XXIV
A DAY IN SALEM
It was hardly more than a week after the wedding, one bright September morning, when Julia and Brenda, under the guidance of Amy, set out for their day in Salem. They were to meet Miss South at the station in Salem, and starting out from that point, hoped to see everything of interest in the old town.
“We ’re at your mercy, Amy,” said Miss South, good-naturedly. “You can tell us almost anything you wish abodt the witches, or the old houses, and we—or at least I—cannot contradict you. I have never been here before, and although I have a guide-book with me, I have not had time to look into it.”
“Let us see just where we are now,” and Julia took the book gently from Miss South.
“Why, the famous Town Pump used to stand almost exactly on this very spot,” and Julia, coming to a stop, planted her foot firmly on a piece of brick sidewalk that formed a kind of triangle in the middle of the street.
“There on our left,—I’m altering Holmes a little,—” said Miss' South,—
“‘ There on our left, the slender spires,
And glittering vanes, that crown
The home of Salem’s frugal sires.
The old, witch-haunted town.’”
“Bravo!” said Julia; “but what are we to see first?”
“The first old church stood over there,—the Roger Williams Church; you must have heard of it,” said Amy, pointing to the nearest corner.
“Oh, yes, that’s the little church that’s in a yard somewhere back of a big building.”
“The very one, Brenda,” said Miss South. “It is in the care of the Essex Institute. That is a Salem fact that I have heard before.”
“Let’s go there at once,” cried Brenda; “for as soon as we have seen the things like that, that we have to see, I want to go down on Derby Street. I ’ve an acquaintance down there.” Although Brenda’s tone was serious, there was a look of mischief in her eye.
“You won’t find him,” said Julia; “you have n’t the exact address, and besides, if I were you, I’d leave it all to uncle Robert.”
“Oh, no, Julia, I want the credit of finding him myself. Why, I have n’t said a word yet to papa about it!”
Then remembering that what she was saying was Greek to the others, Brenda began to explain.
“It’s Miguel Silva, Miss South,—the man who took Mrs. Rosa’s money. He didn’t go to South America. He’s living over here in Derby Street, and I want to go to his house.”
“It’s rather useless to think of it, Brenda,” said Julia. “You could n’t have him arrested, and he might be rude to you.”
“Oh, no, he is n’t that kind of man. He ’ll feel so ashamed when he finds that I know about that money that he ’ll give it up at once. Can’t we go to Derby Street rather soon? When I want to do a thing, I’m always impatient to get through with it.”
“The Custom House is in Derby Street,” said Amy; “but I did n’t think we’d go there until we’d visited the Institute and one or two places in this neighborhood. It’s a little out of the way.”
“Just as likely as not he does n’t live there at all,” and Julia laid her arm on Brenda’s shoulder. “If I were you, I’d give it up.”
“There are a number of foreigners down at the other end of Derby Street,” said Amy; “but I did n’t know that there were any Portuguese there; they are Poles, a great many of them, and they work in the factories.”
“There!” cried Brenda,—“there!” and without a word of explanation she darted across the street. On the opposite corner was a queerly-dressed gypsy woman with a basket on her arm. Julia recognized the red-and-black striped shawl, and the large black bonnet with its bow of scarlet ribbon. It was the gypsy woman whom Mr. Barlow had sent away from the house on the morning of Agnes’s wedding. She felt bound, therefore, to follow her cousin, and she reached Brenda’s side just in time to hear her say, “But you must take something, for it was my fault that you came to the house.”
“Then buy a basket, Miss,—buy a basket,” said the woman; “that ’ll do.”
So Brenda, pulling out her purse, gave the woman twice the value of the basket that she bought, and she continued her apology. “I’m very sorry that you had any trouble; but it was a wedding.”
“Yes, yes, a wedding. I tole you a wedding.”
“Well, it does seem as if your prophecy had come true,” and Brenda paused for a moment, evidently struck by another thought.
“Can you tell about people who take money,—bad men, you know?”
The gypsy looked at her sharply, and Julia interposed,—
“I would n’t say anything about it. She could n’t possibly help you.”
But Brenda was not to be stopped, although she did not press the woman to forecast the future.
“Miguel Silva?” she continued; “do you know him?”
The gypsy woman looked at Brenda without a change of expression, as if to say,—
“Why do you wish to know?”
“I met him near your camp,” continued Brenda. “He helped me—”
This seemed to reassure the gypsy.
“Oh, yes, I know Miguel Silva. He trade for a horse with Jo. He paid pretty good, too.”
“Do you hear that?” cried Brenda, turning to Julia. Then she continued her questioning. But the woman now declined to answer. Evidently her suspicion was aroused, and to each question she answered simply, “I dunno.”
Finally Brenda turned impatiently away.
“Keep the change,” she said. “Come, Julia,” and crossing the street again, the two cousins followed Amy and Miss South through the collections of the Peabody Academy. They had time for little more than a passing glance at all the various treasures,—the curiosities from India and China and all the East, the models of vessels that had been famous in the days when Salem led in commerce. There was a genuine palanquin, there were gods that had once been worshipped in real temples, and all the trophies that the old sea-captains had brought back were so carefully classified, according to the country from which they came, that to Julia, at least, it was tantalizing to have only this passing glance.
“You can come again,” said Miss South, consolingly. “There is no reason why you should not come over by yourself some day. I am sure that Mrs. Barlow would let you—I should like to come myself, only I really cannot leave my grandmother very often.”
“Julia,” called Brenda, “we are going into this next room for a few minutes; there are some strange fish and things like that there.”
“We might as well go on, too,” said Miss South. “I believe that they have a very complete collection of the products of Essex County,—at least, I have read so. I do not know just what there is, at least from observation.”
“Do you really mean that everything here comes from Essex County,—all these minerals; why, see, ‘from an old Coppermine near Topsfield;’ and here is a garnet; and it came not so very far from Rockley. I did n’t know that there were things like that in this part of the world,” and Julia bent over the cases in surprise.
Then the birds that had been found in old Essex were even more wonderful than the minerals. There was the horned grebe, and the harlequin duck, and the great blue heron, and the white pelican, and owls in infinite variety. Even Brenda, who was not particularly interested in animals or birds, was astonished to find that the neighborhood of her own summer home contained creatures that she had associated only with regions much farther away. Some of the strangest of all the specimens were among the fishes,—the goose-fish, and the fishing frog, the devil fish, and many others, that, as Brenda said, “One would n’t like to meet suddenly when out bathing.”
But leaving the Museum with all its treasures, when they heard the bells ringing for noon, the girls hurried on to the Essex Institute. As they registered their names in the visitors’ book, Julia picked up a huge key.
“What in the world is this?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s the key to the little church,” replied Amy.
“Then let us go there first.”
“Why, yes, there’s no objection. Just follow me.”
So in a few minutes the four found themselves before a small wooden building standing in the yard back of the Institute. “It’s like a doll's play-house—a large one, of course,” whispered Brenda to Julia. She was afraid that the remark might seem frivolous if overheard by Miss South. Amy put the huge key in the lock upside down, turned it in a direction the exact opposite of that usually necessary in unlocking a door, and at once they were inside the plain little plastered building, “the first meeting-house” in which the settlers of Salem worshipped, and listened to the preaching of Roger Williams, and Samuel Skelton, and other early pastors of the First Congregational Church. When a larger building was needed, the little meeting-house was moved away, and was used for different purposes, even at one time as an inn. It is only within a comparatively short time that it was discovered and saved from destruction. This was what Miss South told the girls, as they turned back toward the Institute.
“They ought to have a rummage sale,” said Brenda, flippantly, as she walked from one glass case to another in the large exhibition rooms. It certainly was a motley collection,—old dishes, old jewelry, even old shoes and old bonnets, saved to show the present generation the kind of things their ancestors had worn. There was one tiny hair trunk that any one of the three girls could have carried in one hand, and the label above it stated that it had contained the entire wardrobe of a certain young gentleman on his entrance into Harvard in the middle of the eighteenth century.
There was old furniture of various styles,—a spinet with yellow keys; there were old samplers still looking fairly fresh, though the fingers that had worked them had been dust for a century; and finally, there was a case with dolls and other battered toys that the great-great-grandmothers of the present generation of Salem little girls had played with.
Miss South and Julia turned away reluctantly; Amy more readily, because she had seen all these things before; while Brenda was impatient to go once more in the street. Her thoughts were really turned toward the Custom House neighborhood.
While the others lingered for a moment to look at some of the portraits in the hall, Julia asked a question or two of the librarian.
“We ’ve a number of very interesting log-books uptairs,” Miss South heard him say; “and if you cared to spend the time some day, why I’d be very happy to have you see them.”
In answer to her teacher’s look of inquiry, Julia said that she was rather anxious to see some of the journals kept by the old sea-captains, of which she understood that the Institute owned a great many.
“I think that I might spend a day in Salem by myself some time,” she said.
“There certainly could be no objection to it,” said Miss South. “Now,” continued the latter, “the next thing on the programme is luncheon;” and although the girls protested that they were not very hungry, she took them to a neat little restaurant, where they found enough to eat, even if the variety might have been greater.
“Now for the Custom House!” cried Brenda, when they had finished.
“Why not say Miguel Silva at once,” interposed Julia; “we won’t care.”
“Well, we might as well go there and get him off our mind, or rather,” and Brenda corrected herself, “off my mind.”
“I don’t see exactly how we’ll find him,” said Amy. “I can only take you to a neighborhood where I ’ve heard some foreigners have lately moved in. There’s a very old house, almost dropping to pieces, that some Poles have bought. They have fitted it up for half-a-dozen families, and it used to be one of the best houses in Salem.”
With her mind, therefore, fixed on Miguel Silva, I am afraid that Brenda did not pay very close attention to what Miss South told them about the old Custom House, as they stood in front of it, and admired its eagle and cupola.
“It’s a rather large building—for Salem,” said Julia.
“Why, yes,” and Miss South glanced at her book. “I see that long ago Hawthorne said that it was a world too large for any necessary purposes, and had been even in the days of Salem’s India trade, and at the present time it seems all the larger.”
“Hawthorne was collector here once, was n’t he?” asked Amy.
“Not collector, but surveyor of the Port,” responded Miss South. “The old Custom House owes most of its fame to him.”
Brenda, impatient at the turn of the conversation, was already some distance ahead of the others. Amy, consequently, felt it her duty to hurry on, and in a short time they were almost beyond speaking distance. One handsome old mansion after another they passed, all of them facing the water. “The old sea-captains liked to live near the water. Their wharves were usually opposite their houses, and from the upper windows they could look well down the harbor, and see their vessels coming in.”
“It’s a pity to see these old houses used for tenements or institutions.”
“Yes, it does seem a pity. But there! We must hurry. Brenda seems impatient.”
Brenda and Amy were now standing in the middle of the sidewalk, some distance ahead, and Brenda was waving her hand impatiently.
“There,” she cried, as they drew near, “I believe we ’ve found the place. I asked a woman if there were any Portuguese here, and she pointed to this old house. She said there was a woman named Silva; but she did n’t know about any man.”
“You don’t really intend to go in? ”
“Why, of course, Julia, with you and Miss South I shall feel perfectly safe; and Amy is n’t afraid of anything.”
Julia turned toward Miss South. “Why, there can’t be any harm, even though no special good may come from the visit.”
A blue-eyed woman answered the knock at the door. She certainly was not a Portuguese in appearance, although she admitted that she was Mrs. Silva.
“Is Mr. Silva in?” asked Brenda, boldly.
“No, Miss,” responded the woman, still holding the door, without giving any further invitation to enter.
But Brenda was not to be turned from her purpose.
“Well, I have a picture,—did your little boy die?”
“Yes, Miss,” answered the woman; “he has been dead six weeks. I have only the baby.”
The tone in which she spoke was Irish rather than Portuguese.
“Well, could we come in? I have something to show you.”
“Why, yes,” and pushing the front door open, she showed them into a room at the right of the hall. It was furnished like a kitchen, but a crib stood in one corner, in which a baby was sleeping. Mrs. Silva hastened into the bedroom, which led from the kitchen, and brought out two chairs.
When they were all seated, Brenda took from her pocket a card-case. In this she had carried the envelope with the photographs. As she handed one to Mrs. Silva, a smile at first spread over her face. Then she reddened, and a tear fell with a splash on the picture. It was the photograph of father and child.
“Oh, the poor little thing!” she exclaimed; “it’s me heart that’s breaking for him every day,” and she threw her apron over her head.
Now, at the first sight of the neat, pretty woman and the sleeping baby, Brenda’s desire for vengeance had begun to weaken.
If she had had a policeman within call, and if Miguel himself had been present in the room, I do not believe that she would have had the Portuguese arrested, no, not even if she had already had a warrant properly made out against him. It is true that Brenda herself was not the person on whom the duty of prosecuting Miguel would have fallen, and the detective business which she had undertaken was decidedly amateur. Even as it was, she felt like leaving the house without mentioning the wickedness of Miguel, especially when the poor mother hurst into a tearful cry, “Oh, the poor little creature, the poor little creature, and I ’ll never see his likes again! ”
At this moment a heavy step was heard in the hall. Julia and Brenda looked at each other. Could it be that Miguel had unexpectedly returned? Evidently he was not in the little tenement when they came in.
But any questions they may have asked themselves came to a sudden end.
“Good afternoon, Nellie,” cried a brisk, cheerful voice with a strong brogue; “but sure, you ’re not crying this fine day!”
There was something familiar in the tone; and when Mrs. Silva’s visitor threw back a heavy brown veil, Brenda was astonished to see the face of Mrs. Moriarty,—the stout Mrs. Moriarty who had been so kind to her that hot day at Nahant.
Mrs. Moriarty, in her turn, seemed more than astonished to see so many “reel leddies,” as she put it, in Mrs. Silva’s room.
“Where’s Luis?” she asked Mrs. Silva; and then, as her eye fell on Brenda, she cried, “Why, here’s the young leddy I told you about, that helped me pick up me money in the ’bus.” And then she laughed so heartily that her fat shoulders shook; and all the others, even the sad Mrs. Silva, and the dignified Miss South, smiled as if they too would have liked the power to laugh in that hearty fashion.
Mrs. Moriarty, although she certainly would have made no pretensions to a knowledge of etiquette, was too polite to ask why all these strangers were sitting in Mrs. Silva’s kitchen, and so, to break the silence which again settled on them after that hearty laugh of hers, she repeated,—
“Where’s Luis?”
“Oh, he’s off; I don’t know where. He’s bought a horse, and he can travel pretty far. He’s selling peaches now.”
At the word “Luis” Brenda had looked up in surprise. “Is your husband Miguel Silva?”
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Silva.
“No, indeed,” repeated Mrs. Moriarty, adding, “Do you know Miguel?”
“Why, no,” said Brenda; “that is, I have seen him,—why, this is his picture,” she concluded, pointing to the print of the man and the little boy.
“That!” and Mrs. Silva looked at her in surprise. “Why, that is Luis, and my poor little Luis, too. We named him for his father.”
The conversation thus far had been rather puzzling to Julia and Miss South.
Amy had not pretended to understand the drift of it at all, and, indeed, while the others were talking, she had been bending over the crib with the little baby, and as he stirred in his sleep, she fanned him gently with the paper fan which she wore at her belt.
But she was not prepared for the exclamation with which Brenda greeted this last remark of Mrs. Silva’s. It was so loud a “What do you mean?” that Amy hastily turned around.
Mrs. Silva and Brenda were both bending over the picture, and Amy heard Brenda say, “But don’t you know Mrs. Rosa?”
“I never heard of her,” responded Mrs. Silva. “Who is she?”
“Why, she is a Portuguese woman who used to live in Boston; and when I told her that your little boy was dead, she said, ‘Poor Maria!’”
“But that is n’t my name; it’s Nellie, is n’t it, mother?”
“Well, by rights it’s Ellen,” said Mrs. Moriarty, with a twinkle in her eye. “But you do be called Nellie most always.”
“Why, Maria’s the name of Miguel’s wife. She’s my sister-in-law.”
“Oh!” said Brenda.
“There,” said Julia, “that is it; your husband has a brother. Does he look like him?”
“Oh, as like as two peas in a pod; they ’re twins, and you could n’t tell which was which if you’d see them together,” interposed Mrs. Moriarty.
“But they ain’t alike in any other way except in looks,” said Nellie, loyally. “Miguel—well, he’s my husband’s brother, so I won’t say much. But—”
“Where is Miguel now?” asked Miss South.
“Oh, we don’t know; but he sold out everything last spring, and they say he’s gone away off to Brazil, or some place like away off. He took everything he could lay his hands on, and we are the poorer for him. Bad luck to him!”
“Hush! hush! Nellie,” cried the good-natured Mrs. Moriarty. “It’s good they ain’t the same inside that they are outside, for they ’re twins. Miss. Though there be some, I ’ve heard, that don’t think Miguel’s so very bad, only smart,—very smart.”
“Too smart!” said Mrs. Silva, as Brenda, a little embarrassed by what had happened, rose to go.
“You must keep the photographs,” she said, as she turned to bid good-bye to Mrs. Silva. “We were very sorry to hear about your little boy.”
“Come, see the baby!” cried Miss South, who had joined Amy and Julia near the crib. Just then the baby gave a gurgling laugh; and when the grandmother realized that he was awake, she went over to the crib too, and as the others made way for her, she seized the little creature in her arms, and held him up for the admiration of them all.
At sight of the baby poor Mrs. Silva’s face began to beam; and as her visitors left the house she said good-bye very cheerfully, and promised to give to Luis Mr. Barlow’s address. Brenda had written it on a card, and Mrs. Silva said that she was sure her husband would call at Rockley when next he travelled in that direction.