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.