"Come, dearest sister; you have eaten not a morsel to-day," she said."Arise, I pray you, and let us ask a blessing on that which is providedfor us."
Her sister-in-law was of a lively and irritable temperament, and thefirst pangs of her sorrow had been expressed by shrieks and passionatelamentation. She now shrunk from Mary's words, like a wounded suffererfrom a hand that revives the throb.
"There is no blessing left for me, neither will I ask it!" criedMargaret, with a fresh burst of tears. "Would it were His will that Imight never taste food more!"
Yet she trembled at these rebellious expressions, almost as soon as theywere uttered, and, by degrees, Mary succeeded in bringing her sister'smind nearer to the situation of her own. Time went on, and their usualhour of repose arrived. The brothers and their brides, entering themarried state with no more than the slender means which then sanctionedsuch a step, had confederated themselves in one household, with equalrights to the parlor, and claiming exclusive privileges in twosleeping-rooms contiguous to it. Thither the widowed ones retired,after heaping ashes upon the dying embers of their fire, and placing alighted lamp upon the hearth. The doors of both chambers were left open,so that a part of the interior of each, and the beds with their unclosedcurtains, were reciprocally visible. Sleep did not steal upon the sistersat one and the same time. Mary experienced the effect often consequentupon grief quietly borne, and soon sunk into temporary forgetfulness, whileMargaret became more disturbed and feverish, in proportion as the nightadvanced with its deepest and stillest hours. She lay listening to thedrops of rain, that came down in monotonous succession, unswayed by abreath of wind; and a nervous impulse continually caused her to lift herhead from the pillow, and gaze into Mary's chamber and the intermediateapartment. The cold light of the lamp threw the shadows of the furnitureup against the wall, stamping them immovably there, except when they wereshaken by a sudden flicker of the flame. Two vacant arm-chairs were intheir old positions on opposite sides of the hearth, where the brothershad been wont to sit in young and laughing dignity, as heads of families;two humbler seats were near them, the true thrones of that little empire,where Mary and herself had exercised in love a power that love had won.The cheerful radiance of the fire had shone upon the happy circle, andthe dead glimmer of the lamp might have befitted their reunion now.While Margaret groaned in bitterness, she heard a knock at the streetdoor.
"How would my heart have leapt at that sound but yesterday!" thought she,remembering the anxiety with which she had long awaited tidings from herhusband.
"I care not for it now; let them begone, for I will not arise."
But even while a sort of childish fretfulness made her thus resolve, shewas breathing hurriedly, and straining her ears to catch a repetition ofthe summons. It is difficult to be convinced of the death of one whom wehave deemed another self. The knocking was now renewed in slow andregular strokes, apparently given with the soft end of a doubled fist,and was accompanied by words, faintly heard through several thicknessesof wall. Margaret looked to her sister's chamber, and beheld her stilllying in the depths of sleep. She arose, placed her foot upon the floor,and slightly arrayed herself, trembling between fear and eagerness as shedid so.
"Heaven help me!" sighed she. "I have nothing left to fear, and methinksI am ten times more a coward than ever."
Seizing the lamp from the hearth, she hastened to the window thatoverlooked the street-door. It was a lattice, turning upon hinges; andhaving thrown it back, she stretched her head a little way into the moistatmosphere. A lantern was reddening the front of the house, and meltingits light in the neighboring puddles, while a deluge of darknessoverwhelmed every other object. As the window grated on its hinges, aman in a broad-brimmed hat and blanket-coat stepped from under theshelter of the projecting story, and looked upward to discover whom hisapplication had aroused. Margaret knew him as a friendly innkeeper ofthe town.
"What would you have, Goodman Parker?" cried the widow.
"Lackaday, is it you, Mistress Margaret?" replied the innkeeper. "I wasafraid it might be your sister Mary; for I hate to see a young woman introuble, when I have n't a word of comfort to whisper her."
"For Heaven's sake, what news do you bring?" screamed Margaret.
"Why, there has been an express through the town within this half-hour,"said Goodman Parker, "travelling from the eastern jurisdiction withletters from the governor and council. He tarried at my house to refreshhimself with a drop and a morsel, and I asked him what tidings on thefrontiers. He tells me we had the better in the skirmish you wot of, andthat thirteen men reported slain are well and sound, and your husbandamong them. Besides, he is appointed of the escort to bring thecaptivated Frenchers and Indians home to the province jail. I judged youwould n't mind being broke of your rest, and so I stepped over to tellyou. Good night."
So saying, the honest man departed; and his lantern gleamed along thestreet, bringing to view indistinct shapes of things, and the fragmentsof a world, like order glimmering through chaos, or memory roaming overthe past. But Margaret stayed not to watch these picturesque effects.Joy flashed into her heart, and lighted it up at once; and breathless,and with winged steps, she flew to the bedside of her sister. Shepaused, however, at the door of the chamber, while a thought of painbroke in upon her.
"Poor Mary!" said she to herself. "Shall I waken her, to feel her sorrowsharpened by my happiness? No; I will keep it within my own bosom tillthe morrow."
She approached the bed, to discover if Mary's sleep were peaceful. Herface was turned partly inward to the pillow, and had been hidden there toweep; but a look of motionless contentment was now visible upon it, as ifher heart, like a deep lake, had grown calm because its dead had sunkdown so far within. Happy is it, and strange, that the lighter sorrowsare those from which dreams are chiefly fabricated. Margaret shrunk fromdisturbing her sister-in-law, and felt as if her own better fortune hadrendered her involuntarily unfaithful, and as if altered and diminishedaffection must be the consequence of the disclosure she had to make.With a sudden step she turned away. But joy could not long be repressed,even by circumstances that would have excited heavy grief at anothermoment. Her mind was thronged with delightful thoughts, till sleep stoleon, and transformed them to visions, more delightful and more wild, likethe breath of winter (but what a cold comparison!) working fantastictracery upon a window.
When the night was far advanced, Mary awoke with a sudden start. A vividdream had latterly involved her in its unreal life, of which, however,she could only remember that it had been broken in upon at the mostinteresting point. For a little time, slumber hung about her like amorning mist, hindering her from perceiving the distinct outline of hersituation. She listened with imperfect consciousness to two or threevolleys of a rapid and eager knocking; and first she deemed the noise amatter of course, like the breath she drew; next, it appeared a thing inwhich she had no concern; and lastly, she became aware that it was asummons necessary to be obeyed. At the same moment, the pang ofrecollection darted into her mind; the pall of sleep was thrown back fromthe face of grief; the dim light of the chamber, and the objects thereinrevealed, had retained all her suspended ideas, and restored them as soonas she unclosed her eyes. Again there was a quick peal upon thestreet-door. Fearing that her sister would also be disturbed, Mary wrappedherself in a cloak and hood, took the lamp from the hearth, and hastenedto the window. By some accident, it had been left unhasped, and yieldedeasily to her hand.
"Who's there?" asked Mary, trembling as she looked forth.
The storm was over, and the moon was up; it shone upon broken cloudsabove, and below upon houses black with moisture, and upon little lakesof the fallen rain, curling into silver beneath the quick enchantment ofa breeze. A young man in a sailor's dress, wet as if he had come out ofthe depths of the sea, stood alone under the window. Mary recognized himas one whose livelihood was gained by short voyages along the coast; nordid she forget that, previous to her marriage, he had been anunsuccessful wooer of her own.
"What do you seek here, Stephen?" said she.
"Cheer up, Mary, for I seek to comfort you," answered the rejected lover."You must know I got home not ten minutes ago, and the first thing mygood mother told me was the news about your husband. So, without sayinga word to the old woman, I clapped on my hat, and ran out of the house.I could n't have slept a wink before speaking to you, Mary, for the sakeof old times."
"Stephen, I thought better of you!" exclaimed the widow, with gushingtears and preparing to close the lattice; for she was no whit inclined toimitate the first wife of Zadig.
"But stop, and hear my story out," cried the young sailor. "I tell youwe spoke a brig yesterday afternoon, bound in from Old England. And whodo you think I saw standing on deck, well and hearty, only a bit thinnerthan he was five months ago?"
Mary leaned from the window, but could not speak. "Why, it was yourhusband himself," continued the generous seaman. "He and three otherssaved themselves on a spar, when the Blessing turned bottom upwards. Thebrig will beat into the bay by daylight, with this wind, and you'll seehim here to-morrow. There's the comfort I bring you, Mary, and so goodnight."
He hurried away, while Mary watched him with a doubt of waking reality,that seemed stronger or weaker as he alternately entered the shade of thehouses, or emerged into the broad streaks of moonlight. Gradually,however, a blessed flood of conviction swelled into her heart, instrength enough to overwhelm her, had its increase been more abrupt.Her first impulse was to rouse her sister-in-law, and communicate thenew-born gladness. She opened the chamber-door, which had been closed inthe course of the night, though not latched, advanced to the bedside, andwas about to lay her hand upon the slumberer's shoulder. But then sheremembered that Margaret would awake to thoughts of death and woe,rendered not the less bitter by their contrast with her own felicity.She suffered the rays of the lamp to fall upon the unconscious form ofthe bereaved one. Margaret lay in unquiet sleep, and the drapery wasdisplaced around her; her young cheek was rosy-tinted, and her lips halfopened in a vivid smile; an expression of joy, debarred its passage byher sealed eyelids, struggled forth like incense from the wholecountenance.
"My poor sister! you will waken too soon from that happy dream," thoughtMary.
Before retiring, she set down the lamp, and endeavored to arrange thebedclothes so that the chill air might not do harm to the feverishslumberer. But her hand trembled against Margaret's neck, a tear alsofell upon her cheek, and she suddenly awoke.
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