“Listen,” said Janey, “mamma is calling.” Mrs. Brewster had been calling to Mr. Taylor. Thinking that she was not heard she came down the stairs and entered the room wringing her hands; her eyes were moist, her sharp thin red nose was redder then ever. “Oh, dear, I don’t know what I shall do with her,” she sobbed. “She is so sick and fretful, Mr. Taylor, nothing will satisfy her now but she must see you.” “See me,” repeated he. “She will,” she says. “I told her you was leaving for Waterville and she burst out crying and said if she was to die she would never see you again, do you mind going in, you are not afraid?” “No, I am not afraid,” said Charles, “the infection can not have remained all this while, and if it had I should not fear it.” Mrs. Brewster led the way upstairs, Charles followed her, Janey came in afterwards. Mary Ann lay in bed, her thin face, drawn and white, raised upon the pillow, her hollow eyes were strained forward with a fixed look. Sick as he had thought her to have been he was hardly prepared to see her like this; and it shocked him. “Why have you never come to see me?” she asked in a hollow voice as he approached and leaned over her, “you would never have come till I died, you only care for Janey.” “I would have come to see you had I known you wished it,” he answered, “but you do not look strong enough to receive visitors.” “They might cure me if they would,” she said, her breath panting, “I want to go away somewhere and that Brown won’t let me; if it were Janey he would cure her.” “He will let you go as soon as you are able,” said Charles. “Why did this fever come to me, why didn’t it go to Janey instead, she is strong and would have got well in no time, that is not fair.” “My dear child you must not excite yourself,” implored her mother. “I will speak,” cried Mary Ann with a touch, feeble though it was, of her peevish vehemence. “Nobody’s thought of but Janey, if you had your way,” looking hard at Mr. Taylor, “she would not have been allowed to come near me, no, not if I had died.” She altered into whimpering tears, her mother whispered to him to leave the room, it would not do, this excitement. “I will come and see you again when you are better,” he soothingly whispered. “No, you won’t,” said Mary Ann, “and I shall be dead when you return, good-by, Charles Taylor.” These last words were called after him as he left the room, her mother went with him to the door, her eyes full, “you see there is no hope of her,” she wailed. Charles did not think there was, it appeared to him that in a few hours, hope for Mary Ann would be over. Janey waited for him in the hall and was leading the way to the drawing-room, but he told her that he could not stay longer and opened the door. “I wish you were not going away,” she said, her spirits being very unequal caused her to see things with a gloomy eye. “I wish you were going with me,” said he, “don’t cry, I shall soon be back again.” “Everything makes me cry to-night, you might not get back until the worst is over, oh, if she could be saved.” He held her face close to him and took from it his farewell kiss. “God bless you, my darling, forever.” “May he bless you Charles,” she said, with streaming eyes and for the first time in her life his kiss was returned, then they parted.
Chapter IV.
AN UNEXPECTED DEATH.
CHARLES having reached the station, taken the train to Waterville in response to the telegram, and when he reached there taken a carriage and was driven to the residence of Marshall Bangs, he found the decaying invalid sitting on a sofa in his bed-room; he had just recovered from a fainting spell, and he had recovered only to be the more weak. He was standing on the lawn before his house talking with a friend when he suddenly fell to the ground. He did not recover consciousness until evening, and nearly the first wish he expressed was a desire to see his friend and partner, Charles Taylor. “Dispatch for him” he said to his wife. Mrs. Bangs had a horror for fevers, especially when they were confined to everybody; at the present time she considered herself out of the reach of it, and no amount of persuasion could induce her to return, but her husband had grown tired and restless and was determined to go home, but let her remain until the fever had taken its departure, hence the dispatch. On the second day he was well enough to converse with Charles on business affairs, and that over, he expressed the wish that Charles would take him home. Charles mentioned it to Mrs. Bangs; it did not meet her approbation. “You should have opposed it entirely,” she said, in a firm tone. “But why so, Mrs. Bangs, if he desires to return, I think he should.” “Not while the fever lingers there; were he to take it and die I should never forgive myself.” Charles had no fear of the fever for himself, and did not fear it for his friend; he intimated as much, “it is not the fever that will hurt him, Mrs. Bangs.” “You have no right to say that. Mrs. Brewster, a month ago, would have said that she did not fear it for Mary Ann, and now she is dying, or dead, you confess you did not think that she could last more than a day or two when you left.” “I certainly did not,” said Charles. “She looked fearfully ill and emaciated, but that has nothing to do with Mr. Bangs.” “I cannot conceive how you could be so imprudent as to venture into her sick-room,” cried Mrs. Bangs, “indeed that you went to the house at all while the fever was in it.” “There could be no risk in my going into her room, nothing is the matter with her now but debility.” “We cannot tell, Mr. Taylor, when risk ends or when it begins; had not so many hours elapsed before you came here I should feel afraid of you.” Charles smiled. But he wished he had said nothing of his visit to the sick-room, for he was one of those who observe strict consideration for the feelings and prejudices of others; there was no help for it now. “It is not I that shall be returning to Bellville yet,” said Mrs. Bangs, “the sickly old place must give proof of its renewed health first; you will not get either me nor Mr. Bangs there for quite a while.”
“What does the doctor think of the fever, that it will linger long?” “On the night I came away he told me he believed it was going at last. I hope he will prove right.”
Charles Taylor spoke to his partner of his marriage arrangements. He had received a letter from Mary the morning after he left, in which she agreed to the proposal that Janey should be her temporary guest. This removed all barriers to the immediate union. “But, Charles, suppose Mary Ann should die,” observed Mr. Bangs. This conversation was taking place on the day previous to their leaving Waterville, where Charles had now been three days. “In that case, I suppose it will have to be postponed,” he replied, “but I hope for better news. That she is not dead yet is certain, or they would have written to me, and in such cases, if a patient can pull through the first debility, recovery may be possible.” “Have you heard from Janey?” “No. I have written to her twice, but in each letter I told her I would soon be home; therefore, most likely she did not write, thinking it would miss me. Had the worst happened, they would have written to me at all events.” “So you will marry soon, if she lives?” “Very soon.” “I hope that God will bless you both,” cried the invalid. “She will be a wife in a thousand.” Charles thought she would, but did not say so. “I wish I had never left Bellville,” he said, turning his haggard, but still fine blue eyes upon his friend. Charles was silent. None had regretted the departure more than he. “I wish I could go back to it to die.” “My dear friend, I hope you may live many years to bless us. If you can get through the winter, and I see no reason why you should not, with care, you may regain your strength and be as well as ever.” The invalid shook his head. “It will never be.” While they were thus engaged a servant called Charles from the room. A telegram had arrived for him at the station, and a boy had brought it over. A conviction of what it contained flashed over Charles Taylor’s heart as he opened it; the death of Mary Ann Brewster. From Mrs. Brewster it proved to be, not much more satisfactory than Mrs. Bangs, for if hers was unexplanatory this was incoherent. “The breath has just left my daughter’s body. Mrs. Brewster.” Charles returned to the room, his mind full; in the midst of his sorrow and regret for Mary Ann, his compassion for her mother, and he did really feel sorry, intruded the thoughts of his marriage; it must be postponed now. “What did he want with you,” asked Mr. Bangs when Charles returned to him. “He brought me a telegram from Bellville.” “A business message?” “No, sir; from Mrs. Brewster.” By the tone of his voice, by the falling of his countenance, he could read what had occurred, but he kept silent, waiting for him to speak. “Poor Mary Ann is gone.” “It will make a delay in your plans, Charles,” said Mr. Bangs sorrowfully, after some minutes had been given to expressions of regret. “It will, sir.” The invalid leaned back in his chair, and said in a low voice, “I shall not be long after her, I feel that I shall not.”
Very early indeed did they start in the morning, long before daybreak. They would reach Bellville at twelve at night, all things being well; a weary day, a long one at any rate, and the train steamed into Bellville. The clock was striking twelve. Mr. Bangs’ carriage stood waiting. A few minutes was spent in collecting baggage. “Shall I give you a seat as far as the bank, Mr. Taylor?” inquired Mr. Bangs. “Thank you; no I shall just go for a minute’s call on Mrs. Brewster.” Mr. Davis who was in the station getting mail heard the words, he turned hastily, caught Charles by the hand and drew him aside. “Are you aware of what has happened?” “Yes,” replied Charles, “Mrs. Brewster telegraphed to me last night.” Mr. Davis pressed his hand and moved on, Charles taking the road that would lead him to Mrs. Brewster’s house. It is now ten days since he was there, the house looked precisely as it did then, all in darkness, except the dull light that burned from Mary Ann’s sick room; it burnt there still; then it was lighting the living; now—Charles Taylor rang the bell gently, does any one like to go with a fierce peal to a house where death is an inmate? Eliza opened the door as usual and burst into tears when she saw who it was. “I said it would bring you back, sir!” she exclaimed. “Does Mrs. Brewster bear it pretty well,” he asked, as she showed him into the drawing-room. “No, sir; not over well,” sobbed the girl. “I’ll tell the mistress that you are here.” He stood over the fire as he had done before, it was low now like it was then, strangely still seemed the house, he could almost have told that one was lying dead in it, he listened waiting for the step of Janey, hoping that she would be the first to meet him. Eliza returned. “My mistress says, would you be kind enough to come to her.” Charles followed her upstairs, she went to the room where he had been taken the other time, Mary Ann’s room, in reality the room of Mrs. Brewster; but it had been given to Mary Ann for her sickness. Eliza with soft tread crossed the corridor to the door and opened it. Was she going to show him into the presence of the dead. He thought she must have mistaken Mrs. Brewster’s orders and he hesitated on the threshhold. “Where is Miss Janey,” he whispered. “Who, sir;” “Miss Janey, is she well?” The girl stared at him, flung the door wide open and gave a loud cry as she flew down the stairs. He looked after her in amazement, had she gone mad, then he turned and walked into the room with a hesitating step. Mrs. Brewster was coming forward to meet him, she was convulsed with grief, he took both her hands in his with a soothing gesture, essaying a word of comfort, not of inquiry why she should have brought him to this room, he glanced at the bed expecting to see the corpse upon it; but the bed was empty and at that moment his eyes caught another sight.
Seated by the fire in an invalid chair surrounded by pillows covered with shawls, with a wan, attenuated face and eyes that seemed to have a glaze over them was—who? Mary Ann? It certainly was Mary Ann, in life yet, for she feebly held out her hand in welcome, and the tears suddenly gushed from her eyes, “I am getting better, Mr. Taylor.” Charles Taylor—how shall I write it, for one minute he was blind to what it could all mean, his whole mind was a chaos of astonished perplexity, and then when the dreadful truth burst upon him he staggered against the wall with a wailing cry of agony, it was Janey who had died. Charles Taylor leaned against the wall in his shock of agony; it was one of those moments that can come only once in a life-time, in many lives never, when the greatest of earthly misery bursts upon the startled spirit, shattering it for all time. Were Charles Taylor to live a hundred years he could never know another moment like this, the power so to feel would have left him. It had not left him yet; it had scarcely come to him in its full realization; at present he was half stunned. Strange as it may seem, the first impression upon his mind was that he was so much nearer the next world. How am I to define this nearness? It was not that he was nearer to it by time or in goodness; nothing of that.