Part 4 — THE LOST DEED.

A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM.

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BY E. D. ELIOT.

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(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.

“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.