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.