Chapter XXI: Section XV (1)

The daughter of the rich man was carried to her grave upon the shoulders of the rich, followed by a crowd of worshipers; and as the body was borne into the Chapel of the Departed, and the procession flowed in, and filled the aisles, the choristers chanted the _Requiem_ for the dead.

Dies iræ, dies illa
Solvet secium in favilla,
Teste David cum Sybilla.

“My daughter, oh! my daughter; why wouldst thou die?”

Quantus tremor est futurus,
Quando Judex est venturus,
Cuncta stricte discussurus.

“Return, oh! return, return again to me.”

Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulchra regionum,
Coget omnes ante thronum!

“and thou shalt make me what thou willest.”

Mors stupebit, et natura,
Cum resurget creatura,
Judicanti responsura.

“The shining gold is thine, and houses, and lands, and all the glory of life.”

Liber scriptus proferetur,
In quo totum continetur,
Unde mundus judicetur.

“My daughter, oh! my daughter, return again to me.”

Judex ergo cum sedebit
Quidquid latet apparebit,
Nil inultum remanebit.

“Thy suitors call thee; the music, the dance, the revelry of joy.”

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus,
Cum vix justus sit securus?

“No voice, no word, no whisper for my ear.”

Rex tremendæ majestatis,
Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
Salva me, fons pietatis.

“Cold, cold, cold in death!”

Recordare, Jesu pie,
Quod sum causa tuæ viæ,
Ne me perdas illa die.

“Strike up—louder—louder yet.”

Quærens me sedisti lassus,
Redemisti crucem passus,
Tantus labor non sit cassus.

“She loved the noise of trumpets, of sounds harmonious, the bustle of the earth.”

Juste Judex ultionis,
Donum fac remissionis,
Ante diem rationis.

“Louder, louder—no voice, no word, no whisper for my ear.”

Ingemisco tamquam reus,
Culpa rubet vultus meus:
Supplicanti parce, Deus.

“Gone, gone—thus runs the world away!”

Qui Mariam absolvisti,
Et latronem exaudisti,
Mihi quoque spem dedisti.

“Poor, poor, poor Anne!”

Precos meæ non sunt dignæ,
Sed tu, bonu, fac benigne,
Ne perenni cremer igne.

“In the grave is sleep and rest.”

Inter oves locum præsta,
Et ab hœdis me sequestra,
Statuens in parte dextra.

“Cold sleep, cold rest.”

Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis,
Voca me cum benedictis.

“Pass on, sweet spirit, to thy waking; if waking there may be.”

Oro supplex, et acclinis;
Cor contritum quasi cinis,
Gere curam mei finis.

“Our father, which art in heaven.”

Lacrymosa dies illa
Qua resurget ex favilla.

“Hallowed be thy name.”

Judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce Deus.

“Amen.”

We buried Anne, and upon the tablet which marks the place where she is laid I caused to be cut her last words—“We shall spring upward from the ground, winged, and with a power which will bear us swiftly to the throne which endureth forever and forever.”

* * * * *

THE DESERTED.

BY MISS MATTIE GRIFFITH.

Why didst thou leave me thus? Had memory
No chain to bind thee to me, lone and wrecked
In spirit as I am? Was there no spell
Of power in my deep, yearning love to stir
The sleeping fountain of thy soul, and keep
My image trembling there? Is there no charm
In strong and high devotion such as mine
To win thee to my side once more? Must I
Be cast forever off for brighter forms
And gayer smiles? Alas! I love thee still.
Love will not, cannot perish in my heart—
’Twill linger there forever. Even now
In our own dear, sweet sunset time, the hour
Of passion’s unforgotten tryst, I hush
The raging tumult of my soul, and still
The fierce strife in my lonely breast where pride
Is fiercely struggling for control. Each hue
Of purple, gold and crimson that flits o’er
The western sky recalls some by-gone joy,
That we have shared together, and my soul
Is love’s and memory’s.
As here I sit
In loneliness, the thought comes o’er my heart
How side by side in moonlight eves, while soft
The rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stood
Beside that clear and gently-murmuring fount
O’erhung with wild and blooming vines, and felt
The spirit of a holy love bedew
Our hearts’ own budding blossoms. There I drank
The wild, o’ermastering tide of eloquence
That flowed from thy o’erwrought and burning soul.
There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowers
To shine amid my dark brown locks, and now
Beside me lies a bud, the little bud
Thou gav’st me in the glad, bright summer-time,
Telling me ’twas the emblem of a hope
That soon would burst to glorious life within
Our spirit’s garden. The poor fragile bud
Is now all pale and withered, and the hope
Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast
Forever forth from thine.
They tell me, too,
My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas!
There is no more a spirit-fire within
To light it with the olden glow. Life’s dreams
And visions all have died within my soul,
And I am sad and lone and desolate;
And yet at times, when I behold thee near,
A something like the dear old feeling stirs
Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb
Of withered memories one pale, pale rose,
To bloom a moment there, and cast around
Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon
It vanishes away, as if it were
A mockery, the spectre of a flower;
I quell my struggling sighs and wear a smile;
But, ah! that smile, more eloquent than sighs
Tells of a broken heart.
’Tis said that thou
Dost ever shine the gayest ’mid the gay,
That loudest rings thy laugh in festive halls,
That in the dance, with lips all wreathed in smiles,
Thou whisperest love’s delicious flatteries;
And if my name is spoken, a light sneer
Is all thy comment. Yet, proud man, I know
Beneath thy hollow mask of recklessness
Thy conscious heart still beats as true to me
As in the happy eves long past. Ah! once,
In night’s still hour, when I went forth to weep
Beneath our favorite tree, whose giant arms
Seemed stretched out to protect the lonely girl,
I marked a figure stealing thence away,
And my poor heart beat quick; for oh! I saw,
Despite the closely-muffled cloak, ’twas thou
Then, then I knew that thou in secrecy
Had’st sought that spot, like me, to muse and weep
O’er blighted memories. Thou art, like me,
In heart a mourner. In thy solitude,
When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighs
Convulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fall
Like burning rain. Oh! ’twas thy hand that dealt
The blow to both our hearts. I well could bear
My own fierce sufferings, but thus to feel
That thou, in all thy manhood’s glorious strength
Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony,
Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weight
Of death. I see thee in my tortured dreams,
And even with a smile upon thy lip,
But a keen arrow quivering deep within
Thy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may’st wed
Another; but beside the altar dark
My mournful form will stand, and when thou see’st
The wreath of orange blossoms on her brow,
Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiled
Wildly around thine own.
I’m dying now;
Life’s sands are failing fast, the silver cord
Is loosed and broken, and the golden bowl
Is shattered at the fount. My sun has set,
And dismal clouds hang o’er me; but afar
I see the glorious realm of Paradise,
And by its cooling fountains, and beneath
Its holy shades of palm, my soul will wash
Away its earthly stains, and learn to dream
Of heavenly joys. Farewell! despite thy cold
Desertion, I will leave my angel home,
Each gentle eve, at our own hour of tryst,
To hold my vigils o’er thy pilgrimage,
And with my spirit’s-pinion I will fan
Thy aching brow, and by a holy spell,
That I may learn in Heaven, will charm away
All evil thoughts and passions from thy breast,
And calm the raging tumult of thy soul.

* * * * *

THE LOST DEED.

A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM.

BY E. D. ELIOT.

(_Concluded from page 195._)

Mr. Fayerweather and Madam were seated at breakfast before a blazing fire, one very cold morning in January. John had already finished, and had gone to Mr. Wendell’s office, in which he was studying his profession. Vi’let following Scipio, who had entered with some warm toast, came up to the table and said—

“It’s a terrible cold morning, Misser Fayerweather—I ’spect Primus han’t got no wood—he’d only jist three sticks yesterday; he’s sick with the rheumatis, too—mayn’t Scip carry him over some?”

This meant not wholly for the benefit of Primus, but also as a wholesome discipline of Scip himself, whose health Vi’let thought in danger for want of exercise. Scip glouted at her but did not dare speak.

“Yes, carry him over a good load Scipio, the moment you have swallowed your breakfast. Such a morning as this without wood.”

Madam added—“And you shall carry him some stores to make him comfortable. That makes me think of poor Cluff—I am afraid he is out of every thing by this time—he must have suffered last night. I ought to have seen to him before—poor creature! how could I have neglected him so? I might have known it was coming on cold, from its being so warm yesterday.”

Mr. Fayerweather endeavored to persuade her that Cluff could scarcely have consumed the provisions she sent him on Christmas, but she continued to reproach herself until he told her that he was obliged to go out in the sleigh as soon as breakfast was over, and that he would go down himself and see that the old man was comfortable and was well taken care of.

The worthy gentleman finished his meal and the sleigh was ordered out, but the hard cough of the old horse as the cutting air struck him on being led out of his warm stable, reached his kind master’s ear and found its way to his heart.

“Poor old Moses!” he said, “it would be hard to take you out such a day as this, it might be your death—I’ll walk. I shall be all the better for it.” So saying, he lost no time in hurrying on his roquelaure, and set out on a brisk pace, to avoid the expostulations of his wife, who had gone to look out some flannels to send Primus. As he passed by Mr. Wendell’s, his niece having seen him from the window, was at the door to accost him.

“Why, uncle! where are you going this bitter morning? Do come in.”

“Don’t stop me now, child, I’m in haste; perhaps I’ll drop in as I come back,” he said; then as he shook his finger at little Will, who was hanging on his mother’s apron, he gave them both a look so brimful of kindness and affection and something beyond both, as went to her very heart. That look Amy never forgot.

The cold was intense, but Mr. Fayerweather proceeded on his way. The air felt like solid ice to his face, where it was not entirely muffled with the roquelaure, the cape of which was soon thickly frosted with his breath. Some shivering, blue-nosed school-boys made their manners as they passed. “Run quick, my boys,” he said, “or old Jack Frost will have fast hold of you. See that you keep a warm school-room to-day.” A pipkin of water was thrown after them from a shop door—it was that of Nanny Boynton’s new residence—it froze as it fell, and rattled like pebbles on the snowy crust. When he reached the market-place (it was not a market-day,) one solitary load of wood was on the stand. As Mr. Fayerweather came up, the patient beasts which drew it, turned up their broad faces and looked wistfully at him beneath the wreaths of snow formed by their breath as it issued from their nostrils. The owner was thrashing himself very energetically with his arms, to induce a sensation of warmth. Mr. Fayerweather bought the wood and told the man to carry it up to his house and tell madam he sent him, this being tantamount with telling him to go and make himself comfortable by a good fire, with a good luncheon for himself and his cattle. Mr. Fayerweather then proceeded on his way. Dr. Holly’s thermometer stood at 18 below 0.

The table was laid for dinner when he returned home. His wife met him with as severe reproaches as she knew how to frame, for walking out on such a day.

“Don’t scold, my dear,” he replied, good-humoredly, “you are growing a perfect shrew, I declare. If you take to scolding, I shall certainly take to drinking. I am going to take some brandy now.” Then he went to the buffet, and taking from a liquor chest which stood in the lower part of it, a case-bottle of brandy, that had reposed there undisturbed, time out of mind, and unstopping it, he continued:

“I found Cluff very comfortable, in no want of any thing. I went to two or three other places, but hadn’t time to call and see Judith as I intended—but let us have dinner, for my walk has made me so hungry I could eat a trooper, horse and all.”

Madam went into the kitchen herself to hasten in dinner. She remained a moment, to see Vi’let dish up the turkey, and was, with her own hands, adding more spice to the gravy, when the sound of some heavy body falling, hurried her back to the parlor, followed by all four servants. She found her husband extended on the floor. She flew to assist him, supposing he had been tripped up accidentally by the carpet, but he was without sense or motion. “Quick, run for the doctor, Scip, he’s faint;” and madam took the sal volatile from her pocket to apply to his nostrils. Vi’let looked at him and felt his pulse, then clasping her hands, exclaimed—

“God Almighty, mistress!” She suddenly checked herself, and told Flora and Peter to run for Mrs. Wendell and Madam Brinley.

Dr. Holly on his arrival found madam in strong convulsions, requiring both her sister and niece to hold her, while Mr. Wendell and John, assisted by Vi’let, were endeavoring to revive Mr. Fayerweather, who was still on the floor. On examining him attentively, the Doctor shook his head hopelessly, but made an immediate attempt to take blood from the arm. It was in vain—Mr. Fayerweather was dead. His death, Dr. Holly gave it as his opinion, was accelerated by exposure to the cold and the long walk, the disease being a hardening of vessels about the heart; adding that if he could have taken the brandy (which stood on the table in a tumbler, apparently untasted,) it might have saved him. The grief of the family and friends of the excellent man may be imagined, but cannot be dwelt upon here.

The funeral was the longest that ever had been known in Salem, for never was any inhabitant of it more beloved and respected. As soon as madam was sufficiently composed, after the funeral, the ebony cabinet was searched and a will was found, dated the day before George’s departure. It gave the widow the homestead, which had become very valuable, together with the whole of the property she had brought; after several bequests, a large one to Mr. and Mrs. Wendell jointly, the remainder of the property was divided between the two sons. Mr. Wendell was named as executor. The estate was perfectly clear and unincumbered and little time was requisite to settle it.

A few weeks subsequent to the funeral of Mr. Fayerweather, the inhabitants of Salem were called together by an alarm of fire; an occurrence so very unusual as well as alarming, that it caused a great stir and commotion in the quiet and orderly town. The fire broke out in the office of the Register of Deeds, but was soon put out, doing, as was at first supposed, but little damage. Upon examination, however, it was discovered that several books of valuable records were destroyed, and others much injured. Mr. Wendell having ascertained that the one containing the copy of the Boynton quit-claim of the Fayerweather property was among the burnt, as well as that of a date many years prior, thought best to lose no time in having these important documents newly registered. Accordingly he looked into the cabinet, which had been put into his possession, for the originals.

Upon a thorough search with John Fayerweather, no trace of these papers was to be found in the cabinet; nor, to the astonishment and consternation of both, in any desk, trunk, drawer or closet in the premises of the deceased. The only conjecture madam or John could form in regard to the disappearance of these papers was, that either through accident or mistake, they had been left in their original place of deposit, and were now in the elder son’s possession in the little trunk. In the first vessel which sailed for London, therefore, intelligence was dispatched to Mr. Haliburton of the melancholy death of his old friend, and of the missing papers, that he might find means to convey notice to George, sooner than could be done from Salem.

The destruction of the records came to the knowledge of Jemmy Boynton as soon as to that of Mr. Wendell, and the delay of the latter to have the deeds recorded anew, did not escape her notice. Jemmy was ever on the alert to seize upon every circumstance which might possibly involve the risk or loss of property to others, in the well-grounded hope, which he rarely failed to realize, of in some way or other turning it to his own benefit. Accordingly the old fox was not slow to suspect some substantial reason for such delay or apparent neglect on the part of so careful a man of business as Mr. Wendell was well-known to be, and he did not stop till he had found out the true cause. To arrive at certainty, he thought it would be best to make a visit of condolence to the widow, judging from her well-known simplicity, she would give him all the information he desired. And he was not mistaken.

He took care to make his visit at a time when he felt pretty sure Madam Fayerweather would be alone. It was on a fine morning in June that Jemmy sallied forth. He had dressed himself in the best his wardrobe afforded; a suit of fine claret-colored broadcloth, which had been left in pawn to him years before by a needy French prisoner on his parole, and which had never been redeemed; a white satin waistcoat, grown somewhat yellow with age, and white silk hose with gold clocks, fitting tight to his spindle legs; all belonging to the same pledge. Possibly the finery of the jaunty Frenchman might have inspired him with some undefined notions of gallantry; for Jemmy was going to make a call upon a rich widow just six months in weeds. But if any airy visions fluttered about his heart and occasioned the smirk upon his withered physiognomy as he bent his way to her house, they were speedily put to flight on entering the parlor of madam, who manifested such unqualified discomfiture on seeing him, that the compliment which he had been framing during his walk, perished before its birth, and he felt called upon to account for his visit by the phrase of condolence he had previously conned over with much care.

“Madam, I come to condole with you on your bereavement—’twas a sorrowful bereavement.”

The tears came into the eyes of the widowed lady, but she felt so much relieved at finding Jemmy was not come to demand possession of the estate, as she at first had supposed, but was only making a friendly call in kindness, that it was not in her nature to take it otherwise than kindly. Her countenance resumed its usual benevolent expression, though much saddened of late, as she thanked him and inquired after “Miss Nancy’s health.”

“Thank ye kindly, madam, Nanny’s but poorly with the rheumatis; she sends her humble sarvice to you, and hope I see you well.” Then Jemmy proceeded in his most insinuating manner, to ask if there was nothing that he or Nanny could do to “sarve” her, and really appeared so friendly, that madam was taken by surprise, and out the secret came; for she thought it would be a fine opportunity to ask him for a new quit-claim of the whole property, which, from the great good-will he manifested, she could not doubt he would readily give.

His object so fully attained, Jemmy, in his elation became airy, and at length quite softened to the tender. Placing his brown forepaws upon his knees, he looked down upon his golden clocks, which he thought had helped him to win the day, and evading madam’s request, he turned the subject to her husband’s death.

“Your worthy spouse, madam, died of an arterplax, (apoplexy?) I take it—a-a-hm—well.” The compliment was now revived. “A fat sorrow is better than a lean one—he’s left you well to do in the world, and sich a parsonable woman as you will find enough ready to supply his place.”

The smirk which had been frightened away on his entrance, again returned to adorn his lanthern jaws, giving Madam Fayerweather, in indignant amazement, some reason to imagine he contemplated offering himself as a candidate for the place he alluded to, with small doubts of being a favored one. She rose, and all the Borland blood mounted to her face. The bell-rope was jerked with a violence wholly unnecessary, for Scipio made his appearance before the bell could sound in the kitchen; he and Vi’let having, on Jemmy’s first entrance, stationed themselves in the passage between the parlor and kitchen, and had heard through the keyhole all which had passed. The guest, however, thought good to make a precipitate retreat without waiting for the ceremony of being shown the door. As he passed by the side-gate, Vi’let stood ready to salute him with a ladleful of some liquid, taken from a kettle on the kitchen hearth, which all the plates and dishes, as they had come from the table, had passed through to restore them to their native purity, leaving behind them their impurities floating on the top; and as the rich compound splashed over the skirts of his coat and his silken hose, with gold clocks, she cried after him:

“You want to take Misser Fayerweather’s place, do ye! ye old skinflint—well, see how you like a sup of Vi’let’s broth.”

Stung with his unceremonious dismission; his legs smarting with the scalding liquor, Vi’let’s insult was more than he could bear. Turning round in a rage, he called out, doubling up his fist and shaking it at her—

“Tell your proud jade of a mistress she wont hold her head so high long, on other people’s ground! And as for you! ye nigger”—he made use of an epithet which would not appear polite here—“I’ll have you up to the whipping-post!”

Vi’let answered him with a scornful laugh, as she slammed the gate after him. Poor madam was overwhelmed with mortification and chagrin at her own folly, of which she was fully sensible as soon as she had committed herself.

As Jemmy proceeded home, his keen sense of indignity wore off in the exulting thought of vengeance in full prospect. He and his precious sister, however, had one great drawback to their satisfaction; the necessity of opening their purse-strings sufficiently wide to draw therefrom a fee large enough to induce any man of the law to undertake the case against Mr. Wendell, who was regarded throughout the province as the head of the profession. But a lawyer was at length found at the distance of twenty miles, who was willing to engage in the cause for a moderate share of the profits, if successful, and to lose his fee if not; and the trial was prepared to come on at the annual November court.

It occasioned a great sensation at the bar, from the amount of property involved, and the respective characters of the plaintiffs and defendant; the latter being Mr. Wendell, as executor to the deceased. He determined to plead the cause himself, assisted by a friend as junior counsel. At the first trial, little difficulty was found in having it postponed a year, to give time to hear from Captain Fayerweather; much to the disappointment of the plaintiffs.

The most intense anxiety was now felt by the Fayerweather family, and all connected with it, to hear from George; but as it was known he was to embark from Europe on a voyage of discovery in the South sea, small hopes were entertained of receiving letters from him for many months.

To return to a more pleasing subject—Judith was the darling of all. As her character became more matured with her person, both increased in loveliness, and both received a new charm from the cultivation of her intellect, which proved of no common order. George’s presents to her were chiefly of books; for though his active life prevented him from being a great reader himself, the whole atmosphere in which he had been born and educated, the circle of which he was the pride when at home, being intelligent, he was anxious that deficiency in this point should not be found in Judith. No deficiency of any kind, however, was discovered in her by his family. John regarded her with an affection scarcely less than George’s; and though the idea of supplanting his brother, or of Judith’s ever being more to him than a sister, never crossed his mind, he formed no other attachment.

Captain Stimpson, now grown somewhat stiff in his limbs, gave up his lookout in the cupola to Judith, and was at some expense to have it fitted up for her with cushions and curtains, and a spy-glass for her particular use. Her sleeping apartment opened directly at the foot of the stairs which led to it; and here with her books and her Eolian harp, she passed all the time which she felt to be exclusively her own. Her prospect was that of the harbor, opening into the ocean, under every aspect a noble one—with Baker’s island, and its light-house in the distance, on one side, and several hamlets at different distances on the other; the town, with its then few streets and scattered dwellings, and the level country beyond. The view offered little of the beautiful, the romantic or the picturesque; but all that was wanting its fair beholder’s imagination could supply; and it may be questioned whether a view of the bay of Naples even, with all its magnificence of scenery, could give rise to conceptions of more beauty in some minds, than were formed in Judith’s by the ordinary one of Salem harbor.

Time went on, and it was now near the end of the summer preceding the November, when the cause was to come on at the Ipswich court. Letters had twice been received from Captain Fayerweather, but of a date prior to his leaving Europe, and arrivals were looked for every day, which were expected to bring answers to the information that had been dispatched to him of all which had occurred to his family since his departure. One fine evening, Judith, having finished all her domestic tasks for the day, below stairs, ascended to her observatory, thinking she should not be missed; her father having set out on his daily visit to the rope-walk—_en amateur_, for the captain had retired from business—her grandfather was quietly reposing in his chair, and her mother holding sweet communion with her dearly beloved Nanny Dennis—Mrs. Brayton.

On reaching her airy retreat, the fair maiden took the spy-glass, and adjusting its tube, strained her vision over the ocean, hoping to espy the mast of some vessel coming into port. In vain—the curve of the wide horizon was unbroken even by a speck. A gentle sigh escaped her as she spoke; “Not yet; well, it must come before long.” She then took her book, and was soon luxuriating in the fairy-land of poetry. From time to time her eyes wandered from the page, to cast themselves over the expanse of waters before her, glowing beneath the sky of twilight, and scarcely dimpled by a breath of wind, as the tide still advanced to fill the broad basin, and broke in low ripples on its now brimming edge.

Darkness at length came on, and being no longer able to distinguish its characters, she laid aside her book, and turned her eyes and thoughts to the scene without. Insensibly almost to herself, her ideas arranged themselves in measure, and she repeated in a low whisper:

“The winds have folded their tired wings
And sunk in their caves to rest;
The Evening falls, for Day is gone
Far down in the purple West.”

She stopped, feeling almost like a culprit detected in some flagrant misdemeanor; but as new images rose in her mind unbidden, and seemed to plead for a permanent existence, she continued,

“And yonder the star of Evening gems
The brow of the pale young Moon
That journeys on in sadness and tears,
To finish her course so soon.”

Gathering courage, she proceeded:

“She’s gone—and deep the falling shades
Close over the quiet plain;
While shore and hamlet, and grove and field,
Resign them to Night’s calm reign.”

Thinking whether she should ever dare confess her enormity to George, she went on:

“The ocean’s dark breast is dimly seen
By the stars as they glimmer near,
Where the waves dash low—while a far-off roar
From the distant beach[6] I hear.

A spark from yon low isle in the East,
Now twinkles across the bay!
And now it steadily flames, to guide
The mariner on his way.

Oh, dear to me is thy distant beam!
Lone dweller of the night waves.”—

“Judy! Judy!” roared her father’s voice, “come down directly!—here’s letters from Captain Fayerweather.”

She sprang, and was down stairs, almost before the last syllable had left her father’s lips. He stood with the packet in his hand, which he told her came by the way of Beverly. On carrying it to the light, it was discovered to be directed to John Fayerweather. Judith felt something a little like disappointment, though she had no reason to expect it would be directed to herself. “But how was she to get her own letter to-night—if there was one for her.” This, if not on her lips, was in her thought.

Her father took the packet from her hand; “Here, I’ll take it up in town myself; I should like to be the one to give it to them, and you shall have your own letter to-night.” Without waiting for an answer, off he set, and his sturdy stump—stump—stump, was heard the whole length of the street, until he turned the corner. Judith almost quarreled with the feeling of delicacy which had forbade her accompanying him.

The town clock struck ten as Captain Stimpson reached Paved street, and with a louder and quicker stump—stump—stump, he hastened on. Just before he reached the Fayerweather mansion, he met Mr. and Mrs. Wendell coming from thence, and on learning his errand, they turned back with him. The eagerness with which John seized the packet, and the beating of the heart which all felt as they gathered round him while he opened it, may be readily imagined. It contained but two letters, his own and one to Judith. He handed the latter to her father, who immediately departed with it.

The first opening of John’s letter proved a bitter disappointment to all, for the date was only a week subsequent to that of the packet, which had been last received. In that one George had not written to his brother, and to supply the omission, he appeared to have seized upon another opportunity which occurred directly after, by a different route. This letter was a very long one, and bore marks of the strong affection which subsisted between the two brothers. One passage in it, however, had a strong negative bearing upon the lost papers. It ran thus: “My father’s little trunk, which I took with me, to hold the letters I expected to receive from home, is still _empty_; not one have I received since I left Salem.” This, Mr. Wendell said, was _prima facie_ evidence that the deeds were not in their original place of deposite.

The next morning another thorough search was made, which proved as fruitless as the preceding ones, leaving Mr. Wendell and John in a state of perplexity scarcely to be imagined; the former, however, resisting all internal misgivings as to the final issue of the cause, and maintaining his conviction that the papers would be found in time to be produced on the trial. Captain Fayerweather was not expected home until the next spring. Throughout the whole affair his mother had discovered a strength of mind scarcely expected from her, and assisted in all the researches with great energy. A spirit had been roused in her by Boynton’s insult, as she felt it, which proved a radical cure for all disorders on her nerves; she never had a fit of hysterics after.

The autumn advanced, but brought no new arrivals. November came, the court sat at Ipswich, and the cause of Boynton versus Wendell was third on the list. The anxiety of all concerned may be imagined. It would scarcely be supposed that at this time an object could exist of sufficient interest to divert, for a moment, the thoughts of Madam and John from the issue of this trial, which might, and the probability was now strong that it would, drive them from the home of their happiest days, with the loss of an estate, half of which had been twice paid for. Such an object was, however, found in old Jaco. He had been declining for some time, and all the care of the family had been directed to keeping him alive until his master’s return. As the weather grew colder, Vi’let had been prevailed upon to allow him to stay in the kitchen; and much softened in her nature by her master’s decease, she made a bed for him behind the settle, and gave him warm milk several times a day with her own hand, without once debating the question of his having a soul, and the sinfulness of making him comfortable, if he had not, as she might have done years agone.

One afternoon, some days before the cause was to be tried, John received a hurried note from Mr. Wendell, who was at Ipswich on business; the note was dated the day before, and expressed some fears, which he had never allowed to appear before, as to the issue of the trial. “His hopes,” the note said, “still predominated, but he thought it would be best for John not to allow his mother to be buoyed up by them, but to endeavor to prepare her for the worst.” The student, with a heavy heart, left the office and went home to seek his mother. He felt relieved on finding she had lain down after dinner, and had at length fallen asleep, after having passed several wakeful nights. He would not awaken her, but went out to see old Jaco.

The poor brute lay panting, and was now evidently drawing near his end. At John’s approach he turned his head toward him, feebly wagged his tail, and gave a low whine. After a while he rose on his feet, and staggered to the door, which John opening, the dog made out to reach the middle of the yard, when he fell and lay gasping. His master bent over him, and gently patting him, spoke soothingly; at which Jaco opened his eyes and made a feeble attempt to lick the kind hand which caressed him. At this instant a light breeze swept by; and as John felt it wave the hair on his brow and flutter for a moment on his cheek with the feeling of the balmy spring, it was singularly associated with recollections of his brother, whose image it brought to his side with all the vividness of reality. As, like a light breath, it passed to Jaco, the dying animal started suddenly and rose on his haunches, snuffed eagerly in the air three times—stopped—then gave one long-protracted howl, when he fell, quietly stretched himself out to his full length—and poor Jaco lay stiffening in death. John watched him for a minute or two, when a low sob might have been heard from him as he turned away, and took his course through the garden and fields to the water side.

Judith, on this afternoon, felt a weight on her spirits, wholly unknown to her before. She could not entirely conceal her depression from her parents, and they were not surprised at it, in the present juncture of affairs in the Fayerweather family. She, however, could not have given this as the cause of her depression, had it been inquired of her, for this day her mind had been less occupied with the trial, and its probable issue, than it had been for a week previous, and she felt unable to account for the sadness which oppressed her. Her father, at length, went out to see if he could not pick up some news, and Judith, after in vain attempting to rally herself, went up to her little cupola.

She looked from her window, but the aspect of all without seemed in accordance with her feelings. The sky of one leaden hue, looked as if no sun had ever enlivened it, and the sea beneath of a darker shade, heaved and tossed as if sullenly brooding over some storm in recollection. The wind whistled through the bare branches of the trees before the house, and drove a few withered leaves to and fro on the terrace, then found its way within doors, and moaned through the passages. Some groups of boys, as they went from house to house, to gather a few pence for their bonfire (it was the fifth of November), at another time, might have seemed to add some little liveliness to the scene; but to Judith, their voices as they reached her ear from below, had a melancholy tone, as they chanted their rhymes, and the tinkling of their little bells sounded doleful.

She placed her harp in the window; for a minute or two the strings were silent, and she repeated her accustomed little invocation—

“Ye winds that were cradled beyond the broad sea,
Come stoop from your flight with your errand to me;
And softly the strings of my harp as ye blow,
Shall whisper your tidings of weal or of wo.”

The wind appeared to answer her summons but fitfully at first, the strings jarring without music, as it swept over them. The blast increasing in strength, the tones became for a while loud, harsh, and discordant; then, as it blew more steadily, they gradually blended into harmony, and at length, sent to her ear a strain of such deep melancholy, as struck despair into her heart. Suddenly there was a crash, succeeded by the _tolling of a distant bell_. So profound was the illusion of the spell-bound hearer, that she did not perceive the snapping of a string, which, by the striking of its loose fragment over the others, produced the sounds so full of wo, to her saddened spirit. They ceased, and the harp was silent.

Again its tones were heard, faintly, and as from afar; but gradually drawing nearer, as a gentle gale passed over the chords to the dejected girl. It fluttered round her, soft as the breath of a summer evening, kissed her fair brow and delicate cheek, and waved each golden curl which hung round her white throat, while a solemn strain arose, and softening by degrees to a melody of more than earthly beauty, as it seized upon her entranced senses, dispelled every cloud from her spirits, and poured into her soul peace and joy. Then as the breeze which bore it appeared to depart, and wing its way back over the ocean, the tones seemed to syllable the word, farewell, repeated each time with more sweetness, until the sounds were lost in distance. When Judith descended, her parents were rejoiced to see the dark shade dispelled from her brow.

Mr. Wendell sat up late on the preceding night, preparing a defense in a case, in which all the vigor of a powerful intellect was called forth, aided by profound legal learning. He retired to rest, weary, but not dispirited, confident that a few hours repose would fully restore him. But after sleeping heavily until late the next morning, he awoke, not refreshed with slumber, as was his wont, but feeling a languor wholly unknown to him before. He, however, would not succumb to the feeling, but rose, determined to conquer it; took a walk, and used violent exercise, which was of benefit, for when he returned he ate his breakfast with a good appetite, and then sat down to examine his notes. The seat of his indisposition was now apparent, for on his first attempt to read, he felt a pressure on his brain, and a confusion of ideas, which rendered his mind wholly incapable of following any train of argument, and scarcely able to take in the sense of what he had written. The only course now remaining to him, he adopted, which was to leave this case in the hands of the junior counsel, to have it, if possible, continued over to the Spring term; after doing which, he mounted his horse and proceeded homeward, leaving word that he would return in time for the Fayerweather case. For the first time in his life he felt gloomy and depressed. The exercise of riding was grateful to him, and he felt refreshed. After riding an hour or two, his spirits rose to their accustomed buoyancy, though his ideas still remained confused, when he attempted to pursue a train of thought.

He arrived in Salem about three o’clock in the afternoon—the same afternoon the poor dog Jaco died. At he was proceeding through the main street, or reaching the one which turned down to the wharves, his horse suddenly snorted and became restive. He patted and soothed his old servant, and then looked round to discover the occasion of so unwonted a freak, when he saw a powerfully built man in the garb of a seaman, who appeared to be advancing toward him. He stopped his horse with great difficulty, and the stranger came within a few yards of him. What was his surprise and joy on seeing George Fayerweather?

His exclamation was stopped short by the horse giving a plunge, which, if Mr. Wendell had not sat well in his saddle would have thrown him. Captain Fayerweather’s countenance discovered marks of alarm and distress as he drew nearer, and while he spoke to Mr. Wendell, the horse snorted and again plunged fearfully, and at length reared, and stood nearly upright; but his master sat firm as if glued to the saddle, while he listened to George’s hurried account of where the deed was. As Captain Fayerweather finished, he turned away quickly, and the animal again put his fore-feet to the ground. As Captain Fayerweather turned the corner, Mr. Wendell called after him, and then finding all endeavors to make the horse follow him, vain, he dismounted and gave the bridle into the hands of a man whom he knew, and who at this juncture came up. He then turned the corner too, but George was gone. His communication, however, in spite of the restiveness of the horse, had reached the ears of Mr. Wendell, and now absorbed all his faculties, as he hastened home with a rapid pace.

On this afternoon, Mrs. Wendell sat at work in her parlor, her mind full of the event of the trial, and revolving over many plans for her aunt, on its now probable issue. She was thinking over her Aunt Brinley’s proposal, that the three families should make but one, and should occupy her house, which was sufficiently large; when some one opened the front door, and came immediately into the room. It was her husband, looking excessively pale, and his whole appearance betokening hurry and agitation. Scarcely heeding her, he went to a large closet in the room, where he kept books and papers, and where her uncle’s ebony cabinet was placed.

To her questions of surprise and alarm she could only obtain in reply—

“I cannot answer you now, my love, wait.”

He went to the cabinet, and proceeded to take out the three small drawers of the centre, which he placed on the floor, and then narrowly examined the vacancy they left. Unable to restrain her curiosity, she looked over his shoulder. As he knelt, he just made out to discover a small projection at the back, to which he applied two of his fingers, and the whole partition slipped down, and discovered a narrow cavity in the very centre of the cabinet. Two papers appeared, tied together with red tape; one of which was discolored as if with age. He clapped his hands with a joy strangely contrasted with his pallid countenance, and both exclaimed at once—she with a scream—“Here they are! the deeds! the deeds! found at last!”

Mr. Wendell then mentioned to his wife his meeting with George, who he supposed had just landed; and might have gone to see Judith before he went home. Mrs. Wendell expressed her joy at her cousin’s return, and then again remarked her husband’s paleness, and anxiously inquired the cause; but he made light of it.

“O, I am well enough,” he said, “but I sat up late last night—and perhaps,” he said, with a faint smile, “it was the fright my horse gave me, while George was speaking. He nearly threw me, and prevented my saying a word until George was gone—but I must return immediately to Ipswich; these papers must be produced in court to-morrow. I little thought when I came away, of returning in such triumph; but, good-bye, my love; I cannot stop a moment;” and off he hurried.

Mrs. Wendell immediately flew into her aunt’s, whom with John she found in utter ignorance of George’s return. When informed of it, and of the discovery of the lost papers, her joy almost overcame her. In her impatience to see him, she thought Judith was almost unkind to detain him so long.

“She might come with him,” she said, and John started up, and set off to bring them both. On his way, he met Captain Stimpson, who, he found, had neither seen nor heard any thing of his brother, though just returned from home. He, however, was laden with tidings of high import, and was coming up in town to tell his news.

A vessel had that afternoon put in at Beverly with government dispatches; and staying only long enough to send them on shore, had set sail for Quebec. The dispatches were of so much importance, that an express was immediately sent off with them to Boston, and it was supposed they were the forerunners of peace. The vessel was expected to return to Salem in a month. This was the rumor which Captain Stimpson brought, for it was but a rumor, of which every one down in town was full; but of which, no one appeared to know either the origin or grounds. The name of the vessel, or of its master, could not be ascertained. The worthy relator accompanied John home, and the four there assembled, concluded with one voice, and almost one feeling of deep disappointment, that the Captain of the vessel must have been George, and that being under orders to proceed to Quebec, with the least possible delay, he would not trust himself to come home, or to see Judith, for fear of being detained too long. His not explaining himself to Mr. Wendell was accounted for, Mrs. Wendell said, by the restiveness of the horse, which probably did not allow him to say more than was barely sufficient for the finding of the papers.

The next day, the cause at Ipswich was decided at once, by Mr. Wendell’s producing the deeds. And heavy were the costs which fell upon the plaintiffs; their counsel retaining no recollection—there being no witnesses to it—of the agreement to lose his fees, should he fail to gain the cause; he expressing at the same time a high-minded indignation at having been taken in to engage in a case, in which so much knavery was concerned.

“Poor Jaco! I ’clare it makes me sithe to think on him.” And Vi’let sighed audibly, when Peter removed his mat from the kitchen. Poor Jaco’s remains were respectably interred in the garden, under his absent master’s favorite tree, with a stone to mark the spot, setting forth his useful life and many virtues.

Pleasantly passed the month in Paved street, in anticipation of George’s return: the smiles returning to his mother’s countenance, which had seldom visited it since his father’s death. And pleasantly glided by the hours to Judith; but how—in her eyrie, watching the waves which were soon to bear her lover to her, and invoking the winds to speed his course? Not she—she taxed herself with selfishness, in having already spent so much time, engrossed by her own feelings, and not in administering to the happiness of others; and she resolutely determined not to go up into the cupola, take the spy-glass into her hand, nor even to consult the golden fish, which surmounted the highest peak of Captain Brayton’s house as a weathercock—which latter she could do by only looking out of the east-room window—until she had made up for lost time, and finished several pieces of work she had on hand.

Mr. Solomon Tarbox, seeing there was no hope for him with Judith, had paid his addresses to Miss Ruthy Philpot, the daughter of a ship-chandler in the neighborhood, and their nuptials were near at hand. Judith had set up a patch-work quilt in the summer, as a bridal present.

“And it was high time it was completed,” she said. So every afternoon, after her household cares for the day were over, she sat herself at her patch-work in the sitting-room, and with her lively chatter shed the sunshine of her own happy spirits over her parents and grandfather. At the end of three weeks the quilt was completed.

“And a beauty it was,” Ruthy said, when Judith surprised her with it, and taking it from the arms of the boy who brought it, unfolded it before her admiring eyes. “And the pattern of the quilting, too, in shells—so much genteeler than herring-bone—it was the handsomest present she had had yet; but her thanks should be paid when Judith should be in the same case; which would be before long, no doubt.”

As Judith returned home, how beautiful every thing appeared to her. The first snow had fallen the night before, and spread over the ground its pure white mantle, the hue of her own bright spirit; and blithe as a young snow-bird she flitted along, so lightly, that one had almost wondered to see the print of her fairy foot. As she looked up into the clear blue sky, how could she help the dazzling of her eye by the golden fish, when it was directly before her, and the sun shone full upon it; and how was it possible for her not to see that it’s head pointed due east? At the sight, who can tell what sudden thought sent a brighter flush to her cheeks, already glowing with spirits and exercise, and quickened her footsteps homeward? On reaching the house, before disarraying herself of her scarlet cloak, she bounded up to her cupola, and took the spy-glass into her hand.

The glass was adjusted to her eye, and slowly turned to every point of the eastern horizon; but the line marking the meeting of the bright blue heaven and the dark blue sea remained whole and unbroken. But no!—is not that a speck? It is—and it increases and nears! Her start sent the glass from her hand; when again adjusted, she could plainly perceive three masts rising from the waves; and now the swelling sails emerge, and now the dark hull.

“Judy! do you see that sail?” called Captain Stimpson from below, in the voice of a speaking-trumpet.