Edith and John Part 26

An auto being in waiting at the curb, and John being ready at the appointed time, he and Mr. Jarney joined each other at the main entrance of the office building; and together were whirled away, in a twinkling, toward the mansion on the hill.

This was the second time that he had been summoned to that palace of a Croesus; for a second time he went, not of his own volition; for a second time he drew near the place, with a strange feeling in his soul; and he wondered if Fate, after all, is not a strange outliner of one's life. The first time, a deep mystery surrounded his sudden summoning, ending with a very romantic sequel; the second time, the cause leading up to his going was as deep a mystery as the first, with no telling what the climax might be. So, with these thoughts alone pa.s.sing through his head as he rode silently by the side of his superior through the whizzing wind and beating rain and whirling smoke, he was not a little agitated when the chauffeur drew up at the side door, and the master had stepped out, and he was bidden to follow.

He remembered well that entrance on the former occasion, in the night, with its beaming lights and glistening panels of gla.s.s and brilliancy of the interior reflecting over him in his amazement. He remembered very well the gliding through the rooms of the family and the attendants, like roving spirits in despair in a fairy bower. He remembered all these things through the eye of the night:--of his sudden departure from the mansion; of his mission through the s.p.a.ce of miles, and his quick return, and triumphant end--for the sake of duty. All these things he recalled, as if ruminating on a hazy dream. But when he came the second time, in the gloom of the late afternoon, and seeing the sombreness of the walls, the doors, the porches, the lawn and everything, stripped of the glare of artificial light, he felt that within the house a similar gloom prevailed.

He followed Mr. Jarney, now with a palpitating heart. The valet took his coat and hat and umbrella; and he was escorted to the warmth, the cheer, the beauty, the radiance, the grandeur of the parlor, and was begged to be seated. And he saw that the house was as silent as a morgue; he saw the long faces of the servants, and noted their confidential looks and glances toward him; he saw that the lights were burning dimly, and as they might burn for several days to come; he saw friends of the family glide in like spectres, with inquiring faces, and whisper, and saw them depart as silently; he saw the piano was closed, and the music piled up.

He saw Mrs. Jarney coming down the great white stairway, darkly clothed, with tear-stained eyes and tired movements. He felt the oppressive dread that was over all. And he trembled.

Mrs. Jarney approached him, with Mr. Jarney at her side, he having met her at the foot of the stairs. John arose as she put out her hand, and when he shook it, he noticed that she was excessively perturbed.

"I am very happy to see you, Mr. Winthrope," she said, with some effort.

"I wish to thank you for your services in behalf of my daughter on that dreadful evening."

"You have my sincere sympathy, Mrs. Jarney," responded John. "May I inquire if Miss Jarney is improving?"

"No improvement, Mr. Winthrope, that we can see," she replied.

"Is it so that Mr. Winthrope can see her?" asked Mr. Jarney of his wife.

"He may go now, if he does not feel it too great a favor to us," replied Mrs. Jarney, wiping away her tears.

"I a.s.sure you, Mrs. Jarney," said John, "that I do not hold such a matter in the light of favor; but as a matter of the gravest importance to you both."

"Mr. Winthrope," said Mrs. Jarney, placing her hand upon his arm, "there are trials in this life, to a mother, which no man can understand; and this is one of them. We have asked you to come here because we believe in you, because we know and feel that you are good. Do not think that we are not under obligations to you, and that my dear Edith will not be thankful to you, if she recovers. We know and you know that your coming is by reason of unusual circ.u.mstances; and as her mother, I do not want you to think, Mr. Winthrope, that my emotions have gone beyond my reason. She has called your name so many times that I could not bear to hear it longer without you coming here. I fancied, at first, that it was, as the doctors have said, only the fancy of an afflicted brain; but I believe it is more than that. I beg your pardon, Mr. Winthrope, if I have spoken too plainly. Now, if you are ready we will proceed to her room."

John was proud himself, though poor. He was proud of his good name; proud of his old father and mother, and his own dear sister and brother in the mountains; he was proud that others held him in high esteem; proud of their friendly consideration, of the confidence in which they held him, and of their frankness. When Mr. Jarney first broached the subject of his going to see his daughter, he took it as a question of duty, albeit he was not altogether dum to its influence on his heart; and when Mrs. Jarney spoke to him, with even more freedom than her husband, he could not resist the effect any longer.

He therefore went up the stairs in a state of mind that was a mixture between despair and hope. He was preceded by the parents of Edith. They pa.s.sed through a hall bewildering to John in its elegance, he following, and at length came to the door of a bed room. Mrs. Jarney opened it, and they silently filed within, like going into the chamber of the dead, so softly did they move.

At one side of a bed sat a nurse, on the other sat Star Barton, faithful in her bleeding heart. On the bed lay the fevered form of Edith in snowy whiteness. To the beholders she was like a transporting angel, only the flush of life was in her cheeks--the flush of her affliction. Her white hands lay twitching over the coverlets. Her face was upturned, her blue eyes staring, her lips mumbling indistinct words. She was apparently dead to all things mortal. No wonder Star was in tears; no wonder the parents felt a dread shudder pa.s.s through them; no wonder the nurse had a solemn face; for the spirit of this pure young woman seemed to be pa.s.sing, pa.s.sing.

John was not unmoved by the scene, for even his brave strong heart sent forth a sigh. The parents stood by the bedside looking down upon their unconscious child in her struggle. After a few moments Mr. Jarney turned to John, and whispered:

"We will leave you alone with her and her friend, Miss Barton."

Then they went out, and the nurse went out. John spoke a word of recognition to Star, and drew a chair up to the bed and sat down, looking meditatively at Edith.

"Has she been unconscious since the night I brought her here?" asked John.

"Almost all the time," answered Star. "Sometimes she is rational--then she calls for you."

"If she should become rational while I am here, and should see me, do you think my being here would have any beneficial effect upon her?"

asked John.

"That is the opinion of her parents," replied Star.

"You appear to be pretty well worn out by your vigil, Miss Barton," said John, turning to her, sitting close by his side.

"I have been in this room ever since she took ill, or since you brought her here," answered Star.

"Haven't you taken any rest?" asked John, dubious about her statement.

"I lie down on the couch there sometimes," pointing to one in the room; "but I cannot sleep."

"I fear the trial will be too much for you, Miss Barton."

"Oh, it is no trial for me to sit here, where I can see her dear face all the time," responded Star, and then she burst into tears, and John could hardly restrain his own from flowing, through his deep sympathy for her in her simple faith.

Just then Edith turned her face toward them, and gazed wildly about with her pretty blue eyes rolling in their sockets. Then she threw one hand over the side of the bed. John lifted it up tenderly, and laid it back in place, and then it was that he became aware of how feverish she was.

Edith mumbled something.

"She is making an effort to speak your name," said Star, who was now used to her strange fancyings, and could interpret almost any unintelligible word she spoke. Then bending over Edith, she said: "He is here, dear Edith."

Edith looked up at Star, with what appeared to be a faint smile. Star took one hand, and held it, patting it lovingly. "Here he is, dear Edith; don't you see him?" she said, as Edith now uttered the name distinctly.

Edith paid no heed to Star, but rolled her head and muttered John's name. Then she became calmer, and lay still; arousing herself after a few minutes, and repeating the name again.

"He is here, Edith, by your bedside; can't you see?" said Star, bending over her. "Come closer, Mr. Winthrope, that she might see you."

John thereat moved nearer to the bed, and leaned over her.

"Here is Mr. Winthrope, Edith," said Star, as she placed a hand upon her hot forehead.

Edith turned her head, and sighed. Her eyes ceased their starey look.

She became calmer; sighed again. Then, without a.s.sistance, she raised herself up, and her long hair fell over her shoulders. In her illness now, John thought she was prettier than before when he saw her in her best of health. As she arose, Star caught her by the shoulders, and made an attempt to lay her down on her pillow again; but Edith shook her off, with her fever-strength supreme in her. She then crossed her hands before her, bent her head forward; then threw it backward, and gazed across the room to the farther wall, like one staring into the infinitude of time in its blankness.

John sat watching her, moved to piteous supplication for this fair young lady in her distress of mind.

"Star," said Edith, turning upon Miss Barton, in a strange clear voice, "have you seen Mr. Winthrope?"

"Here he is, dear Edith," replied Star, stroking her hair. "Here by your bed; don't you see him?"

"That is not Mr. Winthrope," she answered, in the same strange tone.

"No, no, dear Edith; he is here--Mr. Winthrope look into her face?" said Star, turning to John, whose head was bowed under the weight of the impression that this girl's ravings made on him. John obeyed Star's request, and looked Edith in the face. Edith then put out a hand, and touched that of his; then fell back, burying her head in her soft pillow, with her hands over her face.

"She knows you," whispered Star.

"Shall I retire?" asked John, believing that the crisis had been reached.

"Oh, not yet," answered Star. Then leaning over Edith again, said: "Edith, do you want to see Mr. Winthrope again before he goes?"

Edith reached out a hand toward him, turned her head, and let her eyes move slowly in his direction. Then she laid her hand upon his. He picked it up, and she permitted him to hold it.

"Mr. Winthrope?" she said.

"I am he," he replied.