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.