Martha explained why she did not come, telling of the accident to Mrs. Davis. “Ah, careless! careless! careless! she might have been burned to death,” said Mary, lifting her hands. “She would have been much more burnt had it not been for her presence of mind,” said Charles slowly. Miss Taylor laid down her knitting and approached the tea-table, none must preside at the meals but herself. She inquired of Charles whether he was going out again. “I think not,” he replied indecisively, “I should like to have gone though, the doctor tells me Mary Ann Brewster is worse.” “Weaker I conclude,” said Mary. “Weaker than she has been at all, he thinks there is no hope for her now. No, I will not disturb them,” he positively added, “it would be nearly twelve by the time I reached there.”
Chapter III.
CHARLES TAYLOR RECEIVES A MESSAGE.
WHAT a loud ring,” exclaimed Mary Taylor, as the bell, pulled with no gentle hand, echoed and echoed through the house; “should it be cousin George come home, he thinks he will let us know who is there.” It was not George. A servant entered the room with a telegram, “the man is waiting, sir,” he said, holding out the paper for Charles to sign. Charles affixed his signature and took up the dispatch; it came from Waterville, Mary laid her hand upon it ere it was open, her face looked ghastly pale. “A moment of preparation,” she said. “Now, Mary, do not anticipate evil, it may not be ill news at all.” He glanced his eye rapidly and privately over it while Martha came and stood near with a stifled sob, then he held it out to Mary, reading it aloud at the same time, “Mrs. Bangs to Charles Taylor, come at once to Waterville, Mr. Bangs wishes to see you.” Mary, her extreme fears having been relieved, took refuge in displeasure. “What does Mrs. Bangs mean by sending a vague message like that?” she uttered. “Is Mr. Bangs worse, is he sick, is he in danger or has the summons not reference at all to his state of health?” Charles had taken it in his hand again and was studying the words—as we are all apt to do when in uncertainty.
He could make no more out of them. “Mrs. Bangs might have been more explicit,” he resumed. “She has no right to play upon our fears,” said Mary. “Well, what are you going to do?” inquired Mary of her brother. “I will do as the dispatch desires me, go at once, which will be at midnight.” “Give it to me again,” said Mary. He put the dispatch into her hand, and she sat down with it, apparently studying its every word. “Vague! Vague! Can anything be possibly more vague,” she exclaimed. “It leaves us utterly in doubt of her motive for sending, she must have done it on purpose to try our feelings.” “She has done it in carelessness, carelessness,” surmised Charles. “Which is as reprehensible as the other,” severely answered Mary. “Charles, when you get there, should you find him dangerously ill dispatch to us at once.” “I should be sure to do so,” was his answer. “Where are you going?” asked Mary, for he was preparing to go out. “As far as Mrs. Brewster’s.” Leaving the warm room for the street, the night air seemed to strike upon him with a chill which he had not experienced when he went out previously, and he returned and put on his overcoat. He could not leave before 2 o’clock, unless he had engaged a special train, which the circumstances did not appear to call for. At 2 o’clock a mail train passed through the place, stopping at all stations, and on that he concluded to go. He walked briskly along the path, his thoughts running upon many things, but chiefly on the unsatisfactory dispatch, very unsatisfactory he felt it to be, and a vague fear crossed his mind that his friend and partner might be in danger, looking at it from a sober point of view his judgment said “no,” but we cannot always look at suspense soberly, neither could Charles Taylor.
Before reaching Madam Brewster’s on the walk that Charles had taken, you pass the church and residence of Parson Davis. Nature had not intended Mr. Davis for a pastor, and his sermons were the bane of his life; an excellent man, a most efficient pastor for a village, a gentleman, a scholar, abounding in good, practical sense, but not a preacher; sometimes he wrote sermons, sometimes he tried them without the book, but let him do as he would, there was always a conviction of failure as to his sermons winning their way to his hearers hearts. He was of medium height, keen features, black hair, mingled with gray. The house was built of white stone and was a commodious residence; some of the rooms had been added to the house of late years. Mrs. Davis’ room was very pleasant to sit in on a summer’s day when the grass was green and the many colored flowers with their gay brightness and their perfume gladdened the senses, and the birds were singing and the bees and butterflies sporting. Mrs. Davis was a lady-like woman of middle height and fair complexion, she was remarkably susceptible to surrounding influences, seasons and weather held much power over her. A dark figure was leaning over the gate of Parson Davis, shaded by the dark trees, but though the features of the face were obscure, the outline of the clerical hat was visible, and by that Mr. Davis was known. Charles Taylor stopped: “You are going this way late” said the parson. “It is late for a visit to Mrs. Brewster’s, but I wish particularly to see them.” “I have just returned from there,” said Mr. Davis. “Mary Ann grows weaker, I hear.” “Yes, I have been holding prayer with her.” Charles Taylor felt shocked. “Is she so near death as that,” he inquired in a hushed tone. “So near death as that” repeated Mr. Davis in an accent of reproof. “I did not expect to hear such a remark from you, Mr. Taylor; my friend, is it only when death is near that we are to pray?” “It is mostly when death is near that prayers are held over us,” replied Charles Taylor. “True, for those who have known when and how to pray for themselves; look at that girl passing away from among us, with all her worldly thoughts, her selfish habits, her evil, peevish temper, but God’s ways are not like our ways; we might be tempted to ask why such as these are removed, such as Janey left, the one child as near akin to an angel as it is possible to be here; the other, in our blind judgment, we may wonder that she, most ripe for heaven, should not be taken to it, and the other one left to be pruned and dug around, to have, in short, a chance given her of making herself better.” “Is she so very sick?” “I think her so, as well as the doctor, it was what he said that sent me up; her frame of mind is not a desirable one, and I have been doing my best; I shall be with her again to-morrow.” He continued his way and Mr. Davis looked after him until his form disappeared in the shadows cast by the roadside trees. The clock was striking twelve when Charles Taylor opened the iron gate that led to Mrs. Brewster’s house; the house, with the exception of one window looked dark, even the hall lamp was out and he was afraid that all had retired. From that window a dull light shone behind the blind; a stationary light it had been of late, to be seen by any wayfarer all night long for it came from the sick girl’s room. A rap upon the door brought Eliza.
“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed in surprise of seeing him so late, “I think Miss Janey has gone to bed.” Mrs. Brewster came running down the stairs as he stepped into the hall; she also was surprised at his late visit. “I would not have disturbed you, but I am about to depart for Waterville,” he explained. “A telegram has arrived from Mrs. Bangs, calling me there. I should like to see Janey before I go. I don’t know how long I may be gone.” “I sent Janey to her bed, her head ached,” said Mrs. Brewster, “she has not been up very long. Oh, Mr. Taylor, this has been such a day of grief, heads and and hearts alike aching.” Charles Taylor entered the drawing-room, and Mrs. Brewster proceeded to her daughter’s chamber; softly opening the door, she looked in. Janey, undisturbed by the noise of his visit, for she had not supposed it to be a visit relating to her, was kneeling down by the bed saying her prayers, her face buried in her hands, and the light from the candle shining on her smooth hair. A minute or so her mother remained silent, and then Janey arose; she had not begun to undress. It was the first intimation she had that anyone was there, and she recoiled with surprise. “Mamma, how you scared me! Mary Ann is not worse?” “She can’t well be worse on this side of the grave. Mr. Taylor is in the drawing-room, and wishes to see you.” She went down at once. Mrs. Brewster did not go with her, but went into her sick daughter’s room. The fire in the drawing-room was low, and Eliza had been in to stir it up. Charles stood before it with Janey, telling her of his unexpected journey. The red embers threw a glow upon her face, her brow looked heavy, her eyes swollen. He saw the signs, and laid his hand fondly on her head. “What has given you the headache, Janey?” The tears came into her eyes. “It does ache very much,” she answered. “Has crying caused it?” “Yes,” she said, “it is of no use to deny it, for you could have seen it by my swollen eyelids. I have wept to-day until it seems I can weep no longer, and it has made my eyes ache and my heart dull and heavy.” “But, my dear, you should not give way to this grief; it may render you seriously ill.” “Oh, Charles, how can I help it,” she replied with emotion, as the tears rolled swiftly down her cheeks.
“We begin to see that there is no hope of Mary Ann’s recovery; the doctor told mamma so to-day, and he sent over Mr. Davis.” “Will grieving alter it?” Janey wept silently; there was full and complete confidence between her and Charles Taylor. She could tell him all her thoughts, her troubles, as she could a mother if she had one that loved her. “If she was more ready to go, the pain would seem less,” breathed Janey. “That is, we might feel more reconciled to losing her, but you know how she is, Charles, when I have tried to talk to her about Heaven, she would not listen. She said it made her dull; it gave her the horrors. How can she, who has never thought of God, be fit to meet him?” Janey’s tears were deepening into sobs. Charles Taylor thought of what the minister had said to him. His hand still rested on the head of Janey. “You are fit to meet him,” he exclaimed, sadly. “Janey, what makes such a difference between you, you are sisters, raised in the same home?” “I do not know,” said Janey, slowly, “I have always thought a great deal about Heaven ever since I first went to Sunday-school.” “And why not Mary Ann?” “She would not go; she liked balls, parties and such like.” Charles smiled; the words were so simple and natural. “Had the summons gone forth for you instead of her, it would have brought you no dismay?” “Only that I must leave all of my friends behind me,” she answered, looking up at him, a bright smile shining through her tears. “I should know that God would not take me unless it was for the best. Oh, Charles, if we could only save her!” “Child, you contradict yourself. If what God does must be for the best, you should reconcile yourself to parting with Mary Ann.” “Yes,” hesitated Janey, “but I fear she has never thought of it herself or in any way prepared for it.” “Do you know that I am going to find fault with you, Janey?” he added, after a pause. She turned her eyes upon him in complete surprise, the tears drying up. “Did you not promise me—did you not promise the doctor that you would not enter your sister’s chamber while the fever was upon her?” The hot color flashed into her face. “Forgive me, Charles,” she whispered, “I could not help myself; Mary Ann, on the fifth morning of her illness, began to cry for me very much, and mamma came to my room and asked me to go to her. I told her that the doctor had forbidden me and that I had promised you; it made her angry; she took me by the arm and pulled me in.” Charles stood looking at her; there was nothing to answer. He had known in his deep and trusting love that it was no fault of Janey’s. Thinking he was vexed, she answered, “You know, Charles, so long as I am here in mamma’s home, her child, it is to her that I owe obedience; as soon as I am your wife I shall owe it and give it to you.” “You are right, my darling.” “And it has been productive of no ill consequences,” she said. “I did not catch the fever; had I found myself growing the least sick, I should have sent for you and told you all.” “Janey,” he cried, “had you caught the fever I should never have forgiven those who led you into the danger.”