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.”