The following story, the simple and domestic incidents of which may be
deemed scarcely worth relating, after such a lapse of time, awakened
some degree of interest, a hundred years ago, in a principal seaport of
the Bay Province. The rainy twilight of an autumn day,—a parlor on the
second floor of a small house, plainly furnished, as beseemed the
middling circumstances of its inhabitants, yet decorated with little
curiosities from beyond the sea, and a few delicate specimens of Indian
manufacture,—these are the only particulars to be premised in regard to
scene and season. Two young and comely women sat together by the
fireside, nursing their mutual and peculiar sorrows. They were the
recent brides of two brothers, a sailor and a landsman, and two
successive days had brought tidings of the death of each, by the
chances of Canadian warfare and the tempestuous Atlantic. The universal
sympathy excited by this bereavement drew numerous condoling guests to
the habitation of the widowed sisters. Several, among whom was the
minister, had remained till the verge of evening; when, one by one,
whispering many comfortable passages of Scripture, that were answered
by more abundant tears, they took their leave, and departed to their
own happier homes. The mourners, though not insensible to the kindness
of their friends, had yearned to be left alone. United, as they had
been, by the relationship of the living, and now more closely so by
that of the dead, each felt as if whatever consolation her grief
admitted were to be found in the bosom of the other. They joined their
hearts, and wept together silently. But after an hour of such
indulgence, one of the sisters, all of whose emotions were influenced
by her mild, quiet, yet not feeble character, began to recollect the
precepts of resignation and endurance which piety had taught her, when
she did not think to need them. Her misfortune, besides, as earliest
known, should earliest cease to interfere with her regular course of
duties; accordingly, having placed the table before the fire, and
arranged a frugal meal, she took the hand of her companion.
“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 provided
for us.”
Her sister-in-law was of a lively and irritable temperament, and the
first pangs of her sorrow had been expressed by shrieks and passionate
lamentation. She now shrunk from Mary’s words, like a wounded sufferer
from a hand that revives the throb.
“There is no blessing left for me, neither will I ask it!” cried
Margaret, with a fresh burst of tears. “Would it were His will that I
might never taste food more!”
Yet she trembled at these rebellious expressions, almost as soon as
they were uttered, and, by degrees, Mary succeeded in bringing her
sister’s mind nearer to the situation of her own. Time went on, and
their usual hour of repose arrived. The brothers and their brides,
entering the married state with no more than the slender means which
then sanctioned such a step, had confederated themselves in one
household, with equal rights to the parlor, and claiming exclusive
privileges in two sleeping-rooms contiguous to it. Thither the widowed
ones retired, after heaping ashes upon the dying embers of their fire,
and placing a lighted 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 unclosed curtains, were reciprocally visible. Sleep did not
steal upon the sisters at one and the same time. Mary experienced the
effect often consequent upon grief quietly borne, and soon sunk into
temporary forgetfulness, while Margaret became more disturbed and
feverish, in proportion as the night advanced with its deepest and
stillest hours. She lay listening to the drops of rain, that came down
in monotonous succession, unswayed by a breath of wind; and a nervous
impulse continually caused her to lift her head from the pillow, and
gaze into Mary’s chamber and the intermediate apartment. The cold light
of the lamp threw the shadows of the furniture up against the wall,
stamping them immovably there, except when they were shaken by a sudden
flicker of the flame. Two vacant arm-chairs were in their old positions
on opposite sides of the hearth, where the brothers had 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, and the
dead glimmer of the lamp might have befitted their reunion now. While
Margaret groaned in bitterness, she heard a knock at the street door.
“How would my heart have leapt at that sound but yesterday!” thought
she, remembering the anxiety with which she had long awaited tidings
from her husband.
“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,
she was breathing hurriedly, and straining her ears to catch a
repetition of the summons. It is difficult to be convinced of the death
of one whom we have deemed another self. The knocking was now renewed
in slow and regular strokes, apparently given with the soft end of a
doubled fist, and was accompanied by words, faintly heard through
several thicknesses of wall. Margaret looked to her sister’s chamber,
and beheld her still lying in the depths of sleep. She arose, placed
her foot upon the floor, and slightly arrayed herself, trembling
between fear and eagerness as she did so.
“Heaven help me!” sighed she. “I have nothing left to fear, and
methinks I am ten times more a coward than ever.”
Seizing the lamp from the hearth, she hastened to the window that
overlooked the street-door. It was a lattice, turning upon hinges; and
having thrown it back, she stretched her head a little way into the
moist atmosphere. A lantern was reddening the front of the house, and
melting its light in the neighboring puddles, while a deluge of
darkness overwhelmed every other object. As the window grated on its
hinges, a man in a broad-brimmed hat and blanket-coat stepped from
under the shelter of the projecting story, and looked upward to
discover whom his application had aroused. Margaret knew him as a
friendly innkeeper of the town.
“What would you have, Goodman Parker?” cried the widow.
“Lackaday, is it you, Mistress Margaret?” replied the innkeeper. “I was
afraid it might be your sister Mary; for I hate to see a young woman in
trouble, 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 with letters from the governor and council. He tarried at
my house to refresh himself with a drop and a morsel, and I asked him
what tidings on the frontiers. He tells me we had the better in the
skirmish you wot of, and that thirteen men reported slain are well and
sound, and your husband among them. Besides, he is appointed of the
escort to bring the captivated Frenchers and Indians home to the
province jail. I judged you would n’t mind being broke of your rest,
and so I stepped over to tell you. Good night.”
So saying, the honest man departed; and his lantern gleamed along the
street, bringing to view indistinct shapes of things, and the fragments
of a world, like order glimmering through chaos, or memory roaming over
the 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. She
paused, however, at the door of the chamber, while a thought of pain
broke in upon her.
“Poor Mary!” said she to herself. “Shall I waken her, to feel her
sorrow sharpened by my happiness? No; I will keep it within my own
bosom till the morrow.”
She approached the bed, to discover if Mary’s sleep were peaceful. Her
face was turned partly inward to the pillow, and had been hidden there
to weep; but a look of motionless contentment was now visible upon it,
as if her heart, like a deep lake, had grown calm because its dead had
sunk down so far within. Happy is it, and strange, that the lighter
sorrows are those from which dreams are chiefly fabricated. Margaret
shrunk from disturbing her sister-in-law, and felt as if her own better
fortune had rendered her involuntarily unfaithful, and as if altered
and diminished affection 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 another moment. Her mind was thronged with delightful thoughts, till
sleep stole on, and transformed them to visions, more delightful and
more wild, like the breath of winter (but what a cold comparison!)
working fantastic tracery upon a window.
When the night was far advanced, Mary awoke with a sudden start. A
vivid dream had latterly involved her in its unreal life, of which,
however, she could only remember that it had been broken in upon at the
most interesting point. For a little time, slumber hung about her like
a morning mist, hindering her from perceiving the distinct outline of
her situation. She listened with imperfect consciousness to two or
three volleys of a rapid and eager knocking; and first she deemed the
noise a matter of course, like the breath she drew; next, it appeared a
thing in which she had no concern; and lastly, she became aware that it
was a summons necessary to be obeyed. At the same moment, the pang of
recollection darted into her mind; the pall of sleep was thrown back
from the face of grief; the dim light of the chamber, and the objects
therein revealed, had retained all her suspended ideas, and restored
them as soon as she unclosed her eyes. Again there was a quick peal
upon the street-door. Fearing that her sister would also be disturbed,
Mary wrapped herself in a cloak and hood, took the lamp from the
hearth, and hastened to the window. By some accident, it had been left
unhasped, and yielded easily 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 clouds
above, and below upon houses black with moisture, and upon little lakes
of the fallen rain, curling into silver beneath the quick enchantment
of a breeze. A young man in a sailor’s dress, wet as if he had come out
of the depths of the sea, stood alone under the window. Mary recognized
him as one whose livelihood was gained by short voyages along the
coast; nor did she forget that, previous to her marriage, he had been
an unsuccessful 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 my good mother told me was the news about your husband. So,
without saying a 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 sake of old times.”
“Stephen, I thought better of you!” exclaimed the widow, with gushing
tears and preparing to close the lattice; for she was no whit inclined
to imitate the first wife of Zadig.
“But stop, and hear my story out,” cried the young sailor. “I tell you
we spoke a brig yesterday afternoon, bound in from Old England. And who
do you think I saw standing on deck, well and hearty, only a bit
thinner than he was five months ago?”
Mary leaned from the window, but could not speak. “Why, it was your
husband himself,” continued the generous seaman. “He and three others
saved themselves on a spar, when the Blessing turned bottom upwards.
The brig will beat into the bay by daylight, with this wind, and you’ll
see him here to-morrow. There’s the comfort I bring you, Mary, and so
good night.”
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
the houses, or emerged into the broad streaks of moonlight. Gradually,
however, a blessed flood of conviction swelled into her heart, in
strength enough to overwhelm her, had its increase been more abrupt.
Her first impulse was to rouse her sister-in-law, and communicate the
new-born gladness. She opened the chamber-door, which had been closed
in the course of the night, though not latched, advanced to the
bedside, and was about to lay her hand upon the slumberer’s shoulder.
But then she remembered 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 of the bereaved one. Margaret lay in unquiet sleep,
and the drapery was displaced around her; her young cheek was
rosy-tinted, and her lips half opened in a vivid smile; an expression
of joy, debarred its passage by her sealed eyelids, struggled forth
like incense from the whole countenance.
“My poor sister! you will waken too soon from that happy dream,”
thought Mary.
Before retiring, she set down the lamp, and endeavored to arrange the
bedclothes so that the chill air might not do harm to the feverish
slumberer. But her hand trembled against Margaret’s neck, a tear also
fell upon her cheek, and she suddenly awoke.