IT IS DECIDED TO SEND EDITH TO THE MOUNTAINS.
It was a morning in May. Happy birds sang in the tree tops, and flowers
speckled the green grass of the park with their variegated bloom. The
sun, the first for days, threw his lustrous light over the smoke
begrimed hills; the air, which a brisk wind from the north cleared, was
bracing in its freshness, and all creation was breaking into renewed
vitality at the touch of advancing spring.
Edith, on the arm of Star, walked down a bypath bordered by nodding
Easter lilies, late in blooming, and watched the bounding butterflies
and plunging bees and hopping birds, and heard the call of nature in all
its thrilling voices.
Life is beautiful and life is sweet, but what is life when the soul is
craving for that which cannot be had? The wind may sing to you in its
softest notes, the birds may send forth their enchanting rhapsodies,
the flowers may emit their most becalming fragrance, but what are they
to a spirit unanswered in its callings? The sun may shine ever so
brilliantly, the moon may beam in mellowing brightness, the stars may
twinkle in their deepest mysteries, but what are they when love is
crying out, with no responsive cry? Deep, deep, unanswerable is the
mystery. Edith asked the flowers, the birds, the bees; she felt the
soothing wind, heard the sweetening notes, and caught the lulling
scents, but they all gave back the answer--mystery! mystery!
They walked the paths together, Edith and Star, arm in arm; they sat in
the cooling nooks, and whisperingly conversed; they let the wind play
with their locks, like playful fairies; they saw, they heard, they sang,
they laughed. But still, to Edith, there was that mystery ever hanging
over her--a blot to everything that should entrance her--a dim, dark,
cold, benumbing longing that paints frightful pictures from a
palpitating heart that gets no response to its secret throbs. Weary,
worn out, lagging, spiritless, because of her long illness and worry
over late happenings among her father's unfaithful employes, Edith got
no comfort now out of her home, or its surroundings. Pale still, and
nervous, her spirits ever flagged, even under the promptings of her dear
friend Star, who had been resorting to all her charms and graces to give
pleasure to the sick young lady that she might be diverted from her
moody spells. Edith was bright at times, and laughed and chatted like a
child under Star's cheerful influence; but more often she was
melancholy, and seemed never to be reaching that time when the shadow of
her malady would fall off. Music had no charms for her, nor books, nor
young company. Life was lifeless to her. The mansion was a dreary
castle. Her days were spent in wishing for night, and nights in wishing
for morning. All her mother's endearments, all her father's love, all of
Star's sweet companionship, were alike to her--unconsoling. The mother
was in despair, the father grief stricken, but Star, of all of them, had
hope.
"Edith," said Star, this day, while standing by the pond watching the
leaping fountain and playful golden fish, and noting how quiet Edith
was. "I wrote to Mr. Winthrope yesterday."
"Oh, Star," said Edith, with a deprecating frown, "I hope you have not
gone and forgotten yourself to such an extent that you have written
first?"
"Forgot myself, Edith? Why, bless your heart, no; he wrote me first,"
replied Star, with a merry laugh.
"Wrote first?" asked Edith, in surprise.
"Yes; he just did write first; and I told him that he was real mean in
not writing sooner," said Star.
"What did he say?" asked Edith, gazing vacantly into the water.
"About all he said was asking about your health. It is mean in him, I
repeat, that he said no more. He said, though, that when your father was
in New York, he told him you were fast improving."
"What was your answer, Star?"
"Oh, goodness! I wrote six pages, about everything, almost, and informed
him that--"
"Now, Star; you didn't write anything that would be indiscreet, did
you?"
"Why, deary, no, of course not; I only told him that you--"
"Star, don't tell me that you have violated my confidence?"
"I will not say what I wrote, Edith, if your are not more attentive. I
said that--"
"Star! Star!" said Edith, with tears glistening in her eyes; "do not
tell me that you have broken your pledge; if you do, I shall
never--no--go on; what did you tell him?"
"That you--that you are getting better very slowly, and that your father
will take you to the mountains for the summer. I told him everything
else, Edith, but that which you forbade me telling."
"You are very prudent, Star. Will he write again, do you suppose?"
"I wound up my letter with a P. S.: 'Don't forget to write!'"
"You bad girl! I suppose he will be coming to see you sometime?"
"Wish he would," said Star, hopefully, with a teasing expression in her
face.
"Really, Star?"
"Yes; I do--I'd turn him over to you," she responded, with a laugh.
"You are a tease, now! If he comes, it must be of his own free will."
"You are not looking well, Edith; we had better go in the house," said
Star, seeing the pallor of weakness coming over her face.
"Assist me in," responded Edith, willingly submitting to Star's
admonition. As they were nearing the steps leading up to the great
piazza, Edith remarked that she would go to the mountains next day, if
able, with her father, and, of course, Star was to be her companion.
"I was never out of the city," replied Star, "and I am wondering what
mountains look like. Can you tell me?"
"Oh, they are only big hills."
"Do people live there?"
"Yes. Many people live in them. He came from up there somewhere."
"From the mountains?"
"Yes; from the mountains."
"Then, we may see his home," said Star, suggestively.
"We may; but the mountains are very large, Star--miles long and miles
wide, with dense woods everywhere and with but few roads through them,
and homes of farmers scattered about."
"Oo-oo!" exclaimed Star. "We would not want to go far into them; we
might get lost. Do people live there?"
"Yes. There are bears there, Star, and deer and owls; and many birds
live in the gloomy depths of the forests."
"My!" exclaimed Star, alarmed. "I would not want to go out after night.
Where will we live when we go up there?"
"In a big hotel on top of the mountains."
"How fine! I can hardly wait till I see it all!"
"Our trunks should be packed today, Star, for a two months' stay. Father
says I will be benefitted when I get out of the smoke of this city."
"Is your father going with us?"
"Oh, yes; but for a short stay only. He will visit us once a week
thereafter."
"Won't that be fine, Edith; and we will get to see the mountaineers, and
maybe his home," said Star, with all that fullness of anticipation that
comes to one emancipated from a round of daily worry and abject
commonplaceness, as they reached the top of the flight of steps, up
which Star had been assisting Edith.
Edith looked up into the face of Star with a smile, showing neither hope
nor doubt, but full of that wearying pain that leaves a sore upon the
heart.
"It will be very pleasant, no doubt, Star," returned Edith; "but I am so
weak that I am afraid I cannot enjoy anything. How kind and good you are
to me," and Edith glanced up with tears; "you take so much pains in
comforting me, and wishing for my welfare. I would be lost, dear Star,
if it were not for you--lost--utterly lost," and the poor nerve-wrecked,
distracted little Edith fell into Star's arms through utter exhaustion.
Edith was carried to her room, and restoratives were administered. The
contemplated journey was therefore postponed for a week to await her
recuperation. The weeks passed, and Edith was still no better. Nobody
saw her condition. Nobody quite understood what it was. They were all
blind.
Lying on her bed one day, when the sun was shining, and the fragrance of
the flowers and the songs of the birds came in the open window as a
caressing wave of sympathy, Edith was roused from her unpleasant
meditations by her father, who came in to see her. Sitting down by her
bed, the father took up one hand of his child and petted it, with his
eyes full of the tears of his abiding grief.
"Edith, dear," he said, with his voice full of emotion, "do you think
you can now withstand the trip to the mountains?"
"I think I will be just as well off here, papa," she answered, faintly
and indifferently.
"If you are able, we will go at once, dear," said the father, noticing
how low her spirits were, and wishing to do anything that would tend to
revive them. "I believe a change of air and scenes will do you good. Do
you think you can make the trip?"
"I will try, papa--any place; any place--it makes no difference, papa. I
am so weak all the time, papa, that I am--"
"Don't; don't, Edith, my dear child," he said, with anguish in his kind
heart, and parental remorse on his conscience. "You would not have been
in this state, pet, had you not become so wrought up over that Monroe
affair, I know; and I am to blame for being so blind, so blind--so--"
The father laid his head in his hands on the bed, and wept; and as he
wept, Edith laid her hand upon his head, and smoothed down his ruffled
hair. "Dear, papa," she said, "dear papa, don't cry for me; I will get
better."
"Edith," said her father, raising his head, "I have sent for Mr.
Winthrope to return to my office to become my chief assistant. I expect
him here today, Edith. Shall I have him out for dinner?"
Edith gave a nervous start, and for the first time in days her little
heart beat faster, and a color mounted to her pallid cheeks.
"Do as you like, papa; I shall be glad to see him, if he comes to my
room," answered Edith. "When did you say you would take me to the
mountains?"
"Tomorrow, if you are well enough."
"I will go, papa."
That evening John came, and ate dinner with the family. Instinctively he
felt the great veil of sorrow, of fear, of dread, of worry, of sadness
that brooded over the household. Strong, healthy, handsome, mannerly,
John seemed to have brought a new ray of sunshine with him that was
absent there before. His pleasing conversation, his cheerful smile, his
hearty laugh, his quick wit in repartee flooded every department of the
mansion--even into the cook's chamber, where was sung that evening
love-songs of youth long suppressed by the weighty forebodings of the
coming of the White Horse and his rider.
"Mr. Winthrope," said the bouncing Mrs. Jarney, now less demonstrative
of her spirits by her long siege of fretting, "it seems so natural to
have you here. I told Mr. Jarney just the other day that I wished you
could come out occasionally to see us, for you were always such pleasant
company."
"I don't know whether to take that as a compliment or a pretty piece of
flattery, Mrs. Jarney," responded John. "I am sure, however you mean it,
I shall not be negligent in expressing my thanks to you."
"Compliment, Mr. Winthrope; compliment," returned Mrs. Jarney, with a
sweet deference towards accenting the word compliment. "I never indulge
in flattery with people whom I like--leastwise, I do not care to with
you."
"I feel grateful to you, Mrs. Jarney, and to Mr. Jarney also, for your
kindnesses in my behalf, and friendly consideration of my welfare. The
only manner in which I can express myself, is that you have my sincerest
thanks for your good deeds and kind words," was the way he thanked them.
Mrs. Jarney never lost an opportunity to say a good word for John to her
friends, or to himself. Sometimes he was touched to a modest degree of
bashfulness in her presence by her assertive way of praising him. On
this evening he was more severely tested than ever before by reason of
her motherly familiarity. When he arrived, she was so over-joyed at
seeing him, that she was almost in the act of throwing her arms around
his neck, and weeping, perhaps, as the mother did on the return of her
prodigal son. She, no doubt, would have committed this informal act of
gladness, had it not been that to have accomplished it, she would had to
have stood on a chair, John being so much the taller. But as it was, she
took both his hands in hers in welcoming him, and shook them with such
energy that John was disconcerted for a brief time. Mr. Jarney was just
as profuse in his greeting, but more restrainful in his actions than his
wife. Why all this joyfulness, this gladsomeness, this unusual
cordiality, on their part, John never stopped to consider in any other
form of reason than duty and gratitude.
"You will want to see Edith before you go?" said Star, after the diners
had risen from the table, and as she was walking with him to the drawing
room.
"Of course," replied John, "if she is in condition to see a stranger. I
should not want to leave without seeing her."
"She knows you are here, and is expecting you. Will you go up now?"
asked Star.
"If it is her pleasure, and your wish, I shall go with you," replied
John.
Together Star and John repaired to Edith's room, Star entering first and
John following. Edith lay in her night clothes, with the covers drawn up
well around her throat, her two white hands reposing on the white
spread. She had expected him for the last two hours, and began to be
weary over the long waiting. So when the door opened and Star entered,
she turned her head in time to catch him coming in the door; then as
quickly turned it away, in an attempt to stop the fluttering of her
heart. When he approached her bedside, she extended to him a hand,
which he took, as he sat down on a chair by her side.
"Mr. Winthrope," she said, very low, "I am glad to see you."
John saw that her mind was with her now, and he should act accordingly.
The appalling look of illness was in her face yet, the appealing smile
of hope was in her eyes. He was overcome again. Oh, for that hour of
health for her, when the raptures of a true soul answers to the
responsive note!
"You look so much better, Miss Jarney," said John, the moment of his
recovery over her glad greeting, "than when I saw you last."
"Do I; really, Mr. Winthrope?" she asked, with her eyes illuminating.
"Surely, you are better; I can hope so anyway."
"I was better for some time after you left in March; but lately I have
been gradually growing worse, till now I am in bed again, as you see."
"I plainly see," he said jocularly; "but, if you would get out of here
and into the country somewhere, and get the fresh air and open doors, I
am sure you would improve rapidly?"
"Do you think so?" she asked, withdrawing her hand and folding them both
together, as she turned on her side, facing him.
"Why, nothing would be better," he answered.
"I am going away tomorrow," she said decisively.
"Tomorrow! So soon, and you in bed yet?" he exclaimed.
"My papa insists that I shall have a change of environment at once."
"Can you go? Where will they take you?"
"To the mountains--up somewhere where you live."
"That should make a very enjoyable journey for you, and you should be
benefitted," he said, cheerfully. "I am going home in June, and I shall
hope to find you improved in health by that time. May I anticipate the
pleasure of calling to inquire about your health, Miss Jarney?"
"The pleasure will be mine as well as yours, Mr. Winthrope."
"Then I may call some day?"
"You may, if--" and Edith offered up the daintiest little smile to meet
his glowing looks--"if you will take me and Star to see your mountain
home."
"Oh, I shall be glad to do that. I have got the nicest little sister and
the finest big brother you ever saw, and my mother will cook you such a
rare dinner that I know you will recover soon after eating of it."
"My! I can scarcely wait the time, Mr. Winthrope. I can already taste
that dinner. When will you be there?"
"The first week in June."
"How delightful! I know I shall recover my health, once I get there. How
impatient I am already! Star, is everything packed?"
"Almost, Edith," answered Star.
"We will not want many fine clothes, Star; I am going out to rough it
for awhile. Is it rough up there, Mr. Winthrope?"
"Very--in some places," he answered.
"And you will be up in June?" she asked, now feeling enthusiastic.
"That is my plan, now," he replied, uncertainly.
"You will not let anything interfere, for I want to see your sister, and
I know Star will want to see your brother," she said, with a weak smile
toward Star, who blushed very red at the idea of meeting John's brother.
Edith was by this time worked up to a high state of excitement over the
prospect of the new life she was to lead. John, discerning the bad
effect it had on her, and fearing further complications should he
remain, rose to depart. She raised her hand to bid him good bye. He took
it, touched his lips to her fingers, looked down upon her, and said,
"Good bye."
"Good bye," she said, "till we meet in the mountains. Good bye!"
And John was gone.
The same wild emotions whirled through his soul, as in those other
times, when he was so fraught with the uncertainty of her demeanor
during her night of illusions, as he left the mansion on the hill. The
same musical good bye, he heard echoing from the buzz of the automobile
that wheeled him to the city. The same he heard following him, pursuing
him, pervading him and everything--in the crowds of the streets, under
the lights, in the hotel corridor, in the lobby, in his room; and,
finally, the last he heard singing him to peaceful sleep. But he heard
it now played on a different harp from that which lulled him into sleep
many times before.