“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.