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.