Part 22 (1/2)

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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed noiselessly between the curtains of the portiere. 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 compa.s.sionate.

”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 G.o.ddess 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?”