Edith and John Part 40

Edith was startled at this unheard of piece of rashness partic.i.p.ated in by the ghost. She trembled through the inward fear she had of this man of unapproachable demeanor. But summoning up what little of her former courage she had left after the blighting effect of her long illness, she replied.

"Oh, Mr. Monroe, I have no objections to your coming here sometimes as a guest of my papa; but as for calling on me, for the purpose you intimate, that is impossible."

"Why do you object to me, Miss Jarney?" he asked, undeterred by repulses that would have sent any self-respecting man into hiding.

"Why, you are as old as Adam himself," replied Edith, feigning to be gay, but still frightened.

Seeing Edith's dainty hand, with a diamond s.h.i.+ning on it, he caught it up, as if he would touch his vile lips to it. Edith withdrew her hand quickly, without a word, arose and walked toward the piano, leaving the ghost sitting alone like a confused statue when hit with a snow ball.

Thereupon, Monroe came to his senses, and forthwith departed, leaving a cloud of mystification behind, over his actions.

In a huff (inwardly), he sought his companions, and escorted them to the Bottomless Pit, there to celebrate his great victory, as he called it.

"Well, what luck?" asked Welty Morne, as soon as a bottle had been uncorked, and he held a gla.s.s of its contents before his admiring eyes.

"Aye, what luck?" chimed in Bate Yenger.

"Bully good luck," said the ghost, like an owl.

"All right with the old man, I suppose?" said Welty, swallowing down his gla.s.sful.

"All right--the old duffer," said Monroe, draining his gla.s.s.

"How about the girl?" they asked.

"She fell right into my arms, and accepted," responded the ghost, seemingly without the glint of a frown.

"Whew! Quick work, old boy; quick work! When is it to come off?" asked Welty, speaking loudly.

"Sometime in the future," answered Monroe, mysteriously.

"Drink! and the devil have done for the rest!" shouted Welty, and he imbibed another gla.s.s as an additional stimulant to his joy.

"Bully good people, boys; bully good people," said Monroe, pulling another cork.

"How soon you going to drop the pole set up to impale Winthrope?" asked Welty, unrestrained now in his enthusiasm, which he gave vent to occasionally, by whistling and humming a doggerel, alternately.

"The dog," growled Monroe, changing his tone. "Not yet, boys; not yet.

It goes up as if nothing had happened."

"When will you transfix him?" asked Welty.

"I am going to New York tomorrow to complete plans," said the invincible ghost.

"Up goes the flag of destruction!" shouted Welty, with Bate repeating the words after him, both raising gla.s.ses and emptying them.

Thus they talked and thus they drank, till the potent power of wine laid them low in a delirious sense of delirium in Monroe's downy bed.

After Monroe had left the Jarney home, Edith and Star ascended to the former's chamber for that rest which night should bring to the pure in heart.

Divesting themselves of their day clothing, they invested themselves in their night robes, and laid down together, side by side, in the bed where Edith had lain so long as an invalid. When the lights were out and the coverlets were drawn up over them, Edith heaved a sigh, like one does who lies down in exhaustion to find that peace that darkness and a soft bed fetches on. Star fell asleep directly, and lay in that peaceful calm which comes to one in good health and having no intangible fancies in the mind.

But to Edith, repose was as difficult as the quietness sought by the brook in seeking an eddying pool after long racing down a roughened mountain bed. She turned first on one side, and then on the other, dozing many times almost to the slumberous point, where the transport to the land of dreams is imminent; then awakening with a start, as if the nightmare were treading her down to death, only to see the little imaginary beings that the half-closed eyes see in the illusory light-disks that whirl through impenetrable darkness. She tried to recollect some few of the nights through which she had pa.s.sed, lying here, as if they were transitory dreams, remembering indistinctly how long and dreary some were, with flitting spirits and hurrying beings filling up the surroundings; she tried to recall the forms of hopes and doubts that seemed always to possess her, and wondered how intangible creative mind is in its wandering; she tried to conjure up the scenes of the tall, handsome figure in black that called every day and knelt by her bedside, but all that she could see was the form kneeling there, and never losing sight of the face, as if it were a part of her existence; she tried to recall the last day that he was there, when he said farewell, but all that she could remember was, "May I come, some day--some day;" she tried to recall whether she had said yes, or no, so uncertain was she now in her remembrance. She did, however, recall very distinctly what the unconfiding Star had told her--a secret given by John--and she was happy. And still there lurked before her the white marble face of a man, whom she had repulsed that evening. She saw it, when she closed her eyes, like a menacing statue in every corner of her brain; she saw it, when she opened her eyes, like a statue in every corner of the room, grimly and remorselessly pursuing her. And she shuddered. Finding sleep impossible under the wild riding of her thoughts, she placed a hand on Star's shoulder, and shook her into drowsy wakefulness.

"Star, Star," she whispered. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," said Star, yawning.

"Star, I cannot sleep; will you talk to me?" she asked.

"Yes, deary," responded Star, in a semi-conscious tone.

"Well, talk then; I cannot sleep," pleaded Edith, to arouse her companion from her natural stupor.

"Yes; I will talk, deary; go on," answered Star, not yet being willing to comply with Edith's request.

"Star, are you awake?" asked Edith, shaking the sleeper.

"I am awake," answered Star, rising full upright in bed. "Can't you sleep, Edith? Lie down and count the sheep jumping over the fence."

"Now, do not be cross, Star," said Edith, sighing; "I am very nervous tonight."

"Poor dear; this day has been too much for you," said Star, leaning over and kissing Edith.

"Talk awhile, Star; then maybe I can sleep," said Edith.

"Shall I tell you about the wolf that comes to poor people's doors?"

asked Star, jocularly.

"Oh, no; not so hideous a story as that, Star; I am nervous enough now,"

replied Edith.

"Then about the mouse that moved the mountain?"

"That is a fable, Star; something real!"

"Then about the man as old as Adam, who asked a maid of twenty-two to marry him?"

"He did not ask me, Star. Do you believe he was in earnest?"

"I think he is a sham, Edith," replied Star; "and I think he was in earnest. Now, Edith, if I tell you what was pledged to me in secrecy, will you not tell where it came from? Yes, you will. When I was home today, Mr. Dieman told me that Mr. Monroe is going to New York for the purpose of causing Mr. Winthrope trouble before he should ever get home to see you again. I should have told you this, Edith, before now; but seeing how nervous you were all evening, I thought it well to put it off till tomorrow; or till you get better."

Star ceased, yawned, and became quiet.

"Did he tell you any more?" asked Edith, sitting up herself in bed.

"Yes, Edith; it is too awful for me to tell you tonight."

"I cannot sleep till you finish, Star," said Edith, lying down again, with Star following her actions.