"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 pa.s.sed 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 grat.i.tude 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 grat.i.tude that he does not owe me."

"You owe him the justice that every man owes another," you a.s.serted 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sented, and in spite of the circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed 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

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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 ma.n.u.script 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."