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diff --git a/old/63121-0.txt b/old/63121-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 613633c..0000000 --- a/old/63121-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3128 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of True Love: A Story of English Domestic Life, by -Sarah E. Farro - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: True Love: A Story of English Domestic Life - -Author: Sarah E. Farro - -Release Date: September 4, 2020 [EBook #63121] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUE LOVE: STORY OF ENGLISH DOMESTIC LIFE *** - - - - -Produced by Mary Glenn Krause, David E. Brown, and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net -(This file was produced from images generously made -available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - - TRUE LOVE - - A STORY OF - ENGLISH DOMESTIC LIFE. - - BY - - SARAH E. FARRO. - - - DONOHUE & HENNEBERRY, - PRINTERS AND BINDERS, - CHICAGO. - - - - -COPYRIGHT SECURED 1891. - - - - -PREFACE. - - -The author is aware that she is entering a field which has been -diligently cultivated by the best minds in Europe and America. Her -design in the preparation of this story is to give to the public a -sketch of her ideas on the effect of “true love.” I have tried to make -the plot exciting without being sensational or common, although within -the bounds of proper romance, and create a set of characters most of -whom are like real people with whose thoughts and passions we are -able to sympathize and whose language and conduct may be appreciable -or reprehensible according to circumstances. Great pains have been -taken to make this work superior in its arrangement and finish and in -the general tastefulness of its mechanical execution. How nearly the -author has accomplished her purpose to give to the public in one volume -a clear and complete treatise on this subject, combining many fine -qualities of importance to the reader, the intelligent and experienced -public must decide. - - SARAH E. FARRO. - - - - -[Illustration: True Love.] - -BY SARAH E. FARRO. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -MRS. BREWSTER’S DAUGHTERS. - - -A fine old door of oak, a heavy door standing deep within a portico -inside of which you might have driven a coach, brings you to the -residence of Mrs. Brewster. The hall was dark and small, the only -light admitted to it being from windows of stained glass; numberless -passages branched off from the hall, one peculiarity being that you -could scarcely enter a single room in it but you must first go down a -passage, short or long, to get to it; had the house been designed by -an architect with a head upon his shoulders and a little common sense -within it, he might have made a respectable house to say the least; -as it was, the rooms were cramped and narrow, cornered and confined, -and the good space was taken up by these worthless passages; a plat -of ground before it was crowded with flowers, far too crowded for good -taste, as the old gardener would point out to her, but Mrs. Brewster -loved flowers and would not part with one of them. Being the daughter -of a carpenter and the wife of a merchant tailor, she had scrambled -through life amidst bustle and poverty, moving from one house to -another, never settled anywhere for long. It was an existence not to -be envied, although it is the lot of many. She was Mrs. Brewster and -her husband was not a very good husband to her; he was rather too fond -of amusing himself, and threw all the care upon her shoulders; she -spent her time nursing her sickly children and endeavouring to make one -dollar go as far as two. One day, to her unspeakable embarrassment, -she found herself changed from a poor woman in moderate circumstances -to an heiress to a certain degree, her father having received a legacy -from a relative, and upon his death it was willed to her. She had much -sorrow, having lost one child after another, until she had but two -left. Then she lost her husband and father; then settled at Bellville -near her husband’s native place, upon her limited means. All she -possessed was the interest upon this sum her father had left her, the -whole not exceeding $2,000. She had two daughters, Mary Ann and Janey; -the contrast between them was great, you could see it most remarkably -as they sat together, and her love for them was as contrasted as light -is with darkness. Mary Ann she regarded with an inordinate affection -amounting almost to a passion; for Janey she did not care; what could -be the reason of this; what is the reason that parents, many such may -be found, will love some of their children and dislike others they -cannot tell any more than she could; ask them and they will be unable -to give you an answer. It does not lie in the children; it often -happens that those obtaining the least love will be the most deserving -of it. Such was the case here. Mary Ann Brewster was a pale, sickly, -fretful girl, full of whims, full of complaints, giving trouble to -everybody about her. Janey, with her sweet countenance and her merry -heart, made the sunshine of her home; she bore with her sister’s -exacting moods, she bore with her mother’s want of love, she loved them -both and waited on them, and carrolled forth her snatches of song as -she moved around the house, and was as happy as the day was long. Ask -the servants--they kept only two--and they would tell you that Mrs. -Brewster was cross and selfish, but Miss Janey was worth her weight in -gold; the gold was soon to be transplanted to a home where it would be -appreciated and cherished, for Janey was the affianced wife of Charles -Taylor. For nearly a mile beyond Bellville lived Charles Taylor, a -quiet, refined gentleman, and the son of a wealthy capitalist; his -father had not only made a fortune of his own, but had several bestowed -upon him; he had died several years before this time, and his wife -survived him one year. There were three sisters, a cousin and two -servants that had lived in this family for a number of years. - -The beams of the setting sun streamed into the dining-room of the -Taylor mansion; it was a room of fine proportions, not dull and heavy -as it is the custom of some dining-rooms, but light and graceful as -could be wished. Charles Taylor, with his fine beauty, sat at one -end of the room, Miss Mary Taylor, a maiden lady of mature years, -good looking also in her peculiar style, sat opposite him, she wore a -white dress, its make remarkably young, and her hair fell in ringlets, -young also; at her right-hand sat Matilda, singularly attractive in -her quiet loveliness, with her silver dotted muslin dress trimmed -with white ribbons; at her left sat Martha, quiet in manner, plain in -features; she had large gray eyes, reflective strangely deep, with a -circle of darker gray around them, when they were cast upon you it -was not at you they looked, but at what was within you, at your mind, -your thoughts; at least such was the impression they carried. Thus -sat this worthy group, deep in thought, for they had been conversing -about the weather, that had been so damp, for it had been raining for -months, and the result was a malarial fever, visiting the residents of -Bellville, and it was very dangerous, for the sufferer would soon lapse -into unconsciousness and all was over; and it was generally believed -that the fever was abated. A rap at the door brought Charles Taylor to -his feet, it was George, the old gardener, he had come to tell them -the fever had broken out again. “What!” exclaimed Charles. “The fever -broken out again?” “Yes, it have,” said George, who had the build of a -Dutchman, and was taciturn upon most subjects; in manner he was most -surly and would hold his own opinion, especially if it touched upon his -occupation, against the world. - -The news fell upon Charles’ heart like a knell; he fully believed the -danger to have passed, though not yet the sickness. “Are you sure that -the fever has broken out again, George?” he asked, after a pause. “I -ain’t no surer than I was told,” returned George. “I met Doctor Brown, -and he said as he passed, that the fever had broken out again.” “Do you -know where?” asked Charles. “He said, I believe, but I didn’t catch it; -if I stopped to listen to the talk of fevers where would my work be?” -George moved on ere he had done speaking, possibly from the impression -that the present talk was not forwarding his work. Taking his black -silk hat Charles said, “I shall go out and see if I can glean any news; -I hope it may be a false report.” He was just outside the walks when -he saw Doctor Brown, the most popular doctor in the village, coming -along quickly in his buggy; Charles motioned his hand, and the driver -pulled up. “Is it true, this fresh report of fever?” “Too true, I -fear,” replied the doctor. “I am on my way now, just summoned.” “Who’s -attacked?” “Mary Ann Brewster.” The name appeared to startle Charles. -“Mary Ann Brewster,” he uttered, “she will never pull through it.” The -doctor raised his eye-brows as if he thought it doubtful, and motioned -to his driver to move on. On the morning in question Mary Ann Brewster -awoke sick; in her impatient, fretful way she called out to Janey, who -slept in an adjoining room. Janey was fast asleep, but she was used to -being aroused out of her sleep at unreasonable hours by Mary Ann and -she threw on her dressing-gown and hastened to her. “I want some tea,” -began Mary Ann, “I am as sick and thirsty as I can be.” She was really -of a sickly constitution and to hear her complain of being “sick and -thirsty” was nothing unusual. Janey in her loving nature, her sweet -patience, received the information with as much concern as though she -had never heard it before. She bent over Mary Ann and spoke tenderly, -“where do you feel pain, dear, in your head or chest, where is it?” “I -told you that I was sick and thirsty, and that’s enough,” peevishly -answered Mary Ann. “Go and get me some tea.” “As soon as I can,” said -Janey, soothingly. “There is no fire yet, the girls are not up, I do -not think it can be later than four, by the look of the morning.” “Very -well,” cried Mary Ann, the sobs being contrived by the catching up of -her breath in temper not by tears, “you can’t call the maids I suppose, -and you can’t put yourself the least out of the way to alleviate my -suffering; you want to go to bed again and sleep till nine o’clock; -when I am dead you will wish you were more like a sister; you possess -great, rude health yourself, and you feel no compassion for those who -do not.” An assertion unjust and untrue like many others made by Mary -Ann. Janey did not possess rude health, though she was not like her -sister always complaining, and she had more compassion for Mary Ann -than she deserved. “I will see what I can do,” she gently said, “you -shall soon have some tea.” Passing into her own room Janey hastily -dressed herself. When Mary Ann was in one of her exacting moods there -could be no more sleep for Janey. - -“I wonder,” she said to herself, “whether I could not make the fire -without waking the girls, they had such a hard day’s work yesterday -cleaning house; yes, if I can get some chips I will make a fire.” She -went down to the kitchen, hunted up what was required, laid the fire -and lighted it; it did not burn quickly, she thought the chips might be -damp and she got the bellows; there she was on her knees blowing at the -chips and sending the blaze amid the coals, when some one entered the -kitchen. “Miss Janey!” It was one of the girls, Eliza; she had heard a -noise in the kitchen and had arisen. Janey explained that her sister -was sick and tea was wanted. “Why did you not call us?” “You went to -bed so late and had worked so hard, I thought that I would not disturb -you.” “But it is not lady’s work, Miss.” “I think ladies should put on -gloves when they undertake it,” gayly laughed Janey; “look at my black -hands.” “What would Mr. Taylor say if he saw you on your knees lighting -a fire?” “He would say I was doing right, Eliza,” replied Janey, a -shade of reproof in her firm tones, though the allusion caused the -color to crimson her cheeks; the girl had been with them some time and -assumed more privilege than a less respected servant would have been -allowed to do. The tea ready Janey carried a cup of it to her sister, -with a slice of toast that she had made. Mary Ann drank the tea at a -draught, but she turned with a shiver from the toast, she seemed to -be shivering much. “Who was so stupid as to make that? you might know -I could not eat it, I am too sick.” Janey began to think she looked -very sick, her face was flushed shivering though she was, her lips -were dry, her bright eyes were unnaturally heavy; she gently laid her -hands, cleanly washed, upon her sister’s brow; it felt burning, and -Mary Ann screamed out, “Do keep your hands away, my head is splitting -with pain.” All at once Janey thought of the fever, the danger from -which they had been reckoning to have passed. “Would you like me to -bathe your forehead with water, Mary Ann?” asked Janey, kindly. “I -would like you to stop until things are asked for and not to worry me,” -replied Mary Ann. Janey sighed, not for the cross temper, Mary Ann was -always cross in sickness, but for the suffering she thought she saw -and the half-doubt, half-dread which had arisen within her. I think -I had better call mamma, she thought to herself, though if she sees -nothing unusual the matter with Mary Ann she will only be angry with -me; proceeding to her mother’s chamber Janey knocked gently, her mother -slept still, but the entrance aroused her. “Mamma, I do not like to -disturb you, but Mary Ann is sick.” “Sick again, and only last week she -was in bed three days, poor, dear sufferer; is it her chest?” - -“Mamma she seems unusually ill, otherwise I should not have disturbed -you, I feared, I thought you will be angry with me, if I say, perhaps”; -“say what, don’t stand like a statue, Janey.” Janey dropped her voice, -“dear mamma, suppose it should be the fever?” For one startling moment -Mrs. Brewster felt as if a dagger was piercing her heart; the next she -turned upon Janey. “Fever for Mary Ann! How dared she prophesy it, a -low common fever confined to the poor and the town and which had gone -away or all but; was it likely to turn itself back again and come up -here to attack her darling child?” Janey, the tears in her eyes, said -she hoped it would prove to be only a common headache; that it was her -love for Mary Ann which awoke her fears. The mother proceeded to the -sick-chamber and Janey followed. Mrs. Brewster was not accustomed to -observe caution and she spoke freely of the “fever” before Mary Ann; -seemingly for the purpose of casting blame upon Janey. Mary Ann did not -catch the fear, she ridiculed Janey as her mother had done; for several -hours Mrs. Brewster did not catch it either, she would have summoned -medical aid at first, but Mary Ann in her fretfulness protested that -she would not have a doctor; later she grew worse and Doctor Brown was -sent for, you saw him in his buggy going to the house. - -Mrs. Brewster came forward to meet him, Janey, full of anxiety, near -her. Mrs. Brewster was a thin woman, with a shriveled face and a sharp -red nose, her gray hair banded closely under a white cap, her style -of head-dress never varied, it consisted always of a plain cap with a -quilled border trimmed with purple ribbon, her black dresses she had -not laid aside since the death of her husband and intended never to -do so. She grasped the arm of the doctor, “You must save my child!” -“Higher aid permitting me,” answered the surgeon. “What makes you think -it’s the fever? For months I have been summoned by timid parents to any -number of fever cases and when I have arrived in haste they have turned -out to be no fever at all.” “This is the fever,” Mrs. Brewster replied; -“had I been more willing to admit that it was, you would have been -sent for hours ago, it was Janey’s fault; she suggested at daybreak -that it might be the fever, and it made my darling girl so angry that -she forbade my sending for advice; but she is worse now, come and see -her.” The doctor laid his hand upon Janey’s head with a fond gesture -as he followed Mrs. Brewster; all the neighbors of Bellville loved -Janey Brewster. Tossing upon her uneasy bed, her face crimson, her hair -floating untidily around it, lay Mary Ann, still shivering; the doctor -gave one glance at her, it was quite enough to satisfy him that the -mother was not mistaken. - -“Is it the fever,” impatiently asked Mary Ann, unclosing her hot -eyelids; “if it is we must drive it away,” said the doctor cheerfully. -“Why should the fever have come to me?” she rejoined in a tone of -rebellion. “Why was I thrown from my buggy last year and my back -sprained? Such unpleasant things do come to us.” “To sprain your back -is nothing compared with this fever; you got well again.” “And we will -get you well if you will be quiet and reasonable.” “I am so hot, my -head is so heavy.” The doctor, who had called for water and a glass, -was mixing up a brown powder which he had produced from his pocket; -she drank it without opposition, and then he lessened the weight of -the bed-clothes, and afterwards turned his attention to the bed-room. -It was close and hot, and the sun which had just burst forth brightly -from the gray sky shone full upon it. “You have got the chimney stuffed -up,” he exclaimed. “Mary Ann will not allow it to be open,” said Mrs. -Brewster; “she is sensitive to cold, and feels the slightest draught.” -The doctor walked to the chimney, turned up his coat cuff and wristband -and pulled down a bag filled with shavings; some soot came with it and -covered his hand, but he did not mind that; he was as little given to -ceremony as Mrs. Brewster was to caution, and he walked leisurely up to -the wash-stand to wash it off. “Now, if I catch that bag or any other -bag up there obstructing the air, I shall pull down the bricks and make -a good big hole that the sky can be seen through; of that I give you -notice, madam.” He next pulled the window down at the top behind the -blind, but the room at its best did not find favor with him. “It is -not airy; it is not cool,” he said. “Is there not a better ventilated -room in the house? if so, she shall be moved to it.” “My room is a cool -one,” interposed Janey eagerly; “the sun never shines upon it, doctor.” -It appears that Janey, thus speaking, must have reminded the doctor -that she was present for in the same unceremonious fashion that he had -laid his hands upon the chimney bag, he now laid them upon her shoulder -and walked her out of the room. “You go down stairs, Miss Janey, and -do not come within a mile of this room again until I give you notice.” -During this time Mary Ann was talking imperiously and fretfully. “I -will not be moved into Janey’s room; it is not furnished with half the -comforts of mine; it has only a little bed-side carpet; I will not go -there, doctor.” “Now, see here, Mary Ann,” said the doctor firmly, “I -am responsible for getting you well, and I shall take my own way to do -it. If I am to be contradicted at every suggestion, your mother can -summon some one else to attend you, I will not undertake it.” - -“My dear you shall not be moved to Janey’s room;” said her mother -coaxingly; “you shall be moved to mine, it is larger than this, you -know, doctor, with a draught through it, if you wish to open the door -and windows.” - -“Very well,” replied the doctor, “let me find her in it when I come -again this evening, and if there’s a carpet on the floor take it up, -carpets were never intended for bed-rooms.” He went into one of the -sitting-rooms with Mrs. Brewster as he descended; “What do you think of -the case,” she earnestly inquired. “There will be some difficulty with -it,” was his candid reply. “Her hair must be cut off.” “Her hair cut -off!” screamed Mrs. Brewster, “that it never shall! She has the most -beautiful hair, what is Janey’s compared to her’s?” - -“You heard what I said,” he positively replied. - -“But Mary Ann will not allow it to be done,” she returned, shifting -the ground of remonstrance from her own shoulders, “and to do it -in opposition would be enough to kill her.” “It will not be done -in opposition,” he answered, “she will be unconscious before it is -attempted.” Mrs. Brewster’s heart sank within her. “You anticipate -she will be dangerously ill?” “In such cases there is always danger, -but worse cases than, as I believe hers will be, are curable.” “If I -lose her I shall die myself;” she exclaimed, “and if she is to have it -badly she will die! Remember, doctor, how weak she has always been.” -“We sometimes find that the weak of constitution battle best with an -epidemic,” he replied, “many a hearty one is stricken down with it and -taken off, many a sickly one has pulled through it and been the better -afterwards.” - -“Everything shall be done as you wish,” said Mrs. Brewster humbly in -her great fear. “Very well. There is one caution I would earnestly -impress upon you, that of keeping Janey from the sick-room.” “But there -is no one to whom Mary Ann is so accustomed as a nurse,” objected -Mrs. Brewster. “Madam,” burst forth the doctor angrily, “would you -subject Janey to the risk of taking the infection in deference to -Mary Ann’s selfishness or to yours, better lose all the treasures -your house contains than lose Janey, she is the greatest treasure.” -“I know how remarkably prejudiced you have always been in Janey’s -favor,” spitefully spoke Mrs. Brewster. “If I disliked her as much as I -like her, I should be equally solicitous to guard her from the danger -of infection,” said Doctor Brown. “If you chose to put Janey out of -consideration you cannot put Charles Taylor; in justice to him she must -be taken care of.” - -Mrs. Brewster opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again; strange -words had been hovering upon her lips. “If Charles Taylor had not -been blind his choice would have fallen upon Mary Ann, not upon -Janey.” In her heart there was a sore topic of resentment; for she -fully appreciated the advantages of a union with the Taylors. Those -words were swallowed down to give utterance to others. “Janey is in -the house, and therefore must be liable to take the fever; whether -she takes the infection or not, I cannot fence her around with an -air-tight wall so that not a breath of tainted atmosphere shall touch -her, I would if I could, but I cannot.” “I would send her from the -house, Mrs. Brewster; at any rate, I would forbid her to go near her -sister; I don’t want two patients on my hands instead of one,” he -added in his quaint fashion as he took his departure. He was about to -step into his buggy when he saw Charles Taylor advancing with a quick -step. “Which of them is it that is seized?” he inquired as he came -up. “Not Janey, thank goodness,” replied the doctor. “It is Mary Ann; -I have been persuading the madam to send Janey from home; I should -send her were she a daughter of mine.” “Is Mary Ann likely to have it -dangerously?” “I think she will. Is there any necessity for you going -to the house just now, Mr. Taylor?” Charles Taylor smiled. “There is no -necessity for my keeping away; I do not fear the fever any more than -you do.” He passed into the garden as he spoke, and the doctor drove -on. Janey saw him and came running out. “Oh! Charles, don’t come in; -do not come.” His only answer was to take her upon his arm and enter. -He raised the drawing-room window, that as much air might circulate -through the house as was possible, and stood at it with her holding -her before him. “Janey, what am I to do with you?” “To do with me? -What should you do with me, Charles?” “Do you know, my dear, that I -cannot afford to let this danger touch you?” “I am not afraid,” she -gently said. He knew that she had a brave unselfish heart, but he was -afraid for her, for he loved her with a jealous love, jealous of any -evil that might come too near her. “I should like to take you out of -the house with me now, Janey. I should like to take you far from this -fever-tainted town; will you come?” She looked up at him with a smile, -the color coming into her cheeks. “How could I, Charles?” Anxious -thoughts were passing through the mind of Charles Taylor. We cannot -put aside the conventionalities of life, though there are times when -they press upon us as an iron weight; he would have given his own life -almost to have taken Janey from that house, but how was he to do it? -No friend would be likely to receive her; not even his own sisters; -they would have too much dread of the infection she might bring. He -would fain have carried her to some sea-breezed town and watch over -her and guard her there until the danger should be over. None would -have protected her more honorably than Charles Taylor. But those -conventionalities the world has to bow down to, how would the step have -accorded with them? Another thought passed through his mind. “Listen, -Janey,” he said, “suppose we get a license and drive to the parson’s -house; it could all be done in a few hours, and you could be away -with me before night.” As the meaning dawned upon her, she bent her -head, and her blushing face, laughing at the wild improbability. “Oh! -Charles, you are only joking; what would people say?” “Would it make -any difference to us what they said?” “It could not be, Charles; it is -a vision impossible,” she replied seriously. “Were all other things -meet, how could I run away from my sister on her bed of dangerous -illness to marry you?” - -Janey was right and Charles Taylor felt that she was; the -conventionalities must be observed no matter at what cost. He held her -fondly against his heart, “if aught of ill should arise to you from -your remaining here I should never forgive myself.” Charles could not -remain longer, he must be at his office, for business was urging. His -cousin, George Gay, was in the private room alone when he entered, he -appeared to be buried five feet deep in business, though he would have -preferred to be five feet deep in pleasure. “Are you going home to -supper this evening?” inquired Charles. “The fates permitting,” replied -Mr. Gay, “You tell my sisters that I will not return until after tea, -Mary will not thank me for running from Mrs. Brewster’s house to hers, -just now.” “Charles,” warmly spoke George in an impulse of kindly -feeling, “I do hope the fever will not extend itself to Janey.” “I hope -not,” fervently breathed Charles Taylor. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -THE RESIDENCE OF CHARLES TAYLOR. - - -In the heart of Bellville was situated the business house of Bangs, -Smith & Taylor, built at the corner of a street, it faced two ways, the -office and its doors being on L street, the principal street of the -town. There was also a dwelling-house on M street, a new short street -not much frequented. There were eight or ten houses on this street all -owned by the Taylors, and this street led to the open country and to -a carriage way that would take you to the Taylor mansion. It was in -one of these houses that Charles Taylor had concluded to live after -his marriage with Janey Brewster, as it was near his business and he -wanted his sisters to live there with him as it was their mother’s -last request that they keep together, but up to the present time he -had never talked the matter over with them. This house attached to the -office was a commodious one, its rooms were mostly large and handsome -and many in number, a pillared entrance to which you ascended by steps -took you into a large hall, on the right of this hall was a room used -for a dining-room, a light and spacious apartment, its large window -opening on a covered terrace where plants could be kept and that again -standing open to a sloping lawn surrounded with shrubs and flowers. -On the left of the hall was a kitchen, pantries and such like, at the -back of the hall beyond the dining-room a handsome staircase led to -the apartments, one of which was a fine drawing-room. From the upper -windows at the back of the house a full view of the Taylor mansion -might be obtained, rising high and picturesque, also the steeple of a -cathedral gray and grim, not of the cathedral itself, its surrounding -trees concealed that. - -In the dining-room of the Taylor mansion one evening sat Charles Taylor -and his eldest sister, Mary. This room was elegant and airy and fitted -up with exquisite taste; it was the ladies’ favorite sitting-room. The -drawing-room above was larger and grander but less used by them. On the -evening in question, Charles Taylor was arranging plans for a business -trip with his sister, though her removal to town was uppermost in his -mind. About ten days previous to this, Marshall Bangs, one of the -partners, had been found insensible on the floor of his room; he was -subject to attacks of heart-disease, and this had proved to be nothing -but a fainting spell, but it had caused plans to be somewhat changed, -for Mr. Bangs would not be strong enough for business consultation, -which would have been the chief object of his journey. As I said -before, Charles and his sister were sitting alone, their cousin, -George Gay, had gone out for a walk and Martha was spending the evening -at Parson Davis’, for she and Mrs. Davis were active workers in church -affairs. The dessert was on the table, but Charles had turned from it -and was sitting opposite the fireplace. Miss Taylor sat opposite him, -nearer the table, her fingers busy with knitting, on which fell the -rays of the chandelier. “Mary,” said Charles, earnestly, “I wish that -you would let me bring Janey here on a visit to you.” Mary laid down -her knitting. “What, do you mean that there should be two mistresses -in the house, she and I? No, Charles, the daftest old wife in all the -world would tell you that would not do.” “Not two mistresses; you would -be sole mistress, as you are now; Janey and I your guests, indeed Mary, -it would be the best plan. Suppose we all move to town together,” he -said. “It was mother’s desire that we should remain together.” “No, -Charles, it would not do; some of the partners have always resided near -the office, and it is necessary, in my opinion, that you should let -business men be at their business. When do you contemplate marrying -Janey,” she inquired, after a few minutes of thought. “I should like -her to be mine by Thanksgiving,” was the low answer. “Charles! and -November close upon us.” “If not, some time in December,” he continued, -paying no heed to her surprise. “It is so decided.” Miss Taylor drew -a long breath. “With whom is it decided?” “With Janey.” “You marry a -wife without a home to bring her too; had cousin George told me that -he was going to do such a thing I would have believed him, not of you, -Charles!” “Mary, the home shall no longer be a barrier. I wish you -would receive Janey here as your guest.” - -“It is not likely that she would come; the first thing a married woman -looks out for is a home of her own.” - -Charles laughed. “Not come? Mary, have you yet to learn how unassuming -and meek is the character of Janey? We have spoken of this plan -together, and Janey’s only fear is lest she should be in the way of -Miss Taylor failing in the carrying out of this project. Mary (for I -see you are as I thought you would be, prejudiced against it) I shall -take one of the houses near the office in town and there I shall take -Janey. The pleasantest plan would be for me to bring Janey here, -entirely as your guest; it is what she and I would both like. If you -object, I shall take her elsewhere.” - -Mary knitted a whole row before she spoke. “I will take a few days to -reflect upon it, Charles,” she said. “Do so,” he replied, rising and -glancing at his watch. “Half past eight. What time will Martha expect -me? I wish to spend half an hour with Janey, shall I go for Martha -before or afterwards?” - -“Go for her at once, Charles; it will be better for her to be home -early.” - -Charles Taylor went to the hall door and looked out upon the night; -he was considering whether he need put on an overcoat. It was a -bright moonlight night, pleasant and genial, so he closed the door and -started. “I wish the cold would come,” he exclaimed half aloud; he was -thinking of the fever which still clung to Bellville, showing itself -fitfully and partially in fresh places about every three or four days. -He took the path leading to L. street, a lonely road and at night -unfrequented; the pathway was so narrow that two people could scarcely -walk abreast without touching the trunks of the maple trees growing on -either side and meeting overhead. Charles Taylor went steadily on, his -thoughts running upon the subject of his conversation with Mary. - -It is probable that but for the difficulty touching a residence, Janey -would have been his the past summer. Altogether, Charles’ plan was the -best, if Mary could be brought to see it, that his young bride should -be her guest for a short time. Charles, in due course of time, arrived -at the walk’s end and passed through a large gate. The town lay in -front of him, gray and sombre, as it was nearly hidden by trees; he -looked at it fondly, his heart yearned to it, for it was to be the -future home of Janey and himself. - -“Hello! who’s there? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr Taylor.” - -The speaker was Doctor Brown. He had come swiftly upon Charles Taylor, -turning from the corner around the maple trees; that he had been to -see the sick was certain, but Charles had not heard of any one being -sick in that direction. “Neither had I,” said the doctor, in answer -to the remark, “until I was sent for an hour ago in haste.” A thought -crossed Charlie’s mind, “Not a case of fever, I hope.” “No; I think -that’s leaving us. There’s been an accident to the parson’s wife--at -least what might have been an accident, I should rather say,” added -the doctor, correcting himself; “the injury is so slight as not to be -worth the name of one.” “What has happened?” asked Charles Taylor. “She -managed to set her sleeve on fire. A muslin, falling over the merino -sleeve of her gown, in standing near a candle, the flame caught it; -but just look at her presence of mind! Instead of wasting time running -through the house from top to bottom, as most of them would have done, -she instantly threw herself down on the rug and rolled herself into it. -She’s the kind of a woman to go through life.” “Is she much burnt?” -“No; many a child gets more burnt a dozen times in its first dozen -years. The arm, between the elbow and wrist, is a little scorched; it’s -nothing; they need not have sent for me; a drop of cold water applied -will take out all the fire. Your sister Martha was much more frightened -than she was.” “I’m really glad it’s no worse,” said Charles Taylor. -“I feared the fever might have broken out again.” “That is taking its -departure, I think, and the sooner it’s gone the better; it has been -capricious as a coquette’s smiles; it is strange that in many houses it -should have attacked only one inmate and spared the rest.” “What do -you think, now, of Mary Ann Brewster?” The doctor shook his head, and -his voice grew insensibly low. “In my opinion, she is sinking fast. I -found her worse this afternoon, weaker than she has been at all; her -mother thought that if she could get her to Newtown she might improve; -but the removal would kill her; she would die on the road. It will be -a terrible blow to her mother if it does come; and, though it may be -harsh to say it, a retort upon her selfishness. Did you hear that she -used to make Janey head nurse while the fever was upon her?” “No,” -exclaimed Charles Taylor. “They did, though; Mrs. Brewster let it out -to-day unintentionally. Dear girl! if she had caught it, I should never -have forgiven her mother, whatever you may have done. I have a few more -visits to make now before bedtime. Good-night!” - -“Worse!” exclaimed Charles, as he walked on, “poor Mary Ann, but I -wonder”--he hesitated as the thought struck him whether if the worse -should come, as the doctor seems to anticipate, if it would delay -Janey’s marriage, what with one delay and another. He walked on to -the parson’s house where he found Mrs. Davis, playing the invalid, -lying on a sofa, her auburn hair was disheveled, her cheeks flushed; -the burnt arm, her muslin sleeve pinned up, was stretched out on a -cushion, a pocket handkerchief, saturated with water, resting lightly -on the burns, a basin of water stood near with another handkerchief -in it, and the maid was near to exchange the handkerchiefs as might -be required. Charles Taylor drew his chair near to Mrs. Davis and -listened to the account of the accident, giving her his full sympathy, -for it might have been a bad one. “You must possess great presence of -mind,” he observed. “I think your showing it, as you have done in this -instance, has won the doctor’s heart.” Mrs. Davis smiled. “I believe I -do possess presence of mind; once we were riding out with some friends -in a carriage when the horses took fright, ran away, and nearly tore -the carriage to pieces; while all were frightened in a fearful manner -I remained calm and cool.” “It is a good thing for you,” he observed. -“I suppose it is; better at any rate than to go mad with fear, as some -do. Martha has had enough fright to last her for a year.” “What were -you doing, Martha?” asked her brother. “I was present but I did not -see it,” replied Martha; “it occurred in her room, and I was in the -hall looking out of the window with my back to her; the first I knew or -saw, Mrs. Davis was lying on the floor with the rug rolled around her.” -Tea was brought in and Mrs. Davis insisted that they should remain to -it. Charles pleaded an engagement but she would not listen; they could -not have the heart to leave her alone, so Charles, the very essence of -good feeling and politeness, remained. Tea having been over, Martha -went upstairs to get her wraps. Mrs. Davis turned her head as the door -was closed and then spoke abruptly: “I am glad that Mr. Davis was -not here, he would have magnified it into something formidable, and I -should not have been let stir for a month.” The door opened, Martha -appeared, they wished Mrs. Davis “good night,” a speedy cure from her -burns, and departed, Charles, taking the straight path this time, -which did not lead them near the maple trees. “How quaint old Doctor -Brown is,” said Martha, as they walked along; “when he had looked at -Mrs. Davis’ arm he made a great parade of getting out his glasses and -putting them on, and looking again.” - -“What do you call it, a burn?” he asked her. “It is a burn, is it not,” -she answered, looking at him. “No,” said he, “its nothing but a singe,” -it made her laugh heartily. “I guess she was pleased to have escaped -with such slight damage.” “That is just like Doctor Brown,” said -Charles. - -Having arrived at home, Miss Taylor was in the same place knitting -still; it was half past ten, too late for Charles to pay a visit to -Mrs. Brewster. “Mary, I fear you have waited tea for us,” said Martha. -“To be sure child, I expected you home to it.” - -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.” - -“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. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -CHARLES TAYLOR’S REGRETS. - - -Janey had passed within its portals, and the great gulf which divides -time from eternity seemed to be but a span. Now, to Charles Taylor, -it was as if he in spirit had followed her in from being a place far -off. Vague, indefinite, indistinct, it had suddenly been brought -to him close and palpable, or he to it. Had Charles Taylor been an -atheist, denying a hereafter--Heaven in its compassion have mercy upon -all such--that one moment of suffering would have recalled him to a -sense of his mistake. It was as if he looked aloft with the eyes of -inspiration and saw the truth; it was as a brief passing moment of -revelation from God. She, with her loving spirit, her gentle heart, -her simple trust in God, had been taken from this world to enter -upon a better. She was as surely living in it, had entered upon its -mysteries, its joys, its rest as that he was living here. She, he -believed, was as surely regarding him now, and his great sorrow as that -he was left alone to battle with it. From this time Charles Taylor -possessed a lively, ever-present link with that world, and knew that -its gates would, in God’s good time, be open for him. These feelings, -impressions, facts--you may designate them as you please--took up their -places in his mind, all in that first instant, and seated themselves -there forever; not yet very consciously to his stunned senses. In -his weight of bitter grief nothing could be to him very clear; ideas -passed through his brain quickly, confusedly, like unto the changing -scenes in a phantasmagoria. He looked round as one bewildered, the bed -smoothed ready for occupancy, on which on entering he had expected to -see the dead, but not her. There was between him and the door Mary Ann -Brewster, in her invalid chair by the fire, a table at her right hand, -covered with adjuncts of the sick room, a medicine bottle with its -accompanying wine-glass and tablespoon, jelly and other delicacies to -tempt a faded appetite. - -Mary Ann sat there and gazed at him with her hollow eyes, from which -the tears dropped slowly on her cadaverous cheeks. Mrs. Brewster -stood before him, sobs choking her voice, wringing her hands. Yes, -both were weeping, but he-- It is not in the presence of others that -man gives way to grief, neither will tears come to him in the first -leaden weight of anguish. Charles Taylor listened mechanically, as one -cannot do otherwise, to the explanations of Mrs. Brewster. “Why did you -not prepare me? why did you let it come upon me with this startling -shock?” was his first remonstrance. “I did prepare you,” sobbed Mrs. -Brewster. “I telegraphed to you as soon as it happened; I wrote the -message to you with my own hand, and sent it to the office before I -turned my attention to anything else.” “I received the message, but -you did not say--I thought it was--” Charles Taylor turned his eyes -toward Mary Ann. He remembered her condition in the midst of his own -anguish and would not alarm her. “You did not mention Janey’s name,” -he continued, to Mrs. Brewster; “how could I suppose you alluded to -her or that she was sick?” Mary Ann divined his motive of hesitation; -she was uncommonly keen in penetration, sharp--as the world goes--as -the world says, and she had noted his words on entering, when he began -to soothe Mrs. Brewster for the loss of a child. She had noticed his -startled recoil when the news fell on him. She spoke up; a touch of her -old vehemence; the tears stopped on her face and her eyes glistened. -“You thought it was I who had died! Yes, you did, Mr. Taylor; and -you need not try to deny it; you would not have cared, so that it -was not Janey.” Charles had no intention of contradicting her; he -turned from her in silence to look inquiringly and reproachfully at -her mother. “Mr. Taylor, I could not prepare you better than I did,” -said Mrs. Brewster, “when I wrote the letter telling of her illness.” -“What letter?” interrupted Charles; “I received no letter.” “But you -must have received it,” replied Mrs. Brewster, in her quick and sharp -manner, not sharp with him, but from a rising doubt whether the letter -had been miscarried. “I wrote it, and I know that it was safely mailed; -you should have received it before you did the dispatch.” “I never -had it,” said Charles. “When I waited in your drawing-room now I was -listening for Janey’s footsteps to come to me.” Charles Taylor upon -inquiry found that the letter had arrived duly and safely at Waterville -at the time mentioned by Mrs. Brewster, but it appears that it was -overlooked by the postmaster; but the shock had come now. He took a -seat by the table, and covered his eyes with his hands, as the mother -gave him a detailed account of her sickness and death. Not all the -account that she or anybody else could give could take one iota from -the dreadful fact staring him in the face; she was gone, gone forever -from this world; he could never meet the glance of her eyes again or -hear her voice in response to his own. Ah! reader, there are griefs -that tell, rending the heart as an earthquake would rend the earth, -and all that can be done is to sit down under them and ask of heaven -strength to bear--to bear as best we can, until time shall shed a few -drops of healing balm from its wings. - -On the last night that Charles had seen her, Janey’s eyes and brow -were heavy, she had cried much during the day and supposed the pain -to have arisen from that circumstance. She had given this explanation -to Charles Taylor. Neither he nor she had a thought that it could -come from any other source. More than a month ago Mary Ann had taken -the fever; fears of it for Janey had passed away, and yet those dull -eyes, that hot head, that heavy weight of pain, were only the symptoms -of the sickness approaching. A night of tossing and turning, in fits -of disturbed sleep, of terrifying dreams, and Janey awoke to the -conviction that the fever was upon her. - -About the time she generally arose she rang the bell for Eliza. “I do -not feel well,” she said, “as soon as mamma is up will you ask her to -come to me? do not disturb her before.” - -Eliza obeyed her orders. But her mother, tired and worn out with her -attendance upon Mary Ann, with whom she had been up half the night, -did not rise until between nine and ten. The maid went to her then and -delivered the message. - -“In bed, still; Miss Janey in bed, still?” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster. She -spoke in much anger, for Janey had to be up in time, attending to Mary -Ann, it was required of her to be so. Throwing on a dressing-gown, Mrs. -Brewster proceeded to Janey’s room, and there she broke into a storm of -reproach and anger, never waiting to ascertain what might be the matter -with Janey, anything or nothing. - -“Ten o’clock, and that poor child to have been till now with nobody -to go near her but a servant!” she reiterated, “you have no feeling, -Janey!” - -Janey drew the covering from her flushed face and turned her glittering -eyes, dull last night, shining with the fever now upon her, upon her -mother. - -“Oh, mamma, I am sick; indeed I am. I can hardly lift my head for the -pain; feel how hot it is. I did not think I ought to get up.” - -“What is the matter with you?” sharply inquired Mrs. Brewster. - -“I cannot tell,” answered Janey, “I know that I feel sick all over. I -feel, mamma, as if I could not get up.” - -“Very well; there’s that dear, suffering angel lying alone, and you can -think of yourself before her; if you choose to lie in bed you must, -but you will reproach yourself for your selfishness when she is gone; -another twenty-four hours and she may not be with us; do as you think -best.” - -Janey burst into tears and caught hold of her mother’s robe as she was -turning away. “Mamma, do not be angry with me; I hope I am not selfish, -mamma,” and her voice sank to a whisper, “I have been thinking that it -may be the fever.” - -“The fever?” reproachfully echoed Mrs. Brewster, “Heaven help you for a -selfish and fanciful child; did I not send you to bed with a headache -last night, and what is it but the remains of that headache that you -feel this morning? I can see what it is, you have been fretting about -the departure of Charles Taylor; get up out of that hot bed and dress -yourself, and come in and attend on your sister; you know she can’t -bear to be waited on by anybody but you; get up, I say.” - -Will Mrs. Brewster remember this to her dying day? I should were I in -her place. She suppressed all mention of it to Charles Taylor. “The -dear child told me that she did not feel well, but I only thought she -had the headache and that she would feel better up,” were the words -that she used to him. - -What sort of a vulture was gnawing at her heart as she spoke them? It -was true that in her blind selfishness for one undeserving child she -had lost sight of the fact that sickness could come to Janey; she had -not allowed herself to believe the probability; she, who accused of -selfishness that devoted, generous girl, who was ready at all hours to -put her hands under her sister’s feet, and would have given her own -life to save Mary Ann’s. Janey got up, got up as best she could, her -limbs aching, her head burning; she went into her sister’s room and -did for her what she was able, gently, lovingly, anxiously, as before. -Ah, my dear reader, let us be thankful that it was so; it is well to -be stricken down in the active path of duty, working until we can work -no more. She did so. She stayed where she was until the day was half -gone, bearing up it is hard to say how. She could not eat breakfast; -she could not eat anything. None saw how sick she was; her mother was -wilfully blind. Mary Ann had eyes and thoughts for herself alone. “What -are you shivering for?” her sister once fretfully asked her. “I feel -cold, dear,” was Janey’s unselfish answer; not a word more did she -say of her illness. In the afternoon Mrs. Brewster was away from the -room attending to domestic affairs, and when she returned the doctor -was there; he had been prevented from calling earlier in the day; they -found Mary Ann dropped into a doze and Janey stretched out on the floor -before the fire, groaning; but the groans ceased as she entered. The -doctor, regardless of the waking invalid, strode up to Janey and turned -her face to the light. “How long has she been like this?” he asked, his -voice shrill with emotion. “Child, child, why did they not send for -me?” Poor Janey was then too sick to reply. The doctor carried her up -to her room in his arms, and the servants undressed her and laid her in -the bed from which she was never more to rise. The fever took violent -hold of her, precisely as it had attacked Mary Ann, though scarcely as -bad, and danger for Janey was not looked for by her mother. Had Mary -Ann not got over a similar crisis they would have feared for Janey, so -given are we to judge by collateral circumstances. It was on the fourth -or fifth day that highly dangerous symptoms supervened, and then her -mother wrote to Charles the letter which had not reached him; there was -this much of negative consolation to be derived from the non-receipt, -that had it been delivered to him on the instant of its arrival he -could not have been in time to see her. “You ought to have written to -me as soon as she was taken sick,” he said to Mrs. Brewster. “I would -have done it had I apprehended danger,” she repentantly answered, “but -I never did, and the doctor never did. I thought how pleasant it would -be to get her safely through the danger and sickness before you knew of -it.” “Did she not wish me written to?” The question was asked firmly, -abruptly, after the manner of one who will not be cheated out of his -answer. Her mother could not evade it; how could she, with her child -lying dead over her head? - -“It is true she did wish it, it was on the first day of her illness -that she spoke, ‘Write and tell Charles Taylor,’ she never said it but -once.” “And you did not,” he uttered, his voice hoarse with emotion. -“Do not reproach me! Do not reproach me!” cried Mrs. Brewster, clasping -her hands in supplication, and the tears falling in showers from her -eyes, “I did all for the best, I never supposed there was danger. I -thought what a pity it would be to bring you back such a long journey, -putting you to so much unnecessary trouble and expense.” Trouble and -expense--in a case like that she could speak of expense to Charles--but -he thought how she had to battle with both trouble and expense her -whole life long, and that for her they must wear a formidable aspect, -he remained silent. “I wish now I had written,” she resumed in the -midst of her choking sobs, “as soon as the doctors said there was -danger, I wished it, but,” as if she would seek to excuse herself, -“what with the two upon my hands, she upstairs, Mary down here, I had -not a moment for proper reflection.” “Did you tell her you had not -written?” he asked, “or did you let her lie day after day, hour after -hour, waiting and blaming me for my careless neglect?” “She never -blamed any one, you know she did not,” wailed Mrs. Brewster, “and I -think she was too sick to think even of you, she was only sensible at -times. Oh, I say, do not reproach me, Mr. Taylor, I would give my own -life to bring her back. I never knew her worth until she was gone, I -never loved her as I love her now.” There could be no doubt that Mrs. -Brewster was reproaching herself far more bitterly than any reproach -could tell upon her from Charles Taylor, an accusing conscience is -the worst of all evils. She sat there, her head bent, swaying herself -backwards and forwards on her chair, moaning and crying. It was not -a time Charles felt to say a word of her past heartless conduct in -forcing Janey to breathe the infection of her sister’s sick room, -and all that he could say, all the reproaches, all the remorse and -repentance would not bring her back to life. “Would you like to see -her,” whispered her mother, as he rose to go? “Yes.” She lighted a -candle and led the way upstairs. Janey had died in her own room. At the -door he took the candle from Mrs. Brewster. “I must go in alone.” He -passed into the chamber and closed the door, on the bed laid out in a -white robe, lay all that remained of Janey Brewster. Pale, still, pure, -her face was wonderfully like what it had been in life, and a calm -smile rested upon it, but Charles wished to be alone. Mrs. Brewster -stood outside, leaning against the opposite wall, weeping silently, -the glimmer from the hall lamp below faintly lighting the corridor, -and she fancied that a sound of choking struck upon her ears, and she -pulled around her a small black shawl that she wore, for grief had -made her chilly, and wept the faster. He came out by and by, calm and -quiet as ever, he did not see Mrs. Brewster standing there in the -dimly lighted hall, and went straight down, carrying the candle. Mrs. -Brewster caught up with him at Mary Ann’s room, and took the candle -from him. - -“She looks very peaceful, does she not?” was her whisper. “She could -not look otherwise.” He went on down alone, intending to let himself -out, but Eliza had heard his steps and was waiting at the door. “Good -night Eliza,” he said, as he passed her. The girl did not answer, she -slipped out into the yard after him. “Oh, sir, and didn’t you hear -of it?” she whispered. “No.” “If anybody was ever gone away to be an -angel, sir, its that sweet young lady, sir,” said Eliza, letting her -tears and sobs come forth as they would, “She was just one here and she -has gone to her own fit place.” “Yes, that is so.” “You should have -been in this house throughout the whole of the illness to have seen the -difference between them, sir. Nobody would believe it; Miss Brewster -angry and snappish, and not caring who suffered or who was sick, or -who toiled, so that she was served, Miss Janey lying like a tender -lamb, patient and meek, thankful for all that was done for her. It -does seem hard, sir, that we should lose her forever.” “Not forever, -Eliza,” he answered. “And that is true, too; but sir, the worst is, -one can’t think of that sort of consolation just when one’s troubles -are the freshest. Good night, to you, sir.” Charles Taylor walked on, -leaving the high road for a less frequented one; he went along, musing -in the depth of his great grief; there was no repining. He was one to -trace the finger of God in all things. A more entire trust in God it -was, perhaps, impossible for any one to feel than was felt by Charles -Taylor; it was what he lived under. He could not see why Janey should -have been taken, why this great sorrow should fall upon him, but that -it must be for the best he implicitly believed--the best, for God -had done it. How he was to live on without her he did not know. How -he could support the lively anguish of the future he did not care to -think. All his hopes in this life gone, all his plans, his projects -uprooted by a single blow, never to return. He might look yet for the -bliss of a Hereafter that remains for the most heavy laden, thank -God, but his sun of happiness in this world had set forever. The moon -was not shining as it was the night he left Janey, when he left his -farewell kiss. Oh! that he could have known that it was the last on the -gentle lips of Janey. There was no moon now; the stars were not showing -themselves, for a black cloud enveloped the skies like a pall, fit -accompaniment to his blasted hopes and his path altogether was dark. -But, as he neared the office of the doctor, he could see him sitting in -his accustomed place. Charles thought that he would like to have a few -minutes conversation with him. He walked to the door, opened it, and -saw that the doctor was alone. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -DR. BROWN EXPLAINS TO CHARLES. - - -“Doctor, why did you not write to me?” the doctor brought down his -fist on his desk with such force as to cause some of his vials to fall -over and waste their contents; he had been bottling up his anger for -some time against Mrs. Brewster, and this was the first explosion. -“Because I understood that she had done so. I was there when the poor -child asked her to do it. I found her on the floor in Mary Ann’s room; -on the floor, if you will believe it, lying there because she could -not hold her head up. Her mother had dragged her out of the bed that -morning, sick as she was, and forced her to attend as usual upon Mary -Ann. I got it all out of Eliza. ‘Mamma,’ she said, when I pronounced it -to be the fever, though she was almost beyond speaking then, ‘you will -write to Charles Taylor?’ I never thought but what she had done it; -your sister inquired if you had been written for and I told her yes.” -“Doctor,” came the next sad words, “could you not have saved her?” -The doctor shook his head and answered in a quiet tone, looking down -at the stopper of a vial which he had caused to drop upon the floor, -“neither care nor skill could save her. I did the best that could be -done, Taylor,” raising his quick, dark eyes, flashing them with a -peculiar light; “she was ready to go; let it be your consolation.” -Charles Taylor made no answer, and there was a pause of silence. The -doctor continued: “As to her mother, I hope that she may have her heart -wrung with remembrance for years to come. I don’t care what people -preach about charity and forgiveness, I do wish it; but she will be -brought to her senses, unless I am mistaken. She has lost her treasure -and kept her bane a year or two more, and that is what Mary Ann will -be.” “She ought to have written to me.” “She ought to do many things -that she does not; she ought to have sent Janey from the house, as I -told her, as soon as the disorder appeared in it. No, she kept her in -her insane selfishness, and now I hope she is satisfied with her work. -When alarming symptoms showed themselves in Janey, on the fourth day of -her illness, I think it was, I said to her mother, it is strange what -can be keeping Mr. Taylor. ‘Oh,’ said she, ‘I did not write for him.’ -‘Not write!’ I answered; and I fear I used an ugly word to her face. -‘I’ll write at once,’ returned she, humbly. ‘Of course,’ said I, ‘after -the horse is stolen we always shut the barn door it’s the way of the -world.’” Another pause. - -“I would have given anything to have taken Janey from the house at -the time; to take her away from the town,” observed Charles in a low -tone. “I said so then, but it could not be.” “I should have done it -in your place,” said the doctor; “if her mother had said no, I would -have carried her away in front of her face. ‘Not married,’ you say. -Rubbish to that; everybody knows she would have been safe with you, and -you would have been married as soon as you could. What are forms and -ceremonies and long tongues in comparison with a life like Janey’s?” -Charles Taylor leaned his head upon his hand, lost in the retrospect. -Oh that he had taken her, that he had set at naught what he had then -bowed to, the conventionalities of society, she might have been by his -side now in health and life to bless him. Doubting words interrupted -the train of thoughts. “And yet I don’t know,” the doctor was repeating -in a dreamy manner, “what is to be will be; we look back, all of us, -and say, if I had acted thus, if I had done the other thing, it would -not have happened; events would have turned out differently, but who -is to be sure of it. Had you carried Janey out of harm’s way, as we -might have thought, there is no telling but what she might have had the -fever just the same; her blood might have become tainted before she -left the house, there is no knowing, Mr. Taylor.” “True. Good evening, -doctor.” He turned suddenly and hastily to go out of the door, but the -doctor caught him before he had crossed the threshhold, and touched his -arm to detain him. They stood there in obscurity, their faces shaded -in the dusky night. “She left you a parting word, Mr. Taylor, an hour -before she died; she was calm and sensible, though extremely weak. Mrs. -Brewster had gone to her favorite, and I was left alone with Janey. -‘Has he not come yet?’ she asked me, opening her eyes. ‘My dear,’ I -said, ‘he could not come, he was never written for,’ for I knew she -alluded to you, and was determined to tell her the truth, dying though -she was. ‘What shall I say to him for you?’ I continued. She raised her -hand to motion my face nearer hers, for her voice was growing faint. -‘Tell him, with my dear love, not to grieve,’ she whispered between -her panting breath, ‘tell him that I am but gone on before.’ I think -they were almost the last words that she spoke.” Charles Taylor leaned -against the post of the office entrance, and drank in the words; then -he shook the doctor’s hand and departed, hurrying along like one who -shrank from observation, for he did not care just then to encounter -the gaze of his fellow-men. Coming with a quick step up the same -street on which the office is situated was the Reverend Mr. Davis. He -stopped to address the doctor. “Was that Mr. Taylor?” “Yes; this is -a blow for him.” Mr. Davis’ voice insensibly sank to a whisper. “My -wife tells me that he did not know of Janey’s death and sickness until -he arrived here. He thought it was Mary Ann who died; he went to her -mother’s thinking so.” “Mrs. Brewster is a fool,” was the complimentary -rejoinder of the doctor. “She is in some things,” warmly assented the -pastor. “The telegram she sent was so obscurely worded as to cause him -to assume that it was Mary Ann.” “Well, she is only heaping burdens on -her conscience,” rejoined the doctor in a philosophic tone, “she has -lost Janey through want of care, as I firmly believe, in not keeping -her out of the way of the infection, she prevented their last meeting -through not writing to him, she--” - -“He could not have saved her had he been here,” interrupted Mr. Davis. -“Nobody said he could; there would have been satisfaction in it for -him though, and for her, too, poor child.” Mr. Davis did not contest -the point, he was so very practical a man that he saw little use in -last interviews; unless they were made productive of actual good he -was disposed to regard such as bordering on the sentimental. “I have -been over to see Bangs,” he remarked. “They sent to the house after -me while I was after mail; the boy said he did not believe he would -live through the night and wanted the parson. I had a great mind to -send word back that if he was in want of a parson he should have seen -him before.” “He’s as likely to live through this night as he has been -any night for the last six months,” said the doctor. “Not a day since -then but what he has been as likely to die as not.” “And never to -awaken to a thought that it might be desirable to make ready for the -journey until the twelfth hour,” exclaimed the parson. “‘When I have -a convenient season I will call for thee.’ If I have been to see him -once I have been twenty times,” asserted the pastor, “and never could -get him to pray. He wilfully put off all thought of death until the -twelfth hour and then sends for me or one of my brethren and expects -one hour’s devotion will ensure his entrance into heaven. I don’t keep -the keys.” “Did Bangs send for you or did the family?” inquired the -doctor. “He, I expect; he was dressed for the occasion.” “Will he live -long?” “It is uncertain; he may last for six months or a year and he -may die next week; it will be sudden when it does come.” The pastor -walked away at a brisk rate. Mrs. Davis was out of the room talking -with some late applicant when he arrived at home. Laying aside her wrap -Mrs. Davis seated herself before the fire in a quiet merino dress, the -blaze flickering on her face betrayed to the keen glance of the pastor -that her eyelashes were wet. “Grieving about Janey, I suppose?” his -tone a stern one. “Well,” continued the pastor, “she is better off. -The time may come, we none of us know what is before us, when some of -us who are left may wish we had died, as she has; many a one battling -for very existence with the world’s carking cares wails out a vain -wish that he had been taken early from the evil to come.” “It must -be dreadful for Charles Taylor,” she resumed, looking straight into -the fire and speaking as if in communion with herself more than her -husband. “Charley Taylor must find another love.” It was one of those -phrases spoken in satire only, to which the pastor of this village was -occasionally given. He saw so much to condemn in the world, things -which grated harshly on his superior mind, that his speech had become -imbued with a touch of gall, and he would often give utterance to -cynical remarks not at the time called for. There came a day, not long -afterwards, when the residents of Bellville gathered at the church to -hear and see the last of Janey Brewster. As many came inside as could, -for it was known to the public that nothing displeased their pastor so -much as to have irreverent idlers standing around the church staring -and gaping and whispering their comments while he was performing the -service of the burial of the dead, and his wishes were generally -respected. - -The funeral now was inside the church. It had been in so long that some -eager watchers, estimating time by their impatience, began to think it -was never coming out, but a sudden movement in the church reassured -them. Slowly, slowly, on it came, the Reverend Mr. Davis leading the -way, the coffin next, then came her mother and a few other relatives, -and Charles Taylor with a stranger by his side; nothing more, save the -pall-bearers with white scarfs and the necessary attendants. It was a -perfectly simple funeral, corresponding well with what the dead had -been in her simple life. The sight of this stranger took the curious -gazers by surprise. Who was he? A stout gentleman, past middle age, -holding his head high, with gold spectacles. He proved to be a cousin -of Mrs. Brewster. The grave had been dug in a line with others not far -from the edge of the burying ground. On it came, crossing the broad -churchyard path which wound round to the road, crossing over patches -of grass, treading between mounds and graves. The clergyman took his -place at the head, the mourners near him, the rest disposing themselves -quietly around. “Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short time -to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a -flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one -place.” The crowd held their breath and listened and looked at Charles -Taylor. He stood there, his head bowed, his face still, the gentle -wind stirring his thin dark hair. It was probably a wonder to him in -afterlife how he had contrived in that closing hour to retain his -calmness before the world. “The coffin is lowered at last,” broke out -a little boy who had been more curious to watch the movements of the -men than the aspect of Charles Taylor. “Hush, sir,” sharply rebuked -his mother, and the minister’s voice again stole over the silence. -“For as much as it has pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take -unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we, therefore, -commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to -dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, -through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile bodies that -they may be like unto His glorious body, according to the mighty -working whereby He is able to subdue all things to himself.” Every -word came home to Charles Taylor’s senses, every syllable vibrated -upon his heart-strings; that sure and certain hope laid hold of his -soul never again to leave it. It diffused its own holy peace and calm -in his troubled mind, and never until that moment did he fully realize -the worth, the truth of her legacy. “Tell him that I am but gone on -before,” a few years. God, now present with him alone, knew how few or -how many, and Charles Taylor would have joined her in eternal life. -But why did the minister come to a temporary pause? Because his eyes -had fallen upon one then coming up from the entrance of the burying -ground to take his place among the mourners, and who had evidently -arrived in a hurry. He wore neither scarf nor hat-band, nothing but a -full suit of plain black clothes. “Look, mamma,” cried a little boy. It -was George Taylor, the cousin of Charles Taylor. He stood quietly by -the side of his cousin, his hat in his hand, his head bowed, his curly -hair waiving in the breeze. It was all the work of an instant, and -the minister continued: “I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, -write, from henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, even -so, sayeth the spirit, for they rest from their labors,” and so went -on the service to the end. The passage having been cleared, several -mourning carriages were in waiting. Charles Taylor come forth leaning -on his cousin’s arm, both of them still bare headed. They entered one, -the friends and relatives filled the others, and soon several men were -shovelling earth upon the coffin as fast as they could, sending it with -a rattle on the bright plate which told who was moldering within, Janey -Brewster, aged twenty-one years. “Charles,” cried his cousin George, -leaning forward and seizing his cousin’s hand impulsively, as the -carriage moved slowly on, “I should have been here in good time, but -for a delay in the train.” - -“Where did you hear of it? I did not know where to write to you,” -calmly asked Charles. “I heard of it in Gray Town and I came up here at -once; Charles, could they not save her?” A slight negative movement was -all Charles Taylor’s answer. - -The time went on, several months had passed, positions changed and -Bellville was itself again; the unusually lovely weather which had -prevailed so far as it had gone had put it into Mrs. Brown’s head -to give an out-door entertainment, the doctor had suggested that -the weather might change, that there was no dependence to be placed -in it, but she would not change her plans if the worst came to the -worst, at the last moment she said they must do the best they could -with them inside. But the weather was not fickle, the day rose warm, -calm and wonderfully bright, and by five in the afternoon, most of -the gay revellers had gathered on the grounds. George Taylor, a -cousin of Charles arrived, one of the first; he was making himself -conspicuous among the many groups, or perhaps, it was they that made -him so by gathering around him, when two figures in mourning came up -behind him, one of whom spoke “How do you do, Mr. George Taylor,” he -turned, and careless and thoughtless and graceless, as he was reported -to be, a shock of surprise not unmixed with indignation swept over -his feelings, for there standing before him were Mrs. Brewster and -Mary Ann. She--Mary Ann--looked like a shadow, still peevish, white, -discontented; what brought them there, was it so they showed their -regrets for the dead Janey, was it likely that Mary Ann should appear -at a feast of gayety in her weak state, sickly, not yet recovered -from the effects of the fever, not yet out of the first deep mourning -for Janey. “How do you do, Mrs. Brewster,” very gravely responded -George. Mrs. Brewster may have discerned somewhat his feelings from the -expression on his face, not that he intentionally suffered it to rise -in reproof of her. George Taylor did not set himself up in judgment -against his fellow-men. Mrs. Brewster drew him aside with her after he -had shaken hands with Mary Ann. “I am sure it must look strange to you -to see us both here, Mr. Taylor, but poor child, she continues so weak -and poorly that I scarcely know what to do with her, she set her heart -upon coming here ever since Mrs. Brown’s invitation arrived; she has -talked of nothing else, and I thought it would not do to cross her.” -“Is Mr. Taylor here?” “Oh no,” replied George, with more haste than he -need have spoken. “I thought he would not be, I remarked so to Mary Ann -when she expressed a hope for seeing him, indeed I think it was that -hope which chiefly urged her to come; what have we done to him, Mr. -George, he scarcely ever comes near the house?” “I don’t know anything -about it,” returned George; “I can see that my cousin feels his loss -deeply, yet it may be that visits to your house remind him of Janey -too forcibly.” “Will he ever marry, do you think?” said Mrs. Brewster, -lowering her voice to a confidential whisper. - -“At present I should be inclined to say he never would,” answered -George, wondering what in the world it would matter to her and thinking -she evinced little sorrow or consideration for the memory of Janey. -“But time works surprising changes,” he added. “And time may affect Mr. -Taylor,” Mrs. Brewster paused, “How do you think she looks, my poor -child?” “Miserable” almost rose to the tip of George’s tongue, “she -does not look well,” he said aloud. “And she does so regret her dear -sister, she’s grieving after her always,” said Mrs. Brewster, putting -her handkerchief to her eyes. I don’t believe it, thought George to -himself. “How did you like Graytown?” she resumed, passing with little -ceremony to another topic. “I liked it very well; all places are pretty -much alike to a bachelor, Mrs. Brewster.” “Yes, so they are, you won’t -remain a bachelor very long,” continued Mrs. Brewster with a smile of -jocularity. “Not so very long I dare say,” acknowledged George. “It -is possible I may put my head in the noose some time in the next ten -years.” She would have detained him further, but George did not care -to be detained, he went after more attractive companionship. Chance -or accident led him to Miss Flint, a niece of Mrs. Brown. Miss Flint -had all her attractions about her that day, her bright pink silk--for -pink was a favorite color of hers--was often seen by the side of George -Taylor, once they strayed to the borders of a river in a remote part of -the village, several were gathered there, a row on the water had been -proposed and a boat stood ready, a small boat, capable of holding very -few persons, but of these George and Julia Flint made two; could George -have foreseen what that simple little excursion was going to do for -him, he would not have taken part in it; how is it no sign of warning -comes over us at these times; how many a day’s pleasure began as a -jubilee, how many a voyage entered upon in hope ends but in death. Oh, -if we could but lift the veil what mistakes might be avoided! George -Taylor, strong and active, took the oars, and when they had rowed about -to their hearts’ content and George was nearly overdone from exertion, -they thought that they would land for awhile on what is called Dark -Point, a mossy spot green and tempting to the eye. In stepping ashore -Miss Flint tripped and lost her balance, and would have been in the -water, but for George who saved her, but could not save her parasol, an -elegant one, for which Miss Flint had paid a round sum of money just -the day before; she naturally shrieked, when it went plunge into the -water, and George, in recovering it, nearly lost his balance, and went -in after the parasol, nearly not quite; he got himself pretty wet, but -he made light of it, and sat on the grass with the others. The party -were all young, old people don’t venture much in skiffs, but had any -been there of mature age, they would have ordered him home to get a -change of clothes, and a glass of brandy. By and by he began to feel -chilly, it might have occurred to him that the intense perspiration he -had been in had struck inwards, but it did not. In the evening he was -dancing with the rest of them thinking no more of it, apparently having -escaped all ill effects from the wetting. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -JOHN SMITH’S DINNER PARTY. - - -The drawing-rooms of John Smith’s mansion were teeming with light, -with noise, and with company; a dinner party had taken place that day, -a gentleman’s party. It was not often that he gave one, and when he -did it was thoroughly well done. George Taylor did not give better -dinners than Mr. Smith. The only promised guest who had failed in -his attendance was Charles Taylor. Very rarely indeed did he accept -of invitations to dinner. If there was one man in all the county to -whom Mr. Smith seemed inclined to pay court, to treat with marked -consideration and respect, that man was Charles Taylor; he nearly -always declined--declined courteously, in a manner which could not -afford the slightest evidence of offense; he was of quiet habits, not -strong in health of late, and, though he had to give dinner parties -himself and attend some of his cousins’ for courtesy’s sake, his -friends nearly all were kind enough to excuse him frequenting theirs in -return. This time Charles Taylor had yielded to Mr. Smith’s pressing -entreaties made in person and promised to be present, a promise which -was not, as it proved to be, kept. All the rest of the guests had -assembled and they were only waiting the appearance of Mr. Taylor to -sit down when a hasty note arrived from Miss Taylor. “Mr. Taylor was -taken sick while dressing, and was unable to attend.” So they sat down -without him. The dinner having been over most of the guests had gone -to the drawing-room, which was radiant with light and noisy with the -hum of many voices. A few had gone home, a few had taken cigars and -were strolling outside the dining-room windows in the bright moonlight. -Miss Taylor’s note that her brother had been taken sick while dressing -for the dinner was correct; he was dressing in his room when he was -attacked by a sharp internal pain, he hastily sat down, a cry escaping -his lips and drops of water gathering on his brow; alone he bore -it, calling for no aid; in a few minutes the paroxysm had partially -passed and he rang for his servant, who had for many years attended -his father. “George, I am sick again,” said Charles, quietly. “Will -you ask Miss Taylor to write a line to Mr. Smith, saying that I am -unable to attend.” George cast a strangely yearning look on the pale -suffering face of his master, he had been in these paroxysms of pain -once or twice. “I wish you would have Mr. Brown called in, sir,” he -cried. “I think I shall, he may give me some ease, possibly; take my -message to your mistress, George.” The effect of the message was to -bring Mary to his room, “taken sick, a sharp inward pain,” she was -repeating after George. “Charles, what kind of a pain is it, it seems -to me that you have had the same before?” “Write a few words the first -thing, will you, Mary; I do not like to keep them waiting for me.” Mary -was as punctilious as Charles, and as considerate as he was for the -convenience of others, and she sat down and wrote the note, dispatching -it at once by Billy, another of the servants; few could have sat -apart and done it as calmly as Mary, considering that she had a great -thumping at her heart, a fear which had never penetrated it until this -moment. Their mother’s sickness was similar to this, a sharp acute -pain had occasionally attacked her, the symptom of the inward malady -of which she had died. Was the same fatal malady attacking him? The -doctors had expressed their fears then that it might be hereditary. In -the hall, as Mary was going back to Charles’ room, the note having been -written, she met George, the sad apprehensive look in the old man’s -face struck her, she touched his arm and motioned him into another -room. “What is it that is the matter with your master?” “I don’t know,” -was the answer; but the words were spoken in a tone which caused Mary -to think that the old man was awake to the same fears that she was. -“Miss Mary, I am afraid to think what it may be.” “Is he often sick -like this?” “I know but of a time or two ma’am, but that’s a time or -two too many.” Mary entered his room, Charles was leaning back in his -chair, his face ghastly, apparently prostrate from the effects of the -pain; if a momentary thought had crossed her mind, that he might have -written the note himself, it left her; now things were coming into her -mind one by one, how much time he had spent in his room of late; how -seldom, comparatively speaking, he went to his office; how often he -called for the carriage, when he did go, instead of walking; only this -last Sunday he had not gone near the church all day long, her fears -grew into certainties. She took a chair, drawing it near to Charles, -not speaking of her fears, but asking him in an agreeable tone how he -felt, and what had caused his illness. “Have you had this pain before?” -she continued, “Several times,” he answered, “but it has been worse -to-night than I have previously felt it. Mary I fear it may be the -warning of my call, I did not think that I would leave you so soon.” -Except that Mary’s face turned nearly as pale as his and that her -fingers entwined themselves together so tightly as to cause pain, there -was no outward sign of the grief that laid hold of her heart. “Charles, -what is the complaint you are fearing?” she asked after a pause, “The -same that my mother had,” he quietly answered, speaking the words that -Mary would not speak. “It may not be so,” gasped Mary. “True, but I -think it is.” “Why have you never spoken of this?” “Because, until -to-night, I have doubted whether it was so or not; the suspicion that -it might be so, certainly was upon me, but it amounted to no more than -a suspicion; at times when I feel quite well I argue that I must be -wrong.” - -“Have you consulted a doctor?” “I am going to do so now. I have just -sent George after one.” “It should have been done before, Charles.” -“Why, if it is as I suspect, Brown and all his brethren cannot save -me.” Mary clasped her hands upon her knee and sat with her head -bowed. It seemed that the only one left on earth with whom she could -sympathize was Charles, and now perhaps he was going. The others had -their own pursuits and interests, but she and Charles seemed to stand -together; with deep sorrow for him, the brother whom she dearly loved, -came other considerations, impossible not to occur to a practical, -foreseeing mind like Mary’s. His elbow on the arm of his chair, and his -head resting upon his hand, sat Charles, his mind in as deep a reverie -as his sister’s. Where was it straying? To the remembrance of Janey, -to the day that he had stood over her grave when they were placing her -in it, was the time come, or nearly come, to which he had from that -time looked forward--the time of his joining her. Perhaps the fiat of -death could have come to few who could meet it as serenely as Charles -Taylor. It would hardly be right to say welcome it, but certain it was -that the prospect was one of pleasure rather than pain to him; to one -who had lived near to God on earth the anticipation can bring no great -dismay. It brought none to Charles Taylor, but he was not done with -earth and its cares yet. Matilda Taylor was away from home that week, -she had gone to spend it with some friends at a distance. Martha was -alone when Mary returned to the drawing-room, she had no suspicion of -the sorrow that was overhanging the house. She had not seen Charles -go to his office, and felt surprised at his tardiness. “How late he -will be, Mary.” “Who?” “Charles.” “He is not going, he is not very -well to-day,” was the reply. Martha thought nothing of it, how should -she. Mary buried her fears within her, and said no more. Martha Taylor -has had a romance in her life as so many have had. It had partially -died out years ago, not quite; its sequel had to come. She sat there -listlessly, her pretty hands resting on her knees, her beautiful face -tinged with the sunlight--sat there thinking of him--Mark Blakely. -A romance it had really been. Martha had paid a long visit to Mrs. -Blakely some four or five years before this time. She, Mrs. Blakely, -was in perfect health then, fond of gayety, and had many visitors, and -before he and Martha knew well what they were about, they had learned -to love. He was the first to awake from the pleasant dream, to know -what it meant, and he directly withdrew himself out of harm’s way. Harm -only to himself, as he supposed. He never suspected that the like love -had won its way to Martha’s heart. A strictly honorable man, he would -have killed himself in self-condemnation had he suspected that it had. -Not until he had gone did Martha find out that he was a married man. -When only nineteen years of age he had been drawn into one of those -unequal and unhappy alliances that can only bring a flush to the face -in after years. Many a hundred times had it dyed that of Mark Blakely. -Before he was twenty he had separated from his wife, when Miss Martha -was still a child, and the next six years he traveled on the continent, -striving to lose its remembrance. His own family, you may be sure, -did not pain him by alluding to it then or after his return. He had -no residence in the neighborhood of Bellville. When he visited the -town he was the guest of the postmaster, Mr. Hunt. So it happened when -Martha met him at his home she never thought of his being a married -man. On Mrs. Blakely’s part, she never thought that Martha did not -know it. Mark supposed she knew it, and when the thought would flash -over him, he would say mentally, “how she must despise me for my mad -folly.” He had learned to love her, to love her passionately, never so -much as harboring the thought that it could not be reciprocated--he -a married man. But this was no less folly than the other had been, -and Mark Blakely had the good sense to leave the place. A day or two -after he left his mother received a letter from him. Martha was in her -dressing-room when she read it. “How strange,” was the comment of Mrs. -Blakely. “What do you think, Martha?” she added, lowering her voice. -“When he reached Paris there was a note sent to him saying that his -wife was dying, and imploring him to come and see her.” “His wife,” -cried Martha; “whose wife?” “My son’s; have you forgotten that he had a -wife? I wish that we all could really forget it; it has been the blight -upon his life.” Martha had discretion enough left in that unhappy -moment not to betray that she had been ignorant of the fact. When her -burning cheeks had cooled a little, she turned from the window where -she had been hiding them and escaped to her own room. The revelation -had betrayed to her the secret of her own feelings for Mark Blakely, -and in her pride and rectitude she thought that she would die. A day or -two more and he was a widower. He suffered some months to elapse and -then came to Bellville, his object being to visit Martha Taylor. She -believed that he meant to ask her to be his wife, and Martha was not -wrong. She could give herself up now to the full joy of loving him. -Busy tongues, belonging to some young ladies who could boast more wit -than discretion, hinted something of this to Martha. She, being vexed -at having her private feelings suspected, spoke slightingly of Mark -Blakely. “Did they think that she would stoop to a widower, one who -had made himself so notorious by his first marriage?” she asked, and -this, word for word, was repeated to Mark Blakely; it was repeated to -him by those false friends, and Martha’s haughty manner as she spoke it -offensively commented upon. Mark Blakely, believing it fully, judged -that he had no chance with Martha, and, without speaking to her of his -intentions, he again left. But now no suspicion of this conversation -having been repeated to him ever reached Martha. She considered his -behavior very bad. Whatever restraint he had laid upon his manner -towards her when at his home, he had been open enough since, and she -could only believe his conduct unjustifiable, the result of fickleness. -All this time, between two and three years, had she been trying to -forget it. If she had received an offer of marriage from a young and -handsome man; it would have been in every way desirable; but poor -Martha found that Mark Blakely was too deeply seated in her heart for -her to admit thought of another. And again Mark Blakely had returned to -Bellville, and, as Martha had heard, dined at Mrs. Hunt’s, the wife of -the postmaster; he had called at her house since his return, but she -was out. - -She sat there thinking of him, her prominent feeling against him being -anger. She believed until this hour that he had treated her mean; that -his behavior had been unbecoming a gentleman. Her reflections were -disturbed by the entrance of Doctor Brown. It was growing dark then, -and she wondered what brought him there so late--in fact, what brought -him there at all. She turned and asked the question of Mary. “He has -come to see Charles,” replied Mary; and Martha noticed that her sister -was sitting in a strangely still attitude, her head bowed down; but she -did not connect it with the real cause. It was nothing unusual to see -Mary lost in deep thought. “What is the matter with Charles, that Mr. -Brown should come?” inquired Martha. “He did not feel well and sent for -him.” It was all that Mary answered, and Martha continued in blissful -ignorance of anything being wrong and resumed her reflections on Mark -Blakely. Mary saw the doctor before he went away; afterward she went to -Charles’ room, and remained in it. Martha remained in the dining-room, -buried in her dream of love. The rooms were lighted, but the blinds -were not closed. - -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.” - -“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 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. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -CHARLES RECEIVES ANOTHER STROKE. - - -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. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -A PEACEFUL HOUR. - - -In the old porch at Bellville, of which you have read so much, sat -Charles Taylor. An invalid-chair had been placed there, and he lay -back on its pillows in the beams of the afternoon sun of the late -autumn; a warm sunny day it had been. He was feeling wonderously well; -almost, but for his ever present weakness, quite well; his fatigue -of the previous day, that of Martha’s wedding, had left no permanent -effects upon him, and had he not known thoroughly his own hopeless -state he might have fancied this afternoon that he was approaching -convalescence. Not in his looks, pale, wan, ghastly were they, the -shadow of the grim implacable visitor, that was so soon to come, was -already on them; but the face in its calm, stillness told of ineffable -peace. The brunt of the storm had passed. The white walls of the Taylor -mansion glittered brightly in the distance, the dark blue sky was seen -through the branches of the trees, growing bare and more bare against -the coming winter. The warm rays of the sun fell on Charles Taylor. In -his hand he held a book from which others than Charles Taylor have -derived consolation and courage. “God is love.” He was reading at that -moment of the great love of God towards those who strive as he had done -to live for him. He looked up, repeating the sentence, “He loves them -in death and will love them through the never ending ages to come.” -Just then his eyes fell on the figure of George, their old servant man, -who was advancing towards the mansion. Charles closed his book and held -out his hand. “You are not going to leave us yet, Mr. Taylor.” “I know -not how soon it may be George, very long it cannot be; sit down.” He -stood yet, however, looking at him, disregarding the bench to which -he had pointed, stood with a saddened expression and compressed lips. -George’s eye was an experienced one, and it may be that he saw the -picture which had taken up its abode in his face. - -“You be going to see my old master and mistress sir,” he said dashing -some rebellious moisture from his eyes. “Mr. Charles do you remember -it, my poor mistress sat here in this porch the very day she died.” “I -remember it well, George. I am dying quietly, thank God, as my mother -died.” “And what a blessing it is when folks can die quietly with their -conscience, and all about ’em at peace,” ejaculated George. “I am on -the threshold of a better world, George,” was his quiet answer, “one -where sorrow cannot enter.” George sat for some little time on the -bench talking to him, they had gone back in thought to old times, to -the illness and death of his mother, to the long gone scenes of the -past, whether of pleasure or pain--a past which for us all seems to -bear a charm when recalled to the memory which it had never borne; at -length George arose to depart, declining to remain longer; Charles was -in his armchair seated by the fire as Mary entered the room, his face -would have been utterly colorless save for the bluish tinge which had -settled there a tinge distinguishable even in the red blaze. “Have you -come back alone,” asked Charles, turning towards her. “George Taylor -accompanied me as far as the head of the street. Have you had your -medicine, Charles?” “Yes.” Mary drew a chair near to him, and sat down, -glancing almost stealthily at him; when this ominous look appears on -the human face we do not like to look into it too boldly lest its -owner, so soon to be called away, may read the fiat in our own dread -countenance, she need not have feared its effects, had he done so, -on Charles Taylor. “How are you feeling to night?” somewhat abruptly -asked Mary. “Never better of late days; it seems as if ease both of -mind and body has come to me.” Mary turned her eyes from the fire that -the tears rising in them might not be seen to glisten, and exclaimed: -“What a misfortune.” “A misfortune to be taken to my rest, to the good -God who has so loved and kept me here. A few minutes before you came -in I fell into a doze and I dreamt I saw Jesus Christ standing by the -window waiting for me, he had his hand stretched out to me with a -smile, so vivid had been the impression that when I awoke, I thought -it was a reality. Death a misfortune! no, Mary, not for me.” Mary rang -the bell for lights to be brought in, Charles, his elbow resting on the -arm of his chair, bent his head upon his hand and became lost in the -imagination of glories that might so soon open to him, bright forms -were flitting around a throne of wondrous beauty, golden harps in their -hands, and in one of them, her harp idle, her radiant face turned as if -watching for one who might be coming, he seemed to recognize Janey. A -misfortune for the good to die! No. - -George Taylor, a cousin to this family, was seated at his desk in the -office when his attention was called by a rap at the door. George -opened the door, and the old servant came in. “It is all over, sir,” he -said; his manner strangely still, his voice unnaturally calm and low, -as is sometimes the case where emotion is striven to be suppressed. -Miss Mary bade me come to you with the tidings. George’s bearing was -suspiciously quiet, too. “It is very sudden,” he presently rejoined. -“Very sudden, sir, and yet my mistress did not seem unprepared for it, -he took his tea with her, and was so cheerful over it that I began -to hope he had taken a fresh turn, my mistress called me in to give -directions about a little matter she wanted done to-morrow, and while -she was speaking to me, Miss Matilda cried out. We turned round and -saw her leaning over my master, he had slipped back in his chair -powerless, and I hastened to raise and support him. Death was in his -face, there was no mistaking it, but he was quite conscious, quite -sensible and smiled at us. ‘I must say farewell to you,’ he said, and -Miss Matilda burst into a fit of sobs, but my mistress kneeled down -quietly before him and took his hands in hers and said, ‘Charles, is -the moment come?’ ‘Yes, it is come;’ he answered, and tried to look -round at Miss Matilda, who stood a little behind his chair. ‘Don’t -grieve,’ he said, ‘I am going on first,’ but she only sobbed the more. -‘Good by, my dear ones,’ he continued, ‘I shall wait for you all as -I know I am being waited for.’ ‘Fear?’ he went on, for Miss Matilda -sobbed out something that sounded like the word. ‘Fear, when I am going -to God, when I saw Jesus--Jesus--’” George fairly broke down with a -great burst of grief, and the tears were silently rolling over the -old man’s cheeks. “It was the last word he spoke, ‘Jesus,’ his voice -ceased, his hands fell, and the eyelids dropped, there was no struggle, -nothing but a long gentle breath, and he died with the smile upon his -lips.” Cousin George leaned his head on the side of the window to -subdue his emotion, to gather the outward calmness that man likes not -to have ruffled before the world; he listened to the strokes of the -passing bell ringing out so sharply in the still night air, and every -separate stroke was laden with its weight of pain. - -You might have taken it for Sunday in Bellville, except that Sundays in -ordinary do not look so gloomy; the stores were closed, a drizzling -rain came down, and the heavy bell was booming out at solemn intervals; -it was tolling for the funeral of Charles Taylor. Morning and night -from eight to nine had it so tolled since his death, he had gone to his -long home, to his last resting-place, and Bellville mourned for him -as for a brother. Life wears different aspects for us and its cares -and its joys are unequally allotted, at least they appear so to be. -One glances up heavily from careworn burdens, and sees others without -care basking in the sunshine, but I often wonder whether those who -seem so gay whose path seems to be cast on the broad sunshiny road of -pleasure whether they have not a skeleton in their closet; nothing -but gayety, nothing but lightness, nothing to all appearances, but -freedom from care. Is it really so, perhaps with some, a very few. -Is it well for those few? Oh, if we could but see the truth when the -burden upon us is heavy and pressing. Fellow sufferers, if we could -but read that burden aright, we should see how good it is, and bless -the hand that sends it. But we never can; we are but mortal; born with -a mortal’s keen susceptibility to care and pain, we preach to others -that these things are sent for their good, we say so to ourselves when -not actually suffering, but when the fiery trial is upon us then we -groan out in our sore anguish that it is greater than we can bear. The -village clock struck eleven and the old sexton opened the doors of the -church, and the inhabitants of this beautiful village assembled to see -the funeral as it came slowly winding along the street to the sound of -the solemn bell; they might have attended him to the grave following -unobtrusively, but that was known to be the wish of the family that -such demonstration should not be made. “Bury me in the plainest manner -possible” had been his directions when the end was drawing near. The -hearse and carriages are standing at the mansion; fine horses, with -splendid trappings, in modern carriages, have come from the various -parts of the country near and distant to show their owners’ homage to -that good man who had earned their deepest respect through life; slowly -the procession reached the church, and the hearse and carriages stopped -at it; some of the carriages filed off, and the drivers turned their -horses’ heads to face the church, and waited still and quiet while the -hearse was emptied. The Reverend Mr. Davis stood at the altar, book in -hand, reciting the commencement of the service for the burial of the -dead, “I am the resurrection and the life,” with measured steps slowly -following went those who bore the coffin; their heads covered with a -black pall, the sisters and their cousin George came next, with their -old servants following, thus they entered the church, he remained at -the altar, but not reading from it, the church was nearly filled by -ones and twos; they had come in, and when all was quiet, he read the -history of the life of the deceased in a solemn manner, there was -not a dry eye in the audience; the sermon having been finished, they -repaired to the grave, the pastor taking his place at the head, and -read the service as the coffin was lowered, the mourners stood next to -him, and the other friends were clustered around, their heads bent, -the drizzling rain beat down upon their bare heads, the doctor came -up, unable to attend earlier, he came now at the last moment, just as -George Taylor had come years ago to the funeral of Janey Brewster. -Did the pastor of Bellville, standing there with his pale face, his -sonorous voice echoing over the graves, recall those back funerals, -when he over whom the service was now being read had stood as chief -mourner? No doubt he did. Did George recall it? The pastor glanced at -him once, and saw that he had a difficulty in suppressing his emotion. -“I heard a voice from Heaven saying unto me, write from henceforth -blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, even so saith the Spirit, -for they rest from their labors.” So profound was the silence, that -every word as it fell solemnly from the lips of the minister might be -heard in all parts of the churchyard; if ever that verse could apply -to frail humanity, with its unceasing struggle after holiness, and its -unceasing failure here, it most surely apply to him over whom it was -being spoken. Bend forward, as so many of those spectators are doing, -and read the inscription on the plate, Charles Taylor, aged 40 years. -Only forty years, a period at which some men think they are beginning -life, it seemed to be an untimely death, and it would have been, after -all his pain and sorrow, but that he had entered upon a better life. - -They left him in the vaulted grave, his coffin near his mother’s, who -lay beside his father; the spectators began to draw unobtrusively away, -silently and solemnly. In the general crowd and bustle, for everybody -was on the move, George turned to the pastor and shook hands with him. -“It was a peaceful ending.” George was gazing down dreamily as he spoke -the last words; the pastor looked at him. “A peaceful ending! yes; -it could not be otherwise with him.” “No, no,” murmured George; “Not -otherwise with him.” “May God in his mercy send us all as happy a one -when our time shall come.” As the words left the pastor’s lips the loud -and heavy bell boomed out again, giving notice to the town that the -last rites were over, that life had closed forever on Charles Taylor. - -[Illustration] - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - - Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of True Love: A Story of English Domestic -Life, by Sarah E. 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