“Where did you hear of it? I did not know where to write to you,” calmly asked Charles. “I heard of it in Gray Town and I came up here at once; Charles, could they not save her?” A slight negative movement was all Charles Taylor’s answer.
The time went on, several months had passed, positions changed and Bellville was itself again; the unusually lovely weather which had prevailed so far as it had gone had put it into Mrs. Brown’s head to give an out-door entertainment, the doctor had suggested that the weather might change, that there was no dependence to be placed in it, but she would not change her plans if the worst came to the worst, at the last moment she said they must do the best they could with them inside. But the weather was not fickle, the day rose warm, calm and wonderfully bright, and by five in the afternoon, most of the gay revellers had gathered on the grounds. George Taylor, a cousin of Charles arrived, one of the first; he was making himself conspicuous among the many groups, or perhaps, it was they that made him so by gathering around him, when two figures in mourning came up behind him, one of whom spoke “How do you do, Mr. George Taylor,” he turned, and careless and thoughtless and graceless, as he was reported to be, a shock of surprise not unmixed with indignation swept over his feelings, for there standing before him were Mrs. Brewster and Mary Ann. She—Mary Ann—looked like a shadow, still peevish, white, discontented; what brought them there, was it so they showed their regrets for the dead Janey, was it likely that Mary Ann should appear at a feast of gayety in her weak state, sickly, not yet recovered from the effects of the fever, not yet out of the first deep mourning for Janey. “How do you do, Mrs. Brewster,” very gravely responded George. Mrs. Brewster may have discerned somewhat his feelings from the expression on his face, not that he intentionally suffered it to rise in reproof of her. George Taylor did not set himself up in judgment against his fellow-men. Mrs. Brewster drew him aside with her after he had shaken hands with Mary Ann. “I am sure it must look strange to you to see us both here, Mr. Taylor, but poor child, she continues so weak and poorly that I scarcely know what to do with her, she set her heart upon coming here ever since Mrs. Brown’s invitation arrived; she has talked of nothing else, and I thought it would not do to cross her.” “Is Mr. Taylor here?” “Oh no,” replied George, with more haste than he need have spoken. “I thought he would not be, I remarked so to Mary Ann when she expressed a hope for seeing him, indeed I think it was that hope which chiefly urged her to come; what have we done to him, Mr. George, he scarcely ever comes near the house?” “I don’t know anything about it,” returned George; “I can see that my cousin feels his loss deeply, yet it may be that visits to your house remind him of Janey too forcibly.” “Will he ever marry, do you think?” said Mrs. Brewster, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper.
“At present I should be inclined to say he never would,” answered George, wondering what in the world it would matter to her and thinking she evinced little sorrow or consideration for the memory of Janey. “But time works surprising changes,” he added. “And time may affect Mr. Taylor,” Mrs. Brewster paused, “How do you think she looks, my poor child?” “Miserable” almost rose to the tip of George’s tongue, “she does not look well,” he said aloud. “And she does so regret her dear sister, she’s grieving after her always,” said Mrs. Brewster, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. I don’t believe it, thought George to himself. “How did you like Graytown?” she resumed, passing with little ceremony to another topic. “I liked it very well; all places are pretty much alike to a bachelor, Mrs. Brewster.” “Yes, so they are, you won’t remain a bachelor very long,” continued Mrs. Brewster with a smile of jocularity. “Not so very long I dare say,” acknowledged George. “It is possible I may put my head in the noose some time in the next ten years.” She would have detained him further, but George did not care to be detained, he went after more attractive companionship. Chance or accident led him to Miss Flint, a niece of Mrs. Brown. Miss Flint had all her attractions about her that day, her bright pink silk—for pink was a favorite color of hers—was often seen by the side of George Taylor, once they strayed to the borders of a river in a remote part of the village, several were gathered there, a row on the water had been proposed and a boat stood ready, a small boat, capable of holding very few persons, but of these George and Julia Flint made two; could George have foreseen what that simple little excursion was going to do for him, he would not have taken part in it; how is it no sign of warning comes over us at these times; how many a day’s pleasure began as a jubilee, how many a voyage entered upon in hope ends but in death. Oh, if we could but lift the veil what mistakes might be avoided! George Taylor, strong and active, took the oars, and when they had rowed about to their hearts’ content and George was nearly overdone from exertion, they thought that they would land for awhile on what is called Dark Point, a mossy spot green and tempting to the eye. In stepping ashore Miss Flint tripped and lost her balance, and would have been in the water, but for George who saved her, but could not save her parasol, an elegant one, for which Miss Flint had paid a round sum of money just the day before; she naturally shrieked, when it went plunge into the water, and George, in recovering it, nearly lost his balance, and went in after the parasol, nearly not quite; he got himself pretty wet, but he made light of it, and sat on the grass with the others. The party were all young, old people don’t venture much in skiffs, but had any been there of mature age, they would have ordered him home to get a change of clothes, and a glass of brandy. By and by he began to feel chilly, it might have occurred to him that the intense perspiration he had been in had struck inwards, but it did not. In the evening he was dancing with the rest of them thinking no more of it, apparently having escaped all ill effects from the wetting.
Chapter VII.
JOHN SMITH’S DINNER PARTY.
THE drawing-rooms of John Smith’s mansion were teeming with light, with noise, and with company; a dinner party had taken place that day, a gentleman’s party. It was not often that he gave one, and when he did it was thoroughly well done. George Taylor did not give better dinners than Mr. Smith. The only promised guest who had failed in his attendance was Charles Taylor. Very rarely indeed did he accept of invitations to dinner. If there was one man in all the county to whom Mr. Smith seemed inclined to pay court, to treat with marked consideration and respect, that man was Charles Taylor; he nearly always declined—declined courteously, in a manner which could not afford the slightest evidence of offense; he was of quiet habits, not strong in health of late, and, though he had to give dinner parties himself and attend some of his cousins’ for courtesy’s sake, his friends nearly all were kind enough to excuse him frequenting theirs in return. This time Charles Taylor had yielded to Mr. Smith’s pressing entreaties made in person and promised to be present, a promise which was not, as it proved to be, kept. All the rest of the guests had assembled and they were only waiting the appearance of Mr. Taylor to sit down when a hasty note arrived from Miss Taylor. “Mr. Taylor was taken sick while dressing, and was unable to attend.” So they sat down without him. The dinner having been over most of the guests had gone to the drawing-room, which was radiant with light and noisy with the hum of many voices. A few had gone home, a few had taken cigars and were strolling outside the dining-room windows in the bright moonlight. Miss Taylor’s note that her brother had been taken sick while dressing for the dinner was correct; he was dressing in his room when he was attacked by a sharp internal pain, he hastily sat down, a cry escaping his lips and drops of water gathering on his brow; alone he bore it, calling for no aid; in a few minutes the paroxysm had partially passed and he rang for his servant, who had for many years attended his father. “George, I am sick again,” said Charles, quietly. “Will you ask Miss Taylor to write a line to Mr. Smith, saying that I am unable to attend.” George cast a strangely yearning look on the pale suffering face of his master, he had been in these paroxysms of pain once or twice. “I wish you would have Mr. Brown called in, sir,” he cried. “I think I shall, he may give me some ease, possibly; take my message to your mistress, George.” The effect of the message was to bring Mary to his room, “taken sick, a sharp inward pain,” she was repeating after George. “Charles, what kind of a pain is it, it seems to me that you have had the same before?” “Write a few words the first thing, will you, Mary; I do not like to keep them waiting for me.” Mary was as punctilious as Charles, and as considerate as he was for the convenience of others, and she sat down and wrote the note, dispatching it at once by Billy, another of the servants; few could have sat apart and done it as calmly as Mary, considering that she had a great thumping at her heart, a fear which had never penetrated it until this moment. Their mother’s sickness was similar to this, a sharp acute pain had occasionally attacked her, the symptom of the inward malady of which she had died. Was the same fatal malady attacking him? The doctors had expressed their fears then that it might be hereditary. In the hall, as Mary was going back to Charles’ room, the note having been written, she met George, the sad apprehensive look in the old man’s face struck her, she touched his arm and motioned him into another room. “What is it that is the matter with your master?” “I don’t know,” was the answer; but the words were spoken in a tone which caused Mary to think that the old man was awake to the same fears that she was. “Miss Mary, I am afraid to think what it may be.” “Is he often sick like this?” “I know but of a time or two ma’am, but that’s a time or two too many.” Mary entered his room, Charles was leaning back in his chair, his face ghastly, apparently prostrate from the effects of the pain; if a momentary thought had crossed her mind, that he might have written the note himself, it left her; now things were coming into her mind one by one, how much time he had spent in his room of late; how seldom, comparatively speaking, he went to his office; how often he called for the carriage, when he did go, instead of walking; only this last Sunday he had not gone near the church all day long, her fears grew into certainties. She took a chair, drawing it near to Charles, not speaking of her fears, but asking him in an agreeable tone how he felt, and what had caused his illness. “Have you had this pain before?” she continued, “Several times,” he answered, “but it has been worse to-night than I have previously felt it. Mary I fear it may be the warning of my call, I did not think that I would leave you so soon.” Except that Mary’s face turned nearly as pale as his and that her fingers entwined themselves together so tightly as to cause pain, there was no outward sign of the grief that laid hold of her heart. “Charles, what is the complaint you are fearing?” she asked after a pause, “The same that my mother had,” he quietly answered, speaking the words that Mary would not speak. “It may not be so,” gasped Mary. “True, but I think it is.” “Why have you never spoken of this?” “Because, until to-night, I have doubted whether it was so or not; the suspicion that it might be so, certainly was upon me, but it amounted to no more than a suspicion; at times when I feel quite well I argue that I must be wrong.”
“Have you consulted a doctor?” “I am going to do so now. I have just sent George after one.” “It should have been done before, Charles.” “Why, if it is as I suspect, Brown and all his brethren cannot save me.” Mary clasped her hands upon her knee and sat with her head bowed. It seemed that the only one left on earth with whom she could sympathize was Charles, and now perhaps he was going. The others had their own pursuits and interests, but she and Charles seemed to stand together; with deep sorrow for him, the brother whom she dearly loved, came other considerations, impossible not to occur to a practical, foreseeing mind like Mary’s. His elbow on the arm of his chair, and his head resting upon his hand, sat Charles, his mind in as deep a reverie as his sister’s. Where was it straying? To the remembrance of Janey, to the day that he had stood over her grave when they were placing her in it, was the time come, or nearly come, to which he had from that time looked forward—the time of his joining her. Perhaps the fiat of death could have come to few who could meet it as serenely as Charles Taylor. It would hardly be right to say welcome it, but certain it was that the prospect was one of pleasure rather than pain to him; to one who had lived near to God on earth the anticipation can bring no great dismay. It brought none to Charles Taylor, but he was not done with earth and its cares yet. Matilda Taylor was away from home that week, she had gone to spend it with some friends at a distance. Martha was alone when Mary returned to the drawing-room, she had no suspicion of the sorrow that was overhanging the house. She had not seen Charles go to his office, and felt surprised at his tardiness. “How late he will be, Mary.” “Who?” “Charles.” “He is not going, he is not very well to-day,” was the reply. Martha thought nothing of it, how should she. Mary buried her fears within her, and said no more. Martha Taylor has had a romance in her life as so many have had. It had partially died out years ago, not quite; its sequel had to come. She sat there listlessly, her pretty hands resting on her knees, her beautiful face tinged with the sunlight—sat there thinking of him—Mark Blakely. A romance it had really been. Martha had paid a long visit to Mrs. Blakely some four or five years before this time. She, Mrs. Blakely, was in perfect health then, fond of gayety, and had many visitors, and before he and Martha knew well what they were about, they had learned to love. He was the first to awake from the pleasant dream, to know what it meant, and he directly withdrew himself out of harm’s way. Harm only to himself, as he supposed. He never suspected that the like love had won its way to Martha’s heart. A strictly honorable man, he would have killed himself in self-condemnation had he suspected that it had. Not until he had gone did Martha find out that he was a married man. When only nineteen years of age he had been drawn into one of those unequal and unhappy alliances that can only bring a flush to the face in after years. Many a hundred times had it dyed that of Mark Blakely. Before he was twenty he had separated from his wife, when Miss Martha was still a child, and the next six years he traveled on the continent, striving to lose its remembrance. His own family, you may be sure, did not pain him by alluding to it then or after his return. He had no residence in the neighborhood of Bellville. When he visited the town he was the guest of the postmaster, Mr. Hunt. So it happened when Martha met him at his home she never thought of his being a married man. On Mrs. Blakely’s part, she never thought that Martha did not know it. Mark supposed she knew it, and when the thought would flash over him, he would say mentally, “how she must despise me for my mad folly.” He had learned to love her, to love her passionately, never so much as harboring the thought that it could not be reciprocated—he a married man. But this was no less folly than the other had been, and Mark Blakely had the good sense to leave the place. A day or two after he left his mother received a letter from him. Martha was in her dressing-room when she read it. “How strange,” was the comment of Mrs. Blakely. “What do you think, Martha?” she added, lowering her voice. “When he reached Paris there was a note sent to him saying that his wife was dying, and imploring him to come and see her.” “His wife,” cried Martha; “whose wife?” “My son’s; have you forgotten that he had a wife? I wish that we all could really forget it; it has been the blight upon his life.” Martha had discretion enough left in that unhappy moment not to betray that she had been ignorant of the fact. When her burning cheeks had cooled a little, she turned from the window where she had been hiding them and escaped to her own room. The revelation had betrayed to her the secret of her own feelings for Mark Blakely, and in her pride and rectitude she thought that she would die. A day or two more and he was a widower. He suffered some months to elapse and then came to Bellville, his object being to visit Martha Taylor. She believed that he meant to ask her to be his wife, and Martha was not wrong. She could give herself up now to the full joy of loving him. Busy tongues, belonging to some young ladies who could boast more wit than discretion, hinted something of this to Martha. She, being vexed at having her private feelings suspected, spoke slightingly of Mark Blakely. “Did they think that she would stoop to a widower, one who had made himself so notorious by his first marriage?” she asked, and this, word for word, was repeated to Mark Blakely; it was repeated to him by those false friends, and Martha’s haughty manner as she spoke it offensively commented upon. Mark Blakely, believing it fully, judged that he had no chance with Martha, and, without speaking to her of his intentions, he again left. But now no suspicion of this conversation having been repeated to him ever reached Martha. She considered his behavior very bad. Whatever restraint he had laid upon his manner towards her when at his home, he had been open enough since, and she could only believe his conduct unjustifiable, the result of fickleness. All this time, between two and three years, had she been trying to forget it. If she had received an offer of marriage from a young and handsome man; it would have been in every way desirable; but poor Martha found that Mark Blakely was too deeply seated in her heart for her to admit thought of another. And again Mark Blakely had returned to Bellville, and, as Martha had heard, dined at Mrs. Hunt’s, the wife of the postmaster; he had called at her house since his return, but she was out.
She sat there thinking of him, her prominent feeling against him being anger. She believed until this hour that he had treated her mean; that his behavior had been unbecoming a gentleman. Her reflections were disturbed by the entrance of Doctor Brown. It was growing dark then, and she wondered what brought him there so late—in fact, what brought him there at all. She turned and asked the question of Mary. “He has come to see Charles,” replied Mary; and Martha noticed that her sister was sitting in a strangely still attitude, her head bowed down; but she did not connect it with the real cause. It was nothing unusual to see Mary lost in deep thought. “What is the matter with Charles, that Mr. Brown should come?” inquired Martha. “He did not feel well and sent for him.” It was all that Mary answered, and Martha continued in blissful ignorance of anything being wrong and resumed her reflections on Mark Blakely. Mary saw the doctor before he went away; afterward she went to Charles’ room, and remained in it. Martha remained in the dining-room, buried in her dream of love. The rooms were lighted, but the blinds were not closed.