CHARLES RECEIVES ANOTHER STROKE.
Busy talking they did not particularly notice that Charles had risen
from his chair at the breakfast table and was seated at a distant
table opening his letters until a faint sound, something like a groan,
startled them; he was leaning back in his chair seemingly unconscious,
his hands had fallen, his face gave signs of the grave; surely those
dews upon it were not the dews of death! Martha screamed, Matilda flung
open the door and called out for help; Mary only turned to them her
hands lifted to enjoin silence, a warning word upon her lips, their
old servant came running in and looked at Charles. “He’ll be better
directly,” he whispered. “Yes, he will be better,” assented Mary, “but
I should call the doctor.” Charles began to revive. He slowly opened
his eyes and raised his hand to wipe the moisture from his white brow.
On the table before him lay one of the letters open. Mary pushed the
letters aside with a gesture of grievous vexation. “It is this business
that has affected you,” she cried out with a wail. “Not so,” breathed
Charles. “It was the pain here.” He touched himself below the chest
in the same place where the pain had been before. What had caused the
pain, mental agony arising from overwork or the physical agony arising
from disease? Probably some of both. He stretched out his hand toward
the letters making a motion that they should be placed in envelopes.
George, who could not have read a word without his glasses, took up the
letters, folded them and put them in their envelopes. Charles’ mind
seemed at rest and he closed his eyes again. “I’ll step for the doctor
now,” whispered George to Mary, “I shall catch him before he goes out
on his rounds.” He took his hat and went down the road to the office,
putting forth his best step, when he reached the office the doctor had
gone. “Will he be long,” asked George? “I don’t know,” was the reply,
“he was called out at seven this morning.” “He is wanted at the Taylor
mansion. Mr. Taylor is worse.” “Is he?” returned the assistant, his
quick tone indicating concern. “I can tell you where he is, and that’s
at Bangs,” continued the assistant. “You might call and speak to him if
you like, it’s on your way home.” George hastened there and succeeded
in finding the doctor. He informed him that Charles was worse; was
very sick. “One of the old attacks of pain, I suppose,” said the
doctor. “Yes, sir,” answered George. “He was taken sick while answering
letters. Miss Mary thought it might be overwork that brought it on.”
“Ah!” said the doctor, and there was a world of emphasis on the
monosyllable. “Well, I shan’t be detained here over half an hour
longer, and I shall come straight up.” He reached there within half
an hour after George. Mary saw him approaching and came into the hall
to meet him. She was looking very sad and pale. “Another attack, I
hear,” began the doctor, in his unceremonious mode of salutation,
“bothered into it, I suppose; George says it came on while he was
reading letters.” “Yes,” answered Mary, in acquiescence, her tone a
resentful one. “It was brought on by overwork.” The doctor gave a groan
as he turned towards the stairs. “Not there,” interposed Mary, “he
is in the dining-room.” With the wan, white look upon his face, with
the moisture of pain on his brow lay Charles Taylor. He was on the
sofa now, but he partially rose from it and assumed a sitting posture
when the doctor entered. A few professional questions and answers and
then the doctor began to scold. “Did I not warn you that you must
have perfect tranquility,” cried he, “rest of body and of mind?” “You
did, but how am I to get it, even now I ought to be at the office. I
shall die however it may be, doctor,” was the reply of Charles Taylor.
“So will most of us, I expect,” returned the doctor, “but there’s no
necessity for us to be helped on to it ages before death would come
of itself.” “True,” replied Charles, but his tone was not a hopeful
one. There was a pause, Charles broke it. “I wish you could give me
something to avert these sharp attacks of pain, doctor, it is agony in
fact, not pain.” “I know it,” replied the doctor. “What’s the use of
my attempting to give you anything? You don’t take my prescription.”
Charles lifted his eyes in surprise. “I have taken all that you desired
me.” “No, you have not; I prescribe tranquillity of mind and body; you
take neither.” Charles leaned nearer to the doctor and paused before he
answered. “Tranquillity of mind for me has passed, I can never know it
again; were my life to be prolonged by the great healer of all things,
time might bring it to me in a degree, but for that I shall not live,
doctor; you must know this to be the case under the calamity which has
fallen upon my head.” “At any rate you cannot go on facing business
any longer.” “I must, indeed, there is no help for it.” “And suppose
it kills you,” was the retort. “If I could help going I would,” said
Charles. “George has gone away.” The doctor arose and departed after
giving Charles a severe lecture. Miss Taylor sat at one of the west
windows, her cheek rested pensively on her fingers as she thought,
oh, with what bitterness of the grievous past she sat there losing
herself in regret after regret. If my father and mother had not died;
she lost herself, I say, in these regrets, bitter as they were vain.
How many of these useless regrets might embitter the lives of us all,
how many do embitter them? If I had but done so and so; if I had taken
the right when I turned to the wrong; if I had known who that person
was from the first and shunned his acquaintance; if I had chosen that
path in life instead of this one; if I had, in short, done exactly
the opposite to what I did do. Vain, vain repinings; vain, useless
repinings. The only plan is to keep them as far as possible from our
hearts. If we could foresee the end of a thing at its beginning, if we
could buy a stock of experience at the outset of life, if we could, in
fact, become endowed with the light of divine wisdom, what different
men and women the world would see. But we cannot undo the past, it
is ours with all its folly, its shortsightedness. Perhaps its guilt,
though we stretch out our yearning and pitiful hands to Heaven in their
movement of agony, though we wail out our bitter my Lord pardon me!
heal me! help me! though we beat on our remorseful bosom and tear away
its flesh piecemeal in bitter repentance. We cannot undo the past; we
cannot undo it. The past remains to us unaltered, and must remain so
forever. Perhaps some idea of this kind of the utter uselessness of
these regrets, but no personal remorse attached to her, was making
itself heard in the mind of Miss Taylor even through her grief. She
had clasped her hands upon her bosom now and bent her head downwards,
completely lost in retrospect.
She was aroused by the entrance of Charles. He sat opposite her at
the other corner of the window; he appeared to be buried in thought,
neither spoke a word; presently Mary arose to leave the room and
George met her almost immediately, showing in Mr. Blakely. He hastened
forward to prevent Charles from rising. Laying one hand upon his
shoulder and the other on his hands he pressed him down and would not
let him rise. The slanting rays of the setting sun were falling on
the face of Charles Taylor, lighting up its handsome outlines, the
cheeks were thinner, the hair seemed scantier, the truthful gray eyes
had acquired an habitual expression of pain. Mr. Blakely leaned over
him and noted it all. “Sit down,” said Charles, drawing the chair
which had been occupied by Mary nearer to him. Mr. Blakely accepted
the invitation, but did not release the hand. They subsided into
conversation, its theme as was natural, the health of Charles and the
topics of the day and weather. Charles sat in calmness waiting for him
to proceed; nothing could stir him greatly now. Mr. Blakely gave him
the outline of the past, of his love for Martha and her rejection of
him. “There has been something in her manner of late,” he continued,
“which has renewed hope within me, otherwise I should not be saying
this to you now; quite of late, since her rejection of me, I have
observed what I could not describe, and I have determined to risk my
fate once more.” “But I did not know that you loved Martha.” “I suppose
not. It has seemed to me, though, that my love must have been patent
to the world. You would give her to me, would you not?” “Thankfully,”
was the warm answer. “The thought of leaving these girls unprotected
has been one of my cares. Let me give you one consolation Blakely, that
if Martha has rejected you she has rejected others. Mary fancied she
had some secret attachment; can it have been concerning yourself?” “If
so why has she rejected me?” “I don’t know; she has been grievously
unhappy since I have been sick, almost like one who had no further hope
in life.” “What is it, George?” “A message has come from Mrs. Bangs.”
Charles spoke a word of apology to Blakely and left the room; in the
hall he met Martha crossing to it; she went in quite unconscious who
was its occupant; he rose to welcome her. A momentary hesitation in
her steps, a doubt whether she should not run away again, and then
she recalled her senses and went forward. How it went on and what was
exactly said or done neither of them could remember afterwards. A
very few minutes and Martha’s head was resting upon his shoulder; all
the mistakes of the past cleared up between them. She might not have
confessed to him how long she had loved, all since that long time when
they were together at his home, but for her dread that he might think
she was only accepting him on account of Charles’ days being numbered.
She told the truth, that she had loved him and him only all along.
“Martha, my dear, what a long misery might have been spared me had I
known this.” Martha looked down. Perhaps some might have been spared
her also. “Would you like to live here?” asked Mark. “Oh, yes; if it
can be.” “They will be glad to have me set a price on some of these
houses around here.” Martha’s eyelids were bent on her hot cheeks; she
did not raise them. “If you like we might ask Mary and Matilda to live
with us,” resumed Mark Blakely in his thoughtful consideration. “Our
home will be large enough.” “Their home is decided upon,” said Martha
shaking her head, “and they will remain in their own home. Mary has an
annuity, you know; it was money left to her by mamma’s sister, so that
she is independent; can live where she pleases; but I am sure she will
go to New York on a visit as soon as”--“I understand you Martha; as
soon as Charles shall have passed away.” The tears were glistening in
her eyes. “Do you not see a great change in him?”
“A very great one, Martha; I should like him to give you to me. Will
you waive ceremony and be mine at once?” “At once,” she repeated,
stammering and looking at him. “I mean in the course of a week or two,
as soon as you can make it convenient. Surely we have waited long
enough.” “I will see,” murmured Martha, a grave expression arose to
Mr. Blakely’s face. “It must not be very long, Martha, if you would be
mine while your brother is in life.” “I will! I will! it shall be as
you wish,” she answered, the tears falling from her eyes, and before
she could make any rejoinder she had hastily quitted him, and standing
before the window stealthily drying her wet cheeks, for the door had
opened and Charles Taylor had entered the room.
All the neighbors of Bellville lingered at its doors and windows
curious to witness the outer signs of Martha Taylor’s wedding; the
arrangements for it were to them more a matter of speculation than of
certainty since various rumors had been afloat and were eagerly caught
up, although of the most contradictory character, all that appeared
certain as yet, was that the day was charming and the bells were
ringing; to keep the crowd back was an impossibility and when the first
carriage came, the excitement in the street was great; it was drawn
by two beautiful horses, the livery of the postillions and the crest
on the panels of the carriage proclaimed it to be Charles Taylor’s.
Mark Blakely sat inside with Martha, the next carriage contained the
sisters and Charles Taylor, the third contained the bridesmaids wearing
hats and beautiful gowns, and the others coming up contained the
aristocratic friends of the parties concerned; there was a low murmur
of sorrow, of sympathy and it was called forth by the appearance of
Charles Taylor; it was some little time now since Charles Taylor had
been seen in public and the change in him was startling; he walked
forward leaning on the arm of George Taylor, lifting his hat to the
greeting that was breathed around, a greeting of sorrow meant, as he
knew, for him and his blighted life, the few scanty hairs stood out to
their view as he uncovered his head, and the ravages of the disease
that was killing him were all too conspicuous on his wasted features.
“God bless him, he’s very near to the grave,” who said this among the
crowd, Charles could not tell, but the words and their pathos full of
rude sympathy came distinctly upon his ear. The Reverend Mr. Davis
stood at the altar, he, too had changed, the keen, vigorous, healthy
man had now a gray worn look; he stood there waiting for the wedding
party; the pews were filled with ladies dressed appropriately for the
occasion, and the church was filled with sweet-smelling flowers and
their fragrance filled the air; the bridesmaids led the way, then came
Martha and Charles Taylor; she wore an elegant gown of white satin,
a tulle veil and orange blossoms, diamond ornaments, the gift of the
groom--as lovely a bride as ever stood at the altar. Mr. Blakely
and Miss Mary Taylor came next; she wore a gray silk of rare modern
pattern. The recollection of the wedding service that he had promised
to perform for Charles Taylor and Janey Brewster caused the pastor’s
voice to be subdued now as he read; how had that contemplated union
ended; the pastor was thinking it over now. This one was over, the
promises made, the register signed and parson Davis stepped before them
and took the hand of Martha. “I pray God that your union may be a happy
one; that rests in a great degree with you; Mark Blakely, take care of
her,” her eyes filled with tears, but Blakely grasped his hand warmly
and said: “I will! I will.” “Let me bless you both, Blakely,” broke in
the quiet voice of Charles Taylor. “It may be that I shall not see you
again.”
“Oh! but we shall meet again, you must not die yet,” exclaimed Mark
Blakely with feverish eagerness. “My friend I would rather part with
the whole world, save Martha than with you.” Their hands lingered
together and separated. They reached the carriage, notwithstanding the
crowd pushed and danced around it, the placing in of Martha, and Mark
taking his seat beside her, seemed to be but the work of a moment,
so quickly was it done, and Mark Blakely, a pleasant smile upon his
face, bowed to the shouts on either side as the carriage wended its
way through the crowd, not until it had got into clear ground did the
postillions put their horses to a canter, and the bride and groom
were fairly on their bridal tour. There was more ceremony needed to
place the ladies in the other carriages. Miss Taylor’s skirts in their
extensive richness took five minutes to arrange themselves, ere a space
could be found for Charles beside her, the footman held the door for
him, the other carriages drove up in order and were driven quietly
away, after having been filled with fair ladies and their escorts.