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.