John Winthrope was sitting by his inelegant little table, and was reading, by the dim gas light, a new text book on modern business methods, and feeling perfectly contented and extremely happy over his prospects for the future, when there came three distinct and quickly repeated knocks at his door. The knocks were made apparently by a person impatient to gain admission. John dropped his book; ran to the door to ascertain the cause of the alarm, so significantly given, and threw it wide open. A messenger of the telephone company, standing in the hallway, handed him a message, and with it the additional information that he (the messenger) was to await an answer. Nervously John tore open the envelope, took out the contents, and read, with considerable trepidation, the following, dated eight p. m.:
"Come at once to my Highland avenue residence. Hiram Jarney."
Without taking time to think or meditate for a fractional part of a second over the call, John hastily wrote out the following: "Will be on hand as soon as possible," and gave it to the messenger, with the instruction to dispatch it immediately upon arrival at the office.
He then began grooming himself for the journey, so suddenly called upon to undertake. He could not conceive the urgent necessity of the summons, except in the light of his position as a servitor of Hiram Jarney, who, he thought, might have very important matters to look after that night. He pondered confusedly, while dressing, over what the business might be that required attention so promptly, and at that late hour of the day. He had never been called on such a mission before; nor had he been instructed that he would, at any time, be requested to go to Mr. Jarney's home on business.
As he always dressed neatly and looked very tidy while on duty in the office, he deemed it advisable, on such an occasion, to don his best Sunday suit; for he did not know but that some fortuitous event might occur to take him into the presence of the young ladies, who had that day made such an impression on him. So in less than a half hour he was prepared to start, and in fifteen minutes more, so speedily did the taxicab travel with him inside, he was pulling at the ring in the bull's nose at the Jarney front door. He had noticed, on ascending the high front steps leading to the great piazza of the mansion, that people were moving about in the interior as if everybody and everything was in commotion; and this puzzled him. No sooner had he given the alarm, however, than the door flew open, and he saw a brazen man standing like a statue before him. It was evident that he was expected, for the flunkey, after receiving his card, passed him in without ceremony, and without relieving him of his coat or hat.
He now saw, at a glance, that something out of the common had happened. The maids and waiters were rushing about excitedly, and Mr. Jarney was pacing the floor with nervous movements; and the little bouncing lady, all in pink, was ringing her hands and crying. On seeing John, Mr. Jarney rushed up to him, with the tension gone from his nerves, and grasped him by the hand, saying:
"Mr. Winthrope, I am glad you have come—something has happened my daughter and Miss Barton. They have not been seen since leaving the office this afternoon."
John gasped.
"What can I do to aid you, Mr. Jarney?" he asked. "I am glad to be of any service my help will avail."
"I do not know what has occurred to cause them to disappear so mysteriously," answered Mr. Jarney. "We must find them, if possible, this night."
"Have you notified the police?" asked John, believing, like many people, that these hawkashaws of the law readily knew how to solve any kind of a mystery.
"I have already informed the police—miserable service we have—some two hours ago, and no tidings have they found," he replied, as he again took up his nervous walk, leaving Mrs. Jarney to talk with John.
"No clue?" asked John.
"None whatever," said Mr. Jarney, turning again to him.
"It is strange," said John. "Where is the chauffeur?"
"Why, that rascal was off his seat, and a stranger is supposed to have driven the car away," replied Mr. Jarney. "Beg your pardon, Mr. Winthrope, in my distraction I have so far forgotten myself to fail to introduce you to Mrs. Jarney." This formality being then dispensed with, although John had already struck up a conversation with that lady, Mr. Jarney said. "Mr. Winthrope, I have called you here to lead a searching party for their recovery."
"Oh, Mr. Winthrope," wailed the little lady; "I hope you can find them this night."
Just then a maid came rushing in with the information that Mr. Jarney was expressly wanted at the telephone.
"It has been ringing all evening, and to no purpose," said Mr. Jarney, impatiently; "answer it."
The maid retreated; but in a moment she returned again with the further information that a lady was at the other end of the line, and wanted especially to see Mr. Jarney, as the maid put it.
Mr. Jarney begged John to accompany him to the phone room of his residence, and, when the former took down the receiver, he made the following replies to the voice at the other end:
"Hello! This is Mr. Jarney!"
"Yes; this is he."
"Talk louder?"
"Talk louder?"
"I can't hear yet!"
"Who is this?"
"Ed-d-Edith?"
"God bless us!"
"Where are you?"
"At Millvale? Good gracious!"
"What the deuce are you doing there?"
"You were!"
"You did?"
"Ah, she is safe?"
"He is dead! Who is dead?"
"Mike Barton?"
"Killed! Accident!"
"Farmer brought you to Millvale, eh?"
"Coming in on the street cars, did you say?"
"I'll send Mr. Winthrope in a taxicab for you."
"Yes, he is here."
"Yes; he came out to direct a search for you."
"Wouldn't know where to look for you?"
"Never could have found you?"
"You wait there till he arrives."
"Well; I thought you would be glad."
"Do with the body?"
"Leave it there, of course."
"Yes; he will come at once."
"Good bye!"
Putting up the receiver to disconnect the phone, Mr. Jarney called up the main office of the taxicab company, and ordered a cab post haste to his residence. Then turning to John, he said:
"It is very strange; very strange! Miss Barton's brother was killed in an accident with my machine! Very strange, indeed."
John took the answer to the voice at the other end of the phone to mean a peremptory command for him to go; still he thought his services were not now particularly needed to conduct the lost ones home. Mr. Jarney simply wanted him to go and act as their body guard on this momentous night. John would have been glad of the opportunity to thank him for the new trust imposed in him had Mr. Jarney asked him to go; but as he did not make a request for his services, but a command instead, he took it to mean that he was to comply implicitly, as any faithful servant would have complied.
When the taxicab arrived, and after John had been admonished repeatedly as to how to proceed, and loaded down with wraps and robes and other things, he made his exit and went upon his mission.
Arriving at Millvale without incident, but feeling very much concerned as to how he should conduct himself with his charges, he found Edith and Star both laboring under great mental and physical strain, as a consequence of their experiences, with Star at that moment the worse of the two, by reason of the tragic ending of her brother. Both young ladies were bedraggled. Their fine clothes were bespattered with mud and their shoes soaked with water. They trembled from the strain, and shook from the cold. But John could do nothing at that hour to give them relief, except to wrap them up in blankets and bundle them into the cab; which he did with much tenderness and courteous behavior toward each, slighting neither in any little attention that would tend to their immediate comfort. Then, after giving orders for the disposition of the body of Mike Barton, he seated himself within the cab, and they were directly speeding homeward.
On the way, Edith related to John, with many a break in her story, of all that had befallen them since leaving the office that afternoon.
"A very sad ending, indeed, for you, Miss Barton," said John, after Edith had concluded.
Star was not of an emotional nature, consequently she bore up under the ordeal with great fortitude. She felt very sad; naturally, very sad.
"It is a miracle that we both were not killed," said Edith. "The car was left a total wreck by the roadside. It struck a telegraph pole in making a turn, and Star was struck unconscious, while I was thrown to the road. Star's brother was thrown at least forty feet away, so terrific was his driving."
"What impelled him to such a trick, do you suppose?" asked John.
"I cannot fathom his motive," answered Edith. "Nor I," said Star. "Poor boy!"
"Perhaps he was unawares of whom you were," suggested John; "and was out for a lark to give some one a scare."
"Poor boy!" said Star. "I will forgive him."
"Oh—my—I am so dizzy!" suddenly exclaimed Edith. "I do not know whether it is this car or my head that is whirling round so. Oh, o—o!"
She was sliding forward on her seat, and her head was falling to one side. She sighed. "Oh—o—o!" she uttered. Sighed; then was quiet.
In the darkness of the cab John could not discern her movements plainly; but he knew, by her heavy breathing, that something was wrong with her. Star being in a very distressed condition herself, failed to understand or comprehend the suffering signs of Edith; so John, noting all these things, lent his personal attentions to Edith, who was just then in a mortal state of suspended animation.
John was very careful that he did not make himself promiscuous in either one's behalf, except when the most imminent danger was confronting them. By the reflected lights of the streets, as they were whirled along, John caught a glimpse of Edith, and was not slow to see that she was in need of care from some source. He therefore caught her by the arms, just as she was senselessly keeling over, and raised her to a sitting posture. As he lifted her up, her head fell to one side; but in a moment she roused herself and attempted to sit up straight. In another moment she lapsed unconscious, and limply declined into helplessness.
At first, John placed her head on the cushion in the corner of the cab. Seeing this position made her look uncomfortable, he then put an arm around her, and laid her head upon his shoulder. Thus they rode for a brief time. Then he lifted up one of her gloved hands. Finding it wet and cold, with Star's assistance he removed the gloves. After having chafed her hands, and rubbing them together to start up a circulation brisker than appeared to be natural, he drew his own heavy gloves over her quivering fingers. After which Star removed Edith's shoes and stockings, and rubbed her cold damp feet, and wrapped a blanket around them. Shortly her blood resumed a freer circulation, and she roused herself, faintly asking where she was.
"We are on our way to your home," answered John, removing his arm from around her.
He acted voluntarily in this matter, always having the fear upon him that what he might be then doing for her would appear to be impertinent. But she was growing more serious, and in spite of his desire to withdraw his arm from her support, he was compelled to hold her more firmly than before. She was now breathing heavily and her hot breath he could feel in his face as her head lay on his shoulder. She was like a child, and was beginning to mumble, and mutter inarticulate words, disconnected in their sequence, none of which could he form into intelligible sentences—except the two words, "Papa and mamma." Once he thought she was trying to say "Mr. Winthrope"; but he could not exactly tell. This troubled him some now, for his only thoughts toward her were of dutiful respect in this her hour of great trouble.
They arrived home at last, with Edith still in a comatose state, and breathing like one entering into the dreadful sickness of pneumonia. She was hot and feverish. Her hands twitched nervously. She was muttering incoherently, but not ravingly.
When the cab rolled up the driveway to the side entrance of the mansion, John lifted Edith up in his arms, and, bidding Miss Barton to collect their effects together and follow, went into the brilliantly lighted hall. He was about to hand her over to her parents, but, by their direction, he continued, silently, with the father and mother, maids and physician coming after him, to her own room, and there he laid her down upon her bed.
As he released her, he gave one longing look at her pretty white face; and trusted, in his heart of hearts, that her parents would tenderly care for her, and fetch her back to life and health. Then, bidding them a whispered adieu, he departed for his own simple abode, with some lingering regrets that he could not have stayed by her bedside and nursed her through her illness.
Peter Dieman was happier than usual one morning, if he could ever be called happy by any possibility of reading such a state of feeling in his otherwise perverse and irascible countenance.
Happy! Well, Peter was never more happy in all his born days; but what the extent of that emotion might become in his after life was hard to predict at that time. Whenever he was in good humor, it was his never failing custom to puff at his pipe like a locomotive getting off a dead-center, and to rub his hands with less expenditure of energy, and to squint his eyes with less vigor, and to shut his mouth with less desire to keep it closed. In fact, on such rare occasions, it might be said of him that he was in his subconscious region of retroflection, one peculiarly of his own conception.
The cause of all his good humor was nothing more nor less than the refreshing information, imparted to him the day before by Jim Dalls, i. e., that Jim Dalls had decided to go to Europe. Ever since this enlightening piece of intelligence broke in upon the deepness of Peter's outward density of intellect, that gentleman was in a high fever of unemotional genuflexion. Why, mortal man! Peter sat in his chair all that night offering up his devotion to the Gods that They might be propitiated for Their timely intervention. And betimes eating cheese and crackers, and drinking beer, and surfeiting the air with the delicious fumes of his strong pipe. He was, as it were, riding on the back of Alborak into the Seventh Heaven of satisfaction.
Not only did he offer up devotion to his Deity, but to other people's Deity as well. Oh, ah, he would think often, but never utter; it being merely his manner of getting rid of superfluous enthusiasm. And his oh, ah's extended on through the night, mixed with cheese, crackers, beer and smoke, to the hour of nine o'clock in the forenoon, at which time he suddenly aroused himself to the position of the hands on the dial of the dollar-clock that hung above his desk, where he could always keep his eyes on its horological exactness.
Having noted the time, Eli, after having opened the shop without the least interference with his master's meditations, was summarily summoned into the august presence of Peter through the tintinnabulating medium of a large iron spike applied to a piece of sounding brass suspended by a string from the ceiling on the right hand of his chair. Eli came to attention, with the alertness of an orderly, before Peter, and waited to be commanded.
"Call up 206070-m and tell him to come to my office by 9:45 sharp," said Peter in a less tragic tone than he had been used to in hurling his commands at Eli.
"Yes, sir," said Eli, departing. Directly he returned, stood attention, and said: "He will be here."
"Ha! Good!" cried Peter. "Go to work, you lazy scamp." The last to Eli.
Peter sat still and mused on in the same barbarous manner, with only one change in the program of his devotions, and that was, that since 7:30 o'clock he had kept his face close to the peephole that gave him a view into his store, and upon Eli's performances.
With his sharp little eyes he saw the store, with all its junk and jumble; he saw poor imbecilic Eli skipping about with undying devotion in his heart; but his devotion was to serve his master, and serve him well he did. Verily, he saw everything within the store, almost; at least what he did not see, he knew of, as if his eyes were optical divining rods. And he saw also beyond the confines of the four walls that bound him about during his personifying period of the devil:—He saw his henchmen going here and there, like earth-worms, through the devious passages of the dark and dangerous undermining of the civic welfare; he saw the policemen on their beats, wielding their maces, as if he had as many hands as there were officers, and doing the execution thereof himself; he saw the aldermanic bodies sitting in grave deliberation on important or unimportant questions, knowing well himself what their action might be on anything out of the purely routine order; he saw the fawning sycophants, with their justifiable tale of complaint, being brushed aside by the higher hands; he saw the givers of tribute paying into the coffers of the system the doubloons of unwholesome preferment; he saw special privilege unsatisfied, always; he saw the needy come up with their last dollar out of the depths of their nefarious haunts and lay it at the feet of the King of Graft; he saw the glow-worms of society in a trail of phosphorescent splendor making the welkin ring with the hallelujahs of their perfections; he saw the merchant, the lawyer, the doctor, the craftsman, the civic officer, the banker, the broker, the justice, the bailiff, the warden—all he saw bending to the power of the system in all its ramifying debasement.
Aye, aye, he saw, too, the danger of it all to that system; to himself, to his friends, and to those who sat above him on the high throne erected to the debauchment of popular government, should Jim Dalls not be removed to some other ruler's domains. And Jim must go; and he must remain away; and all those of his present tendencies must go, and they, too, must remain away, if money was all that were needed to that end.
While Peter was reflecting on all these things, there came into view in the store, the short stalky form of a man past middle life. He walked with a business air in his every movement directly into the presence of Eli, to whom he gave the pass, which was 206070-m, and then continued through the alleyways of junk to the black hole in the rear occupied by Peter. Arriving at the door, he stepped inside, took off his hat, and sat down, sniffing with some annoyance at the foul atmosphere.
"Now, what is the game?" he asked Peter.
"I want ten thousand by ten o'clock," replied Peter, without any ceremonious introduction of the question.
"That's mighty short notice, I must say, Peter," replied the man.
"Fifteen minutes is time enough to rob any man or institution," answered Peter.
"The pull on our purse strings is very great at present," said the man.
"Cut the strings," retorted Peter.
"Cut them, you all say; but that won't preserve enough to pay the fiddlers," responded the man.
"Fiddlers be damned," roared Peter; "we must get Jim Dalls out of the country."
"Is he wanting to squeal?" asked the man, with upraised eyebrows.
"He is ready," answered Peter.
"Can't he be staved off by bluff?" asked the man.
"He's best in Europe."
"Is he going there?"
"He's going."
"When?" asked the man, bluntly.
"Get the money, and buy a ticket also."
"Why, Peter, it will take a little more time than you have given to complete the transaction."
"You may have till 10:30 to fix it up."
"I will return at that time with the amount," said the man, reflectively.
The man was rising to pass out, when the tall figure of Jim Dalls entered. The latter halted, and stood a moment gazing at Peter and the man, with a contemptuous smile breaking up his smooth features.
"Well, Jacob Cobb, you here?" he asked, with some asperity in his voice.
"Who else do you see, Jim Dalls, I would like to know, besides we three?" asked Jacob, for that is whom the man proved to be, and who was known to Peter only as 206070-m; and to his henchmen as the same.
"You fellows are not turning a trick on me?" asked Jim Dalls, with suspicion.
"We will be only too glad to get rid of you," answered Peter.
"And see you safely out of the country," joined Cobb.
"I think I should have more money," remarked Jim; "ten thousand won't last long in Europe, where you have to bribe every sonofagun who looks at you; it's worse than Pittsburgh."
"How much more?" asked Peter, in alarm.
"Twenty thousand ought to be sufficient," answered Jim.
"Bring three tickets, Cobb, reading from Pittsburgh to Paris, and twenty thousand," said Peter. "And that's the last sou I'll give you, you cur."
"Don't be too sure, Peter; I may ask for ten thousand more," said Jim, independently.
"You won't get it," barked Peter. "Get the tickets and the money, Cobb."
Jacob Cobb forthwith departed, going direct to a vault in one of the big banking institutions. Procuring the money, he purchased three tickets for Jim Jones and wife and daughter. Returning with the tickets in his pocket, and the money safely lodged in the depths of an immense sack, he hiked it, with expeditious tread, to The Die; and thereat turned the sack, with its valuable contents, over to the lamentable Eli for secret delivery.
In the office. Jacob Cobb confronted Jim Dalls with the three tickets, which that gentleman refused, at first, to accept without the accompanying "dough;" but being informed that that little feature of the transaction would be consummated through the faithful Eli, Jim returned to the store to be further set upon by more mysterious signs of secrecy as to the source of the money.
On entering the store, Jacob threw the sack, with all its preciousness, under a bundle of other similar sacks, and told Eli to offer it for sale to the man in the office, who would, in a moment, be along to make a purchase in that article of usefulness. So when Eli saw Jim Dalls approaching, not then being busy himself, he casually withdrew the sack, and laid it upon a table, and asked him if he did not want to purchase it. Only ten cents, he said, was asked for it. Didn't he want it in his line of business, whatever that might be? Jim caught the cue, of course, and paid the ten cents without protest. After obtaining it, he returned to the office.
"Good bye, Peter; good bye, Jacob," he said, extending his hand. "I'll be off this very day; but, remember, if I should run short in touring Europe, I expect more help from you two."
"You dog!" howled Peter.
"Ah! you may 'you dog' all you want to now; I have you where I want you. I will see that as long as you fellows play the game, I am properly cared for—so long, gentlemen."
With these parting remarks, Jim Dalls took his leave; and in another twenty-four hours had vanished from his beaten tracks in the city that knew him so well. A newspaper announcement said that he had gone to Europe for his health.
Alter Jim Dalls left that day, the implacable Peter turned upon Jacob Cobb and said:
"We must raise the levy."
"It's already reaching the high tide mark," said Jacob.
"We will let her reach it; then we will let her ebb, after this sum is raised," said Peter, rubbing his hands.
"But we may be drowned in the flow before it turns," answered Jacob, with emphasis on the may.
"Let her drown," replied Peter, resolutely.
"We'll go down in the wreck, if we get too reckless," said Jacob, fearfully.
"Who cares?" responded Peter, inexorably.
"I care," said Jacob, with some humility.
"I don't," said the dogmatic Peter.
"But I have daughters and a son," protested Jacob.
"No more than lots of other men," replied the angry Peter, rubbing excitedly.
"But look at the difference?" now pleaded Jacob.
"There isn't any," snapped Peter.
"Do you infer, Peter, that you will play false, too?" asked Jacob, seized with the impression that his fellow grafters would desert him.
"I infer nothing; I act," said Peter, turning to look out his place of espial.
"You think you are safe?" said Jacob.
"I think nothing; I act. If I fail, I fail, and don't cry!" he shouted.
"You are exasperating, Peter; come, now, let's get down to business—what will we raise it on first?" asked Jacob.
"On every resort in town; I'll send word tonight to my entire force to press on the screws," answered Peter.
"Good!" exclaimed Jacob, now in full accord with Peter's views.
"Have you seen Monroe?" asked Peter, now turning to a new subject.
"Had a talk with him yesterday."
"What did he say?"
"Said he was with us still."
"Can he be trusted?"
"Without a doubt."
"Does Jarney know of his connection with us?"
"No."
"Jarney, the goody-goody, must be made to pay for big knocking."
"Monroe has been detailed to work on him," said Jacob.
"And you can trust to Monroe for that?" asked Peter.
"I believe we can; but he is handicapped now by the firing of Jarney's old reliable secretary."
"He's been fired? Who has he now?"
"A young country bumpkin."
"Can't you get him in your ranks?" asked Peter.
"I fear not," replied Jacob, with a shake of the head. "He's been approached, and seems to be as susceptible as a cow."
"Ah, we must get rid of him, some way—get him out of Monroe's way."
"That's what Monroe will attempt to do," said Jacob.
"Can he do it?" asked Peter, squinting.
"If he's slick enough, he can; nobody else can get so near the scene of operation like Monroe."
"How's Jarney's adopted daughter coming on in society?" asked Peter, with a faint attempt at smiling.
"Fine, I hear," answered Jacob, rising in his chair, and turning around with his back to Peter.
"That's a funny piece of business on Jarney's part," said Peter, puffing very hard at his pipe.
"His daughter took a fancy to her, on seeing her one day while slumming on the South Side, and she's trying to make a lady of her," said Jacob, sitting down again, after throwing away the stump of a cigar.
"Can she do it?" asked Peter, with considerable interest.
"She's doing it," responded Jacob, who noticed the change of Peter's interest, which was now of the kindly kind.
"God bless her!" exclaimed Peter, as he turned again to his ever present peephole expression.
"Mike Barton's dead," said Jacob, slowly.
"The devil!" shouted Peter, turning from his peephole.
"Yes; didn't you hear of it?"
"No. How?"
"Automobile accident."
"There are others to take his place," said Peter, grunting like a satisfied pig after eating heartily. "How did it happen?"
"Stole Jarney's auto, with the two young ladies in it; run it like h—— to the country, to kidnap them, I suppose; ran into a telegraph pole—busted the machine, and busted his head."
"Poor wretch! I am glad he is gone, for his sister's sake," said Peter, sighing, which he could do sometimes.
"Ah, I see you are very compassionate for the girl all at once," said Jacob, eyeing Peter.
"I have reasons to be," replied Peter, spiritedly. "Were the girls hurt?"
"No; but Edith Jarney is very ill—."
"Very ill! What?" interrupted Peter.
"Brain fever, she's got."
"Ah, she is too good to live," said Peter, looking out his peephole again. Then turning quickly, with his peculiar little eyes turned up sidewise at Jacob, he said: "Say, Jacob, we must put our sleuths on the trail of that old drunkard, Billy Barton. He has been gone a long time, and not a single word from him."
"What do you want with the sot?" asked Jacob, mystified. "He's no good."
"That's my business—poor Billy," and Peter lapsed into a moody spell, for sometimes he seemed to have a little of the feelings of a natural heart; but this quality in him was as rare as the air on Pike's Peak. "His family must be cared for."
"Jarney's doing that," answered Jacob.
"Is he?" jerked out Peter, wrathfully. "I'll not allow it from him, the interloper!"
"You are getting generous all at once, Peter; I should not begrudge him the privilege."
"Well, then, I don't," replied Peter, after a moment's reflection. "Let him keep them; he owes it to them."
"It is time for me to be at my office, Peter; so good bye," said Jacob, rising to leave.
"Remember Monroe," said Peter.
"Oh, I'll see to that," said Jacob, as he went out.
So are the "ropes" laid, as per the rule of things, to further the ends of the men who neither toil nor spin. Were the dear people less disposed to supine indifference toward their public officials, the government of our country would be as perfect, no doubt, as that of the fabled Utopia.
The morbidly silent Monroe went about his duties with the serenity of a cat out on a dark night. The immobility of his starched face left no impression on the beholder of it as to whether he could be successfully punctured with the light of pleasantry. His feline movements from office to office among the clerical force cast an uncanny glamour over them all; and when not in the act of always appearing to be ready to make a spring upon them, as he glided whisperingly through the aisles of desks and high stands, he would be sitting at his own desk, in a corner of his private room, scanning sheet after sheet of reports and balances, and running over leaf after leaf of notations that had been left on his spindle for his especial perusal.
He was a very precise man, very accurate, very painstaking. He was a very obdurate man, very exacting, very positive. He was a very efficient man, very dependable, very obliging. He was a very incomprehensible man, very calculating, very mysterious. And besides, he was by nature very crafty, revengeful and egotistic. None of which traits could be read in his marble-like physiognomy; but they had to be worked out, to see them plainly, by a system of watching, and close scrutiny of his acts. He had risen in the office force from the bottom, and held his present post by right of apparent merit.
No one under him, or above, for that matter, ever dreamed that behind his iron mask lay another man, unscrupulous and unfaithful. No one ever thought of him but that he was honest, upright and beyond reproach. No one ever thought of him being a depraved man, as being licentious, as being impure in thought and actions; because all these things were hidden under his bushel of contrarieties.
At his desk, Mr. Monroe always worked with dispatch in disposing of the matters that daily came before him; and rarely could he be approached, except by the carrier of messages, or by an important personage, and then by announcement—except the head of the firm, who, of course, had free access to his room.
He was sitting, one day, enveloped in a great pile of work, when it was announced that Mr. Winthrope, the secretary, desired an audience with him. The secretary was admitted; but he was not asked to sit down. He stood before him in his own power; and he drew his own conclusions. But he said:
"Mr. Monroe, do you have at hand the balance sheet of last month?"
"I can get it," he answered, automatically.
"Mr. Jarney desires to go over it again," said John.
Mr. Monroe procured the sheet, and stiffly handed it to John, with one of his stony stares. John took the sheet and left him. When he reached the door, going out, he turned and caught the stolid face of Monroe still upon him. Neither said a word. John went out. Mr. Monroe pressed a button. A short, heavy set, square shouldered man, with green eyes, answered the button's call. He was Welty Morne, the head of the bookkeeping department.
"Welty," said Monroe, familiarly, "do you ever see the secretary after work hours?"
"No."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"At The King House, Diamond alley."
"He is never out at night, is he?"
"I have never seen him."
"He never associates with the boys, does he?"
"He seems to be a seclusive chap," said Welty.
"Yes; and very selfish," said Monroe, quietly. "Does he spend any money?"
"Have no way of knowing—except, perhaps, he pays his board and rent."
"Let us call on him tonight, and initiate him; will you?"
"I should like a little outing in this disagreeable weather, and will be happy to join you," replied Welty, with his green eyes beaming in anticipation of a lark.
"Will you call at my place at nine p. m.?"
"I will—whee-e-e!"
Welty Morne retires. The button is pressed again. Bate Yenger, assistant to the head bookkeeper, enters. He sits down, and looks indolent. He is a slim chap, with a fair face and black eyes, which show indications of night-hawking.
"Bate," said the impressionless Monroe, "have you met the new secretary after work hours?"
"Have not."
"Know anything of his habits?"
"Nothing."
"Do you want to go on a lark tonight?"
"Wouldn't mind it."
"Then come to my place at nine p. m."
Bate Yenger disappears. Monroe resumes his work. John returns the balance sheet, and hands it to Monroe. Monroe takes it, and scans it over. He sees some check-marks upon it. He folds it up, and puts it away. John remains a moment, as if he would like to speak to Monroe; but Monroe does not speak. John, then, goes out.
Promptly on the hour of nine p. m., Welty Morne and his boon companion, Bate Yenger, called at the apartments of Mr. Monroe at the St. Charles. That chunk of stiffness they found was ready, and together the three fared forth for a night of rounding.
They called upon John Winthrope in his dingy quarters—a hideous contrast, they thought, to their own bright and luxurious living places. John was surprised, of course, to see them. Would he go out with them? Whither? For sight-seeing.
John looked at his open books and papers on his little table, glanced down at himself, half inclined to accept; but very perplexed about it. He hesitated, and then asked them into his room. They entered, but did not sit down, as there was only one chair, which later was preempted by Welty.
"Why don't you get decent quarters, Mr. Winthrope?" asked Welty, who was a lively and a very talkative fellow.
"Cannot afford it," answered John.
"Oh, bosh! You receive as much, and more, than many of the other young men in our office, and the way they fly one would think they were millionaires' sons," replied Welty.
"I have a mother and father to assist," said John.
"Won't you go tonight; we will pay the way," insisted the persuasive Welty.
John still hesitated. He pondered a moment, and then replied: "No, thank you; I do not care to go."
"Just tonight, Mr. Winthrope; three is a company, and four is a crowd," pursued Welty.
"I thank you very much, Mr. Morne; but really, now, I do not care to go," persisted John.
During this ineffectual conversation, Monroe stood leaning against the door as passive as a tombstone, with Bate Yenger leaning awkwardly against the wall near him, looking as vapid as a snake in winter time. Welty was disconcerted, disappointed, and aggravated. At John's last remark, he tried to hide his displeasure of it beneath a subtle smile that was a cross between sarcasm and disgust. John sat on the edge of his bed in a thoughtless mood, chewing the end of a tooth-pick. All four were silent for an uncomfortable period of time. Then Welty broke the spell.
"So you won't join us?" he asked.
"No; thank you; I do not care to go," answered John.
"Ah, he is not so easy as I thought," said Monroe to himself.
Silence followed. John sat still, masticating his tooth-pick, being little concerned as to how they took his answer. He wanted to be curt to them, by demeanor; and wished they would depart. For reasons of his own, which he considered private, as far as he was concerned, he did not desire their company under any circumstances. Therefore, while he aimed always to be polite to the triumvirate schemers, he would rather show himself to be a boor than to have them about him.
So, disgusted with John's susceptibility to fall into their trap, and displeased at their own lack of tact, the three gentlemen went rattling down the stairs, and out into the street.
"He's a Sunday-schooler, all right," said Welty, as they lined up side by side, with Monroe in between, to go down the avenue.
"Aw, a cheap skate," said Bate.
After Monroe began to realize the abject failure of his scheme, and after the words of the other gentlemen had percolated through his adamantine head, he remarked, in reply to each of the other's opinion, that Winthrope was a sissy, which application, it is readily seen, was not well placed; then he said: "He is an impeccable good-for-nothing. He needs to be shown a thing or two in this old town—but he will learn all right, like the rest of them."
"You are a poor inveigler," said Welty to Monroe, facetiously.
"My time, like that of all dogs, will come yet," said Monroe.
"Well; I would like to know your motive?" asked Welty.
"Oh, I just wanted to get him limbered up a little," answered the astute one.
Thus being vanquished in his purpose, Monroe excused himself, after they had walked a few blocks, and retreated to his rooms, there to enter upon the duties of outlining a more ingenious campaign toward the destruction of John Winthrope's name, and to ruin his chances for continuing in the office of Jarney & Lowman. His first conceived plan was to get John Winthrope out of the way, in the head office. This he could only hope to do by besmirching his character, or cause him to commit some overt act of deportment that would be laid up against him in the eyes of Mr. Jarney.
So, after being rebuffed in his first effort, Monroe concluded to take another tack, and would thereafter become and be John's intimate friend, a good fellow towards him, and a hearty supporter of him before the firm, and thereby get results. These things he thought out pretty clearly, and definitely decided that on the morrow he would bombard the fort from another angle.
So on the morrow, as soon as Mr. Winthrope had arrived, he was surprised to receive a polite little note, via the messenger, to call in the office of Mr. Monroe as early as convenient, and without interference in his official capacity. Ever prompt in complying with such informal invitations (which he took it to be, instead of a command), and having time to spare before the arrival of Mr. Jarney, he repaired at once to the sanctum of Mr. Monroe.
That gentleman, John was also surprised to see, had unbended to such proportions, that, when John approached his desk, he arose, and shook hands with him, an heretofore unheard of performance of cordiality on Mr. Monroe's part.
"I have asked you in, Mr. Winthrope," said Monroe, "to apologize for intruding on you last night. It was only a whim of one of the boys out on a lark, with whom, unfortunately, I fell in with at the untimely hour."
"Oh, that is all right, Mr. Monroe," replied John. "I took no offense at your visit."
"I thought, perhaps, you might have been offended."
"The fact is, I was very busy last night and forgot all about your intrusion after you had gone," said John, smiling affably, but with noticeable indifference in his voice.
"I should like to have your confidence, Mr. Winthrope," said the wily one. "Inasmuch, as we are near to the head of the firm, we should be on better terms."
"Perhaps we should," answered John, still indifferent.
"I shall deem it a pleasure to have you call on me some evening, and accompany me to dinner; or, if you will set the time, I shall call on you."
"You are very kind, Mr. Monroe."
"May I call, or will you call?"
"Neither," replied John, without exhibiting a sign of what he meant.
"Then, I am to understand, you do not court my company?" said the unruffled one.
"No; not that, Mr. Monroe. I am very busy of evenings. Sometime I may accept your invitation; but not for the present," responded John.
"What is it that so engrosses you of evenings, may I inquire?" asked the worming Monroe.
"Yes; you may ask whatever you please—I am taking a post-graduate course in business on my own time," said John.
"To what end?" asked Monroe.
"That I may be better prepared to perform my duties; for that reason I do not care to spare the time to go out."
"Very well, Mr. Winthrope; success to you," said Monroe. "But may I not anticipate your company to dinner before very long?"
"I cannot now decide, Mr. Monroe—not now; but will inform you of my decision at a later date," replied John.
Hearing Mr. Jarney enter his office at this juncture, John said good bye to the cat, and retired. He found Mr. Jarney tuned to a conversational degree that morning that perplexed him. Mr. Jarney dictated a few letters, beginning on them as was his custom, immediately after taking his seat, and looking over some important ones; then he lighted a cigar, and reared back in his chair in pleasant contemplation of the circles that he blew out and sent upwards like escaping halos. John sat regarding him for a few seconds with calm complacency; then, seeing that he did not intend to proceed further, for the present, with the dictation, said that he would retire and transcribe the letters.
"No hurry, Mr. Winthrope; no hurry," said Mr. Jarney, looking searchingly at John. "You are the most unfathomable chap I ever saw, Mr. Winthrope," he continued. "Here a week has gone by and you have not yet made inquiry about my daughter's health."
John was astonished at this statement.
"Mr. Jarney, I should have inquired," he said; "but I felt it out of place for me to be so familiar with your family matters."
"Why so?" he asked, with sharpness.
"I feared you might think me presumptuous," replied John, timidly.
"You presumptuous? I am not snobbish, Mr. Winthrope," he returned.
"Well, I felt that I would be keeping my place, by keeping silent," said John.
"I never mentioned the matter, Mr. Winthrope, because I wanted to see just how long you would be silent," said Mr. Jarney. "And don't you care to know?"
"Why, Mr. Jarney, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to know that Miss Jarney is improving."
"She is not," he said, despondently.
"Is she serious?" asked John.
"Very serious," he replied. Mr. Jarney must have noticed the pallor that stole over John's face at this unwelcome information; but if he did not, he divined John's eagerness to know more of Edith's complaint, and continued: "Yes, Mr. Winthrope, she is very serious. She has brain fever. The escapade of young Barton brought a great blow upon us all; for I have great fears of her recovery."
"Do the doctors give no hope?" asked John, eagerly.
"No hope," was the reply, as Mr. Jarney shook his head, and resuming his old demeanor of being affected by some inward impulses that had pervaded him for the week past.
"I am very sorry, Mr. Jarney, that I did not know of this before now, so that I could have sympathized with you," said John, feelingly.
"I appreciate your modesty, Mr. Winthrope, in not inquiring, and I deplore my disposition in not being more communicative; for I knew all along you were anxious to know, after the kind services you rendered us by bringing her home," said Mr. Jarney, speaking now with considerable emotion.
"I know I should have inquired, Mr. Jarney, and was on the point of doing so several times, but I always felt that you were indifferent as to how I felt about the matter."
"Mr. Winthrope, I must be frank with you, for dear Edith's sake, and tell you all. She—"
"—not expected to recover," interrupted John, bending forward intently.
"No, that is not what I was about to say," he replied, scanning John's face. "While in a delirium, she repeatedly calls for you. Every day and every night she has been doing this, since you brought her home. We would have sent for you to come to see her had we believed your presence would have been of any avail in bringing her to her reason. But, as the doctors said that is true in all such cases, we deferred to their advice. As her father, I do not believe their opinion is of much moment in her present critical condition, so I am going to request you to accompany me to my home this evening for dinner, and incidentally you may see Edith, for what comfort she, or you, may have in such a meeting."
This was certainly startling information to Mr. Winthrope. He had put through many fruitless hours wondering about the outcome of Edith's illness, and suffered some pangs of heart thereby; but little did he dream, or anticipate, that he could, in any manner, be considered by the lady, whose station in life was miles and miles above him. The statement of Mr. Jarney only caused him more regret, for he considered Edith's use of his name, in her delirious hours, the wild fancies of an afflicted brain. And he was perplexed.
"If it is your wish, I shall be glad to go with you, Mr. Jarney," said John, after gaining his composure.
Mr. Jarney noticed the effect of what he said upon the young man, and he could not restrain from saying: "I shall deem it a pleasure; and I know it will be a great favor to Mrs. Jarney if you go."
"I shall go," he said.
"Then we will leave the office early," said Mr. Jarney.
"May I have time to dress?" asked John.
"All the time you require, Mr. Winthrope. You may leave the office at three, and be ready to go at four."
"Thank you; I will be ready," returned John, as he gathered up his note book and papers, and repaired to his office.
An auto being in waiting at the curb, and John being ready at the appointed time, he and Mr. Jarney joined each other at the main entrance of the office building; and together were whirled away, in a twinkling, toward the mansion on the hill.
This was the second time that he had been summoned to that palace of a Croesus; for a second time he went, not of his own volition; for a second time he drew near the place, with a strange feeling in his soul; and he wondered if Fate, after all, is not a strange outliner of one's life. The first time, a deep mystery surrounded his sudden summoning, ending with a very romantic sequel; the second time, the cause leading up to his going was as deep a mystery as the first, with no telling what the climax might be. So, with these thoughts alone passing through his head as he rode silently by the side of his superior through the whizzing wind and beating rain and whirling smoke, he was not a little agitated when the chauffeur drew up at the side door, and the master had stepped out, and he was bidden to follow.
He remembered well that entrance on the former occasion, in the night, with its beaming lights and glistening panels of glass and brilliancy of the interior reflecting over him in his amazement. He remembered very well the gliding through the rooms of the family and the attendants, like roving spirits in despair in a fairy bower. He remembered all these things through the eye of the night:—of his sudden departure from the mansion; of his mission through the space of miles, and his quick return, and triumphant end—for the sake of duty. All these things he recalled, as if ruminating on a hazy dream. But when he came the second time, in the gloom of the late afternoon, and seeing the sombreness of the walls, the doors, the porches, the lawn and everything, stripped of the glare of artificial light, he felt that within the house a similar gloom prevailed.
He followed Mr. Jarney, now with a palpitating heart. The valet took his coat and hat and umbrella; and he was escorted to the warmth, the cheer, the beauty, the radiance, the grandeur of the parlor, and was begged to be seated. And he saw that the house was as silent as a morgue; he saw the long faces of the servants, and noted their confidential looks and glances toward him; he saw that the lights were burning dimly, and as they might burn for several days to come; he saw friends of the family glide in like spectres, with inquiring faces, and whisper, and saw them depart as silently; he saw the piano was closed, and the music piled up. He saw Mrs. Jarney coming down the great white stairway, darkly clothed, with tear-stained eyes and tired movements. He felt the oppressive dread that was over all. And he trembled.
Mrs. Jarney approached him, with Mr. Jarney at her side, he having met her at the foot of the stairs. John arose as she put out her hand, and when he shook it, he noticed that she was excessively perturbed.
"I am very happy to see you, Mr. Winthrope," she said, with some effort. "I wish to thank you for your services in behalf of my daughter on that dreadful evening."
"You have my sincere sympathy, Mrs. Jarney," responded John. "May I inquire if Miss Jarney is improving?"
"No improvement, Mr. Winthrope, that we can see," she replied.
"Is it so that Mr. Winthrope can see her?" asked Mr. Jarney of his wife.
"He may go now, if he does not feel it too great a favor to us," replied Mrs. Jarney, wiping away her tears.
"I assure you, Mrs. Jarney," said John, "that I do not hold such a matter in the light of favor; but as a matter of the gravest importance to you both."
"Mr. Winthrope," said Mrs. Jarney, placing her hand upon his arm, "there are trials in this life, to a mother, which no man can understand; and this is one of them. We have asked you to come here because we believe in you, because we know and feel that you are good. Do not think that we are not under obligations to you, and that my dear Edith will not be thankful to you, if she recovers. We know and you know that your coming is by reason of unusual circumstances; and as her mother, I do not want you to think, Mr. Winthrope, that my emotions have gone beyond my reason. She has called your name so many times that I could not bear to hear it longer without you coming here. I fancied, at first, that it was, as the doctors have said, only the fancy of an afflicted brain; but I believe it is more than that. I beg your pardon, Mr. Winthrope, if I have spoken too plainly. Now, if you are ready we will proceed to her room."
John was proud himself, though poor. He was proud of his good name; proud of his old father and mother, and his own dear sister and brother in the mountains; he was proud that others held him in high esteem; proud of their friendly consideration, of the confidence in which they held him, and of their frankness. When Mr. Jarney first broached the subject of his going to see his daughter, he took it as a question of duty, albeit he was not altogether dum to its influence on his heart; and when Mrs. Jarney spoke to him, with even more freedom than her husband, he could not resist the effect any longer.
He therefore went up the stairs in a state of mind that was a mixture between despair and hope. He was preceded by the parents of Edith. They passed through a hall bewildering to John in its elegance, he following, and at length came to the door of a bed room. Mrs. Jarney opened it, and they silently filed within, like going into the chamber of the dead, so softly did they move.
At one side of a bed sat a nurse, on the other sat Star Barton, faithful in her bleeding heart. On the bed lay the fevered form of Edith in snowy whiteness. To the beholders she was like a transporting angel, only the flush of life was in her cheeks—the flush of her affliction. Her white hands lay twitching over the coverlets. Her face was upturned, her blue eyes staring, her lips mumbling indistinct words. She was apparently dead to all things mortal. No wonder Star was in tears; no wonder the parents felt a dread shudder pass through them; no wonder the nurse had a solemn face; for the spirit of this pure young woman seemed to be passing, passing.
John was not unmoved by the scene, for even his brave strong heart sent forth a sigh. The parents stood by the bedside looking down upon their unconscious child in her struggle. After a few moments Mr. Jarney turned to John, and whispered:
"We will leave you alone with her and her friend, Miss Barton."
Then they went out, and the nurse went out. John spoke a word of recognition to Star, and drew a chair up to the bed and sat down, looking meditatively at Edith.
"Has she been unconscious since the night I brought her here?" asked John.
"Almost all the time," answered Star. "Sometimes she is rational—then she calls for you."
"If she should become rational while I am here, and should see me, do you think my being here would have any beneficial effect upon her?" asked John.
"That is the opinion of her parents," replied Star.
"You appear to be pretty well worn out by your vigil, Miss Barton," said John, turning to her, sitting close by his side.
"I have been in this room ever since she took ill, or since you brought her here," answered Star.
"Haven't you taken any rest?" asked John, dubious about her statement.
"I lie down on the couch there sometimes," pointing to one in the room; "but I cannot sleep."
"I fear the trial will be too much for you, Miss Barton."
"Oh, it is no trial for me to sit here, where I can see her dear face all the time," responded Star, and then she burst into tears, and John could hardly restrain his own from flowing, through his deep sympathy for her in her simple faith.
Just then Edith turned her face toward them, and gazed wildly about with her pretty blue eyes rolling in their sockets. Then she threw one hand over the side of the bed. John lifted it up tenderly, and laid it back in place, and then it was that he became aware of how feverish she was. Edith mumbled something.
"She is making an effort to speak your name," said Star, who was now used to her strange fancyings, and could interpret almost any unintelligible word she spoke. Then bending over Edith, she said: "He is here, dear Edith."
Edith looked up at Star, with what appeared to be a faint smile. Star took one hand, and held it, patting it lovingly. "Here he is, dear Edith; don't you see him?" she said, as Edith now uttered the name distinctly.
Edith paid no heed to Star, but rolled her head and muttered John's name. Then she became calmer, and lay still; arousing herself after a few minutes, and repeating the name again.
"He is here, Edith, by your bedside; can't you see?" said Star, bending over her. "Come closer, Mr. Winthrope, that she might see you."
John thereat moved nearer to the bed, and leaned over her.
"Here is Mr. Winthrope, Edith," said Star, as she placed a hand upon her hot forehead.
Edith turned her head, and sighed. Her eyes ceased their starey look. She became calmer; sighed again. Then, without assistance, she raised herself up, and her long hair fell over her shoulders. In her illness now, John thought she was prettier than before when he saw her in her best of health. As she arose, Star caught her by the shoulders, and made an attempt to lay her down on her pillow again; but Edith shook her off, with her fever-strength supreme in her. She then crossed her hands before her, bent her head forward; then threw it backward, and gazed across the room to the farther wall, like one staring into the infinitude of time in its blankness.
John sat watching her, moved to piteous supplication for this fair young lady in her distress of mind.
"Star," said Edith, turning upon Miss Barton, in a strange clear voice, "have you seen Mr. Winthrope?"
"Here he is, dear Edith," replied Star, stroking her hair. "Here by your bed; don't you see him?"
"That is not Mr. Winthrope," she answered, in the same strange tone.
"No, no, dear Edith; he is here—Mr. Winthrope look into her face?" said Star, turning to John, whose head was bowed under the weight of the impression that this girl's ravings made on him. John obeyed Star's request, and looked Edith in the face. Edith then put out a hand, and touched that of his; then fell back, burying her head in her soft pillow, with her hands over her face.
"She knows you," whispered Star.
"Shall I retire?" asked John, believing that the crisis had been reached.
"Oh, not yet," answered Star. Then leaning over Edith again, said: "Edith, do you want to see Mr. Winthrope again before he goes?"
Edith reached out a hand toward him, turned her head, and let her eyes move slowly in his direction. Then she laid her hand upon his. He picked it up, and she permitted him to hold it.
"Mr. Winthrope?" she said.
"I am he," he replied.
She smiled, and her eyes became less roving. "I am better," she whispered.
"Edith, I knew you would be better as soon as he came," said Star, kissing her. "Are you not glad, Mr. Winthrope?" asked Star of him.
"Very, very," he responded. He touched his lips to her fevered hand; and how it thrilled him.
"Now, you may retire, if you wish," said Star.
"Will you come again?" said Edith, in a very low voice; "often; often?"
"If I am permitted," replied John, releasing her hand, and rising.
"You have my permission," whispered Edith, feebly attempting to smile. "Oh, I am so weak, I am afraid it will be such a long time before I can leave this bed." Turning to Star, she said: "Have mamma keep him for dinner, if it is near that time—or breakfast, or lunch."
"He will remain," answered Star.
"You will come in before you go—you will come again, Mr. Winthrope?" asked Edith, faintly.
"By your father's permission," he answered, smiling down upon her.
"He will permit you," said Edith.
"Good bye," said John, taking Edith's hand again.
"Good bye; don't fail to come in again before you go?" said Edith.
"I shall come," he said, kissing her lily hand; after which he lay it down with the greatest reluctance.
Then he left her, with a world of thrilling emotions consuming him. Seeing no one in the hallway, he proceeded alone down the stairs to the parlor, there to be met by the gloomy countenances of Edith's loving parents, who were at that moment in such a distracted state of mind that they almost collapsed over wrong expectations over this singular meeting of their daughter with John Winthrope. Both rose as they saw John approaching, and sighed.
"How is she?" both asked together.
"Better," was John's response.
Mr. Jarney took John by the hand, and said: "How greatly relieved I am." Mrs. Jarney did not wait for further information; but ran up the stairs, and went headlong into her daughter's room.
"Oh, my child! my child!" she cried in the excess of her joy, seeing the token of rationality in Edith's face. She fell on the bed by Edith's side, almost in a faint, throwing her arms about her. Edith was not in condition to withstand such a stormy outburst of motherly affection. Star, understanding the bad effect such extreme commotion might have upon her charge, persuaded Mrs. Jarney to be calm, and all would be well.
"Did you know him, Edith?" asked her mother, still mentally agitated.
"Yes, mamma," replied Edith, so low she could hardly be heard.
"Was it he that effected a cure, Edith?"
"Oh, mamma, I am not well yet," said Edith; "and it may be a long time before I get out of this."
"Was it he, Edith, that brought about the crisis?" persisted the mother.
"It might have been, mamma," said Edith.
"Edith, are you keeping a secret from me?" pursued her mother.
"Dear mamma, I cannot bear up, if you keep on," whispered Edith, growing restless.
"Mrs. Jarney, it would be best not to disturb her any more; she needs sleep," said Star, advisedly.
Mrs. Jarney, realizing her mistaken enthusiasm, quieted down, and slipped out of the room, and bustled down the stairs in an uncontrollable plight of flusteration. She rushed up to Mr. Winthrope, and was almost in the act of embracing that young gentleman, who had earned his way unconsciously into her faver to such proportions that the good lady could not keep away from him all evening. In verity, Mrs. Jarney was so dignifiedly considerate that she would have, under the spur of the stimulent of joy, given her consent right then to John becoming a permanent member of her household (had he thought of asking that privilege of her) had it not have been that a little bit of money-pride overbalanced her gratitude. And, in truth, too, Mr. Jarney might have fallen under the same magic that John had also cast over him, had it not have been that his pride was a little greater than he could consistently overcome. But this did not prevent Mr. Jarney from showering upon John encomiums of all kinds for the rest of his stay in the house that evening.
John, being prodigiously sensitive on the matter of the propriety of a thing done, was with difficulty persuaded in his own mind that Edith's wish was any more than a good woman's gratefulness. Although he made a great effort that evening to keep down the blazing fires of the one great human passion, he could not extinguish them altogether, for the more he thought of the cause that led up to his coming there, the fiercer the coals blazed within him: till his soul was almost afire.
Dinner was eaten in great state, the first of the kind for John; but he, being an adaptable young man, was equal to anything that confronted him. And while dining, he did not fail to notice the changed spirits of all the inmates of the house, from the head of it down to the waiter; for the later were profuse in showing him deference, in their looks and actions; he did not fail to notice the change in the lights that gave back a much more cheerful caress, where before they were feebly lifeless; he did not fail to notice the change in the countenances of the friends of the family, who came in with a deadening look, and went out with a smile; he did not fail to notice all these things; nor could he help but feel that he was the one person who might have brought it about. In consequence, he passed through the evening in the ascending mood of rapturous delight; but, though, always with a fear—a fear bound up in one corner of his heart—that he was only being rewarded for his services as the servant of this great man of money, the father of Edith. But John, do not despair; there are worse people in this world, who are rich, than the Jarneys.
John kept his promise, and called to see Edith just before he was ready to leave the mansion. She was sleeping when he was let into the darkened room; and when he looked down upon her, in her purity, dreaming, perhaps of him, he felt the power of love that was bearing him down. Were everything made of sweet toned bells, and they were every one ringing, no greater would be the alarum than that which at that moment knelled through him. The fear of death coming to her, the fear of her loss should she come back to life, the fear of those who brought her into the world, the fear of Fate, the fear of Chance, struck him dumb. Would her death be worse than life? he thought; would her life be worse than death? Sleeping calmly, peacefully, without a murmur from her lips; breathing lightly, evenly, without a break in the respiration; resting now as if the angels had brought a cure from out the skies—John felt the holy thrall which controlled him.
He knelt down by the bed, and took her white hand in his, and tears of his mercy wet her limp fingers; and he prayed.
Then, rising, with his heart too full to speak, he turned to the door to leave. Miss Barton, seeing his agitation, came up to speak to him, with her eyes also filled with tears.
"Wait till she awakes," she said.
"I cannot," he replied.
"She expects to see you before you go."
"Tell her—" and he was gone.