“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.”