Edith and John Part 30

By reason of the extraordinary events, however, that had come to pa.s.s, anent his daughter, he was perforce compelled to extenuate any qualifying conducements that might connect her with whomsoever claimed the privilege of being his second, as John was, in business. His amiableness toward John during the past few days might be interpreted in one particularity by the reader; which is, that he was encouraging that young man to press his suit for his daughter's hand; but this is farther from the thought than that he would give her away to any young profligate who might ask the favor of him. He was, withal, a true father, in its supremest meaning. He loved his daughter. He granted her every reasonable wish. He even went so far as to make unrelenting enemies among the Four Hundred, of which he was considered a worthy member, by discanting and discouraging their form of pleasures for the young men and women, and looking with disfavor upon the youths who paid his daughter the least attention. One of his most unpardonable offenses, in this connection, was his unsparing resentment toward Jasper Cobb's persistency in wanting to pay court to Edith, with matrimonial intent.

The Cobbs could not, naturally, forgive him for such treatment of their young hopeful, who was just then strewing his pathway with the wildest kind of oats. And, as if fortune never failed him, Edith and her mother, coincided with him. This att.i.tude of theirs, therefore, gave him the greatest kind of pleasure, and enhanced his inclination to stop at nothing that would satisfy their claims to his patronage.

The foregoing statement is made to show what manner of man he was with his family; but not to excuse him for the manner of man he was with his business a.s.sociates. So, in showing favors toward his secretary, he acted from a double possibility, i. e.: one to have a trustworthy employe in a very important position; the other to curry favor with a very lovable daughter, who had an independence that might run wild on a clear trackage of his own building.

He had asked John to lunch with him that day mostly to be generous. He had asked him to his home again mostly for the good that his going might do for his afflicted child, in her hallucination. Nothing more. He did these things in such a cheerful way, and in such an unusual manner, that John was confounded. And he did it without reckoning the consequences, as many fathers act in the excitable moments of their infinite love for their offspring.

Entering the mansion on the hill, on this, his third visit, John had a very different feeling than before. The interval since he had been there had been spent in musing and meditating, with the consequent result of him being hopelessly smitten. No gilded hall of magic palace, no form of cast or idol of fetich, no conventional rule of wealth or arm of power, no scornful threat of irate father or scolding mother, no nothing could desist him in his conquest, if Edith were willing. If not, then he would forgive her, and--perhaps, perhaps--

Edith was sleeping when John was ushered into her room. Star, ever hopeful, ever faithful, sat by her bedside. Seeing John, Star arose and advanced to meet him, whispering, as she took his hand: "She is better--growing better every hour; but very slowly. She now sleeps."

"Then I shall retire till she awakes," said John.

"No; remain; she will awake soon," said Star.

No sound came from the sleeper, so peaceful was her rest, and so low her breathing. Her hands lay exposed above the spotless covers, with no nervous tremors in them. The flush of fever of the day before was gone.

Her eyes were closed, and her lips were tightly shut. Her hair lay in ringlets over her temples. Was she dead? thought John; or was it the peace of a tired soul in rest that hung upon her? He trembled with great fear. Those dear blue eyes were closed to the light of day; those rosy cheeks had faded; the smile was gone. There was nothing to convince him that she lived.

Emboldened by the great anxiety that overwhelmed him, he drew up a chair and sat down by her bed. He picked up one of her hands, and felt her pulse. He found it throbbing, and he was relieved. He sat there silently, inconceivably happy, with his own heart throbbing so loudly that he could hear it beating. Ah, Edith, in her slumbering, might have heard its telepathic beating, too, for she suddenly opened her eyes, and turned them upon John, and smiled, so undisturbing was her awakening.

She did not withdraw the hand that John was holding, nor did she seem to give a sign of recognition. But she sighed. Was it a sigh of her malady, or a sigh for him?

"How do you feel this evening, Miss Jarney?" asked John, in a low voice, deep with sympathetic tenderness.

Then, she opened wide her eyes, as if surprised, and withdrew her hand.

"Don't you know me, Miss Jarney?" asked John, with a fearsome thought that she had declined to her former condition.

"Is it you, Mr. Winthrope?" she asked, with her eyes lighting up. "Why, yes; I believed you were the doctor. I am so very weak, Mr. Winthrope, that I can scarcely speak."

"Do you feel better?" he asked.

"A little," she responded, feebly. "How glad it makes me feel to think you have come."

"Perhaps it would be better for me not to come while you are so low," he said.

"I feel better every time you come," she answered.

She involuntarily threw her hand over the side of the bed. He took it up, and held it; and then touched his lips to her small fingers--fingers so small and delicate and white now that they were like chiseled marble, pliable in his. She did not resist, through inability mostly to draw it away, had she been so disposed. She made no pretense to conceal her fondness for him, nor did she attempt to talk with any design to hurry him away, when he suggested that she would better rest in absolute quiet. John saw all this. But he believed that, in her frailty, he should be very prudent in how he acted, and leave nature, and what little he could do himself, to restore her to her former mental and physical health.

"You will remain awhile longer, Mr. Winthrope? I am growing better," she said.

"I hesitate about remaining, Miss Jarney, for fear of disturbing your peace," he answered.

"I rest better after seeing you," she whispered, with a trembling voice, as if she would break into crying.

"Then I am a.s.sured that I may come again?" he asked.

"You must come often--very often--every day--will you?"

"If your father continues his permission to that extent?"

"Oh, he will; papa is so good."

Is it an hallucination she is laboring under, thought John; or is it the will of a pure heart, feebly speaking? He was still perplexed; but his hopes were not deserting him.

"Mr. Winthrope," she said, after a silent spell, "will you go with Miss Barton on Sunday to her home, and act for me in what I had planned to do before I took ill?"

"Indeed, I shall be glad to accompany her, and shall do anything you wish," he answered.

"I had planned to do so much for the poor in Miss Barton's district,"

she continued. "I brought her here to be my companion and my aid--such a good girl she is--but I cannot do anything now, unless you will help.

Will you?"

"I will, willingly," he responded, wonderingly.

"When I recover I shall enlist you in my service; we can do so much good for those distressed people."

"Nothing would please me better than to help you in this work."

"Then, you and Miss Barton may begin it now; I shall join you when I have recovered."

"That will be a fine combination for charity's sake," he replied, enthusiastically.

"I knew you would enter into the scheme. How good you are!" she said, with a feeble effort to express her grat.i.tude for him in a smile.

"I am afraid you flatter me, Miss Jarney," he answered, still holding her trembling hand.

"Oh, no; papa says you are so good; and I know you are."

"What time Sunday shall we go, Miss Barton?" asked John, turning to that young lady, with increasing enthusiasm over his acc.u.mulating duties.

"About ten o'clock, perhaps. You call here at that hour, when the auto will be in waiting for us," answered Star, sitting by him, with as much interest in him as Edith had herself.

"I shall be prompt to the minute," he replied.

John had remained an hour by Edith's bed talking in very confidential terms to those two divine maidens--one of them rich, one of them poor, but both blessed with many heavenly virtues. Edith was growing restless; although through it all John had been careful of what he said, and how he said it, so as not to excite her.

"Are you going?" she asked, seeing him rise. "I am sorry I cannot withstand the strain longer."

"I should go," he answered.

"You will come tomorrow? then I will be better," lifting up her hand to bid him good bye.

He knelt down by the bed, and held her hand in both of his for a moment.

How it trembled, and how it thrilled him!

"Good bye," she said.

Oh, he prayed, within his heart, that she might be well in that moment of his own deep affliction, so that the fear that was in him might be expelled, and he knew his fate.