WHAT THE SPRINGTIME BROUGHT FORTH.
Christmas had come and gone; New Years was here, and passing, and Edith still lay upon her bed. Her face was thin and wan and spiritless. Her form had wasted away till she was almost as a skeleton. Her little hands were fleshless and cold, and her eyes were dull. The malady was in her brain yet, refusing to lift its anchorage, although she saw and recognized everybody permitted in her sight.
John came and went every day, in the late afternoons; and every day he came with the same perplexed feelings. The "good byes" rang in his ears, growing weaker and weaker in their timbreling, from morning unto night—following him everywhere, till he was near crazed himself, in his helplessness, for the sweet one that breathed the "good byes" in his ears. He went up and down and in and out the pathways of his small world, and got no comfort in anything, save what consolation there was in his work, which was meagre now in the sadness of his love-making.
As he would sit by the bed holding her hand in his, tears would roll down his cheeks. She would lie so still, so beautifully transcendent in her weakness, looking at him, and speak so low and so trembling that he could scarce make out her words. Oftentimes he would kneel down and pray for her deliverance from the scourge that lay upon her. Sometimes the sun would break through the clouds and smoke, in its setting, and throw its transient rays upon her face, and he would take it as a good omen; but most often the days were dark, and the light was sombre, like his spirits. Sometimes he would sit by the window, while she slept, watching the snow driving by in its purity, and his mind would revert to the sleeper, whose purity was whiter than the snow. Day after day, he would come full of hope, and depart full of fear; for she was growing worse; and all the inmates of that mansion were in despair. Would she die before she waked? they all would question in their looks, looking at her in her sleep. Would she ever reach the crisis again that once before had given joy? or would she linger on, and finally pass away, without a murmur, like a child?
No one could tell—no one could tell! Still she lingered on, bravely refusing to give up her fluttering spirit.
Sometimes she would brighten up, and talk with Star on her only theme—John—and then relapse into comatose. Often she would ask for him, when he was away, as if he were gone forever, and when he would come would only look, with a faint smile of satisfaction in her face. Sometimes she would raise her hand, and lay it on his, as if she wished to express her love, but could not. "I am so weak—so weak," was her constant plaint, as if weary of the fight she was making. Whenever John was ready to depart, she roused herself to the saying of "Good bye, good bye," and then sleep.
O, what are the pains one must endure, in this life, to keep it going!
Through the days and through the weeks this continued, without an indication that there was any chance. Through the weeks and through the months, the Reaper, with his Scythe, sat outside her chamber door—waiting, waiting; and the angels appeared to hover over her—waiting, waiting—to transport her to their own abode, where she seemed more fittingly to belong.
But he, nor they, never entered that chamber door. For the coming of the birds and the budding of the trees was the magic cure. Her eyes opened up, like a startled violet, in the springtime, as if she had slept, like the violet, through the winter season. The wild rose lodged its colors in her cheeks, after playing with the April winds, and the spirit of the new life overwhelmed her. The little skeleton that she had been for months was transformed into a vitalized being. As she once was, she was again, only more lovely, with the effects of a lingering illness still in its subduing tones.
Sitting by the window, when the birds were singing in the park about her home, she was dreaming of the new world that was opened to her view. It was not the singing birds alone, nor the budding trees, nor the greening grass, nor the blooming cowslips or jonquils that she saw outside rejoicing at the turn of the season, that made her heart rejoice; neither was it returning health alone that brought the glint of the diamond in her eyes, the pulsing flush upon her cheeks, the happier smile to her lips, the sweeter tone to her voice. It was—it was—it was that Love that lights the Soul, and causes even smoke and grime to be dancing gems and pearls.
Sitting by the window, she was dreaming of him, who had gone, and who had said he would return—some day—some day. Oh, that some day is what makes the heart so sore, at the parting; for it is an indefinite time of chance, but still a solace to the craving heart. Edith was dreaming of the last words that John had said before he went away, "May I come to see you some day, now that you are getting well." They kept ringing in her ears as a pleading hope, as "good bye, good bye," still was ringing in his. She was thinking of what she had said, as he was going, "You may come, you may come—yes—yes, you may come," as she still was lying on her bed. And now, in this time of her day-dreaming, she hoped that he had not gone. In dreaming back over the oblivious days, she remembered faintly that he came to her somewhere. Was it in this world that she saw him all the time? or had it been in some other that she saw him? or was it a mere illusion, after all? and he had come at last only to say farewell, as a duty. No; she saw him every day through the long silence of her sleep. It was he; it must have been; and did he know, or think, or believe, that she loved him? He must have known it, she kept dreaming, if that were he that she saw every day. And would he return to meet her love in that Some Day. He would, she kept dreaming; he would.
Sitting by the window, on this the first day of her convalescing period, she saw the smoke and fog roll by; she saw the sun warming everything into life, as the time was stirring her into a loving being again. Star was sitting by her side holding one hand in hers, with faith and hope in her own dear heart.
"You are getting well so fast, dear Edith," said Star, patting her delicate hand.
"I feel new all over, dear Star," said Edith, smiling down upon her dearest friend. "Everything is so bright and so charming outside today, it seems it was made just for me in my recovery. How I wish I could go out upon the lawn and pluck the flowers, and listen to the birds, and even sing myself."
"You may go some day, dear Edith; you may go, and I will be the first to go and lead you the way," replied the constant Star.
"Oh, Star! that some day, some day, always keeps ringing in my ears—I hope it will come," said Edith, with a tear of regret coming down her brightening cheek.
"Do not be despondent, dear," said Star, brushing away Edith's tears.
"I am not despondent, dear," said Edith; "I am happy."
"I thought tears were shed in sorrow, Edith," responded Star, in her innocence.
"I have had no sorrow, dear. My life has been one of happiness; and when I am most happy, I shed tears, sometimes," said Edith.
"Oh, Edith, I know," said Star, with a mischievous look.
"Does he know?" asked Edith, putting her arm around the neck of her friend.
"He must know," answered Star, seriously.
"Tell me all about it, Star—all?" said Edith.
"Since you first took ill?" asked Star.
"Everything—I want to know," said Edith.
"My, Edith! he did so many things, that it might make you blush, did I tell you," said Star, laughing.
"Why! what did he do?" asked Edith, with an inkling that she had not been dreaming all the time.
"Do? Why, Edith! the first thing he did, was to put his arm around you in the cab coming home that night," began Star.
"Why, my faithful Star! Did you permit him to do that?" asked Edith, appearing to be repellent in her tone.
"He couldn't help it, dear; you was as limp as a rag, and he had to hold you up. When we got home, he picked you up, and carried you into this very room, and laid you on your bed."
"My! oh, my, Star! he didn't do that, did he?" exclaimed Edith. "How dreadful!"
"It couldn't be helped," replied the sympathetic Star, as her only explanation.
"Now, I am real mad at you, Star, for permitting such a thing. I would have been real mad at him, too—I would not have permitted it, had I been in my senses," said Edith, affecting anger.
"That is the reason he did it, Edith; you couldn't help yourself; you were not in your senses," said the compromising Star.
"Go on, Star," said Edith, seeing that Star was hesitating about telling her more.
"You called for him every day for a week, Edith, till—"
"—I am a little goose, Star; I always knew I was; now I know it. Did he come?"
"He came; and brought you back to your senses, dear."
"I do now remember seeing him somewhere—sometime—I can't think, Star—where it was—what else?" said Edith, growing nervous.
"He came every day, Edith—every day, after that, and sat by your bed for an hour, and held your hand—"
"—now I know I am a goose for allowing such conduct—no, I am not mad, Star. Did he do that?"
"—and he knelt down and prayed for you, every day, almost, Edith."
"God bless him!" said Edith, as the tears came to her eyes.
"—and you talked to him, Edith, sometimes, and always asked him to come again—"
"—I must have been out of my head."
"Don't you remember it, Edith—any of it, at all?"
"I have a faint recollection of something, which I cannot clearly make out—I know—I know, Star. It has possessed me ever since I saw him—I am not provoked at anything he did, Star."
"But, Edith; Edith, listen," said Star, in an admonishing tone; "he came as a matter of duty, believing it was an hallucination of yours."
"He will forgive me, then," returned Edith, with calm resignation, "if I did or said anything unbecoming a lady, who—who—oh, Star, I cannot believe that I did anything wrong, do you? If he never knows, I will keep my secret, and you will help me in my troubled heart, will you not, dear?"
"He loves you, Edith."
"Dear Star," said Edith, as she threw both arms around her friend's neck; "does he? Does he? Are you sure?"
"I am sure, Edith," said Star, kissing Edith. "He told me as much."
"That was not kind in him; he should tell me first," said Edith, pensively.
"But he told me not to tell," replied Star, regretfully; "and he said he never expected to claim your hand—"
"Why? My riches will not be in the way," she said, as she began to cry.
"That is why, Edith," said Star, consolingly. "He said he could not hope to meet you on the same level—"
"Money!" exclaimed Edith.
"Money," replied Star, very low; "he hasn't any."
"That is why I love him, Star; and because he is better than any man I have ever seen, except, perhaps, my father. This is one of the greatest troubles the daughters of the rich have—the finding of a good young man among them; and the good young men who are poor are too self-conscious to seek us."
"But he has asked to come again, Edith," said Star, hopefully.
"Some day—some day," sighed Edith, looking out the window. Then: "I wish I had never seen—no, no; that is not what I mean. Had I never seen him, I would not have this pain, the pain of uncertainty, in my heart. Awhile ago I was very happy; but now I feel like lying down in the bed again, and remaining there till—oh, I wish he would come, and I—no, I could not do that; he must find it out, if he is ever to know. I will get well first, Star, and then we will take up the work, Star, I had planned before I became ill; and work to do some good in the world. I am feeling very weak, Star. This has been too much for me; will you assist me to my bed. Oh, Star, I am sorry—sorry for it all. You do not know, dear Star. You will not know till some good man comes along and strikes a responsive chord in your heart—you will not know, Star, till then. Help me to bed, and let me rest."
Sitting by her bedside, Star heard, for the first time, the story that Edith promised to tell her that day when she first came into Edith's life. After lying down, Edith was more calm, and was still in the mood to continue her confidential talk with Star.
"Star, do you know that you are my cousin?" asked Edith.
"Cousin!" exclaimed Star, as if she did not understand.
"Yes, Star; cousin! Your mother is a first cousin to my father; but I never knew it till about the time I sent for you."
Star leant over and kissed Edith, and drew her face up till their cheeks touched.
"Edith," whispered Star, "you are an angel," and then released her, and assumed a kneeling position, while Edith continued:
"I saw you one day, Star, when I was with my father on a mission of mercy in the poor districts of the South Side. When first I saw you, you were on your knees scrubbing the floor—at that place where you worked. I saw your face, and fell in love with you as soon as I saw you, for I knew that you were good. I told papa that it was a pity for a beautiful girl like you to be doing that kind of drudgery, when he said that we could, perhaps, get you a better place. We asked you your name, if you remember—"
"I remember," said Star.
"—and when you said it was Star Barton, papa gave such a turn to his countenance that I thought it meant something that he had concealed from us at home. So when we came home I asked him what he meant, and he told me then who you were; and he told me who your father and mother were; and how they, when young, ran away from home and were married. I sent my maid, Sarah Devore, to search you out, telling her who you were, and have you come to this place in search of a position as a domestic, for fear that if I told you the truth you would be too proud to work for your rich relations. You came, as you know how, and when I saw you again, I fell in love with you. First, I wanted you to be my maid; but my pride of you was too great to make you anything but my equal in this house. So you see, instead of being my maid, you have been my faithful companion—and nurse. Dear Star, I love you, and if you will always remain with me, I shall be the happiest person on earth."
"Dear Edith," said Star, with tears of gratitude in her eyes, "I knew you were good when first I beheld you; but I never knew that such goodness could be in any kinsman of mine. I never told you of the life I lived; I never told you how we lived at home; I never told you of my father or my mother. For it always gave me grief to think of it. Poor father is dead!"
"Dead!" said Edith.
"Yes; died last December; and my mother has married Peter Dieman, who courted her—"
"Dieman!"
"Yes; the junkman. They live in one of the finest places in the East End. I am sorry, very sorry, that my father died, as he was the only father I shall ever know; but I am glad that my mother has married again. When you get well, I shall take you out to see her, and you can see how she now lives. I never was ashamed of my parents, Edith, never. I did all I could for them, in my simple way, and would do it again, if called upon to do it. After you took ill, I carried out your wish, and, with Mr. Winthrope, went to our home and fitted it out decently for my mother and the children. My mother was always sad and brooded over her troubles, and had no heart for anything. Poor mother! I am glad that she has married again."
Star cried in remembrance of it all; for her heart was good. Even dear Edith could not help but shed a tear. And they sobbed on each other's breast over sorrows that had passed.
Then, brushing away their tears, and laughing over their tender-heartedness, they resumed their talk.
"Edith," said Star, "I must confess that I marveled at your actions. I could not resist you, though. I cannot see how anybody can. It seemed strange to me that any one so good and rich as you should light upon me, and make me your companion. Yes, I marveled at it. Now, I know it is not strange. I love you, dear Edith, and shall never leave you, unless—"
"Unless what?" asked Edith, smiling.
"—he should come to claim you."
"He shall never know from me, dear Star; that would not be womanly—why, yes, you dear, you had to go and tell him. But will he ever see the true light burning—burning for him?"
"He shall, if I ever see him again; or I shall write," said Star, teasingly, still with her eyes red from crying over recollections.
"You must not, Star; I could not forgive you—oh, yes, Star, I would forgive you anything—but not that," said Edith, concealing and revealing her true feelings at the same time. "What do you think papa would say, if he knew my love for him?" asked Edith. "Oh, I dread the time he hears of it! And my mamma? but she will be with me, I know, for she has told me that she likes him."
"She suspects something of the kind, Edith," said Star. "She asked you once just after Mr. Winthrope was here the first time; but she did not pursue the question. She believes it now."
"Star, I shall get well; that is my first duty, now that I am this far on toward recovery. I shall get well, Star, and you and I shall go—go—go—"
"Where. Edith?" asked Star, seeing her hesitancy in saying what she wanted to reveal.
"—to do missionary work among the poor."
True love comes but once in life to the pure in heart. Were we all as pure in heart as Edith, mankind's tribulations might be less irksome.