“To dine with the king!” cried Mr. Fayerweather, shouting with laughter; “what could have put such an idea into your head?”
Madam was quite offended, and said with great dignity, “Phillis Wheatly drank tea with the queen and I am sure, I do not see why our son may not be invited to dine with the king.”
“Oh, well, my dear, I ask your pardon; let George have the cravat, by all means; and you had better let him have my blue-satin waistcoat, laced with silver, to wear also, when he dines with his majesty,” said Mr. Fayerweather, turning away to hide a good-natured smile.
“Why, I was thinking of that, but we can’t find room for it in the chest; and I suppose he may find one ready made in London.”
This weighty affair settled, and the chest packed again for the seventh and last time, it was locked to go on board the vessel.
The morning came, the wind was fair, and the young sailor took his way to the wharf. “Good-bye, Cousin Amie!” he cried, to Mrs. Wendell, who was waiting at her door to shake hands with him; “when I go up the Straits, I’ll get you the handsomest brocade that was ever seen in Salem.”
In a few weeks after George’s departure, which time passed gloomily away with his family, Madam Brinley, a sister of Mrs. Fayerweather, came to Salem, and moved into the large house, opposite the Fayerweather mansion, which was a joyful event to Madam. The two sisters bore a strong resemblance to each other in features, with some shades of difference in character. Madam Brinley was a few years the elder; her nose might have been a little more pointed, and, perhaps, her temper rather sharper; then she was more worldly, and took more state upon herself. She was a widow of about ten years standing, with a handsome estate. Having lost several children in infancy, she had remaining only two daughters. Molly, the then fashionable cognomen for Mary, was then just fifteen, and Lizzy, two years younger. The three families residing so near together, made the winter a more pleasant one to the little neighborhood—George’s absence furnishing a subject of joyful anticipation in his return.
Early the next spring an important personage made his appearance in Paved Street—no less than a son to Mr. Wendell. He was, as is generally the case with the first, the wonder of the age. Madam Fayerweather declared, “He was the beautifullest baby that ever was seen.” Madam Brinley said, “It was certainly a remarkably fine infant;” while Mr. Fayerweather declared it was the exact counterpart of all the babies he ever saw. I am sorry to say that Mr. Wendell did not comport himself with all the dignity to be expected from his new character; for he only laughed as if he would kill himself, whenever his son was presented to him; but could not be prevailed upon by any means, to take it into his arms, for fear of its falling to pieces; to the great scandal of the little wizened old woman from Marblehead, in whose lap it usually lay, its long robes touching the floor; she averred, “It was a sin and a shame that its sir wouldn’t take to it more, when it was as much like him as two peas in a pod—it was the most knowinist and the most remarkablest baby ever she seed in her baarn days.”
When the young gentleman was in its fourth week, his mother, according to custom, received visitors in her chamber. In these visits, scarcely less state was observed than in those to the bride; but matrons and elderly ladies were alone privileged to make them. If any young damsel had the hardihood to make her appearance within the sacred precincts, though under shelter of her mother’s wing, she was immediately pronounced as cut out for an old maid—and the oracle seldom failed of fulfillment.
The first day on which Mrs. Wendell sat up for company, when she was just attired in a handsome undress, made expressly for the occasion, and was seated in state in her easy chair, while nurse was preparing the baby to display him to the best advantage, Scipio thrust in his black head at the door with a “He! ho! he! Missy Amy, Scip’ got suthen for de picaninny.” Here Madam Fayerweather’s voice was heard reproving him for going before her, when the door was thrown open, and in she came with Scipio after her, bearing a beautiful wicker cradle, lined with white satin. Madam unfolded the cradle-quilt with great pomp and circumstance; and now the grand secret came out—Amy’s wondering eyes beheld the great work—the very work! which had employed all her aunt’s moments of leisure for upward of three years.