Martha was near the window, looking forth into the bright moonlight. It must have been getting quite late, when she discovered some one approaching their house. She thought at first that it might be her cousin George, but, as the figure drew nearer, her heart gave a great bound, and she saw that it was he upon whom her thoughts had been fixed. Yes, it was Mark Blakely. When he mentioned to Mrs. Hunt that he had a visit to pay to a sick friend, he had reference to Charles Taylor. Mark Blakely, since his return, had been struck with the change in Charles Taylor; it was more perceptible to him than to those who saw Charles habitually, and, when the apology came for Mr. Taylor’s absence, Mark determined to call upon him at once, though, in talking with Mrs. Hunt, he nearly let the time for it slip by. Martha arose when he entered; in broad day he might have seen, beyond a doubt, her changing face, telling of emotion. Was he mistaken in fancying that she was agitated? His pulses quickened at the thought, for Martha was as dear to him as she had ever been. “Will you pardon my intrusion at this hour?” he asked, taking her hand and bending towards her with his sweet smile. “It is later than I thought it was—indeed, the hall clock was striking ten! I was surprised to hear of your brother’s illness, and wished to hear how he was before I left for home.” “He has kept his room this evening,” replied Martha. “My sister is sitting with him; I do not think it is anything serious, but he has not appeared very well of late.” “Indeed, I trust it is nothing serious,” warmly responded Mark Blakely. Martha fell into silence; she supposed that the servant had told Mary that he was there and that she would be in. Mark went to the window. “The same charming scene,” he exclaimed; “I think the moonlight view from this window is beautiful, the dark trees around, and these white stone mansions, rising there, remain on my memory like the scene of an old painting.” He folded his arms and stood there gazing still. Martha stole a look up at him at his pale, attractive face, with its expression of care. She had wondered once why that look of care was conspicuous there; but not after she became acquainted with his domestic history.
“Are you going away to remain Mr. Blakely,” the question awoke him from his reverie, he turned to Martha and a sudden impulse prompted him to address her on the subject nearest his heart. “I would remain if I could induce one to share my name and home. Forgive me, Martha, if I anger you by speaking so hastily; will you forget the past and help me to forget it; will you let me make you my dear wife?” In saying will you forget the past, Mark Blakely alluded to his first marriage in his extreme sensitiveness on that point, he doubted whether Martha would object to succeed the dead Mrs. Blakely, he believed those hasty and ill-natured words reported to him as having been spoken by her, bore on that point alone. Martha on the contrary assumed that her forgetfulness was asked for his own behavior to her in so far that he had gone away and left her without a word of explanation. She grew quite pale with anger. Mark Blakely resumed; his manner earnest, his voice low and tender, “I have loved you Martha from the first day that I saw you at my mother’s, I dragged myself away from the place because I loved you, fearing that you might come to see my folly, it was worse than folly then, for I was not a free man. I have continued loving you more and more from that time to this. I went abroad this last time hoping to forget you; but I cannot do it, and my love has only become stronger. Forgive, I say, my urging it upon you in this moment of impulse.” Poor Martha was greatly excited, went abroad hoping to forget her, striving to forget her, it was worse and worse. She pushed his hand away. “Oh! Martha, can you not love me?” he exclaimed in agitation. “Will you not give me hopes that you will some time be my wife.” “No, I cannot love you; I will not give you hopes. I would rather marry any man in the world than you; you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Blakely!” Not a very dignified rejoinder, and Martha first with anger and then with love, burst into even less dignified tears, and left the room in a passion. Mark Blakely bit his lips in disgust. Mary entered unsuspicious; he turned from the window and smoothed his brow, gathering what equanimity he could as he proceeded to inquire after Mr. Taylor. About a month after this interview Martha Taylor walked out from the dining-room to enjoy the beauty of the spring evening, or to indulge her own thoughts as might be. She strayed to the edge of the grounds and there sat down on the garden bench, not to remain alone long. She was interrupted by the very man upon whom, if the disclosure must be made, her evening thoughts had centered. He was coming up with a quick step, seeing Martha he stopped to accost her, his heart beating, beating from the quick steps or from the sight of Martha, he best knew. Many a man’s heart has beaten at the sight of a less lovely vision. She wore white, set off with blue ribbons, and her golden hair glittered in the sunlight. She nearly screamed with surprise; she had been thinking of him, it was true, but as one who was miles away. In spite of his stormy and not long past rejection, he went straight to her and held out his hand. Did he notice that her blue eyes dropped beneath his as she rose to answer his greeting? that the soft color on her cheeks changed to a hot damask. “I fear I have surprised you,” said Mark. “A little,” acknowledged Martha. “I did not know you were in Bellville. Charles will be glad to see you.”
She turned to walk with him to the house and as in courtesy bound, Mark Blakely offered her his arm, and Martha condescended to accept it; neither broke the silence, and they reached the large porch at the Taylor mansion. Martha spoke then. “Are you going to make a long stay in England?” “A very short one; a party of friends are leaving for New York, and they wish me to accompany them, I think I shall go.” “To New York that is a long distance.” Mark smiled, “I am an old traveler, you know.” Martha opened the dining-room door, Charles was alone, he had left the table and was seated in his armchair by the window, a glad smile illumed his face when he saw Mark, he was one of the very few of whom Charles had made a close friend, these close friends, not more than one or two perhaps, can we meet in a life-time; acquaintances many, but friends, those to whom the heart can speak out its inmost thoughts who may be as our own souls, how few. “Have you been to tea?” asked Charles. “I have dined at the hotel,” replied Mark. “Have you come to make a long stay?” inquired Charles. “I shall leave to-morrow, having nothing to do I thought that I would come and see you, I am pleased to see you looking better.” “The warm weather seems to be doing me a little good,” was Charles Taylor’s reply; a consciousness within him of how little better he really was, Charles proceeded with Mark to the drawing-room where his sisters were, and a pleasant hour or two they all spent together.
Chapter VIII.
GEORGE TAYLOR GIVES A PARTY.
MATILDA laughed at him a great deal about his proposed expedition to New York, telling him she did not believe that he was serious in saying he entertained it. It was a beautiful night, soft, warm and lovely, the clock was striking ten when Mark arose to depart. “If you will wait a few minutes I will go a little way with you,” said Charles Taylor, he withdrew to another room for his coat, then he rejoined him, passed his arm in Mark Blakely’s and went out with him. “Is this New York project a joke?” asked Charles. “Indeed, no, I have not quite made up my mind to go, I think I shall; if so, I shall go in a week from this, why should I not go, I have no settled home, no ties?” “Should you not, Mark, be the happier if you had a settled home; you might form ties, I think a roving life must be a very undesirable one.” “It is one I was never fitted for, my inclination would lead me to love home and domestic happiness, but as you know, I put that out of my power.” “For a time, but that is over, you might marry again.” “I do not think I ever shall,” returned Mark Blakely, feeling half prompted to tell his unsuspicious friend that his own sister was the barrier.
“You have never married,” he resumed, allowing the impulse to die away. Charles Taylor shook his head; “the cases are different,” he said: “In your wife you lost one whom you could not regret.” “Don’t call her by that name Charles;” burst forth Mark Blakely. “And in Janey I lost one who was all the world to me who could never be replaced,” Charles resumed, after a pause; “the cases were widely different.” “Yes, widely different,” assented Mark Blakely, they walked on in silence, each buried in his own thoughts, at the commencement of the road, Mark Blakely stopped, and took Charles Taylor’s hand in his, “you shall not come any farther with me.”
Charles stopped also, he had not intended to go farther. “You shall really go to New York then.” “I believe I shall.” “Take my blessing with you, then Blakely we may never meet again in this world.”