The Wives of the Dead | Page 2

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