Читать книгу True Love - Sarah E. Farro - Страница 6

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IN the heart of Bellville was situated the business house of Bangs, Smith & Taylor, built at the corner of a street, it faced two ways, the office and its doors being on L street, the principal street of the town. There was also a dwelling-house on M street, a new short street not much frequented. There were eight or ten houses on this street all owned by the Taylors, and this street led to the open country and to a carriage way that would take you to the Taylor mansion. It was in one of these houses that Charles Taylor had concluded to live after his marriage with Janey Brewster, as it was near his business and he wanted his sisters to live there with him as it was their mother’s last request that they keep together, but up to the present time he had never talked the matter over with them. This house attached to the office was a commodious one, its rooms were mostly large and handsome and many in number, a pillared entrance to which you ascended by steps took you into a large hall, on the right of this hall was a room used for a dining-room, a light and spacious apartment, its large window opening on a covered terrace where plants could be kept and that again standing open to a sloping lawn surrounded with shrubs and flowers. On the left of the hall was a kitchen, pantries and such like, at the back of the hall beyond the dining-room a handsome staircase led to the apartments, one of which was a fine drawing-room. From the upper windows at the back of the house a full view of the Taylor mansion might be obtained, rising high and picturesque, also the steeple of a cathedral gray and grim, not of the cathedral itself, its surrounding trees concealed that.

In the dining-room of the Taylor mansion one evening sat Charles Taylor and his eldest sister, Mary. This room was elegant and airy and fitted up with exquisite taste; it was the ladies’ favorite sitting-room. The drawing-room above was larger and grander but less used by them. On the evening in question, Charles Taylor was arranging plans for a business trip with his sister, though her removal to town was uppermost in his mind. About ten days previous to this, Marshall Bangs, one of the partners, had been found insensible on the floor of his room; he was subject to attacks of heart-disease, and this had proved to be nothing but a fainting spell, but it had caused plans to be somewhat changed, for Mr. Bangs would not be strong enough for business consultation, which would have been the chief object of his journey. As I said before, Charles and his sister were sitting alone, their cousin, George Gay, had gone out for a walk and Martha was spending the evening at Parson Davis’, for she and Mrs. Davis were active workers in church affairs. The dessert was on the table, but Charles had turned from it and was sitting opposite the fireplace. Miss Taylor sat opposite him, nearer the table, her fingers busy with knitting, on which fell the rays of the chandelier. “Mary,” said Charles, earnestly, “I wish that you would let me bring Janey here on a visit to you.” Mary laid down her knitting. “What, do you mean that there should be two mistresses in the house, she and I? No, Charles, the daftest old wife in all the world would tell you that would not do.” “Not two mistresses; you would be sole mistress, as you are now; Janey and I your guests, indeed Mary, it would be the best plan. Suppose we all move to town together,” he said. “It was mother’s desire that we should remain together.” “No, Charles, it would not do; some of the partners have always resided near the office, and it is necessary, in my opinion, that you should let business men be at their business. When do you contemplate marrying Janey,” she inquired, after a few minutes of thought. “I should like her to be mine by Thanksgiving,” was the low answer. “Charles! and November close upon us.” “If not, some time in December,” he continued, paying no heed to her surprise. “It is so decided.” Miss Taylor drew a long breath. “With whom is it decided?” “With Janey.” “You marry a wife without a home to bring her too; had cousin George told me that he was going to do such a thing I would have believed him, not of you, Charles!” “Mary, the home shall no longer be a barrier. I wish you would receive Janey here as your guest.”

“It is not likely that she would come; the first thing a married woman looks out for is a home of her own.”

Charles laughed. “Not come? Mary, have you yet to learn how unassuming and meek is the character of Janey? We have spoken of this plan together, and Janey’s only fear is lest she should be in the way of Miss Taylor failing in the carrying out of this project. Mary (for I see you are as I thought you would be, prejudiced against it) I shall take one of the houses near the office in town and there I shall take Janey. The pleasantest plan would be for me to bring Janey here, entirely as your guest; it is what she and I would both like. If you object, I shall take her elsewhere.”

Mary knitted a whole row before she spoke. “I will take a few days to reflect upon it, Charles,” she said. “Do so,” he replied, rising and glancing at his watch. “Half past eight. What time will Martha expect me? I wish to spend half an hour with Janey, shall I go for Martha before or afterwards?”

“Go for her at once, Charles; it will be better for her to be home early.”

Charles Taylor went to the hall door and looked out upon the night; he was considering whether he need put on an overcoat. It was a bright moonlight night, pleasant and genial, so he closed the door and started. “I wish the cold would come,” he exclaimed half aloud; he was thinking of the fever which still clung to Bellville, showing itself fitfully and partially in fresh places about every three or four days. He took the path leading to L. street, a lonely road and at night unfrequented; the pathway was so narrow that two people could scarcely walk abreast without touching the trunks of the maple trees growing on either side and meeting overhead. Charles Taylor went steadily on, his thoughts running upon the subject of his conversation with Mary.

It is probable that but for the difficulty touching a residence, Janey would have been his the past summer. Altogether, Charles’ plan was the best, if Mary could be brought to see it, that his young bride should be her guest for a short time. Charles, in due course of time, arrived at the walk’s end and passed through a large gate. The town lay in front of him, gray and sombre, as it was nearly hidden by trees; he looked at it fondly, his heart yearned to it, for it was to be the future home of Janey and himself.

“Hello! who’s there? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr Taylor.”

The speaker was Doctor Brown. He had come swiftly upon Charles Taylor, turning from the corner around the maple trees; that he had been to see the sick was certain, but Charles had not heard of any one being sick in that direction. “Neither had I,” said the doctor, in answer to the remark, “until I was sent for an hour ago in haste.” A thought crossed Charlie’s mind, “Not a case of fever, I hope.” “No; I think that’s leaving us. There’s been an accident to the parson’s wife—at least what might have been an accident, I should rather say,” added the doctor, correcting himself; “the injury is so slight as not to be worth the name of one.” “What has happened?” asked Charles Taylor. “She managed to set her sleeve on fire. A muslin, falling over the merino sleeve of her gown, in standing near a candle, the flame caught it; but just look at her presence of mind! Instead of wasting time running through the house from top to bottom, as most of them would have done, she instantly threw herself down on the rug and rolled herself into it. She’s the kind of a woman to go through life.” “Is she much burnt?” “No; many a child gets more burnt a dozen times in its first dozen years. The arm, between the elbow and wrist, is a little scorched; it’s nothing; they need not have sent for me; a drop of cold water applied will take out all the fire. Your sister Martha was much more frightened than she was.” “I’m really glad it’s no worse,” said Charles Taylor. “I feared the fever might have broken out again.” “That is taking its departure, I think, and the sooner it’s gone the better; it has been capricious as a coquette’s smiles; it is strange that in many houses it should have attacked only one inmate and spared the rest.” “What do you think, now, of Mary Ann Brewster?” The doctor shook his head, and his voice grew insensibly low. “In my opinion, she is sinking fast. I found her worse this afternoon, weaker than she has been at all; her mother thought that if she could get her to Newtown she might improve; but the removal would kill her; she would die on the road. It will be a terrible blow to her mother if it does come; and, though it may be harsh to say it, a retort upon her selfishness. Did you hear that she used to make Janey head nurse while the fever was upon her?” “No,” exclaimed Charles Taylor. “They did, though; Mrs. Brewster let it out to-day unintentionally. Dear girl! if she had caught it, I should never have forgiven her mother, whatever you may have done. I have a few more visits to make now before bedtime. Good-night!”

“Worse!” exclaimed Charles, as he walked on, “poor Mary Ann, but I wonder”—he hesitated as the thought struck him whether if the worse should come, as the doctor seems to anticipate, if it would delay Janey’s marriage, what with one delay and another. He walked on to the parson’s house where he found Mrs. Davis, playing the invalid, lying on a sofa, her auburn hair was disheveled, her cheeks flushed; the burnt arm, her muslin sleeve pinned up, was stretched out on a cushion, a pocket handkerchief, saturated with water, resting lightly on the burns, a basin of water stood near with another handkerchief in it, and the maid was near to exchange the handkerchiefs as might be required. Charles Taylor drew his chair near to Mrs. Davis and listened to the account of the accident, giving her his full sympathy, for it might have been a bad one. “You must possess great presence of mind,” he observed. “I think your showing it, as you have done in this instance, has won the doctor’s heart.” Mrs. Davis smiled. “I believe I do possess presence of mind; once we were riding out with some friends in a carriage when the horses took fright, ran away, and nearly tore the carriage to pieces; while all were frightened in a fearful manner I remained calm and cool.” “It is a good thing for you,” he observed. “I suppose it is; better at any rate than to go mad with fear, as some do. Martha has had enough fright to last her for a year.” “What were you doing, Martha?” asked her brother. “I was present but I did not see it,” replied Martha; “it occurred in her room, and I was in the hall looking out of the window with my back to her; the first I knew or saw, Mrs. Davis was lying on the floor with the rug rolled around her.” Tea was brought in and Mrs. Davis insisted that they should remain to it. Charles pleaded an engagement but she would not listen; they could not have the heart to leave her alone, so Charles, the very essence of good feeling and politeness, remained. Tea having been over, Martha went upstairs to get her wraps. Mrs. Davis turned her head as the door was closed and then spoke abruptly: “I am glad that Mr. Davis was not here, he would have magnified it into something formidable, and I should not have been let stir for a month.” The door opened, Martha appeared, they wished Mrs. Davis “good night,” a speedy cure from her burns, and departed, Charles, taking the straight path this time, which did not lead them near the maple trees. “How quaint old Doctor Brown is,” said Martha, as they walked along; “when he had looked at Mrs. Davis’ arm he made a great parade of getting out his glasses and putting them on, and looking again.”

“What do you call it, a burn?” he asked her. “It is a burn, is it not,” she answered, looking at him. “No,” said he, “its nothing but a singe,” it made her laugh heartily. “I guess she was pleased to have escaped with such slight damage.” “That is just like Doctor Brown,” said Charles.

Having arrived at home, Miss Taylor was in the same place knitting still; it was half past ten, too late for Charles to pay a visit to Mrs. Brewster. “Mary, I fear you have waited tea for us,” said Martha. “To be sure child, I expected you home to it.”

Martha explained why she did not come, telling of the accident to Mrs. Davis. “Ah, careless! careless! careless! she might have been burned to death,” said Mary, lifting her hands. “She would have been much more burnt had it not been for her presence of mind,” said Charles slowly. Miss Taylor laid down her knitting and approached the tea-table, none must preside at the meals but herself. She inquired of Charles whether he was going out again. “I think not,” he replied indecisively, “I should like to have gone though, the doctor tells me Mary Ann Brewster is worse.” “Weaker I conclude,” said Mary. “Weaker than she has been at all, he thinks there is no hope for her now. No, I will not disturb them,” he positively added, “it would be nearly twelve by the time I reached there.”