BUSY talking they did not particularly notice that Charles had risen from his chair at the breakfast table and was seated at a distant table opening his letters until a faint sound, something like a groan, startled them; he was leaning back in his chair seemingly unconscious, his hands had fallen, his face gave signs of the grave; surely those dews upon it were not the dews of death! Martha screamed, Matilda flung open the door and called out for help; Mary only turned to them her hands lifted to enjoin silence, a warning word upon her lips, their old servant came running in and looked at Charles. “He’ll be better directly,” he whispered. “Yes, he will be better,” assented Mary, “but I should call the doctor.” Charles began to revive. He slowly opened his eyes and raised his hand to wipe the moisture from his white brow. On the table before him lay one of the letters open. Mary pushed the letters aside with a gesture of grievous vexation. “It is this business that has affected you,” she cried out with a wail. “Not so,” breathed Charles. “It was the pain here.” He touched himself below the chest in the same place where the pain had been before. What had caused the pain, mental agony arising from overwork or the physical agony arising from disease? Probably some of both. He stretched out his hand toward the letters making a motion that they should be placed in envelopes. George, who could not have read a word without his glasses, took up the letters, folded them and put them in their envelopes. Charles’ mind seemed at rest and he closed his eyes again. “I’ll step for the doctor now,” whispered George to Mary, “I shall catch him before he goes out on his rounds.” He took his hat and went down the road to the office, putting forth his best step, when he reached the office the doctor had gone. “Will he be long,” asked George? “I don’t know,” was the reply, “he was called out at seven this morning.” “He is wanted at the Taylor mansion. Mr. Taylor is worse.” “Is he?” returned the assistant, his quick tone indicating concern. “I can tell you where he is, and that’s at Bangs,” continued the assistant. “You might call and speak to him if you like, it’s on your way home.” George hastened there and succeeded in finding the doctor. He informed him that Charles was worse; was very sick. “One of the old attacks of pain, I suppose,” said the doctor. “Yes, sir,” answered George. “He was taken sick while answering letters. Miss Mary thought it might be overwork that brought it on.”
“Ah!” said the doctor, and there was a world of emphasis on the monosyllable. “Well, I shan’t be detained here over half an hour longer, and I shall come straight up.” He reached there within half an hour after George. Mary saw him approaching and came into the hall to meet him. She was looking very sad and pale. “Another attack, I hear,” began the doctor, in his unceremonious mode of salutation, “bothered into it, I suppose; George says it came on while he was reading letters.” “Yes,” answered Mary, in acquiescence, her tone a resentful one. “It was brought on by overwork.” The doctor gave a groan as he turned towards the stairs. “Not there,” interposed Mary, “he is in the dining-room.” With the wan, white look upon his face, with the moisture of pain on his brow lay Charles Taylor. He was on the sofa now, but he partially rose from it and assumed a sitting posture when the doctor entered. A few professional questions and answers and then the doctor began to scold. “Did I not warn you that you must have perfect tranquility,” cried he, “rest of body and of mind?” “You did, but how am I to get it, even now I ought to be at the office. I shall die however it may be, doctor,” was the reply of Charles Taylor. “So will most of us, I expect,” returned the doctor, “but there’s no necessity for us to be helped on to it ages before death would come of itself.” “True,” replied Charles, but his tone was not a hopeful one. There was a pause, Charles broke it. “I wish you could give me something to avert these sharp attacks of pain, doctor, it is agony in fact, not pain.” “I know it,” replied the doctor. “What’s the use of my attempting to give you anything? You don’t take my prescription.” Charles lifted his eyes in surprise. “I have taken all that you desired me.” “No, you have not; I prescribe tranquillity of mind and body; you take neither.” Charles leaned nearer to the doctor and paused before he answered. “Tranquillity of mind for me has passed, I can never know it again; were my life to be prolonged by the great healer of all things, time might bring it to me in a degree, but for that I shall not live, doctor; you must know this to be the case under the calamity which has fallen upon my head.” “At any rate you cannot go on facing business any longer.” “I must, indeed, there is no help for it.” “And suppose it kills you,” was the retort. “If I could help going I would,” said Charles. “George has gone away.” The doctor arose and departed after giving Charles a severe lecture. Miss Taylor sat at one of the west windows, her cheek rested pensively on her fingers as she thought, oh, with what bitterness of the grievous past she sat there losing herself in regret after regret. If my father and mother had not died; she lost herself, I say, in these regrets, bitter as they were vain. How many of these useless regrets might embitter the lives of us all, how many do embitter them? If I had but done so and so; if I had taken the right when I turned to the wrong; if I had known who that person was from the first and shunned his acquaintance; if I had chosen that path in life instead of this one; if I had, in short, done exactly the opposite to what I did do. Vain, vain repinings; vain, useless repinings. The only plan is to keep them as far as possible from our hearts. If we could foresee the end of a thing at its beginning, if we could buy a stock of experience at the outset of life, if we could, in fact, become endowed with the light of divine wisdom, what different men and women the world would see. But we cannot undo the past, it is ours with all its folly, its shortsightedness. Perhaps its guilt, though we stretch out our yearning and pitiful hands to Heaven in their movement of agony, though we wail out our bitter my Lord pardon me! heal me! help me! though we beat on our remorseful bosom and tear away its flesh piecemeal in bitter repentance. We cannot undo the past; we cannot undo it. The past remains to us unaltered, and must remain so forever. Perhaps some idea of this kind of the utter uselessness of these regrets, but no personal remorse attached to her, was making itself heard in the mind of Miss Taylor even through her grief. She had clasped her hands upon her bosom now and bent her head downwards, completely lost in retrospect.
She was aroused by the entrance of Charles. He sat opposite her at the other corner of the window; he appeared to be buried in thought, neither spoke a word; presently Mary arose to leave the room and George met her almost immediately, showing in Mr. Blakely. He hastened forward to prevent Charles from rising. Laying one hand upon his shoulder and the other on his hands he pressed him down and would not let him rise. The slanting rays of the setting sun were falling on the face of Charles Taylor, lighting up its handsome outlines, the cheeks were thinner, the hair seemed scantier, the truthful gray eyes had acquired an habitual expression of pain. Mr. Blakely leaned over him and noted it all. “Sit down,” said Charles, drawing the chair which had been occupied by Mary nearer to him. Mr. Blakely accepted the invitation, but did not release the hand. They subsided into conversation, its theme as was natural, the health of Charles and the topics of the day and weather. Charles sat in calmness waiting for him to proceed; nothing could stir him greatly now. Mr. Blakely gave him the outline of the past, of his love for Martha and her rejection of him. “There has been something in her manner of late,” he continued, “which has renewed hope within me, otherwise I should not be saying this to you now; quite of late, since her rejection of me, I have observed what I could not describe, and I have determined to risk my fate once more.” “But I did not know that you loved Martha.” “I suppose not. It has seemed to me, though, that my love must have been patent to the world. You would give her to me, would you not?” “Thankfully,” was the warm answer. “The thought of leaving these girls unprotected has been one of my cares. Let me give you one consolation Blakely, that if Martha has rejected you she has rejected others. Mary fancied she had some secret attachment; can it have been concerning yourself?” “If so why has she rejected me?” “I don’t know; she has been grievously unhappy since I have been sick, almost like one who had no further hope in life.” “What is it, George?” “A message has come from Mrs. Bangs.” Charles spoke a word of apology to Blakely and left the room; in the hall he met Martha crossing to it; she went in quite unconscious who was its occupant; he rose to welcome her. A momentary hesitation in her steps, a doubt whether she should not run away again, and then she recalled her senses and went forward. How it went on and what was exactly said or done neither of them could remember afterwards. A very few minutes and Martha’s head was resting upon his shoulder; all the mistakes of the past cleared up between them. She might not have confessed to him how long she had loved, all since that long time when they were together at his home, but for her dread that he might think she was only accepting him on account of Charles’ days being numbered. She told the truth, that she had loved him and him only all along. “Martha, my dear, what a long misery might have been spared me had I known this.” Martha looked down. Perhaps some might have been spared her also. “Would you like to live here?” asked Mark. “Oh, yes; if it can be.” “They will be glad to have me set a price on some of these houses around here.” Martha’s eyelids were bent on her hot cheeks; she did not raise them. “If you like we might ask Mary and Matilda to live with us,” resumed Mark Blakely in his thoughtful consideration. “Our home will be large enough.” “Their home is decided upon,” said Martha shaking her head, “and they will remain in their own home. Mary has an annuity, you know; it was money left to her by mamma’s sister, so that she is independent; can live where she pleases; but I am sure she will go to New York on a visit as soon as”—“I understand you Martha; as soon as Charles shall have passed away.” The tears were glistening in her eyes. “Do you not see a great change in him?”
“A very great one, Martha; I should like him to give you to me. Will you waive ceremony and be mine at once?” “At once,” she repeated, stammering and looking at him. “I mean in the course of a week or two, as soon as you can make it convenient. Surely we have waited long enough.” “I will see,” murmured Martha, a grave expression arose to Mr. Blakely’s face. “It must not be very long, Martha, if you would be mine while your brother is in life.” “I will! I will! it shall be as you wish,” she answered, the tears falling from her eyes, and before she could make any rejoinder she had hastily quitted him, and standing before the window stealthily drying her wet cheeks, for the door had opened and Charles Taylor had entered the room.
All the neighbors of Bellville lingered at its doors and windows curious to witness the outer signs of Martha Taylor’s wedding; the arrangements for it were to them more a matter of speculation than of certainty since various rumors had been afloat and were eagerly caught up, although of the most contradictory character, all that appeared certain as yet, was that the day was charming and the bells were ringing; to keep the crowd back was an impossibility and when the first carriage came, the excitement in the street was great; it was drawn by two beautiful horses, the livery of the postillions and the crest on the panels of the carriage proclaimed it to be Charles Taylor’s. Mark Blakely sat inside with Martha, the next carriage contained the sisters and Charles Taylor, the third contained the bridesmaids wearing hats and beautiful gowns, and the others coming up contained the aristocratic friends of the parties concerned; there was a low murmur of sorrow, of sympathy and it was called forth by the appearance of Charles Taylor; it was some little time now since Charles Taylor had been seen in public and the change in him was startling; he walked forward leaning on the arm of George Taylor, lifting his hat to the greeting that was breathed around, a greeting of sorrow meant, as he knew, for him and his blighted life, the few scanty hairs stood out to their view as he uncovered his head, and the ravages of the disease that was killing him were all too conspicuous on his wasted features. “God bless him, he’s very near to the grave,” who said this among the crowd, Charles could not tell, but the words and their pathos full of rude sympathy came distinctly upon his ear. The Reverend Mr. Davis stood at the altar, he, too had changed, the keen, vigorous, healthy man had now a gray worn look; he stood there waiting for the wedding party; the pews were filled with ladies dressed appropriately for the occasion, and the church was filled with sweet-smelling flowers and their fragrance filled the air; the bridesmaids led the way, then came Martha and Charles Taylor; she wore an elegant gown of white satin, a tulle veil and orange blossoms, diamond ornaments, the gift of the groom—as lovely a bride as ever stood at the altar. Mr. Blakely and Miss Mary Taylor came next; she wore a gray silk of rare modern pattern. The recollection of the wedding service that he had promised to perform for Charles Taylor and Janey Brewster caused the pastor’s voice to be subdued now as he read; how had that contemplated union ended; the pastor was thinking it over now. This one was over, the promises made, the register signed and parson Davis stepped before them and took the hand of Martha. “I pray God that your union may be a happy one; that rests in a great degree with you; Mark Blakely, take care of her,” her eyes filled with tears, but Blakely grasped his hand warmly and said: “I will! I will.” “Let me bless you both, Blakely,” broke in the quiet voice of Charles Taylor. “It may be that I shall not see you again.”
“Oh! but we shall meet again, you must not die yet,” exclaimed Mark Blakely with feverish eagerness. “My friend I would rather part with the whole world, save Martha than with you.” Their hands lingered together and separated. They reached the carriage, notwithstanding the crowd pushed and danced around it, the placing in of Martha, and Mark taking his seat beside her, seemed to be but the work of a moment, so quickly was it done, and Mark Blakely, a pleasant smile upon his face, bowed to the shouts on either side as the carriage wended its way through the crowd, not until it had got into clear ground did the postillions put their horses to a canter, and the bride and groom were fairly on their bridal tour. There was more ceremony needed to place the ladies in the other carriages. Miss Taylor’s skirts in their extensive richness took five minutes to arrange themselves, ere a space could be found for Charles beside her, the footman held the door for him, the other carriages drove up in order and were driven quietly away, after having been filled with fair ladies and their escorts.