father's advice it was signed with a +pseudonym; for he pointed out that I was still too young for editors who +knew me to give my manuscript a reading, and that a German name would +command greater respect from them than an English one. + +I received twenty marks for that first article, and spent it in secret +the next day. Had you known of my pleasure in the gift, and the hopes +that went with it, I think you would have sent a line of acknowledgment +to the hungry-hearted fellow who, after four years of separation, still +longed for a token from you. Three times had I written, without +response, but I thought the beauty of the photograph would so appeal to +you that it must bring me back a word from you, and lived in the hope +for six months. My father joked me genially about what I had done with +that vast wealth, pretending at moments that he believed it had been +avariciously hoarded, and at other times that it had been squandered in +riotous living, till one day, when all hope of acknowledgment had died, +his chaff wrung from me an exclamation of pain, suppressed too late to +be concealed from him. So closely attuned had we become that he +understood in an instant what it meant, and, laying his hand on my +shoulder, he appealed, "Forgive me, my boy! I have been very cruel in +my thoughtlessness!" + +Nothing more was said then, but later that evening, when we rose from +our work, he asked, "She never replied?" and when I shook my head, the +saddest look I ever saw in him came upon his face. He seemed about to +speak impulsively, faltered, checked himself, and finally entreated, +"Bear up, Donald, and try to forget her." I could only shake my head +again, but he understood. "She's feminine quicksilver," he groaned, "and +I can't get the dear girl out of my blood, either." We gripped each +other's hands for a moment, and I said, "Good-night, father," and he +replied, "God help you, my boy." How happy we should have been could we +have bidden you, "Good-night, Maizie!" + + + + +V + + +_February 24._ I cannot clearly fix the time when first I decided upon a +life of letters, and presume it was my father's influence which +determined me. After the publication of my first article, all the time I +could spare from my studies was devoted to writing. Most of it was +magazine work, but two text-books were more ambitious flights. +Undertaken at my father's suggestion, the books were revised by him, +till they should have been published with his name, and not my +pseudonym, on the title-page. This I urged, but he would not hear of it, +insisting that his work was trivial compared with mine. I understand his +motive now, and see how wise and loving he was in all his plans. Thanks +to his skill in clarifying knowledge and fitting it to the immature +mind, both books attained a large sale almost immediately on their +publication. + +My father's abnegation went further, and occasioned the only quarrel we +ever had. After the publication of several of my articles, in reading +the Deutsche Rundschau I found an interesting critique signed with the +name I had adopted as a pseudonym. I laughingly called my father's +attention to it, yet really feeling a little sore that the credit of my +work should go to another, for the first literary offspring are very +dear to an author's heart. From that time I was constantly meeting with +the name, but stupidly failed to recognize my father's brilliant, +luminous touch till the publication of another article of my writing +revealed the truth to me; for at the end of this I found again my +pseudonym, though I had signed my own name. On my sending an indignant +letter to the editor, he returned me the revised proof of my article, at +the bottom of which "Donald Maitland" was struck out, and "Rudolph +Hartzmann" substituted. My father had made the change in the last +revision, and had returned the sheets without letting me see them. + +In a moment the veil was gone from my eyes, and, grieved and angry, I +charged him with the deception. I do not like to think of what I said or +of the gentleness with which he took it. The next day, when I was +cooler, he pleaded with me to let him continue signing the name to his +articles; but I insisted that I would not permit the double use, and the +only concession he could win from me was that I would still keep the +name provided he refrained from using it again. How could I resist his +"Don, I never asked anything but this of you. I am an old man with no +possibility of a career. You are all I have to love or work for in this +world. Let me try to help you gain a name." Oh, father, if I had only +understood, I would not have been so cruel as to deny your request, but +would have sacrificed my own honesty and allowed the lie rather than +have refused what now I know to have been so dear a wish. I even +resented what I thought a foolish joke of his, when he registered us +constantly at hotels as "Rudolph Hartzmann and father." It is poetic +justice that in time I should stoop to so much greater dishonesty than +that which I was intolerant of in him. + +Owing as much to his articles as to those I subsequently wrote, my +pseudonym became a recognized one in the world of letters, and my work +soon commanded a good price. Furthermore, considerable interest was +excited as to the author. There is a keen delight in anonymous +publication, for one does not get the one-sided chatter that +acknowledged authors receive, and often I have sat in the midst of a +group of littrateurs and scholars and heard my articles talked over. I +was tempted even to discuss one,--disparaging it, of course,--and can +remember the way my father hid his laughter when a member of the party +said, "Maitland, you ought to write an article refuting Hartzmann, for +you've got the knowledge to do it." It amuses me to think how vain and +elated I became over what now I see was only 'prentice work. I am glad +you did not know me in those years of petty victory, and that before we +met I had been saddened and humbled. + +Some one at Mr. Whitely's dinner, this winter, asked what was a +sufficient income, and you, Maizie, gravely answered, "A little more +than one has," which made us all laugh. If you had not been the quicker +and the wittier, and thus forestalled me, I should have said, "Enough to +satisfy the few or many wishes each person creates within himself which +money can satisfy." Thanks to my prize, my writings, and the profits of +my text-books, I obtained this. In fact, the three so lengthened my +purse that I fancy few millionaires have ever felt so truly rich; for I +was enabled to gratify my greatest wish. In our visits to Spain, Italy, +and Constantinople, I had garnered all that I could find bearing on the +two great race movements of the Moors and Turks, which so changed the +world's history; but I had discovered that I needed more than the +documentary materials to write clearly of them. I longed to go to their +source, and then follow the channels along which those racial floods had +rushed, till, encountering the steel armor and gunpowder of Europe, they +had dashed in scattered spray, never to gather force again. In my +eagerness I had been for making the attempt before, but my father had +urged our limited means and the shortness of my university vacations as +bars to my wishes. My degree removed the one objection, and my earnings +and prize the other. Few persons would care to undertake the travel we +planned with the pittance we had earned, but it was enough for us. How +fortunate it is for me that my student life and travels trained me to +absolute self-denial and frugality! Otherwise these last three years of +closest economy and niggardliness would have been hard to bear. + +By the influence of Professor Humzel, working first through his former +pupil, Baron Weiseman, secondly through Giers, and thirdly through I +know not whom, we secured permission to join a Russian surveying party, +and thus safely and expeditiously reached the mountains of the Altai +range. We did not stay with the party after they began their work, but +assuming native dress we turned southward; plunging instantly among the +medley of peoples and tongues which actually realizes the mythical +Babel. Turkish, Hebrew, Arabic, and Sanskrit I had mastered in varying +degrees, and they were an "open sesame" to the dialects we encountered, +while the hot sun and open-air life soon colored us so deeply that we +passed for men of a distant but not alien race. Following nature's +routes, once man's only paths, we wandered leisurely: to Tashkend on +horseback, to Bokhara on foot, by boat down the Amoo to Khiva, and on to +Teheran, then by caravan to Bagdad, up the Euphrates, gradually working +through Asia Minor. Stopping at Smyrna for a brief rest, we took boat to +Cyprus, from thence crossed to Damascus, and from Jerusalem traveled +along the caravan route to Mecca. Passing over the Red Sea to Egypt, we +skirted the south coast of the Mediterranean, till we reached the +Pillars of Hercules. + +You ought to have made that pilgrimage. In speaking of my book you +expressed the wish that you might make such a trip, and those years +would have been as great a playtime to you as to us. You could have +borne the exposure, rough though the life was, and it would have been as +compound oxygen to your brave and venturesome nature. I confess I do not +like to think of that dazzlingly pure skin burned to any such blackness +as I saw in my mirror on reaching the end of our journeyings; for truly +no better Arab in verisimilitude strolled about the native quarter of +Tangier in May, 1886, than Donald Maitland. + +My long study of those older races and three years' life spent among +them have not made me accept their dogma of fatalism, yet I must believe +that something stronger than chance produced our meeting in that Moorish +town. Down streams, over mountains, and across deserts, seas, and +oceans, our paths had converged; on foot, mounted, by rail or boat, we +came together as if some hidden magnet were drawing us both. A thousand +chances were against our meeting, even when we were in the same town; +for you were housed in the best hotel, while we lodged in a little +Jewish place in the Berber quarter. In another day my father and I +should have crossed to Spain, without so much as a visit to the European +section. But for that meeting I should have returned to Leipzig, and +passed a contented life as a Herr Doctor and Professor; for though my +heart was still warm with love of you, it had been denied and starved +too long to have the strength to draw me from the path my head had +marked out. Yet I would not now accept the unemotional and peaceful +career I had planned in lieu of my present life; for if my love is +without hope, it is still love, and though you turned me away from your +door with far less courtesy than you would shut out a beggar, yet I am +near you and see you constantly, and that is worth more to me than +peace. Good-night, my love. God bless you. + + + + +VI + + +_February 25._ It was thought of you which led to our meeting. After the +evening meal of dried salt fish, pancakes, dates, and coffee, my father +and I wandered out to the Sok, and, as was our wont, sat down among the +people. Refusing the hasheesh water and sweetmeats which the venders +urged upon us, "to make you dream of your love joyfully," we listened to +the story-tellers and the singers. Some one with a fine natural voice +sang presently an Arabic love-song:-- + + "My love, so lovely yet so cruel, + Why came you so to torture me? + Could I but know the being who + Has caused you thus to hate me! + Once I saw and gazed upon your lovely form each hour, + But now you ever shun me. + Yet still each night you come in dreams + For me to ask, Who sent you? + Your answer is, Him whom I love, + And you bid me then forget my passion. + But I reply, If it was not for love, how could the world go on?" + +It was a song I had heard and loved in many lands and many dialects, but +that night it stirred me deeply, and brought to mind your image, ever +dear. I sat and dreamed of you till the farrago about me became +unbearable; and whispering a word to my father, I rose and strode away, +with a yearning truly mastering. I could have had no thought that you +were near, for when we stood far closer I was still unconscious of your +presence. But if not an intuition, I ask what could it be? + +Wandering through the narrow streets without purpose or goal, I +presently saw looming above me the great hill on which stands the +Alcassaba. Climbing in the brilliant moonlight up the steep and +ill-conditioned road, and passing that jumble of buildings upon which +so many races and generations have left their impress, I strolled along +the wall to a ruined embrasure at the corner overlooking the sea. How +long I stood there leaning upon the parapet I do not know. Not till you +were close upon me was I conscious that my solitude was ended. + +I heard footsteps, but was too incurious to turn and glance at the +intruders. Nay, more, when that harsh, strident, American voice +demanded, "There, isn't that great?" I felt so irritated by both tone +and words that but for the seeming rudeness I should have moved away at +once. You spoke so low I could not hear your reply, and I wonder what +you said,--for his "great" applied to such beauty must have rasped much +more on your artistic sense than it did on mine. + +"And this black fellow in the turban standing here," continued the +strident voice, "he fits, too, like the paper on the wall, though +probably he's a sentry taking forty winks on the sly. It makes an +American mad to see how slack things are run over here." + +I heard a gentle "Hush," and then a murmur as you went on speaking. + +"None of these black fellows speak English," came the self-assured voice +again. Then, though I could have heard his natural tone full fifty feet +away, the man called much louder: "Hey! what's the name of that point +out there?" + +I should have chosen to make no answer; but remembering the courtesy and +dignity of the race I was impersonating, I replied without turning, +"Cape Spartel." + +You must have said something, for a moment later he laughed, saying, +"Not a bit of it. Now see me jolly him up." I heard footsteps, and then +some one leaned against the parapet, close beside me. "Backsheesh," he +intimated, and jingled some coins in his pocket. + +I stood silent, so he tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Are you one +of the palace guards?" Unsuppressed by my monosyllabic "No," he +persisted by saying, "What's your business, then?" jingling his coins +again. "Stop pulling me, Mai," he added, as an aside. + +"I am a stranger in Tangier," I answered quietly. + +"From whereabouts?" he questioned. + +"The East." + +"Oh, you're one of the wise men, are you?" he observed jocosely. "Are +you a Jew or a Mohammedan?" + +"Not the latter, fortunately for you." + +"And why fortunately?" he nagged. + +"Because a true believer would have taken the question as a deadly +insult." + +"They'd be welcome," he laughed, "though it is rather irritating to be +mistaken for a Jew. I shouldn't like it myself." + +I thought of the dignified Jew traders who had made part of our caravan +in the journey from Bagdad to Damascus, and answered, "There is little +danger of that." + +"I guess not," he assented. "But if you aren't a Jew or a Mohammedan, +what are you?" + +He had spoiled my mood, and since it was gone I thought I would amuse +myself with the man. "A seeker of knowledge from the Altai Mountains," I +responded. + +"Never heard of them," he announced; "or is it your Choctaw for those?" +he added, pointing towards the dark masses of the Atlas Mountains. + +I smiled and answered, "They are many moons' travel from here." + +"Oh!" he exclaimed. "How did you happen to come?" + +"To follow after those gone before." + +"I see," he said. "Relatives, I suppose? Hope you found them well?" + +"No," I replied, carrying on the humor, "dying." + +He jingled his coins, and asked, "Anything to be done for them?" + +"Nothing." + +"What's the complaint?" + +"Civilization in the abstract, repeating rifles and rapid-firing guns in +the concrete." + +"Eh!" he ejaculated. + +Then the lowest and sweetest of voices said, "Won't you tell us what you +mean?" + +Was it my irritation that the man before me, rather than the +subtler-passioned people I knew so well, was the dominant type of the +moment, or was it the sympathy your voice stirred within me, which made +me speak? In a moment I was sketching broadly the inhumanity of this +thing we call Christian civilization, which, more grasping than the +Inquisition, has overrun the world, tearing the lands from their owners, +and, not content with this spoliation, demands of its victims that they +shall give up the customs of many centuries' evolution, and conform to +habits, governments, and religions which their very instincts make +impossible; and because they cannot change, but break out, these +believers in the golden rule shoot them down. I protested at the mockery +of calling civilized a world held at peace by constant slaughter, or of +styling the national Jack Ketches of humanity Christian nations! I +protested against the right of one man to hold another barbaric because +he will not welcome his master, greet with joy the bands of steel we +call railroads, and crush his nature within the walls of vast factories, +to make himself the threefold slave of society, government, and +employer. And finally, I gloried in the fact that though the white races +had found a weapon against the black and yellow ones which enabled them +to overrun and subjugate, yet nature had provided nature's people with +the defense of climate,--a death-line to the whites; and behind that +line the colored races are unconquerable in the sense of conquest +being extinction. I knew the other side, that altruistic tenet of +political economy defined in brief as "the greatest good of the greatest +number," and in my mind held the even balance of the historian between +the two; but to this utilitarian, modern, self-satisfied American I had +to urge the rights of races thousands of years our senior, and far in +advance of us in the knowledge and amenities that make life worth the +most. + +You both were silent till I ended; but I had best left unspoken what +your companion could not understand, for when I finished he inquired, +"What mountains did you say you came from?" And when I told him, he +added laughingly, "You must have some pretty good stump speaking in your +elections." + +"We are very grateful for your explanation," you thanked me gently. + +"Never been in America?" he surmised; and except for you I should have +told him that I was his countryman, it would have been so adequate a +retort to his inference. But your voice and manner had made me so +ashamed of my earlier mood that I merely answered, "Yes." + +"Humph!" he grunted in surprise; and as if to prove his incorrigibility +he continued, "Thought your ideas were too back-number for that." + +I could not help laughing, and the moment my laugh became articulate +yours too overflowed your lips, as a spring breaks past its edges and +falls rippling over pebbles. + +That laugh, so well remembered, revealed your presence to me. My heart +beat quickly and my head whirled dizzily, and in my bewilderment I took +a step backward, quite forgetting the embrasure, till a stone gave way +and I felt that I was falling. Then my consciousness went from me, and +when thought came surging backward I lay a moment quiet, thinking it +must have been a dream. + +"He's coming round all right," I heard, and at the sound I opened my +eyes. You were leaning over me with the moonlight shining on your face, +and I caught my breath, you were so beautiful. + +"You've given us a scare," continued the man, on whose knee my head was +resting. "You want to keep your wits about you better. Pretty poor +business tumbling off walls, but that's what comes of having ruins. You +won't be quite so cocky in the future about your run-out races." + +I felt his laughter justified, but hardly heeded it, my thoughts were so +engaged. You were wetting my forehead with brandy, and I lay there too +happy to speak. + +"Now let me raise you a bit higher," the man offered kindly, "so you can +get your addled senses back." He lifted me, and I groaned at the sudden +terrible pain that shot up my leg. + +"Hello!" he cried, laying me gently down. "Something wrong, after all? +What is it?" + +"My leg," I moaned. + +"Here, Maizie, hold his head, while I appoint an investigating +committee," he ordered, and in another moment I felt your arms about me, +and in my joy at your touch I almost forgot my torture. + +"Well, you've broken one of your walking-sticks," the man informed me, +after a gentler touching of it than I thought possible to his nature. +"Now, Maizie, if you'll sit and hold his head, I'll get a litter. You +won't mind staying here alone, will you?" + +"It is my wish," you acceded calmly. + +"O. K.," he said, rising, and even in his kindness he could not help but +seize the opportunity to glorify his country. "If this had happened in +New York, Mr. Altai, we'd have had an ambulance here five minutes ago! +Civilization isn't all bad, I tell you, as you'd find out if you'd +give it a chance." + +The moment he was gone I tried to speak, and murmured "Maizie;" but you +let me get no further, saying "Hush," and putting your hand softly over +my lips. I suppose you thought me merely repeating the name he had +called you, while I loved your touch too deeply to resist the hand I +longed to kiss. Now I am glad I did not speak, for if I had it would +have robbed me of my last sweet moment with you. + +Long before I thought it possible, and far too soon, indeed, despite my +suffering, we heard men approaching. When the torch-bearers came +climbing over the rocks, my first desire was to see how much of your +beauty was owing to the moonlight, and my heart leaped with exultation +to find that you were beautiful even in the livid glare of the torches. + +"Now, Mr. Altai," your companion remarked, "where shall we take you?" +and I gave him the name of the hotel. A moment later, as they lifted me, +I again fainted, but not till I had kissed your hand. You snatched it +away, and did not hear my weakly whispered "Good-night, Maizie." + + + + +VII + + +_February 26._ The setting of my leg, that night, was so long and +exhausting an operation that after it was done I was given an opiate. +Instead of bringing oblivion the drug produced a dreamy condition, in +which I was cognizant of nothing that happened about me, and saw only +your face. I knew I ought to sleep, and did my best to think of other +things; but try as I might, my thought would return and dwell upon your +beauty. + +I have often wished I had been born an artist, that I might try to paint +your portrait, for words can no more picture you than they can transmit +the fragrance of a violet. Indeed, to me the only word which even +expresses your charm is "radiant," and that to others, who have never +seen you, would suggest little. No real beauty can be described, for +it rests in nothing that is tangible. In truth, to speak of your +glorious hair, the whiteness of your brow and throat, the brilliant +softness of your eyes, or the sweetness yet strength of your tender +though unsmiling lips is to make but a travesty of description. I have +heard painters talk of your hair and try to convey an idea of its +beauty, but I know it too well even to make the attempt. When we were +gazing at the rainbow, last autumn, and you said that if its tints could +be transferred to a palette you believed it would be possible to paint +anything, I could not help correcting, "Except your hair." You laughed, +and declared, "I did not know you ever made that kind of a speech!" +whereupon Agnes cried, "Didn't I ever tell you, Maizie, the compliment +the doctor paid you last winter?" I thought she was alluding to my +retort when my mother asserted that your eyes were so large and lustrous +that, to her, they were "positively loud." Indignant at such a remark, +Agnes had appealed to me to deny it. Not caring to treat the malicious +speech seriously, I had answered that I could not agree, though I had +sometimes thought your eyes "too dressy for the daytime,"--a joke I have +heard so often quoted that it is apparently in a measure descriptive, +yet one which I should have felt mortified at hearing repeated to you. +Fortunately Agnes's reference was to another remark of mine, in which, +speaking of your mouth, I had crudely translated a couple of lines from +a Persian poem:-- + + "In vain you strive to speak a bitter word-- + It meets the sweetness of your lips ere it is heard." + +You were too used to compliments to be embarrassed when the lines were +repeated, and only looked at me in a puzzled way. I do not wonder you +were surprised at the implied admiration of the two speeches, after my +apparent coldness and indifference. My behavior must seem to you as +full of contradictions as your beauty is to me. To say your great +attraction is the radiance--the verve, spirit, and capacity for +enthusiasm--of which one cannot fail to be conscious is to deny the calm +dignity with which you bear yourself, yet both these qualities belong to +you. The world insists that you are proud and distant, and your face has +the clean-cut features which we associate with patrician blood, while +your height and figure, and the set and carriage of your head upon that +slender throat, suggest a goddess. But I, who understand you so much +better than the world, know that your proud face overlies the tenderest +of natures, and is not an index, but a mask of feelings you do not care +to show. As for the people who criticise you most, they would be the +last to do so if they were not conscious of the very superiority they +try to lessen.--Ah, how foolish it is to write all this, as if I needed +to convince myself of what I know so well! And even if this were for +the eye of others, to those who know you not it would be but the +extravagant idealism for which a lover is proverbial. + +When I awoke from the sleep my dreaming had drifted into, my first +request of my father was to find your whereabouts. He told me that a +dragoman had come that morning to inquire for me,--and had left what now +he showed me,--a great bunch of roses and a basket of fruit, with the +card of "Mr. Foster G. Blodgett, 547 Fifth Avenue," on the back of which +was written:-- + +"With sincere regrets that a previously formed plan of leaving Tangier +this morning prevents our seeing our courteous instructor of last night, +and with hopes that he may have a quick and easy recovery from his +accident." + +The card was a man's, but the handwriting was feminine, and the moment +my father turned his back I kissed it. I was further told that the +servant had asked my name and taken it down, giving me the instant +hope that when you knew to whom you had been so merciful, you would even +disarrange your plans to let me have a moment's glimpse of you. But +though I listened all the afternoon hopefully and expectantly, you never +came. I felt such shyness about you, I did not speak to my father of +your beauty, and he did not question me at all. + +Our native hotel, built in Eastern fashion about a court, with only +blank outside walls, was no place in which to pass a long invalidism, +and three days later my father had me carried to the steamer, and, +crossing to Gibraltar, we traveled by easy railroad trips to Leipzig. We +had left our belongings with Jastrow, and he begged us, on our arrival, +to become members of his household, which we were only too glad to do +for a time. His joy over my return was most touching, and he and Humzel +both seemed to regard me very much as if I were the creation of their +own brains, who was to bring them immortal fame in time. My father had +long before counseled me to be a pursuer of knowledge, and not of money; +telling me the winning of the latter narrowed the intellect and stunted +the finer qualities of one's nature, making all men natural enemies, +while the acquisition of the former broadened one's mind, developed the +nobility within, and engendered love of one's associates. These two men +illustrated his theory, and had my tendency been avaricious I think +their unselfish love and example would have made me otherwise. And yet, +how dare I claim to be free from sordidness, when all my thoughts and +hopes and daily life are now bent on winning money? + +My leg was far too troublesome to permit me to sit at a desk, but my +father insisted on being my scribe; and thus, lying on a lounge, I began +part of the work I had so long planned, taking up for my first book the +Turkish irruption, the crusades against the Saracens, and their +subsequent history. Thinking so much of you, both as the child who had +won my boyish heart and as the beautiful woman whose face had fascinated +and moved me so deeply, I do not know how, except for my work, I should +have lived through those long and weary months of enforced inaction +while my leg so slowly knit. + +More as recreation from this serious endeavor than as supplementary +labor, I gathered the articles I had written for the Deutsche Rundshau +and the Revue des Deux Mondes from time to time in our travels, and with +new material from my journal I worked the whole into a popular account +of what we had seen and done. While I still used a walking-stick I was +reading proof of the German edition, and my English replica, rather than +translation, was under negotiation through my publisher for London and +New York editions. My father, who busied himself with a French version, +insisted that the book would be a great success, and the articles under +my assumed name had been so well noticed that I was myself hopeful of +what better work in book form might do for my reputation; for against +his advice, I had determined to abandon my pseudonym. + +But all these schemes and hopes were forgotten in the illness of my +father. Contrary to my wishes, he had overworked himself in the French +translation, while his life, for months of my enforced inactivity, had +been one long service, impossible for me to avoid or refuse without +giving him pain. This double exertion proved too great a strain. The day +after he sent the manuscript to Paris, as he sat conning the sheets of +the concluding chapter of my history, he laid them down without a word, +and, leaning forward, quietly rested his head upon the table. I was by +his side and had him on the sofa in an instant, where he lay +unconscious till the doctor came. We were told that it was a slight +stroke, and by the next day he seemed quite well. But slowly he lost the +use of one side, and within a week was helpless. I like to remember that +I was well enough to tend him as he had tended me. He lingered for a +month, sweet and gentle as always; then, one evening, as I sat beside +him, he opened his eyes and said, "Good-night, Don. Good-night, Maizie." +And with those words his loving soul went back to its Creator. + +I found about his neck a ribbon to which was attached a locket +containing the long tress you cut off for him that day in the Bois, one +of my mother's curls, and a little tow-colored lock which I suppose was +my own hair before it darkened,--a locket I have since worn unchanged, +because, sadly discordant though such association has become, I cannot +bring myself to separate what he tied together. It seems to symbolize +his love for all of us. + +The kindness of my friends I can never forget. I was so broken down as +really to be unfit for thought, and their generous foresight did +everything possible to spare me trouble or pain. Especially to Professor +and Frau Jastrow do I owe an unpayable debt, for they made me feel that +there was still some one in whose love I stood first; and had I been the +child who had never come to them, I question if they could have done +more for me than they did. + +One thing that I had to do myself was to notify my mother of my father's +death. From the time she had quitted us my father and I had avoided +mention of her; but during his illness he asked me to write in case of +his death, and gave me her New York address, from which I inferred that +in some way he had kept himself informed concerning her, though I feel +very certain that she had never written him. That I had never tried to +learn anything myself was due to the estrangement, but still more to my +interest in my studies and work. Now I wrote her, as I had promised, +telling her briefly the circumstances of my father's illness and death, +and offering to write fuller details if she wished to know them. I would +not feign love for her, but I wrote tenderly of him and without coldness +to her. She never replied. + +Kind as were all my intimates, I craved more than friendship, however +loving it might be. One of the two great loves of my life had gone out +from it, and, in the gap it left, the other became doubly dear to me. +The wish to see you grew and strengthened each day, until at last it +shaped my plans, and I announced my intention to visit America; making +the specious explanation that, after my long invalidism and grief, the +change would be the best specific for me. + +At this time I received the offer of appointment as professor +extraordinarius of philology and ethnology under Jastrow, another +manifestation of his love; but till I had seen you I would not bind +myself by accepting, and through his influence I was given three months +to consider my answer. I seem doomed never to requite the services of +those I love the most, but I am glad that in the nine months which I +passed under his roof my knowledge of the Eastern dialects had pushed +his work so much nearer completion. + +Leaving all my possessions behind except the manuscript of my history, I +started on my voyage of love. For two days I tarried in Paris, settling +my little property. I had long known that the flotsam of my father's +fortune, wrecked in Wall Street, was a few bonds deposited with Paris +bankers; and when I called upon the firm it was merely to continue the +old arrangement, by which they cut the coupons and placed them to my +bank credit. It was in this visit that I searched out our old pension, +and sat dreaming in the park. How could I imagine, remembering those +days of closest love and sympathy, and knowing too your kindness to one +you thought a mere Eastern stroller, that you could have changed so to +your former friend? + +The most curious fact to me, in looking back upon that time, is that the +idea never occurred to me that you were a married woman. It never +entered my thoughts that a beauty which fascinated and drew me so far +from my natural orbit must be an equally powerful charm to other men. As +for Mr. Blodgett, I never gave him a second thought, not even accounting +for his relations with you. My foolishness, I suppose, is typical of the +scholar's abstraction and impracticality. + +As the steamer neared New York, my impatience to see you increased +apace. Far from longing for our old ten-day passage, I found a voyage of +seven days too long. Ridiculous as it may seem, I almost lost my temper +at the slowness of the customs examination. I believe I was half mad, +and only marvel that I did so sane a thing as to go to a hotel, change +my clothes, and dine, before attempting to see you. + +I ascertained Mr. Walton's address the moment I reached my hotel, and +sent a messenger there to inquire your whereabouts. He brought me back +word that Mr. Walton was absent from the city, but the servant had +informed him that you still lived with your uncle and that you were in +town. + +I cannot tell you the surprise and joy I felt when, on arriving at your +house on Madison Avenue that evening, I discovered it to be our old +habitat. It seemed as if your selection of that as your home, probably +from sentiment, was a bow of promise for the future, and I rang the +bell, almost trembling with emotion and happiness. + +The footman showed me to the drawing-room and took my card. All inside, +so far as I could see, was changed past the point of recognition, but +everything was beautiful, and I felt in that one room that no +decorator's conventional taste had formed its harmony, but that an +artistic sense had planned the whole. What a contrast it was to the old +days of untasteful and untidy richness! + +I sat but a moment before the footman returned. Looking not at me, but +over my head, and with an attitude and air as deferential as if I were +the guest of all others most welcome, he said, "Miss Walton declines the +honor of Mr. Maitland's acquaintance, and begs to be excused." + +The blow came so suddenly, and was so crushing, that for a moment I lost +my dignity. "There must be some mistake!" I exclaimed. "You gave Miss +Walton my card?" + +The footman only bowed assent. + +"Go to Miss Walton and say I must see her a moment." + +"Miss Walton instructed me to add, in case Mr. Maitland persisted, that +she prefers to hold no intercourse with Mr. Maitland and will receive no +messages from him." + +Pride came to my rescue, and I passed silently into the hall. The +servant opened the door, and I went out from my old home, never to enter +it more. At the foot of the steps I turned and looked back, hardly yet +believing what I had been told. Even in the sting and humiliation of +that moment my love was stronger than the newer sensations. I said, +"Good-night, Maizie. God keep you," and walked away. + + + + +VIII + + +_February 27._ I sat for hours in my room, that night, trying to find +some solution of the mystery and groping for a future course of action. +I thought of a visit to my mother, on the chance that she would give me +the key to the puzzle, but could not bring myself to it. Rejecting that +idea, I decided to seek out Mr. Blodgett, who, being your friend, might +know the reason for what you had done. + +Finding on inquiry, the next morning, that Mr. Blodgett was a member of +one of the chief banking firms of New York, I went to his office. The +ante-room was well filled with people anxious to see the great banker, +and the door-boy refused me access to him without giving my name and +business. Knowing that "Donald Maitland" would mean nothing to Mr. +Blodgett, and might even fail to secure me an audience, I wrote on a +slip of paper, "A seeker of knowledge from the Altai Mountains." Nor was +I wrong, for the boy, on his return, gave me immediate entrance, and +another moment brought me face to face with my once-disliked countryman. + +His hand was extended to greet me, but as he looked at my face his arm +dropped in surprise. "Your name, please?" he demanded, with a +business-like clip to his voice, at the same time picking up and +glancing quickly at three or four cards and slips of paper that were on +the corner of his desk. + +"I am the attorney for ancient peoples," I announced, smiling, "come to +thank the New World for its kindness to a broken-legged man." + +Instantly Mr. Blodgett smiled too, and again extended his hand. "Glad to +see you," he said. "Sit down." Then looking at me keenly, he added, +"You've done a lot of bleaching or scrubbing since we met." + +"In the interval my face has been hidden from the sun-god of my +fathers." + +"Ah!" Then his Americanism cropped out by a question: "Are you European +or Asiatic?--for you are too dark to be the one, and too white to be the +other." + +"My parents were American, and I was born in New York." + +"The deuce you were! Then why were you masquerading in Arab dress and +with a brown face in Tangier, and why did you say you came from some +mountains in Asia?" + +"I was for the time an Arab, and I was last from the Altai Mountains," I +explained, and smilingly added, "Is my explanation satisfactory?" + +"Well, I suppose you spoke by the book," he replied. "Wherever you were +born, I'm glad to see--Hold on!" he cried, interrupting his own speech. +"Why did you call yourself Dr. Rudolph Hartzmann, of Leipzig, if you +were an American?" + +"I did not," I denied, startled by his question, for my identity with +the pseudonym was known only to my professors and publishers. + +"You weren't living in Tangier under the name of Hartzmann?" he +inquired. + +"No." + +"Then how came it that when my servant was sent to leave some fruit and +flowers for you and inquire your name, he was told that you were Dr. +Rudolph Hartzmann, of Leipzig?" + +"Are you serious?" I questioned, as much puzzled as he for the moment. + +"Never more so. I remember our astonishment to think that any European +should have so dark a skin and live in the native quarter." + +"Mr. Blodgett," I explained, "I did not know till this moment that a pen +name I have used to sign my writings had been given you, but it was a +joke of my father's to register me under it, and my only theory is that +he had given some one in the hotel that name, and, by mischance, your +servant was misinformed." + +He was too good a business man to look as skeptical as he probably felt, +and merely asked, "What is your real name, then?" + +"Donald Maitland, son of William Maitland." + +His eyes gave a startled wink and he screwed his lips into position for +a whistle, but checking the inclination, he merely turned his +revolving-chair so that he looked out of a window. He sat thus for a +moment, and then, facing me, he questioned, with a sudden curtness of +voice and manner, "What is your business with me?" + +"I have taken the liberty of calling on the supposition that you are a +friend of Miss Walton." + +"I am." + +"Miss Walton was once my father's ward, yet last night she refused to +see me. Can you tell me why?" + +"The reason is rather obvious," he asserted crisply. + +"Will you tell me what it is?" + +He looked at me from under his gray eyebrows. "Is that all you want of +me?" he demanded. + +"Yes." + +"Well, then, Miss Walton refused to see you because she despises you." + +I felt my cheeks burn, but I gripped the arm of my chair and waited till +I could speak coolly; then I asked, "For what?" + +"You are ignorant of the fact that your father embezzled a part of Miss +Walton's fortune, and that you and he have since lived upon it?" he +exclaimed, with no veiling of his contempt. + +I sat calmly, for the idea was too new, and I had too many connecting +links to recall, to have the full horror of the disgrace come home to me +at once. He did not give me time for thought, but interrogated, "Well?" + +Having to speak, I asked, "You are sure of what you say?" + +"Sure!" he ejaculated. "Why, it's been known to every one for years, and +I was one of the trustees appointed by the court to look out for Miss +Walton's interest in what property your father couldn't take with him!" + +"If you are a trustee of Miss Walton," I said, growing cool in my agony +of shame, "can you spare me five minutes and answer some questions?" + +That I did not deny knowledge of the wrong seemed to raise me in his +opinion, for he nodded his head and looked less stern. + +"How much did my father--How much did Miss Walton lose?" I inquired. + +"One hundred and thirty thousand was all the property he could +negotiate, and we succeeded, by bidding in his house over the mortgage +and by taking the library at a valuation, in recovering twenty-six +thousand." + +"Was that amount net?" + +"Yes." + +"Then in 1879 the amount due Miss Walton was one hundred and four +thousand dollars?" + +"Yes." + +"Thank you, Mr. Blodgett," I added, rising. "I am only sorry, after your +former kindness, to have given you this further trouble. I am grateful +for both." In my shame I did not dare to offer him my hand, but he held +out his. + +"Mr. Maitland," he rejoined, "I'm a pretty good judge of men, and I +don't believe you have done wrong knowingly." + +"I never dreamed it," I almost sobbed, shaking his hand. + +"It's pretty rough," he said. "I hope you won't show the white feather +by doing anything desperate?" + +I shook my head, and walked to the door. As I reached it a new thought +occurred to me, and, turning, I asked, "What has the legal rate of +interest been since 1879?" + +For reply he touched an electric button on his desk, and I heard the +lock click in the door by which I stood. He pulled a chair near his own, +and commanded, "Come here and sit down," in such a peremptory tone that +I obeyed. "Why did you ask that question?" he catechised. + +"That I may find out how much I owe Miss Walton." + +"What for?" + +"To attempt restitution." + +"I hope you know what you're talking about?" + +"I'm still rather confused, but so much I can see clearly enough." + +"How much property have you?" + +"My father left me something over thirty-one thousand dollars." + +"Thirty-one from one hundred and four leaves seventy-three." + +"And interest," I corrected. + +"I thought that was what you were driving at," he surmised calmly. He +pulled out a volume from its repository in his desk, and turned +backwards and forwards in the book for a few moments, taking off figures +on a sheet of paper. "Eight years at five per cent makes the whole over +one hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars less thirty-one." + +"Thank you." + +"Where can you get the balance?" + +"I must earn it." + +He looked at me with a slightly quizzical expression and asked, "How?" + +"That I have yet to think out." + +"Any business?" + +"I have the offer of a professorship at Leipzig, but that's out of the +question now." + +"Why?" + +"It would give me only two thousand a year at first, and the interest on +the debt will be over six thousand annually." + +"What do you know?" he questioned. + +"Most of the languages and dialects of Europe and Asia, and a good deal +of history and ethnology. I am fairly read in arts, sciences, and +religions, and I know something of writing," I answered, smiling at the +absurdity of mentioning such knowledge in the face of such a condition. + +"Humph! And you'd have sold all that for two thousand a year?" + +"I think so." + +"Well, that only proves that a man had better cultivate his gumption, +and not his brains!" + +"If he wishes to make money," I could not help retorting gently. + +"You're just like Maizie!" he sniffed, and his going back to your +familiar name in my presence was the best compliment he could have paid +me. "You two ought to have died young and gone to heaven, where there's +nothing to do but cultivate the soul." + +"I wish we had!" + +"Why don't you go to your mother?" + +"For what?" + +"For the money." + +"Has she money?" + +"Yes. She had a little money when she married your father, which she +kept tight hold of; her mother's death, two years ago, gave her more, +and she has just married a rich man." + +"I don't know yet what I shall do," I replied, rising. + +"Well," he advised kindly, "before you blow your brains out or do +anything else that's a waste of good material, come and see me again." + +"Thank you," I responded. "And, Mr. Blodgett, as a favor, I ask that all +I have told you, and even my presence in New York, shall be confidential +between us." + +"Nonsense!" he growled. "I shall tell Maizie all about it." + +"Miss Walton least of any," I begged. + +"Why don't you insist, too, that Mrs. Blodgett, who intends that I shall +inform her nightly of everything I know, sha'n't be told?" he queried. + +"It grieves me to be a marplot of connubial confidences," I rejoined, +responding to his smile, "but this must be between us." + +"Have your own way," he acceded, and then laughed. "I'll have a good +time over it, for I'll let Mrs. Blodgett see there is a secret, and +she'll go crazy trying to worm it out of me." + +He shook my hand again, and I felt ashamed to think that his voice and +manner had once made me hold him in contempt. + +I went back to the hotel, and thought over the past, seeing how blind I +had been. Now for the first time everything became clear. I understood +the trip to Europe and our remaining there, why my mother had left us, +why Mr. Walton had been permitted to take you from us without protest, +why we had not mingled with Americans, and my father's motives in making +me write under a pen name, in registering me at hotels by it, and in +giving that name to your servant. Now it was obvious why he never signed +his articles, and why he appealed to me to let him aid me to make a +reputation: it was his endeavor to atone to me for the wrong he had +done. + +Good-night, my love. + + + + +IX + + +_February 28._ Many times in the last three years I have begun a letter +to you, for the thought that you, like the rest of the world, may rank +my father with other embezzlers stings me almost to desperation. Each +time it has been to tear the attempted justification--or I should say, +extenuation--into fragments, long before it was completed. In all my +trials I have come to realize that nothing I can say can stand him in +stead; for whatever I urge is open to suspicion, not merely because it +is my interest to condone his act, but still more because it inevitably +becomes an indirect justification of myself, and therefore, in a sense, +a plea for pardon. + +At moments, too, when with you, I have had to exercise the greatest +self-control not to tell you what I feel. If I were only some one else +than Donald Maitland, so that I might say to you:-- + +"You should know that your guardian was incapable of the lowness the +world imputes to him! I am not trying to belittle the sin, but to +distinguish the motive. His wrong was no mean attempt to enrich himself +at the expense of one he loved, for his nature was wholly unmercenary, +and his transgression originated, not through greed, but through lack of +it. Like all men of true intellect, he was heedless in money matters, +and I am conscious that there was in him, as there is in me, the certain +weakness which is almost inevitable with mind cultivation,--an +engulfing, as it were, of the big principles of right and wrong in the +complexities and the refinements of cultivated thought. His birthright +was scholarship, but in place of the life he was fitted for he was +forced into Wall Street, and toiled there without sympathy or aptitude +for his work. Do you not remember how, aside from our companionship, his +books were his one great pleasure? The wealth of mind he gave to us +tells the story of how he must have neglected his office in favor of his +library. Yet though this preference might have made him a poor man, I +cannot think his studies would ever have led him into dishonesty. I have +never had the heart to trace the history of his act, but Mr. Blodgett +tells me that shortly after his marriage he first began to speculate, +and knowing as I do my mother's extravagance and my father's love for +her, I can understand the motive. The inevitable result came presently, +and, as a temporary expedient, a small part of your property was used. +Then a desperate attempt was made to recover this by the risking of a +larger portion, and after that there was nothing left but confession or +flight. I wish he had spoken, but the weakness that produced the first +wrong accounts for the second, and I believe his chief thought was of +me, and how I might be saved from the consequences of his guilt. Unless +you have put him wholly out of your heart, you must appreciate that it +was no sordid scheme to cheat you, but a surrender to the love strong +enough to overcome his honesty. You must know that he loved you too well +to wrong you willingly, and I think with pain of what I am sure he must +have suffered in his shame at having robbed you. Do you not remember the +sadness in his face in those later years, and his tenderness to both of +us? Can you not see that his kindness, his patience, and his care of us +were his endeavored atonement?" + +Oh, Maizie, I ask nothing for myself, but if you could be brought to +think of him, to love him, as you once did, my greatest grief would be +ended. + +Bitter as my misery was after Mr. Blodgett's revelation, there was +still some sweetness to make it bearable. For years I had thought of +you as heartless and forgetful, and even in my love had hated and +despised you at moments, as only love can hate and despise. The world +thinks that animosity is always strongest against enemies, though daily +it sees the intensest feuds between those nations and individuals who +are most closely related, and never learns that the deepest hatred comes +from love. Now I knew that you had cause for slighting my letters and +gift, and the knowledge of my injustice and the thought that you were +more lovable than ever were the silver lining to my cloud of shame. + +My first meeting with you was a pure chance, yet it shaped my life. For +three weeks after my call on Mr. Blodgett I pondered and vacillated over +what I should do, without reaching any decision. At the end of that time +I went to his office again. + +"Mr. Blodgett has asked two or three times if you hadn't called," the +boy informed me; adding, as he opened the door to the private office, +"He told me, if you ever came again, sir, to show you right in." + +I passed through the doorway, and then faltered, for you were sitting +beside the banker, overlooking a paper that he was commenting upon. +Could I have escaped unnoticed, I should have done so; but you both +glanced up as I entered. + +The moment you saw me you rose, with an exclamation of recognition and +surprise, which meant to me that you knew your old friend in spite of +the changes. Do you wonder that, not foreseeing what was to come, I +stood there as if turned to stone? My manner evidently made you question +your own eyes, for you asked, "Is not this Dr. Hartzmann?" + +"Of course it is!" cried Mr. Blodgett, with a quickness and heartiness +which proved that your question was almost as great a relief to him as +it was to me. + +"I did not think, Miss Walton," I replied, steadying my voice as best I +could, "that you saw my face clearly enough that evening, to recollect +it?" + +"The moonlight was so strong," you explained, "that I should have known +you anywhere." + +"Then your eyes are better than mine," asserted Mr. Blodgett. "I accused +the doctor of using blondine, to atone for my not recognizing him, +though I must confess he will have to use a good deal more if he wants +to be thought anything but Italian." + +"Then you have met before?" you questioned. + +"Yes," replied Mr. Blodgett. "I was going to tell you when we got +through with that mortgage. I knew you would be interested to hear that +the doctor was in New York. Seems like Tangier, doesn't it?" + +"In reminiscence," I assented, merely to gain time. + +"None of your rickety ruins," chuckled Mr. Blodgett. + +"But more ruin," you said. + +"And more danger," I added, pointing out of the window at the passers-by +in Wall Street. "Nowhere in my travels, even among races that have to go +armed, have I ever seen so many anxious and careworn faces." + +"Most of them look worried," suggested Mr. Blodgett, "only because they +are afraid they'll take more than three minutes to eat their lunch." + +For a moment you spoke with Mr. Blodgett on business, and then offered +me your hand in farewell, saying, "I am very glad, Dr. Hartzmann, for +this chance reunion. Mr. Blodgett and I have often spoken of the +mysterious Oriental who fell in--and out--of our knowledge so +strangely." + +"I have wished to meet you, Miss Walton," I responded warmly, "to thank +you for your kindness and help to me when"-- + +"That was nothing, Dr. Hartzmann," you interrupted, in evident +deprecation of my thanks. "Indeed, I have always felt that we were in a +measure responsible for your accident, and that we made but a poor +return by the little we did. Good-morning." + +Mr. Blodgett took you to your carriage, and when he returned he gave a +whistle. "Well!" he exclaimed. "I haven't gone through such a ten-second +scare since I proposed to my superior moiety." + +"I ought"--I began. + +But he went on: "There's nothing frightens me so much as a wrought-up +woman. Dynamite or volcanoes aren't a circumstance to her, because they +have limits; but woman!" + +I laughed and said, "The Hindoos have a paradox to the effect that +women fear mice, mice fear men, and men fear women." + +"She got so much better and longer look at you in Tangier than I did +that I don't wonder she recognized Dr. Hartzmann when I didn't. But why +did she stop there in her recollections?" + +"It appeared incomprehensible to me for a moment, yet, as a fact, her +knowing me as Donald Maitland would have been the greater marvel of the +two. When she knew me, I was an undersized, pallid, stooping lad of +seventeen. In the ten years since, my hair and skin have both darkened +greatly, I have grown a mustache, and my voice has undergone the change +that comes with manhood, as well as that which comes by speaking foreign +tongues. Your very question as to whether I was of Eastern birth tells +the whole story, for such a doubt would seem absurd to one who +remembered the boy of ten years ago. Then, too, Miss Walton, having +recognized me as Dr. Hartzmann, was, as it were, disarmed of all +suspicion by having no question-mark in her mind as to my exact +identity." + +Mr. Blodgett nodded his head in assent. "And you don't know it all," he +informed me. "I'm going to be frank, doctor, and acknowledge that I've +expressed a pretty low opinion of you to her more than once. If Maizie +were asked what man in this world she'd be least likely to meet in my +office on a friendly footing, she would probably think of you. Your +presence here was equivalent to saying that you weren't Donald Maitland, +let alone the fact that I greeted you as Dr. Hartzmann, and that she +could never dream of my having a reason to deceive her in your +identity." + +"Such a chain of circumstances almost makes one believe in kismet," I +sighed. Then I laughed, and added, "How easy it is to show that one need +not be scared--after the danger is all over!" + +"That isn't the only scare I owe to you," muttered Mr. Blodgett. "I +didn't take your address because I told you to come again. Why didn't +you?" + +"I am here." + +"Yes. But for three weeks I've been worrying over what you were doing +with yourself, and not knowing that you hadn't cut your throat." + +"I am sorry to have troubled you. I stayed away to save troubling you." + +"You're as considerate as the Fiji islander was of the missionary, when +he asked him if he had rather be cooked _ la matre d'htel_ or _en +papillote_. What have you been doing?" + +"Very little to any purpose. I have written to my publisher, offering to +sell my rights in my text-books; to a friend, asking him to learn for +what price he can sell my library; and to my bankers, directing them to +send me the bonds and a draft for my balance. I received the securities +and a bill of exchange yesterday, and am so ignorant of business +methods that I came to you this morning to learn how to turn them into +cash." + +"I'll do better than that," volunteered Mr. Blodgett, touching a button. +"Give them to me, and I'll have it done." Then, after he had turned the +matter over to a clerk, he asked, "What does your publisher offer?" + +"Thirty-five hundred." + +"And what are your royalties?" + +"Last year they were over six hundred dollars." + +"Humph! That's equivalent to investing money at eighteen per cent. You +ought to get more than that." + +"A little more or less is nothing compared with paying so much on my +debt." + +"What will your library bring?" + +"Perhaps four thousand, if I can find some one who wants so technical a +collection." + +"And you can get along without it?" + +"I must," I declared, though wincing a little. + +"Rather goes against the grain, eh?" he rejoined kindly. + +I tried to laugh, and said, "My books have been such good comrades that +I haven't quite accustomed myself yet to thinking of them as +merchandise. I feel a little as the bankrupt planter must have felt when +he saw his slave children offered for sale." + +"And what do you plan to do with yourself?" + +"I haven't been able to make up my mind." + +We were interrupted at this point by some business matter, and I took my +leave. The next morning Mr. Blodgett called at my boarding-place on his +way down town. + +"I haven't come to talk business," he announced. "I told my wife and +daughter, last night, about the fellow from the backwoods of Asia, and +made them so curious that Mrs. Blodgett has given me permission to +furnish him board and lodgings for a week. I'll promise you a better +room than this," he added, glancing at the box I had moved into as soon +as I realized how much worse than a pauper I was. + +I could hardly express my gratitude as I tried to thank him, but he +pretended not to perceive my emotion, and said briskly: "That's settled, +then. Send your stuff round any time to-day, and be on deck for a +seven-o'clock dinner." + +You, who know Mrs. Blodgett so much better than I, can understand my +bewilderment during the first day or two of my visit. Her husband had +jokingly pictured me as of an Eastern race, which made the meeting +rather embarrassing; but the moment she comprehended that I did not +habitually sit on the floor, did not carry a scimiter or kris, and was +not unwashed and ferine, but only a dark skinned, dark haired, and very +silent German scholar, she took possession of me as I have seen her do +of others. She preceded me to my room, ringing for a servant on the +way, made me open my trunk, and directed the maid where to put each +article it contained. She told me what time to be ready for dinner, what +to wear for it, and at that meal she had me helped twice to such dishes +as she chose, while refusing to let me have more than one cup of coffee. +To a man who had never had any one to look after him in small things it +was a novel and rather pleasant if surprising experience, and when I +grew accustomed to it I easily understood Mr. Blodgett's chuckles of +enjoyment when she told him he shouldn't have a third cigar, when she +decided how close he was to sit to the fire, and finally when she made +all of us--Agnes, Mr. Blodgett, and myself--go to bed at her own hour +for retiring. Best of all I understood Mr. Blodgett's familiar name for +her, "the boss." That visit was a perfect revelation to me of +affectionate, thoughtful, and persistently minute domineering. I do not +believe that the man lives, though he be the veriest woman-hater, who +could help loving her after a fortnight of her tyranny. Certainly I +could not. + +By Mr. Blodgett's aid I secured a "paper" cable transfer of the money +realized from the bonds and draft, in order that it might seem to come +from Europe, and sent it to you, writing at his suggestion, "The +inclosed draft on Foster G. Blodgett & Co. for the sum of thirty-three +thousand dollars is part payment of principal and interest due you from +estate of William G. Maitland." I wonder what your thoughts were as you +read the unsigned and typewritten note? + +It was your greeting of me by my alias that led me to accept the +incognito. Perhaps it was cowardly to shirk my shame by such a means, +but it was not done from cowardice; the thought did not even occur to me +until it opened a way to knowing you. And in that hope my very misery +became almost happiness, for its possibilities seemed those of the +Oriental poet who wrote:-- + + "My love once offered me a bitter draught + From which in cowardice I flinched. + But still she tendered to me; + And bowing to her wish, I then no longer shrank, + But took the cup and put it to my lips. + Oh, marvel! gazing still at her, + The potion turned to sweetness as I drank." + +If your old friend, Donald Maitland, were dead to you, your new lover, +Rudolph Hartzmann, might fill his place. I never stopped to think if +such trickery were right, or rather my love was stronger than my +conscience. + +Good-night, my dearest. + + + + +X + + +_March 1._ During my visit I heard much about you from Mrs. Blodgett and +Agnes, for your name was constantly on their lips. From them I learned +that your birth, wealth, and the influence of your uncle had involved +you in a fashionable society for which you cared nothing, and that, +aside from the gayety which that circle forced upon you, your time was +spent in travel, and in reading, music, and charitable work. Except for +themselves, they averred, you had no intimate friends, and their +explanation of this fact proved to me that you had taken our separation +as seriously as had I. + +"After Mr. Walton brought her to America she spent the first few months +with us," Mrs. Blodgett told me, "and was the loneliest child I ever +saw. Her big eyes used to look so wistfully at times that I could +hardly bear it, yet not a word did she ever speak of her sorrow. And all +on account of that wretch and his son! I think the worse men are, the +more a good woman loves them! When Maizie was old enough to understand, +and Mr. Walton told her how she had been robbed, she wouldn't believe +him till Mr. Blodgett confirmed the story. She used to be always talking +of the two, but she has never spoken of them since that night." + +Even more cruel to me was something Agnes related. She worshiped you +with the love and admiration a girl of eighteen sometimes feels for a +girl of twenty-three, and in singing your praises,--to a most willing +listener,--one day, she exclaimed, "Oh, I wish I were a man, so that I +could be her lover! I'd make her believe in love." Then seeing my +questioning look, Agnes continued: "What with her selfish old uncle, and +the men who want to marry her for her money, and those hateful +Maitlands, she has been made to distrust all love and friendship. She +has the idea that she isn't lovable,--that people don't like her for +herself; and I really think she will never marry, just because of it." + +Better far than this knowledge of you at second-hand was Mr. Blodgett's +telling me that you were to dine with them during my visit. It may seem +absurd, but not the least part of my eagerness that night was to see you +in evening dress. If I had not loved you already, I should have done so +from that meeting; and although you are dear to me for many things +besides your beauty, I understand why men love you so deeply who know +nothing of your nature. That all men should not love you is my only +marvel whenever I recall that first glimpse of you as you entered the +Blodgetts' drawing-room. + +Before we had finished our greetings Mr. Whitely entered, and though I +little realized how vital a part he was to be of my life, I yet regarded +him with instant interest, for something in his manner towards you +suggested to me that he coveted the hand you offered him. + +A lover does not view a rival kindly, but I am compelled to own that he +is handsome. If I had the right to cavil, I could criticise only his +mouth, which it seems to me has slyness with a certain cruel firmness; +but I did not notice this until I knew him better, and perhaps it is +only my imagination, born of later knowledge. I am not so blinded by my +jealousy as to deny his perfect manner, for one feels the polished +surface, touch the outside where one will. + +Your demeanor towards him was friendly, yet with all its graciousness it +seemed to me to have a quality not so much of aloofness as of limit; +conveying in an indefinable way the fact that such relations as then +existed between you were the only possible ones. It was a shading so +imperceptible that I do not think the Blodgetts realized it, and I +should have questioned if Mr. Whitely himself were conscious of it, but +for one or two things he said in the course of the evening, which had to +me, under the veil of a general topic, individual suggestion. + +We were discussing that well-worn question of woman's education, Mrs. +Blodgett having introduced the apple of discord by a sweeping +disapproval of college education for women, on the ground that it +prevented their marrying. + +"They get to know too much, eh?" laughed Mr. Blodgett. + +"No," cried Mrs. Blodgett, "they get to know too little! While they +ought to be out in the world studying life and men, so as to choose +wisely, they're shut up in dormitories filling their brains with Greek +and mathematics." + +"You would limit a woman's arithmetic to the solution of how to make +one and one, one?" I asked, smiling. + +"Surely, Mrs. Blodgett, you do not mean that an uncultivated woman makes +the best wife?" inquired Mr. Whitely. + +"I mean," rejoined Mrs. Blodgett, "that women who know much of books +know little of men. That's why over-intellectual women always marry +fools." + +"How many intellectual wives there must be!" you said. + +"I shouldn't mind if they only married fools," continued Mrs. Blodgett, +"but half the time they don't marry at all." + +"Does that prove or disprove their intellect?" you asked. + +"It means," replied Mrs. Blodgett, "that they are so puffed up with +their imaginary knowledge that they think no man good enough for them." + +"I've known one or two college boys graduate with the same large ideas," +remarked Mr. Blodgett. + +"But a man gets over it after a few years," urged Mrs. Blodgett, "and +is none the worse off; but by the time a girl overcomes the idea, she's +so old that no man worth having will look at her." + +"I rather think, Mrs. Blodgett," said Mr. Whitely, in that charmingly +deferential manner he has with women, "that some men do not try to win +highly educated women because they are abashed by a sense of their own +inferiority." + +"Where do those men hide themselves, Whitely?" interrogated Mr. +Blodgett. + +"I'll not question the reason," retorted Mrs. Blodgett. "The fact that +over-educated girls think themselves above men is all I claim." + +"I don't think, Mrs. Blodgett," you corrected, "it is so much a feeling +of superiority as it is a change in the aims of marriage. Formerly, +woman married to gain a protector, and man to gain a housewife. Now, +matrimony is sought far less for service, and far more for +companionship." + +"But, Miss Walton," questioned Mr. Whitely, "does not the woman ask too +much nowadays? She has the leisure to read and study, but a business man +cannot spare the time. Is it fair, then, to expect that he shall be as +cultivated as she can make herself?" + +"That is, I think, the real cause for complaint," you answered. "The +business man is so absorbed in money-making that he sacrifices his whole +time to it. I can understand a woman falling in love with a lance or a +sword, dull companions though they must have been, but it seems to me +impossible for any woman to love a minting-machine, even though she +might be driven to marry it for its product." + +"That's rough on us, Whitely," laughed Mr. Blodgett good-naturedly; but +Mr. Whitely reddened, and you, as if to divert the subject from this +personal tendency, turned and surmised to me:-- + +"I suppose that as a German, Dr. Hartzmann, you think a woman should be +nothing more than a housekeeper?" + +"Why not suggest, Miss Walton," I replied, smiling, "that as an +Orientalist I must think the seraglio woman's proper sphere?" + +"But, Miss Walton," persisted Mr. Whitely, not accepting your diversion, +"a man, to be successful nowadays, must give all his attention to his +business. + +"I presume that is so," you acceded; "but could he not be content with a +little less success in money-making, and strive to acquire a few more +amenities?" + +"Maizie wants us all to be painters and poets and musicians," asserted +Mr. Blodgett. + +"Not at all," you denied. + +"Oh, Maizie!" cried Agnes. "You know you said the other day that you +hoped I wouldn't marry a business man." + +"I said '_only_ a business man,' Agnes," you replied, without a trace +of the embarrassment so many women would have shown. "Because men cannot +all be clergymen is no reason for their knowing nothing of religion. +There would be no painters, poets, or musicians if there were no +dilettanti." + +"Yet I think," argued Mr. Whitely, still as if he were trying to +convince you of something, "that the successful business man has as much +brain as most writers or artists." + +"I have no doubt that is true," you assented. "So, too, a day laborer +may have a good mind. But of what avail is a brain if it has never been +trained, or has been trained to know only one thing?" + +"But authors and painters are only specialists," urged Mr. Whitely. + +"They are specialists of a very different type," you responded, "from +the man whose daily thoughts are engrossed with the prices of pig-iron +or cotton sheetings. I think one reason why American girls frequently +marry Europeans is that the foreign man is so apt to be more broadly +cultivated." + +"That's what I mean by saying that books unfit women to marry wisely," +interjected Mrs. Blodgett. "They marry foreigners because they are more +cultivated, without a thought of character." + +"Indeed, Mrs. Blodgett," you observed, "has not the day gone by for +thinking dullness a sign of honesty? And certainly a business career is +far more likely to corrupt and harden men's natures than the higher +professions, for its temptations and strifes are so much greater." + +Your opinion was so in accord with what my father had often preached +that I could not but wonder if his teachings still colored your +thoughts. To test this idea as well as to learn your present view, I +recurred to another theory of his by saying, "Does not the broader and +more sensitive nature of the scholar or artist involve defects fully as +serious as the hardness and narrowness of the business man? Some one has +said that 'to marry a literary man is to domesticate a bundle of +nerves.'" + +"A nervous irritability," you replied, "which came from fine mental +exertion, would be as nothing compared to my own fretting over enforced +companionship with an unsympathetic or sordid nature." Then you laughed, +and added, "I must have a very bad temper, for it is the only one which +ever really annoys me." + +That last speech told me how thoroughly the woman of twenty-three was a +development of the child of fourteen, for I remembered how little my +mother's anger used to disturb you, but how deeply and strongly your +emotions affected you. I suppose it was absurd, but I felt happy to +think that you had changed so little in character from the time when I +knew you so well. And from that evening I never for an instant believed +that you would marry Mr. Whitely, for I was sure that you could never +love him. How could I dream that you, with beauty, social position, and +wealth, would make a loveless marriage? + +Good-night, my love. + + + + +XI + + +_March 2._ The truth of the difference of quality between the business +man and the scholar was quickly brought home to me. On the last evening +of my visit, Mr. Blodgett revealed the reason for his latest kindness. +"I got you here," he explained, "to look you over and see what you were +fit for, thinking I might work you in somewhere. No," he continued, as +he saw the questioning hopefulness on my face, "you wouldn't do in +business. You've got a sight too much conscience and sympathy, and a +sight too little drive. All business is getting the best of somebody +else, and you're the kind of chap who'd let a fellow up just because +you'd got him down." Seeing the sadness in my face, for I knew too well +he had fathomed me, he added kindly, "Don't get chicken-hearted over +what I say. It's easy enough to outwit a man; the hard thing is not to +do it. I'd go out of the trade to-morrow, if it weren't for the boss and +Agnes, for I get tired of the meanness of the whole thing. But they want +to cut a figure, and that isn't to be done in this town for nothing. +I'll find something for you yet that sha'n't make you sell your heart +and your soul as well as your time." + +I was too full of my love and my purpose, however, for this to +discourage me. The moment my determination to remain in New York was +taken, I wrote to Jastrow, Humzel, and others of my German friends, +telling them that for business reasons I had decided to be known as +Rudolph Hartzmann, and asking if they would stretch friendship so far as +to give me letters in that name to such American publishers and editors +as they knew. Excepting Jastrow, they all responded with introductions +so flattering that I was almost ashamed to present them, and he wrote +me that he had not offered my books for sale, and begged me to +reconsider my refusal of the professorship. He even offered, if I would +accept the appointment, to divide with me his tuition fees, and +suggested that his own advancing years were a pledge that his position +would erelong be vacant for me to step into. It almost broke my heart to +have to write him that I could not accept his generous offer. In July I +received a second letter from him, most touching in its attempt to keep +back the grief he felt, but yielding to my determination. He sent me +many good introductions, and submitted a bid for my library from a +bookseller; but knowing the books to be worth at least double the offer, +I held the sale in abeyance. + +My first six months in New York disheartened me greatly, though now I +know that I succeeded far better than I could have expected to do, in +the dullness of the summer. My work was the proof-reading of my book of +travel in its varying polyglots, seeing through the press English +versions of my two text-books, and writing a third in both English and +German. Furthermore, my letters of introduction had made me known to a +number of the professors of Columbia College, and by their influence I +received an appointment to deliver a course of lectures on race +movements the following winter; so I prepared my notes in this leisure +time. But this work was far too little to fill my time, and I wrote all +kinds of editorials, essays, and reviews, fairly wearing out the editors +of the various magazines and newspapers with my frequent calls and +articles. Finally I attempted to sell my books to several libraries; but +though the tomes and the price both tempted several, none had the money +to spend on such a collection. + +My book of travel was published in September, was praised by the +reviews, and at once sprang into a good sale for a work of that class; +for Europe is interested in whatever bears on her cancer growth, +commonly called the Eastern question. Since Europeans approved the book, +Americans at once bought and discussed it; to prove, I suppose, that as +a nation we are no longer tainted with provincialism,--as if that very +subservience to transatlantic opinion were not the best proof that the +virus still works within us. It was issued anonymously, through the fear +that if I put my pseudonym on the title-page it might lead to inquiry +about the author which would reveal his identity with Donald Maitland, +for whom I only wished oblivion. As a result the question of authorship +was much mooted, some declaring a well-known Oxford professor to be the +man, others ascribing the volume to a famous German traveler, and Humzel +being named by some; but most of the reviews suggested that it was the +work of an Eastern savant, and I presume that my style was tinged with +orientalism. + +You cannot tell what a delight it was to me to learn, at our first +meeting in the autumn, that you had read my book. I went in November to +the Lenox Library to verify a date, and found you there. I could not +help interrupting your reading for a moment,--I had so longed for a +glimpse and a word,--and you took my intrusion in good part. I drew a +book and pretended to read, merely to veil my covert watching of you; +and when you rose to go, I asked permission to walk with you. + +"Your notebook suggests that you are a writer by profession, Dr. +Hartzmann?" you surmised. + +"Yes." + +"And you have to come to America for material?" + +"I have come to America permanently." + +"How unusual!" + +"In what respect?" + +"For a European writer to come to New York to do more than lecture about +himself, have his vanity and purse fed, and return home to write a book +about us that we alone read." + +I laughed and said, "You make me very glad that I am the exception to +the rule." + +"I presume more would make the venture if they found the atmosphere less +uncongenial. New York as a whole is so absorbed in the task of +trans-shipping the products of the busiest nations of two continents +that everything is ranked as secondary that does not subserve that end: +and the Muses starve." + +"I suppose New York is not the best of places in which to live by art or +letters, if compared with London or Paris; yet if a man can do what the +world wants done, he can earn a livelihood here." + +"But he cannot gain the great prizes that alone are worth the winning, +I fear. I have noticed that American writers only reach American +audiences, while European authors not merely win attention at home, but +have vogue and sale here. The London or Paris label is quite as +effective in New York or Chicago in selling books as in selling +clothes." + +"I suppose cultivated Europe is as heedless of the newer peoples as the +peoples of the Orient are of those of the Occident. Yet I think that if +as good work were turned out in this country as in the Old World, the +place of its production would not seriously militate against its +success." + +"And have you found it so?" + +"Nothing I have yet written in this country merits Continental +attention." + +"I hope you have succeeded to your own satisfaction?" + +"It may amuse you to know that though I had many good letters of +introduction to editors in this country, I could not get a single +article accepted till some friends of mine in Asia came to my aid." + +"You speak in riddles." + +"Perhaps you remember reading, last August, of an outbreak of some +tribes in the Hindoo Kush? Those hill peoples are in a state of +perennial ferment, and usually Europe pays no attention to their +bellicose proceedings; but luckily for me, the English premier, at that +particular moment, was holding his unwilling Parliament together in an +attempt to pass something, and finding it intractable in that matter, he +cleverly used this outbreak to divert attention and excite enthusiasm. +Rising in the House of Commons, he virtually charged the outbreak to +Russian machination against the beloved Emir, and pledged the nation to +support that civilized humanitarian against the barbaric despot of +Russia. At once the papers were full of unintelligible cablegrams +telling of the doings in those far-away mountains; and my hurriedly +written editorials and articles, which nevertheless showed some +comprehension of the geography and people, were snapped up avidly, and +from that time I have found papers or periodicals glad to print what I +write." + +You laughed, and said, "How strangely the world is tied together in +these days, that the speech of an English prime minister about some +Asian septs should give a German author entre to New York editorial +sanctums!" + +"The cables have done more in aid of the brotherhood of man than all the +efforts of the missionaries." + +"I thought you were a conservative, and disapproved of modern +innovations," you suggested archly. + +"With innovators, yes." + +"Then the Levantine does not entirely disapprove of our Hesperian city?" + +"My knowledge of New York is about as deep," I answered, smiling, "as my +Eastern blood." + +"Only skin-deep," you said. + +"Just sufficient for a disguise." + +"As long as you are silent, yes." + +"Is my English so unmistakable?" + +"Not your tongue, but your thought. Of course your vicinage, costume, +and complexion made me for a moment accept your joke of nationality, at +that first meeting, but before you had uttered half your defense of the +older races I felt sure that you were not a product of one of them." + +"Why was that?" + +"Because it is only Christians who recognize and speak for the rights of +other peoples." + +"You forget that the religion of Buddha is toleration. We Christians +preach the doctrine, but practice extermination, forgiving our enemies +after killing them," I corrected. "I do not think we differ much in +works from even El Mahdi." + +"Would El Mahdi ever have spoken for other races?" + +"You know the weak spot in my armor, Miss Walton," I was obliged to +confess. + +"That is due to you, Dr. Hartzmann. What you stated that night +interested me so deeply that I have been reading up about the Eastern +races and problems. I wonder if you have seen this new book of travel, +The Debatable Lands between the East and West?" + +"Yes," I assented, thinking that twenty over-lookings of it in +manuscript and proof entitled me to make the claim. + +"You will be amused to hear that, when reading it, I thought of you as +the probable writer, not merely because it begins in the Altai range and +ends at Tangier, but as well because some of the ideas resemble yours. +Mr. Whitely, however, tells me he has private information that Professor +Humzel is the author. Do you know him?" + +"He was my professor of history at Leipzig." + +"That accounts for the agreement in thought. You admire the book?" + +"I think it is a conscientious attempt to describe what the author saw." + +"Ah, it is much more than that!" you exclaimed. "At a dinner in London, +this autumn, I sat next the Earl---- next a member of the Indian +Council, and he told me he considered it a far more brilliant book than +Kinglake's Eothen." + +I knew I had no right to continue this subject, but I could not help +asking, "You liked it?" + +"Very much. It seems to me a deep and philosophic study of present and +future problems, besides being a vivid picture of most interesting +countries and peoples. It made me long to be a nomad myself, and wander +as the author did. The thought of three years of such life, of such +freedom, seems to stir in me all the inherited tendency to prowl that we +women supposedly get from Mother Sphinx." + +"Civilization steals nature from us and compounds the theft with art." + +"Tell me about Professor Humzel," you went on, "for I know I should like +him, merely from the way he writes. One always pictures the German +professor as a dried-up mind in a dried-up body, but in this book one is +conscious of real flesh and blood. He is a young man, I'm sure." + +"Sixty-two." + +"He has a young heart, then," you asserted. "Is he as interesting to +talk with as he makes himself in his book?" + +"Professor Humzel is very silent." + +"The people who have something to say are usually so," you sighed. + +"A drum must be empty to make a noise," I said, smiling, "and perhaps +the converse is true." + +I cannot say what there was in that walk which cheered me so, except +your praise of my book,--sweeter far though that was than the world's +kindly opinion; yet over and above that, in our brief interchange of +words, I was made conscious that there was sympathy between us,--a +sympathy so positive that something like our old-time friendship seemed +beginning. And the thought made me so happy that for a time my troubles +were almost forgotten. + +Good-night, Maizie. + + + + +XII + + +_March 3._ Fate seemed determined that our lives should be closely +connected. In December Mr. Blodgett wrote asking me to call at his +office, and he was already smiling when his boy passed me through the +door at which so many had to tarry. + +"There are a good many kinds of fools," was his welcoming remark, "but +one of the commonest is the brand who think because they can do one +thing well, they ought to be able to do the exact opposite. I've known +men who could grow rich out of brewing beer, who kept themselves poor +through thinking they knew all about horses; I've known women who +queened it in parlors, who went to smash because they believed +themselves inspired actresses; I've sat here in this office thirty +years, and grown rich through the belief of clergymen, doctors, +merchants, farmers,--the whole box and dice,--that they were heaven-born +financiers, and could play us Wall Street men even at our own game. +Whatever else you do in this world, doctor, don't think that because you +can talk a dozen languages, they fit you to be a successful mute." + +"When you are in this mood, Mr. Blodgett, I can be nothing else," I +interpolated, as he paused a moment for breath. + +"Alexander Whitely," he went on, smiling, "probably knows more about +petroleum and kerosene than any other man in the world, and he's made +himself rich by his knowledge. But it doesn't satisfy him to be on the +top of his own heap; he wants to get on the top of some other fellow's. +In short, he has an itch to be something he isn't, and the darned fool's +gone and bought a daily newspaper with the idea that he is going to be +a great editor!" + +"His lamp of genius will not go out for want of oil," I remarked. + +"For a moment he showed one glimmer of sense: he came to me for advice," +said Mr. Blodgett in evident enjoyment. "I told him to get an A 1 +business manager, to make you chief editor, let you pick your staff, and +then blow in all the money you and the business end asked for, and never +go inside the building himself. It was too good sense for him, for he's +daft with the idea of showing the world how to edit a paper. But my +advice simmered down to this: if you want to be his private secretary, +at four thousand a year, and pretend to revise his editorials, but +really write them for him, I guess you can have the position. Of course +he is to think he writes the rubbish." + +"A Voltaire in miniature," I laughed. + +"A what?" + +"The great Frederic thought himself a poet, and induced Voltaire to come +and be his literary counselor. The latter showed a bundle of manuscripts +to some one and sneered, 'See all this dirty linen of the king's he has +sent me to wash.'" + +"That was one for his nibs," chuckled Mr. Blodgett appreciatively. "But +you mustn't make such speeches as that of Whitely." + +"In spite of my many tongues, I can be mute." + +"Do you think I haven't seen that? And I've seen something more, which +is that you always give a dollar's worth of work for seventy-five cents +of wages. Now, Whitely's a hard man, and if you made the terms with him +he'd be sure to get the better of you. So I've arranged to have him meet +you here, and I'm going to see fair play. I've told him you won't do it +for less than four thousand, and he'll not get you a cent cheaper. The +work will be very light." + +"The work is easy," I assented, "but is it honest?" + +"Seems to me we had better leave that to Whitely to settle." + +"And is Mr. Whitely an honest man?" + +Mr. Blodgett smiled as he looked at me, and observed, "Whitely wouldn't +steal a red-hot stove unless it had handles! But he probably thinks this +all right. Few people know how much successful men use other men's +brains. Here's a report on a Southern railroad by an expert in my +employ. I've never even been over the road, yet I'll sign my name to the +report as if it was my work. Now, in oil Whitely hires all kinds of men +to do different things for him, and he gets whatever credit follows; and +I suppose he thinks that if he pays you to write editorials, they are as +much his as any other thing he buys." + +"He must be conscious of a distinction." + +"That's his lookout, if he is. Don't start in to keep other people's +consciences in order, doctor, for it's the hardest-worked and +poorest-paid trade in the world." + +When Mr. Whitely arrived, Mr. Blodgett was as good as his word, taking +the matter practically out of my hands, and letting me sit a passive and +amused spectator of the contest between the two shrewd men, who dropped +all thought of personal friendship while they discussed the matter. Mr. +Blodgett won, and made the further stipulation that since Mr. Whitely +intended to be at the office only in the afternoon, I might be equally +privileged as to my hours of attendance. His forethought and kindness +did more, for his last speech to Mr. Whitely was, "Then it's understood +that the doctor writes your letters and revises your editorials, but +nothing else." And as soon as we were alone he intimated, "Remember +that, or before you know it he'll be screwing you to death. Don't you +write anything extra for him unless there's extra pay. Now, don't waste +my time by thanks in business hours, but come in to-night to dinner, so +as to let the boss and Agnes congratulate you." + +My employment began the first of the year, at which time the paper came +into the hands of its new proprietor; and it amuses me to recall him as +he sat at his desk that first day, thrumming it nervously, and trying to +dictate an editorial on The Outlook for the New Year. A more hopeless +bit of composition I have seldom read, and four times it was rewritten +as I built it into shape. + +The man has no more sense of form than he has of English. Even worse, he +is almost without ideas. It has become his invariable custom to remark +to me suavely, as he takes his seat at his desk about two o'clock, "Dr. +Hartzmann, possibly you can suggest a good subject for me to write about +to-day?" And when I propose one, he continues: "That is satisfactory. +Jot down what you think I had better say, while I run over my mail." An +hour later I lay the typewritten sheets before him, and, after reading +them with the most evident pleasure, he puts his initials at the top and +sends the editorial out to the managing editor; to have a second +pleasure when, after two hours, the galley slips of proof come back to +him. + +Fortunately for me, he cares no more for politics than I do, and thus +saves me from the necessity of studying and mastering that shifting +quicksand against which beat the tides of men, ebbing as private greed +obtains the mastery, and flowing in those curious revulsions of +selfishly altruistic public spirit called patriotism. Except for this +subject his taste is catholic, and his foible is to pose as omniscient. +"I wish new subjects,--something, if possible, that intellectual people +do not know about,"--is his constant command; and nothing delights him +more than an editorial on a subject of which he has never heard. +Speaking only his mother tongue, he has an inordinate desire for foreign +words, and will observe, "A quotation in another language gives an +editorial page an air of culture which I desire my paper to have." Our +composing-room, I imagine, is the only one in New York which has Greek +type, and if I gave him the smallest encouragement he would buy fonts of +Sanskrit and Hebrew characters. He always makes me teach him how to +pronounce the sentences, catching them with a wonderful parrot-like +facility. Usually he carries clippings of the last half dozen editorials +with him, and his delight is to make an opportunity to read one aloud, +prefaced by the announcement that he is the writer. Sometimes, indeed, +he cannot contain his pleasure over the articles till their appearance +in type, and I repeatedly hear him request a visitor, "If you have ten +minutes to spare, let me read you this editorial I have just written +for to-morrow's issue." + +At first, in spite of Mr. Blodgett's explanation, I thought this real +dishonesty, and despised not merely him, but myself as well for aiding +in such trickery. As I grow to know him better, however, I find he is +not cozening the public so much as imposing on himself. The man has a +fervent and untrained imagination, which has never, in the +practicalities of oil, had a safety-valve. As a result, it has rioted in +dreams of which he is the hero, until it has brought him to the point of +thinking his wildest fancies quite possible realities. His self-faith is +so great that his imagination sets no limit to his powers, and thus he +can believe everything of himself. I have heard him tell what he would +do under given circumstances, and, with my knowledge of him, I know he +is conceiving himself to be actually doing what he describes. Thus, in a +smaller sense, he really imagines that he writes the editorials, and he +even reads them to Mr. Blodgett, apparently unconscious that there can +be the slightest question of authorship in the latter's mind. + +With this singular weakness the man is yet a strong one. His capacity to +judge and manage men or facts is truly marvelous. He rules his paper as +he rules everything, with the firmest hand, and not a man in his employ +but knows who is master. Within a year he turned the journal into a +great earner of money, and in the business office they have to confess +that it is all his work, ignorant though he is to this day of the +details. He knows by instinct where money should be spent, and where it +should be scrimped. Yet with all this business shrewdness he cares not +half so much that his investment is paying him twenty per cent as that +people are talking about his ability as an editor, and my only influence +over him even now is the praise my editorials have won him. + +Perhaps the most singular quality of his nature is his heedlessness of +individual opinion, and his dread of it in mass. He is so absolutely +self-centred--every thought directed inward--that he never tries to make +the individual like him, yet he craves intensely the world's esteem. He +longs for notoriety, and even stoops to an almost daily mention of +himself in his paper, taking endless pains to get his name into other +journals as well. Even his philanthropy, for which the world admires +him, is used for this purpose. Ridiculous as it may seem, the most +grating task I have to do is the writing of the fulsome press dispatches +which he invariably sends out whenever he makes one of his gifts. He +writes, too, to his fellow editors, asking them to comment on the +largess; and since he makes it a point to cultivate the pleasantest +relations with his confrres, they give him good measure, though with +many a smile and wink among themselves when they get together. "Mr. +White-Lie" is his sobriquet in the fraternity. + +How curiously diverse the same man is to different people! To the world +Mr. Whitely is a man of great business ability, of wide knowledge, of +great benevolence, and of fine manners. I do not wonder, Maizie, that he +imposes on you; for though you have discernment, yet you are not of a +suspicious nature, and his acting is so wonderful and his manner so +frank, through his own unconsciousness of his self-deceit, that not a +dozen people dream the man is other than he seems. You might, perhaps, +in spite of his taciturnity, have discovered his charlatan pretense of +learning if you had been born inquisitive, but you take his writings for +the measure of his intellect, and have no more reason to suspect that +his skillful reservations are the refuge of a sciolist than that my +silence covers such little erudition as I have. + +Why I can do naught else but sit here and write of the past I do not +understand. Until a month ago I was working every evening till far into +the night, but now, try as I may, I can no longer force myself to my +task. I should think it was physical exhaustion, were it not that I can +chronicle this stale record of what I know so well. I suppose it is +mental discouragement at my slight progress in reducing that crushing +debt, and, even more, my sadness at the thought of you as his wife. + +Good-night, my darling. May happiness be yours. + + + + +XIII + + +_March 4._ My impressions of that first winter in New York are curiously +dim except for the extreme loneliness of my life, which, after the close +companionship with my father for so many years, seemed at times almost +unbearable. Indeed, I doubt if I could have borne the long hours of +solitude and toil but for my occasional glimpses of you. I should think +myself fatuous in claiming that you influence me physically,--that I am +conscious of a material glow, ecstasy, thrill, call it what you please, +when with you,--if I had not once heard Agnes declare that she always +felt, when you were in the room, as if she had been drinking champagne; +showing that I am not the only one you can thus affect. + +My pleasantest recollection is of our long talk in my employer's study; +and strangely enough, it was my books which gained it for me. Mr. +Whitely, when I first came into his service, had just endowed a free +library in one of the Western cities where some of his oil interests +centred, and I hinted to him the purchase of my books as a further gift +to his hobby. The suggestion did not meet with his approval,--I fear +because there was not the self-advertising in it that there is in a +money gift,--but after a week he told me that he might buy the +collection to furnish his editorial study. "I plan," he said, "to make +my office attractive, and then have informal literary receptions once a +week. I shall therefore require some books, and as your library should +be marked by breadth and depth of learning, I presume it will serve my +purpose." + +"There are quite a number of Eastern manuscripts of value," I told him, +"and few of the books are in languages that can be read by the average +New Yorker." + +"That gives the suggestion of scholarship which I wish," he +acknowledged. + +We easily came to terms under these circumstances, and I cannot tell you +how happy I was to find myself once more surrounded by my books. As soon +as they were in place and the study was handsomely furnished, my +employer issued cards; and though he had nothing in common with the +literary and artistic set, the mere fact that he controlled the columns +of a great paper brought them all flocking to his afternoons. It is a +case of mutual cultivation, and I am sick of being told to write puffs +of books and pictures. Even foreigners do not seem above this +log-rolling, and toady to the editor of the influential journal. And yet +we think Johnson mean-spirited for standing at Chesterfield's door! It +humiliates me to see writers and artists stooping so low merely to get +notices that are worthless in a critical sense, and doubly am I +degraded that mine is the pen that aids in this contemptible chicane. + +You, Mrs. Blodgett, and Agnes came to one of these afternoons, and made +me happy, not alone by your presence, but by an insinuated reproof, +which meant, I thought, that you had become enough interested in me to +care what I did. You expressed surprise at my being there, and so I +explained to you that I had become Mr. Whitely's secretary. + +"And is your work congenial?" you asked. + +I shrugged my shoulders, and quoted, "Civilized man cannot live without +dining." + +"But you told me you were making a living. Is not a crust with +independence and a chance to make a name better than such work?" + +"If one is free, yes. But if one must earn money?" + +"I had somehow fixed it in my mind that you were _en garon_. One's +fancies are sometimes very ridiculous. Who invented the mot that a +woman's intuitions were what she had when she was wrong?" + +"Some man, of course," I laughed. "And you were right in supposing me a +bachelor." + +"How little people really know about one another," you observed, "and +yet we talk of the realism of life! I believe it is only in fiction that +we get it." + +"Napoleon said, 'Take away history and give me a novel: I wish the +truth!' Certainly, our present romance writers attempt it." + +"Only to prove that truth is not art." + +"How so?" + +"To photograph life in literature is no more art than a reproduction of +our street sounds would be music." + +"Painting and sculpture are copying." + +"And the closer the copy, the less the art." + +"Then you would define art as"-- + +"The vivifying of work with the personality of the workman." + +"That is not very far from Saadi's thought that art is never produced +without love." + +"I have to confess that you mention an author of whom I had never even +heard till I read The Debatable Lands. The extracts printed there made +me think he must be one of the great philosopher poets of the world. Yet +there is no copy of his works at the Lenox." + +"There are copies of all his writings here." + +"I think I shall disobey Polonius by trying to be a borrower," you +announced, and turning to Mr. Whitely, you asked, "Do you ever loan your +books?" + +"To lend to you would be a pleasure, and give added value to the +volume," assented Mr. Whitely, joining us. "Take anything you wish." + +"Thank you so much. Will you let me see what you have of Saadi, so that +I may take my choice?" + +"You were speaking of"--hemmed Mr. Whitely. + +"Saadi." + +"Ah, yes. Dr. Hartzmann knows where it is." + +When I had led the way to the proper shelf, you selected the Gulistan, +opened it, and then laughed. "You have the best protection against +borrowers. I envy both of you the ability to read him in the original, +but it is beyond me." + +"As you read Latin, you can read Gentius' translation of the Bostan," I +suggested, taking the book down. + +"How do you know that I can read Latin?" you asked. + +I faltered for a moment, too much taken aback to think what to reply, +and fortunately Mr. Whitely interposed quickly, "Miss Walton's +reputation for learning is so well recognized that knowledge of Latin is +taken for granted." + +Taking advantage of the compliment, I surmised, "Perhaps you will care +less to read the poet if I quote a stanza of his:-- + + 'Seek truth from life, and not from books, O fool! + Look at the sky to find the stars, not in the pool.'" + +"You only make me the more eager," you said, running over the pages. + +"The book is worth reading," vouched Mr. Whitely. + +"How good that is!" you appealed to him, laying your finger on lines to +the effect that a dozen poor men will sleep in peace on a straw heap, +while the greatest empire is too narrow for two kings. + +"Very," answered my employer, after looking at the text with a critical +air. If you could only have enjoyed the joke with me! + +Suddenly, as I watched you, you became pale, and glancing down to learn +the cause, I saw a manuscript note in my father's handwriting on the +margin of the page. "Mr. Whitely," you asked huskily, "how did you get +this book?" + +Had you looked at me you would have seen one paler than yourself, as I +stood there expecting the axe to fall. Oh! the relief when Mr. Whitely +replied, "I bought it in Germany." + +You closed the volume, remarking, "I do not think I will ask the loan, +after all. He seems an author one ought to own." + +"I hoped you would add an association to the book," urged Mr. Whitely. + +"Thank you," you parried gravely, "but so old a volume can hardly be +lacking in association. I think we must be going." + +I took you down to the carriage, and Mrs. Blodgett kindly offered me the +fourth seat. You were absolutely silent in the drive up-town, and I was +scarcely less so as I tried to read your thoughts. What feelings had +that scrap of writing stirred in you? + +I have often since then recalled our parting words that afternoon, and +wondered if I allowed a mere scruple--a cobweb that a stronger man would +have brushed aside without a second thought--to wreck my life. If I had +taken what you offered? Perhaps the time might have come when I could +have told you of my trick, and you would have forgiven it. Perhaps-- + +You said to me graciously, when we separated at your door, "I shall be +very happy, Dr. Hartzmann, if you will come to see me." + +I flushed with pleasure, for I felt it was not a privilege you gave to +many. But even as I hesitated for words with which to express my +gratitude, I realized that I had no moral right to gain your hospitality +by means of my false name; and when I spoke it was to respond, "I thank +you for the favor most deeply, Miss Walton, but I am too busy a man for +social calls." + +Oh, my darling, if you had known what those few words cost me, and the +struggle it was to keep my voice steady as I spoke them! For I knew you +could only take them to mean that I declined your friendship. Hide my +shame as I might try to do, I could not escape its pains. God keep you +from such suffering, Maizie, and good-night. + + + + +XIV + + +_March 5._ Though I committed the rudeness of refusing to call, you +never in our subsequent intercourse varied your manner by the slightest +shade, treating me always with a courtesy I ill deserved. After such a +rebuff, it is true, you were too self-respecting to offer me again any +favor tending to a better acquaintance, but otherwise you bore yourself +towards me as you did towards the thousand other men whom you were +obliged to meet. + +Your life as a social favorite, and mine as a literary hack, gave little +opportunity for our seeing each other, yet we met far more frequently +than would have seemed possible. Occasionally I found you at the +Blodgetts', though not as often as our informal footing in that +household had led me to hope; for you were in such social demand that +your morning hours were the time you usually took to run in upon them. +But now and then we lunched or dined there, and Mrs. Blodgett little +dreamed how willingly I obeyed her positive command that I was to come +to every one of her afternoons when Agnes told me that you were to +receive or pour tea. Little I had of your attention, for you were a +magnet to many, but I could stand near you and could watch and listen, +and that was happiness. + +A cause of meeting more discordant to me was furnished by my employer. I +wrote for him an editorial on the folk-leid basis of the Wagner trilogy, +which I suppose he sent or read to you; for it resulted in a box-party +to attend the series, and I was asked to be one of the guests. "Nothing +like having your books of reference under your arm," was Mr. Whitely's +way of telling me for what purpose I was wanted; and I presume that +was, in truth, the light in which he viewed me. Though I scorned such +service, the mere fact that you were to be there was enough to make me +accept. How low love can bring a man if his spirit is once mastered by +it! + +I would have sunk far deeper, I believe, to obtain what I earned, for +there were delightful moments of mutually absorbing discussions, only +too quickly interrupted by Mr. Whitely or others of the party breaking +in on our conversation. What was equal happiness to me was the +association of you in my mind with the noblest of music. I can never +hear certain movements of those operas without your image coming before +me as clearly as if I saw your reflection in a mirror. And from that +time one of my keenest pleasures has been to beg tickets from the +musical critic of our staff, whenever one of the trilogy is to be given, +and sit through the opera dreaming of those hours. I could write here +every word you uttered, but what especially impressed itself upon my +memory was something called out by the fate of Brunhilde. As we stood in +the lobby waiting for the carriages, at the end of Die Walkre, you +withdrew a little, as if still feeling the beauty and tragedy of the +last act too deeply to take part in the chit-chat with which the rest of +the party beguiled the time. I stood near you, but, respecting your +mood, was silent too, until you finally broke the pause by saying, "I do +not know whether it is Wagner's music or because Brunhilde appeals to +me, but I always feel that I have suffered as she does. It almost makes +me believe in the theory of metempsychosis." + +"Is it so much consciousness of a past, Miss Walton," I suggested, "as +prescience of the future? Woman's story is so unvaryingly that of +self-sacrifice for love that I should suppose Brunhilde's fate would +appeal to the sex as a prophecy rather than as a memory." + +"Her punishment could have been far worse." + +"Left a defenseless prey to the first comer?" + +"But surrounded by fire, so that the first comer must be a brave man." + +"Do you value courage so highly?" + +"Yes. The truly brave, I think, cannot be mean, and without meanness +there must be honor. I almost envy Brunhilde her walls of fire, which +put to absolute proof any man who sought her. The most successful of +men; the most intellectually brilliant, may be--By what can we to-day +test courage and honor?" + +"There is as much as ever, Miss Walton. Is it no gain that courage has +become moral rather than physical?" + +"Is it no loss that of all the men I know, there is not one of whom I +can say with certainty, 'He is a brave man'?" + +Our numbers were called at this point, and the conversation was never +continued. Every word you had said recalled to me my former friend, and +I understood your repugnance for anything cowardly. + +At the last of these operas, by another perverse joke of Dame Fortune, +who seems to have so many laughs at my expense, I was introduced to the +chaperon, "Mrs. Polhemus." Looking up, I found myself facing my mother. +I cannot tell you how strangely I felt in making my bow. She was as +handsome as ever, it appeared to me, and the smooth rich olive +complexion seemed to have given her an undying youth. For a moment I +feared recognition, but the difference was too great between the pallid +stooping boy of fifteen she had last seen in Paris and the straight +bronzed man of twenty-seven. As of old she was magnificently dressed and +fairly glittered with diamonds, which curiously enough instantly brought +to my mind the face of my father as I kissed him last. Was it the +strong connection of contrast, or was it a quirk of my brain? + +This chance meeting had a sequel that pains me to this day. Dining the +next evening at the Blodgetts' with you and your uncle, the latter spoke +of my mother's diamonds. Mrs. Blodgett said, with a laugh, "One would +think, after her rich marriage, that she might pay up the money her +first husband stole from Maizie." + +"She could have done that years ago if she had cared to," sneered Mr. +Walton. + +Your eyes were lowered, and you still kept them so as you replied, "I +would not accept the money from Mrs. Polhemus." + +In my suffering I sat rigid and speechless, wincing inwardly at each +blow of the lash, when Mr. Blodgett, with a kindness I can never reward +or even acknowledge, observed, "I believe it was his wife's extravagance +which made William Maitland a bankrupt and an embezzler. Till his +marriage with her he was a man of simple habits and of unquestioned +business honesty, but he was caught by her looks, just as Polhemus has +been. In those first years he could deny her nothing, and when the +disillusionment came he was too deep in to prevent the wreck." + +"You've been revising your views a bit," retorted Mr. Walton. "I never +expected to hear you justify any of that family." + +"Perhaps I have reason to," replied Mr. Blodgett. + +"I don't believe any of those Maitlands have the least honesty!" +exclaimed Agnes. "How I hate them!" + +"It is not a subject of which I like to speak," you stated in an +evidently controlled voice, still with lowered eyes, "but it is only +right to say that some one--I suppose the son--is beginning to pay back +the debt." + +"Pay back the money, Maizie!" ejaculated Mr. Walton. "Why haven't you +told me of it?" + +"It did not seem necessary," you answered. + +"I'm sure it's a trick," asserted Agnes. "He's probably trying to worm +his way back to your friendship, to get something more out of you." + +"How much"--began Mr. Walton; but you interrupted him there by saying, +"I would rather not talk about it." + +The subject was changed at once, but when we were smoking, Mr. Walton +asked, "Blodgett, do you know anything about that Maitland affair?" + +"A little," replied the host. + +"The debt really is being paid?" + +"Yes." + +"And you don't know by whom?" + +"So Maizie tells me." + +"Has she made no attempt to find out?" + +"When the first payment was made she came to me for advice." + +"Well?" asked Mr. Walton eagerly. + +"She got it," declared Mr. Blodgett. + +"What did she do?" persisted Mr. Walton. + +Mr. Blodgett was silent for a moment, and then responded, "The exact +opposite of what I advised. Do you know, Walton, you and I remind me of +the warm-hearted elephant who tried to hatch the ostrich eggs by sitting +on them." + +"In what respect?" + +"We decided that we must break up Maizie's love of the Maitlands for her +own good." + +"Well?" + +"Well, we made the whole thing so mean to her that finally we did break +something. Then, manlike, we were satisfied. What was it we broke?" + +"Nonsense!" growled Mr. Walton, sipping his wine. + +Mr. Blodgett laughed slightly. "That's rather a good name for it," he +assented; "but the trouble is, Walton, that nonsense is a very big part +of every woman's life. You'll never get me to fool with it again." + +I often ponder over those three brief remarks of yours, and of what you +said to me last autumn, in our ride and in the upper hall of My Fancy, +trying to learn, if possible, what your feeling is towards us. Can you, +despite all that has intervened, still feel any tenderness and love for +my father and me? Perhaps it was best that you were silent; if you had +spoken of him with contempt, I think--I know you would not, my darling, +for you loved him once, and that, to you, would be reason enough to be +merciful to the dead, however sinning. + +Dear love, good-night. + + + + +XV + + +_March 6._ You once said to me that you could conceive of no +circumstances that would justify dishonesty; for, no matter what the +seeming benefits might be, the indirect consequences and the effect on +the misdoer's character more than neutralized them. The wrong I have +done has only proved your view, and I have come to scorn myself for the +dishonorable part I have played. Yet I think that you would pity more +than blame me, if you could but know my sacrifices. I drifted into the +fraud unconsciously, and cannot now decide at what point the actual +stifling of my conscience began. I suppose the first misstep was when I +entered Mr. Whitely's employment; yet though I knew it to be +unscrupulous in him to impose my editorials as his own, it still seemed +to me no distinct transgression in me to write them for him. With that +first act those that followed became possible, and each involved so +slight an increase in the moral lapse, and my debt to you was so potent +an excuse to blind me, that at the time I truly thought I was doing +right. I wonder what you would have done had you been in my position? + +Mr. Blodgett's shrewdness in stipulating what work I was to do for Mr. +Whitely quickly proved itself. One of the magazines asked my employer to +contribute an article on The Future of Journalism. Handing me the +letter, he said, "Dr. Hartzmann, kindly write a couple of thousand words +on that subject." + +"That surely is not part of my duty, Mr. Whitely," I had the courage to +respond. + +He looked at me quickly, and his mouth stiffened into a straight line. +"Does that mean that you do not choose to do it?" he asked suavely. + +My heart failed me at the thought that if I lost my position I might +never get so good a one, and should drag my debt through life. For once +thought of you made me cowardly. I answered, "I will write it, Mr. +Whitely;" and he said, "I thank you," as if I had done him a favor. + +I told Mr. Blodgett of the incident, that evening, with a wry face and a +laugh over my bravery, and he was furious at me. + +"Why, you--you"--he stuttered. "Haven't you learned yet that the man +wouldn't part with you for anything? He's so stuck up over his +editorials and what people say of them that he'd as soon think of +discharging his own mother before she weaned him." + +Not content with venting his anger on me, he came into the office the +next day and told Mr. Whitely I should not be imposed on, and finally +forced him to agree that I should receive whatever the review paid for +the article. + +After this I wrote several magazine articles for Mr. Whitely, and soon +another development of our curious relations occurred. One afternoon he +informed me, "The Library trustees request me to deliver an address at +the dedication of the building. I shall be grateful for any suggestions +you can make of a proper subject." + +"Books?" I replied, with an absolutely grave face. + +"That is eminently suitable," he responded. "Possibly you can spare the +time to compose such a paper; and as it should be of a scholarly +character some Greek and Latin seem to me advisable." + +"How much?" I asked, inwardly amused to note if he would understand my +question, or would suppose it referred to the quantity of dead languages +I was to inject. + +"What is the labor worth?" he inquired, setting my doubt at rest, and +proving his business ability to recognize the most distant allusion to a +dollar. When I named a price, he continued: "That is excessive. The +profession of authorship is so little recompensed that there are many +good writers in New York who would gladly do it for less." + +"I can do it cheaper, if, like them, I crib it from books at the Astor," +I asserted. + +"I do not see why an address composed in the Astor Library should not be +entirely satisfactory?" he questioned, in his smooth, self-controlled +manner. + +"Did you never hear of the man who left the theatre in the middle of +Hamlet because, he said, he didn't care to hear a play that was all +quotations?" I asked, with a touch of irony. + +"I presume the story has some connection in your mind with the subject +in hand, but I am unable to see the appositeness?" he said +interrogatively and evidently puzzled. + +"I merely mentioned it lest you might not know that Pope never lived in +Grub Street." + +He looked at me, still ignorant that I was laughing at him. "You think +it injudicious to have it done by Mather?" he questioned, naming a +fellow who did special work for the paper at times. + +"Not at all," I replied, "provided you label the address 'hash,' so that +people who have some discrimination won't suppose you ignorant that it +is twice-cooked meat you are giving them," and, turning, I went on with +my work as if the matter were ended. + +But the next day he told me, "I have concluded to have you compose that +oration, Dr. Hartzmann;" and from that moment of petty victory I have +not feared my employer. + +I wrote the address, and it so pleased Mr. Whitely that, not content +with delivering it, he had it handsomely printed, and sent copies to +all his friends. + +The resulting praise he received clearly whetted his appetite for +authorship, for not long after he said to me, "Dr. Hartzmann, you told +me, when you sold me this library, that you were writing a history of +the Turks. How nearly completed is it?" + +"I hope to have it ready for press within three months." + +"For some time," he remarked, "I have meditated the writing of a book, +and possibly yours will serve my purpose." + +I was so taken by surprise that for a moment I merely gazed at him, +since it seemed impossible that even egotism so overwhelming as his +could be capable of such blindness; but he was in earnest, and I could +only revert to Mr. Blodgett's idea that a business man comes to think in +time that anything he can buy is his. I smiled, and answered, "My book +is not petroleum, Mr. Whitely." + +"If it is what I desire, I will amply remunerate you," he offered. + +"It is not for sale." + +"I presume," he replied, "that you know what disposition of your book +suits you best. I have, however, noticed in you a strong desire to +obtain money, and I feel sure that we could arrange terms that will +bring you more than you would otherwise receive." + +Even before Mr. Whitely finished speaking, I realized that I was not a +free agent. I owed a debt, and till it was paid I had no right to think +of my own ambition or feelings. I caught my breath in anguish at the +thought, and then, fearing that my courage would fail me, I spoke +hastily: "What do you offer me?" + +He smiled blandly as he predicted: "It is hardly a work that will have a +large sale. The Turkish nation has not played an important part in +history." + +"Only conquered the key of the Old World, caused the Crusades, forced +the discovery of America and of the Cape passage, compelled Europe to +develop its own civilization instead of adopting that of the East, and +furnished a question to modern statesmen that they have yet found no +OEdipus to answer," I retorted. + +"Your special pleading does tend to magnify their position," he +assented. "I shall be happy to look the work over, leaving the terms to +be decided later." + +I am ashamed to confess what a night of suffering I went through, +battling with the love and pride that had grown into my heart for my +book. I knew from the first moment his proposition had been suggested +that he would give me more than I could ever hope to make from the work, +and therefore my course was only too plain; but I had a terrible +struggle to force myself to carry my manuscript to him the following +afternoon. + +For the next week he was full of what he was reading; and had the +circumstances been different, I could have asked no higher compliment +as regards its popular interest than the enthusiasm of this unlettered +business man for my book. + +"It is quite as diverting as a romance!" he exclaimed. "I can already +see how astonished people will be when they read of the far-reaching +influence of that nation." + +Since the pound of flesh was to be sold, I took advantage of this mood. +After much haggling, which irritated and pained me more than it should, +Mr. Whitely agreed to give me six thousand dollars and the royalties. +Good as the terms were, my heart nearly broke, the day the manuscript +left my hands, for I had put so much thought into the book that it had +almost become part of myself. My father, too, had toiled over it, with +fondest predictions of the fame it would bring me; spending, as it +proved, his very life in the endeavor to make it a great work. That his +love, that the love of my dear professors, and that my own hopes should +all be brought to market and sold as if they were mere merchandise was +so mercenary and cruel that at the last moment it was all I could do to +bring myself to fulfill the bargain. Nothing but my small progress in +paying my debt would have forced me to sell, and I hope nothing but that +would have led me to join in such dishonesty. It was, after all, part of +the price I was paying for the original wrong, and but just retribution +against which I had no right to cry out. Yet for a month I was so sad +that I could scarcely go through my day's toil; and though that was a +year ago, I have never been able to work with the same vim, life seems +to have so little left in it for me. And idle as the thought is, when I +think of your praise of the book I cannot help dreaming of what might +have been if it had been published in my name; if--Ah, well, to talk of +"ifs" is only to confess that I am beaten, and that I will not do. Nor +is the fight over. I never hoped nor attempted to gain your love, and +that he has won you does not mean failure. To pay my debt is all I have +to do, and though I may feel more ill and disheartened than I do +to-night, I will pay it, come what may. + +Good-night, my darling. + + + + +XVI + + +_March 7._ It is little to be proud of, yet I like to think that though +I have behaved dishonestly, I have not entirely lost my sense of right +and wrong. Twice at least have I faced temptation and been strong enough +to resist. + +When I carried to Mr. Blodgett the money I received for my book, I was +so profoundly discouraged that my mood was only too apparent. In his +kindness he suggested that I buy certain bonds of a railroad his firm +was then reorganizing,--telling me from his inside knowledge that a +year's holding would give me a profit of thirty per cent. It was so sore +a temptation to make money without exertion and practically without risk +that I assented, and authorized him to buy the securities; but a night's +reflection made the dishonesty of my act clear to me, and the next +morning I went to his office and told him I wished to countermand my +order. + +"What's that for?" he inquired. + +"I have thought better of the matter, and do not think I have the +right." + +"Why not?" + +"If this money were a trust in my hands, it would not be honest to use +it in speculation, would it?" + +"No." + +"That is practically what it is, since it was stolen from a trust, and +is to be returned to it." + +He smiled rather grimly. "It's lucky for Wall Street," he said, "that +you literary fellows don't have the making and enforcing of laws; and +it's luckier still that you don't have to earn your living down here, +for the money you'd make wouldn't pay your burial insurance." Yet though +he laughed cynically, he shook my hand, I thought, more warmly than +usual when we parted, as if he felt at heart that I had done right. + +Much easier to resist was an offer of another kind. Very foolishly, I +told Mr. Whitely that I had received a letter from the literary editor +of the leading American review asking if I would write the criticism of +the History of the Turks. + +"That is a singular piece of good fortune," Mr. Whitely said cheerfully, +"and guarantees me a complimentary notice in a periodical that rarely +praises." + +"That is by no means certain," I answered. "You know as well as I that +it does not gloze a poor book, nor pass over defects in silence." + +"But you can hardly write critically of your own book!" cried Mr. +Whitely, for once giving me a share in our literary partnership. "For if +there are defects you ought to have corrected them in proof." + +"Of course I do not intend to write the review!" I exclaimed. + +"Not write it? Why not?" he questioned in amazement equal to mine. + +"Because I am absolutely unfitted to do it." + +"Why, you know all about the subject!" + +"I mean that no author can for a moment write discriminatingly of his +own work; and besides, the offer would never have been made if my +connection with the book were known." + +"But they will never know." + +"I should." + +"You mean to say you do not intend to do it?" + +"I shall write to-night declining." + +"But I want you to do it." + +"And I don't." + +"What would they probably pay you for it?" + +"What it is worth." + +"If you will reconsider your determination, I will double the amount." + +"Unfortunately," I laughed bitterly, "there are limits to what even _I_ +will sell." + +"I will give you two hundred and fifty dollars if you will write a +laudatory review of my book," he offered. + +"Have you ever dealt in consciences, Mr. Whitely?" I asked. + +"Occasionally." + +"Did you ever get any as cheap as that?" + +"Many." + +"I'm afraid you were buying shopworn and second-hand articles," I +retorted; "or you may have gone to some bargain counter where they make +a specialty of ninety-eight and forty-nine cent goods." + +He never liked this satirical mood into which he sometimes drove me. He +hesitated an instant, and then bid, "Three hundred." + +"This reminds me of Faust," I remarked; but he was too intent on the +matter in hand to see the point. + +"I suppose it's only a question of amount?" he suggested blandly. + +"You are quite right, Mr. Whitely. I will write you that review if you +will pay me my price," I assented. + +"I knew it," he asserted exultingly. "But you are mistaken if you think +I will pay any fancy price." + +"Then it's a waste of time to talk any more about it," I answered, and +resumed my work. + +"It isn't worth three hundred, even," he argued, "but you may tell me +what you will do it for." + +"I will write that review for one hundred and twenty-one thousand +dollars," I replied. + +"What!" + +"And from that price I will not abate one cent," I added. + +Strangely enough, I did not write the notice. + +It was amusing to see his eagerness for the criticisms of the book. The +three American critical journals had notices eminently characteristic of +them. The first was scholarly, praising moderately, with a touch of +lemon-juice in the final paragraph that really only heightened its +earlier commendation, but which made the book's putative author wince; +the second was discriminating and balanced, with far more that was +complimentary; while the third was the publisher's puff so regularly +served up,--a colorless, sugary mush,--which my employer swallowed with +much delectation. I am ashamed to say that I greatly enjoyed his pain +over any harsh words. He always took for granted that the criticisms +were correct, never realizing that as between an author, who has spent +years on a book, and the average critic, who is at best superficial in +his knowledge of a subject, the former is the more often right of the +two. I tried to make this clear to him one day by asking him if he had +never read Lord Brougham's review of Byron or Baron Jeffrey's review of +Coleridge, and even brought him the astonishing tirades of those +world-renowned critics; but it was time wasted. He preferred a +flattering panegyric in the most obscure of little sheets to a really +careful notice which praised less inordinately; yet while apparently +believing all the flattery, he believed all the censoriousness as well, +even in those cases known to every author where one critic praises what +another blames. + +"A Western paper says you do not know how to write English," he +complained one day. "You ought to have taken more pains with the book, +Dr. Hartzmann." + +"The Academy and The Athenum both thought my style had merit," I +answered, smiling. + +"Nevertheless there must be something wrong, or this critic, who in +other respects praises with remarkable discrimination, would certainly +not have gone out of his way to mention it," he replied discontentedly. + +Fortunately, unfavorable criticism, both in Europe and in America, was +the exception, and not the rule; the book was generally praised, and +sprang into an instant sale that encouraged and cheered me. Mr. Whitely +was immensely gratified at the sudden reputation it achieved for him, +and even while drinking deep of the mead of fresh authorship told me he +thought he would publish another book. I knew it was an opportunity to +make more money, but for some reason I felt unequal to beginning anew on +what would be a purely mercenary task. I mentioned my plan of a work on +the Moors, and promised, when I felt able to commence it, I would talk +with him about terms. That was three months ago, yet every day I seem to +feel less inclination, and in fact less ability, to undertake the labor. +For three years I have toiled to the utmost of my strength, and forced +myself to endure the most rigid economy. It is cowardly, but at times I +find myself hoping my present want of spirit and energy is the +forerunner of an illness which will end the hopeless struggle. + +Good-night, dear heart. + + + + +XVII + + +_March 8._ Each day I determine to spend my evening usefully, but try as +I may, when the time comes I feel too weary to do good work, and so +morbidly recur to these memories. I ought to fight the tendency, the +more that in reverting to the past I seem only to dwell on its sadness, +thus intensifying my own depression. Let me see if I cannot for one +night write of the good fortune that has come to me in the last three +years. + +Pleased with the success of my book of travel and text-books, and knowing +of my wish for work, the American publishers offered me the position of +assistant editor of their magazine and reader of manuscripts. By hard +work and late hours the task could be done in my mornings and evenings, +allowing me to continue in Mr. Whitely's employ; so I eagerly accepted +the position. I can imagine few worse fates than reading the hopeless +and impossible trash that comes to every publisher; but this was not my +lot, for I was to read only the manuscripts that had been winnowed of +the chaff. Yet this very immunity, as it proved, nearly lost me an +opportunity of trying to be of service to you. + +Returning a bundle of stuff to the manuscript clerk one day, I saw "M. +Walton, 287 Madison Avenue, New York City," in your handwriting, on the +cover of a bulky pile of sheets on his desk. Startled, I demanded, "What +is this?" + +"It's a rejected manuscript I was on the point of wrapping to return," +the clerk answered. + +Opening the cover, I saw, "A Woman's Problem, a Novel, by Aimez Lawton." +It needed little perception to detect your name in the anagram. + +"Mrs. Graham has rejected it?" I asked, and he nodded. + +"Give me the file about it, please," I requested; and after a moment's +search he handed me the envelope, and I glanced over its meagre +contents: a brief formal note from you, submitting it, and the short +opinion of the woman reader. "Traces of amateurishness, but a work of +considerable power and feeling, marred by an inconclusive ending," was +the epitome of her opinion, coupled with the recommendation not to +accept. + +"Register it on my list, and I'll take it and look it over," I said, and +went to my little editorial cuddy, feeling actually rich in the +possession of the manuscript. Indeed, it was all I could do to go +through my morning quota of proof-reading and "making up" dummy forms +for the magazine's next issue, I was so eager for your book. + +A single reading told me you had put the problem of your life into the +story. It is true the heroine was different enough in many respects to +make analogy hardly perceptible, though she too was a tender, noble +woman. She had never felt the slightest responsive warmth for any of her +lovers, but she was cramped by the social conventions regarding +unmarried women, and questioned whether her life would not be more +potent if she married, even without love. One of her lovers was a man of +force, brains, wealth, and ambition, outwardly an admirable match, +respected by the world, and, most of all, able to draw about him the men +of genius and intellect she wished to know, but whom her society lot +debarred her from meeting. Yet your heroine was conscious of faults: she +felt in him a touch of the soil that repels every woman instinctively; +at times his nature seemed hard and unsympathetic, and his scientific +work, for which he was famous, had narrowed his strong mind to think +only of facts and practicalities, to the exclusion of everything ideal +or beautiful. In the end, however, his persistent wooing convinced her +of the strength of his feeling; and though she was conscious that she +could never love him as she wished to love, the tale ended by her +marrying him. Am I to blame for reading in this the story of Mr. +Whitely's courtship of you? I only marveled at how much of his true +character you had detected under his veneer. + +To me the story was sweet and noble. I loved your heroine from beginning +to end. She was so strong even in her weaknesses; for you made her no +unsubstantial ideal. I understood her craving something more than her +allotted round of social amusements, and her desire for intercourse and +friendship with finer and more purposeful people than she daily met. I +even understood her willingness to accept love, when not herself feeling +it; for my own life was so hungry-hearted that I had come to yearn for +the slightest tenderness, no matter who the giver might be. + +As soon as I realized that the story was your own, I hoped it might tell +me something of your thoughts of my father and myself; but that part of +your life you passed over as if it never had been. Was the omission due +to too much feeling or too little? I have always suspected that I served +as a model for one of your minor characters: a dreamy, unsocial being, +curiously variable in mood; at times talking learnedly and even wittily, +but more often absolutely silent. He was by profession an artist, and +you made him content to use his talent on book and magazine +illustration, apparently without a higher purpose in life than to earn +enough to support himself, in order that he might pass the remainder of +his time in an intellectual indulgence scarcely higher in motive than +more material dissipation. His evident sadness and lack of ambition was +finally discovered to be due to a disappointment in love; and as a +cure, your heroine introduced him to her best friend,--a young +girl,--and through her influence he was roused to some ambition, and in +the end he dutifully fell in love as your heroine wished. It was a +sketch that made me wince, and yet at which I could not help but laugh. +I suppose it was a true picture, and I am quite conscious that at times +I must seem ridiculous to you; for often my mood is such, or my interest +in you is so strong, that I forget even the ordinary courtesies and +conventions. There is a general idea that a lover is always at his best +when with the woman he loves, but, from my own experience, I think he is +quite as likely to be at his worst. To watch your graceful movements, to +delight in the play of expression on your face, and to catch every +inflection in your voice and every word you speak are pleasures so +engrossing to me that I must appear to you even more abstracted than I +ordinarily am, though a dreamer at best. And yet now and then I have +thought you were conscious of a tenderness in me, which, try as I will, +I cannot altogether hide. + +The main fault of the novel was unquestionably that most accented by the +reader, and, recognizing the story as the problem of your life, I +understood why you supplied no solution to the riddle. You begged the +question you propounded; the fact that your heroine married the hero +being no answer, since only by the results of that marriage would it be +possible to say if she had chosen the better part. It was this that +convinced me you were putting on paper your own thoughts and mood. You +were debating this theme, and could carry it in imagination to the point +of marriage; but what lay beyond that was unknowable, and you made no +attempt to invent a conclusion, the matter being too real to you to be +merely a subject for artistic idealism and invention. Hitherto I had +classed Mr. Whitely with your other lovers, feeling sure that you could +not love him any more than you could any of them; but now for the first +time I began to fear his success. + +After reading the story three times I carried it back to the manuscript +clerk; and when I had allowed sufficient time for it to be returned, I +wrote you a long letter, telling how I had come to read the story, and +making a careful criticism and analysis of both its defects and its +merits. I cannot tell you what a labor of love that letter was, or how +much greater pains I took over your book than I have ever taken over any +writing of my own. What was perhaps unfair, after pointing out the +inconclusiveness of your ending, I sketched what I claimed was the +logical end to the story. Thinking as I did that I knew the original in +your mind, I was more influenced by my knowledge of him than I was by +the character in your book, and therefore possibly my inference was +unjust. But in hopes of saving you from Mr. Whitely, I pictured a sequel +in which your heroine found only greater loneliness in her loveless +union, her husband's love proving a tax, and not a boon; and marriage, +instead of broadening her life, only bent and narrowed it by just so +much as a strong-willed and selfish man would inevitably cramp the life +of one over whom law and public opinion gave him control. + +I was richly rewarded by your letter of thanks. You were so winning in +your sweet acceptance of all my criticisms, and so lovable in your +simple gratitude, that I would have done a thousand times the work to +earn such a letter. Yet even in this guerdon I could not escape the +sting of my unhappy lot; for, unable to reconcile my distant conduct +with the apparent trouble I had taken, you asked me to dinner, leaving +me to select the day, and spoke of the pleasure it would give you to +have an opportunity to talk over the book with me. + +I can think of few greater delights than to have gone over your story, +line by line and incident by incident. My love pleaded with me to take +the chance, pointing out that it would do you no harm, but on the +contrary aid you, and I found a dozen specious reasons; but tempt me as +they might, I always came back to the truth that if you knew who I +really was you would not invite me, nor accept a favor at my hands. In +the end I wrote you that my time was so mortgaged that I must deny +myself the pleasure. A small compensation was my offer that if you chose +to rewrite the story and send me the manuscript, I would gladly read it +over again and make any further suggestions which occurred to me. You +thanked me by letter gracefully, but I was conscious of your +bewilderment in the very care with which you phrased your note; and when +next we met I could see that I had become more an enigma than +ever,--for which there is indeed small wonder. + +God keep you, my darling. + + + + +XVIII + + +_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. + + + + +XIX + + +_March 10._ For the remainder of my visit, it seemed as if your prophecy +of friendship were to be fulfilled. From the moment of my confidence to +you, all the reserves that had been raised by my slighting of your +invitations disappeared, perhaps because the secret I had shared with +you served to make my past conduct less unreasonable; still more, I +believe, because of the faith in you it evidenced in me. Certain I am +that in the following week I felt able to be my true self when with you, +for the first time since we were boy and girl together. The difference +was so marked that you commented on the change. + +"Do you remember," you asked me, "our conversation in Mr. Whitely's +study, when I spoke of how little people really knew one another? Here +we have been meeting for over three years, and yet I find that I haven't +in the least known you." + +It is a pleasure to me to recall that whole conversation, for it was by +far the most intimate that we ever had,--so personal that I think I +should but have had to question to learn what I long to know. In +response to my slight assistance, to the sympathy I had shown, you +opened for the moment your heart; willing, apparently, that I should +fathom your true nature. + +We had gone to dinner at the Grangers' merely to please Mrs. Blodgett, +for we mutually agreed that in the country formal dinners were a +weariness of the flesh; and I presume that with you, as with me, this +general objection of ours was greatly strengthened when we found Mrs. +Polhemus among the guests. It is always painful to me to be near her, +and her dislike of you is obvious enough to make me sure that her +presence is equally disagreeable to you. It is a strange warp and woof +life weaves, that I owe to one for whom we both feel such repulsion the +most sympathetic, the tenderest conversation I have ever had with you. + +I was talking with Miss Granger, and thus did not hear the beginning of +my mother's girds at you; but Agnes, who sat on my left, told me later +that, as usual, Mrs. Polhemus set out to bait you by remarks +superficially inoffensive, but covertly planned to embarrass or sting. +The first thing which attracted my notice was her voice distinctly +raised, as if she wished the whole table to listen, and in fact loud +enough to make Miss Granger stop in the middle of a sentence and draw +our attention to the speaker. + +"--sound very well," Mrs. Polhemus was saying, "and are to be expected +from any one who strives to be thought romantically sentimental." + +"I did not know," you replied in a low voice, "that a 'romantically +sentimental' nature was needed to produce belief in honesty." + +"It is easy enough to talk the high morals of honesty," retorted your +assailant, "and I suppose, Miss Walton, that for you it is not difficult +to live up to your conversational ideals. But we unfortunate earthly +creatures, who cannot achieve so rarefied a life, dare not make a parade +of our ethical natures. The saintly woman is an enormously difficult +rle to play since miracles went out of style." + +"Oh, leave us an occasional ideal, Mrs. Polhemus," laughed a guest. "I +for one wish that fairy rings and genii were still the vogue." + +"But we have some kinds of miracles," asserted Mrs. Granger. "Remember +the distich,-- + + 'God still works wonders now and then: + Behold! two lawyers, honest men!'" + +"With all due deference to Miss Walton's championing of absolute +perfection," continued my mother, with a cleverly detached manner, to +veil what lay back of the sneer, "I find it much easier to accept the +miracle of an honest lawyer than that of an absolutely uncattish +woman,"--a speech which, like most of those of Mrs. Polhemus, drew a +laugh from the men. + +"That's because you don't know Miss Walton!" exclaimed Agnes warmly, +evidently fretted by such conduct towards you. + +"On the contrary," answered my mother, speaking coolly and evenly, "I +presume I have known Miss Walton longer and better than any one else in +this room; and I remember when her views of honesty were such that her +ideal was personified by a pair of embezzlers." + +You had been meeting her gaze across the table as she spoke, but now you +dropped your lids, hiding your eyes behind their long lashes; and +nothing but the color receding from your cheeks, leaving them as white +as your throat and brow, told of what you felt. + +"Oh, say something," appealed Agnes to me in a whisper. "Anything to +divert the"-- + +"And I really think," went on Mrs. Polhemus, smiling sweetly, with her +eyes on you, "that if you were as thoroughly honest with us as, a moment +ago, you were insistent on the world's being, you would confess to a +_tendresse_ still felt for that particular form of obliquity." + +I shall recall the moment which followed that speech if it shall ever +fall to me to sit in the jury-box and pass judgment on a murderer, for I +know that had I been armed, and my mother a man, I should have killed +her; and it taught me that murder is in every man's heart. Yet I was not +out of my head, but was curiously clear-minded. Though allusion to my +shame had hitherto always made me dumb, I was able to speak now without +the slightest difficulty; I imagine because the thought of your pain +made me forget my own. + +"Which is better, Mrs. Polhemus," I asked, with a calmness I marveled at +afterwards, "to love dishonesty or to dishonestly love?" + +"Is this a riddle?" she said, though not removing her eyes from you. + +"I suppose, since right and wrong are evolutionary," I rejoined, "that +every ethical question is more or less of a conundrum. But the thought +in my mind was that there is only nobility in a love so great that it +can outlast even wrongdoing." Then, in my controlled passion, I stabbed +her as deeply as I could make words stab. "Compare such a love, for +instance, with another of which I have heard,--that of a woman who so +valued the world's opinion that she would not get a divorce from an +embezzling husband, because of the social stigma it involved, yet who +remarried within a week of hearing of her first husband's death, because +she thought that fact could not be known. Which love is the higher?" + +The color blazed up in my mother's cheeks, as she turned from you to +look at me, with eyes that would have killed if they could; and it was +her manner, far more than even the implication of my words, which told +the rest of the table that my nominally impersonal case was truly a +thrust of the knife. A moment's appalling pause followed, and then, +though the fruit was being passed, the hostess broke the terrible spell +by rising, as if the time had come for the ladies to withdraw. + +When, later, the men followed them, Agnes intercepted me at the door, +and whispered, "Oh, doctor, it was magnificent! I was so afraid Maizie +would break down if--I never dreamed you could do it so splendidly. +You're almost as much of a love as papa! It will teach the cat to let +Maizie alone! Now, do you want to be extra good?" + +"So long as you don't want any more vitriol-throwing," I assented, +smiling. "Remember that a hostess deserves some consideration." + +"I told Mrs. Granger that you did it at my request, and there wasn't a +woman in the room who didn't want to cheer. We all love Maizie, and hate +Mrs. Polhemus; and it isn't a bit because you geese of men think she's +handsome and clever, either. Poor Maizie wanted to be by herself, and +went out on the veranda. I think she's had time enough, and that it's +best for some one to go to her. Won't you slip out quietly?" + +I nodded, and instantly she spoke aloud of the moon, and we went to the +French window on the pretense of looking at it, where, after a moment, I +left her. At first I could not discover you, the vines so shadowed your +retreat; and when I did, it was to find you with bowed head buried in +your arms as they rested on the veranda rail. The whole attitude was so +suggestive of grief that I did not dare to speak, and moved to go away. +Just as I turned, however, you looked up, as if suddenly conscious of +some presence. + +"I did not intend to intrude, Miss Walton, and don't let me disturb you. +I will rejoin"-- + +"If you came out for the moonlight and quiet, sit down here," you said, +making room for me. + +I seated myself beside you, but made no reply, thinking your allusion to +quiet perhaps voiced your own preference. + +"It seems needless," you began, after a slight pause, "to ignore your +kindness, even though it was veiled. I never felt so completely in +another's power, and though I tried to--to say something--to strike +back--I couldn't. Did my face so betray me that you knew I needed +help?" + +"Your face told nothing, it seemed to me." + +"But that makes it positively uncanny. Over and over again you appear to +divine my thoughts or moods. Do you?" + +"Little more than any one can of a person in whom one is interested +enough to notice keenly." + +"Yet no one else does it with me. And several times, when we have caught +each other's eyes, we have--at least I have felt sure that you were +laughing with me, though your face was grave." + +"Who was uncannily mind-reading then?" + +"An adequate _tu quoque_," you said, laughing; then you went on +seriously; "Still, to be frank, as now I think we can be, I have never +made any pretense that I wasn't very much interested in you--while +you--well--till very lately, I haven't been able to make up my mind that +you did not actually--no, not dislike--for I knew that you--I could not +be unconscious of the genuine esteem you have made so evident--yet there +has always been, until the last two weeks, an indefinable barrier, of +your making, as it appeared to me, and from that I could only infer +some--I can give it no name." + +"Were there no natural barriers to a friendship between a struggling +writer and Miss Walton?" + +"Surely you are above that!" you exclaimed. "You have not let such a +distinction--Oh no, for it has not stood in the way of friendship with +the Blodgetts." + +A moment's silence ensued, and then you spoke again: "Perhaps there was +a motive that explains it. Please don't reply, if it is a question I +ought not to put, but after your confidence of last week I feel as if +you had given me the privilege to ask it. I have always thought--or +rather hoped--that you cared for Agnes? If"-- + +"And so you married me to her in the novel," I interrupted, in an +effort to change the subject, dreading to what it might lead. + +You laughed merrily as you said, "Oh, I'm so glad you spoke of that. I +have often wondered if you recognized the attempted portrait,--which now +I know is not a bit of a likeness,--and have longed to ask you. I never +should have dared to sketch it, but I thought my pen name would conceal +my criminality; and then what a fatality for you to read it! I never +suspected you were the publisher's reader. What have you thought of me?" + +"That you drew a very pleasant picture of my supposed mental and moral +attainments, at the expense of my ambition and will. My true sympathy, +however, went out to the girl whom you offered up as a heart-restorer +for my earlier attachment." + +"I'm thankful we are in the shadow," you laughed, "so that my red cheeks +don't show. You are taking a most thoroughgoing revenge." + +"That was the last thought in my mind." + +"Then, my woman's curiosity having been appeased, be doubly generous and +spare my absurd blushes. I don't know when I have been made to feel so +young and foolish." + +"Clearly you are no hardened criminal, Miss Walton. Usually matchmakers +glory in their shame." + +"Perhaps I should if I had not been detected, or if I had succeeded +better." + +"You took, I fear, a difficult subject for what may truly be called your +maiden experiment." + +"Did I not? And yet--You see I recognized potentialities for loving in +you. You can--Ah, you have suggested to me a revenge for your jokes. Did +you--were you the man who coined the phrase that my eyes were too dressy +for the daytime?" + +"Yes," I confessed guiltily, "but"-- + +"No, don't dare to try to explain it away," you ordered. "How could you +say it? We can never be friends, after all." + +Though you spoke in evident gayety, I answered gravely: "You will +forgive me when I tell you that it was to parry a thrust of Mrs. +Polhemus's at you, and I made a joke of it only because I did not choose +to treat her gibe seriously. I hoped it would not come back to you." + +"Every friend I have has quoted it, not once, but a dozen times, in my +presence. If you knew how I have been persecuted and teased with that +remark! You are twice the criminal that I have been, for at least my +libel was never published. Yet you are unblushing." + +We both sat silent for a little while, and then you began: "You +interrupted a question of mine just now. Was it a chance or a purposed +diversion? You see," you added hastily, "I am presuming that henceforth +we are to be candid." + +"I confess to an intention in the dodging, not because I feared the +question, for a simple negative was all it needed, but I was afraid of +what might follow." + +"I hoped, after the trust of the other day--You do not want to tell me +your story?" + +"Are there not some things that cannot be put into words, Miss Walton? +Could you tell me your story?" + +"But mine is no mystery," you replied. "It has been the world's property +for years. Why, your very help to-night proves that it is known to +you,--that you know, indeed, facts that were unknown to me." + +"Facts, yes; feelings, no." + +"Do you appreciate the subtilty of the compliment? You really care for +such valueless and indefinable things as feelings?" + +"Yes." + +"A bargain, then, while you are in this mood of giving something for +nothing. Question for question, if you choose." + +"You can tell your secrets?" + +"To you, yes, for you have told me your greatest." + +"Then, with the privilege of silence for both, begin." + +"Ah, you begin already to fear the gimlet! Yes. Nothing is to be told +that--There again we lack a definition, do we not? Never mind. We shall +understand. You knew her in Germany?" + +"Yes." + +"And she--You wear a mask, at moments even merry-faced, but now and +again I have surprised a look of such sadness in your eyes that--Is that +why you came to America? She"-- + +"No. She was, and is, in so different a class, that I never"-- + +"You should not allow that to be a bar! Any woman"-- + +"But even more, there are other claims upon me, which make marriage out +of the question." + +"And this is why you have resigned reputation for money-making? Is +there no escape? Oh, it seems too cruel to be!" + +"You draw it worse than it is, Miss Walton, forgetting that I told you +of my happiness in loving." + +"You make me proud to feel that we are friends, Dr. Hartzmann," you said +gently. "I hope she is worthy of such a love?" + +I merely nodded; and after a slight pause you remarked, "Now it is only +fair to give you a turn." + +I had been pondering, after my first impulsive assent, over my right to +win your confidence, with the one inevitable conclusion that was so +clear, and I answered, "I have no questions to ask, Miss Walton." + +"Then I can ask no more, of course," you replied quietly, and at once +turned the conversation into less personal subjects, until the time came +for our return to My Fancy. + +When we parted in the upper hall, that evening, you said to me, "I +always value your opinion, and it usually influences me. Do you, as your +speech to-night implied, think it right to go on loving baseness?" + +"It is not a question of right and wrong, but only whether the love +remains." + +"Then you don't think it a duty to crush it out?" + +"No. All love is noble that is distinct from self." + +You held out your hand. "I am so glad you think so, and that you spoke +your thought. You have done me a great kindness,--greater far than you +can ever know. Thank you, and good-night." + +Good-night, Maizie. + + + + +XX + + +_March 11._ When I left My Fancy, after my visit, Agnes had nothing but +praise for me. "I was certain that you and Maizie would be friends if +you ever really knew each other," she said triumphantly. Unfortunately, +our first meeting in the city served only to prove the reverse. In one +of my daily walks up-town, I met you and Agnes outside a shop where you +had been buying Christmas gifts for the boys of your Neighborhood Guild. +You were looking for the carriage, about which there had been some +mistake, and I helped you search. When our hunt was unsuccessful, you +both said you would rather walk than let me get a cab, having been +deterred only by the growing darkness, and not by the snow. So chatting +merrily, away we went, through the elfin flakes which seemed so eager +to kiss your cheeks, till your home was reached. + +"If we come in, will you give us some tea?" asked Agnes. + +"Tea, cake, chocolates, and conversation," you promised. + +"I am sorry," I said, "but I cannot spare the time." + +I thought you and Agnes exchanged glances. "Please, Doc--" she began; +but you interrupted her by saying proudly, "We must not take any more of +Dr. Hartzmann's time, Agnes. Will you come in?" + +"No," replied Agnes. "I'll go home before it's any darker. Good-night." + +I started to walk with her the short distance, but the moment we were +out of hearing she turned towards me and cried, "I hate you!" As I made +no reply, she demanded impatiently, "What makes you behave so +abominably?" When I was still silent she continued: "I told you how +Maizie felt, and I thought it was all right, and now you do it again. +It's too bad! Well, can't you say something? Why do you do it?" + +"There is nothing for me to say, Miss Blodgett," I responded sadly. + +"You might at least do it to please me," she persisted, "even if you +don't like Maizie." + +I made no answer, and we walked the rest of the distance in silence. At +the stoop, however, Agnes asked, "Will you go with me to call on Maizie, +some afternoon?" + +I shook my head. + +"Not even to please mamma and me?" she questioned. + +Again I gave the same answer, and without a word of parting she left me +and passed through the doorway. From that time she has treated me +coldly. + +Another complication only tended to increase the coldness, as well as to +involve me with Mrs. Blodgett. In December, Mr. Blodgett came into Mr. +Whitely's office and announced, "I've been taking a liberty with your +name, doctor." + +"For what kindness am I indebted now?" I inquired. + +"I'm a member of the Philomathean," he said,--"not because I'm an +author, or artist, or engineer, or scientist, but because I'm a big frog +in my own puddle, and they want samples of us, provided we are good +fellows, just to see what we're like. I was talking with Professor Eaton +in September, and we agreed you ought to be one of us; so we stuck your +name up, and Saturday evening the club elected you." + +"I can't afford it"--I began; but he interrupted with:-- + +"I knew you'd say that, and so didn't tell you beforehand. I'll bet you +your initiation fee and a year's dues against a share of R. T. common +that you'll make enough out of your membership to pay you five times +over." + +"How can I do that?" + +"All the editors and publishers are members," he replied, "and to meet +them over the rum punch we serve on meeting nights is worth money to the +most celebrated author living. Then you'll have the best club library in +this country at your elbow for working purposes." + +"I don't think I ought, Mr. Blodgett." + +He was about to protest, when Mr. Whitely broke in upon us, saying, +"Accept your membership, Dr. Hartzmann, and the paper shall pay your +initiation and dues." + +I do not know whether Mr. Blodgett or myself was the more surprised at +this unexpected and liberal offer. Our amazement was so obvious that Mr. +Whitely continued: "I think it'll be an excellent idea for the paper to +have a member of its staff in the Philomathean, and so the office shall +pay for it." + +"Whitely," observed Mr. Blodgett admiringly, "you're a good business +man, whatever else you are!" + +"I wish, Blodgett," inquired Mr. Whitely, "you would tell me why I have +been kept waiting so long?" + +"Many a name's been up longer than yours," replied Mr. Blodgett in a +comforting voice. "You don't seem to realize that the Philomathean's a +pretty stiff club to get into." + +"But I've been posted for over three years, while here Dr. Hartzmann is +elected within four months of his proposing." + +"Well, the doctor has the great advantage of being a sort of natural +Philomath, you see," Mr. Blodgett explained genially. "He was born that +way, and so is ripe for membership without any closet mellowing." + +"But my reputation as a writer is greater than Dr."--began Mr. Whitely; +but a laugh from Mr. Blodgett made him halt. + +"Oh come, now, Whitely!" + +"What's the matter?" asked my employer. + +"Once St. Peter and St. Paul stopped at a tavern to quench their +thirst," said Mr. Blodgett, "and when the time came to pay, they tossed +dice for it. Paul threw double sixes, and smiled. Peter smiled back, and +threw double sevens. What do you suppose Paul said, Whitely?" + +"What?" + +"'Oh, Peter, Peter! No miracles between friends.'" + +"I don't follow you," rejoined Mr. Whitely. + +Mr. Blodgett turned and said to me, "I'm going West for two months, and +while I'm gone the Twelfth-night revel at the Philomathean is to come +off. Will you see that the boss and Agnes get cards?" Then he faced +about and remarked, "Whitely, I'd give a big gold certificate to know +what nerve food you use!" and went out, laughing. + +When I took the invitations to Mrs. Blodgett, I found you all with your +heads full of a benefit for the Guild, to be given at your home,--a +musical evening, with several well-known stars as magnets, and admission +by invitation as an additional attraction. Mrs. Blodgett said to me in +her decisive way, "Dr. Hartzmann, the invitations are five dollars each, +and you are to take one." + +I half suspected that it was only a device to get me within your doors, +though every society woman feels at liberty to whitemail her social +circle to an unlimited degree. But the fact that the entertainment was +to be in your home, even more than my poverty, compelled me to refuse to +be a victim of her charitable kindness or her charitable greed. I merely +shook my head. + +"Oh, but you must," she urged. "It will be a delightful evening, and +then it's such a fine object." + +"Do not ask it of Dr. Hartzmann," you protested, coming to my aid. "No +one"-- + +"I'm sure it's very little to ask," remarked Mrs. Blodgett, in a +disappointed way. + +"Mrs. Blodgett," I said, in desperation, "for years I have denied myself +every luxury and almost every comfort. I have lived at the cheapest of +boarding-houses; I have walked down-town, rain or shine, to save ten +cents a day; I have"--I stopped there, ashamed of my outbreak. + +"I suppose, Dr. Hartzmann," retorted Agnes, with no attempt to conceal +the irritation she felt toward me, "that the Philomathean is one of your +ten-cent economies?" + +Before I could speak you changed the subject, and the matter was +dropped,--I hoped for all time. It was, however, to reappear, and to +make my position more difficult and painful than ever. + +At Mrs. Blodgett's request, made that very day, I sent you an invitation +to the Philomathean ladies' day. It was with no hope of being there +myself, since my editorial duties covered the hours of the exhibition; +but good or bad fortune aided me, for Mr. Whitely asked me for a ticket, +and his absence from the office set me free. The crowd was great, but, +like most people who try for one thing only, I attained my desire by +quickly finding you, and we spent an enjoyable hour together, studying +the delicious jokes and pranks of our artist members. The truly +marvelous admixture of absurdity and cleverness called out the real +mirth of your nature, and our happiness and gayety over the pictures +strangely recalled to me our similar days spent in Paris and elsewhere. +You too, I think, remembered the same experience, for when we had +finished, and were ascending the stairs to the dining-room, you remarked +to me, "I never dreamed that one could be so merry after one had ceased +to be a child. For the last hour I have felt as if teens were yet +unventured lands." + +I confess I sought a secluded spot in an alcove, hoping still to keep +you to myself; but the project failed, for when I returned from getting +you an ice, I found that Mr. Whitely had joined you. The pictures, of +course, were the subject of discussion, and you asked him, "Are all the +other members as clever in their own professions as your artists have +shown themselves to be?" + +"The Philomathean is made up of an able body of men," replied Mr. +Whitely in a delightfully patronizing tone. "Some few of the very +ablest, perhaps, do not care to be members; but of the second rank, you +may say, broadly speaking, that it includes all men of prominence in +this city." + +"But why should the abler men not belong?" + +"They are too occupied with more vital matters," explained my employer. + +"Yet surely they must need a club, and what one so appropriate as this?" + +"It is natural to reason so," assented the would-be member. "But as an +actual fact, some of the most prominent men in this city are not +members," and he mentioned three well-known names. + +The inference was so unjust that I observed, "Should you not add, Mr. +Whitely, that they are not members either because they know it is +useless to apply, or because they have applied in vain; and that their +exclusion, though superficially a small affair, probably means to them, +by the implication it carries, one of the keenest mortifications of +their lives?" + +"You mean that the Philomathean refuses to admit such men as Mr. Whitely +named?" you asked incredulously. + +I smiled. "The worldly reputation and the professional reputation of men +occasionally differ very greatly, Miss Walton. We do not accept a man +here because his name appears often in the newspapers, but because of +what the men of his own calling know and think of him." + +"And of course they are always jealous of a man who has surpassed them," +contended Mr. Whitely. + +"There must be something more against a man than envy of his confrres +to exclude him," I answered. "My loyalty to the Philomathean, Miss +Walton, is due to the influence it exerts in this very matter. Errors +are possible, but the intention is that no man shall be of our +brotherhood who is not honestly doing something worth the doing, for +other reasons than mere money-making. And for that very reason, we are +supposed, within these walls, to be friends, whether or not there is +acquaintance outside of them. We are the one club in New York which +dares to trust its membership list implicitly to that extent. +Charlatanry and dishonesty may succeed with the world, but here they +fail. Money will buy much, but the poorest man stands on a par here with +the wealthiest." + +"You make me envious of you both," you sighed, just as Mrs. Blodgett and +Agnes joined us. + +"What are you envying them?" asked Agnes, as she shook hands with +you,--"that they were monopolizing you? How selfish men are!" + +"In monopolizing this club?" + +"Was that what you envied them?" ejaculated Mrs. Blodgett. "I for one am +glad there's a place to which I can't go, where I can send my husband +when I want to be rid of him." Then she turned to Mr. Whitely, and with +her usual directness remarked, "So they've let you in? Mr. Blodgett told +me you would surely be rejected." + +Mr. Whitely reddened and bit his lip, for which he is hardly to be +blamed. But he only bowed slightly in reply, leaving the inference in +your minds that he was a Philomath. How the man dares so often to-- + +The striking clock tells me it is later than I thought, and I must stop. + +Good-night, dear heart. + + + + +XXI + + +_March 12._ Our talk at the Philomathean and Mr. Whitely's tacit +assumption of membership had their penalty for me,--a penalty which, to +reverse the old adage, I first thought an undisguised blessing. When we +separated, he asked me to dinner the following evening, to fill in a +place unexpectedly left vacant; and as I knew, from a chance allusion, +that you were to be there, I accepted a courtesy at his hands. + +Although there were several celebrities at the meal, it fell to my lot +to sit on your right; my host, who took you down, evidently preferring +to have no dangerous rival in your attention. But Mrs. Blodgett, who sat +on his other side, engaged him as much as she chose, and thus gave me +more of your time than I should otherwise have had. If you knew how +happy it made me that, whenever she interrupted his monopoly of you, +instead of making a trialogue with them, you never failed to turn to me! + +"I have just re-read Mr. Whitely's book," you remarked, in one of these +interruptions, "and I have been trying to express to him my genuine +admiration for it. I thought of it highly when first I read it, last +autumn, but on a second reading I have become really an enthusiast." + +I suppose my face must have shown some of the joy your words gave me, +for you continued, "Clearly, you like it too, and are pleased to hear it +praised. But then it's notorious that writers are jealous of one +another! Tell me what you think of it?" + +I tried to keep all bitterness out of my voice as I laughed. "Think how +unprofessional it would be in me to discuss my employer's book: if I +praised it, how necessary; if I disparaged it, how disloyal!" + +"You are as unsatisfactory as Mr. Whitely," you complained. "I can't get +him to speak about it, either. He smiles and bows his head to my praise, +but not a word can he be made to say. Evidently he has a form of +modesty--not stage fright, but book fright--that I never before +encountered. Every other author I have met was fatiguingly anxious to +talk about his own writings." + +"Remember in our behalf that a book stands very much in the same +relation to a writer that a baby does to its mother. We are tolerant of +her admiration; be equally lenient to the author's harmless prattle." + +"I suppose, too," you went on, "that the historian is less liable to the +disease, because his work is so much less his own flesh and blood; so +much less emotional than that of the poet or novelist." + +"No book worth reading ever fails to be steeped with the spirit of the +person who wrote it. The man on the stage is instinct with emotion and +feeling, but does he express more of his true individuality than the man +in real life? The historian puts fewer of his own feelings into his +work, but he plays far less to the gallery, and so is more truthful in +what he reveals of himself." + +"Your simile reminds me of a thought of my own, after my first reading +of this book: that the novelist is the demagogue of letters, striving to +please, and suing for public favor by catering to all its whims and +weaknesses; but the historian is the aristocrat of literature, knowing +the right, and proudly above taking heed of popular prejudice or moods. +I liked Mr. Whitely's book for many things, but most of all for its +fearless attitude towards whatever it touched upon. I felt that it was +the truth, because the whole atmosphere told me that a man was writing, +too brave to tell what was untrue. That evidently pleases you, again," +you laughed. "Oh, it is horrible to see this consuming jealousy!" + +When the ladies withdrew, the men, as usual, clustered at one end of the +table; but my host beckoned me to join him, and sat down apart from his +guests. + +"Dr. Hartzmann, what is the matter at the Philomathean?" he demanded, in +a low voice. + +"Matter?" I questioned. + +"Yes. What is the reason they don't elect me?" + +"I am not on the membership committee, Mr. Whitely," I replied. + +"Are you popular up there? Mr. Blodgett said that you were." + +"I have some good friends," I answered. + +"Then electioneer and get me put in," he explained, revealing to me in a +flash why he had volunteered that the paper should pay the expenses of +my membership. + +"I am hardly in a position to do that." + +"Why not?" + +"I am a new member, and my position under you is so well known that it +would be very indelicate in me to appear in the matter." + +"For what do you suppose I helped you, then?" he asked severely. + +"I did not understand till now." + +"Well, then, drop your talk about delicacy, and get your friends to +elect me." + +"I do not think I can do that," I answered mildly. + +"Then you won't earn your pay?" + +"Mr. Whitely, when you made the offer, you put it on an entirely +different ground, and it is unfair to claim that it involved any +condition that was not then expressed." + +"But you ought to be willing to do it. Haven't you any gratitude about +you?" + +"I understood that you wanted one of your staff a member of that club. +Had you mentioned your present motive, I should certainly have refused +to accept the offer; and under these circumstances I decline to +recognize any cause for gratitude." + +"What is your objection to doing it, though?" he persisted. + +"Indeed, Mr. Whitely, I do not think I am called upon to say more than I +have said." + +"Do you want me in the club or not?" he demanded. + +"I shall certainly never oppose your election in any way whatsoever." + +"But you will not work for me?" + +"No." + +"Are you waiting to see how much I'll give?" + +My hand trembled at the insult, but I made no reply. + +"Come," he continued, "are you standing out in hopes I will offer you +something?" + +"No." + +"How much?" he asked. + +"I have been elected to the Philomathean, Mr. Whitely," I said, +concluding that an explanation might be the easiest escape, after all, +"and to it I owe a distinct duty. If you were not my employer, I should +feel called upon to work against you." + +"Why?" he exclaimed, in surprise. + +"Is it necessary to say?" I answered. + +"Yes. What is your objection to me?" + +"Did you never read sop's fable of the jackdaw?" I asked. + +"That's it, is it? And you are opposing my election?" + +"By not the slightest act." + +"Then why did Blodgett predict that I would surely be rejected? I've a +reputation as a writer, as a philanthropist, and as a successful +business man. What more do they want?" + +"As I told Miss Walton yesterday," I explained, "a man's true and +eventual reputation depends, not on what the world thinks of him, but +on what his fellow-craft decide." + +"Well?" + +"There is scarcely an author or editor at the Philomathean who is not +opposed to your election, Mr. Whitely." + +"You have been telling tales," he muttered angrily. + +"You should know better." + +"Then what have they against me?" + +"Any man who works with his pen learns that no one can write either +editorials or books, of the kind credited to you, without years of +training. The most embarrassing ordeal I have to undergo is the joking +and questioning with which the fraternity tease me. But you need never +fear my not keeping faith." + +"Yet you won't help me into the Philomathean?" + +"No." + +"So you'll make money out of me, but think your club too good?" + +"I owe my club a duty." + +"I know," he went on smoothly, "that you're an awful screw, when there's +a dollar in sight. How much do you want?" + +My silence should have warned him, but he was too self-absorbed to feel +anything but his own mood. + +"How much do you want?" he repeated, and I still sat without speaking, +though the room blurred, and I felt as if I were stifling. "The day I'm +elected to the Philomathean, I'll give you"-- + +I rose and interrupted him, saying, "Mr. Whitely, if you wish me to +leave your house and employment, you can obtain my absence in an easier +way than by insulting me." + +For a moment we faced each other in silence, and then he rose. +"Hereafter, Dr. Hartzmann, you will pay those dues yourself," he said in +a low voice, as he moved towards the door. + +I only bowed, glad that the matter was so easily ended; and for nearly +two months our relations have been of the most formal kind that can +exist between employer and employed. + +Far more bitter was another break. When the moment of farewell came, +that evening, I waited to put you and Mrs. Blodgett into your carriages, +and while we were delayed in the vestibule you thanked me again for the +pleasure of the previous afternoon, and then continued: "I understand +why you did not feel able to please Mrs. Blodgett about the concert. But +won't you let me acknowledge the pleasure of yesterday by sending you a +ticket? I have taken a number, and as all my circle have done the same, +I am finding it rather difficult to get rid of them." + +"That's all right, Maizie," interjected Mrs. Blodgett, who had caught, +or inferred from an occasional word that she heard, what you were +saying. "We took an extra ticket, and I am going to use the doctor for +an escort that evening." + +"I thank you both," I answered, "but I shall not be able to attend the +concert." + +"Nonsense!" sniffed Mrs. Blodgett, as I helped her into her carriage. +"You're going to do as I tell you." + +You did not speak in the moment we waited for your coup to take its +place, but as the tiger opened the door you looked in my face for the +first time since my words, showing me eyes that told of the pain I had +inflicted. + +"I am sorry," you said quietly. "I had thought--hoped--that we were to +be friends." + +There was nothing for me to say, and we parted thus. From that time I +have seen little of you, for when I meet you now you no longer make it +possible for me to have much of your society. And my persistent refusal +to go to the concert with Mrs. Blodgett and Agnes increased their +irritation against me, so that I am no longer asked to their home, and +thus have lost my most frequent opportunity of meeting you. But harder +even than this deprivation is the thought that I have given you pain; +made all the greater, perhaps, because so ill deserved and apparently +unreasonable. I find myself longing for the hour when we shall meet at +that far-away tribunal, where all our lives, and not alone that which is +seen, will stand revealed. For two months I have not had a single moment +of happiness or even hope. I am lonely and weary, while my strength and +courage seem to lessen day by day. Oh, my darling, I pray God that +thought of you will make me stronger and braver, that I may go on with +my fight. Good-night. + + + + +XXII + + +_March 13._ Last night, at the Philomathean, Mr. Blodgett joined me, and +asked me why I had not dined with them lately. He returned only a few +days ago, and was thus ignorant that I have not been inside his door for +weeks. I hesitated for an instant, and then replied, "I have been +working very hard." + +"What are you usually doing?" he asked, smiling. "Come in to Sunday +dinner to-morrow." + +"I shall be too busy with a lot of manuscripts I have on hand, that must +be read," I told him. + +"Stop killing yourself," he ordered. "As it is, you look as if you were +on the brink of a bad illness. You won't get on a bit faster by dying +young." + +There the matter rested, and I did not go to dinner to-day, being +indeed glad to stay indoors; for I very foolishly walked up town +yesterday through the slush, and caught a bad cold. While I was trying +to keep warm, this evening, a note was brought me from Mr. Blodgett, +asking me to come to him at once; and fearing something important, I +braved the cold without delay, ill though I felt. I was shown at once +into his den, which was so cheerful with its open fire that I felt it +was a good exchange for my cold room, where I had sat coughing and +shivering all the afternoon. + +"Twice in my life I've really lost my temper with the boss," he began, +before I had even sat down, though he closed the door while speaking. +"Never mind about the first time, but to-day I got mad enough to last me +for the rest of my life." + +"May I sit down?" I interrupted. + +He nodded his head, and took a position in front of me, with his back +to the fire, as he continued: "Women are enough to make a man frantic +when they get a fixed idea! Now, to-day, at dinner, I said I'd invited +you, and I saw in a moment something was in the wind; so when we had +finished I told them to come in here, and it didn't take me long to find +out the trouble." + +"I didn't like to"--I began; but he went on:-- + +"And that was the beginning of their trouble. I tell you, there was Cain +here for about ten minutes, and there weren't two worse scared women +this side of the grave, while I was ranting; for the boss remembered the +other time, and Agnes had never seen me break loose. I told them they'd +done their best to drive you crazy with grief; that if they'd searched +for ten years they couldn't have found a meaner or crueler thing, or one +that would have hurt you more; that nine men out of ten, in your shoes, +would have acted dishonestly or cut their throat, but that you had toed +the chalk-line right along, and never once winced. And I let them know +that for five dollars they'd added the last straw of pain to a fellow +who deserved only kindness and help from them." + +"Really, Mr. Blodgett"--I protested. + +"Hold on. Don't attempt to stop me, for the fit's on me still," he +growled. "They tried to come the surprised, and then the offended, but +they didn't fool me. I never let up on them till I had said all I wanted +to say, and they won't forget it for a day or two. When I sent Agnes +upstairs, she was sobbing her eyes out, and the boss would have given +her pin money for ten years to have escaped with her." + +"It's too bad to"-- + +"That's just what it was!" he cried. "To think of those screws trying to +blackmail you, and then telling me you were a skinflint because you +wouldn't do what they wanted! Well, after Agnes had gone, I gave the +boss a supplementary and special dose of her own. I told her she could +double discount you on meanness, and then give you forty-nine points; +and to make sure of good measurement, I added in the whole female sex +along with her. I told her that if she knew the facts of your life, +she'd get down on her knees and crawl round to your place to ask your +pardon, and then she wouldn't be fit to have it. I told her that when +the day of judgment came, she'd just go the other way in preference to +hearing what the recording angel had written of her." + +"I am afraid that your intended kindness will make my welcome scantier +than ever." + +"Not a bit of it. I'm the master of this house, as they found out this +afternoon, and I say who'll come into it, and who'll not. I shan't need +to interfere in your case, for you'll get a warm welcome from both." + +"You didn't tell them?" I exclaimed, starting forward in my seat. + +"Not a word, though the boss nearly went crazy with curiosity. But I did +say that you were making a splendid up-hill fight, and if they knew the +facts of the case they'd be proud to black your boots. My word goes in +this family about as well as it does on the Street, and you'll get all +the welcome you can stand from now on." + +"You make me very proud and happy." + +"You have reason to be proud," he asserted. "I'm not a man who slobbers +much, but I'm going to tell you what I think of you. When you first came +here, I sized you up as rather a softy, your manner was so quiet and +gentle. I got over that delusion precious quick, and I want to say that +for pluck and grit you're a trump, and there's my hand on it." + +He went to the table, poured out a couple of glasses of whiskey and +seltzer, and brought them to the fire. "You need something for that +graveyard cough of yours," he said, handing one to me. "Well," he went +on, "I didn't bring you out such a night as this to tell you of my +scrap; but after the row, the boss was so ashamed of herself that she +trumped up an A 1 excuse (as she thought) for having treated you as she +had, and that led to a talk, and that's why I sent round for you. What +do you suppose she has got into her head?" + +"I can't imagine." + +"I needn't tell you," he remarked, "that women always know an awful lot +that isn't so. But just because they do, they every now and then +discover a truth that can't be come at in any other way. Now the boss +thinks she's done this, and I'm not sure that she hasn't. She says you +are in love." + +"I never knew a man who wasn't," I replied, trying to smile. "If it +isn't with a woman, then it's always with himself." + +"But the boss thinks she knows the girl, and has a down on you because +you--because you don't try for her." + +I laughed bitterly, and said, "You needed no explanation for that." + +"That's what made the boss's idea reasonable to me," he explained. "She +couldn't conceive why you should keep silent, and so was ready to pitch +into you on the slightest pretense. Women haven't much use for a man who +falls in love and doesn't say so. But of course I knew that your debt +put marriage out of the question." + +I merely nodded my head, for even to him I could not speak of my love +for you, it was so sacred to me. + +He drew up a chair to the fire, and continued: "There isn't another man +to whom I'd care to say what I'm going to say to you, but you've got a +heart and a head both, and won't misunderstand me." He finished his +glass, and set it on the mantel. "Now I don't have to tell you that the +boss is fond of you, and when I told her that I knew of a reason why you +couldn't marry, she forgave you on the spot. What's more, she first +wished to learn what it was; and failing in that, she then wanted to +know if it could be remedied, so that you might have a chance to win the +girl." + +"She of course knows nothing of my position?" + +"No," he said, "but she knows something of your character, and she's +ordered me that, if it's possible, I'm to help you get the girl you care +for." + +"But my debt!" I exclaimed. + +"How much is it now?" he queried. + +"One hundred and eighteen thousand." + +"Well, I'll lend Agnes's husband one hundred and eighteen thousand +dollars at three per cent, and leave her the note when I die. From what +I know of marriage, I venture to assert that if she squeezes him for +payment it will be his own fault." + +I sat speechless for a moment, too bewildered by the unexpected turn to +even think. + +"I was as surprised as you look," he went on, "for although I had seen +that you and Agnes"-- + +"Indeed, Mr. Blodgett," I exclaimed hastily, "I am no more to Miss Agnes +than a dozen of her friends! I"-- + +"So the boss says," he interrupted. "But that doesn't mean that you +can't be. Though to speak the truth, my boy," he continued, resting his +hand on my knee, "this wasn't my plan. I had hoped that you and Maizie +would take a shine to each other, and so kiss the chalk-marks off that +old score. But when I spoke of the scheme to the boss, this evening, she +told me there had never been a chance of it; that you didn't like Mai, +and that she is practically engaged to Whitely, and is only--Better have +some more whiskey, or that cough will shake you to pieces." + +I could only shake my head in my misery, but after a moment I was able +to say, "Mr. Blodgett, I did not understand--I"-- + +"I want to tell you," he broke in, "before you say anything more, that I +never believe in putting one's fingers into love affairs, and I +shouldn't in this case if the boss didn't feel so keen about it, but I +don't choose to be the one to stand in her way. And now I'm not offering +my daughter's hand. You know as well as I that Agnes isn't the kind of +girl who needs a prospectus or a gold clause to work her off. If she +dropped her handkerchief to-morrow, fifty men would be scrambling for +it, eh?" + +"Yes." Then I added, "And, Mr. Blodgett, I can't find the words to tell +how I thank you both for such a compliment. If"-- + +"I knew you wouldn't misunderstand me," he went on. "It's a good deal of +a start in life to be born a gentleman." + +"But, Mr. Blodgett," I said, "there has been a mistake. I--it is hard to +say, but"--then I faltered. + +He looked at me keenly for a moment. "So the boss was wrong? It's only +friendship, not love?" + +"Just what she has given to me," I answered. + +"Very well. Then if you want to please the boss--and me--let that +friendship grow into something better. But don't misunderstand me. You +must win Agnes, if she is won. We do nothing." + +"Mr. Blodgett, should you be willing to let me try to win Miss Agnes, if +I tell you that I do not love her as a man should love the woman he +seeks for his wife?" + +"Marriage is a funny business," he responded. "Now there's the boss. +When I married her I thought she was so and so; little by little I found +she wasn't; but by the time I had found it out I wouldn't have swapped +her for ten of the women I had thought she was. Some men have no +business to marry unless they're pretty strongly attached, for they +don't run steady; but you're a fellow that would keep in the traces no +matter what happened, and before long you'd find yourself mighty fond of +Agnes. A sense of duty is about as good a basis to marry on, if there's +natural sympathy and liking, as all this ideal make-believe. I don't +think you dislike Agnes, do you?" + +"Indeed, no!" I exclaimed. "Nobody could. She is too charming and sweet +for any one to do that. Miss Agnes deserves far more than I can bring +her. What have I to give in return for all this?" + +"You can settle that with Agnes," he laughed; and then, as if to lessen +my poverty in my own eyes, he kindly added, "In the first place, I'll +get a son-in-law chock-full of heart and grit and brains; and I've had +pretty good evidence that he isn't fortune-hunting, which is Agnes's +great danger. But that isn't all, and I want you to know I'm not a fool. +I'm a big fellow down in Wall Street, and even on the Royal Exchange, +but do you think I don't know my position? They kept me up over two +years at the Philomathean, and you four months. After you've worked ten +years over books with your own name on them, you'll be received and +kotowed to by people who wouldn't crook a finger to know me. You won't +be famous as I am, for the number of naughts I can write after a figure, +but your name will be known everywhere, and will be familiar long after +mine has been forgotten. Who were the bankers and rich men fifty years +ago? There isn't one person in a thousand can tell you. But who hasn't +heard of Thackeray and Hawthorne, Macaulay and Motley? My girl will have +more money than she'll need; so if she gets a good husband, and one +with reputation, she can't do better. Don't you see I'm doing my level +best for Agnes, and making a regular Jew bargain?" + +"Perhaps Miss Agnes will not agree." + +"We've got to take that chance; but she likes you, and good women think +a heap more of brains than they do of money. If you'll let me tell her +your story, it won't be long before she'll take notice. I shouldn't have +had to ask the boss twice if I'd had any such trump card as you've got, +and she was a sight less tender-hearted than Agnes!" + +"Mr. Blodgett," I said, "I can't tell you the gratitude I feel, but I +must be frank." + +"Hold on!" he cried. "I don't want you to say anything now. You are to +take a week on it, and not give me your answer till the end. If you have +half the gratitude in you that you pretend, you'll do as the boss +wants." + +I had manned myself to tell him of my love for you, but I bowed assent, +for indeed, I was too bewildered to think clearly, and was glad to have +a respite. We shook hands without further parley, and I came back here, +to cough and shiver while trying to think it all out. An hour ago I went +to bed, but I was wakeful, and so sit here trying to write myself into +sleepiness. + +I have thought out what my course must be. If it is true, as indeed I +know it to be, that Mr. Whitely has won you, Mr. Blodgett shall have the +truth. I shall tell him that I will put you out of my heart, as perforce +I must, and that if he is still willing I will go to Agnes, tell her too +the whole truth, and promise her such love and devotion as I can give. +So sweet a girl deserves far more, and I cannot believe that she will +accept the little I can offer; but if she does, it shall be the labor of +my life to be to her a true and tender husband. And even if she were not +what she is, the thought that through her I have made reparation for +the wrong done you will make easy both tenderness and love for her. + +For the last time, perhaps, I have the right to say, "Good-night, my +love." + + + + +XXIII + + +_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 portire. 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. + + + + +XXIV + + +_March 15._ I was so miserable with my cough to-day that I could not +summon the energy to drag myself to Mr. Blodgett's office, and did not +leave my room till after eight, when your note came. + +"Miss Walton," it read, "feels that she has the right to request Dr. +Hartzmann to call this evening, in relation to the conversation +uncompleted last night." + +I understood the implied command, and thought that I owed what you +claimed, while feeling that in obeying I could for this once forego my +scruple of entering your door. The footman showed me into the library, +and left me there. It was the first time I had seen it since my +thirteenth year, and I cannot tell you the moment's surprise and joy I +felt on finding it absolutely unchanged. Even the books were arranged +as formerly, and my eye searched and found, as quickly as of yore, all +the old volumes full of plates which had once given us such horror and +delight. For the instant I forgot my physical suffering and the coming +ordeal. + +When you entered the room, you welcomed me only with a bow. Then seeing +my paleness, you said kindly, "I forgot your cough, Dr. Hartzmann, or I +would not have brought you out in such weather. Sit here by the fire." +After a short pause you went on: "I hope that a day's thought has +convinced you that common justice requires you to say more than you did +last night?" + +"Miss Walton," I replied, "to you, who know nothing of the difficult and +hopeless position in which I stand, my conduct, I presume, seems most +dishonorable and cowardly; yet I cannot say more than I said last +night." + +"You must." + +"I can scarcely hope that what I then said will influence you, but if +you will go to Mr. Blodgett and"-- + +"Does Mr. Blodgett know what you object to in Mr. Whitely?" you +interrupted. + +"Yes." + +"I went to Mr. Blodgett this morning, and he told me that he knew of no +reason why I should not marry Mr. Whitely." + +"Then, Miss Walton," I answered, rising, "I cannot expect that you will +be influenced by my opinion. I will withdraw what I said last night. +Think of me as leniently as you can, for my purpose was honorable." + +"But you ought to say more. You"-- + +"I cannot," I replied. + +"You have no right to"--But here a servant entered, with a card. + +"Dr. Hartzmann," you announced, when the man had gone, "I wrote Mr. +Whitely yesterday afternoon, asking him to call this evening, with the +intention of accepting his offer of marriage. He is now in the +drawing-room, and unless you will have the fairness, the honesty, to +explain what you meant, I shall tell him all that has occurred, and give +him the opportunity to force you to speak." + +"I shall only repeat to him, Miss Walton, what I have said to you." + +You stood a moment looking at me, with a face blazing with indignation; +then you exclaimed, "You at least owe it to him not to run away while I +am gone!" and passed into the drawing-room. + +You returned very soon, followed by Mr. Whitely. + +"Dr. Hartzmann," you asked, "will you repeat what you said last night to +me?" + +"I advised you not to marry Mr. Whitely, Miss Walton." + +"And you will not say why?" you demanded. + +"I cannot." + +"Mr. Whitely," you cried, "cannot you force him to speak?" + +"Miss Walton," he replied suavely, and his very coolness in the strange +condition made me feel that he was master of the situation, "I am as +perplexed as you are at this extraordinary conduct in one who even now +is eating bread from my hand. I have long since ceased to expect +gratitude for benefits, but such malevolence surprises and grieves me, +since I have never done Dr. Hartzmann any wrong, but, on the contrary, I +have always befriended him." + +"I have been in the employ of Mr. Whitely," I answered, "but every +dollar he has paid me has been earned by my labor. I owe him no debt of +gratitude that he does not owe me." + +"You owe him the justice that every man owes another," you asserted +indignantly. "To make vague charges behind one's back, and then refuse +to be explicit, is a coward's and a slanderer's way of waging war." + +"Miss Walton," I cried, "I should not have spoken, though God knows +that my motive was only a wish to do you a service, and I would give my +life to do as you ask!" + +For an instant my earnestness seemed to sway you; indeed, I am convinced +that this was so, since Mr. Whitely apparently had the same feeling, and +spoke as if to neutralize my influence, saying to you: "Miss Walton, I +firmly believe that Dr. Hartzmann's plea of honorable conduct is nothing +but the ambush of a coward. But as he has been for two years in the most +intimate and confidential position of private secretary to me, he may, +through some error, have deluded himself into a conviction that gives a +basis for his indefinite charges. I will not take advantage of the +implied secrecy, and I say to him in your presence that if he has +discovered anything which indicates that I have been either impure or +criminal, I give him permission to speak." + +Even in that moment of entanglement I could not but admire and marvel +at the skill with which he had phrased his speech, so as to seem +absolutely open, to slur me by innuendo, and yet avoid the risk of +exposure. It left me helpless, and I could only say, "I have not charged +Mr. Whitely with either impurity or criminality." + +You turned to him and said, "This conduct is perfectly inexplicable." + +"Except on one ground," he replied. + +"Which is?" you questioned. + +"That Dr. Hartzmann loves you," he answered. + +"That is impossible!" you exclaimed. + +"Not as impossible as for a man not to love you, Miss Walton," he +averred. + +"Tell Mr. Whitely how mistaken he is," you said to me. + +I could only stand silent, and after waiting a little Mr. Whitely +remarked, "You see!" + +"It is incredible!" you protested. "You must deny it, Dr. Hartzmann!" + +"I cannot, Miss Walton," I murmured, with bowed head. + +"You love me?" you cried incredulously. + +"I love you," I assented, and in spite of the circumstances it was +happiness to say it to you. + +You stood gazing at me in amazement, large-eyed as a startled deer. I +wonder what your first words would have been to me if Mr. Whitely had +not turned your mind into another channel by saying, "I do not think +that we need search further for Dr. Hartzmann's motives in making his +innuendoes." + +"Miss Walton," I urged, "my love for you, far from making your faith in +me less or my motive that of a rival, should convince you that I spoke +only for your sake, since you yourself know that my love has been +neither hopeful nor self-seeking." + +I think you pitied me, for you answered gently, and all traces of the +scorn and indignation you had shown just before were gone from your +face and manner. + +"Dr. Hartzmann," you said, "I cannot allow myself to listen to or weigh +such indefinite imputations against Mr. Whitely. I will give you one +week to explain or substantiate what you have implied; and unless within +that time you do so, I shall accept the offer of marriage which he has +honored me by making. Do not let me detain you further. Good-evening." + +I passed out of the room a broken-hearted man, without strength enough +to hold up my head, and hardly able in my weakness to crawl back to my +study. As I sit and write, every breath brings with it the feeling that +a knife is being thrust into my breast, and I am faint with the pain. +But for this racking cough and burning fever I might have made a better +fight, and have been able to think of some way of saving you. But even +in my suffering I have reached one conclusion. To-morrow I shall go to +Mr. Whitely and tell him that you must know the truth concerning the +book, and that if he will not tell you I shall. I shall never be able to +hold up my head again; but that is nothing, if I can but save you. Oh, +my dearest love, the sacrifice of life, of honor, the meeting ignominy +or death for your sake, will be nothing to me but hap + + Transcriber's Note: The text ends in the middle of a word. The + remainder of this page is missing in the original image and + other available editions. + + + +XXV + + +_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. + +I only nodded my head. + +"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, "Good-night, 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." + + + + +XXVI + + +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. + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Spelling of 'Transgression' corrected. + +Spelling of 'folk-leid' corrected. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of an Untold Love, by Paul Leicester Ford + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE *** + +***** This file should be named 36439-8.txt or 36439-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/4/3/36439/ + +Produced by Lee Moffitt, Juliet Sutherland and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/36439-8.zip b/old/36439-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2a2b3b4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/36439-8.zip diff --git a/old/36439.txt b/old/36439.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..404fe5e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/36439.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6492 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Story of an Untold Love, by Paul Leicester Ford + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Story of an Untold Love + +Author: Paul Leicester Ford + +Release Date: June 15, 2011 [EBook #36439] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE *** + + + + +Produced by Lee Moffitt, Juliet Sutherland and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + THE STORY OF AN + UNTOLD LOVE + + PAUL + LEICESTER + FORD + + [Illustration] + + NEW YORK + GROSSET & DUNLAP + PUBLISHERS + + COPYRIGHT 1897 BY PAUL LEICESTER FORD + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + SIXTY-FIFTH THOUSAND + + + + +THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE + + + + +I + + +_February 20, 1890._ There is not a moment of my life that you have +shared with me which I cannot recall with a distinctness fairly sunlit. +My joys and my sorrows, my triumphs and my failures, have faded one by +one from emotions into memories, quickening neither pulse nor thought +when they recur to me, while you alone can set both throbbing. And +though for years I have known that if you enshrined any one in your +heart it would be some one worthier of you, yet I have loved you truly, +and whatever I have been in all else, in that one thing, at least, I +have been strong. Nor would I part with my tenderness for you, even +though it has robbed me of contentment; for all the pleasures of which I +can dream cannot equal the happiness of loving you. To God I owe life, +and you, Maizie, have filled that life with love; and to both I bow my +spirit in thanks, striving not to waste his gift lest I be unworthy of +the devotion I feel for you. + +If I were a stronger man, I should not now be sobbing out my heart's +blood through the tip of a pen. Instead of writing of my sorrow, I +should have battled for my love despite all obstacles. But I am no +Alexander to cut the knot of entanglements which the fates have woven +about me, and so, Midas-like, I sit morbidly whispering the hidden +grief, too great for me to bear in silence longer. + +I can picture my first glimpse of you as vividly as my last. That dull +rainy day of indoor imprisonment seems almost to have been arranged as a +shadowbox to intensify the image graved so deeply on my memory. The sun +came, as you did, towards the end of the afternoon, as if light and +warmth were your couriers. When I shyly entered the library in answer to +my father's call, you were standing in the full sunlight, and the +thought flashed through my mind that here was one of the angels of whom +I had read. You were only a child of seven,--to others, I suppose, +immature and formless; yet even then your eyes were as large and as +serious as they are to-day, and your curling brown hair had already a +touch of fire, as if sunshine had crept thereinto, and, liking its +abiding-place, had lingered lovingly. + +"Don," cried my father, as I stood hesitating in the doorway, "here's a +new plaything for you. Give it a welcome and a kiss." + +I hung back, half in shyness, and half in fear that you were of heaven, +and not of earth, but you came forward and kissed me without the +slightest hesitation. The details are so clear that I remember you +hardly had to raise your head, though I was three years the older. Your +kiss dispelled all my timidity, and from the moment of that caress I +loved you. Not that I am so foolish as to believe I then felt for you +what now I feel, but by the clear light of retrospect I can see that +your coming brought a new element into my life,--an element which I +loved from the first, though with steadily deepening intensity, and I +cannot even now determine at what point a boy's devotion became a +lover's. + +To the silent and lonely lad you were an inspiration. What I might have +grown to be had you not been my father's ward I do not like to think, +for I was not a strong boy, and my shyness and timidity had prompted me +to much solitude and few friends, to much reading and to little play. +But it was decreed that you were to be the controlling influence of my +life, and in the first week you worked a revolution in my habits. I +wonder if now, when you see so many men eager to gratify your slightest +wish, you ever think of your earliest slave, whom you enticed to the +roof to drop pebbles or water on the passers-by, and into the cellar to +bury a toy soldier deep in the coal? Does memory ever bring back to you +how we started to paint the illustrations in Kingsborough's Mexican +Antiquities, or how we built a fire round a doll on the library rug, in +imitation of the death of an Inca of Peru as pictured in dear old +Garcilasso de la Vega's Royal Commentaries? You were a lazy child about +reading, but when not tempting me into riotous mischief, you would sit +by me in the library and let me show you the pictures in the old books, +and I smile now to think what my running versions of the texts must have +been. Our favorite books were the Nuremberg Chronicle and De Bry's +Voyages, for the pictures of which, since the Latin was beyond me, I +invented explanations and even whole stories,--stories over which you +grew big-eyed and sleepless, and which we both came to believe so firmly +that we never dreamed them to be the cause for the occasional outburst +of laughter from my father, when he was in the library. + +Even in those days you veiled your witchery and mischief-loving nature +behind that serious face with its curved but unsmiling mouth. Keen as +many of our pleasures were and blithe as were our pranks, I can scarcely +remember a smile upon your face. Now and then the merriest of laughs +rang out, fairly infectious in its happiness and joy, but of so rare +recurrence as to win for you the sobriquet of "Madam Gravity." Your +inscrutability allured and charmed me then as I have seen it fascinate +others since. I shall never understand you, and yet I think I +misunderstand you less than others do, for you cannot hide from me the +quick thought and merry nature which you keep so well hidden from them; +and often when others think you most abstracted or sedate, I know you +are holding high carnival with Puck and Momus. Again and again I have +noted your gravity in the most humorous situations or with the most +ridiculous of persons, and have smiled in secret with you. Last summer, +when my mother won such a laugh by telling, as something that had +happened to her personally, the old story from Peele's "Merrie Conceits" +which we had read as children, you looked grave, though the incident had +twice the humor to you that it had to the others. In my own merriment I +could not help glancing at you, and though neither of us laughed, we +understood each other's amusement. Evidently you were not used to having +your mood comprehended, for after a moment you seemed to realize that I +was responding to what you had thought unknown to all. You looked +startled and then puzzled, and I suppose that I became even more of a +mystery to you than ever. You could not know that my knowledge of you +came from those early days when your nature was taking shape. Without my +memory of you as a child you would be as great an enigma to me as to the +rest of your friends, and so no doubt it is a small thing in which to +glory. But it gives me joy to feel that I understand you better, and at +this very moment know more of your thoughts than your husband ever will. + +I owe to you many dark closetings and whippings that I never deserved. +My mother complained that from being a troublesome child I had become a +fiend of mischief, but my father laughed and predicted that you would +make a man of me. I wonder if you ever think of him, and what your +thought is? We both so loved him that I cannot believe he has passed +entirely out of your heart. How ready he was to be our comrade! Whether +tired or busy he would join us, not as mentor but as playfellow; and +now that I know what there was to depress his spirits at that time, I +marvel at his cheer and courage. Would that I had one half of the +bravery with which he met his troubles! + +Perhaps he was right in his assumption that you would have made a man of +me. I do not recollect any act of mine which bore the semblance of +courage except the rescue of the street dog from those boys. I hated to +see the poor beast tortured, but I feared the roughs, and so stood +faltering while you charged among them. Not till one of them struck you +was I driven to help, but I can still feel the fury which then took +possession of me. I was blind with rage, and a great weight seemed +pressing on my chest as I rushed among the boys and fought, hardly +conscious of the blows I gave or received; indeed, the whole thing was a +haze until I found myself sitting on the sidewalk, crying. For days I +went about with a bandage over my eye; but my father drank my health +that night, and I remember his pat of approval, and hear his "Bravo, +Donald, I'm proud of you." It was significant that I received all the +praise, and you none; my courage was questionable, yours was not. + +Those happy, thoughtless years! The one kill-joy was my mother, and she +made your life and mine so grievous with her needless harshness, quick +temper, and neglect of our comfort that I think she must have made my +father's equally miserable. Dimly I can recollect her sudden gusts of +temper, and his instant dismissal of us from the room when they began. +Do you remember how he used to come up to the nursery to smoke, often +staying till our bedtime, and then how we could hear him go downstairs +and out of the front door? We did not know that he went to his club, nor +at what hour he returned; and if we had it would have meant nothing to +us. But we both knew he found no pleasure with my mother, and we felt +he was right, for in avoiding her he was but doing what was our chief +endeavor. I have heard many express admiration for her beauty, for her +church and charitable work, for her brilliancy in society, for her +executive ability, and for her general public spirit. Her neglect of +family duties, her extravagance, her frequent absences, and her fatigued +petulance when at home were known only to her household. Our servants +rarely remained a month with us,--were changed so often as to destroy +all possibility of comfort; but we three were not free to follow their +example, and so our misery made us the dearer to one another. I am proud +to think that, close as we drew together, my father never uttered in my +presence a single word of criticism or complaint against my mother, and +I should be the better man if, instead of writing these unfilial words, +I left them unsaid. Indeed, I will not spend more of my evening on +these old memories, but begin on my work. + +Do you remember, Maizie, how my father taught us to give him and each +other a parting word? "Good-night, father. Good-night, Maizie. God bless +you both," it used to be. He sleeps now in his grave, and three years +ago you barred your door to me, but still I can say as of old, +"Good-night, Maizie. God bless and keep you, dear." + + + + +II + + +_February 21._ To put all this on paper is weak and aimless, yet it +seems to ease my sadness. I suppose a scribbler unconsciously comes to +write out whatever he feels, as a nervous woman plays her emotions away +on a piano. If this is so, why should not I salve my grief in any way +that lessens it? Those old days had such happiness in them that the mere +memory brings some to me, and to sit here at my study table and write of +the past is better than idle dwelling on the present. + +You were jubilant when first told that we were all to go to Europe for a +summer, and laughed at my fears and despondency. Could I have had an +intuition of coming evil, or was my alarm due to the engravings of +those terrible sea-monsters with which Mercator populated the oceans in +his "Atlas sive Cosmographicae," and to the pictures and tales in +bloodthirsty old Exquemelin's "Bucaniers of America"? Our notions of +what the trip meant were evidently not very clear, for at once we set to +storing up provisions, and weeks before the time of sailing we were the +proud possessors of a cracker-box full of assorted edibles, a jar of +olives we had pilfered, and a small pie you had cajoled the cook into +making for us. How we loved and gloated over that pie! Daily we sorted +our sea-stores, added new supplies, and ate what clearly could be kept +no longer. My mother found us one day deeply engrossed in the +occupation, cuffed us both, and sent the olives back to the pantry and +the tin box to the ash-barrel. As for the pie, such hot words passed +about it between "Madame" and "Monsieur Philippe" that our cook left us +without warning. We were again punished for being the cause of his +desertion, and that evening father dined at his club. + +The different effects my mother's gusts of anger had on you and on me +were curiously distinctive. You met them fearlessly and stubbornly, +while to me the moments of her fury were moments in which I could +scarcely breathe, and of which I felt the terror for hours after. I +sometimes wonder if the variance was because I had learned to fear the +outbursts even as a baby, whereas your character had partly formed +before you encountered them. Who knows but a change of circumstances +might have made me the fearless one, and you the timorous? At least I +should be glad to think that I might have been like you in courage and +spirit, even though it is impossible to imagine that you could ever be +like me. It is a singular turn of life's whirligig that when my mother +tried to pain you last autumn by her cruel remarks, you were helpless +to retort, and owed your escape to my help. + +What a delight the ocean voyage was to us! Those were the times of +ten-day trips, still dear to all true lovers of the sea; and had our +wishes been consulted, thrice ten would have been none too long for our +passage. The officers, the crew, the stewards, and the passengers were +no more proof against your indefinable spell than was I, and it seemed +quite as if the boat were your private yacht, with all on board seeking +only to serve you. Our pleasure was so intense that we planned an ideal +future, in which I was to become the captain of a steam-ship, and you +were to live on the vessel in some equally delightful if impossible +capacity. + +The last time I was in Paris, I walked several miles merely to look at +the outside of our pension, and then went on and sat dreaming in the +little park near it in which we passed so many hours of our stay in +that city. As of old, the place was full of children and nurses, and I +understood what had puzzled me not a little in recollection,--how you +and I, without mingling with them, had learned so quickly the language +they chattered. Do you remember their friendly advances, met only by +rebuffs? My coldness flowed from shyness, and yours from a trait that +people to this day call haughtiness, but which I know to be only a +fastidious refinement that yields acquaintance to few and friendship to +fewer. From the moment you came into my life I craved no other friend, +and you seemed equally content. What was there in me that won for me +what you gave so rarely? Was there an instinct of natural sympathy, or +was it merely pity for me in the loving heart you masked behind that +subtle face? + +It is indicative of what children we still were that during the whole of +our sojourn in Paris neither of us was conscious that our standard of +living had changed. We lodged in a cheap pension; instead of our own +carriage we used the omnibus; and a thousand other evidences told the +story of real economy; yet not one we observed except the disappearance +of our _bonne_, and this was noted, not as a loss, but as a joy to both. + +After the nurse was gone my father became more than ever our comrade, +and a better one two children never had. Oh, those long excursions to +Versailles, Montmartre, and Fontainebleau, our boat trips up and down +the Seine, and our shorter jaunts within the city! What happiness it was +to us when he came in whistling and cried, "Donald, Maizie, you are +horribly bad children, and I'm going to take you on a lark to punish +you!" After time spent in filling our lunch-basket with big rolls bought +at the _boulangerie_, a few sous' worth of cherries or other fruit +lengthily bargained for with the _fruitier_, and a half litre of cheap +wine, plus whatever other luxuries our imaginations or our appetites +could suggest, away we would go for a long day of pure delight, whether +passed under green trees or wandering through galleries and museums. My +father was an encyclopaedia of information, and had the knack of making +knowledge interesting to the child mind. He could re-create a bygone +period from a battle-axe or a _martel de fer_, the personality of a +queen from her lace ruff or stomacher, and the history of plant growth +from a fern or flower. If his mind had been allowed to expand when he +was young, instead of being stunted in a broker's office, I believe he +might have been one of the world's great writers or critics. + +Under such stimulating tutelage our progress in those two years was +really wonderful. No subject my father touched upon could remain dull; +we were at a receptive age when the mind is fresh and elastic for all +that interests it, and Paris was a great picture-book to illustrate +what he taught us. We did not know we were studying far deeper into +subjects than many educated people ever go. I laugh still at your +telling the old German on the train to S[`e]vres the history of the Faust +plot, and at his amazed "Ach, zo!" to hear such erudition pour from your +childish lips. I think you were the cleverer and the quicker, but there +was no competition, only fellowship about our learning. I suppose you +were above rivalry, as you are above all mean things. + +And that is your chief glory to me. In those seven years of closest +companionship, and in these last three years of lesser intercourse but +far keener observation, I have never known you to do a mean thing or to +speak a mean thought. I almost feel it treason to couple the word with +you, or deny a trait so impossible for you to possess, and of which you +have always shown such scorn and hatred. At this moment I know that I +should only have to speak to part you forever from--Ah, what +foolishness I am writing, tempting me to even greater meanness than his, +and so to deserve the greater contempt from you! Thinking me base, you +closed your doors to me three years ago, and I love you the better that +not even for auld lang syne could you pardon what is so alien to you. If +the day ever comes when you again admit me to your friendship, I shall +be happy in knowing that you think me above baseness or meanness; for +you would not compound with them, Maizie, be the circumstances what they +might. + +Our Paris life would not have been so happy and careless but for the +slight part my mother had in it. So little did we see of her in those +years that I think of her scarcely as one of us. I remember dimly a +scene of hot anger between her and my father,--he standing passively by +the high porcelain stove, while she raged about the room. So great was +her fury that once, in passing, as I crouched scared and silent on the +sofa, she struck me,--a blow which brought my father to my side, where +he stood protectingly while the storm lasted, with his hand resting +lovingly on my shoulder. My vague impression is that the outburst was +only a protest against the poor lodgings, but it may have occurred when +some explanation took place between my parents. I can see my mother now, +sitting on the little balcony overlooking the garden of our pension, +snarling an ill-natured word at us as you and I tried to play +consultation games of chess against my father. He gave us odds at first +of the rook and two pawns, but finally only of a knight. Oh, the triumph +of those victories! How we gloried in them, and how delighted our +antagonist was when we conquered him! Little we minded what my mother +did except when we happened to be alone with her, and I think that the +dear father played bad chess with us rather than good at the caf['e]s, and +made us his companions wherever he went, to save us from her severity. + +I can recall very clearly her constant difficulties with our landlady +and the servants, which finally culminated in a request that we should +seek lodgings elsewhere. Do you recollect Madame Vanott's clasping us +both in her arms and filling our hands with bonbons, when the time of +parting came? I do not know where we removed to, my sole remembrance of +the next few weeks being of my mother's complaints of lodgings, food, +servants, and French life generally. We moved three times within a +month, fairly expelled by our landlords because they could not live at +peace with "la Madame." Our last exodus began in an angry scene between +her and the housewife, in which a gendarme played a part, and from which +you and I fled. The next morning we learned that my mother had +determined to return to America, and leave us to live our own life. +Three days later we said emotionless good-bys, my father going as far as +Havre with her. + +Her departure set us asking questions, and my father's replies explained +many things which, in our childish talks, we had gravely discussed. He +told us how his own wealth had been lost in Wall Street, barely enough +being left for a competence even in Europe. Of my mother's leaving us he +spoke sadly. "She never pretended to care for me," he said, "but I loved +her and was willing to marry her. The wrong was mine, and we should not +blame her if, when I can no longer give what was her price, she does not +choose to continue the one-sided bargain." At the time her absence +seemed to you and me only a relief, but now, as I look back, I know that +my father never ceased to love her,--all the more, perhaps, because his +love had never been requited,--and that separation must have been the +final wrecking of his life. Yet from the day she left us I never heard +him speak an angry word, and sorrow that would have crushed most men +seemed to make him the gentler and sweeter. I wish--Ah! the clock is +striking three, and if I am to bring working power to working hours I +must stop writing. + +Good-night, dear one. + + + + +III + + +_February 22._ After my mother left us we did not stay in Paris, but +went to Ischl, which we made merely the point of departure for walking +tours which often lasted for weeks. Several times I have spoken of the +region to you, hoping to draw from you some remark proving a +recollection of those days, but you always avoid reply. Yet I am sure +they are not forgotten, for miles of the Tyrol and Alps are as familiar +to me as the garnishings of a breakfast-table. My father had the tact +and kindly humor that make a man equally at home and welcome in +_Gasthaus_ and _Schloss_. Though we traveled with only a knapsack, his +breeding and education were so patent to whomsoever we met that we spent +many a night inside of doors with armorial coats of many quarterings +carved above them, and many a day's shooting and fishing followed. Yet +pleasant as was this impromptu and "gentle" hospitality, I think we were +all quite as happy when our evenings were spent among the peasants, +drinking beer, talking of farming and forestry, singing songs, or +listening to the blare of the peripatetic military band. + +My father was a fine German scholar, and you and I acquired the language +as quickly and as easily as we learned French. We always had books in +our pockets, and used to lie for hours under the trees, reading aloud. +Long discussions followed over what we had conned, enriched by the +thousand side-lights my father could throw on any subject. To most +people reading is a resort to save themselves from thinking, but my +father knew that pitfall, and made us use books as a basis for thought +on our own part. After a volume was finished we would each write a +criticism of it, and the comparison of my boyish attempts with his +brilliant, comprehensive, and philosophic work taught me more of writing +than all the tuition I ever had. + +My craving for knowledge, always strong, became inordinate, probably +because the acquisition of it was made so fascinating that I learned +without real exertion. I began to find limits even to my father's +erudition, and chafed under them. He reviewed his Greek that he might +impart it to us, as he had long before taught us Latin, and together we +all three studied Spanish and Italian. I was not satisfied, for my +desire for the one thing my father was unable to teach was not appeased +by the twenty which he could. I begged for regular tuition, and, +indulgent as he always was, he took us to Heidelberg, where I was +enrolled in the gymnasium. Yet the long hours of separation that this +entailed made little difference in our relations, since except for these +we were inseparable. Whenever my school-work left us time to quit +Heidelberg we made walking tours, and we availed ourselves of the summer +holiday to see far-away lands. The great libraries were our chief goals, +but everything interested us, from the archaic plough we saw in the +field to the masterpiece of the gallery. I do not know whether I was +dull for my years, but I do know that you were precocious and had no +difficulty in keeping up with me in my studies. Indeed, thanks to your +own brightness and to the long hours spent with my father while I was +reciting, you went ahead of me in many respects. It makes me very happy +now to think of what you two were to each other, and to know that you +are so largely indebted to him for the depth and brilliance of mind that +I hear so often commented upon. And I love you all the better because +you made those years so happy to him by your love and companionship. + +Last winter Mrs. Blodgett accused me of being a misogynist, and proved +her point by asking me to tell the color of Agnes's eyes. You and Agnes +only laughed when I miscolored them, but Mrs. Blodgett was really +nettled. "There!" she said. "Apparently, Agnes and I are the only women +you ever go to see or pretend to care for, and yet you think so little +of us that you don't know the color of our eyes." Had she only asked me +to describe your eyes in place of Agnes's I should not have erred, but I +suppose even then the world would be justified in thinking I do not care +for woman's society. Certainly you, of all others, have the right to +think so, after my twice refusing your friendship; and yet it is my love +of you far more than my studies or shyness that has made me indifferent +to other women. And so far from being a misogynist, I care for as few +men as women. You perhaps recall how much apart I kept myself from my +fellow students, and how my father had to urge me to join them in the +fencing and chess contests? Later, at the university, after you had +left us, I entered more eagerly into the two pastimes, and succeeded in +making myself a skilled swordsman. As for chess, I learned to play the +game you tested last October on the veranda of My Fancy. You looked +courteously grave when, after our initial battle, I had to ask from you +the odds of a pawn, and never dreamed that I fathomed your secret +triumph over your victory. You are so delightfully human and womanly, +after all, Maizie, to any one who can read your thoughts. It is a +pleasure to see your happiness in the consciousness of your own power, +and I grudge you victory over me no more than over other men. Yet while +you play better chess, I think you could not conquer me quite as easily +if I were not much more interested in studying the player than the play. +Perhaps but for you I should have made friends, for later, at Leipzig, +despite my shyness and studiousness, I seemed fairly popular; but so +long as I had you I cared for no other friend, and after our separation +I could form no new tie. Neither in love nor in friendship have you ever +had a rival in my heart. + +Our happiness ended the day when Johann, the poor factotum of our +lodging-place, found us in the castle park and summoned us back to the +house, where my father and Mr. Walton were awaiting you. The news that +we were to be parted came so suddenly that we could not believe it. I +stood in stunned silence, while you declared that you would not go with +your uncle; even in that terrible moment speaking more like a queen +issuing orders than like a rebel resisting authority. We both appealed +to my father, and the tears stood in his eyes as he told us we must be +parted. Mr. Walton sat with the cool and slightly bored look that his +worldly face wears so constantly, and I presume it was impossible for +him to understand our emotion. + +Your luggage had been packed while we were being summoned, and I carried +your bag down to the carriage, in the endeavor to do you some last +little service. We did not even go through the form of a farewell, but, +tearless and speechless, held each other's hands till my father gently +separated us. To this day the snap of a whip causes me to catch my +breath, it brings back so vividly the crack with which Mr. Walton's +cabman whipped up his horse. Fate was merciful, for she gave me no +glimpse of the future, and so left me the hope that we should not be +parted long. I question if the delicate lad of those days could have +borne the thought that our separation, enforced by others, would in time +be continued by you. + +The life was too happy to last; and yet I do not know why I write that, +for I do not believe that God's children are born to be wretched, and I +would sooner renounce my faith in him than believe him so cruel to his +own creations. The sadness and estrangement in my life are all of human +origin, and mine, it seems to me, has been a fuller cup of bitterness +than most men have to drink. Or am I only magnifying my own sufferings, +and diminishing those of my fellow mortals? To the world I am a +fortunate man, with promise of even greater success. Do all the people +about me, who seem to be equally prosperous, bury away from sight some +grief like mine that beggars joy? + +Can you, Maizie, in the tide and triumph of your beauty and wealth, hide +any such death-wound to all true happiness? Pray God you do not. +Good-night, my darling. + + + + +IV + + +_February 23._ After you were gone I fled to my room, crawling under the +window-seat, much as a mortally wounded animal tries to hide itself. +Here my father found me many hours later, speechless and shivering. He +drew me from my retreat, and I still remember the sting of the brandy as +he poured it down my throat. Afterwards the doctor came, to do nothing; +but all that night my father sat beside me, and towards morning he broke +down my silence, and we talked together over the light which had gone +out of our lives, till I fell asleep. He told me that the death of your +two aunts had made you a great heiress, and rendered your continuance +with us, in our poverty, impossible. "She's gone away out of our class, +Donald," my father said sadly, "and in the change of circumstances her +mother wouldn't have made me her guardian. It was better for all of us +to let her uncle take her back to New York." Even in my own grief I felt +his sorrow, and though he did not dodge my questions, I could see how +the subject pained him, and avoided it thenceforth. How strangely +altered my life would have been if I had insisted on knowing more! + +The doctor came several times afterwards, for I did not rally as I +should have done, and at last he ordered a year's cessation of studies +and plenty of exercise. It was a terrible blow to me at the time, for I +was on the point of entering the University of Leipzig; but now I can +see it was all for the best, since the time given to our tours through +Spain and Italy was well spent, and the delay made me better able to get +the full value of the lectures. Moreover, that outdoor life added three +inches to the height and seventeen pounds to the weight of the hitherto +puny boy. For a time my father made my health his care, and insisted on +my walking and fencing daily; but after that long holiday he need not +have given it a thought, for I grew steadily to my present height, and +while always of slender build, I can outwalk or outwork many a stockier +man. + +My university career was successful; it could hardly have failed to be, +with my training. I fear that I became over-elated with my success, not +appreciating how much it was due to my father's aid and to the kindness +of two of my instructors. For my Ph. D. I made a study of the great race +movements of the world, in which my predilection for philology, +ethnology, and history gave me an especial interest. I so delighted my +professor of philology by my enthusiasm and tirelessness that he stole +long hours from the darling of his heart to aid me. (I need hardly add +that I do not allude to Frau Jastrow, but to his Verb-Roots of Fifty-Two +Languages and Dialects of Indo-Germanic Origin, to be published some day +in seventeen volumes, quarto.) He even brought me bundles of his +manuscript to read and criticise. Our relations were as intimate as were +possible between a professor and a student, and despite his reputation +for ill temper the only evidence he ever gave me of it was a certain +querulousness over the gaps in human knowledge. + +My doctor's thesis on A Study of the Influence of Religion in the +Alienation and Mixture of Races--which, with a vanity I now laugh over, +I submitted not merely in Latin, but as an original work in four other +languages--was not only the delight of both my dear professors, but was +well considered outside the university. At Jastrow's urging, poor +Buchholtz printed editions in all five languages; and as only the German +had any sale worth mentioning, he ever after looked gloomy at a mere +allusion to the title. But though it earned me no royalties, it won me +the Kellermann prize, given every fifth year for the best original work +on an historical subject. + +On our first arrival in Leipzig my father sought literary employment +from the great publishers of that city of books, and soon obtained all +the "review" and "hack" writing that he wished. He encouraged me to help +him in the work, and in my training probably lay his chief inducement, +for he was paid at starvation rates in that land of hungry authors. The +labor quickly taught me the technical part of authorship, the rock which +has wrecked so many hopes. Our work brought us, too, the acquaintance of +many literary men, and thus gave us our pleasantest society, and one +peculiarly fitted to develop me. Furthermore, we secured command of the +unlimited books stored on the publishers' shelves, which we used as +freely as if they were our own private library. + +Very quickly I began to do more than help my father in his work; I +myself tried to write. He put many a manuscript in the fire, after going +over the faults with me, but finally I wrote something that he let me +send to an editor. His admirable judgment must have been warped by his +fatherly love, for the article was rejected. A like fate befell many +others, but at last one was accepted, and I do not know which of us was +the more delighted when it was published in the "Zeitschrift f[:u]r +Deutsche Philologie." By my father's advice it was signed with a +pseudonym; for he pointed out that I was still too young for editors who +knew me to give my manuscript a reading, and that a German name would +command greater respect from them than an English one. + +I received twenty marks for that first article, and spent it in secret +the next day. Had you known of my pleasure in the gift, and the hopes +that went with it, I think you would have sent a line of acknowledgment +to the hungry-hearted fellow who, after four years of separation, still +longed for a token from you. Three times had I written, without +response, but I thought the beauty of the photograph would so appeal to +you that it must bring me back a word from you, and lived in the hope +for six months. My father joked me genially about what I had done with +that vast wealth, pretending at moments that he believed it had been +avariciously hoarded, and at other times that it had been squandered in +riotous living, till one day, when all hope of acknowledgment had died, +his chaff wrung from me an exclamation of pain, suppressed too late to +be concealed from him. So closely attuned had we become that he +understood in an instant what it meant, and, laying his hand on my +shoulder, he appealed, "Forgive me, my boy! I have been very cruel in +my thoughtlessness!" + +Nothing more was said then, but later that evening, when we rose from +our work, he asked, "She never replied?" and when I shook my head, the +saddest look I ever saw in him came upon his face. He seemed about to +speak impulsively, faltered, checked himself, and finally entreated, +"Bear up, Donald, and try to forget her." I could only shake my head +again, but he understood. "She's feminine quicksilver," he groaned, "and +I can't get the dear girl out of my blood, either." We gripped each +other's hands for a moment, and I said, "Good-night, father," and he +replied, "God help you, my boy." How happy we should have been could we +have bidden you, "Good-night, Maizie!" + + + + +V + + +_February 24._ I cannot clearly fix the time when first I decided upon a +life of letters, and presume it was my father's influence which +determined me. After the publication of my first article, all the time I +could spare from my studies was devoted to writing. Most of it was +magazine work, but two text-books were more ambitious flights. +Undertaken at my father's suggestion, the books were revised by him, +till they should have been published with his name, and not my +pseudonym, on the title-page. This I urged, but he would not hear of it, +insisting that his work was trivial compared with mine. I understand his +motive now, and see how wise and loving he was in all his plans. Thanks +to his skill in clarifying knowledge and fitting it to the immature +mind, both books attained a large sale almost immediately on their +publication. + +My father's abnegation went further, and occasioned the only quarrel we +ever had. After the publication of several of my articles, in reading +the Deutsche Rundschau I found an interesting critique signed with the +name I had adopted as a pseudonym. I laughingly called my father's +attention to it, yet really feeling a little sore that the credit of my +work should go to another, for the first literary offspring are very +dear to an author's heart. From that time I was constantly meeting with +the name, but stupidly failed to recognize my father's brilliant, +luminous touch till the publication of another article of my writing +revealed the truth to me; for at the end of this I found again my +pseudonym, though I had signed my own name. On my sending an indignant +letter to the editor, he returned me the revised proof of my article, at +the bottom of which "Donald Maitland" was struck out, and "Rudolph +Hartzmann" substituted. My father had made the change in the last +revision, and had returned the sheets without letting me see them. + +In a moment the veil was gone from my eyes, and, grieved and angry, I +charged him with the deception. I do not like to think of what I said or +of the gentleness with which he took it. The next day, when I was +cooler, he pleaded with me to let him continue signing the name to his +articles; but I insisted that I would not permit the double use, and the +only concession he could win from me was that I would still keep the +name provided he refrained from using it again. How could I resist his +"Don, I never asked anything but this of you. I am an old man with no +possibility of a career. You are all I have to love or work for in this +world. Let me try to help you gain a name." Oh, father, if I had only +understood, I would not have been so cruel as to deny your request, but +would have sacrificed my own honesty and allowed the lie rather than +have refused what now I know to have been so dear a wish. I even +resented what I thought a foolish joke of his, when he registered us +constantly at hotels as "Rudolph Hartzmann and father." It is poetic +justice that in time I should stoop to so much greater dishonesty than +that which I was intolerant of in him. + +Owing as much to his articles as to those I subsequently wrote, my +pseudonym became a recognized one in the world of letters, and my work +soon commanded a good price. Furthermore, considerable interest was +excited as to the author. There is a keen delight in anonymous +publication, for one does not get the one-sided chatter that +acknowledged authors receive, and often I have sat in the midst of a +group of litt['e]rateurs and scholars and heard my articles talked over. I +was tempted even to discuss one,--disparaging it, of course,--and can +remember the way my father hid his laughter when a member of the party +said, "Maitland, you ought to write an article refuting Hartzmann, for +you've got the knowledge to do it." It amuses me to think how vain and +elated I became over what now I see was only 'prentice work. I am glad +you did not know me in those years of petty victory, and that before we +met I had been saddened and humbled. + +Some one at Mr. Whitely's dinner, this winter, asked what was a +sufficient income, and you, Maizie, gravely answered, "A little more +than one has," which made us all laugh. If you had not been the quicker +and the wittier, and thus forestalled me, I should have said, "Enough to +satisfy the few or many wishes each person creates within himself which +money can satisfy." Thanks to my prize, my writings, and the profits of +my text-books, I obtained this. In fact, the three so lengthened my +purse that I fancy few millionaires have ever felt so truly rich; for I +was enabled to gratify my greatest wish. In our visits to Spain, Italy, +and Constantinople, I had garnered all that I could find bearing on the +two great race movements of the Moors and Turks, which so changed the +world's history; but I had discovered that I needed more than the +documentary materials to write clearly of them. I longed to go to their +source, and then follow the channels along which those racial floods had +rushed, till, encountering the steel armor and gunpowder of Europe, they +had dashed in scattered spray, never to gather force again. In my +eagerness I had been for making the attempt before, but my father had +urged our limited means and the shortness of my university vacations as +bars to my wishes. My degree removed the one objection, and my earnings +and prize the other. Few persons would care to undertake the travel we +planned with the pittance we had earned, but it was enough for us. How +fortunate it is for me that my student life and travels trained me to +absolute self-denial and frugality! Otherwise these last three years of +closest economy and niggardliness would have been hard to bear. + +By the influence of Professor Humzel, working first through his former +pupil, Baron Weiseman, secondly through Giers, and thirdly through I +know not whom, we secured permission to join a Russian surveying party, +and thus safely and expeditiously reached the mountains of the Altai +range. We did not stay with the party after they began their work, but +assuming native dress we turned southward; plunging instantly among the +medley of peoples and tongues which actually realizes the mythical +Babel. Turkish, Hebrew, Arabic, and Sanskrit I had mastered in varying +degrees, and they were an "open sesame" to the dialects we encountered, +while the hot sun and open-air life soon colored us so deeply that we +passed for men of a distant but not alien race. Following nature's +routes, once man's only paths, we wandered leisurely: to Tashkend on +horseback, to Bokhara on foot, by boat down the Amoo to Khiva, and on to +Teheran, then by caravan to Bagdad, up the Euphrates, gradually working +through Asia Minor. Stopping at Smyrna for a brief rest, we took boat to +Cyprus, from thence crossed to Damascus, and from Jerusalem traveled +along the caravan route to Mecca. Passing over the Red Sea to Egypt, we +skirted the south coast of the Mediterranean, till we reached the +Pillars of Hercules. + +You ought to have made that pilgrimage. In speaking of my book you +expressed the wish that you might make such a trip, and those years +would have been as great a playtime to you as to us. You could have +borne the exposure, rough though the life was, and it would have been as +compound oxygen to your brave and venturesome nature. I confess I do not +like to think of that dazzlingly pure skin burned to any such blackness +as I saw in my mirror on reaching the end of our journeyings; for truly +no better Arab in verisimilitude strolled about the native quarter of +Tangier in May, 1886, than Donald Maitland. + +My long study of those older races and three years' life spent among +them have not made me accept their dogma of fatalism, yet I must believe +that something stronger than chance produced our meeting in that Moorish +town. Down streams, over mountains, and across deserts, seas, and +oceans, our paths had converged; on foot, mounted, by rail or boat, we +came together as if some hidden magnet were drawing us both. A thousand +chances were against our meeting, even when we were in the same town; +for you were housed in the best hotel, while we lodged in a little +Jewish place in the Berber quarter. In another day my father and I +should have crossed to Spain, without so much as a visit to the European +section. But for that meeting I should have returned to Leipzig, and +passed a contented life as a Herr Doctor and Professor; for though my +heart was still warm with love of you, it had been denied and starved +too long to have the strength to draw me from the path my head had +marked out. Yet I would not now accept the unemotional and peaceful +career I had planned in lieu of my present life; for if my love is +without hope, it is still love, and though you turned me away from your +door with far less courtesy than you would shut out a beggar, yet I am +near you and see you constantly, and that is worth more to me than +peace. Good-night, my love. God bless you. + + + + +VI + + +_February 25._ It was thought of you which led to our meeting. After the +evening meal of dried salt fish, pancakes, dates, and coffee, my father +and I wandered out to the Sok, and, as was our wont, sat down among the +people. Refusing the hasheesh water and sweetmeats which the venders +urged upon us, "to make you dream of your love joyfully," we listened to +the story-tellers and the singers. Some one with a fine natural voice +sang presently an Arabic love-song:-- + + "My love, so lovely yet so cruel, + Why came you so to torture me? + Could I but know the being who + Has caused you thus to hate me! + Once I saw and gazed upon your lovely form each hour, + But now you ever shun me. + Yet still each night you come in dreams + For me to ask, Who sent you? + Your answer is, Him whom I love, + And you bid me then forget my passion. + But I reply, If it was not for love, how could the world go on?" + +It was a song I had heard and loved in many lands and many dialects, but +that night it stirred me deeply, and brought to mind your image, ever +dear. I sat and dreamed of you till the farrago about me became +unbearable; and whispering a word to my father, I rose and strode away, +with a yearning truly mastering. I could have had no thought that you +were near, for when we stood far closer I was still unconscious of your +presence. But if not an intuition, I ask what could it be? + +Wandering through the narrow streets without purpose or goal, I +presently saw looming above me the great hill on which stands the +Alcassaba. Climbing in the brilliant moonlight up the steep and +ill-conditioned road, and passing that jumble of buildings upon which +so many races and generations have left their impress, I strolled along +the wall to a ruined embrasure at the corner overlooking the sea. How +long I stood there leaning upon the parapet I do not know. Not till you +were close upon me was I conscious that my solitude was ended. + +I heard footsteps, but was too incurious to turn and glance at the +intruders. Nay, more, when that harsh, strident, American voice +demanded, "There, isn't that great?" I felt so irritated by both tone +and words that but for the seeming rudeness I should have moved away at +once. You spoke so low I could not hear your reply, and I wonder what +you said,--for his "great" applied to such beauty must have rasped much +more on your artistic sense than it did on mine. + +"And this black fellow in the turban standing here," continued the +strident voice, "he fits, too, like the paper on the wall, though +probably he's a sentry taking forty winks on the sly. It makes an +American mad to see how slack things are run over here." + +I heard a gentle "Hush," and then a murmur as you went on speaking. + +"None of these black fellows speak English," came the self-assured voice +again. Then, though I could have heard his natural tone full fifty feet +away, the man called much louder: "Hey! what's the name of that point +out there?" + +I should have chosen to make no answer; but remembering the courtesy and +dignity of the race I was impersonating, I replied without turning, +"Cape Spartel." + +You must have said something, for a moment later he laughed, saying, +"Not a bit of it. Now see me jolly him up." I heard footsteps, and then +some one leaned against the parapet, close beside me. "Backsheesh," he +intimated, and jingled some coins in his pocket. + +I stood silent, so he tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Are you one +of the palace guards?" Unsuppressed by my monosyllabic "No," he +persisted by saying, "What's your business, then?" jingling his coins +again. "Stop pulling me, Mai," he added, as an aside. + +"I am a stranger in Tangier," I answered quietly. + +"From whereabouts?" he questioned. + +"The East." + +"Oh, you're one of the wise men, are you?" he observed jocosely. "Are +you a Jew or a Mohammedan?" + +"Not the latter, fortunately for you." + +"And why fortunately?" he nagged. + +"Because a true believer would have taken the question as a deadly +insult." + +"They'd be welcome," he laughed, "though it is rather irritating to be +mistaken for a Jew. I shouldn't like it myself." + +I thought of the dignified Jew traders who had made part of our caravan +in the journey from Bagdad to Damascus, and answered, "There is little +danger of that." + +"I guess not," he assented. "But if you aren't a Jew or a Mohammedan, +what are you?" + +He had spoiled my mood, and since it was gone I thought I would amuse +myself with the man. "A seeker of knowledge from the Altai Mountains," I +responded. + +"Never heard of them," he announced; "or is it your Choctaw for those?" +he added, pointing towards the dark masses of the Atlas Mountains. + +I smiled and answered, "They are many moons' travel from here." + +"Oh!" he exclaimed. "How did you happen to come?" + +"To follow after those gone before." + +"I see," he said. "Relatives, I suppose? Hope you found them well?" + +"No," I replied, carrying on the humor, "dying." + +He jingled his coins, and asked, "Anything to be done for them?" + +"Nothing." + +"What's the complaint?" + +"Civilization in the abstract, repeating rifles and rapid-firing guns in +the concrete." + +"Eh!" he ejaculated. + +Then the lowest and sweetest of voices said, "Won't you tell us what you +mean?" + +Was it my irritation that the man before me, rather than the +subtler-passioned people I knew so well, was the dominant type of the +moment, or was it the sympathy your voice stirred within me, which made +me speak? In a moment I was sketching broadly the inhumanity of this +thing we call Christian civilization, which, more grasping than the +Inquisition, has overrun the world, tearing the lands from their owners, +and, not content with this spoliation, demands of its victims that they +shall give up the customs of many centuries' evolution, and conform to +habits, governments, and religions which their very instincts make +impossible; and because they cannot change, but break out, these +believers in the golden rule shoot them down. I protested at the mockery +of calling civilized a world held at peace by constant slaughter, or of +styling the national Jack Ketches of humanity Christian nations! I +protested against the right of one man to hold another barbaric because +he will not welcome his master, greet with joy the bands of steel we +call railroads, and crush his nature within the walls of vast factories, +to make himself the threefold slave of society, government, and +employer. And finally, I gloried in the fact that though the white races +had found a weapon against the black and yellow ones which enabled them +to overrun and subjugate, yet nature had provided nature's people with +the defense of climate,--a death-line to the whites; and behind that +line the colored races are unconquerable in the sense of conquest +being extinction. I knew the other side, that altruistic tenet of +political economy defined in brief as "the greatest good of the greatest +number," and in my mind held the even balance of the historian between +the two; but to this utilitarian, modern, self-satisfied American I had +to urge the rights of races thousands of years our senior, and far in +advance of us in the knowledge and amenities that make life worth the +most. + +You both were silent till I ended; but I had best left unspoken what +your companion could not understand, for when I finished he inquired, +"What mountains did you say you came from?" And when I told him, he +added laughingly, "You must have some pretty good stump speaking in your +elections." + +"We are very grateful for your explanation," you thanked me gently. + +"Never been in America?" he surmised; and except for you I should have +told him that I was his countryman, it would have been so adequate a +retort to his inference. But your voice and manner had made me so +ashamed of my earlier mood that I merely answered, "Yes." + +"Humph!" he grunted in surprise; and as if to prove his incorrigibility +he continued, "Thought your ideas were too back-number for that." + +I could not help laughing, and the moment my laugh became articulate +yours too overflowed your lips, as a spring breaks past its edges and +falls rippling over pebbles. + +That laugh, so well remembered, revealed your presence to me. My heart +beat quickly and my head whirled dizzily, and in my bewilderment I took +a step backward, quite forgetting the embrasure, till a stone gave way +and I felt that I was falling. Then my consciousness went from me, and +when thought came surging backward I lay a moment quiet, thinking it +must have been a dream. + +"He's coming round all right," I heard, and at the sound I opened my +eyes. You were leaning over me with the moonlight shining on your face, +and I caught my breath, you were so beautiful. + +"You've given us a scare," continued the man, on whose knee my head was +resting. "You want to keep your wits about you better. Pretty poor +business tumbling off walls, but that's what comes of having ruins. You +won't be quite so cocky in the future about your run-out races." + +I felt his laughter justified, but hardly heeded it, my thoughts were so +engaged. You were wetting my forehead with brandy, and I lay there too +happy to speak. + +"Now let me raise you a bit higher," the man offered kindly, "so you can +get your addled senses back." He lifted me, and I groaned at the sudden +terrible pain that shot up my leg. + +"Hello!" he cried, laying me gently down. "Something wrong, after all? +What is it?" + +"My leg," I moaned. + +"Here, Maizie, hold his head, while I appoint an investigating +committee," he ordered, and in another moment I felt your arms about me, +and in my joy at your touch I almost forgot my torture. + +"Well, you've broken one of your walking-sticks," the man informed me, +after a gentler touching of it than I thought possible to his nature. +"Now, Maizie, if you'll sit and hold his head, I'll get a litter. You +won't mind staying here alone, will you?" + +"It is my wish," you acceded calmly. + +"O. K.," he said, rising, and even in his kindness he could not help but +seize the opportunity to glorify his country. "If this had happened in +New York, Mr. Altai, we'd have had an ambulance here five minutes ago! +Civilization isn't all bad, I tell you, as you'd find out if you'd +give it a chance." + +The moment he was gone I tried to speak, and murmured "Maizie;" but you +let me get no further, saying "Hush," and putting your hand softly over +my lips. I suppose you thought me merely repeating the name he had +called you, while I loved your touch too deeply to resist the hand I +longed to kiss. Now I am glad I did not speak, for if I had it would +have robbed me of my last sweet moment with you. + +Long before I thought it possible, and far too soon, indeed, despite my +suffering, we heard men approaching. When the torch-bearers came +climbing over the rocks, my first desire was to see how much of your +beauty was owing to the moonlight, and my heart leaped with exultation +to find that you were beautiful even in the livid glare of the torches. + +"Now, Mr. Altai," your companion remarked, "where shall we take you?" +and I gave him the name of the hotel. A moment later, as they lifted me, +I again fainted, but not till I had kissed your hand. You snatched it +away, and did not hear my weakly whispered "Good-night, Maizie." + + + + +VII + + +_February 26._ The setting of my leg, that night, was so long and +exhausting an operation that after it was done I was given an opiate. +Instead of bringing oblivion the drug produced a dreamy condition, in +which I was cognizant of nothing that happened about me, and saw only +your face. I knew I ought to sleep, and did my best to think of other +things; but try as I might, my thought would return and dwell upon your +beauty. + +I have often wished I had been born an artist, that I might try to paint +your portrait, for words can no more picture you than they can transmit +the fragrance of a violet. Indeed, to me the only word which even +expresses your charm is "radiant," and that to others, who have never +seen you, would suggest little. No real beauty can be described, for +it rests in nothing that is tangible. In truth, to speak of your +glorious hair, the whiteness of your brow and throat, the brilliant +softness of your eyes, or the sweetness yet strength of your tender +though unsmiling lips is to make but a travesty of description. I have +heard painters talk of your hair and try to convey an idea of its +beauty, but I know it too well even to make the attempt. When we were +gazing at the rainbow, last autumn, and you said that if its tints could +be transferred to a palette you believed it would be possible to paint +anything, I could not help correcting, "Except your hair." You laughed, +and declared, "I did not know you ever made that kind of a speech!" +whereupon Agnes cried, "Didn't I ever tell you, Maizie, the compliment +the doctor paid you last winter?" I thought she was alluding to my +retort when my mother asserted that your eyes were so large and lustrous +that, to her, they were "positively loud." Indignant at such a remark, +Agnes had appealed to me to deny it. Not caring to treat the malicious +speech seriously, I had answered that I could not agree, though I had +sometimes thought your eyes "too dressy for the daytime,"--a joke I have +heard so often quoted that it is apparently in a measure descriptive, +yet one which I should have felt mortified at hearing repeated to you. +Fortunately Agnes's reference was to another remark of mine, in which, +speaking of your mouth, I had crudely translated a couple of lines from +a Persian poem:-- + + "In vain you strive to speak a bitter word-- + It meets the sweetness of your lips ere it is heard." + +You were too used to compliments to be embarrassed when the lines were +repeated, and only looked at me in a puzzled way. I do not wonder you +were surprised at the implied admiration of the two speeches, after my +apparent coldness and indifference. My behavior must seem to you as +full of contradictions as your beauty is to me. To say your great +attraction is the radiance--the verve, spirit, and capacity for +enthusiasm--of which one cannot fail to be conscious is to deny the calm +dignity with which you bear yourself, yet both these qualities belong to +you. The world insists that you are proud and distant, and your face has +the clean-cut features which we associate with patrician blood, while +your height and figure, and the set and carriage of your head upon that +slender throat, suggest a goddess. But I, who understand you so much +better than the world, know that your proud face overlies the tenderest +of natures, and is not an index, but a mask of feelings you do not care +to show. As for the people who criticise you most, they would be the +last to do so if they were not conscious of the very superiority they +try to lessen.--Ah, how foolish it is to write all this, as if I needed +to convince myself of what I know so well! And even if this were for +the eye of others, to those who know you not it would be but the +extravagant idealism for which a lover is proverbial. + +When I awoke from the sleep my dreaming had drifted into, my first +request of my father was to find your whereabouts. He told me that a +dragoman had come that morning to inquire for me,--and had left what now +he showed me,--a great bunch of roses and a basket of fruit, with the +card of "Mr. Foster G. Blodgett, 547 Fifth Avenue," on the back of which +was written:-- + +"With sincere regrets that a previously formed plan of leaving Tangier +this morning prevents our seeing our courteous instructor of last night, +and with hopes that he may have a quick and easy recovery from his +accident." + +The card was a man's, but the handwriting was feminine, and the moment +my father turned his back I kissed it. I was further told that the +servant had asked my name and taken it down, giving me the instant +hope that when you knew to whom you had been so merciful, you would even +disarrange your plans to let me have a moment's glimpse of you. But +though I listened all the afternoon hopefully and expectantly, you never +came. I felt such shyness about you, I did not speak to my father of +your beauty, and he did not question me at all. + +Our native hotel, built in Eastern fashion about a court, with only +blank outside walls, was no place in which to pass a long invalidism, +and three days later my father had me carried to the steamer, and, +crossing to Gibraltar, we traveled by easy railroad trips to Leipzig. We +had left our belongings with Jastrow, and he begged us, on our arrival, +to become members of his household, which we were only too glad to do +for a time. His joy over my return was most touching, and he and Humzel +both seemed to regard me very much as if I were the creation of their +own brains, who was to bring them immortal fame in time. My father had +long before counseled me to be a pursuer of knowledge, and not of money; +telling me the winning of the latter narrowed the intellect and stunted +the finer qualities of one's nature, making all men natural enemies, +while the acquisition of the former broadened one's mind, developed the +nobility within, and engendered love of one's associates. These two men +illustrated his theory, and had my tendency been avaricious I think +their unselfish love and example would have made me otherwise. And yet, +how dare I claim to be free from sordidness, when all my thoughts and +hopes and daily life are now bent on winning money? + +My leg was far too troublesome to permit me to sit at a desk, but my +father insisted on being my scribe; and thus, lying on a lounge, I began +part of the work I had so long planned, taking up for my first book the +Turkish irruption, the crusades against the Saracens, and their +subsequent history. Thinking so much of you, both as the child who had +won my boyish heart and as the beautiful woman whose face had fascinated +and moved me so deeply, I do not know how, except for my work, I should +have lived through those long and weary months of enforced inaction +while my leg so slowly knit. + +More as recreation from this serious endeavor than as supplementary +labor, I gathered the articles I had written for the Deutsche Rundshau +and the Revue des Deux Mondes from time to time in our travels, and with +new material from my journal I worked the whole into a popular account +of what we had seen and done. While I still used a walking-stick I was +reading proof of the German edition, and my English replica, rather than +translation, was under negotiation through my publisher for London and +New York editions. My father, who busied himself with a French version, +insisted that the book would be a great success, and the articles under +my assumed name had been so well noticed that I was myself hopeful of +what better work in book form might do for my reputation; for against +his advice, I had determined to abandon my pseudonym. + +But all these schemes and hopes were forgotten in the illness of my +father. Contrary to my wishes, he had overworked himself in the French +translation, while his life, for months of my enforced inactivity, had +been one long service, impossible for me to avoid or refuse without +giving him pain. This double exertion proved too great a strain. The day +after he sent the manuscript to Paris, as he sat conning the sheets of +the concluding chapter of my history, he laid them down without a word, +and, leaning forward, quietly rested his head upon the table. I was by +his side and had him on the sofa in an instant, where he lay +unconscious till the doctor came. We were told that it was a slight +stroke, and by the next day he seemed quite well. But slowly he lost the +use of one side, and within a week was helpless. I like to remember that +I was well enough to tend him as he had tended me. He lingered for a +month, sweet and gentle as always; then, one evening, as I sat beside +him, he opened his eyes and said, "Good-night, Don. Good-night, Maizie." +And with those words his loving soul went back to its Creator. + +I found about his neck a ribbon to which was attached a locket +containing the long tress you cut off for him that day in the Bois, one +of my mother's curls, and a little tow-colored lock which I suppose was +my own hair before it darkened,--a locket I have since worn unchanged, +because, sadly discordant though such association has become, I cannot +bring myself to separate what he tied together. It seems to symbolize +his love for all of us. + +The kindness of my friends I can never forget. I was so broken down as +really to be unfit for thought, and their generous foresight did +everything possible to spare me trouble or pain. Especially to Professor +and Frau Jastrow do I owe an unpayable debt, for they made me feel that +there was still some one in whose love I stood first; and had I been the +child who had never come to them, I question if they could have done +more for me than they did. + +One thing that I had to do myself was to notify my mother of my father's +death. From the time she had quitted us my father and I had avoided +mention of her; but during his illness he asked me to write in case of +his death, and gave me her New York address, from which I inferred that +in some way he had kept himself informed concerning her, though I feel +very certain that she had never written him. That I had never tried to +learn anything myself was due to the estrangement, but still more to my +interest in my studies and work. Now I wrote her, as I had promised, +telling her briefly the circumstances of my father's illness and death, +and offering to write fuller details if she wished to know them. I would +not feign love for her, but I wrote tenderly of him and without coldness +to her. She never replied. + +Kind as were all my intimates, I craved more than friendship, however +loving it might be. One of the two great loves of my life had gone out +from it, and, in the gap it left, the other became doubly dear to me. +The wish to see you grew and strengthened each day, until at last it +shaped my plans, and I announced my intention to visit America; making +the specious explanation that, after my long invalidism and grief, the +change would be the best specific for me. + +At this time I received the offer of appointment as professor +extraordinarius of philology and ethnology under Jastrow, another +manifestation of his love; but till I had seen you I would not bind +myself by accepting, and through his influence I was given three months +to consider my answer. I seem doomed never to requite the services of +those I love the most, but I am glad that in the nine months which I +passed under his roof my knowledge of the Eastern dialects had pushed +his work so much nearer completion. + +Leaving all my possessions behind except the manuscript of my history, I +started on my voyage of love. For two days I tarried in Paris, settling +my little property. I had long known that the flotsam of my father's +fortune, wrecked in Wall Street, was a few bonds deposited with Paris +bankers; and when I called upon the firm it was merely to continue the +old arrangement, by which they cut the coupons and placed them to my +bank credit. It was in this visit that I searched out our old pension, +and sat dreaming in the park. How could I imagine, remembering those +days of closest love and sympathy, and knowing too your kindness to one +you thought a mere Eastern stroller, that you could have changed so to +your former friend? + +The most curious fact to me, in looking back upon that time, is that the +idea never occurred to me that you were a married woman. It never +entered my thoughts that a beauty which fascinated and drew me so far +from my natural orbit must be an equally powerful charm to other men. As +for Mr. Blodgett, I never gave him a second thought, not even accounting +for his relations with you. My foolishness, I suppose, is typical of the +scholar's abstraction and impracticality. + +As the steamer neared New York, my impatience to see you increased +apace. Far from longing for our old ten-day passage, I found a voyage of +seven days too long. Ridiculous as it may seem, I almost lost my temper +at the slowness of the customs examination. I believe I was half mad, +and only marvel that I did so sane a thing as to go to a hotel, change +my clothes, and dine, before attempting to see you. + +I ascertained Mr. Walton's address the moment I reached my hotel, and +sent a messenger there to inquire your whereabouts. He brought me back +word that Mr. Walton was absent from the city, but the servant had +informed him that you still lived with your uncle and that you were in +town. + +I cannot tell you the surprise and joy I felt when, on arriving at your +house on Madison Avenue that evening, I discovered it to be our old +habitat. It seemed as if your selection of that as your home, probably +from sentiment, was a bow of promise for the future, and I rang the +bell, almost trembling with emotion and happiness. + +The footman showed me to the drawing-room and took my card. All inside, +so far as I could see, was changed past the point of recognition, but +everything was beautiful, and I felt in that one room that no +decorator's conventional taste had formed its harmony, but that an +artistic sense had planned the whole. What a contrast it was to the old +days of untasteful and untidy richness! + +I sat but a moment before the footman returned. Looking not at me, but +over my head, and with an attitude and air as deferential as if I were +the guest of all others most welcome, he said, "Miss Walton declines the +honor of Mr. Maitland's acquaintance, and begs to be excused." + +The blow came so suddenly, and was so crushing, that for a moment I lost +my dignity. "There must be some mistake!" I exclaimed. "You gave Miss +Walton my card?" + +The footman only bowed assent. + +"Go to Miss Walton and say I must see her a moment." + +"Miss Walton instructed me to add, in case Mr. Maitland persisted, that +she prefers to hold no intercourse with Mr. Maitland and will receive no +messages from him." + +Pride came to my rescue, and I passed silently into the hall. The +servant opened the door, and I went out from my old home, never to enter +it more. At the foot of the steps I turned and looked back, hardly yet +believing what I had been told. Even in the sting and humiliation of +that moment my love was stronger than the newer sensations. I said, +"Good-night, Maizie. God keep you," and walked away. + + + + +VIII + + +_February 27._ I sat for hours in my room, that night, trying to find +some solution of the mystery and groping for a future course of action. +I thought of a visit to my mother, on the chance that she would give me +the key to the puzzle, but could not bring myself to it. Rejecting that +idea, I decided to seek out Mr. Blodgett, who, being your friend, might +know the reason for what you had done. + +Finding on inquiry, the next morning, that Mr. Blodgett was a member of +one of the chief banking firms of New York, I went to his office. The +ante-room was well filled with people anxious to see the great banker, +and the door-boy refused me access to him without giving my name and +business. Knowing that "Donald Maitland" would mean nothing to Mr. +Blodgett, and might even fail to secure me an audience, I wrote on a +slip of paper, "A seeker of knowledge from the Altai Mountains." Nor was +I wrong, for the boy, on his return, gave me immediate entrance, and +another moment brought me face to face with my once-disliked countryman. + +His hand was extended to greet me, but as he looked at my face his arm +dropped in surprise. "Your name, please?" he demanded, with a +business-like clip to his voice, at the same time picking up and +glancing quickly at three or four cards and slips of paper that were on +the corner of his desk. + +"I am the attorney for ancient peoples," I announced, smiling, "come to +thank the New World for its kindness to a broken-legged man." + +Instantly Mr. Blodgett smiled too, and again extended his hand. "Glad to +see you," he said. "Sit down." Then looking at me keenly, he added, +"You've done a lot of bleaching or scrubbing since we met." + +"In the interval my face has been hidden from the sun-god of my +fathers." + +"Ah!" Then his Americanism cropped out by a question: "Are you European +or Asiatic?--for you are too dark to be the one, and too white to be the +other." + +"My parents were American, and I was born in New York." + +"The deuce you were! Then why were you masquerading in Arab dress and +with a brown face in Tangier, and why did you say you came from some +mountains in Asia?" + +"I was for the time an Arab, and I was last from the Altai Mountains," I +explained, and smilingly added, "Is my explanation satisfactory?" + +"Well, I suppose you spoke by the book," he replied. "Wherever you were +born, I'm glad to see--Hold on!" he cried, interrupting his own speech. +"Why did you call yourself Dr. Rudolph Hartzmann, of Leipzig, if you +were an American?" + +"I did not," I denied, startled by his question, for my identity with +the pseudonym was known only to my professors and publishers. + +"You weren't living in Tangier under the name of Hartzmann?" he +inquired. + +"No." + +"Then how came it that when my servant was sent to leave some fruit and +flowers for you and inquire your name, he was told that you were Dr. +Rudolph Hartzmann, of Leipzig?" + +"Are you serious?" I questioned, as much puzzled as he for the moment. + +"Never more so. I remember our astonishment to think that any European +should have so dark a skin and live in the native quarter." + +"Mr. Blodgett," I explained, "I did not know till this moment that a pen +name I have used to sign my writings had been given you, but it was a +joke of my father's to register me under it, and my only theory is that +he had given some one in the hotel that name, and, by mischance, your +servant was misinformed." + +He was too good a business man to look as skeptical as he probably felt, +and merely asked, "What is your real name, then?" + +"Donald Maitland, son of William Maitland." + +His eyes gave a startled wink and he screwed his lips into position for +a whistle, but checking the inclination, he merely turned his +revolving-chair so that he looked out of a window. He sat thus for a +moment, and then, facing me, he questioned, with a sudden curtness of +voice and manner, "What is your business with me?" + +"I have taken the liberty of calling on the supposition that you are a +friend of Miss Walton." + +"I am." + +"Miss Walton was once my father's ward, yet last night she refused to +see me. Can you tell me why?" + +"The reason is rather obvious," he asserted crisply. + +"Will you tell me what it is?" + +He looked at me from under his gray eyebrows. "Is that all you want of +me?" he demanded. + +"Yes." + +"Well, then, Miss Walton refused to see you because she despises you." + +I felt my cheeks burn, but I gripped the arm of my chair and waited till +I could speak coolly; then I asked, "For what?" + +"You are ignorant of the fact that your father embezzled a part of Miss +Walton's fortune, and that you and he have since lived upon it?" he +exclaimed, with no veiling of his contempt. + +I sat calmly, for the idea was too new, and I had too many connecting +links to recall, to have the full horror of the disgrace come home to me +at once. He did not give me time for thought, but interrogated, "Well?" + +Having to speak, I asked, "You are sure of what you say?" + +"Sure!" he ejaculated. "Why, it's been known to every one for years, and +I was one of the trustees appointed by the court to look out for Miss +Walton's interest in what property your father couldn't take with him!" + +"If you are a trustee of Miss Walton," I said, growing cool in my agony +of shame, "can you spare me five minutes and answer some questions?" + +That I did not deny knowledge of the wrong seemed to raise me in his +opinion, for he nodded his head and looked less stern. + +"How much did my father--How much did Miss Walton lose?" I inquired. + +"One hundred and thirty thousand was all the property he could +negotiate, and we succeeded, by bidding in his house over the mortgage +and by taking the library at a valuation, in recovering twenty-six +thousand." + +"Was that amount net?" + +"Yes." + +"Then in 1879 the amount due Miss Walton was one hundred and four +thousand dollars?" + +"Yes." + +"Thank you, Mr. Blodgett," I added, rising. "I am only sorry, after your +former kindness, to have given you this further trouble. I am grateful +for both." In my shame I did not dare to offer him my hand, but he held +out his. + +"Mr. Maitland," he rejoined, "I'm a pretty good judge of men, and I +don't believe you have done wrong knowingly." + +"I never dreamed it," I almost sobbed, shaking his hand. + +"It's pretty rough," he said. "I hope you won't show the white feather +by doing anything desperate?" + +I shook my head, and walked to the door. As I reached it a new thought +occurred to me, and, turning, I asked, "What has the legal rate of +interest been since 1879?" + +For reply he touched an electric button on his desk, and I heard the +lock click in the door by which I stood. He pulled a chair near his own, +and commanded, "Come here and sit down," in such a peremptory tone that +I obeyed. "Why did you ask that question?" he catechised. + +"That I may find out how much I owe Miss Walton." + +"What for?" + +"To attempt restitution." + +"I hope you know what you're talking about?" + +"I'm still rather confused, but so much I can see clearly enough." + +"How much property have you?" + +"My father left me something over thirty-one thousand dollars." + +"Thirty-one from one hundred and four leaves seventy-three." + +"And interest," I corrected. + +"I thought that was what you were driving at," he surmised calmly. He +pulled out a volume from its repository in his desk, and turned +backwards and forwards in the book for a few moments, taking off figures +on a sheet of paper. "Eight years at five per cent makes the whole over +one hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars less thirty-one." + +"Thank you." + +"Where can you get the balance?" + +"I must earn it." + +He looked at me with a slightly quizzical expression and asked, "How?" + +"That I have yet to think out." + +"Any business?" + +"I have the offer of a professorship at Leipzig, but that's out of the +question now." + +"Why?" + +"It would give me only two thousand a year at first, and the interest on +the debt will be over six thousand annually." + +"What do you know?" he questioned. + +"Most of the languages and dialects of Europe and Asia, and a good deal +of history and ethnology. I am fairly read in arts, sciences, and +religions, and I know something of writing," I answered, smiling at the +absurdity of mentioning such knowledge in the face of such a condition. + +"Humph! And you'd have sold all that for two thousand a year?" + +"I think so." + +"Well, that only proves that a man had better cultivate his gumption, +and not his brains!" + +"If he wishes to make money," I could not help retorting gently. + +"You're just like Maizie!" he sniffed, and his going back to your +familiar name in my presence was the best compliment he could have paid +me. "You two ought to have died young and gone to heaven, where there's +nothing to do but cultivate the soul." + +"I wish we had!" + +"Why don't you go to your mother?" + +"For what?" + +"For the money." + +"Has she money?" + +"Yes. She had a little money when she married your father, which she +kept tight hold of; her mother's death, two years ago, gave her more, +and she has just married a rich man." + +"I don't know yet what I shall do," I replied, rising. + +"Well," he advised kindly, "before you blow your brains out or do +anything else that's a waste of good material, come and see me again." + +"Thank you," I responded. "And, Mr. Blodgett, as a favor, I ask that all +I have told you, and even my presence in New York, shall be confidential +between us." + +"Nonsense!" he growled. "I shall tell Maizie all about it." + +"Miss Walton least of any," I begged. + +"Why don't you insist, too, that Mrs. Blodgett, who intends that I shall +inform her nightly of everything I know, sha'n't be told?" he queried. + +"It grieves me to be a marplot of connubial confidences," I rejoined, +responding to his smile, "but this must be between us." + +"Have your own way," he acceded, and then laughed. "I'll have a good +time over it, for I'll let Mrs. Blodgett see there is a secret, and +she'll go crazy trying to worm it out of me." + +He shook my hand again, and I felt ashamed to think that his voice and +manner had once made me hold him in contempt. + +I went back to the hotel, and thought over the past, seeing how blind I +had been. Now for the first time everything became clear. I understood +the trip to Europe and our remaining there, why my mother had left us, +why Mr. Walton had been permitted to take you from us without protest, +why we had not mingled with Americans, and my father's motives in making +me write under a pen name, in registering me at hotels by it, and in +giving that name to your servant. Now it was obvious why he never signed +his articles, and why he appealed to me to let him aid me to make a +reputation: it was his endeavor to atone to me for the wrong he had +done. + +Good-night, my love. + + + + +IX + + +_February 28._ Many times in the last three years I have begun a letter +to you, for the thought that you, like the rest of the world, may rank +my father with other embezzlers stings me almost to desperation. Each +time it has been to tear the attempted justification--or I should say, +extenuation--into fragments, long before it was completed. In all my +trials I have come to realize that nothing I can say can stand him in +stead; for whatever I urge is open to suspicion, not merely because it +is my interest to condone his act, but still more because it inevitably +becomes an indirect justification of myself, and therefore, in a sense, +a plea for pardon. + +At moments, too, when with you, I have had to exercise the greatest +self-control not to tell you what I feel. If I were only some one else +than Donald Maitland, so that I might say to you:-- + +"You should know that your guardian was incapable of the lowness the +world imputes to him! I am not trying to belittle the sin, but to +distinguish the motive. His wrong was no mean attempt to enrich himself +at the expense of one he loved, for his nature was wholly unmercenary, +and his transgression originated, not through greed, but through lack of +it. Like all men of true intellect, he was heedless in money matters, +and I am conscious that there was in him, as there is in me, the certain +weakness which is almost inevitable with mind cultivation,--an +engulfing, as it were, of the big principles of right and wrong in the +complexities and the refinements of cultivated thought. His birthright +was scholarship, but in place of the life he was fitted for he was +forced into Wall Street, and toiled there without sympathy or aptitude +for his work. Do you not remember how, aside from our companionship, his +books were his one great pleasure? The wealth of mind he gave to us +tells the story of how he must have neglected his office in favor of his +library. Yet though this preference might have made him a poor man, I +cannot think his studies would ever have led him into dishonesty. I have +never had the heart to trace the history of his act, but Mr. Blodgett +tells me that shortly after his marriage he first began to speculate, +and knowing as I do my mother's extravagance and my father's love for +her, I can understand the motive. The inevitable result came presently, +and, as a temporary expedient, a small part of your property was used. +Then a desperate attempt was made to recover this by the risking of a +larger portion, and after that there was nothing left but confession or +flight. I wish he had spoken, but the weakness that produced the first +wrong accounts for the second, and I believe his chief thought was of +me, and how I might be saved from the consequences of his guilt. Unless +you have put him wholly out of your heart, you must appreciate that it +was no sordid scheme to cheat you, but a surrender to the love strong +enough to overcome his honesty. You must know that he loved you too well +to wrong you willingly, and I think with pain of what I am sure he must +have suffered in his shame at having robbed you. Do you not remember the +sadness in his face in those later years, and his tenderness to both of +us? Can you not see that his kindness, his patience, and his care of us +were his endeavored atonement?" + +Oh, Maizie, I ask nothing for myself, but if you could be brought to +think of him, to love him, as you once did, my greatest grief would be +ended. + +Bitter as my misery was after Mr. Blodgett's revelation, there was +still some sweetness to make it bearable. For years I had thought of +you as heartless and forgetful, and even in my love had hated and +despised you at moments, as only love can hate and despise. The world +thinks that animosity is always strongest against enemies, though daily +it sees the intensest feuds between those nations and individuals who +are most closely related, and never learns that the deepest hatred comes +from love. Now I knew that you had cause for slighting my letters and +gift, and the knowledge of my injustice and the thought that you were +more lovable than ever were the silver lining to my cloud of shame. + +My first meeting with you was a pure chance, yet it shaped my life. For +three weeks after my call on Mr. Blodgett I pondered and vacillated over +what I should do, without reaching any decision. At the end of that time +I went to his office again. + +"Mr. Blodgett has asked two or three times if you hadn't called," the +boy informed me; adding, as he opened the door to the private office, +"He told me, if you ever came again, sir, to show you right in." + +I passed through the doorway, and then faltered, for you were sitting +beside the banker, overlooking a paper that he was commenting upon. +Could I have escaped unnoticed, I should have done so; but you both +glanced up as I entered. + +The moment you saw me you rose, with an exclamation of recognition and +surprise, which meant to me that you knew your old friend in spite of +the changes. Do you wonder that, not foreseeing what was to come, I +stood there as if turned to stone? My manner evidently made you question +your own eyes, for you asked, "Is not this Dr. Hartzmann?" + +"Of course it is!" cried Mr. Blodgett, with a quickness and heartiness +which proved that your question was almost as great a relief to him as +it was to me. + +"I did not think, Miss Walton," I replied, steadying my voice as best I +could, "that you saw my face clearly enough that evening, to recollect +it?" + +"The moonlight was so strong," you explained, "that I should have known +you anywhere." + +"Then your eyes are better than mine," asserted Mr. Blodgett. "I accused +the doctor of using blondine, to atone for my not recognizing him, +though I must confess he will have to use a good deal more if he wants +to be thought anything but Italian." + +"Then you have met before?" you questioned. + +"Yes," replied Mr. Blodgett. "I was going to tell you when we got +through with that mortgage. I knew you would be interested to hear that +the doctor was in New York. Seems like Tangier, doesn't it?" + +"In reminiscence," I assented, merely to gain time. + +"None of your rickety ruins," chuckled Mr. Blodgett. + +"But more ruin," you said. + +"And more danger," I added, pointing out of the window at the passers-by +in Wall Street. "Nowhere in my travels, even among races that have to go +armed, have I ever seen so many anxious and careworn faces." + +"Most of them look worried," suggested Mr. Blodgett, "only because they +are afraid they'll take more than three minutes to eat their lunch." + +For a moment you spoke with Mr. Blodgett on business, and then offered +me your hand in farewell, saying, "I am very glad, Dr. Hartzmann, for +this chance reunion. Mr. Blodgett and I have often spoken of the +mysterious Oriental who fell in--and out--of our knowledge so +strangely." + +"I have wished to meet you, Miss Walton," I responded warmly, "to thank +you for your kindness and help to me when"-- + +"That was nothing, Dr. Hartzmann," you interrupted, in evident +deprecation of my thanks. "Indeed, I have always felt that we were in a +measure responsible for your accident, and that we made but a poor +return by the little we did. Good-morning." + +Mr. Blodgett took you to your carriage, and when he returned he gave a +whistle. "Well!" he exclaimed. "I haven't gone through such a ten-second +scare since I proposed to my superior moiety." + +"I ought"--I began. + +But he went on: "There's nothing frightens me so much as a wrought-up +woman. Dynamite or volcanoes aren't a circumstance to her, because they +have limits; but woman!" + +I laughed and said, "The Hindoos have a paradox to the effect that +women fear mice, mice fear men, and men fear women." + +"She got so much better and longer look at you in Tangier than I did +that I don't wonder she recognized Dr. Hartzmann when I didn't. But why +did she stop there in her recollections?" + +"It appeared incomprehensible to me for a moment, yet, as a fact, her +knowing me as Donald Maitland would have been the greater marvel of the +two. When she knew me, I was an undersized, pallid, stooping lad of +seventeen. In the ten years since, my hair and skin have both darkened +greatly, I have grown a mustache, and my voice has undergone the change +that comes with manhood, as well as that which comes by speaking foreign +tongues. Your very question as to whether I was of Eastern birth tells +the whole story, for such a doubt would seem absurd to one who +remembered the boy of ten years ago. Then, too, Miss Walton, having +recognized me as Dr. Hartzmann, was, as it were, disarmed of all +suspicion by having no question-mark in her mind as to my exact +identity." + +Mr. Blodgett nodded his head in assent. "And you don't know it all," he +informed me. "I'm going to be frank, doctor, and acknowledge that I've +expressed a pretty low opinion of you to her more than once. If Maizie +were asked what man in this world she'd be least likely to meet in my +office on a friendly footing, she would probably think of you. Your +presence here was equivalent to saying that you weren't Donald Maitland, +let alone the fact that I greeted you as Dr. Hartzmann, and that she +could never dream of my having a reason to deceive her in your +identity." + +"Such a chain of circumstances almost makes one believe in kismet," I +sighed. Then I laughed, and added, "How easy it is to show that one need +not be scared--after the danger is all over!" + +"That isn't the only scare I owe to you," muttered Mr. Blodgett. "I +didn't take your address because I told you to come again. Why didn't +you?" + +"I am here." + +"Yes. But for three weeks I've been worrying over what you were doing +with yourself, and not knowing that you hadn't cut your throat." + +"I am sorry to have troubled you. I stayed away to save troubling you." + +"You're as considerate as the Fiji islander was of the missionary, when +he asked him if he had rather be cooked _[`a] la ma[^i]tre d'h[^o]tel_ or _en +papillote_. What have you been doing?" + +"Very little to any purpose. I have written to my publisher, offering to +sell my rights in my text-books; to a friend, asking him to learn for +what price he can sell my library; and to my bankers, directing them to +send me the bonds and a draft for my balance. I received the securities +and a bill of exchange yesterday, and am so ignorant of business +methods that I came to you this morning to learn how to turn them into +cash." + +"I'll do better than that," volunteered Mr. Blodgett, touching a button. +"Give them to me, and I'll have it done." Then, after he had turned the +matter over to a clerk, he asked, "What does your publisher offer?" + +"Thirty-five hundred." + +"And what are your royalties?" + +"Last year they were over six hundred dollars." + +"Humph! That's equivalent to investing money at eighteen per cent. You +ought to get more than that." + +"A little more or less is nothing compared with paying so much on my +debt." + +"What will your library bring?" + +"Perhaps four thousand, if I can find some one who wants so technical a +collection." + +"And you can get along without it?" + +"I must," I declared, though wincing a little. + +"Rather goes against the grain, eh?" he rejoined kindly. + +I tried to laugh, and said, "My books have been such good comrades that +I haven't quite accustomed myself yet to thinking of them as +merchandise. I feel a little as the bankrupt planter must have felt when +he saw his slave children offered for sale." + +"And what do you plan to do with yourself?" + +"I haven't been able to make up my mind." + +We were interrupted at this point by some business matter, and I took my +leave. The next morning Mr. Blodgett called at my boarding-place on his +way down town. + +"I haven't come to talk business," he announced. "I told my wife and +daughter, last night, about the fellow from the backwoods of Asia, and +made them so curious that Mrs. Blodgett has given me permission to +furnish him board and lodgings for a week. I'll promise you a better +room than this," he added, glancing at the box I had moved into as soon +as I realized how much worse than a pauper I was. + +I could hardly express my gratitude as I tried to thank him, but he +pretended not to perceive my emotion, and said briskly: "That's settled, +then. Send your stuff round any time to-day, and be on deck for a +seven-o'clock dinner." + +You, who know Mrs. Blodgett so much better than I, can understand my +bewilderment during the first day or two of my visit. Her husband had +jokingly pictured me as of an Eastern race, which made the meeting +rather embarrassing; but the moment she comprehended that I did not +habitually sit on the floor, did not carry a scimiter or kris, and was +not unwashed and ferine, but only a dark skinned, dark haired, and very +silent German scholar, she took possession of me as I have seen her do +of others. She preceded me to my room, ringing for a servant on the +way, made me open my trunk, and directed the maid where to put each +article it contained. She told me what time to be ready for dinner, what +to wear for it, and at that meal she had me helped twice to such dishes +as she chose, while refusing to let me have more than one cup of coffee. +To a man who had never had any one to look after him in small things it +was a novel and rather pleasant if surprising experience, and when I +grew accustomed to it I easily understood Mr. Blodgett's chuckles of +enjoyment when she told him he shouldn't have a third cigar, when she +decided how close he was to sit to the fire, and finally when she made +all of us--Agnes, Mr. Blodgett, and myself--go to bed at her own hour +for retiring. Best of all I understood Mr. Blodgett's familiar name for +her, "the boss." That visit was a perfect revelation to me of +affectionate, thoughtful, and persistently minute domineering. I do not +believe that the man lives, though he be the veriest woman-hater, who +could help loving her after a fortnight of her tyranny. Certainly I +could not. + +By Mr. Blodgett's aid I secured a "paper" cable transfer of the money +realized from the bonds and draft, in order that it might seem to come +from Europe, and sent it to you, writing at his suggestion, "The +inclosed draft on Foster G. Blodgett & Co. for the sum of thirty-three +thousand dollars is part payment of principal and interest due you from +estate of William G. Maitland." I wonder what your thoughts were as you +read the unsigned and typewritten note? + +It was your greeting of me by my alias that led me to accept the +incognito. Perhaps it was cowardly to shirk my shame by such a means, +but it was not done from cowardice; the thought did not even occur to me +until it opened a way to knowing you. And in that hope my very misery +became almost happiness, for its possibilities seemed those of the +Oriental poet who wrote:-- + + "My love once offered me a bitter draught + From which in cowardice I flinched. + But still she tendered to me; + And bowing to her wish, I then no longer shrank, + But took the cup and put it to my lips. + Oh, marvel! gazing still at her, + The potion turned to sweetness as I drank." + +If your old friend, Donald Maitland, were dead to you, your new lover, +Rudolph Hartzmann, might fill his place. I never stopped to think if +such trickery were right, or rather my love was stronger than my +conscience. + +Good-night, my dearest. + + + + +X + + +_March 1._ During my visit I heard much about you from Mrs. Blodgett and +Agnes, for your name was constantly on their lips. From them I learned +that your birth, wealth, and the influence of your uncle had involved +you in a fashionable society for which you cared nothing, and that, +aside from the gayety which that circle forced upon you, your time was +spent in travel, and in reading, music, and charitable work. Except for +themselves, they averred, you had no intimate friends, and their +explanation of this fact proved to me that you had taken our separation +as seriously as had I. + +"After Mr. Walton brought her to America she spent the first few months +with us," Mrs. Blodgett told me, "and was the loneliest child I ever +saw. Her big eyes used to look so wistfully at times that I could +hardly bear it, yet not a word did she ever speak of her sorrow. And all +on account of that wretch and his son! I think the worse men are, the +more a good woman loves them! When Maizie was old enough to understand, +and Mr. Walton told her how she had been robbed, she wouldn't believe +him till Mr. Blodgett confirmed the story. She used to be always talking +of the two, but she has never spoken of them since that night." + +Even more cruel to me was something Agnes related. She worshiped you +with the love and admiration a girl of eighteen sometimes feels for a +girl of twenty-three, and in singing your praises,--to a most willing +listener,--one day, she exclaimed, "Oh, I wish I were a man, so that I +could be her lover! I'd make her believe in love." Then seeing my +questioning look, Agnes continued: "What with her selfish old uncle, and +the men who want to marry her for her money, and those hateful +Maitlands, she has been made to distrust all love and friendship. She +has the idea that she isn't lovable,--that people don't like her for +herself; and I really think she will never marry, just because of it." + +Better far than this knowledge of you at second-hand was Mr. Blodgett's +telling me that you were to dine with them during my visit. It may seem +absurd, but not the least part of my eagerness that night was to see you +in evening dress. If I had not loved you already, I should have done so +from that meeting; and although you are dear to me for many things +besides your beauty, I understand why men love you so deeply who know +nothing of your nature. That all men should not love you is my only +marvel whenever I recall that first glimpse of you as you entered the +Blodgetts' drawing-room. + +Before we had finished our greetings Mr. Whitely entered, and though I +little realized how vital a part he was to be of my life, I yet regarded +him with instant interest, for something in his manner towards you +suggested to me that he coveted the hand you offered him. + +A lover does not view a rival kindly, but I am compelled to own that he +is handsome. If I had the right to cavil, I could criticise only his +mouth, which it seems to me has slyness with a certain cruel firmness; +but I did not notice this until I knew him better, and perhaps it is +only my imagination, born of later knowledge. I am not so blinded by my +jealousy as to deny his perfect manner, for one feels the polished +surface, touch the outside where one will. + +Your demeanor towards him was friendly, yet with all its graciousness it +seemed to me to have a quality not so much of aloofness as of limit; +conveying in an indefinable way the fact that such relations as then +existed between you were the only possible ones. It was a shading so +imperceptible that I do not think the Blodgetts realized it, and I +should have questioned if Mr. Whitely himself were conscious of it, but +for one or two things he said in the course of the evening, which had to +me, under the veil of a general topic, individual suggestion. + +We were discussing that well-worn question of woman's education, Mrs. +Blodgett having introduced the apple of discord by a sweeping +disapproval of college education for women, on the ground that it +prevented their marrying. + +"They get to know too much, eh?" laughed Mr. Blodgett. + +"No," cried Mrs. Blodgett, "they get to know too little! While they +ought to be out in the world studying life and men, so as to choose +wisely, they're shut up in dormitories filling their brains with Greek +and mathematics." + +"You would limit a woman's arithmetic to the solution of how to make +one and one, one?" I asked, smiling. + +"Surely, Mrs. Blodgett, you do not mean that an uncultivated woman makes +the best wife?" inquired Mr. Whitely. + +"I mean," rejoined Mrs. Blodgett, "that women who know much of books +know little of men. That's why over-intellectual women always marry +fools." + +"How many intellectual wives there must be!" you said. + +"I shouldn't mind if they only married fools," continued Mrs. Blodgett, +"but half the time they don't marry at all." + +"Does that prove or disprove their intellect?" you asked. + +"It means," replied Mrs. Blodgett, "that they are so puffed up with +their imaginary knowledge that they think no man good enough for them." + +"I've known one or two college boys graduate with the same large ideas," +remarked Mr. Blodgett. + +"But a man gets over it after a few years," urged Mrs. Blodgett, "and +is none the worse off; but by the time a girl overcomes the idea, she's +so old that no man worth having will look at her." + +"I rather think, Mrs. Blodgett," said Mr. Whitely, in that charmingly +deferential manner he has with women, "that some men do not try to win +highly educated women because they are abashed by a sense of their own +inferiority." + +"Where do those men hide themselves, Whitely?" interrogated Mr. +Blodgett. + +"I'll not question the reason," retorted Mrs. Blodgett. "The fact that +over-educated girls think themselves above men is all I claim." + +"I don't think, Mrs. Blodgett," you corrected, "it is so much a feeling +of superiority as it is a change in the aims of marriage. Formerly, +woman married to gain a protector, and man to gain a housewife. Now, +matrimony is sought far less for service, and far more for +companionship." + +"But, Miss Walton," questioned Mr. Whitely, "does not the woman ask too +much nowadays? She has the leisure to read and study, but a business man +cannot spare the time. Is it fair, then, to expect that he shall be as +cultivated as she can make herself?" + +"That is, I think, the real cause for complaint," you answered. "The +business man is so absorbed in money-making that he sacrifices his whole +time to it. I can understand a woman falling in love with a lance or a +sword, dull companions though they must have been, but it seems to me +impossible for any woman to love a minting-machine, even though she +might be driven to marry it for its product." + +"That's rough on us, Whitely," laughed Mr. Blodgett good-naturedly; but +Mr. Whitely reddened, and you, as if to divert the subject from this +personal tendency, turned and surmised to me:-- + +"I suppose that as a German, Dr. Hartzmann, you think a woman should be +nothing more than a housekeeper?" + +"Why not suggest, Miss Walton," I replied, smiling, "that as an +Orientalist I must think the seraglio woman's proper sphere?" + +"But, Miss Walton," persisted Mr. Whitely, not accepting your diversion, +"a man, to be successful nowadays, must give all his attention to his +business. + +"I presume that is so," you acceded; "but could he not be content with a +little less success in money-making, and strive to acquire a few more +amenities?" + +"Maizie wants us all to be painters and poets and musicians," asserted +Mr. Blodgett. + +"Not at all," you denied. + +"Oh, Maizie!" cried Agnes. "You know you said the other day that you +hoped I wouldn't marry a business man." + +"I said '_only_ a business man,' Agnes," you replied, without a trace +of the embarrassment so many women would have shown. "Because men cannot +all be clergymen is no reason for their knowing nothing of religion. +There would be no painters, poets, or musicians if there were no +dilettanti." + +"Yet I think," argued Mr. Whitely, still as if he were trying to +convince you of something, "that the successful business man has as much +brain as most writers or artists." + +"I have no doubt that is true," you assented. "So, too, a day laborer +may have a good mind. But of what avail is a brain if it has never been +trained, or has been trained to know only one thing?" + +"But authors and painters are only specialists," urged Mr. Whitely. + +"They are specialists of a very different type," you responded, "from +the man whose daily thoughts are engrossed with the prices of pig-iron +or cotton sheetings. I think one reason why American girls frequently +marry Europeans is that the foreign man is so apt to be more broadly +cultivated." + +"That's what I mean by saying that books unfit women to marry wisely," +interjected Mrs. Blodgett. "They marry foreigners because they are more +cultivated, without a thought of character." + +"Indeed, Mrs. Blodgett," you observed, "has not the day gone by for +thinking dullness a sign of honesty? And certainly a business career is +far more likely to corrupt and harden men's natures than the higher +professions, for its temptations and strifes are so much greater." + +Your opinion was so in accord with what my father had often preached +that I could not but wonder if his teachings still colored your +thoughts. To test this idea as well as to learn your present view, I +recurred to another theory of his by saying, "Does not the broader and +more sensitive nature of the scholar or artist involve defects fully as +serious as the hardness and narrowness of the business man? Some one has +said that 'to marry a literary man is to domesticate a bundle of +nerves.'" + +"A nervous irritability," you replied, "which came from fine mental +exertion, would be as nothing compared to my own fretting over enforced +companionship with an unsympathetic or sordid nature." Then you laughed, +and added, "I must have a very bad temper, for it is the only one which +ever really annoys me." + +That last speech told me how thoroughly the woman of twenty-three was a +development of the child of fourteen, for I remembered how little my +mother's anger used to disturb you, but how deeply and strongly your +emotions affected you. I suppose it was absurd, but I felt happy to +think that you had changed so little in character from the time when I +knew you so well. And from that evening I never for an instant believed +that you would marry Mr. Whitely, for I was sure that you could never +love him. How could I dream that you, with beauty, social position, and +wealth, would make a loveless marriage? + +Good-night, my love. + + + + +XI + + +_March 2._ The truth of the difference of quality between the business +man and the scholar was quickly brought home to me. On the last evening +of my visit, Mr. Blodgett revealed the reason for his latest kindness. +"I got you here," he explained, "to look you over and see what you were +fit for, thinking I might work you in somewhere. No," he continued, as +he saw the questioning hopefulness on my face, "you wouldn't do in +business. You've got a sight too much conscience and sympathy, and a +sight too little drive. All business is getting the best of somebody +else, and you're the kind of chap who'd let a fellow up just because +you'd got him down." Seeing the sadness in my face, for I knew too well +he had fathomed me, he added kindly, "Don't get chicken-hearted over +what I say. It's easy enough to outwit a man; the hard thing is not to +do it. I'd go out of the trade to-morrow, if it weren't for the boss and +Agnes, for I get tired of the meanness of the whole thing. But they want +to cut a figure, and that isn't to be done in this town for nothing. +I'll find something for you yet that sha'n't make you sell your heart +and your soul as well as your time." + +I was too full of my love and my purpose, however, for this to +discourage me. The moment my determination to remain in New York was +taken, I wrote to Jastrow, Humzel, and others of my German friends, +telling them that for business reasons I had decided to be known as +Rudolph Hartzmann, and asking if they would stretch friendship so far as +to give me letters in that name to such American publishers and editors +as they knew. Excepting Jastrow, they all responded with introductions +so flattering that I was almost ashamed to present them, and he wrote +me that he had not offered my books for sale, and begged me to +reconsider my refusal of the professorship. He even offered, if I would +accept the appointment, to divide with me his tuition fees, and +suggested that his own advancing years were a pledge that his position +would erelong be vacant for me to step into. It almost broke my heart to +have to write him that I could not accept his generous offer. In July I +received a second letter from him, most touching in its attempt to keep +back the grief he felt, but yielding to my determination. He sent me +many good introductions, and submitted a bid for my library from a +bookseller; but knowing the books to be worth at least double the offer, +I held the sale in abeyance. + +My first six months in New York disheartened me greatly, though now I +know that I succeeded far better than I could have expected to do, in +the dullness of the summer. My work was the proof-reading of my book of +travel in its varying polyglots, seeing through the press English +versions of my two text-books, and writing a third in both English and +German. Furthermore, my letters of introduction had made me known to a +number of the professors of Columbia College, and by their influence I +received an appointment to deliver a course of lectures on race +movements the following winter; so I prepared my notes in this leisure +time. But this work was far too little to fill my time, and I wrote all +kinds of editorials, essays, and reviews, fairly wearing out the editors +of the various magazines and newspapers with my frequent calls and +articles. Finally I attempted to sell my books to several libraries; but +though the tomes and the price both tempted several, none had the money +to spend on such a collection. + +My book of travel was published in September, was praised by the +reviews, and at once sprang into a good sale for a work of that class; +for Europe is interested in whatever bears on her cancer growth, +commonly called the Eastern question. Since Europeans approved the book, +Americans at once bought and discussed it; to prove, I suppose, that as +a nation we are no longer tainted with provincialism,--as if that very +subservience to transatlantic opinion were not the best proof that the +virus still works within us. It was issued anonymously, through the fear +that if I put my pseudonym on the title-page it might lead to inquiry +about the author which would reveal his identity with Donald Maitland, +for whom I only wished oblivion. As a result the question of authorship +was much mooted, some declaring a well-known Oxford professor to be the +man, others ascribing the volume to a famous German traveler, and Humzel +being named by some; but most of the reviews suggested that it was the +work of an Eastern savant, and I presume that my style was tinged with +orientalism. + +You cannot tell what a delight it was to me to learn, at our first +meeting in the autumn, that you had read my book. I went in November to +the Lenox Library to verify a date, and found you there. I could not +help interrupting your reading for a moment,--I had so longed for a +glimpse and a word,--and you took my intrusion in good part. I drew a +book and pretended to read, merely to veil my covert watching of you; +and when you rose to go, I asked permission to walk with you. + +"Your notebook suggests that you are a writer by profession, Dr. +Hartzmann?" you surmised. + +"Yes." + +"And you have to come to America for material?" + +"I have come to America permanently." + +"How unusual!" + +"In what respect?" + +"For a European writer to come to New York to do more than lecture about +himself, have his vanity and purse fed, and return home to write a book +about us that we alone read." + +I laughed and said, "You make me very glad that I am the exception to +the rule." + +"I presume more would make the venture if they found the atmosphere less +uncongenial. New York as a whole is so absorbed in the task of +trans-shipping the products of the busiest nations of two continents +that everything is ranked as secondary that does not subserve that end: +and the Muses starve." + +"I suppose New York is not the best of places in which to live by art or +letters, if compared with London or Paris; yet if a man can do what the +world wants done, he can earn a livelihood here." + +"But he cannot gain the great prizes that alone are worth the winning, +I fear. I have noticed that American writers only reach American +audiences, while European authors not merely win attention at home, but +have vogue and sale here. The London or Paris label is quite as +effective in New York or Chicago in selling books as in selling +clothes." + +"I suppose cultivated Europe is as heedless of the newer peoples as the +peoples of the Orient are of those of the Occident. Yet I think that if +as good work were turned out in this country as in the Old World, the +place of its production would not seriously militate against its +success." + +"And have you found it so?" + +"Nothing I have yet written in this country merits Continental +attention." + +"I hope you have succeeded to your own satisfaction?" + +"It may amuse you to know that though I had many good letters of +introduction to editors in this country, I could not get a single +article accepted till some friends of mine in Asia came to my aid." + +"You speak in riddles." + +"Perhaps you remember reading, last August, of an outbreak of some +tribes in the Hindoo Kush? Those hill peoples are in a state of +perennial ferment, and usually Europe pays no attention to their +bellicose proceedings; but luckily for me, the English premier, at that +particular moment, was holding his unwilling Parliament together in an +attempt to pass something, and finding it intractable in that matter, he +cleverly used this outbreak to divert attention and excite enthusiasm. +Rising in the House of Commons, he virtually charged the outbreak to +Russian machination against the beloved Emir, and pledged the nation to +support that civilized humanitarian against the barbaric despot of +Russia. At once the papers were full of unintelligible cablegrams +telling of the doings in those far-away mountains; and my hurriedly +written editorials and articles, which nevertheless showed some +comprehension of the geography and people, were snapped up avidly, and +from that time I have found papers or periodicals glad to print what I +write." + +You laughed, and said, "How strangely the world is tied together in +these days, that the speech of an English prime minister about some +Asian septs should give a German author entr['e]e to New York editorial +sanctums!" + +"The cables have done more in aid of the brotherhood of man than all the +efforts of the missionaries." + +"I thought you were a conservative, and disapproved of modern +innovations," you suggested archly. + +"With innovators, yes." + +"Then the Levantine does not entirely disapprove of our Hesperian city?" + +"My knowledge of New York is about as deep," I answered, smiling, "as my +Eastern blood." + +"Only skin-deep," you said. + +"Just sufficient for a disguise." + +"As long as you are silent, yes." + +"Is my English so unmistakable?" + +"Not your tongue, but your thought. Of course your vicinage, costume, +and complexion made me for a moment accept your joke of nationality, at +that first meeting, but before you had uttered half your defense of the +older races I felt sure that you were not a product of one of them." + +"Why was that?" + +"Because it is only Christians who recognize and speak for the rights of +other peoples." + +"You forget that the religion of Buddha is toleration. We Christians +preach the doctrine, but practice extermination, forgiving our enemies +after killing them," I corrected. "I do not think we differ much in +works from even El Mahdi." + +"Would El Mahdi ever have spoken for other races?" + +"You know the weak spot in my armor, Miss Walton," I was obliged to +confess. + +"That is due to you, Dr. Hartzmann. What you stated that night +interested me so deeply that I have been reading up about the Eastern +races and problems. I wonder if you have seen this new book of travel, +The Debatable Lands between the East and West?" + +"Yes," I assented, thinking that twenty over-lookings of it in +manuscript and proof entitled me to make the claim. + +"You will be amused to hear that, when reading it, I thought of you as +the probable writer, not merely because it begins in the Altai range and +ends at Tangier, but as well because some of the ideas resemble yours. +Mr. Whitely, however, tells me he has private information that Professor +Humzel is the author. Do you know him?" + +"He was my professor of history at Leipzig." + +"That accounts for the agreement in thought. You admire the book?" + +"I think it is a conscientious attempt to describe what the author saw." + +"Ah, it is much more than that!" you exclaimed. "At a dinner in London, +this autumn, I sat next the Earl---- next a member of the Indian +Council, and he told me he considered it a far more brilliant book than +Kinglake's Eothen." + +I knew I had no right to continue this subject, but I could not help +asking, "You liked it?" + +"Very much. It seems to me a deep and philosophic study of present and +future problems, besides being a vivid picture of most interesting +countries and peoples. It made me long to be a nomad myself, and wander +as the author did. The thought of three years of such life, of such +freedom, seems to stir in me all the inherited tendency to prowl that we +women supposedly get from Mother Sphinx." + +"Civilization steals nature from us and compounds the theft with art." + +"Tell me about Professor Humzel," you went on, "for I know I should like +him, merely from the way he writes. One always pictures the German +professor as a dried-up mind in a dried-up body, but in this book one is +conscious of real flesh and blood. He is a young man, I'm sure." + +"Sixty-two." + +"He has a young heart, then," you asserted. "Is he as interesting to +talk with as he makes himself in his book?" + +"Professor Humzel is very silent." + +"The people who have something to say are usually so," you sighed. + +"A drum must be empty to make a noise," I said, smiling, "and perhaps +the converse is true." + +I cannot say what there was in that walk which cheered me so, except +your praise of my book,--sweeter far though that was than the world's +kindly opinion; yet over and above that, in our brief interchange of +words, I was made conscious that there was sympathy between us,--a +sympathy so positive that something like our old-time friendship seemed +beginning. And the thought made me so happy that for a time my troubles +were almost forgotten. + +Good-night, Maizie. + + + + +XII + + +_March 3._ Fate seemed determined that our lives should be closely +connected. In December Mr. Blodgett wrote asking me to call at his +office, and he was already smiling when his boy passed me through the +door at which so many had to tarry. + +"There are a good many kinds of fools," was his welcoming remark, "but +one of the commonest is the brand who think because they can do one +thing well, they ought to be able to do the exact opposite. I've known +men who could grow rich out of brewing beer, who kept themselves poor +through thinking they knew all about horses; I've known women who +queened it in parlors, who went to smash because they believed +themselves inspired actresses; I've sat here in this office thirty +years, and grown rich through the belief of clergymen, doctors, +merchants, farmers,--the whole box and dice,--that they were heaven-born +financiers, and could play us Wall Street men even at our own game. +Whatever else you do in this world, doctor, don't think that because you +can talk a dozen languages, they fit you to be a successful mute." + +"When you are in this mood, Mr. Blodgett, I can be nothing else," I +interpolated, as he paused a moment for breath. + +"Alexander Whitely," he went on, smiling, "probably knows more about +petroleum and kerosene than any other man in the world, and he's made +himself rich by his knowledge. But it doesn't satisfy him to be on the +top of his own heap; he wants to get on the top of some other fellow's. +In short, he has an itch to be something he isn't, and the darned fool's +gone and bought a daily newspaper with the idea that he is going to be +a great editor!" + +"His lamp of genius will not go out for want of oil," I remarked. + +"For a moment he showed one glimmer of sense: he came to me for advice," +said Mr. Blodgett in evident enjoyment. "I told him to get an A 1 +business manager, to make you chief editor, let you pick your staff, and +then blow in all the money you and the business end asked for, and never +go inside the building himself. It was too good sense for him, for he's +daft with the idea of showing the world how to edit a paper. But my +advice simmered down to this: if you want to be his private secretary, +at four thousand a year, and pretend to revise his editorials, but +really write them for him, I guess you can have the position. Of course +he is to think he writes the rubbish." + +"A Voltaire in miniature," I laughed. + +"A what?" + +"The great Frederic thought himself a poet, and induced Voltaire to come +and be his literary counselor. The latter showed a bundle of manuscripts +to some one and sneered, 'See all this dirty linen of the king's he has +sent me to wash.'" + +"That was one for his nibs," chuckled Mr. Blodgett appreciatively. "But +you mustn't make such speeches as that of Whitely." + +"In spite of my many tongues, I can be mute." + +"Do you think I haven't seen that? And I've seen something more, which +is that you always give a dollar's worth of work for seventy-five cents +of wages. Now, Whitely's a hard man, and if you made the terms with him +he'd be sure to get the better of you. So I've arranged to have him meet +you here, and I'm going to see fair play. I've told him you won't do it +for less than four thousand, and he'll not get you a cent cheaper. The +work will be very light." + +"The work is easy," I assented, "but is it honest?" + +"Seems to me we had better leave that to Whitely to settle." + +"And is Mr. Whitely an honest man?" + +Mr. Blodgett smiled as he looked at me, and observed, "Whitely wouldn't +steal a red-hot stove unless it had handles! But he probably thinks this +all right. Few people know how much successful men use other men's +brains. Here's a report on a Southern railroad by an expert in my +employ. I've never even been over the road, yet I'll sign my name to the +report as if it was my work. Now, in oil Whitely hires all kinds of men +to do different things for him, and he gets whatever credit follows; and +I suppose he thinks that if he pays you to write editorials, they are as +much his as any other thing he buys." + +"He must be conscious of a distinction." + +"That's his lookout, if he is. Don't start in to keep other people's +consciences in order, doctor, for it's the hardest-worked and +poorest-paid trade in the world." + +When Mr. Whitely arrived, Mr. Blodgett was as good as his word, taking +the matter practically out of my hands, and letting me sit a passive and +amused spectator of the contest between the two shrewd men, who dropped +all thought of personal friendship while they discussed the matter. Mr. +Blodgett won, and made the further stipulation that since Mr. Whitely +intended to be at the office only in the afternoon, I might be equally +privileged as to my hours of attendance. His forethought and kindness +did more, for his last speech to Mr. Whitely was, "Then it's understood +that the doctor writes your letters and revises your editorials, but +nothing else." And as soon as we were alone he intimated, "Remember +that, or before you know it he'll be screwing you to death. Don't you +write anything extra for him unless there's extra pay. Now, don't waste +my time by thanks in business hours, but come in to-night to dinner, so +as to let the boss and Agnes congratulate you." + +My employment began the first of the year, at which time the paper came +into the hands of its new proprietor; and it amuses me to recall him as +he sat at his desk that first day, thrumming it nervously, and trying to +dictate an editorial on The Outlook for the New Year. A more hopeless +bit of composition I have seldom read, and four times it was rewritten +as I built it into shape. + +The man has no more sense of form than he has of English. Even worse, he +is almost without ideas. It has become his invariable custom to remark +to me suavely, as he takes his seat at his desk about two o'clock, "Dr. +Hartzmann, possibly you can suggest a good subject for me to write about +to-day?" And when I propose one, he continues: "That is satisfactory. +Jot down what you think I had better say, while I run over my mail." An +hour later I lay the typewritten sheets before him, and, after reading +them with the most evident pleasure, he puts his initials at the top and +sends the editorial out to the managing editor; to have a second +pleasure when, after two hours, the galley slips of proof come back to +him. + +Fortunately for me, he cares no more for politics than I do, and thus +saves me from the necessity of studying and mastering that shifting +quicksand against which beat the tides of men, ebbing as private greed +obtains the mastery, and flowing in those curious revulsions of +selfishly altruistic public spirit called patriotism. Except for this +subject his taste is catholic, and his foible is to pose as omniscient. +"I wish new subjects,--something, if possible, that intellectual people +do not know about,"--is his constant command; and nothing delights him +more than an editorial on a subject of which he has never heard. +Speaking only his mother tongue, he has an inordinate desire for foreign +words, and will observe, "A quotation in another language gives an +editorial page an air of culture which I desire my paper to have." Our +composing-room, I imagine, is the only one in New York which has Greek +type, and if I gave him the smallest encouragement he would buy fonts of +Sanskrit and Hebrew characters. He always makes me teach him how to +pronounce the sentences, catching them with a wonderful parrot-like +facility. Usually he carries clippings of the last half dozen editorials +with him, and his delight is to make an opportunity to read one aloud, +prefaced by the announcement that he is the writer. Sometimes, indeed, +he cannot contain his pleasure over the articles till their appearance +in type, and I repeatedly hear him request a visitor, "If you have ten +minutes to spare, let me read you this editorial I have just written +for to-morrow's issue." + +At first, in spite of Mr. Blodgett's explanation, I thought this real +dishonesty, and despised not merely him, but myself as well for aiding +in such trickery. As I grow to know him better, however, I find he is +not cozening the public so much as imposing on himself. The man has a +fervent and untrained imagination, which has never, in the +practicalities of oil, had a safety-valve. As a result, it has rioted in +dreams of which he is the hero, until it has brought him to the point of +thinking his wildest fancies quite possible realities. His self-faith is +so great that his imagination sets no limit to his powers, and thus he +can believe everything of himself. I have heard him tell what he would +do under given circumstances, and, with my knowledge of him, I know he +is conceiving himself to be actually doing what he describes. Thus, in a +smaller sense, he really imagines that he writes the editorials, and he +even reads them to Mr. Blodgett, apparently unconscious that there can +be the slightest question of authorship in the latter's mind. + +With this singular weakness the man is yet a strong one. His capacity to +judge and manage men or facts is truly marvelous. He rules his paper as +he rules everything, with the firmest hand, and not a man in his employ +but knows who is master. Within a year he turned the journal into a +great earner of money, and in the business office they have to confess +that it is all his work, ignorant though he is to this day of the +details. He knows by instinct where money should be spent, and where it +should be scrimped. Yet with all this business shrewdness he cares not +half so much that his investment is paying him twenty per cent as that +people are talking about his ability as an editor, and my only influence +over him even now is the praise my editorials have won him. + +Perhaps the most singular quality of his nature is his heedlessness of +individual opinion, and his dread of it in mass. He is so absolutely +self-centred--every thought directed inward--that he never tries to make +the individual like him, yet he craves intensely the world's esteem. He +longs for notoriety, and even stoops to an almost daily mention of +himself in his paper, taking endless pains to get his name into other +journals as well. Even his philanthropy, for which the world admires +him, is used for this purpose. Ridiculous as it may seem, the most +grating task I have to do is the writing of the fulsome press dispatches +which he invariably sends out whenever he makes one of his gifts. He +writes, too, to his fellow editors, asking them to comment on the +largess; and since he makes it a point to cultivate the pleasantest +relations with his confr[`e]res, they give him good measure, though with +many a smile and wink among themselves when they get together. "Mr. +White-Lie" is his sobriquet in the fraternity. + +How curiously diverse the same man is to different people! To the world +Mr. Whitely is a man of great business ability, of wide knowledge, of +great benevolence, and of fine manners. I do not wonder, Maizie, that he +imposes on you; for though you have discernment, yet you are not of a +suspicious nature, and his acting is so wonderful and his manner so +frank, through his own unconsciousness of his self-deceit, that not a +dozen people dream the man is other than he seems. You might, perhaps, +in spite of his taciturnity, have discovered his charlatan pretense of +learning if you had been born inquisitive, but you take his writings for +the measure of his intellect, and have no more reason to suspect that +his skillful reservations are the refuge of a sciolist than that my +silence covers such little erudition as I have. + +Why I can do naught else but sit here and write of the past I do not +understand. Until a month ago I was working every evening till far into +the night, but now, try as I may, I can no longer force myself to my +task. I should think it was physical exhaustion, were it not that I can +chronicle this stale record of what I know so well. I suppose it is +mental discouragement at my slight progress in reducing that crushing +debt, and, even more, my sadness at the thought of you as his wife. + +Good-night, my darling. May happiness be yours. + + + + +XIII + + +_March 4._ My impressions of that first winter in New York are curiously +dim except for the extreme loneliness of my life, which, after the close +companionship with my father for so many years, seemed at times almost +unbearable. Indeed, I doubt if I could have borne the long hours of +solitude and toil but for my occasional glimpses of you. I should think +myself fatuous in claiming that you influence me physically,--that I am +conscious of a material glow, ecstasy, thrill, call it what you please, +when with you,--if I had not once heard Agnes declare that she always +felt, when you were in the room, as if she had been drinking champagne; +showing that I am not the only one you can thus affect. + +My pleasantest recollection is of our long talk in my employer's study; +and strangely enough, it was my books which gained it for me. Mr. +Whitely, when I first came into his service, had just endowed a free +library in one of the Western cities where some of his oil interests +centred, and I hinted to him the purchase of my books as a further gift +to his hobby. The suggestion did not meet with his approval,--I fear +because there was not the self-advertising in it that there is in a +money gift,--but after a week he told me that he might buy the +collection to furnish his editorial study. "I plan," he said, "to make +my office attractive, and then have informal literary receptions once a +week. I shall therefore require some books, and as your library should +be marked by breadth and depth of learning, I presume it will serve my +purpose." + +"There are quite a number of Eastern manuscripts of value," I told him, +"and few of the books are in languages that can be read by the average +New Yorker." + +"That gives the suggestion of scholarship which I wish," he +acknowledged. + +We easily came to terms under these circumstances, and I cannot tell you +how happy I was to find myself once more surrounded by my books. As soon +as they were in place and the study was handsomely furnished, my +employer issued cards; and though he had nothing in common with the +literary and artistic set, the mere fact that he controlled the columns +of a great paper brought them all flocking to his afternoons. It is a +case of mutual cultivation, and I am sick of being told to write puffs +of books and pictures. Even foreigners do not seem above this +log-rolling, and toady to the editor of the influential journal. And yet +we think Johnson mean-spirited for standing at Chesterfield's door! It +humiliates me to see writers and artists stooping so low merely to get +notices that are worthless in a critical sense, and doubly am I +degraded that mine is the pen that aids in this contemptible chicane. + +You, Mrs. Blodgett, and Agnes came to one of these afternoons, and made +me happy, not alone by your presence, but by an insinuated reproof, +which meant, I thought, that you had become enough interested in me to +care what I did. You expressed surprise at my being there, and so I +explained to you that I had become Mr. Whitely's secretary. + +"And is your work congenial?" you asked. + +I shrugged my shoulders, and quoted, "Civilized man cannot live without +dining." + +"But you told me you were making a living. Is not a crust with +independence and a chance to make a name better than such work?" + +"If one is free, yes. But if one must earn money?" + +"I had somehow fixed it in my mind that you were _en gar[,c]on_. One's +fancies are sometimes very ridiculous. Who invented the mot that a +woman's intuitions were what she had when she was wrong?" + +"Some man, of course," I laughed. "And you were right in supposing me a +bachelor." + +"How little people really know about one another," you observed, "and +yet we talk of the realism of life! I believe it is only in fiction that +we get it." + +"Napoleon said, 'Take away history and give me a novel: I wish the +truth!' Certainly, our present romance writers attempt it." + +"Only to prove that truth is not art." + +"How so?" + +"To photograph life in literature is no more art than a reproduction of +our street sounds would be music." + +"Painting and sculpture are copying." + +"And the closer the copy, the less the art." + +"Then you would define art as"-- + +"The vivifying of work with the personality of the workman." + +"That is not very far from Saadi's thought that art is never produced +without love." + +"I have to confess that you mention an author of whom I had never even +heard till I read The Debatable Lands. The extracts printed there made +me think he must be one of the great philosopher poets of the world. Yet +there is no copy of his works at the Lenox." + +"There are copies of all his writings here." + +"I think I shall disobey Polonius by trying to be a borrower," you +announced, and turning to Mr. Whitely, you asked, "Do you ever loan your +books?" + +"To lend to you would be a pleasure, and give added value to the +volume," assented Mr. Whitely, joining us. "Take anything you wish." + +"Thank you so much. Will you let me see what you have of Saadi, so that +I may take my choice?" + +"You were speaking of"--hemmed Mr. Whitely. + +"Saadi." + +"Ah, yes. Dr. Hartzmann knows where it is." + +When I had led the way to the proper shelf, you selected the Gulistan, +opened it, and then laughed. "You have the best protection against +borrowers. I envy both of you the ability to read him in the original, +but it is beyond me." + +"As you read Latin, you can read Gentius' translation of the Bostan," I +suggested, taking the book down. + +"How do you know that I can read Latin?" you asked. + +I faltered for a moment, too much taken aback to think what to reply, +and fortunately Mr. Whitely interposed quickly, "Miss Walton's +reputation for learning is so well recognized that knowledge of Latin is +taken for granted." + +Taking advantage of the compliment, I surmised, "Perhaps you will care +less to read the poet if I quote a stanza of his:-- + + 'Seek truth from life, and not from books, O fool! + Look at the sky to find the stars, not in the pool.'" + +"You only make me the more eager," you said, running over the pages. + +"The book is worth reading," vouched Mr. Whitely. + +"How good that is!" you appealed to him, laying your finger on lines to +the effect that a dozen poor men will sleep in peace on a straw heap, +while the greatest empire is too narrow for two kings. + +"Very," answered my employer, after looking at the text with a critical +air. If you could only have enjoyed the joke with me! + +Suddenly, as I watched you, you became pale, and glancing down to learn +the cause, I saw a manuscript note in my father's handwriting on the +margin of the page. "Mr. Whitely," you asked huskily, "how did you get +this book?" + +Had you looked at me you would have seen one paler than yourself, as I +stood there expecting the axe to fall. Oh! the relief when Mr. Whitely +replied, "I bought it in Germany." + +You closed the volume, remarking, "I do not think I will ask the loan, +after all. He seems an author one ought to own." + +"I hoped you would add an association to the book," urged Mr. Whitely. + +"Thank you," you parried gravely, "but so old a volume can hardly be +lacking in association. I think we must be going." + +I took you down to the carriage, and Mrs. Blodgett kindly offered me the +fourth seat. You were absolutely silent in the drive up-town, and I was +scarcely less so as I tried to read your thoughts. What feelings had +that scrap of writing stirred in you? + +I have often since then recalled our parting words that afternoon, and +wondered if I allowed a mere scruple--a cobweb that a stronger man would +have brushed aside without a second thought--to wreck my life. If I had +taken what you offered? Perhaps the time might have come when I could +have told you of my trick, and you would have forgiven it. Perhaps-- + +You said to me graciously, when we separated at your door, "I shall be +very happy, Dr. Hartzmann, if you will come to see me." + +I flushed with pleasure, for I felt it was not a privilege you gave to +many. But even as I hesitated for words with which to express my +gratitude, I realized that I had no moral right to gain your hospitality +by means of my false name; and when I spoke it was to respond, "I thank +you for the favor most deeply, Miss Walton, but I am too busy a man for +social calls." + +Oh, my darling, if you had known what those few words cost me, and the +struggle it was to keep my voice steady as I spoke them! For I knew you +could only take them to mean that I declined your friendship. Hide my +shame as I might try to do, I could not escape its pains. God keep you +from such suffering, Maizie, and good-night. + + + + +XIV + + +_March 5._ Though I committed the rudeness of refusing to call, you +never in our subsequent intercourse varied your manner by the slightest +shade, treating me always with a courtesy I ill deserved. After such a +rebuff, it is true, you were too self-respecting to offer me again any +favor tending to a better acquaintance, but otherwise you bore yourself +towards me as you did towards the thousand other men whom you were +obliged to meet. + +Your life as a social favorite, and mine as a literary hack, gave little +opportunity for our seeing each other, yet we met far more frequently +than would have seemed possible. Occasionally I found you at the +Blodgetts', though not as often as our informal footing in that +household had led me to hope; for you were in such social demand that +your morning hours were the time you usually took to run in upon them. +But now and then we lunched or dined there, and Mrs. Blodgett little +dreamed how willingly I obeyed her positive command that I was to come +to every one of her afternoons when Agnes told me that you were to +receive or pour tea. Little I had of your attention, for you were a +magnet to many, but I could stand near you and could watch and listen, +and that was happiness. + +A cause of meeting more discordant to me was furnished by my employer. I +wrote for him an editorial on the folk-leid basis of the Wagner trilogy, +which I suppose he sent or read to you; for it resulted in a box-party +to attend the series, and I was asked to be one of the guests. "Nothing +like having your books of reference under your arm," was Mr. Whitely's +way of telling me for what purpose I was wanted; and I presume that +was, in truth, the light in which he viewed me. Though I scorned such +service, the mere fact that you were to be there was enough to make me +accept. How low love can bring a man if his spirit is once mastered by +it! + +I would have sunk far deeper, I believe, to obtain what I earned, for +there were delightful moments of mutually absorbing discussions, only +too quickly interrupted by Mr. Whitely or others of the party breaking +in on our conversation. What was equal happiness to me was the +association of you in my mind with the noblest of music. I can never +hear certain movements of those operas without your image coming before +me as clearly as if I saw your reflection in a mirror. And from that +time one of my keenest pleasures has been to beg tickets from the +musical critic of our staff, whenever one of the trilogy is to be given, +and sit through the opera dreaming of those hours. I could write here +every word you uttered, but what especially impressed itself upon my +memory was something called out by the fate of Brunhilde. As we stood in +the lobby waiting for the carriages, at the end of Die Walk[:u]re, you +withdrew a little, as if still feeling the beauty and tragedy of the +last act too deeply to take part in the chit-chat with which the rest of +the party beguiled the time. I stood near you, but, respecting your +mood, was silent too, until you finally broke the pause by saying, "I do +not know whether it is Wagner's music or because Brunhilde appeals to +me, but I always feel that I have suffered as she does. It almost makes +me believe in the theory of metempsychosis." + +"Is it so much consciousness of a past, Miss Walton," I suggested, "as +prescience of the future? Woman's story is so unvaryingly that of +self-sacrifice for love that I should suppose Brunhilde's fate would +appeal to the sex as a prophecy rather than as a memory." + +"Her punishment could have been far worse." + +"Left a defenseless prey to the first comer?" + +"But surrounded by fire, so that the first comer must be a brave man." + +"Do you value courage so highly?" + +"Yes. The truly brave, I think, cannot be mean, and without meanness +there must be honor. I almost envy Brunhilde her walls of fire, which +put to absolute proof any man who sought her. The most successful of +men; the most intellectually brilliant, may be--By what can we to-day +test courage and honor?" + +"There is as much as ever, Miss Walton. Is it no gain that courage has +become moral rather than physical?" + +"Is it no loss that of all the men I know, there is not one of whom I +can say with certainty, 'He is a brave man'?" + +Our numbers were called at this point, and the conversation was never +continued. Every word you had said recalled to me my former friend, and +I understood your repugnance for anything cowardly. + +At the last of these operas, by another perverse joke of Dame Fortune, +who seems to have so many laughs at my expense, I was introduced to the +chaperon, "Mrs. Polhemus." Looking up, I found myself facing my mother. +I cannot tell you how strangely I felt in making my bow. She was as +handsome as ever, it appeared to me, and the smooth rich olive +complexion seemed to have given her an undying youth. For a moment I +feared recognition, but the difference was too great between the pallid +stooping boy of fifteen she had last seen in Paris and the straight +bronzed man of twenty-seven. As of old she was magnificently dressed and +fairly glittered with diamonds, which curiously enough instantly brought +to my mind the face of my father as I kissed him last. Was it the +strong connection of contrast, or was it a quirk of my brain? + +This chance meeting had a sequel that pains me to this day. Dining the +next evening at the Blodgetts' with you and your uncle, the latter spoke +of my mother's diamonds. Mrs. Blodgett said, with a laugh, "One would +think, after her rich marriage, that she might pay up the money her +first husband stole from Maizie." + +"She could have done that years ago if she had cared to," sneered Mr. +Walton. + +Your eyes were lowered, and you still kept them so as you replied, "I +would not accept the money from Mrs. Polhemus." + +In my suffering I sat rigid and speechless, wincing inwardly at each +blow of the lash, when Mr. Blodgett, with a kindness I can never reward +or even acknowledge, observed, "I believe it was his wife's extravagance +which made William Maitland a bankrupt and an embezzler. Till his +marriage with her he was a man of simple habits and of unquestioned +business honesty, but he was caught by her looks, just as Polhemus has +been. In those first years he could deny her nothing, and when the +disillusionment came he was too deep in to prevent the wreck." + +"You've been revising your views a bit," retorted Mr. Walton. "I never +expected to hear you justify any of that family." + +"Perhaps I have reason to," replied Mr. Blodgett. + +"I don't believe any of those Maitlands have the least honesty!" +exclaimed Agnes. "How I hate them!" + +"It is not a subject of which I like to speak," you stated in an +evidently controlled voice, still with lowered eyes, "but it is only +right to say that some one--I suppose the son--is beginning to pay back +the debt." + +"Pay back the money, Maizie!" ejaculated Mr. Walton. "Why haven't you +told me of it?" + +"It did not seem necessary," you answered. + +"I'm sure it's a trick," asserted Agnes. "He's probably trying to worm +his way back to your friendship, to get something more out of you." + +"How much"--began Mr. Walton; but you interrupted him there by saying, +"I would rather not talk about it." + +The subject was changed at once, but when we were smoking, Mr. Walton +asked, "Blodgett, do you know anything about that Maitland affair?" + +"A little," replied the host. + +"The debt really is being paid?" + +"Yes." + +"And you don't know by whom?" + +"So Maizie tells me." + +"Has she made no attempt to find out?" + +"When the first payment was made she came to me for advice." + +"Well?" asked Mr. Walton eagerly. + +"She got it," declared Mr. Blodgett. + +"What did she do?" persisted Mr. Walton. + +Mr. Blodgett was silent for a moment, and then responded, "The exact +opposite of what I advised. Do you know, Walton, you and I remind me of +the warm-hearted elephant who tried to hatch the ostrich eggs by sitting +on them." + +"In what respect?" + +"We decided that we must break up Maizie's love of the Maitlands for her +own good." + +"Well?" + +"Well, we made the whole thing so mean to her that finally we did break +something. Then, manlike, we were satisfied. What was it we broke?" + +"Nonsense!" growled Mr. Walton, sipping his wine. + +Mr. Blodgett laughed slightly. "That's rather a good name for it," he +assented; "but the trouble is, Walton, that nonsense is a very big part +of every woman's life. You'll never get me to fool with it again." + +I often ponder over those three brief remarks of yours, and of what you +said to me last autumn, in our ride and in the upper hall of My Fancy, +trying to learn, if possible, what your feeling is towards us. Can you, +despite all that has intervened, still feel any tenderness and love for +my father and me? Perhaps it was best that you were silent; if you had +spoken of him with contempt, I think--I know you would not, my darling, +for you loved him once, and that, to you, would be reason enough to be +merciful to the dead, however sinning. + +Dear love, good-night. + + + + +XV + + +_March 6._ You once said to me that you could conceive of no +circumstances that would justify dishonesty; for, no matter what the +seeming benefits might be, the indirect consequences and the effect on +the misdoer's character more than neutralized them. The wrong I have +done has only proved your view, and I have come to scorn myself for the +dishonorable part I have played. Yet I think that you would pity more +than blame me, if you could but know my sacrifices. I drifted into the +fraud unconsciously, and cannot now decide at what point the actual +stifling of my conscience began. I suppose the first misstep was when I +entered Mr. Whitely's employment; yet though I knew it to be +unscrupulous in him to impose my editorials as his own, it still seemed +to me no distinct transgression in me to write them for him. With that +first act those that followed became possible, and each involved so +slight an increase in the moral lapse, and my debt to you was so potent +an excuse to blind me, that at the time I truly thought I was doing +right. I wonder what you would have done had you been in my position? + +Mr. Blodgett's shrewdness in stipulating what work I was to do for Mr. +Whitely quickly proved itself. One of the magazines asked my employer to +contribute an article on The Future of Journalism. Handing me the +letter, he said, "Dr. Hartzmann, kindly write a couple of thousand words +on that subject." + +"That surely is not part of my duty, Mr. Whitely," I had the courage to +respond. + +He looked at me quickly, and his mouth stiffened into a straight line. +"Does that mean that you do not choose to do it?" he asked suavely. + +My heart failed me at the thought that if I lost my position I might +never get so good a one, and should drag my debt through life. For once +thought of you made me cowardly. I answered, "I will write it, Mr. +Whitely;" and he said, "I thank you," as if I had done him a favor. + +I told Mr. Blodgett of the incident, that evening, with a wry face and a +laugh over my bravery, and he was furious at me. + +"Why, you--you"--he stuttered. "Haven't you learned yet that the man +wouldn't part with you for anything? He's so stuck up over his +editorials and what people say of them that he'd as soon think of +discharging his own mother before she weaned him." + +Not content with venting his anger on me, he came into the office the +next day and told Mr. Whitely I should not be imposed on, and finally +forced him to agree that I should receive whatever the review paid for +the article. + +After this I wrote several magazine articles for Mr. Whitely, and soon +another development of our curious relations occurred. One afternoon he +informed me, "The Library trustees request me to deliver an address at +the dedication of the building. I shall be grateful for any suggestions +you can make of a proper subject." + +"Books?" I replied, with an absolutely grave face. + +"That is eminently suitable," he responded. "Possibly you can spare the +time to compose such a paper; and as it should be of a scholarly +character some Greek and Latin seem to me advisable." + +"How much?" I asked, inwardly amused to note if he would understand my +question, or would suppose it referred to the quantity of dead languages +I was to inject. + +"What is the labor worth?" he inquired, setting my doubt at rest, and +proving his business ability to recognize the most distant allusion to a +dollar. When I named a price, he continued: "That is excessive. The +profession of authorship is so little recompensed that there are many +good writers in New York who would gladly do it for less." + +"I can do it cheaper, if, like them, I crib it from books at the Astor," +I asserted. + +"I do not see why an address composed in the Astor Library should not be +entirely satisfactory?" he questioned, in his smooth, self-controlled +manner. + +"Did you never hear of the man who left the theatre in the middle of +Hamlet because, he said, he didn't care to hear a play that was all +quotations?" I asked, with a touch of irony. + +"I presume the story has some connection in your mind with the subject +in hand, but I am unable to see the appositeness?" he said +interrogatively and evidently puzzled. + +"I merely mentioned it lest you might not know that Pope never lived in +Grub Street." + +He looked at me, still ignorant that I was laughing at him. "You think +it injudicious to have it done by Mather?" he questioned, naming a +fellow who did special work for the paper at times. + +"Not at all," I replied, "provided you label the address 'hash,' so that +people who have some discrimination won't suppose you ignorant that it +is twice-cooked meat you are giving them," and, turning, I went on with +my work as if the matter were ended. + +But the next day he told me, "I have concluded to have you compose that +oration, Dr. Hartzmann;" and from that moment of petty victory I have +not feared my employer. + +I wrote the address, and it so pleased Mr. Whitely that, not content +with delivering it, he had it handsomely printed, and sent copies to +all his friends. + +The resulting praise he received clearly whetted his appetite for +authorship, for not long after he said to me, "Dr. Hartzmann, you told +me, when you sold me this library, that you were writing a history of +the Turks. How nearly completed is it?" + +"I hope to have it ready for press within three months." + +"For some time," he remarked, "I have meditated the writing of a book, +and possibly yours will serve my purpose." + +I was so taken by surprise that for a moment I merely gazed at him, +since it seemed impossible that even egotism so overwhelming as his +could be capable of such blindness; but he was in earnest, and I could +only revert to Mr. Blodgett's idea that a business man comes to think in +time that anything he can buy is his. I smiled, and answered, "My book +is not petroleum, Mr. Whitely." + +"If it is what I desire, I will amply remunerate you," he offered. + +"It is not for sale." + +"I presume," he replied, "that you know what disposition of your book +suits you best. I have, however, noticed in you a strong desire to +obtain money, and I feel sure that we could arrange terms that will +bring you more than you would otherwise receive." + +Even before Mr. Whitely finished speaking, I realized that I was not a +free agent. I owed a debt, and till it was paid I had no right to think +of my own ambition or feelings. I caught my breath in anguish at the +thought, and then, fearing that my courage would fail me, I spoke +hastily: "What do you offer me?" + +He smiled blandly as he predicted: "It is hardly a work that will have a +large sale. The Turkish nation has not played an important part in +history." + +"Only conquered the key of the Old World, caused the Crusades, forced +the discovery of America and of the Cape passage, compelled Europe to +develop its own civilization instead of adopting that of the East, and +furnished a question to modern statesmen that they have yet found no +OEdipus to answer," I retorted. + +"Your special pleading does tend to magnify their position," he +assented. "I shall be happy to look the work over, leaving the terms to +be decided later." + +I am ashamed to confess what a night of suffering I went through, +battling with the love and pride that had grown into my heart for my +book. I knew from the first moment his proposition had been suggested +that he would give me more than I could ever hope to make from the work, +and therefore my course was only too plain; but I had a terrible +struggle to force myself to carry my manuscript to him the following +afternoon. + +For the next week he was full of what he was reading; and had the +circumstances been different, I could have asked no higher compliment +as regards its popular interest than the enthusiasm of this unlettered +business man for my book. + +"It is quite as diverting as a romance!" he exclaimed. "I can already +see how astonished people will be when they read of the far-reaching +influence of that nation." + +Since the pound of flesh was to be sold, I took advantage of this mood. +After much haggling, which irritated and pained me more than it should, +Mr. Whitely agreed to give me six thousand dollars and the royalties. +Good as the terms were, my heart nearly broke, the day the manuscript +left my hands, for I had put so much thought into the book that it had +almost become part of myself. My father, too, had toiled over it, with +fondest predictions of the fame it would bring me; spending, as it +proved, his very life in the endeavor to make it a great work. That his +love, that the love of my dear professors, and that my own hopes should +all be brought to market and sold as if they were mere merchandise was +so mercenary and cruel that at the last moment it was all I could do to +bring myself to fulfill the bargain. Nothing but my small progress in +paying my debt would have forced me to sell, and I hope nothing but that +would have led me to join in such dishonesty. It was, after all, part of +the price I was paying for the original wrong, and but just retribution +against which I had no right to cry out. Yet for a month I was so sad +that I could scarcely go through my day's toil; and though that was a +year ago, I have never been able to work with the same vim, life seems +to have so little left in it for me. And idle as the thought is, when I +think of your praise of the book I cannot help dreaming of what might +have been if it had been published in my name; if--Ah, well, to talk of +"ifs" is only to confess that I am beaten, and that I will not do. Nor +is the fight over. I never hoped nor attempted to gain your love, and +that he has won you does not mean failure. To pay my debt is all I have +to do, and though I may feel more ill and disheartened than I do +to-night, I will pay it, come what may. + +Good-night, my darling. + + + + +XVI + + +_March 7._ It is little to be proud of, yet I like to think that though +I have behaved dishonestly, I have not entirely lost my sense of right +and wrong. Twice at least have I faced temptation and been strong enough +to resist. + +When I carried to Mr. Blodgett the money I received for my book, I was +so profoundly discouraged that my mood was only too apparent. In his +kindness he suggested that I buy certain bonds of a railroad his firm +was then reorganizing,--telling me from his inside knowledge that a +year's holding would give me a profit of thirty per cent. It was so sore +a temptation to make money without exertion and practically without risk +that I assented, and authorized him to buy the securities; but a night's +reflection made the dishonesty of my act clear to me, and the next +morning I went to his office and told him I wished to countermand my +order. + +"What's that for?" he inquired. + +"I have thought better of the matter, and do not think I have the +right." + +"Why not?" + +"If this money were a trust in my hands, it would not be honest to use +it in speculation, would it?" + +"No." + +"That is practically what it is, since it was stolen from a trust, and +is to be returned to it." + +He smiled rather grimly. "It's lucky for Wall Street," he said, "that +you literary fellows don't have the making and enforcing of laws; and +it's luckier still that you don't have to earn your living down here, +for the money you'd make wouldn't pay your burial insurance." Yet though +he laughed cynically, he shook my hand, I thought, more warmly than +usual when we parted, as if he felt at heart that I had done right. + +Much easier to resist was an offer of another kind. Very foolishly, I +told Mr. Whitely that I had received a letter from the literary editor +of the leading American review asking if I would write the criticism of +the History of the Turks. + +"That is a singular piece of good fortune," Mr. Whitely said cheerfully, +"and guarantees me a complimentary notice in a periodical that rarely +praises." + +"That is by no means certain," I answered. "You know as well as I that +it does not gloze a poor book, nor pass over defects in silence." + +"But you can hardly write critically of your own book!" cried Mr. +Whitely, for once giving me a share in our literary partnership. "For if +there are defects you ought to have corrected them in proof." + +"Of course I do not intend to write the review!" I exclaimed. + +"Not write it? Why not?" he questioned in amazement equal to mine. + +"Because I am absolutely unfitted to do it." + +"Why, you know all about the subject!" + +"I mean that no author can for a moment write discriminatingly of his +own work; and besides, the offer would never have been made if my +connection with the book were known." + +"But they will never know." + +"I should." + +"You mean to say you do not intend to do it?" + +"I shall write to-night declining." + +"But I want you to do it." + +"And I don't." + +"What would they probably pay you for it?" + +"What it is worth." + +"If you will reconsider your determination, I will double the amount." + +"Unfortunately," I laughed bitterly, "there are limits to what even _I_ +will sell." + +"I will give you two hundred and fifty dollars if you will write a +laudatory review of my book," he offered. + +"Have you ever dealt in consciences, Mr. Whitely?" I asked. + +"Occasionally." + +"Did you ever get any as cheap as that?" + +"Many." + +"I'm afraid you were buying shopworn and second-hand articles," I +retorted; "or you may have gone to some bargain counter where they make +a specialty of ninety-eight and forty-nine cent goods." + +He never liked this satirical mood into which he sometimes drove me. He +hesitated an instant, and then bid, "Three hundred." + +"This reminds me of Faust," I remarked; but he was too intent on the +matter in hand to see the point. + +"I suppose it's only a question of amount?" he suggested blandly. + +"You are quite right, Mr. Whitely. I will write you that review if you +will pay me my price," I assented. + +"I knew it," he asserted exultingly. "But you are mistaken if you think +I will pay any fancy price." + +"Then it's a waste of time to talk any more about it," I answered, and +resumed my work. + +"It isn't worth three hundred, even," he argued, "but you may tell me +what you will do it for." + +"I will write that review for one hundred and twenty-one thousand +dollars," I replied. + +"What!" + +"And from that price I will not abate one cent," I added. + +Strangely enough, I did not write the notice. + +It was amusing to see his eagerness for the criticisms of the book. The +three American critical journals had notices eminently characteristic of +them. The first was scholarly, praising moderately, with a touch of +lemon-juice in the final paragraph that really only heightened its +earlier commendation, but which made the book's putative author wince; +the second was discriminating and balanced, with far more that was +complimentary; while the third was the publisher's puff so regularly +served up,--a colorless, sugary mush,--which my employer swallowed with +much delectation. I am ashamed to say that I greatly enjoyed his pain +over any harsh words. He always took for granted that the criticisms +were correct, never realizing that as between an author, who has spent +years on a book, and the average critic, who is at best superficial in +his knowledge of a subject, the former is the more often right of the +two. I tried to make this clear to him one day by asking him if he had +never read Lord Brougham's review of Byron or Baron Jeffrey's review of +Coleridge, and even brought him the astonishing tirades of those +world-renowned critics; but it was time wasted. He preferred a +flattering panegyric in the most obscure of little sheets to a really +careful notice which praised less inordinately; yet while apparently +believing all the flattery, he believed all the censoriousness as well, +even in those cases known to every author where one critic praises what +another blames. + +"A Western paper says you do not know how to write English," he +complained one day. "You ought to have taken more pains with the book, +Dr. Hartzmann." + +"The Academy and The Athenaeum both thought my style had merit," I +answered, smiling. + +"Nevertheless there must be something wrong, or this critic, who in +other respects praises with remarkable discrimination, would certainly +not have gone out of his way to mention it," he replied discontentedly. + +Fortunately, unfavorable criticism, both in Europe and in America, was +the exception, and not the rule; the book was generally praised, and +sprang into an instant sale that encouraged and cheered me. Mr. Whitely +was immensely gratified at the sudden reputation it achieved for him, +and even while drinking deep of the mead of fresh authorship told me he +thought he would publish another book. I knew it was an opportunity to +make more money, but for some reason I felt unequal to beginning anew on +what would be a purely mercenary task. I mentioned my plan of a work on +the Moors, and promised, when I felt able to commence it, I would talk +with him about terms. That was three months ago, yet every day I seem to +feel less inclination, and in fact less ability, to undertake the labor. +For three years I have toiled to the utmost of my strength, and forced +myself to endure the most rigid economy. It is cowardly, but at times I +find myself hoping my present want of spirit and energy is the +forerunner of an illness which will end the hopeless struggle. + +Good-night, dear heart. + + + + +XVII + + +_March 8._ Each day I determine to spend my evening usefully, but try as +I may, when the time comes I feel too weary to do good work, and so +morbidly recur to these memories. I ought to fight the tendency, the +more that in reverting to the past I seem only to dwell on its sadness, +thus intensifying my own depression. Let me see if I cannot for one +night write of the good fortune that has come to me in the last three +years. + +Pleased with the success of my book of travel and text-books, and knowing +of my wish for work, the American publishers offered me the position of +assistant editor of their magazine and reader of manuscripts. By hard +work and late hours the task could be done in my mornings and evenings, +allowing me to continue in Mr. Whitely's employ; so I eagerly accepted +the position. I can imagine few worse fates than reading the hopeless +and impossible trash that comes to every publisher; but this was not my +lot, for I was to read only the manuscripts that had been winnowed of +the chaff. Yet this very immunity, as it proved, nearly lost me an +opportunity of trying to be of service to you. + +Returning a bundle of stuff to the manuscript clerk one day, I saw "M. +Walton, 287 Madison Avenue, New York City," in your handwriting, on the +cover of a bulky pile of sheets on his desk. Startled, I demanded, "What +is this?" + +"It's a rejected manuscript I was on the point of wrapping to return," +the clerk answered. + +Opening the cover, I saw, "A Woman's Problem, a Novel, by Aimez Lawton." +It needed little perception to detect your name in the anagram. + +"Mrs. Graham has rejected it?" I asked, and he nodded. + +"Give me the file about it, please," I requested; and after a moment's +search he handed me the envelope, and I glanced over its meagre +contents: a brief formal note from you, submitting it, and the short +opinion of the woman reader. "Traces of amateurishness, but a work of +considerable power and feeling, marred by an inconclusive ending," was +the epitome of her opinion, coupled with the recommendation not to +accept. + +"Register it on my list, and I'll take it and look it over," I said, and +went to my little editorial cuddy, feeling actually rich in the +possession of the manuscript. Indeed, it was all I could do to go +through my morning quota of proof-reading and "making up" dummy forms +for the magazine's next issue, I was so eager for your book. + +A single reading told me you had put the problem of your life into the +story. It is true the heroine was different enough in many respects to +make analogy hardly perceptible, though she too was a tender, noble +woman. She had never felt the slightest responsive warmth for any of her +lovers, but she was cramped by the social conventions regarding +unmarried women, and questioned whether her life would not be more +potent if she married, even without love. One of her lovers was a man of +force, brains, wealth, and ambition, outwardly an admirable match, +respected by the world, and, most of all, able to draw about him the men +of genius and intellect she wished to know, but whom her society lot +debarred her from meeting. Yet your heroine was conscious of faults: she +felt in him a touch of the soil that repels every woman instinctively; +at times his nature seemed hard and unsympathetic, and his scientific +work, for which he was famous, had narrowed his strong mind to think +only of facts and practicalities, to the exclusion of everything ideal +or beautiful. In the end, however, his persistent wooing convinced her +of the strength of his feeling; and though she was conscious that she +could never love him as she wished to love, the tale ended by her +marrying him. Am I to blame for reading in this the story of Mr. +Whitely's courtship of you? I only marveled at how much of his true +character you had detected under his veneer. + +To me the story was sweet and noble. I loved your heroine from beginning +to end. She was so strong even in her weaknesses; for you made her no +unsubstantial ideal. I understood her craving something more than her +allotted round of social amusements, and her desire for intercourse and +friendship with finer and more purposeful people than she daily met. I +even understood her willingness to accept love, when not herself feeling +it; for my own life was so hungry-hearted that I had come to yearn for +the slightest tenderness, no matter who the giver might be. + +As soon as I realized that the story was your own, I hoped it might tell +me something of your thoughts of my father and myself; but that part of +your life you passed over as if it never had been. Was the omission due +to too much feeling or too little? I have always suspected that I served +as a model for one of your minor characters: a dreamy, unsocial being, +curiously variable in mood; at times talking learnedly and even wittily, +but more often absolutely silent. He was by profession an artist, and +you made him content to use his talent on book and magazine +illustration, apparently without a higher purpose in life than to earn +enough to support himself, in order that he might pass the remainder of +his time in an intellectual indulgence scarcely higher in motive than +more material dissipation. His evident sadness and lack of ambition was +finally discovered to be due to a disappointment in love; and as a +cure, your heroine introduced him to her best friend,--a young +girl,--and through her influence he was roused to some ambition, and in +the end he dutifully fell in love as your heroine wished. It was a +sketch that made me wince, and yet at which I could not help but laugh. +I suppose it was a true picture, and I am quite conscious that at times +I must seem ridiculous to you; for often my mood is such, or my interest +in you is so strong, that I forget even the ordinary courtesies and +conventions. There is a general idea that a lover is always at his best +when with the woman he loves, but, from my own experience, I think he is +quite as likely to be at his worst. To watch your graceful movements, to +delight in the play of expression on your face, and to catch every +inflection in your voice and every word you speak are pleasures so +engrossing to me that I must appear to you even more abstracted than I +ordinarily am, though a dreamer at best. And yet now and then I have +thought you were conscious of a tenderness in me, which, try as I will, +I cannot altogether hide. + +The main fault of the novel was unquestionably that most accented by the +reader, and, recognizing the story as the problem of your life, I +understood why you supplied no solution to the riddle. You begged the +question you propounded; the fact that your heroine married the hero +being no answer, since only by the results of that marriage would it be +possible to say if she had chosen the better part. It was this that +convinced me you were putting on paper your own thoughts and mood. You +were debating this theme, and could carry it in imagination to the point +of marriage; but what lay beyond that was unknowable, and you made no +attempt to invent a conclusion, the matter being too real to you to be +merely a subject for artistic idealism and invention. Hitherto I had +classed Mr. Whitely with your other lovers, feeling sure that you could +not love him any more than you could any of them; but now for the first +time I began to fear his success. + +After reading the story three times I carried it back to the manuscript +clerk; and when I had allowed sufficient time for it to be returned, I +wrote you a long letter, telling how I had come to read the story, and +making a careful criticism and analysis of both its defects and its +merits. I cannot tell you what a labor of love that letter was, or how +much greater pains I took over your book than I have ever taken over any +writing of my own. What was perhaps unfair, after pointing out the +inconclusiveness of your ending, I sketched what I claimed was the +logical end to the story. Thinking as I did that I knew the original in +your mind, I was more influenced by my knowledge of him than I was by +the character in your book, and therefore possibly my inference was +unjust. But in hopes of saving you from Mr. Whitely, I pictured a sequel +in which your heroine found only greater loneliness in her loveless +union, her husband's love proving a tax, and not a boon; and marriage, +instead of broadening her life, only bent and narrowed it by just so +much as a strong-willed and selfish man would inevitably cramp the life +of one over whom law and public opinion gave him control. + +I was richly rewarded by your letter of thanks. You were so winning in +your sweet acceptance of all my criticisms, and so lovable in your +simple gratitude, that I would have done a thousand times the work to +earn such a letter. Yet even in this guerdon I could not escape the +sting of my unhappy lot; for, unable to reconcile my distant conduct +with the apparent trouble I had taken, you asked me to dinner, leaving +me to select the day, and spoke of the pleasure it would give you to +have an opportunity to talk over the book with me. + +I can think of few greater delights than to have gone over your story, +line by line and incident by incident. My love pleaded with me to take +the chance, pointing out that it would do you no harm, but on the +contrary aid you, and I found a dozen specious reasons; but tempt me as +they might, I always came back to the truth that if you knew who I +really was you would not invite me, nor accept a favor at my hands. In +the end I wrote you that my time was so mortgaged that I must deny +myself the pleasure. A small compensation was my offer that if you chose +to rewrite the story and send me the manuscript, I would gladly read it +over again and make any further suggestions which occurred to me. You +thanked me by letter gracefully, but I was conscious of your +bewilderment in the very care with which you phrased your note; and when +next we met I could see that I had become more an enigma than +ever,--for which there is indeed small wonder. + +God keep you, my darling. + + + + +XVIII + + +_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. + + + + +XIX + + +_March 10._ For the remainder of my visit, it seemed as if your prophecy +of friendship were to be fulfilled. From the moment of my confidence to +you, all the reserves that had been raised by my slighting of your +invitations disappeared, perhaps because the secret I had shared with +you served to make my past conduct less unreasonable; still more, I +believe, because of the faith in you it evidenced in me. Certain I am +that in the following week I felt able to be my true self when with you, +for the first time since we were boy and girl together. The difference +was so marked that you commented on the change. + +"Do you remember," you asked me, "our conversation in Mr. Whitely's +study, when I spoke of how little people really knew one another? Here +we have been meeting for over three years, and yet I find that I haven't +in the least known you." + +It is a pleasure to me to recall that whole conversation, for it was by +far the most intimate that we ever had,--so personal that I think I +should but have had to question to learn what I long to know. In +response to my slight assistance, to the sympathy I had shown, you +opened for the moment your heart; willing, apparently, that I should +fathom your true nature. + +We had gone to dinner at the Grangers' merely to please Mrs. Blodgett, +for we mutually agreed that in the country formal dinners were a +weariness of the flesh; and I presume that with you, as with me, this +general objection of ours was greatly strengthened when we found Mrs. +Polhemus among the guests. It is always painful to me to be near her, +and her dislike of you is obvious enough to make me sure that her +presence is equally disagreeable to you. It is a strange warp and woof +life weaves, that I owe to one for whom we both feel such repulsion the +most sympathetic, the tenderest conversation I have ever had with you. + +I was talking with Miss Granger, and thus did not hear the beginning of +my mother's girds at you; but Agnes, who sat on my left, told me later +that, as usual, Mrs. Polhemus set out to bait you by remarks +superficially inoffensive, but covertly planned to embarrass or sting. +The first thing which attracted my notice was her voice distinctly +raised, as if she wished the whole table to listen, and in fact loud +enough to make Miss Granger stop in the middle of a sentence and draw +our attention to the speaker. + +"--sound very well," Mrs. Polhemus was saying, "and are to be expected +from any one who strives to be thought romantically sentimental." + +"I did not know," you replied in a low voice, "that a 'romantically +sentimental' nature was needed to produce belief in honesty." + +"It is easy enough to talk the high morals of honesty," retorted your +assailant, "and I suppose, Miss Walton, that for you it is not difficult +to live up to your conversational ideals. But we unfortunate earthly +creatures, who cannot achieve so rarefied a life, dare not make a parade +of our ethical natures. The saintly woman is an enormously difficult +r[^o]le to play since miracles went out of style." + +"Oh, leave us an occasional ideal, Mrs. Polhemus," laughed a guest. "I +for one wish that fairy rings and genii were still the vogue." + +"But we have some kinds of miracles," asserted Mrs. Granger. "Remember +the distich,-- + + 'God still works wonders now and then: + Behold! two lawyers, honest men!'" + +"With all due deference to Miss Walton's championing of absolute +perfection," continued my mother, with a cleverly detached manner, to +veil what lay back of the sneer, "I find it much easier to accept the +miracle of an honest lawyer than that of an absolutely uncattish +woman,"--a speech which, like most of those of Mrs. Polhemus, drew a +laugh from the men. + +"That's because you don't know Miss Walton!" exclaimed Agnes warmly, +evidently fretted by such conduct towards you. + +"On the contrary," answered my mother, speaking coolly and evenly, "I +presume I have known Miss Walton longer and better than any one else in +this room; and I remember when her views of honesty were such that her +ideal was personified by a pair of embezzlers." + +You had been meeting her gaze across the table as she spoke, but now you +dropped your lids, hiding your eyes behind their long lashes; and +nothing but the color receding from your cheeks, leaving them as white +as your throat and brow, told of what you felt. + +"Oh, say something," appealed Agnes to me in a whisper. "Anything to +divert the"-- + +"And I really think," went on Mrs. Polhemus, smiling sweetly, with her +eyes on you, "that if you were as thoroughly honest with us as, a moment +ago, you were insistent on the world's being, you would confess to a +_tendresse_ still felt for that particular form of obliquity." + +I shall recall the moment which followed that speech if it shall ever +fall to me to sit in the jury-box and pass judgment on a murderer, for I +know that had I been armed, and my mother a man, I should have killed +her; and it taught me that murder is in every man's heart. Yet I was not +out of my head, but was curiously clear-minded. Though allusion to my +shame had hitherto always made me dumb, I was able to speak now without +the slightest difficulty; I imagine because the thought of your pain +made me forget my own. + +"Which is better, Mrs. Polhemus," I asked, with a calmness I marveled at +afterwards, "to love dishonesty or to dishonestly love?" + +"Is this a riddle?" she said, though not removing her eyes from you. + +"I suppose, since right and wrong are evolutionary," I rejoined, "that +every ethical question is more or less of a conundrum. But the thought +in my mind was that there is only nobility in a love so great that it +can outlast even wrongdoing." Then, in my controlled passion, I stabbed +her as deeply as I could make words stab. "Compare such a love, for +instance, with another of which I have heard,--that of a woman who so +valued the world's opinion that she would not get a divorce from an +embezzling husband, because of the social stigma it involved, yet who +remarried within a week of hearing of her first husband's death, because +she thought that fact could not be known. Which love is the higher?" + +The color blazed up in my mother's cheeks, as she turned from you to +look at me, with eyes that would have killed if they could; and it was +her manner, far more than even the implication of my words, which told +the rest of the table that my nominally impersonal case was truly a +thrust of the knife. A moment's appalling pause followed, and then, +though the fruit was being passed, the hostess broke the terrible spell +by rising, as if the time had come for the ladies to withdraw. + +When, later, the men followed them, Agnes intercepted me at the door, +and whispered, "Oh, doctor, it was magnificent! I was so afraid Maizie +would break down if--I never dreamed you could do it so splendidly. +You're almost as much of a love as papa! It will teach the cat to let +Maizie alone! Now, do you want to be extra good?" + +"So long as you don't want any more vitriol-throwing," I assented, +smiling. "Remember that a hostess deserves some consideration." + +"I told Mrs. Granger that you did it at my request, and there wasn't a +woman in the room who didn't want to cheer. We all love Maizie, and hate +Mrs. Polhemus; and it isn't a bit because you geese of men think she's +handsome and clever, either. Poor Maizie wanted to be by herself, and +went out on the veranda. I think she's had time enough, and that it's +best for some one to go to her. Won't you slip out quietly?" + +I nodded, and instantly she spoke aloud of the moon, and we went to the +French window on the pretense of looking at it, where, after a moment, I +left her. At first I could not discover you, the vines so shadowed your +retreat; and when I did, it was to find you with bowed head buried in +your arms as they rested on the veranda rail. The whole attitude was so +suggestive of grief that I did not dare to speak, and moved to go away. +Just as I turned, however, you looked up, as if suddenly conscious of +some presence. + +"I did not intend to intrude, Miss Walton, and don't let me disturb you. +I will rejoin"-- + +"If you came out for the moonlight and quiet, sit down here," you said, +making room for me. + +I seated myself beside you, but made no reply, thinking your allusion to +quiet perhaps voiced your own preference. + +"It seems needless," you began, after a slight pause, "to ignore your +kindness, even though it was veiled. I never felt so completely in +another's power, and though I tried to--to say something--to strike +back--I couldn't. Did my face so betray me that you knew I needed +help?" + +"Your face told nothing, it seemed to me." + +"But that makes it positively uncanny. Over and over again you appear to +divine my thoughts or moods. Do you?" + +"Little more than any one can of a person in whom one is interested +enough to notice keenly." + +"Yet no one else does it with me. And several times, when we have caught +each other's eyes, we have--at least I have felt sure that you were +laughing with me, though your face was grave." + +"Who was uncannily mind-reading then?" + +"An adequate _tu quoque_," you said, laughing; then you went on +seriously; "Still, to be frank, as now I think we can be, I have never +made any pretense that I wasn't very much interested in you--while +you--well--till very lately, I haven't been able to make up my mind that +you did not actually--no, not dislike--for I knew that you--I could not +be unconscious of the genuine esteem you have made so evident--yet there +has always been, until the last two weeks, an indefinable barrier, of +your making, as it appeared to me, and from that I could only infer +some--I can give it no name." + +"Were there no natural barriers to a friendship between a struggling +writer and Miss Walton?" + +"Surely you are above that!" you exclaimed. "You have not let such a +distinction--Oh no, for it has not stood in the way of friendship with +the Blodgetts." + +A moment's silence ensued, and then you spoke again: "Perhaps there was +a motive that explains it. Please don't reply, if it is a question I +ought not to put, but after your confidence of last week I feel as if +you had given me the privilege to ask it. I have always thought--or +rather hoped--that you cared for Agnes? If"-- + +"And so you married me to her in the novel," I interrupted, in an +effort to change the subject, dreading to what it might lead. + +You laughed merrily as you said, "Oh, I'm so glad you spoke of that. I +have often wondered if you recognized the attempted portrait,--which now +I know is not a bit of a likeness,--and have longed to ask you. I never +should have dared to sketch it, but I thought my pen name would conceal +my criminality; and then what a fatality for you to read it! I never +suspected you were the publisher's reader. What have you thought of me?" + +"That you drew a very pleasant picture of my supposed mental and moral +attainments, at the expense of my ambition and will. My true sympathy, +however, went out to the girl whom you offered up as a heart-restorer +for my earlier attachment." + +"I'm thankful we are in the shadow," you laughed, "so that my red cheeks +don't show. You are taking a most thoroughgoing revenge." + +"That was the last thought in my mind." + +"Then, my woman's curiosity having been appeased, be doubly generous and +spare my absurd blushes. I don't know when I have been made to feel so +young and foolish." + +"Clearly you are no hardened criminal, Miss Walton. Usually matchmakers +glory in their shame." + +"Perhaps I should if I had not been detected, or if I had succeeded +better." + +"You took, I fear, a difficult subject for what may truly be called your +maiden experiment." + +"Did I not? And yet--You see I recognized potentialities for loving in +you. You can--Ah, you have suggested to me a revenge for your jokes. Did +you--were you the man who coined the phrase that my eyes were too dressy +for the daytime?" + +"Yes," I confessed guiltily, "but"-- + +"No, don't dare to try to explain it away," you ordered. "How could you +say it? We can never be friends, after all." + +Though you spoke in evident gayety, I answered gravely: "You will +forgive me when I tell you that it was to parry a thrust of Mrs. +Polhemus's at you, and I made a joke of it only because I did not choose +to treat her gibe seriously. I hoped it would not come back to you." + +"Every friend I have has quoted it, not once, but a dozen times, in my +presence. If you knew how I have been persecuted and teased with that +remark! You are twice the criminal that I have been, for at least my +libel was never published. Yet you are unblushing." + +We both sat silent for a little while, and then you began: "You +interrupted a question of mine just now. Was it a chance or a purposed +diversion? You see," you added hastily, "I am presuming that henceforth +we are to be candid." + +"I confess to an intention in the dodging, not because I feared the +question, for a simple negative was all it needed, but I was afraid of +what might follow." + +"I hoped, after the trust of the other day--You do not want to tell me +your story?" + +"Are there not some things that cannot be put into words, Miss Walton? +Could you tell me your story?" + +"But mine is no mystery," you replied. "It has been the world's property +for years. Why, your very help to-night proves that it is known to +you,--that you know, indeed, facts that were unknown to me." + +"Facts, yes; feelings, no." + +"Do you appreciate the subtilty of the compliment? You really care for +such valueless and indefinable things as feelings?" + +"Yes." + +"A bargain, then, while you are in this mood of giving something for +nothing. Question for question, if you choose." + +"You can tell your secrets?" + +"To you, yes, for you have told me your greatest." + +"Then, with the privilege of silence for both, begin." + +"Ah, you begin already to fear the gimlet! Yes. Nothing is to be told +that--There again we lack a definition, do we not? Never mind. We shall +understand. You knew her in Germany?" + +"Yes." + +"And she--You wear a mask, at moments even merry-faced, but now and +again I have surprised a look of such sadness in your eyes that--Is that +why you came to America? She"-- + +"No. She was, and is, in so different a class, that I never"-- + +"You should not allow that to be a bar! Any woman"-- + +"But even more, there are other claims upon me, which make marriage out +of the question." + +"And this is why you have resigned reputation for money-making? Is +there no escape? Oh, it seems too cruel to be!" + +"You draw it worse than it is, Miss Walton, forgetting that I told you +of my happiness in loving." + +"You make me proud to feel that we are friends, Dr. Hartzmann," you said +gently. "I hope she is worthy of such a love?" + +I merely nodded; and after a slight pause you remarked, "Now it is only +fair to give you a turn." + +I had been pondering, after my first impulsive assent, over my right to +win your confidence, with the one inevitable conclusion that was so +clear, and I answered, "I have no questions to ask, Miss Walton." + +"Then I can ask no more, of course," you replied quietly, and at once +turned the conversation into less personal subjects, until the time came +for our return to My Fancy. + +When we parted in the upper hall, that evening, you said to me, "I +always value your opinion, and it usually influences me. Do you, as your +speech to-night implied, think it right to go on loving baseness?" + +"It is not a question of right and wrong, but only whether the love +remains." + +"Then you don't think it a duty to crush it out?" + +"No. All love is noble that is distinct from self." + +You held out your hand. "I am so glad you think so, and that you spoke +your thought. You have done me a great kindness,--greater far than you +can ever know. Thank you, and good-night." + +Good-night, Maizie. + + + + +XX + + +_March 11._ When I left My Fancy, after my visit, Agnes had nothing but +praise for me. "I was certain that you and Maizie would be friends if +you ever really knew each other," she said triumphantly. Unfortunately, +our first meeting in the city served only to prove the reverse. In one +of my daily walks up-town, I met you and Agnes outside a shop where you +had been buying Christmas gifts for the boys of your Neighborhood Guild. +You were looking for the carriage, about which there had been some +mistake, and I helped you search. When our hunt was unsuccessful, you +both said you would rather walk than let me get a cab, having been +deterred only by the growing darkness, and not by the snow. So chatting +merrily, away we went, through the elfin flakes which seemed so eager +to kiss your cheeks, till your home was reached. + +"If we come in, will you give us some tea?" asked Agnes. + +"Tea, cake, chocolates, and conversation," you promised. + +"I am sorry," I said, "but I cannot spare the time." + +I thought you and Agnes exchanged glances. "Please, Doc--" she began; +but you interrupted her by saying proudly, "We must not take any more of +Dr. Hartzmann's time, Agnes. Will you come in?" + +"No," replied Agnes. "I'll go home before it's any darker. Good-night." + +I started to walk with her the short distance, but the moment we were +out of hearing she turned towards me and cried, "I hate you!" As I made +no reply, she demanded impatiently, "What makes you behave so +abominably?" When I was still silent she continued: "I told you how +Maizie felt, and I thought it was all right, and now you do it again. +It's too bad! Well, can't you say something? Why do you do it?" + +"There is nothing for me to say, Miss Blodgett," I responded sadly. + +"You might at least do it to please me," she persisted, "even if you +don't like Maizie." + +I made no answer, and we walked the rest of the distance in silence. At +the stoop, however, Agnes asked, "Will you go with me to call on Maizie, +some afternoon?" + +I shook my head. + +"Not even to please mamma and me?" she questioned. + +Again I gave the same answer, and without a word of parting she left me +and passed through the doorway. From that time she has treated me +coldly. + +Another complication only tended to increase the coldness, as well as to +involve me with Mrs. Blodgett. In December, Mr. Blodgett came into Mr. +Whitely's office and announced, "I've been taking a liberty with your +name, doctor." + +"For what kindness am I indebted now?" I inquired. + +"I'm a member of the Philomathean," he said,--"not because I'm an +author, or artist, or engineer, or scientist, but because I'm a big frog +in my own puddle, and they want samples of us, provided we are good +fellows, just to see what we're like. I was talking with Professor Eaton +in September, and we agreed you ought to be one of us; so we stuck your +name up, and Saturday evening the club elected you." + +"I can't afford it"--I began; but he interrupted with:-- + +"I knew you'd say that, and so didn't tell you beforehand. I'll bet you +your initiation fee and a year's dues against a share of R. T. common +that you'll make enough out of your membership to pay you five times +over." + +"How can I do that?" + +"All the editors and publishers are members," he replied, "and to meet +them over the rum punch we serve on meeting nights is worth money to the +most celebrated author living. Then you'll have the best club library in +this country at your elbow for working purposes." + +"I don't think I ought, Mr. Blodgett." + +He was about to protest, when Mr. Whitely broke in upon us, saying, +"Accept your membership, Dr. Hartzmann, and the paper shall pay your +initiation and dues." + +I do not know whether Mr. Blodgett or myself was the more surprised at +this unexpected and liberal offer. Our amazement was so obvious that Mr. +Whitely continued: "I think it'll be an excellent idea for the paper to +have a member of its staff in the Philomathean, and so the office shall +pay for it." + +"Whitely," observed Mr. Blodgett admiringly, "you're a good business +man, whatever else you are!" + +"I wish, Blodgett," inquired Mr. Whitely, "you would tell me why I have +been kept waiting so long?" + +"Many a name's been up longer than yours," replied Mr. Blodgett in a +comforting voice. "You don't seem to realize that the Philomathean's a +pretty stiff club to get into." + +"But I've been posted for over three years, while here Dr. Hartzmann is +elected within four months of his proposing." + +"Well, the doctor has the great advantage of being a sort of natural +Philomath, you see," Mr. Blodgett explained genially. "He was born that +way, and so is ripe for membership without any closet mellowing." + +"But my reputation as a writer is greater than Dr."--began Mr. Whitely; +but a laugh from Mr. Blodgett made him halt. + +"Oh come, now, Whitely!" + +"What's the matter?" asked my employer. + +"Once St. Peter and St. Paul stopped at a tavern to quench their +thirst," said Mr. Blodgett, "and when the time came to pay, they tossed +dice for it. Paul threw double sixes, and smiled. Peter smiled back, and +threw double sevens. What do you suppose Paul said, Whitely?" + +"What?" + +"'Oh, Peter, Peter! No miracles between friends.'" + +"I don't follow you," rejoined Mr. Whitely. + +Mr. Blodgett turned and said to me, "I'm going West for two months, and +while I'm gone the Twelfth-night revel at the Philomathean is to come +off. Will you see that the boss and Agnes get cards?" Then he faced +about and remarked, "Whitely, I'd give a big gold certificate to know +what nerve food you use!" and went out, laughing. + +When I took the invitations to Mrs. Blodgett, I found you all with your +heads full of a benefit for the Guild, to be given at your home,--a +musical evening, with several well-known stars as magnets, and admission +by invitation as an additional attraction. Mrs. Blodgett said to me in +her decisive way, "Dr. Hartzmann, the invitations are five dollars each, +and you are to take one." + +I half suspected that it was only a device to get me within your doors, +though every society woman feels at liberty to whitemail her social +circle to an unlimited degree. But the fact that the entertainment was +to be in your home, even more than my poverty, compelled me to refuse to +be a victim of her charitable kindness or her charitable greed. I merely +shook my head. + +"Oh, but you must," she urged. "It will be a delightful evening, and +then it's such a fine object." + +"Do not ask it of Dr. Hartzmann," you protested, coming to my aid. "No +one"-- + +"I'm sure it's very little to ask," remarked Mrs. Blodgett, in a +disappointed way. + +"Mrs. Blodgett," I said, in desperation, "for years I have denied myself +every luxury and almost every comfort. I have lived at the cheapest of +boarding-houses; I have walked down-town, rain or shine, to save ten +cents a day; I have"--I stopped there, ashamed of my outbreak. + +"I suppose, Dr. Hartzmann," retorted Agnes, with no attempt to conceal +the irritation she felt toward me, "that the Philomathean is one of your +ten-cent economies?" + +Before I could speak you changed the subject, and the matter was +dropped,--I hoped for all time. It was, however, to reappear, and to +make my position more difficult and painful than ever. + +At Mrs. Blodgett's request, made that very day, I sent you an invitation +to the Philomathean ladies' day. It was with no hope of being there +myself, since my editorial duties covered the hours of the exhibition; +but good or bad fortune aided me, for Mr. Whitely asked me for a ticket, +and his absence from the office set me free. The crowd was great, but, +like most people who try for one thing only, I attained my desire by +quickly finding you, and we spent an enjoyable hour together, studying +the delicious jokes and pranks of our artist members. The truly +marvelous admixture of absurdity and cleverness called out the real +mirth of your nature, and our happiness and gayety over the pictures +strangely recalled to me our similar days spent in Paris and elsewhere. +You too, I think, remembered the same experience, for when we had +finished, and were ascending the stairs to the dining-room, you remarked +to me, "I never dreamed that one could be so merry after one had ceased +to be a child. For the last hour I have felt as if teens were yet +unventured lands." + +I confess I sought a secluded spot in an alcove, hoping still to keep +you to myself; but the project failed, for when I returned from getting +you an ice, I found that Mr. Whitely had joined you. The pictures, of +course, were the subject of discussion, and you asked him, "Are all the +other members as clever in their own professions as your artists have +shown themselves to be?" + +"The Philomathean is made up of an able body of men," replied Mr. +Whitely in a delightfully patronizing tone. "Some few of the very +ablest, perhaps, do not care to be members; but of the second rank, you +may say, broadly speaking, that it includes all men of prominence in +this city." + +"But why should the abler men not belong?" + +"They are too occupied with more vital matters," explained my employer. + +"Yet surely they must need a club, and what one so appropriate as this?" + +"It is natural to reason so," assented the would-be member. "But as an +actual fact, some of the most prominent men in this city are not +members," and he mentioned three well-known names. + +The inference was so unjust that I observed, "Should you not add, Mr. +Whitely, that they are not members either because they know it is +useless to apply, or because they have applied in vain; and that their +exclusion, though superficially a small affair, probably means to them, +by the implication it carries, one of the keenest mortifications of +their lives?" + +"You mean that the Philomathean refuses to admit such men as Mr. Whitely +named?" you asked incredulously. + +I smiled. "The worldly reputation and the professional reputation of men +occasionally differ very greatly, Miss Walton. We do not accept a man +here because his name appears often in the newspapers, but because of +what the men of his own calling know and think of him." + +"And of course they are always jealous of a man who has surpassed them," +contended Mr. Whitely. + +"There must be something more against a man than envy of his confr[`e]res +to exclude him," I answered. "My loyalty to the Philomathean, Miss +Walton, is due to the influence it exerts in this very matter. Errors +are possible, but the intention is that no man shall be of our +brotherhood who is not honestly doing something worth the doing, for +other reasons than mere money-making. And for that very reason, we are +supposed, within these walls, to be friends, whether or not there is +acquaintance outside of them. We are the one club in New York which +dares to trust its membership list implicitly to that extent. +Charlatanry and dishonesty may succeed with the world, but here they +fail. Money will buy much, but the poorest man stands on a par here with +the wealthiest." + +"You make me envious of you both," you sighed, just as Mrs. Blodgett and +Agnes joined us. + +"What are you envying them?" asked Agnes, as she shook hands with +you,--"that they were monopolizing you? How selfish men are!" + +"In monopolizing this club?" + +"Was that what you envied them?" ejaculated Mrs. Blodgett. "I for one am +glad there's a place to which I can't go, where I can send my husband +when I want to be rid of him." Then she turned to Mr. Whitely, and with +her usual directness remarked, "So they've let you in? Mr. Blodgett told +me you would surely be rejected." + +Mr. Whitely reddened and bit his lip, for which he is hardly to be +blamed. But he only bowed slightly in reply, leaving the inference in +your minds that he was a Philomath. How the man dares so often to-- + +The striking clock tells me it is later than I thought, and I must stop. + +Good-night, dear heart. + + + + +XXI + + +_March 12._ Our talk at the Philomathean and Mr. Whitely's tacit +assumption of membership had their penalty for me,--a penalty which, to +reverse the old adage, I first thought an undisguised blessing. When we +separated, he asked me to dinner the following evening, to fill in a +place unexpectedly left vacant; and as I knew, from a chance allusion, +that you were to be there, I accepted a courtesy at his hands. + +Although there were several celebrities at the meal, it fell to my lot +to sit on your right; my host, who took you down, evidently preferring +to have no dangerous rival in your attention. But Mrs. Blodgett, who sat +on his other side, engaged him as much as she chose, and thus gave me +more of your time than I should otherwise have had. If you knew how +happy it made me that, whenever she interrupted his monopoly of you, +instead of making a trialogue with them, you never failed to turn to me! + +"I have just re-read Mr. Whitely's book," you remarked, in one of these +interruptions, "and I have been trying to express to him my genuine +admiration for it. I thought of it highly when first I read it, last +autumn, but on a second reading I have become really an enthusiast." + +I suppose my face must have shown some of the joy your words gave me, +for you continued, "Clearly, you like it too, and are pleased to hear it +praised. But then it's notorious that writers are jealous of one +another! Tell me what you think of it?" + +I tried to keep all bitterness out of my voice as I laughed. "Think how +unprofessional it would be in me to discuss my employer's book: if I +praised it, how necessary; if I disparaged it, how disloyal!" + +"You are as unsatisfactory as Mr. Whitely," you complained. "I can't get +him to speak about it, either. He smiles and bows his head to my praise, +but not a word can he be made to say. Evidently he has a form of +modesty--not stage fright, but book fright--that I never before +encountered. Every other author I have met was fatiguingly anxious to +talk about his own writings." + +"Remember in our behalf that a book stands very much in the same +relation to a writer that a baby does to its mother. We are tolerant of +her admiration; be equally lenient to the author's harmless prattle." + +"I suppose, too," you went on, "that the historian is less liable to the +disease, because his work is so much less his own flesh and blood; so +much less emotional than that of the poet or novelist." + +"No book worth reading ever fails to be steeped with the spirit of the +person who wrote it. The man on the stage is instinct with emotion and +feeling, but does he express more of his true individuality than the man +in real life? The historian puts fewer of his own feelings into his +work, but he plays far less to the gallery, and so is more truthful in +what he reveals of himself." + +"Your simile reminds me of a thought of my own, after my first reading +of this book: that the novelist is the demagogue of letters, striving to +please, and suing for public favor by catering to all its whims and +weaknesses; but the historian is the aristocrat of literature, knowing +the right, and proudly above taking heed of popular prejudice or moods. +I liked Mr. Whitely's book for many things, but most of all for its +fearless attitude towards whatever it touched upon. I felt that it was +the truth, because the whole atmosphere told me that a man was writing, +too brave to tell what was untrue. That evidently pleases you, again," +you laughed. "Oh, it is horrible to see this consuming jealousy!" + +When the ladies withdrew, the men, as usual, clustered at one end of the +table; but my host beckoned me to join him, and sat down apart from his +guests. + +"Dr. Hartzmann, what is the matter at the Philomathean?" he demanded, in +a low voice. + +"Matter?" I questioned. + +"Yes. What is the reason they don't elect me?" + +"I am not on the membership committee, Mr. Whitely," I replied. + +"Are you popular up there? Mr. Blodgett said that you were." + +"I have some good friends," I answered. + +"Then electioneer and get me put in," he explained, revealing to me in a +flash why he had volunteered that the paper should pay the expenses of +my membership. + +"I am hardly in a position to do that." + +"Why not?" + +"I am a new member, and my position under you is so well known that it +would be very indelicate in me to appear in the matter." + +"For what do you suppose I helped you, then?" he asked severely. + +"I did not understand till now." + +"Well, then, drop your talk about delicacy, and get your friends to +elect me." + +"I do not think I can do that," I answered mildly. + +"Then you won't earn your pay?" + +"Mr. Whitely, when you made the offer, you put it on an entirely +different ground, and it is unfair to claim that it involved any +condition that was not then expressed." + +"But you ought to be willing to do it. Haven't you any gratitude about +you?" + +"I understood that you wanted one of your staff a member of that club. +Had you mentioned your present motive, I should certainly have refused +to accept the offer; and under these circumstances I decline to +recognize any cause for gratitude." + +"What is your objection to doing it, though?" he persisted. + +"Indeed, Mr. Whitely, I do not think I am called upon to say more than I +have said." + +"Do you want me in the club or not?" he demanded. + +"I shall certainly never oppose your election in any way whatsoever." + +"But you will not work for me?" + +"No." + +"Are you waiting to see how much I'll give?" + +My hand trembled at the insult, but I made no reply. + +"Come," he continued, "are you standing out in hopes I will offer you +something?" + +"No." + +"How much?" he asked. + +"I have been elected to the Philomathean, Mr. Whitely," I said, +concluding that an explanation might be the easiest escape, after all, +"and to it I owe a distinct duty. If you were not my employer, I should +feel called upon to work against you." + +"Why?" he exclaimed, in surprise. + +"Is it necessary to say?" I answered. + +"Yes. What is your objection to me?" + +"Did you never read AEsop's fable of the jackdaw?" I asked. + +"That's it, is it? And you are opposing my election?" + +"By not the slightest act." + +"Then why did Blodgett predict that I would surely be rejected? I've a +reputation as a writer, as a philanthropist, and as a successful +business man. What more do they want?" + +"As I told Miss Walton yesterday," I explained, "a man's true and +eventual reputation depends, not on what the world thinks of him, but +on what his fellow-craft decide." + +"Well?" + +"There is scarcely an author or editor at the Philomathean who is not +opposed to your election, Mr. Whitely." + +"You have been telling tales," he muttered angrily. + +"You should know better." + +"Then what have they against me?" + +"Any man who works with his pen learns that no one can write either +editorials or books, of the kind credited to you, without years of +training. The most embarrassing ordeal I have to undergo is the joking +and questioning with which the fraternity tease me. But you need never +fear my not keeping faith." + +"Yet you won't help me into the Philomathean?" + +"No." + +"So you'll make money out of me, but think your club too good?" + +"I owe my club a duty." + +"I know," he went on smoothly, "that you're an awful screw, when there's +a dollar in sight. How much do you want?" + +My silence should have warned him, but he was too self-absorbed to feel +anything but his own mood. + +"How much do you want?" he repeated, and I still sat without speaking, +though the room blurred, and I felt as if I were stifling. "The day I'm +elected to the Philomathean, I'll give you"-- + +I rose and interrupted him, saying, "Mr. Whitely, if you wish me to +leave your house and employment, you can obtain my absence in an easier +way than by insulting me." + +For a moment we faced each other in silence, and then he rose. +"Hereafter, Dr. Hartzmann, you will pay those dues yourself," he said in +a low voice, as he moved towards the door. + +I only bowed, glad that the matter was so easily ended; and for nearly +two months our relations have been of the most formal kind that can +exist between employer and employed. + +Far more bitter was another break. When the moment of farewell came, +that evening, I waited to put you and Mrs. Blodgett into your carriages, +and while we were delayed in the vestibule you thanked me again for the +pleasure of the previous afternoon, and then continued: "I understand +why you did not feel able to please Mrs. Blodgett about the concert. But +won't you let me acknowledge the pleasure of yesterday by sending you a +ticket? I have taken a number, and as all my circle have done the same, +I am finding it rather difficult to get rid of them." + +"That's all right, Maizie," interjected Mrs. Blodgett, who had caught, +or inferred from an occasional word that she heard, what you were +saying. "We took an extra ticket, and I am going to use the doctor for +an escort that evening." + +"I thank you both," I answered, "but I shall not be able to attend the +concert." + +"Nonsense!" sniffed Mrs. Blodgett, as I helped her into her carriage. +"You're going to do as I tell you." + +You did not speak in the moment we waited for your coup['e] to take its +place, but as the tiger opened the door you looked in my face for the +first time since my words, showing me eyes that told of the pain I had +inflicted. + +"I am sorry," you said quietly. "I had thought--hoped--that we were to +be friends." + +There was nothing for me to say, and we parted thus. From that time I +have seen little of you, for when I meet you now you no longer make it +possible for me to have much of your society. And my persistent refusal +to go to the concert with Mrs. Blodgett and Agnes increased their +irritation against me, so that I am no longer asked to their home, and +thus have lost my most frequent opportunity of meeting you. But harder +even than this deprivation is the thought that I have given you pain; +made all the greater, perhaps, because so ill deserved and apparently +unreasonable. I find myself longing for the hour when we shall meet at +that far-away tribunal, where all our lives, and not alone that which is +seen, will stand revealed. For two months I have not had a single moment +of happiness or even hope. I am lonely and weary, while my strength and +courage seem to lessen day by day. Oh, my darling, I pray God that +thought of you will make me stronger and braver, that I may go on with +my fight. Good-night. + + + + +XXII + + +_March 13._ Last night, at the Philomathean, Mr. Blodgett joined me, and +asked me why I had not dined with them lately. He returned only a few +days ago, and was thus ignorant that I have not been inside his door for +weeks. I hesitated for an instant, and then replied, "I have been +working very hard." + +"What are you usually doing?" he asked, smiling. "Come in to Sunday +dinner to-morrow." + +"I shall be too busy with a lot of manuscripts I have on hand, that must +be read," I told him. + +"Stop killing yourself," he ordered. "As it is, you look as if you were +on the brink of a bad illness. You won't get on a bit faster by dying +young." + +There the matter rested, and I did not go to dinner to-day, being +indeed glad to stay indoors; for I very foolishly walked up town +yesterday through the slush, and caught a bad cold. While I was trying +to keep warm, this evening, a note was brought me from Mr. Blodgett, +asking me to come to him at once; and fearing something important, I +braved the cold without delay, ill though I felt. I was shown at once +into his den, which was so cheerful with its open fire that I felt it +was a good exchange for my cold room, where I had sat coughing and +shivering all the afternoon. + +"Twice in my life I've really lost my temper with the boss," he began, +before I had even sat down, though he closed the door while speaking. +"Never mind about the first time, but to-day I got mad enough to last me +for the rest of my life." + +"May I sit down?" I interrupted. + +He nodded his head, and took a position in front of me, with his back +to the fire, as he continued: "Women are enough to make a man frantic +when they get a fixed idea! Now, to-day, at dinner, I said I'd invited +you, and I saw in a moment something was in the wind; so when we had +finished I told them to come in here, and it didn't take me long to find +out the trouble." + +"I didn't like to"--I began; but he went on:-- + +"And that was the beginning of their trouble. I tell you, there was Cain +here for about ten minutes, and there weren't two worse scared women +this side of the grave, while I was ranting; for the boss remembered the +other time, and Agnes had never seen me break loose. I told them they'd +done their best to drive you crazy with grief; that if they'd searched +for ten years they couldn't have found a meaner or crueler thing, or one +that would have hurt you more; that nine men out of ten, in your shoes, +would have acted dishonestly or cut their throat, but that you had toed +the chalk-line right along, and never once winced. And I let them know +that for five dollars they'd added the last straw of pain to a fellow +who deserved only kindness and help from them." + +"Really, Mr. Blodgett"--I protested. + +"Hold on. Don't attempt to stop me, for the fit's on me still," he +growled. "They tried to come the surprised, and then the offended, but +they didn't fool me. I never let up on them till I had said all I wanted +to say, and they won't forget it for a day or two. When I sent Agnes +upstairs, she was sobbing her eyes out, and the boss would have given +her pin money for ten years to have escaped with her." + +"It's too bad to"-- + +"That's just what it was!" he cried. "To think of those screws trying to +blackmail you, and then telling me you were a skinflint because you +wouldn't do what they wanted! Well, after Agnes had gone, I gave the +boss a supplementary and special dose of her own. I told her she could +double discount you on meanness, and then give you forty-nine points; +and to make sure of good measurement, I added in the whole female sex +along with her. I told her that if she knew the facts of your life, +she'd get down on her knees and crawl round to your place to ask your +pardon, and then she wouldn't be fit to have it. I told her that when +the day of judgment came, she'd just go the other way in preference to +hearing what the recording angel had written of her." + +"I am afraid that your intended kindness will make my welcome scantier +than ever." + +"Not a bit of it. I'm the master of this house, as they found out this +afternoon, and I say who'll come into it, and who'll not. I shan't need +to interfere in your case, for you'll get a warm welcome from both." + +"You didn't tell them?" I exclaimed, starting forward in my seat. + +"Not a word, though the boss nearly went crazy with curiosity. But I did +say that you were making a splendid up-hill fight, and if they knew the +facts of the case they'd be proud to black your boots. My word goes in +this family about as well as it does on the Street, and you'll get all +the welcome you can stand from now on." + +"You make me very proud and happy." + +"You have reason to be proud," he asserted. "I'm not a man who slobbers +much, but I'm going to tell you what I think of you. When you first came +here, I sized you up as rather a softy, your manner was so quiet and +gentle. I got over that delusion precious quick, and I want to say that +for pluck and grit you're a trump, and there's my hand on it." + +He went to the table, poured out a couple of glasses of whiskey and +seltzer, and brought them to the fire. "You need something for that +graveyard cough of yours," he said, handing one to me. "Well," he went +on, "I didn't bring you out such a night as this to tell you of my +scrap; but after the row, the boss was so ashamed of herself that she +trumped up an A 1 excuse (as she thought) for having treated you as she +had, and that led to a talk, and that's why I sent round for you. What +do you suppose she has got into her head?" + +"I can't imagine." + +"I needn't tell you," he remarked, "that women always know an awful lot +that isn't so. But just because they do, they every now and then +discover a truth that can't be come at in any other way. Now the boss +thinks she's done this, and I'm not sure that she hasn't. She says you +are in love." + +"I never knew a man who wasn't," I replied, trying to smile. "If it +isn't with a woman, then it's always with himself." + +"But the boss thinks she knows the girl, and has a down on you because +you--because you don't try for her." + +I laughed bitterly, and said, "You needed no explanation for that." + +"That's what made the boss's idea reasonable to me," he explained. "She +couldn't conceive why you should keep silent, and so was ready to pitch +into you on the slightest pretense. Women haven't much use for a man who +falls in love and doesn't say so. But of course I knew that your debt +put marriage out of the question." + +I merely nodded my head, for even to him I could not speak of my love +for you, it was so sacred to me. + +He drew up a chair to the fire, and continued: "There isn't another man +to whom I'd care to say what I'm going to say to you, but you've got a +heart and a head both, and won't misunderstand me." He finished his +glass, and set it on the mantel. "Now I don't have to tell you that the +boss is fond of you, and when I told her that I knew of a reason why you +couldn't marry, she forgave you on the spot. What's more, she first +wished to learn what it was; and failing in that, she then wanted to +know if it could be remedied, so that you might have a chance to win the +girl." + +"She of course knows nothing of my position?" + +"No," he said, "but she knows something of your character, and she's +ordered me that, if it's possible, I'm to help you get the girl you care +for." + +"But my debt!" I exclaimed. + +"How much is it now?" he queried. + +"One hundred and eighteen thousand." + +"Well, I'll lend Agnes's husband one hundred and eighteen thousand +dollars at three per cent, and leave her the note when I die. From what +I know of marriage, I venture to assert that if she squeezes him for +payment it will be his own fault." + +I sat speechless for a moment, too bewildered by the unexpected turn to +even think. + +"I was as surprised as you look," he went on, "for although I had seen +that you and Agnes"-- + +"Indeed, Mr. Blodgett," I exclaimed hastily, "I am no more to Miss Agnes +than a dozen of her friends! I"-- + +"So the boss says," he interrupted. "But that doesn't mean that you +can't be. Though to speak the truth, my boy," he continued, resting his +hand on my knee, "this wasn't my plan. I had hoped that you and Maizie +would take a shine to each other, and so kiss the chalk-marks off that +old score. But when I spoke of the scheme to the boss, this evening, she +told me there had never been a chance of it; that you didn't like Mai, +and that she is practically engaged to Whitely, and is only--Better have +some more whiskey, or that cough will shake you to pieces." + +I could only shake my head in my misery, but after a moment I was able +to say, "Mr. Blodgett, I did not understand--I"-- + +"I want to tell you," he broke in, "before you say anything more, that I +never believe in putting one's fingers into love affairs, and I +shouldn't in this case if the boss didn't feel so keen about it, but I +don't choose to be the one to stand in her way. And now I'm not offering +my daughter's hand. You know as well as I that Agnes isn't the kind of +girl who needs a prospectus or a gold clause to work her off. If she +dropped her handkerchief to-morrow, fifty men would be scrambling for +it, eh?" + +"Yes." Then I added, "And, Mr. Blodgett, I can't find the words to tell +how I thank you both for such a compliment. If"-- + +"I knew you wouldn't misunderstand me," he went on. "It's a good deal of +a start in life to be born a gentleman." + +"But, Mr. Blodgett," I said, "there has been a mistake. I--it is hard to +say, but"--then I faltered. + +He looked at me keenly for a moment. "So the boss was wrong? It's only +friendship, not love?" + +"Just what she has given to me," I answered. + +"Very well. Then if you want to please the boss--and me--let that +friendship grow into something better. But don't misunderstand me. You +must win Agnes, if she is won. We do nothing." + +"Mr. Blodgett, should you be willing to let me try to win Miss Agnes, if +I tell you that I do not love her as a man should love the woman he +seeks for his wife?" + +"Marriage is a funny business," he responded. "Now there's the boss. +When I married her I thought she was so and so; little by little I found +she wasn't; but by the time I had found it out I wouldn't have swapped +her for ten of the women I had thought she was. Some men have no +business to marry unless they're pretty strongly attached, for they +don't run steady; but you're a fellow that would keep in the traces no +matter what happened, and before long you'd find yourself mighty fond of +Agnes. A sense of duty is about as good a basis to marry on, if there's +natural sympathy and liking, as all this ideal make-believe. I don't +think you dislike Agnes, do you?" + +"Indeed, no!" I exclaimed. "Nobody could. She is too charming and sweet +for any one to do that. Miss Agnes deserves far more than I can bring +her. What have I to give in return for all this?" + +"You can settle that with Agnes," he laughed; and then, as if to lessen +my poverty in my own eyes, he kindly added, "In the first place, I'll +get a son-in-law chock-full of heart and grit and brains; and I've had +pretty good evidence that he isn't fortune-hunting, which is Agnes's +great danger. But that isn't all, and I want you to know I'm not a fool. +I'm a big fellow down in Wall Street, and even on the Royal Exchange, +but do you think I don't know my position? They kept me up over two +years at the Philomathean, and you four months. After you've worked ten +years over books with your own name on them, you'll be received and +kotowed to by people who wouldn't crook a finger to know me. You won't +be famous as I am, for the number of naughts I can write after a figure, +but your name will be known everywhere, and will be familiar long after +mine has been forgotten. Who were the bankers and rich men fifty years +ago? There isn't one person in a thousand can tell you. But who hasn't +heard of Thackeray and Hawthorne, Macaulay and Motley? My girl will have +more money than she'll need; so if she gets a good husband, and one +with reputation, she can't do better. Don't you see I'm doing my level +best for Agnes, and making a regular Jew bargain?" + +"Perhaps Miss Agnes will not agree." + +"We've got to take that chance; but she likes you, and good women think +a heap more of brains than they do of money. If you'll let me tell her +your story, it won't be long before she'll take notice. I shouldn't have +had to ask the boss twice if I'd had any such trump card as you've got, +and she was a sight less tender-hearted than Agnes!" + +"Mr. Blodgett," I said, "I can't tell you the gratitude I feel, but I +must be frank." + +"Hold on!" he cried. "I don't want you to say anything now. You are to +take a week on it, and not give me your answer till the end. If you have +half the gratitude in you that you pretend, you'll do as the boss +wants." + +I had manned myself to tell him of my love for you, but I bowed assent, +for indeed, I was too bewildered to think clearly, and was glad to have +a respite. We shook hands without further parley, and I came back here, +to cough and shiver while trying to think it all out. An hour ago I went +to bed, but I was wakeful, and so sit here trying to write myself into +sleepiness. + +I have thought out what my course must be. If it is true, as indeed I +know it to be, that Mr. Whitely has won you, Mr. Blodgett shall have the +truth. I shall tell him that I will put you out of my heart, as perforce +I must, and that if he is still willing I will go to Agnes, tell her too +the whole truth, and promise her such love and devotion as I can give. +So sweet a girl deserves far more, and I cannot believe that she will +accept the little I can offer; but if she does, it shall be the labor of +my life to be to her a true and tender husband. And even if she were not +what she is, the thought that through her I have made reparation for +the wrong done you will make easy both tenderness and love for her. + +For the last time, perhaps, I have the right to say, "Good-night, my +love." + + + + +XXIII + + +_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 porti[`e]re. 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. + + + + +XXIV + + +_March 15._ I was so miserable with my cough to-day that I could not +summon the energy to drag myself to Mr. Blodgett's office, and did not +leave my room till after eight, when your note came. + +"Miss Walton," it read, "feels that she has the right to request Dr. +Hartzmann to call this evening, in relation to the conversation +uncompleted last night." + +I understood the implied command, and thought that I owed what you +claimed, while feeling that in obeying I could for this once forego my +scruple of entering your door. The footman showed me into the library, +and left me there. It was the first time I had seen it since my +thirteenth year, and I cannot tell you the moment's surprise and joy I +felt on finding it absolutely unchanged. Even the books were arranged +as formerly, and my eye searched and found, as quickly as of yore, all +the old volumes full of plates which had once given us such horror and +delight. For the instant I forgot my physical suffering and the coming +ordeal. + +When you entered the room, you welcomed me only with a bow. Then seeing +my paleness, you said kindly, "I forgot your cough, Dr. Hartzmann, or I +would not have brought you out in such weather. Sit here by the fire." +After a short pause you went on: "I hope that a day's thought has +convinced you that common justice requires you to say more than you did +last night?" + +"Miss Walton," I replied, "to you, who know nothing of the difficult and +hopeless position in which I stand, my conduct, I presume, seems most +dishonorable and cowardly; yet I cannot say more than I said last +night." + +"You must." + +"I can scarcely hope that what I then said will influence you, but if +you will go to Mr. Blodgett and"-- + +"Does Mr. Blodgett know what you object to in Mr. Whitely?" you +interrupted. + +"Yes." + +"I went to Mr. Blodgett this morning, and he told me that he knew of no +reason why I should not marry Mr. Whitely." + +"Then, Miss Walton," I answered, rising, "I cannot expect that you will +be influenced by my opinion. I will withdraw what I said last night. +Think of me as leniently as you can, for my purpose was honorable." + +"But you ought to say more. You"-- + +"I cannot," I replied. + +"You have no right to"--But here a servant entered, with a card. + +"Dr. Hartzmann," you announced, when the man had gone, "I wrote Mr. +Whitely yesterday afternoon, asking him to call this evening, with the +intention of accepting his offer of marriage. He is now in the +drawing-room, and unless you will have the fairness, the honesty, to +explain what you meant, I shall tell him all that has occurred, and give +him the opportunity to force you to speak." + +"I shall only repeat to him, Miss Walton, what I have said to you." + +You stood a moment looking at me, with a face blazing with indignation; +then you exclaimed, "You at least owe it to him not to run away while I +am gone!" and passed into the drawing-room. + +You returned very soon, followed by Mr. Whitely. + +"Dr. Hartzmann," you asked, "will you repeat what you said last night to +me?" + +"I advised you not to marry Mr. Whitely, Miss Walton." + +"And you will not say why?" you demanded. + +"I cannot." + +"Mr. Whitely," you cried, "cannot you force him to speak?" + +"Miss Walton," he replied suavely, and his very coolness in the strange +condition made me feel that he was master of the situation, "I am as +perplexed as you are at this extraordinary conduct in one who even now +is eating bread from my hand. I have long since ceased to expect +gratitude for benefits, but such malevolence surprises and grieves me, +since I have never done Dr. Hartzmann any wrong, but, on the contrary, I +have always befriended him." + +"I have been in the employ of Mr. Whitely," I answered, "but every +dollar he has paid me has been earned by my labor. I owe him no debt of +gratitude that he does not owe me." + +"You owe him the justice that every man owes another," you asserted +indignantly. "To make vague charges behind one's back, and then refuse +to be explicit, is a coward's and a slanderer's way of waging war." + +"Miss Walton," I cried, "I should not have spoken, though God knows +that my motive was only a wish to do you a service, and I would give my +life to do as you ask!" + +For an instant my earnestness seemed to sway you; indeed, I am convinced +that this was so, since Mr. Whitely apparently had the same feeling, and +spoke as if to neutralize my influence, saying to you: "Miss Walton, I +firmly believe that Dr. Hartzmann's plea of honorable conduct is nothing +but the ambush of a coward. But as he has been for two years in the most +intimate and confidential position of private secretary to me, he may, +through some error, have deluded himself into a conviction that gives a +basis for his indefinite charges. I will not take advantage of the +implied secrecy, and I say to him in your presence that if he has +discovered anything which indicates that I have been either impure or +criminal, I give him permission to speak." + +Even in that moment of entanglement I could not but admire and marvel +at the skill with which he had phrased his speech, so as to seem +absolutely open, to slur me by innuendo, and yet avoid the risk of +exposure. It left me helpless, and I could only say, "I have not charged +Mr. Whitely with either impurity or criminality." + +You turned to him and said, "This conduct is perfectly inexplicable." + +"Except on one ground," he replied. + +"Which is?" you questioned. + +"That Dr. Hartzmann loves you," he answered. + +"That is impossible!" you exclaimed. + +"Not as impossible as for a man not to love you, Miss Walton," he +averred. + +"Tell Mr. Whitely how mistaken he is," you said to me. + +I could only stand silent, and after waiting a little Mr. Whitely +remarked, "You see!" + +"It is incredible!" you protested. "You must deny it, Dr. Hartzmann!" + +"I cannot, Miss Walton," I murmured, with bowed head. + +"You love me?" you cried incredulously. + +"I love you," I assented, and in spite of the circumstances it was +happiness to say it to you. + +You stood gazing at me in amazement, large-eyed as a startled deer. I +wonder what your first words would have been to me if Mr. Whitely had +not turned your mind into another channel by saying, "I do not think +that we need search further for Dr. Hartzmann's motives in making his +innuendoes." + +"Miss Walton," I urged, "my love for you, far from making your faith in +me less or my motive that of a rival, should convince you that I spoke +only for your sake, since you yourself know that my love has been +neither hopeful nor self-seeking." + +I think you pitied me, for you answered gently, and all traces of the +scorn and indignation you had shown just before were gone from your +face and manner. + +"Dr. Hartzmann," you said, "I cannot allow myself to listen to or weigh +such indefinite imputations against Mr. Whitely. I will give you one +week to explain or substantiate what you have implied; and unless within +that time you do so, I shall accept the offer of marriage which he has +honored me by making. Do not let me detain you further. Good-evening." + +I passed out of the room a broken-hearted man, without strength enough +to hold up my head, and hardly able in my weakness to crawl back to my +study. As I sit and write, every breath brings with it the feeling that +a knife is being thrust into my breast, and I am faint with the pain. +But for this racking cough and burning fever I might have made a better +fight, and have been able to think of some way of saving you. But even +in my suffering I have reached one conclusion. To-morrow I shall go to +Mr. Whitely and tell him that you must know the truth concerning the +book, and that if he will not tell you I shall. I shall never be able to +hold up my head again; but that is nothing, if I can but save you. Oh, +my dearest love, the sacrifice of life, of honor, the meeting ignominy +or death for your sake, will be nothing to me but hap + + [Transcriber's Note: The text ends in the middle of a word. The + remainder of this page is missing in the original image and + other available editions.] + + + +XXV + + +_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. + +I only nodded my head. + +"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, "Good-night, 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." + + + + +XXVI + + +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. + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes + +Spelling of 'Transgression' corrected. + +Spelling of 'folk-leid' corrected. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of an Untold Love, by Paul Leicester Ford + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE *** + +***** This file should be named 36439.txt or 36439.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/4/3/36439/ + +Produced by Lee Moffitt, Juliet Sutherland and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/36439.zip b/old/36439.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..308b9e9 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/36439.zip |
