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.