University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

THE evening had arrived when John had appointed an
hour for calling again at the little yellow house in the
Bowery, and happily for him, before he left his office, the
Boadicea, the ship of which Fidelia's father was master, was
reported below the Hook. So he could be the bearer of happy
news, and be welcomed for that reason if for no other.
When he reached the quiet little dwelling, it was lighted up
with the bright rays of a full moon, and it looked to him so
lovely, so pure and holy, that he thought the passers by must
think as they caught transient glimpses of its sober gable, that
it was the dwelling place of good spirits; but this thought
might have owed its existence to his previous knowledge that
an angel had in reality made the humble dwelling her home
rather than to any supernatural appearances likely to attract
the attention of Bowery passengers. When he entered, he
found the little family in their usual state of quiet and good
humor, each employed about something, and yet seemingly
happy and composed. No fluster, hurry, weariness or yawning.
'Twas a strange family. They had the good luck always
to be engaged in what was pleasantest to them, never
to have more work than they could do, nor more time than
they could happily employ; and yet they smoked a vast deal,

they read more than most families, they eat their three meals
daily and prepared their own food; they sang even, and prayed
night and morning; yet they had always leisure to entertain
a friend, and they were never obliged to be `out' because
they were not in a condition to be seen. It was a very strange
family, and we fear there were not many such in the Bowery.
It was a blessed thing to alight on such a nestling. So John
thought as he drew his chair to the little work-table where
Fidelia sat plying her needle. He noticed her changing color,
first white, then red, and then white again, for his eyes were
fixed full upon her face; but he did not notice the glances,
full of meaning of some kind, that passed between her grandparents,
She answered his questions slightly, but there were
whole volumes of meaning in the tones of her voice, and
when she did raise her eye-lids so that he caught a glimpse
of her bright eyes, O, he read there more than we could write
in a whole year. So eloquent is the soul when it speaks without
affectation, so rapidly can she communicate her thoughts
when one is disposed to read them aright. What happened
on this particular visit, what words were said, what looks
were looked, what vows were vowed, is not absolutely essential
to be known. Love, like murder, will out, it is one of those
things that cannot be hidden, and it will be enough to relate
that John and Fidelia knew that each loved the other, and
that they each vowed in their souls to be as true as truth,
and henceforward there was to be no happiness but in each
other's society, excepting only in the society of each others
thoughts, which may not after all be an exception. But
there were no vocal promises made, no writings drawn up and
witnessed, no appointments about marrying, all these things
were to be delayed until the approval of Fidelia's father could
be asked, and they were all happy beyond expression; the old
man and his wife and the daughter to hear that their long
absent son, father, and protector had arrived within sight of
home, What a joy. After a long absence from all that is
dear upon earth, sailing over unknown seas, encountering
pamparas and whirl-winds, water spouts and lightnings, all
the dangers of the deep; the perils of pestilent atmospheres;
the spear of the savage, the stiletto of the pirate, he had arrived
at last. Do they forget God in their gratitude? No, it is his
goodness that has done it, and to him they give thanks.

John did not prolong his stay beyond the usual hour, but
he would gladly have done so; and when he left the little
quiet court, it was no longer illuminated by the moon's rays,
but it lay wrapped in darkness: scarcely could he mark the
outline of the modest gable against the dull leaden clouds
that hung above it in the sky. He had the least possible touch
of superstitious feeling, and he could scarce help thinking
that there was something ominous in the different aspect that
the house wore now to what it did when he entered it; but
this feeling did not last long, the clear, soft, sweet good night
of Fidelia still sounded in his ears and seemed to creep into
his heart and vibrate along its chords, so that he could soon
think of nothing else. But when he lay down upon his bed,
in the deep stillness and darkness of night, his father came
and gazed upon him again, and that other form, robed in
white, that he knew to be his mother's; he fancied there was
a sadness in their looks now, but how could that be? Before
they disappeared from his sight another joined them, whose
sad look made his heart almost burst, and caused the cold
sweat to start from his forehead. It was Julia Tuck, she did
not look angry, but troubled and grieved. Her sad pale face
and mournful eyes, were too much for his strength, he swooned
and lay a long, long while, sinking, as it seemed, through
deep, black and bottomless abysses until he was aroused, and
he opened his cyes, and the phantoms were gone. It was still
dark, and he lay with a beating heart a leng time before he
fell asleep.

He awoke in the morning with melancholy thoughts. The
rays of a bright summer's sun made his chamber as cheerful,

as lively and as pleasant as it could be, and a thousand familiar
substantial things surrounded him and gave him, in some
degree, an carthly and composed feeling; but one who communes
with the invisible world over night cannot in a moment
discover sufficient importance in mere earthly particles,
let them be presented in never such winning shapes, when he
awakes in the morning, as to forget that there are spirits about
us, once of us, who cannot but look upon such things with
disdain if they even look upon them at all. We all pretend
to believe in our own spirituality, and that when the essence
which keeps our bodies in motion shall be dead, we too shall
still exist somewhere and somehow, but how many, like him
have ever known this fact, and looked upon the faces of the
departed ones whom they had communed with in the flesh?
Doubtless there are many of whom the world has never
heard, to whom this privilege has been granted, for men keep
their most important secrets always to themselves. There
are few persons who would care to be distinguished as Ghost
seers. Such an unhappy notoriety would tend but little to
advance a man's interests in the world, and those who converse
much with spirits would do well to keep their own
counsel. So thought John, and therefore when he was questioned
as to the cause of his melancholy, his afflictions, of
which the world knew, were sufficient causes to assign. But
these visitants disturbed him not a little. Why should he
above all others be selected out to receive calls in this manner?
It was true they were his own friends, by whom he had
been caressed and beloved, while they were living, but there
must be a serious meaning in their visits which he had yet to
learn. Perhaps the missing Will had something to do with
them? But it could not be. He could ask advice of no one,
for who could penetrate the veil that hangs between Time
and Eternity; therefore he resolved to wait patiently and see.
And as he knew that he was watched by those whom he had
known here, and with whom he must dwell hereafter, there
was a continual feeling of restraint in all he said and did.

The open air, the blue sky and the bright sun, exerted the
most potent influences in dissipating his sad feelings and
strange forebodings, and, by the time he had reached his
counting room, he was alive to the world again, and all the
phantoms of the night were forgotten, but not the bright vision
of the Bowery cottage; and his first enquiries were about
the Boadicea and her master.

But the master of the Boadicea was dead. He had sickened
and died on the passage home, from Manilla. This news
was a terrible blow to John, for he knew how severely it
would be felt by his new friends in the Bowery, and he determined
to be the bearer of it himself, that he might, if possible,
by rendering any service in his power, mitigate its severity.
We will not accompany him upon his melancholy errand,
to witness the effect of the news that made the old couple
childless, and their grand-daughter an orphan. There is sadness
enough in the world that we cannot shun, and if happily
any of us have not yet tasted of sorrows, they will come
full soon; there is no need to partake of those we can avoid.