Edith and John Part 50

"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 antic.i.p.ation that comes to one emanc.i.p.ated from a round of daily worry and abject commonplaceness, as they reached the top of the flight of steps, up which Star had been a.s.sisting 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 pa.s.sed, and Edith was still no better. n.o.body saw her condition. n.o.body 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 a.s.sistant. 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 a.s.sertive 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 grat.i.tude.

"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.