WHAT DOES THE HEART SAY?
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 passing 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 glass 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 space 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 assure 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 circumstances; 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
passed 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 pass through them; no wonder the nurse had
a solemn face; for the spirit of this pure young woman seemed to be
passing, passing.
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 assistance, 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.
She smiled, and her eyes became less roving. "I am better," she
whispered.
"Edith, I knew you would be better as soon as he came," said Star,
kissing her. "Are you not glad, Mr. Winthrope?" asked Star of him.
"Very, very," he responded. He touched his lips to her fevered hand; and
how it thrilled him.
"Now, you may retire, if you wish," said Star.
"Will you come again?" said Edith, in a very low voice; "often; often?"
"If I am permitted," replied John, releasing her hand, and rising.
"You have my permission," whispered Edith, feebly attempting to smile.
"Oh, I am so weak, I am afraid it will be such a long time before I can
leave this bed." Turning to Star, she said: "Have mamma keep him for
dinner, if it is near that time--or breakfast, or lunch."
"He will remain," answered Star.
"You will come in before you go--you will come again, Mr. Winthrope?"
asked Edith, faintly.
"By your father's permission," he answered, smiling down upon her.
"He will permit you," said Edith.
"Good bye," said John, taking Edith's hand again.
"Good bye; don't fail to come in again before you go?" said Edith.
"I shall come," he said, kissing her lily hand; after which he lay it
down with the greatest reluctance.
Then he left her, with a world of thrilling emotions consuming him.
Seeing no one in the hallway, he proceeded alone down the stairs to the
parlor, there to be met by the gloomy countenances of Edith's loving
parents, who were at that moment in such a distracted state of mind that
they almost collapsed over wrong expectations over this singular meeting
of their daughter with John Winthrope. Both rose as they saw John
approaching, and sighed.
"How is she?" both asked together.
"Better," was John's response.
Mr. Jarney took John by the hand, and said: "How greatly relieved I am."
Mrs. Jarney did not wait for further information; but ran up the stairs,
and went headlong into her daughter's room.
"Oh, my child! my child!" she cried in the excess of her joy, seeing the
token of rationality in Edith's face. She fell on the bed by Edith's
side, almost in a faint, throwing her arms about her. Edith was not in
condition to withstand such a stormy outburst of motherly affection.
Star, understanding the bad effect such extreme commotion might have
upon her charge, persuaded Mrs. Jarney to be calm, and all would be
well.
"Did you know him, Edith?" asked her mother, still mentally agitated.
"Yes, mamma," replied Edith, so low she could hardly be heard.
"Was it he that effected a cure, Edith?"
"Oh, mamma, I am not well yet," said Edith; "and it may be a long time
before I get out of this."
"Was it he, Edith, that brought about the crisis?" persisted the mother.
"It might have been, mamma," said Edith.
"Edith, are you keeping a secret from me?" pursued her mother.
"Dear mamma, I cannot bear up, if you keep on," whispered Edith, growing
restless.
"Mrs. Jarney, it would be best not to disturb her any more; she needs
sleep," said Star, advisedly.
Mrs. Jarney, realizing her mistaken enthusiasm, quieted down, and
slipped out of the room, and bustled down the stairs in an
uncontrollable plight of flusteration. She rushed up to Mr. Winthrope,
and was almost in the act of embracing that young gentleman, who had
earned his way unconsciously into her faver to such proportions that the
good lady could not keep away from him all evening. In verity, Mrs.
Jarney was so dignifiedly considerate that she would have, under the
spur of the stimulent of joy, given her consent right then to John
becoming a permanent member of her household (had he thought of asking
that privilege of her) had it not have been that a little bit of
money-pride overbalanced her gratitude. And, in truth, too, Mr. Jarney
might have fallen under the same magic that John had also cast over him,
had it not have been that his pride was a little greater than he could
consistently overcome. But this did not prevent Mr. Jarney from
showering upon John encomiums of all kinds for the rest of his stay in
the house that evening.
John, being prodigiously sensitive on the matter of the propriety of a
thing done, was with difficulty persuaded in his own mind that Edith's
wish was any more than a good woman's gratefulness. Although he made a
great effort that evening to keep down the blazing fires of the one
great human passion, he could not extinguish them altogether, for the
more he thought of the cause that led up to his coming there, the
fiercer the coals blazed within him: till his soul was almost afire.
Dinner was eaten in great state, the first of the kind for John; but he,
being an adaptable young man, was equal to anything that confronted
him. And while dining, he did not fail to notice the changed spirits of
all the inmates of the house, from the head of it down to the waiter;
for the later were profuse in showing him deference, in their looks and
actions; he did not fail to notice the change in the lights that gave
back a much more cheerful caress, where before they were feebly
lifeless; he did not fail to notice the change in the countenances of
the friends of the family, who came in with a deadening look, and went
out with a smile; he did not fail to notice all these things; nor could
he help but feel that he was the one person who might have brought it
about. In consequence, he passed through the evening in the ascending
mood of rapturous delight; but, though, always with a fear--a fear bound
up in one corner of his heart--that he was only being rewarded for his
services as the servant of this great man of money, the father of Edith.
But John, do not despair; there are worse people in this world, who are
rich, than the Jarneys.
John kept his promise, and called to see Edith just before he was ready
to leave the mansion. She was sleeping when he was let into the darkened
room; and when he looked down upon her, in her purity, dreaming, perhaps
of him, he felt the power of love that was bearing him down. Were
everything made of sweet toned bells, and they were every one ringing,
no greater would be the alarum than that which at that moment knelled
through him. The fear of death coming to her, the fear of her loss
should she come back to life, the fear of those who brought her into the
world, the fear of Fate, the fear of Chance, struck him dumb. Would her
death be worse than life? he thought; would her life be worse than
death? Sleeping calmly, peacefully, without a murmur from her lips;
breathing lightly, evenly, without a break in the respiration; resting
now as if the angels had brought a cure from out the skies--John felt
the holy thrall which controlled him.
He knelt down by the bed, and took her white hand in his, and tears of
his mercy wet her limp fingers; and he prayed.
Then, rising, with his heart too full to speak, he turned to the door to
leave. Miss Barton, seeing his agitation, came up to speak to him, with
her eyes also filled with tears.
"Wait till she awakes," she said.
"I cannot," he replied.
"She expects to see you before you go."
"Tell her--" and he was gone.