GOOD BYE! GOOD BYE! GOOD BYE!
As a metaphysician, John Winthrope could not present his bill of
services, in the nonprofessional sense, for his visit to the Jarneys.
This was the calamitous burden that bore so heavily upon him as he left
the mansion on the hill that night, and kept his head in a whirl all the
way to the city, and to his room, and to his bed, and even late into the
night, till exhausting time relieved him near the breaking of another
day.
It was the first time that the real tempest of passion had broken in
upon his sea of life; it was the first time that Cupid, with his
implements of war, came to offer battle on his serene and peaceful field
of budding bachelorhood. It was the very first time for him, so
amourously passive was he toward the whiles of the little meddler into
one's heart affairs. It is so with many people, men and women; but when
the storm once breaks in upon their unimpressionable souls it is like a
hurricane let loose, and is unrestrainable.
He now saw a new light in the heavens, even through the smoke of
Pittsburgh; a new evening star appeared in his firmament, and whirled
through the universe of his night to meet him in the dawn; a new moon
arose, and burst into full reflection of shadowy mysticism; a new sun
circled the arch of his cold earth, and made the plants of joy come into
leafage. Ah, there were no seasons to him now--it was light by day,
light by night--and he was seeing everywhere through his visual
horoscope--except--always except--as to a solution of the great problem
that confronted him.
The next morning after John's visit to see Miss Edith, Mr. Jarney
arrived at the office a half hour before his time. He was so different
to what he had been on the previous few days that John instinctively
felt his exuberance of pleasantry throughout the entire day. Instead of
taking up his dictation, as had been his wont, Mr. Jarney paced the
floor in his proud and haughty way of doing such things. He spoke to
John, on entering, in his calm, formal explicitness, as had been his
custom, when John entered to take his seat by his master's desk. John
sat waiting for Mr. Jarney to open his letters and proceed; but he did
not touch a letter, at first. He said nothing for some time, but walked
the floor, pondering, as if wrestling with conflicting thoughts. After
awhile he broke the spell.
"Young man," he said, as he stopped in his walk in front of John, with
his hands deep in his pockets, and his keen eyes sparkling, "I do not
know what to make of you."
"Am I such a conundrum as all that?" asked John, as he met his master's
eyes, with his own as sharp as those cast upon him.
"In truth, you are," returned Mr. Jarney. "You are the biggest puzzle I
have ever had to work out."
"Mr. Jarney, you place me in a very awkward position," answered John. "I
am not certain yet as to what you mean by your allusions."
"My dear boy--" he started to say, then checked himself, thinking his
manner too familiar, and went on: "Mr. Winthrope, you are master of your
own destiny. You can make it what you will. You can be a leader of
affairs, or you can be nothing."
"I only hope for an opportunity, Mr. Jarney, to claim the honor of the
first," responded John.
"That is not what I mean, Mr. Winthrope; it is--well, it is--that you
can do it."
"I am certainly at a greater loss to understand you, Mr. Jarney," said
John smiling, but still believing that he understood. "Nevertheless, I
appreciate what you say, and will always regard your views with much
favor."
"Let me tell you, Mr. Winthrope," he pursued; "that business life is a
terror to the average man. It has so many ups and downs that I have
often wondered how so many succeed through all its uncertainties. I
started out as poor as you, and maybe poorer, and have arrived where I
am, with many a pain to accompany me. And still they call me successful.
Had I to start again, I would pursue a different calling--science,
literature, art, or music. These are the things that are a compensation
to one's peace of mind. But most people believe it is money. I do not. I
did once; but I have passed that period of putting money above
everything else. Some will say, no doubt, that it is my view now, since
I have got the money. Truly, had I not a cent, I would be of the same
opinion. It was my opinion before I accumulated it, and I still cling to
that hobby. Still I must continue on acquiring it. Making money is an
endless chain proposition. Once you get into its entanglements, you
cannot let go--you cannot resist its wonderful influence. Why, I should
like to be free from its thralldom; I should like to be as you are,
without the worry and the bother that money entails; I would like to
exchange places with you, were it possible. But that can never happen, I
suppose, so long as I have my present connections. I have often thought
that I would like to tear myself away from its engrossments, to be free
to go at will; to enjoy life with my wife and daughter in some way that
would be to our liking--some way that is different from our present
existence. I do not say that I will take up such a life; I may. I did
not mean to make this lecture to you, Mr. Winthrope; but as I have made
it. I will stand by it."
"Still I am in as deep a mystery as ever, Mr. Jarney," said John
frankly, and more familiarly than he had ever spoken to him before.
"If I were a young man like you, and had my money, I would go to my
home--assuming that your home is mine--and there live peacefully the
rest of my days," he replied.
"Would you suggest that I do it, in my present poverty?" asked John.
"No; I am just supposing," he returned.
"I cannot suppose anything, Mr. Jarney; I am not in a supposing
position."
"That is right, Mr. Winthrope, don't suppose anything; always believe
it, and then go ahead," he said.
"That is what I have attempted to do; but believing a thing and
obtaining it are two entirely different matters."
"Yes; you are right."
He then strode across the room, and returned.
"I am shocked at your manner of conduct," he said, looking down upon
John. "You have not yet asked about my daughter's health?"
"I fully intended to, Mr. Jarney, at the first opportunity of breaking
in on our line of conversation," said John.
"I am very happy to report she is growing better every hour," said Mr.
Jarney, turning on his heel and walking across the room again, and
returning, with a freshly lighted cigar in his mouth.
"I wish her well," replied John, and then he halted in what he intended
to say further--halted for a moment only, when he asked: "Mr. Jarney,
with your permission, I should like to see Miss Jarney, once in awhile
during her illness. May I have the wish granted?"
"I have no objection--while she is ill," he answered, with that singular
proviso attached.
Then he sat down, and took up his work. At noon he asked John to lunch
with him. John accepted, and lunched. At four p. m. he asked John to
accompany him home for dinner. John accepted, and went.
The combination of circumstances surrounding John's intimacies with the
Jarney family was very indefinable to him, at first. But, as the days
passed, he was slowly and assuredly convinced that his services as
employe of that man of wealth were not of the sordid kind alone. Mr.
Jarney's condescending manner, his straight-forwardness, his implicit
faith in him, his good will toward him, his extinguishment of form, all
showed to him that he was not so unapproachable as might be believed by
any young man of the qualities of John Winthrope.
Possessed with an unquenchable desire to do that which is right,
honest, honorable, or justifiable, John pursued a course that ever kept
him in good favor. He did not do this with any preconceived plan, or
scheme, to accomplish a purpose, but it was through an inherent
prepossession of his makeup. Through the days he labored with great
assiduity to get results; through the evenings he studied with great
concentration on his subjects--always busy, always ready to answer a
call, or a summons. All these traits in him, Mr. Jarney was not slow in
perceiving, and he gave encouragement, as he would, like any other man
of his mould, to any one who showed the same relative adaptation and
faithfulness. Mr. Jarney looked upon John as having many parts worth
cultivating. As he had, for a long time, been gleaning in the field of
young manhood for such a reaping, he now considered, since he acquired
John, that he had harvested a good sheaf of wheat when he garnered him;
and he purposed, if all continued straight in him, to flail out his true
worth, if the throwing out of opportunity would be effectually grasped.
But while he had these views concerning such material for his purpose,
he, at no time, thought that his daughter would, in any manner, enter
into the proposition. He would not have thought of compromising his
views on business with his paternal ideas; nor would he ever have
condoned himself, or his wife, should either have entertained an iota of
a notion that it were necessary to bring her name into such mercenary
transactions.
By reason of the extraordinary events, however, that had come to pass,
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 attitude 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 associates. 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 assured 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 gratitude 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 accumulating 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.
"Good bye," she said.
Going down the stairs he could hear that tremulous little voice saying,
"Good bye." All through the dinner he heard it ringing like the distant
trembulations of a wind-bell; going out the house he heard it calling
after him; all the way to the city he heard it tinkling, tinkling from
everything about the fleeting things in the streets, turning all the
grime and misery into music. Going to his room it kept trembling,
trembling, till that dingy little place was a Paradise. And going
into sleep it kept singing--singing "Good bye! Good b-y-e!
G-o-o-d----b--y--e!"