Chapter 23
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 afterwards Irecognized 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 had notdreamed the conversation I fancied I had overheard, so incomprehensiblewas it that these people should know anything of me, a contemporary oftheir great-grandparents, which I did not know myself. But when I sawthe effect of my words upon Edith, I knew that it was no dream, butanother mystery, and a more puzzling one than any I had beforeencountered. For from the moment that the drift of my question becameapparent, she showed indications of the most acute embarrassment. Hereyes, always so frank and direct in expression, had dropped in a panicbefore mine, while her face crimsoned from neck to forehead.
"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 about youexactly," 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 would eveninterest 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 that Iwas now prompted, as much by the desire to prolong the situation as bymy 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 face whichinscrutable eyes, flushed cheeks, and smiling lips combined to renderperfectly bewitching, she added, "What should you think if I said thatit 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 took goodcare that the music should leave no opportunity for conversation. Shekept 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 never haveasked you if I had fancied it could distress you. But do you blame mefor 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 to sleep,till toward morning at least. Mysteries had been my accustomed food fordays now, but none had before confronted me at once so mysterious andso fascinating as this, the solution of which Edith Leete had forbiddenme even to seek. It was a double mystery. How, in the first place, wasit conceivable that she should know any secret about me, a strangerfrom a strange age? In the second place, even if she should know such asecret, how account for the agitating effect which the knowledge of itseemed to have upon her? There are puzzles so difficult that one cannoteven get so far as a conjecture as to the solution, and this seemed oneof them. I am usually of too practical a turn to waste time on suchconundrums; but the difficulty of a riddle embodied in a beautifulyoung girl does not detract from its fascination. In general, no doubt,maidens' blushes may be safely assumed to tell the same tale to youngmen in all ages and races, but to give that interpretation to Edith'scrimson cheeks would, considering my position and the length of time Ihad known her, and still more the fact that this mystery dated frombefore I had known her at all, be a piece of utter fatuity. And yet shewas an angel, and I should not have been a young man if reason andcommon sense had been able quite to banish a roseate tinge from mydreams that night.
Looking Backward, 2000 to 1887 Page 23