GEORGE TAYLOR GIVES A PARTY.
Matilda laughed at him a great deal about his proposed expedition to
New York, telling him she did not believe that he was serious in saying
he entertained it. It was a beautiful night, soft, warm and lovely, the
clock was striking ten when Mark arose to depart. “If you will wait a
few minutes I will go a little way with you,” said Charles Taylor, he
withdrew to another room for his coat, then he rejoined him, passed his
arm in Mark Blakely’s and went out with him. “Is this New York project
a joke?” asked Charles. “Indeed, no, I have not quite made up my mind
to go, I think I shall; if so, I shall go in a week from this, why
should I not go, I have no settled home, no ties?” “Should you not,
Mark, be the happier if you had a settled home; you might form ties,
I think a roving life must be a very undesirable one.” “It is one I
was never fitted for, my inclination would lead me to love home and
domestic happiness, but as you know, I put that out of my power.” “For
a time, but that is over, you might marry again.” “I do not think I
ever shall,” returned Mark Blakely, feeling half prompted to tell his
unsuspicious friend that his own sister was the barrier.
“You have never married,” he resumed, allowing the impulse to die away.
Charles Taylor shook his head; “the cases are different,” he said: “In
your wife you lost one whom you could not regret.” “Don’t call her by
that name Charles;” burst forth Mark Blakely. “And in Janey I lost
one who was all the world to me who could never be replaced,” Charles
resumed, after a pause; “the cases were widely different.” “Yes,
widely different,” assented Mark Blakely, they walked on in silence,
each buried in his own thoughts, at the commencement of the road, Mark
Blakely stopped, and took Charles Taylor’s hand in his, “you shall not
come any farther with me.”
Charles stopped also, he had not intended to go farther. “You shall
really go to New York then.” “I believe I shall.” “Take my blessing
with you, then Blakely we may never meet again in this world.”
“What!” exclaimed Mark. “The medical men entertain hopes that my life
may not be terminated so speedily, I believe that a few months will end
it, I may not live to welcome you home.” It was the first intimation
Mark Blakely had received of Charles fatal malady, Charles explained
to him; he was overwhelmed. “Oh my friend! my friend! can not death
be coaxed to spare you!” he called out in excitement, how many have
vainly echoed the same cry! A few more words, a long grasp of the
lingering hands, and they parted, Charles with a God speed, Mark with a
different prayer, a God save upon his lips. Mark Blakely turned to the
road, Charles towards home. George Taylor’s dinner-table was spacious,
but the absence of one person from it was conspicuous. Mr. Blakely’s
chair was still left. “He would come yet.” George said there was no
clergyman present, and Charles Taylor said the grace, he sat at the
foot of the table opposite his cousin.
“We are thirteen!” exclaimed Mr. Feathersmith, a young man of this
aristocratic gathering, “it is the ominous number, you know.” Some of
them laughed. “What is that peculiar superstition?” asked Major Black,
“I have never been able to understand it.” “The superstition is that
if a party of thirteen sit down to dinner one of them is sure to die
before the year is up,” replied the young man, speaking with grave
seriousness. “Why is not thirteen as good a number to sit down as any
other number?” cried Major Black. “As good as fourteen, for instance?”
“It’s the odd number.” “The odd number; it’s no more the odd number
than any other number is odd that’s not even. What do you say to
eleven? What do you say to fifteen?” “I can’t explain it,” returned
the young man, with an air of indifference. “I only know that the
superstition does exist, and that I have noticed in more instances than
one that it has been carried out. Three or four parties of thirteen
who have sat down to dinner have lost one of their number before the
close of the year. You laugh at me, of course. I have been laughed at
before; but suppose you notice it now; there are thirteen of us, see
if we all are alive at the end of the year.” Charles Taylor in his
heart thought it not unlikely that one of them, at any rate, would
not be living. Several faces were smiling with amusement, the most
serious of them was Mark Blakely. “You don’t believe in it, Blakely?”
cried one, in surprise, as he gazed at him. “I certainly do not, why
should you ask it?” “You look so grave over it.” “I never like to
joke, though it be but a smile, on the subject of death,” replied
Mark. “I once received a lesson on the point, and it will serve me for
life.” “Will you tell us what it was?” interposed Mr. Feathersmith,
who was introduced to Mr. Blakely that day. “I cannot tell it now,”
replied Mark. “It is not a subject suited to a merry party,” he frankly
added, “but it would not tend to bear out your superstition, sir; you
are possibly thinking that it might.” “If I have sat down once with
thirteen, I have sat down fifty times,” cried Major Black, “and we
all lived the year out and many after that. I would not mention such
nonsense again, if I were you.” The young man did not answer for a
moment, he was enjoying a glass of wine. “Only notice, that’s all,”
said he, “I don’t want to act the simpleton, but I don’t like to sit
down with thirteen.” “Could we not make Bell the scapegoat and invoke
the evil to fall on his head?” cried a mocking voice. “It is his
fault.” “Mr. Feathersmith,” interrupted another, “how do you estimate
the time? Is the damage to accrue before this year is out or do you
give us full twelve months from this evening?” “Ridicule me as much as
you like,” said the young man, good humoredly. “All I say is, notice
if every one of us now here are alive this time next year, then I’ll
not put faith in it again. I hope we shall be.” “I hope we shall be,
too,” said Major Black. “You are a social subject, though, to invite
to dinner. I should fancy Mr. George Taylor was thinking so.” Mr.
George Taylor appeared to be thinking of something that rendered him
somewhat mentally disturbed, in point of fact his duties as host
were considerably broken into by listening at the door; above the
conversation, the clatter of plates, the drawing of corks, his ear was
alive, hoping for the knock which would announce Mr. Bell.
It was, of course, strange that he neither came nor sent, but no knock
seemed to come and George could only rally his powers and forget him.
It was a recherche repast. George Taylor’s state dinners always were;
no trouble or expense was spared at them; luxuries in season and out
of season were there; the turtle would seem richer at his table than
any other, the venison more than venison, the turkeys had a sweeter
flavor, the sparkling champagne was of the rarest vintage, the dinner
this day did not disgrace its predecessors and the guests seemed to
enjoy themselves to the utmost in spite of the absence of Mr. Bell and
Mr. Feathersmith’s prognostications thereon. The evening was drawing
on, and some of the gentlemen were solacing themselves with a cup of
coffee, when the butler slipped a note into George’s hand. “The man is
waiting for an answer, sir,” he whispered. George glided out of the
room and read it, so fully impressed was he that it came from Mr. Bell
explaining the cause of his absence that he had to read it twice over
before he could take in the fact that it was not from him; it was few
lines in pencil from the popular hotel and running as follows: “Dear
George, I am not feeling well and have stopped here on my journey, call
at once or I shall be gone to bed, Adam Miller.” One burning desire had
hung over George all the evening that he could run up to Bell’s, and
learn the cause of his absence. His absence in itself would not in the
least have troubled George, but he had a most urgent reason for wishing
to see him, hence his anxiety. To leave his guests to themselves would
have been scarcely the thing, but this note appeared to afford just
the excuse wanting, at any rate he determined to make it the excuse.
“A messenger brought this, I suppose,” he said to the butler. “Yes,
sir.” “My compliments and I will be with Mr. Miller directly.” George
went into the room again, intending to proclaim his proposed absence
and plead Mr. Miller’s illness which he would put up in a strong
light as his justification for the inroad upon good manners a sudden
thought came over him that he would only tell Charles. George drew him
aside, “Charles, you be host for me for half an hour,” he whispered.
“Mr. Miller has just sent me an urgent summons to come and see him at
the hotel; he was passing through here and was compelled to stop for
sickness.” “Won’t to-morrow morning do?” asked Charles. “No, I will be
back before they have time to miss me, if they do miss me, say it is
a duty of friendship that any one of them would have answered as I am
doing, if called upon. I’ll soon be back.” Away he went. Charles felt
unusually well that evening and exerted himself for his cousin. Once
out of the house George hesitated whether he should go to see Mr. Bell
or Mr. Miller. He went to Mr. Miller. They had been friends first at
school, then at college, and since up to now. “I am sorry to have sent
for you,” exclaimed Mr. Miller holding out his hand. “I hear you have
friends this evening.” “It’s the kindest thing you could have done for
me this evening,” answered George. “I would have given anything for
a plea to be absent myself, and your letter came and afforded it.”
What, else they said, was between themselves; it was not much, and in
five minutes he was on his way to Bell’s; on he strode his eager feet
scarcely touching the ground, he lifted his hat and wiped his brow,
hot with anxiety; it was a very bright night the moon high; he reached
the mansion, and rang the bell: “Is Mr. Bell at home?” “He’s gone to
the North River,” was the answer. “A pretty trick he played me this
evening,” said George in a tone of dismay. “What trick,” repeated the
house-keeper. “Gone to North River, it cannot be.” “He is,” said she
positively; “when I came from market, I found him going off by the
train he had received a message which took him up.”
“Why did he not call upon me, he knew the necessity there was for me
to see him, he ought to have come.” “I conclude he was in a hurry to
catch the train,” said she. “Why did he not send?” “I heard him send
a verbal message by one of the servants to the effect that he was
summoned unexpectedly to North River, and could not, therefore, attend
your dinner. How early you have broken up!” “We have not broken up,
I left my guests to see after him. No message was brought to me.”
“Then I will enquire,” began she, rising, but George waved her back.
“It is of little consequence,” he said. “It might have saved me some
suspense, but I am glad I got the dinner over without knowing it. I
would like to see him.” George arose to go. “Not there, not that way,”
she said, for George was turning as if he would go into a dark hall,
and she arose and went with him to the door. He intended to take the
lonely road homewards, that dark, narrow road you may remember, where
the maple trees met overhead. All at once George Taylor did take a
step back with a start, when just inside the walk there came a dismal
groan from some dark figure seated on a broken bench. It was all dark
there, the thick maple trees hid the moon. George had just emerged
from where her beams shone bright and open, and not at first did he
distinguish who was sitting there, but his eyes grew accustomed to the
obscurity. “Charles,” he uttered in consternation, “is that you?” For
answer, Charles Taylor caught hold of his cousin, bent forward and
laid his head on George’s arm, another deep groan breaking from him;
that George Taylor would rather have been waylaid by a real ghost than
by his cousin at that particular time and place, was certain; better
that the whole world should detect any undue anxiety for Mr. Bell’s
companionship then than Charles Taylor, at least George thought so,
but conscience makes the best of us cowards, nevertheless he gave his
earnest sympathy to his cousin. “Lean on me Charles, let me support
you, how have you been taken sick?” another minute and the paroxysm of
pain was past. Charles wiped the moisture from his brow, and George sat
down on the narrow bench beside him. “How came you to be here alone,
Charles. Where is your carriage?” “I ordered the carriage early and it
came just as you were going away,” explained Charles. “Feeling well, I
sent it away again, saying I would walk home, the pain struck me just
as I reached this spot and but for the bench I should have fallen.”
“But George, what brings you here?” was the next very natural question.
“You told me that you was going to see Miller?” “So I was--so I did,”
said George, speaking volubly. “I found him poorly, I told him that
he would do better in bed and came away; it was a nice night; I felt
inclined for a run, and went to Bell’s to ask what kept him away. He
was sent for up at North River it seems, and sent an apology, but I
did not get it. In some way or other I think it was misplaced by the
servants.” Charles Taylor might well have rejoined “If Bell was away
where did you stop,” but he made no remark. “Are they all gone,” asked
George, alluding to his guests. “They are all gone, I made it right
with them respecting your absence; my being there was almost the same
thing, they appeared to regard it so. George, I believe I must have
your arm as far as the house, see what an old man I am getting to be.”
“Will you not rest longer, I am in no hurry as they have gone? What can
this pain be that seems to be attacking you of late?” “Has it never
occurred to you what it might be?” rejoined Charles. “No,” replied
George, but he noticed that Charles’ tone was a peculiar one, and he
began to think of all the ailments that flesh is heir to. “It cannot be
rheumatism, can it Charles?” “It is something worse than rheumatism,”
he said, in his serene, ever thoughtful tone. “A short time George,
and you will control my share of the business.” George’s heart seemed
to stand still and then bound onward in a tumult. “What do you mean,
Charles; what do you think is the matter with you?” “Do you remember
what killed my mother?” There was a painful pause. “Oh, Charles!”
“That is it,” said Charles quietly. “I hope you are mistaken! I hope
you are mistaken!” reiterated George. “Have you a physician; you must
have advice!” “I have had it, Brown confirms my suspicions. I asked
for the truth.” “Who is Brown,” returned George, disparagingly. “Go to
London, Charles, and consult the best medical men there.”
“For the satisfaction of you all I can do so,” he replied; “but it will
not benefit me.” “Good heavens! what a dreadful thing,” uttered George,
with feeling; “what a blow to fall upon you.” “You would regard it so
were it to fall upon you, and naturally you are young, joyous, and have
something to live for.” George Taylor did not feel joyous then, had not
felt particularly joyous for a long time; some how his own care was
a burden to him; he lifted his right hand to his temple and kept it
there; Charles suffered his own hand to fall upon George’s left, which
rested on his knee. “Don’t grieve, George, I am more than resigned. I
think of it as a happy change; this world at its best is full of care;
if we seem free from it one year it only falls more unsparingly the
next; it is wisely ordered, were the world made too pleasant for us, we
might be wishing it was our permanent home; few weary of it, whatever
may be their care, until they have learned to look for a better. In the
days gone by, I have felt tempted to wonder why Janey should have been
taken,” resumed Charles. “I see now how merciful the fiat was, George.
I have been more thoughtfully observant perhaps, than many are, and I
have learned to see, to know, how marvelously all the fiats are fraught
with mercy; full of dark sorrows as they may seem to us, it would have
been a bitter trial to me to leave her here unprotected in deep sorrow.
I scarcely think I could have been reconciled to go, and I know what
her grief would have been. All’s for the best.” Very rare was it for
undemonstrative Charles thus to express his hidden sentiments. George
never knew him to do so before; the time and place were peculiarly
fitted for it, the still, bright night, telling of peacefulness, the
shady trees around, the blue sky overhead; in these paroxysms of pain
Charles felt himself brought face to face with death. “It will be a
blow to Mary,” said George, the thought striking him. “She will feel
it as one. Charles, can nothing be done for you?” was the impulsive
rejoinder. “Could it have been done for my mother?” “I know, but
since then science has been broadened; diseases once incurable yield
now to medical skill. I wish you would go to London. There are some
diseases which bring death with them in spite of human skill, which
will bring it to the end of time,” rejoined Charles. “This is one.”
“Well, Charles, you have given me enough for to-night, and for a great
many more nights and days, too. I wish I had not heard it; it is a
dreadful affliction for you. I must say it is a dreadful affliction.”
“The disease or the ending you mean?” asked Charles, with a smile.
“Both are, but I spoke more particularly of the disease. The disease in
itself is a lingering death, and nothing better.” “A lingering death
is the most favored, as I regard it; a sudden death the most unhappy
one. See what time has given me to set my house in order,” he added,
the sober smile deepening. “I must not fail to do it well.” “And the
pain, Charles, that will be lingering, too.” “I must bear it.” He
rose as he spoke, and put his arm in his cousin’s. He stood a minute
or two as if getting strength, and then walked on, leaning heavily
on George. It was the pain, the excessive agony, that unnerved him;
a little while, and he would seem in the possession of his strength
again. “George, I can not tell how you will manage the business when I
am gone,” he continued, more in a business-like tone. “I think of it a
great deal. Sometimes I fancy it might be better if you took a staid,
sober partner, one of middle age, a thorough man of business. Great
confidence has been accorded me, you know, George. I suppose people
like my steady habits.”
“They like you for your honest integrity;” returned George, the words
seemed to break from him impulsively, “I shall manage very well, I dare
say, when the time comes, I suppose I must settle down to business
to be more like what you have been, I can,” he continued in a sort
of soliloquy, “I can, and I will.” But they walked on slowly neither
saying a word until they reached the house. George shook hands with
his cousin, “don’t you attempt to come to business to-morrow,” he said,
“I will come up in the evening to see you.”
“Won’t you come in now, George?” “Thank you. Good night, Charles, I
heartily wish you better.” There went on the progress of a few days
and another week had dawned and Charles seemed to all appearances to
be improving, he arose now to the early breakfast table, he began to
hasten to business for there was much work there with the accounts,
and one morning when they were at breakfast the old servant entered
with one or two letters for Charles, but before the old man could
reach his master, whose back was toward the door, Mary made him a
sign and he laid the letters down on a remote table. Charles had been
receiving a large number of letters of late, and Mary was fearful that
so much business might bring on another of those spells and deemed it
just as well that he should at least eat his breakfast in peace. The
circumstances of the letters having passed from her mind he ate on in
silence, but Martha and Matilda were discussing certain news which they
had received the previous day, news which had surprised them concerning
the engagement of a lady who had looked upon matrimony as folly.