Looking Backward: 2000-1887 Page 26

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  That evening, as I sat with Edith in the music room, listening to somepieces in the programme of that day which had attracted my notice, Itook advantage of an interval in the music to say, "I have a questionto ask you which I fear is rather indiscreet."

  "I am quite sure it is not that," she replied, encouragingly.

  "I am in the position of an eavesdropper," I continued, "who, havingoverheard a little of a matter not intended for him, though seeming toconcern him, has the impudence to come to the speaker for the rest."

  "An eavesdropper!" she repeated, looking puzzled.

  "Yes," I said, "but an excusable one, as I think you will admit."

  "This is very mysterious," she replied.

  "Yes," said I, "so mysterious that often I have doubted whether Ireally overheard at all what I am going to ask you about, or onlydreamed it. I want you to tell me. The matter is this: When I wascoming out of that sleep of a century, the first impression of which Iwas conscious was of voices talking around me, voices that afterwardsI recognized as your father's, your mother's, and your own. First, Iremember your father's voice saying, 'He is going to open his eyes. Hehad better see but one person at first.' Then you said, if I did notdream it all, 'Promise me, then, that you will not tell him.' Yourfather seemed to hesitate about promising, but you insisted, and yourmother interposing, he finally promised, and when I opened my eyes Isaw only him."

  I had been quite serious when I said that I was not sure that I hadnot dreamed the conversation I fancied I had overheard, soincomprehensible was it that these people should know anything of me,a contemporary of their great-grandparents, which I did not knowmyself. But when I saw the effect of my words upon Edith, I knew thatit was no dream, but another mystery, and a more puzzling one than anyI had before encountered. For from the moment that the drift of myquestion became apparent, she showed indications of the most acuteembarrassment. Her eyes, always so frank and direct in expression, haddropped in a panic before mine, while her face crimsoned from neck toforehead.

  "Pardon me," I said, as soon as I had recovered from bewilderment atthe extraordinary effect of my words. "It seems, then, that I was notdreaming. There is some secret, something about me, which you arewithholding from me. Really, doesn't it seem a little hard that aperson in my position should not be given all the information possibleconcerning himself?"

  "It does not concern you--that is, not directly. It is not aboutyou--exactly," she replied, scarcely audibly.

  "But it concerns me in some way," I persisted. "It must be somethingthat would interest me."

  "I don't know even that," she replied, venturing a momentary glance atmy face, furiously blushing, and yet with a quaint smile flickeringabout her lips which betrayed a certain perception of humor in thesituation despite its embarrassment,--"I am not sure that it wouldeven interest you."

  "Your father would have told me," I insisted, with an accent ofreproach. "It was you who forbade him. He thought I ought to know."

  She did not reply. She was so entirely charming in her confusion thatI was now prompted, as much by the desire to prolong the situation asby my original curiosity, to importune her further.

  "Am I never to know? Will you never tell me?" I said.

  "It depends," she answered, after a long pause.

  "On what?" I persisted.

  "Ah, you ask too much," she replied. Then, raising to mine a facewhich inscrutable eyes, flushed cheeks, and smiling lips combined torender perfectly bewitching, she added, "What should you think if Isaid that it depended on--yourself?"

  "On myself?" I echoed. "How can that possibly be?"

  "Mr. West, we are losing some charming music," was her only reply tothis, and turning to the telephone, at a touch of her finger she setthe air to swaying to the rhythm of an adagio. After that she tookgood care that the music should leave no opportunity for conversation.She kept her face averted from me, and pretended to be absorbed in theairs, but that it was a mere pretense the crimson tide standing atflood in her cheeks sufficiently betrayed.

  When at length she suggested that I might have heard all I cared to,for that time, and we rose to leave the room, she came straight up tome and said, without raising her eyes, "Mr. West, you say I have beengood to you. I have not been particularly so, but if you think I have,I want you to promise me that you will not try again to make me tellyou this thing you have asked to-night, and that you will not try tofind it out from any one else,--my father or mother, for instance."

  To such an appeal there was but one reply possible. "Forgive me fordistressing you. Of course I will promise," I said. "I would neverhave asked you if I had fancied it could distress you. But do youblame me for being curious?"

  "I do not blame you at all."

  "And some time," I added, "if I do not tease you, you may tell me ofyour own accord. May I not hope so?"

  "Perhaps," she murmured.

  "Only perhaps?"

  Looking up, she read my face with a quick, deep glance. "Yes," shesaid, "I think I may tell you--some time;" and so our conversationended, for she gave me no chance to say anything more.

  That night I don't think even Dr. Pillsbury could have put me tosleep, till toward morning at least. Mysteries had been my accustomedfood for days now, but none had before confronted me at once somysterious and so fascinating as this, the solution of which EdithLeete had forbidden me even to seek. It was a double mystery. How, inthe first place, was it conceivable that she should know any secretabout me, a stranger from a strange age? In the second place, even ifshe should know such a secret, how account for the agitating effectwhich the knowledge of it seemed to have upon her? There are puzzlesso difficult that one cannot even get so far as a conjecture as to thesolution, and this seemed one of them. I am usually of too practical aturn to waste time on such conundrums; but the difficulty of a riddleembodied in a beautiful young girl does not detract from itsfascination. In general, no doubt, maidens' blushes may be safelyassumed to tell the same tale to young men in all ages and races, butto give that interpretation to Edith's crimson cheeks would,considering my position and the length of time I had known her, andstill more the fact that this mystery dated from before I had knownher at all, be a piece of utter fatuity. And yet she was an angel, andI should not have been a young man if reason and common sense had beenable quite to banish a roseate tinge from my dreams that night.