“What!” exclaimed Mark. “The medical men entertain hopes that my life may not be terminated so speedily, I believe that a few months will end it, I may not live to welcome you home.” It was the first intimation Mark Blakely had received of Charles fatal malady, Charles explained to him; he was overwhelmed. “Oh my friend! my friend! can not death be coaxed to spare you!” he called out in excitement, how many have vainly echoed the same cry! A few more words, a long grasp of the lingering hands, and they parted, Charles with a God speed, Mark with a different prayer, a God save upon his lips. Mark Blakely turned to the road, Charles towards home. George Taylor’s dinner-table was spacious, but the absence of one person from it was conspicuous. Mr. Blakely’s chair was still left. “He would come yet.” George said there was no clergyman present, and Charles Taylor said the grace, he sat at the foot of the table opposite his cousin.
“We are thirteen!” exclaimed Mr. Feathersmith, a young man of this aristocratic gathering, “it is the ominous number, you know.” Some of them laughed. “What is that peculiar superstition?” asked Major “What is that peculiar superstition?” asked Major Black, “I have never been able to understand it.” “The superstition is that if a party of thirteen sit down to dinner one of them is sure to die before the year is up,” replied the young man, speaking with grave seriousness. “Why is not thirteen as good a number to sit down as any other number?” cried Major Black. “As good as fourteen, for instance?” “It’s the odd number.” “The odd number; it’s no more the odd number than any other number is odd that’s not even. What do you say to eleven? What do you say to fifteen?” “I can’t explain it,” returned the young man, with an air of indifference. “I only know that the superstition does exist, and that I have noticed in more instances than one that it has been carried out. Three or four parties of thirteen who have sat down to dinner have lost one of their number before the close of the year. You laugh at me, of course. I have been laughed at before; but suppose you notice it now; there are thirteen of us, see if we all are alive at the end of the year.” Charles Taylor in his heart thought it not unlikely that one of them, at any rate, would not be living. Several faces were smiling with amusement, the most serious of them was Mark Blakely. “You don’t believe in it, Blakely?” cried one, in surprise, as he gazed at him. “I certainly do not, why should you ask it?” “You look so grave over it.” “I never like to joke, though it be but a smile, on the subject of death,” replied Mark. “I once received a lesson on the point, and it will serve me for life.” “Will you tell us what it was?” interposed Mr. Feathersmith, who was introduced to Mr. Blakely that day. “I cannot tell it now,” replied Mark. “It is not a subject suited to a merry party,” he frankly added, “but it would not tend to bear out your superstition, sir; you are possibly thinking that it might.” “If I have sat down once with thirteen, I have sat down fifty times,” cried Major Black, “and we all lived the year out and many after that. I would not mention such nonsense again, if I were you.” The young man did not answer for a moment, he was enjoying a glass of wine. “Only notice, that’s all,” said he, “I don’t want to act the simpleton, but I don’t like to sit down with thirteen.” “Could we not make Bell the scapegoat and invoke the evil to fall on his head?” cried a mocking voice. “It is his fault.” “Mr. Feathersmith,” interrupted another, “how do you estimate the time? Is the damage to accrue before this year is out or do you give us full twelve months from this evening?” “Ridicule me as much as you like,” said the young man, good humoredly. “All I say is, notice if every one of us now here are alive this time next year, then I’ll not put faith in it again. I hope we shall be.” “I hope we shall be, too,” said Major Black. “You are a social subject, though, to invite to dinner. I should fancy Mr. George Taylor was thinking so.” Mr. George Taylor appeared to be thinking of something that rendered him somewhat mentally disturbed, in point of fact his duties as host were considerably broken into by listening at the door; above the conversation, the clatter of plates, the drawing of corks, his ear was alive, hoping for the knock which would announce Mr. Bell.
It was, of course, strange that he neither came nor sent, but no knock seemed to come and George could only rally his powers and forget him. It was a recherche repast. George Taylor’s state dinners always were; no trouble or expense was spared at them; luxuries in season and out of season were there; the turtle would seem richer at his table than any other, the venison more than venison, the turkeys had a sweeter flavor, the sparkling champagne was of the rarest vintage, the dinner this day did not disgrace its predecessors and the guests seemed to enjoy themselves to the utmost in spite of the absence of Mr. Bell and Mr. Feathersmith’s prognostications thereon. The evening was drawing on, and some of the gentlemen were solacing themselves with a cup of coffee, when the butler slipped a note into George’s hand. “The man is waiting for an answer, sir,” he whispered. George glided out of the room and read it, so fully impressed was he that it came from Mr. Bell explaining the cause of his absence that he had to read it twice over before he could take in the fact that it was not from him; it was few lines in pencil from the popular hotel and running as follows: “Dear George, I am not feeling well and have stopped here on my journey, call at once or I shall be gone to bed, Adam Miller.” One burning desire had hung over George all the evening that he could run up to Bell’s, and learn the cause of his absence. His absence in itself would not in the least have troubled George, but he had a most urgent reason for wishing to see him, hence his anxiety. To leave his guests to themselves would have been scarcely the thing, but this note appeared to afford just the excuse wanting, at any rate he determined to make it the excuse. “A messenger brought this, I suppose,” he said to the butler. “Yes, sir.” “My compliments and I will be with Mr. Miller directly.” George went into the room again, intending to proclaim his proposed absence and plead Mr. Miller’s illness which he would put up in a strong light as his justification for the inroad upon good manners a sudden thought came over him that he would only tell Charles. George drew him aside, “Charles, you be host for me for half an hour,” he whispered. “Mr. Miller has just sent me an urgent summons to come and see him at the hotel; he was passing through here and was compelled to stop for sickness.” “Won’t to-morrow morning do?” asked Charles. “No, I will be back before they have time to miss me, if they do miss me, say it is a duty of friendship that any one of them would have answered as I am doing, if called upon. I’ll soon be back.” Away he went. Charles felt unusually well that evening and exerted himself for his cousin. Once out of the house George hesitated whether he should go to see Mr. Bell or Mr. Miller. He went to Mr. Miller. They had been friends first at school, then at college, and since up to now. “I am sorry to have sent for you,” exclaimed Mr. Miller holding out his hand. “I hear you have friends this evening.” “It’s the kindest thing you could have done for me this evening,” answered George. “I would have given anything for a plea to be absent myself, and your letter came and afforded it.” What, else they said, was between themselves; it was not much, and in five minutes he was on his way to Bell’s; on he strode his eager feet scarcely touching the ground, he lifted his hat and wiped his brow, hot with anxiety; it was a very bright night the moon high; he reached the mansion, and rang the bell: “Is Mr. Bell at home?” “He’s gone to the North River,” was the answer. “A pretty trick he played me this evening,” said George in a tone of dismay. “What trick,” repeated the house-keeper. “Gone to North River, it cannot be.” “He is,” said she positively; “when I came from market, I found him going off by the train he had received a message which took him up.”
“Why did he not call upon me, he knew the necessity there was for me to see him, he ought to have come.” “I conclude he was in a hurry to catch the train,” said she. “Why did he not send?” “I heard him send a verbal message by one of the servants to the effect that he was summoned unexpectedly to North River, and could not, therefore, attend your dinner. How early you have broken up!” “We have not broken up, I left my guests to see after him. No message was brought to me.” “Then I will enquire,” began she, rising, but George waved her back. “It is of little consequence,” he said. “It might have saved me some suspense, but I am glad I got the dinner over without knowing it. I would like to see him.” George arose to go. “Not there, not that way,” she said, for George was turning as if he would go into a dark hall, and she arose and went with him to the door. He intended to take the lonely road homewards, that dark, narrow road you may remember, where the maple trees met overhead. All at once George Taylor did take a step back with a start, when just inside the walk there came a dismal groan from some dark figure seated on a broken bench. It was all dark there, the thick maple trees hid the moon. George had just emerged from where her beams shone bright and open, and not at first did he distinguish who was sitting there, but his eyes grew accustomed to the obscurity. “Charles,” he uttered in consternation, “is that you?” For answer, Charles Taylor caught hold of his cousin, bent forward and laid his head on George’s arm, another deep groan breaking from him; that George Taylor would rather have been waylaid by a real ghost than by his cousin at that particular time and place, was certain; better that the whole world should detect any undue anxiety for Mr. Bell’s companionship then than Charles Taylor, at least George thought so, but conscience makes the best of us cowards, nevertheless he gave his earnest sympathy to his cousin. “Lean on me Charles, let me support you, how have you been taken sick?” another minute and the paroxysm of pain was past. Charles wiped the moisture from his brow, and George sat down on the narrow bench beside him. “How came you to be here alone, Charles. Where is your carriage?” “I ordered the carriage early and it came just as you were going away,” explained Charles. “Feeling well, I sent it away again, saying I would walk home, the pain struck me just as I reached this spot and but for the bench I should have fallen.” “But George, what brings you here?” was the next very natural question. “You told me that you was going to see Miller?” “So I was—so I did,” said George, speaking volubly. “I found him poorly, I told him that he would do better in bed and came away; it was a nice night; I felt inclined for a run, and went to Bell’s to ask what kept him away. He was sent for up at North River it seems, and sent an apology, but I did not get it. In some way or other I think it was misplaced by the servants.” Charles Taylor might well have rejoined “If Bell was away where did you stop,” but he made no remark. “Are they all gone,” asked George, alluding to his guests. “They are all gone, I made it right with them respecting your absence; my being there was almost the same thing, they appeared to regard it so. George, I believe I must have your arm as far as the house, see what an old man I am getting to be.” “Will you not rest longer, I am in no hurry as they have gone? What can this pain be that seems to be attacking you of late?” “Has it never occurred to you what it might be?” rejoined Charles. “No,” replied George, but he noticed that Charles’ tone was a peculiar one, and he began to think of all the ailments that flesh is heir to. “It cannot be rheumatism, can it Charles?” “It is something worse than rheumatism,” he said, in his serene, ever thoughtful tone. “A short time George, and you will control my share of the business.” George’s heart seemed to stand still and then bound onward in a tumult. “What do you mean, Charles; what do you think is the matter with you?” “Do you remember what killed my mother?” There was a painful pause. “Oh, Charles!” “That is it,” said Charles quietly. “I hope you are mistaken! I hope you are mistaken!” reiterated George. “Have you a physician; you must have advice!” “I have had it, Brown confirms my suspicions. I asked for the truth.” “Who is Brown,” returned George, disparagingly. “Go to London, Charles, and consult the best medical men there.”
“For the satisfaction of you all I can do so,” he replied; “but it will not benefit me.” “Good heavens! what a dreadful thing,” uttered George, with feeling; “what a blow to fall upon you.” “You would regard it so were it to fall upon you, and naturally you are young, joyous, and have something to live for.” George Taylor did not feel joyous then, had not felt particularly joyous for a long time; some how his own care was a burden to him; he lifted his right hand to his temple and kept it there; Charles suffered his own hand to fall upon George’s left, which rested on his knee. “Don’t grieve, George, I am more than resigned. I think of it as a happy change; this world at its best is full of care; if we seem free from it one year it only falls more unsparingly the next; it is wisely ordered, were the world made too pleasant for us, we might be wishing it was our permanent home; few weary of it, whatever may be their care, until they have learned to look for a better. In the days gone by, I have felt tempted to wonder why Janey should have been taken,” resumed Charles. “I see now how merciful the fiat was, George. I have been more thoughtfully observant perhaps, than many are, and I have learned to see, to know, how marvelously all the fiats are fraught with mercy; full of dark sorrows as they may seem to us, it would have been a bitter trial to me to leave her here unprotected in deep sorrow. I scarcely think I could have been reconciled to go, and I know what her grief would have been. All’s for the best.” Very rare was it for undemonstrative Charles thus to express his hidden sentiments. George never knew him to do so before; the time and place were peculiarly fitted for it, the still, bright night, telling of peacefulness, the shady trees around, the blue sky overhead; in these paroxysms of pain Charles felt himself brought face to face with death. “It will be a blow to Mary,” said George, the thought striking him. “She will feel it as one. Charles, can nothing be done for you?” was the impulsive rejoinder. “Could it have been done for my mother?” “I know, but since then science has been broadened; diseases once incurable yield now to medical skill. I wish you would go to London. There are some diseases which bring death with them in spite of human skill, which will bring it to the end of time,” rejoined Charles. “This is one.” “Well, Charles, you have given me enough for to-night, and for a great many more nights and days, too. I wish I had not heard it; it is a dreadful affliction for you. I must say it is a dreadful affliction.” “The disease or the ending you mean?” asked Charles, with a smile. “Both are, but I spoke more particularly of the disease. The disease in itself is a lingering death, and nothing better.” “A lingering death is the most favored, as I regard it; a sudden death the most unhappy one. See what time has given me to set my house in order,” he added, the sober smile deepening. “I must not fail to do it well.” “And the pain, Charles, that will be lingering, too.” “I must bear it.” He rose as he spoke, and put his arm in his cousin’s. He stood a minute or two as if getting strength, and then walked on, leaning heavily on George. It was the pain, the excessive agony, that unnerved him; a little while, and he would seem in the possession of his strength again. “George, I can not tell how you will manage the business when I am gone,” he continued, more in a business-like tone. “I think of it a great deal. Sometimes I fancy it might be better if you took a staid, sober partner, one of middle age, a thorough man of business. Great confidence has been accorded me, you know, George. I suppose people like my steady habits.”
“They like you for your honest integrity;” returned George, the words seemed to break from him impulsively, “I shall manage very well, I dare say, when the time comes, I suppose I must settle down to business to be more like what you have been, I can,” he continued in a sort of soliloquy, “I can, and I will.” But they walked on slowly neither saying a word until they reached the house. George shook hands with his cousin, “don’t you attempt to come to business to-morrow,” he said, “I will come up in the evening to see you.”
“Won’t you come in now, George?” “Thank you. Good night, Charles, I heartily wish you better.” There went on the progress of a few days and another week had dawned and Charles seemed to all appearances to be improving, he arose now to the early breakfast table, he began to hasten to business for there was much work there with the accounts, and one morning when they were at breakfast the old servant entered with one or two letters for Charles, but before the old man could reach his master, whose back was toward the door, Mary made him a sign and he laid the letters down on a remote table. Charles had been receiving a large number of letters of late, and Mary was fearful that so much business might bring on another of those spells and deemed it just as well that he should at least eat his breakfast in peace. The circumstances of the letters having passed from her mind he ate on in silence, but Martha and Matilda were discussing certain news which they had received the previous day, news which had surprised them concerning the engagement of a lady who had looked upon matrimony as folly.