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.