“The winds have folded their tired wingsAnd sunk in their caves to rest;The Evening falls, for Day is goneFar down in the purple West.”
“The winds have folded their tired wingsAnd sunk in their caves to rest;The Evening falls, for Day is goneFar down in the purple West.”
“The winds have folded their tired wingsAnd sunk in their caves to rest;The Evening falls, for Day is goneFar down in the purple West.”
“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 gemsThe brow of the pale young MoonThat journeys on in sadness and tears,To finish her course so soon.”
“And yonder the star of Evening gemsThe brow of the pale young MoonThat journeys on in sadness and tears,To finish her course so soon.”
“And yonder the star of Evening gemsThe brow of the pale young MoonThat journeys on in sadness and tears,To finish her course so soon.”
“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 shadesClose over the quiet plain;While shore and hamlet, and grove and field,Resign them to Night’s calm reign.”
“She’s gone—and deep the falling shadesClose over the quiet plain;While shore and hamlet, and grove and field,Resign them to Night’s calm reign.”
“She’s gone—and deep the falling shadesClose over the quiet plain;While shore and hamlet, and grove and field,Resign them to Night’s calm reign.”
“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 seenBy the stars as they glimmer near,Where the waves dash low—while a far-off roarFrom 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 guideThe mariner on his way.Oh, dear to me is thy distant beam!Lone dweller of the night waves.”—
“The ocean’s dark breast is dimly seenBy the stars as they glimmer near,Where the waves dash low—while a far-off roarFrom 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 guideThe mariner on his way.Oh, dear to me is thy distant beam!Lone dweller of the night waves.”—
“The ocean’s dark breast is dimly seenBy the stars as they glimmer near,Where the waves dash low—while a far-off roarFrom the distant beach[6]I hear.
“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 guideThe mariner on his way.
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.”—
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 stillempty; not one have I received since I left Salem.” This, Mr. Wendell said, wasprima facieevidence 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 thetolling 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.
“I do, sir,” answered Judith from aloft. And now the whole ship was visible, gracefully moving over the waters, and proudly and beautifully she bore herself. The father and daughter watched her progress from the first speck they could discern in the bay, until she cast anchor in the harbor, Mrs. Stimpson having indulgently delayed tea for them, to which they now sat down; it being so dark they could see no longer. After tea, Judith sat down to her work, and endeavored to be tranquil. “It was wholly uncertain,” she said to her father, “whether this were Captain Fayerweather’s vessel or not;” and she really tried to persuade both him and herself, that she thought in all probability it was not. Her ears, however, would perversely listen to every noise from without, which her imagination mischievously converted into the voices of the busy crew from the vessel, plainly distinguishing a well-known one among them, though far out in the harbor. Captain Stimpson was sure it was the vessel, and that they should see George that evening; and so thought Mrs. Stimpson. Their daughter very undutifully said, “It was not at all probable, even if he had come—and she felt almost sure he had not—that he would be willing to leave his mother so soon, even if she would let him.”
The evening wore on, and the little group were undisturbed. Judith could not repress a gentle sigh at thinking how rightly she had judged. Her father at length started up, and said, “He’d make certain whether the chap had come or not;” and accordingly put on his galoches, and was going for his cloak—(his daughter usually brought it for him, but she did not do it just then)—when footsteps were heard on the terrace. Judith disappeared from the room. There was a loud knock at the door, and Captain Stimpson went to it. On his opening it, Mrs. Stimpson heard his hearty and vociferous, “How are you, my lad?” and hastened to give her welcome with voice, hand, and tears, to the tall, stout man whom her husband ushered in. Her joyful greeting was received in silence, and with no answering marks of recognition.
“This cannot be Captain Fayerweather,” she said, turning to her husband.
“Captain Fayerweather? No, madam, my name is Brown,” said the stranger, gravely. He seated himself, as invited, and there was a pause which neither Captain nor Mrs. Stimpson felt able immediately to break. At length the stranger said, “I am mate of the Dolphin, Captain Richard Seaward, master; and he desired me to tell you, he would himself have brought the intelligence I am to give you, but he is sick, and was obliged to take to his bed as soon as he came ashore.” Mr. Brown stopped and cleared his voice.
He resumed. “You took me for Captain Fayerweather; what I have to say is concerning him. Captain Fayerweather took passage from London in the Dolphin; and he told Captain Seaward that he had just arrived from the Cape of Good Hope, where he had found letters from home, which rendered it necessary that he should return with all possible dispatch; and that finding a vessel at the Cape ready to sail for London, he had left his own, which had a consort, to the charge of the second officer and an experienced crew, to proceed into the Pacific, and had taken passage in the one to London, hoping there to find some opportunity of going to America. We set sail from London on the third of November—”
Captain Stimpson interrupted him. “On the third of November, did you say—and with Captain Fayerweather on board? That can’t be true, sir—he was here on the fifth.”
The stranger answered gravely, “Sir, the business Captain Seaward sent me upon, is any thing but trifling. The Dolphin certainly sailed from London the third of November, and with Captain Fayerweather on board; all the crew will testify to this. But did I understand you rightly to say, he was here on the fifth? How—at what time? Who saw him—did you? There must have been some mistake.”
Captain Stimpson, much surprised, replied, “I did not see him myself, but his cousin, Squire Wendell, did. He met him in the street between three and four in the afternoon. There could have been no mistake, for he told the squire something of great importance to his family, that nobody but himself could have known. The vessel we supposed he came in, put in at Beverly; she staid only long enough to deliver some dispatches for government, and sailed directly for Quebec, intending to return here in a month. We supposed fully that your vessel was the one, and we were expecting Captain Fayerweather when you came.”
While the captain spoke, Mr. Brown showed marks of astonishment and agitation. He was silent a few moments, though his lips moved, and he appeared to be making some calculations. At length he spoke, in a voice apparently from the depths of his chest, slowly and distinctly, but turning pale as he proceeded. “On the fifth of November, two days sail from London, about eight o’clock in the evening, which, allowing for difference of longitude, corresponds to between three and four here, in a raging storm, Captain Fayerweather fell from the mast-head into the sea, and was lost!”
Judith’s shriek was heard from the inner-room, but before her parents could reach it, she had fallen senseless on the floor. Her father took her in his arms, while her mother bathed her temples. On reviving, she held up her clasped hands imploringly to her mother, and asked if she had heard aright, and if her ears had not deceived her. Poor Mrs. Stimpson was incapable of answering her, excepting by tears; and her father could only clasp her more closely. “Oh! he’s gone then;—let me go, too;” and she struggled to free herself. “But where! where shall I go?—what shall I do? Why did you bring me to?—it would have been better for me to have died. I do not wish to live! Why did you not let me die? I will die!—I will not live!”
Her father now blubbered outright. “And would you leave your poor old sir, and your ma’am, that have their lives bound up in you, and that would die, too, without you? Have you no love left for them?”
“I do love you both,” she cried; “but now—oh, George! I wish I was in the depths of the sea with you.”
“Hush! sinful child,” sternly said her grandfather, who had left his chair and now stood before her, his trembling, withered hand held up in reproof; “receive this dispensation of the Lord as a massy; he has taken from you your idol, that was a robbing him of your heart; turn to him on your bended knees, and implore His pardon for your sin.”
As she heard him, she appeared by a strong effort only, to suppress a scream. “Oh! spare me now, grandfather,” she cried; and she threw herself on the floor, where she lay with her arm over her face, whilst sobs convulsed her whole frame.
“You are too hard upon her, grandsir,” cried her mother, with some asperity, and smarting for her child; “you forget she is young flesh and blood; but you are such a saint, and you live so much for another world, that you make no allowance for a poor young creature’s feelings in this, when her heart is almost torn out of her body.”
“Child,” said the old man, trembling, “you ere cutting on me with a sharp knife! I, a saint! oh, you don’t know nothing of the wickedness of this old heart; that it was my own sinfulness I was a rebuking, when I was so harsh with this dear child; for I confess it—and it is with shame and confusion—that I have thought more of her being among the grand of the airth, of her riding in her chariot, dressed in vain attire of silks and satins, and adorned with pairls and jewels of fine goold, than of the welfare of her immortal soul. And I verily believe,” he continued, the tears which had long been strangers on his usually placid face, now running down his furrowed cheek, and his whole countenance working with distress, “I verily believe for my sin, this has fallen upon us all; and oh! that this old white head had it all to bear.”
Mrs. Stimpson was entirely subdued by this humble confession of her father-in-law, whom she had always regarded as so near perfection, and so much above all human weakness, that her affection for him had been chilled by a feeling partaking of awe. “Oh, grandsir!” she said, “how cruel I’ve been to you; but I never knew how tender-hearted you were before.”
“No, child, you have always been good to me,” returned the old man; “and better than I desarve; but let us pray that this affliction may be sanctified to us all, and wean us from the perishing things of this airth—myself above all, who can’t have much longer to stay; and this dear child, that she may feel it as a goolden thread a drawing on her easy like to heaven.” He then knelt down, his son and daughter-in-law by his side, and offered up an humble and fervent prayer over Judith, who was lying before them.
Meanwhile the paroxysms of her grief appeared to abate by degrees, and during her grandfather’s prayer her lips moved as if accompanying him; her sobs became less frequent, and at length were heard no longer; her slow and regular breathing showing that she had fallen into a profound sleep. Her father brought a pillow and tenderly placed it beneath her head. She slept heavily for more than an hour, when, it being long after midnight, her parents, fearing she would take cold, removed her into their own bed—this room being their sleeping apartment in the winter season. As she moaned on being disturbed, her mother soothed and caressed her; and then placing herself by the side of her child, she folded her in her arms, and lulled her to sleep, as if again an infant, while her father placed himself in the easy-chair, and watched until sleep overpowered him.
The next morning, as the anxious parents were bending over their darling, she opened her eyes, and a beautiful smile spread itself over her features. “Oh! I have seen him to-night,” she said, “and he was among the blessed; he told me to live for your sake and his mother’s, and he would watch over me until we met in heaven.” When thoroughly awakened from her dream, she looked fondly on her father and mother, and clasping the hands of both, said, “Oh! how wicked and ungrateful I was to you last night! Can you forgive me? and henceforth I will only live to please you, and will have no wish but yours.”
“You, dear child, you never did any thing but please us; you never had any other wish but ours,” both answered with streaming eyes.
Judith then arose and dressed herself; her trembling limbs and pale countenance sufficiently betraying the shock her frame had received. She went out of the room and busied herself even more than was her wont in domestic details, and throughout the day endeavored by redoubled attention and affection to her grandfather, to make amends to him for her impatience the night before.
The fine weather of the preceding day had been succeeded in the night by a driving snow-storm, which had increased to such violence by morning, as to prevent any communication with the Fayerweather family during the day. Toward evening the wind shifted to the south, bringing a rain which lasted till the next day, melting the great quantity of snow which had fallen, and rendering the streets impassable. Judith’s sense of duty, aided by active and unremitting occupation, had so far enabled her to struggle against any further indulgence of her grief. Her parents were surprised at the composure she maintained, while she sat down this afternoon, as was frequently her wont, on a low stool by her grandfather’s side. She had a large basket by her, filled with new cloth of different kinds, which her mother and she had cut out, and had already begun to make into various articles, in preparation for her own housekeeping. She selected a damask table-cloth from the basket, and turning the hem, began to sew. After taking a few stitches, her wonted smile flitted over her countenance and raised her drooping eyelids; her dimples began to play, and her voice broke forth, like the first robin of the spring, in a lively little Scotch song.
The sound of her own voice in singing restored her to her recollection—she threw down her work and exclaimed with a scream, “What am I doing?” then laid her head sobbing on her grandfather’s knee. “Oh, grandfather! I cannot help it,” she cried.
“Don’t try to help it, dear,” said her mother, her own eyes streaming; “you have put force enough upon yourself.”
The old man placed his withered hands fondly upon her head, and said—
“Yes, weep, my child, for you may; but not without hope; He that wept at the tomb of Lazarus sees you, and in his own good time will turn your weeping into joy.”
The unusual sound of wheels was at this moment heard, and the Fayerweather chariot drove up to the terrace. Dr. Holly and Mrs. Wendell alighted, but Judith feeling herself unable to meet them, retreated from the room before they were ushered in. Mrs. Wendell was so much overcome, that for a few moments she was unable to speak, and it fell to Dr. Holly to tell their errand. He made very particular inquiries in regard to Judith’s health, and how she had sustained the shock of the late afflictive intelligence, and then proceeded to mention that Madam Fayerweather was in a very alarming state, having neither changed her position, eaten or slept, since the evening before the last, and that he had accompanied Mrs. Wendell to see if Miss Judith could feel herself equal to returning with them, in the hope that the sight of her might have a favorable effect on madam, in whom if a change could not speedily be induced, he felt himself called upon to say, the worst might be apprehended.
Mrs. Stimpson immediately replied—“She would answer for her daughter, that she would feel it a solace to her own feelings to see Madam Fayerweather, even if she could not be instrumental in restoring her.”
Mrs. Wendell then said—“The sight of Judith would, if any thing could.”
Mrs. Stimpson left the room, and in a few minutes returned with her daughter. At sight of Mrs. Wendell, who fondly kissed her, Judith’s tears burst forth, but she made no hesitation in accompanying her home. As the chariot drove through the street the contrast of her present feelings with those with which she had passed it two days before, struck her forcibly, but she resolutely turned her thoughts from herself to the stricken one whom she was going to see. When they arrived at the house, John came out and assisted them to alight; he pressed Judith’s hand but could not speak. Dr. Holly was desirous to try his experiment without delay; they therefore proceeded immediately to the apartment of his patient.
On seeing Madam Fayerweather Judith’s strength suddenly failed her and she came near falling; but recollecting how much might depend on her retaining in some degree her self-possession, she made a strong effort over herself, and went forward to the easy-chair, where sat the bereaved mother. The latter was, in truth, not an object to be looked upon without emotion, even by a stranger.
So rigid and motionless was her countenance, that it appeared as if changed into stone; her eyes were fixed; and her hair which, before this last blow, had retained all its gloss and beauty, was turned to an ashen hue, giving a strange and unearthly appearance to her pallid features.
“Sister,” said Madam Brinley, who sat by her, “here’s your dear child, Judith—will you not look at her and speak to her?”
Judith, from a sudden impulse, threw herself on her knees before the bereaved mother, clasped both her hands in her own and bathed them with her tears, but endeavored in vain to speak. Sobs were heard from all present. Madam raised her head, and as she did so, her eyes falling upon Judith, immediately showed a sense of her presence; their fixed and glassy look was changed to one of intelligence, the muscles around her mouth then moved, and she appeared as if endeavoring to articulate. At length she spoke, but in a voice hollow and strange—“We’ve had sad tidings, my child!”
Her whole countenance now appeared working; the frozen fountain of her grief was at length softened, and burst forth in a torrent of tears and sobs and groans.
In the state of exhaustion succeeding this outbreak, she was prevailed upon to take some food which Judith brought her; after which she fell asleep and was carried to her bed, from which she did not rise for several weeks. She had suffered a severe paralytic shock, which affected her limbs and speech for many months, though she finally recovered. Judith, in the meanwhile, divided her time between this, her second mother, and her own family.
What were the sensations of Mr. Wendell on hearing the appalling tidings, that at the moment in which his senses had figured to him George Fayerweather face to face, and whose voice he still felt burnt as it were into his brain—at that very moment, thousands of miles distant, the spirit of his young friend was in the act of departing in a death so fearful! Had such an incident been related to Mr. Wendell, from a source however authentic, he would either have totally disbelieved it, or have considered it an instance of singular coincidence of an illusion, occasioned by bodily indisposition, occurring at the same moment with the death of another at a great distance. But the feeling which even now raised the hair on his head, which curdled his blood and blanched his cheek anew at the bare recollection of that meeting, as it recalled sensations which his mind was too intent upon its important subject to heed at the time, gave the lie to his reason whenever he attempted so to argue.
Mr. Wendell, however, never spoke upon the subject himself, and by the family it was avoided altogether; each one feeling it of too awful and sacred a nature to admit, not only of discussion, but even of allusion to it in conversation. But as might be supposed, so remarkable an occurrence occasioned no little sensation throughout the town and its neighborhood. It was noted down, with its date, in many a private memorandum as the extraordinary event of the year in which it happened, with remarks upon it, either devout or philosophical, or both, according to the different characters of the minds which severally dictated them.
When all danger for the life of Madam Fayerweather was over, and Judith ceased to have in her an immediate object of care and anxiety, her own health, no longer sustained by extraordinary stimulus to exertion, at length gave tokens of the injury it had itself received. She fell into a state of languor and debility, which threatened to end in consumption, had not her strength of mind, aided by a deep sense of religion, enabled her to exert all her energies to struggle against the foe and finally to subdue it—her own melancholy. Her religious duties, those which she owed to her parents and those to society, she had always faithfully discharged, and now finding them insufficient to engross her mind and prevent it from preying upon itself, she had recourse to the cultivation of her taste and the higher powers of her fine intellect. In this she was assisted by John, already an elegant scholar, and she became a highly accomplished woman, as well as the most beautiful in the province.
Time passed on, and in its course saw Mr. Wendell presiding on the bench as chief-justice, his place as head of the bar filled by John Fayerweather.
It is not surprising that years of devotion from the latter, combined with all the affection of his mother for her departed son, now resting on Judith, should at length have prevailed upon her to be united to them by stronger ties; after having refused many offers, and among the first, one from Mr. Lindsey, who had returned to America as soon as the intelligence of George’s death reached him.
In Judith’s becoming the wife of John, there was no infidelity in either to the memory of his brother; it was cherished by both during life, and by each in the heart of the other.
[6]Nahant beach, the roar of which is distinctly heard in Salem on a still evening.
[6]
Nahant beach, the roar of which is distinctly heard in Salem on a still evening.
THE BABES OF EXILE.
———
BY EFFIE FITZGERALD.
———
“To roam o’er heaving waters bright,By heaven’s own moonbeam’s madeTo find our own a path of light,Where all beside is shade.”
“To roam o’er heaving waters bright,By heaven’s own moonbeam’s madeTo find our own a path of light,Where all beside is shade.”
“To roam o’er heaving waters bright,
By heaven’s own moonbeam’s made
To find our own a path of light,
Where all beside is shade.”
Fond babes of exile we here claim thine eye,To cheer thy sadness in this exile drear;We raise the veil of memory with a sigh,And seek our welcome in a silent tear.We fain would come with sunlight on our wings,For our sweet embassy is one of love;We hurl no stone from out our baby-slings,Save that commission come, too, from above.Souls sunk in ice-holes, or in gilded shine,May call us wild, fantastic, if they will;We know our birth-place was another clime—We come a different mission to fulfill.We dare the smoke-wreath on the crater’s verge;We look, undaunted, on the lava-flame;From the tornado’s whirl we safe emerge;To thee we come, in gentle childhood’s name!Enough of tempest—earthquake—has been thine;Enough of grief has dimmed thy sky-ward eye;We come to pour the fragrant oil and wine;We come to bless, and be blest, ere we die.Die? No! We take from thee an angel-wing;We fly—we mount—away from earth we soar;Keep thy gaze upward from the mountain-spring,Wrapt in white mist-robes we move on before.Or if despair thy strong-heart will assail,Beneath the oaks, in the old wind-flower grove,We light to kiss thy shadow, lone and pale.And bid thee turn thy drooping eye above.This our pure mission—babes of memory!Give us thy blessing ere these lives depart;These shadowy forms, all consecrate to thee—That faintly breathe the incense of the heart.We heed no danger in a path like this:A Faith that with the Good was ne’er at war;We know Earth’s sorrows pilot Heaven’s bliss—Keep, then, thy gaze upon the cloud and star.
Fond babes of exile we here claim thine eye,To cheer thy sadness in this exile drear;We raise the veil of memory with a sigh,And seek our welcome in a silent tear.We fain would come with sunlight on our wings,For our sweet embassy is one of love;We hurl no stone from out our baby-slings,Save that commission come, too, from above.Souls sunk in ice-holes, or in gilded shine,May call us wild, fantastic, if they will;We know our birth-place was another clime—We come a different mission to fulfill.We dare the smoke-wreath on the crater’s verge;We look, undaunted, on the lava-flame;From the tornado’s whirl we safe emerge;To thee we come, in gentle childhood’s name!Enough of tempest—earthquake—has been thine;Enough of grief has dimmed thy sky-ward eye;We come to pour the fragrant oil and wine;We come to bless, and be blest, ere we die.Die? No! We take from thee an angel-wing;We fly—we mount—away from earth we soar;Keep thy gaze upward from the mountain-spring,Wrapt in white mist-robes we move on before.Or if despair thy strong-heart will assail,Beneath the oaks, in the old wind-flower grove,We light to kiss thy shadow, lone and pale.And bid thee turn thy drooping eye above.This our pure mission—babes of memory!Give us thy blessing ere these lives depart;These shadowy forms, all consecrate to thee—That faintly breathe the incense of the heart.We heed no danger in a path like this:A Faith that with the Good was ne’er at war;We know Earth’s sorrows pilot Heaven’s bliss—Keep, then, thy gaze upon the cloud and star.
Fond babes of exile we here claim thine eye,To cheer thy sadness in this exile drear;We raise the veil of memory with a sigh,And seek our welcome in a silent tear.
Fond babes of exile we here claim thine eye,
To cheer thy sadness in this exile drear;
We raise the veil of memory with a sigh,
And seek our welcome in a silent tear.
We fain would come with sunlight on our wings,For our sweet embassy is one of love;We hurl no stone from out our baby-slings,Save that commission come, too, from above.
We fain would come with sunlight on our wings,
For our sweet embassy is one of love;
We hurl no stone from out our baby-slings,
Save that commission come, too, from above.
Souls sunk in ice-holes, or in gilded shine,May call us wild, fantastic, if they will;We know our birth-place was another clime—We come a different mission to fulfill.
Souls sunk in ice-holes, or in gilded shine,
May call us wild, fantastic, if they will;
We know our birth-place was another clime—
We come a different mission to fulfill.
We dare the smoke-wreath on the crater’s verge;We look, undaunted, on the lava-flame;From the tornado’s whirl we safe emerge;To thee we come, in gentle childhood’s name!
We dare the smoke-wreath on the crater’s verge;
We look, undaunted, on the lava-flame;
From the tornado’s whirl we safe emerge;
To thee we come, in gentle childhood’s name!
Enough of tempest—earthquake—has been thine;Enough of grief has dimmed thy sky-ward eye;We come to pour the fragrant oil and wine;We come to bless, and be blest, ere we die.
Enough of tempest—earthquake—has been thine;
Enough of grief has dimmed thy sky-ward eye;
We come to pour the fragrant oil and wine;
We come to bless, and be blest, ere we die.
Die? No! We take from thee an angel-wing;We fly—we mount—away from earth we soar;Keep thy gaze upward from the mountain-spring,Wrapt in white mist-robes we move on before.
Die? No! We take from thee an angel-wing;
We fly—we mount—away from earth we soar;
Keep thy gaze upward from the mountain-spring,
Wrapt in white mist-robes we move on before.
Or if despair thy strong-heart will assail,Beneath the oaks, in the old wind-flower grove,We light to kiss thy shadow, lone and pale.And bid thee turn thy drooping eye above.
Or if despair thy strong-heart will assail,
Beneath the oaks, in the old wind-flower grove,
We light to kiss thy shadow, lone and pale.
And bid thee turn thy drooping eye above.
This our pure mission—babes of memory!Give us thy blessing ere these lives depart;These shadowy forms, all consecrate to thee—That faintly breathe the incense of the heart.
This our pure mission—babes of memory!
Give us thy blessing ere these lives depart;
These shadowy forms, all consecrate to thee—
That faintly breathe the incense of the heart.
We heed no danger in a path like this:A Faith that with the Good was ne’er at war;We know Earth’s sorrows pilot Heaven’s bliss—Keep, then, thy gaze upon the cloud and star.
We heed no danger in a path like this:
A Faith that with the Good was ne’er at war;
We know Earth’s sorrows pilot Heaven’s bliss—
Keep, then, thy gaze upon the cloud and star.