CHAPTER XV.
"But ye! ye are changed since ye met me last: There is something bright from your features past; There is that come over your heart and eye, Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die. Ye smile; but your smile has a dimness yet: Oh! what have ye looked on since last we met?"
THE VOICE OF SPRING.
Before the events mentioned in the last chapter occurred, the winter hadpassed away, and the reluctant footsteps of our northern spring began toappear. The purple Hepatica opened her soft eye in the woods, and thedelicate Sanguinaria spread her snowy bosom to catch the pale sunbeam.Already the maple-trees had hung out their beautiful crimson blossoms,and the thrilling note of the song-sparrow echoed through the forest.Then came the chilling wind from the east, its wings loaded with frost;and the timid spring hid her tender blossoms, and wrapped herself in awatery veil.
The weather and the spring were unnoticed by Dinah, when she sought,soon after sunrise, the pillow of her mistress. The night had broughtno rest to her throbbing temples and anxious heart: she was surprised,therefore, to find Edith still sleeping. She had sat up late, arrangingher father's and her own papers, and providing, by a distribution of herlittle property, for the old age of her two faithful servants. They wereno longer slaves; Mr. Grafton had given them freedom at his death. Sheleft the little Phoebe under their guardianship. She had also written aletter to Seymore, to ask him to come and aid her by his counsel in thisextremity. It was nearly dawn when she sought her pillow; and sleep,which has been called the friend of sorrow--"but it is the happy whohave called it so"--had only for a few moments left her with untroubleddreams. Her sleep was not heavy; for the gentle footstep of Dinah awokeher. When she saw her humble friend's troubled expression, she tried tosmile; and, stroking her dark cheek as she bent over her, she said, "Wemust look bright to-day, my poor Dinah, or they will think we areafraid."
They prepared for the arrival of the officers; and, when breakfast wasready, the little Phoebe was not to be found. Although Dinah lookedvery grave, this occasioned no anxiety in Edith, when she recollectedthe vagrant habits of the child.
After breakfast, which was indeed not tasted, the same persons who hadvisited her the night before came to conduct Edith to the meeting-house,the place of examination. The house was nearly full; and among thatcrowd there was scarcely one to whom Edith had not been a friend and abenefactor, as far as her humble means would allow. As she entered,there was one by whose sick bed she had watched; another whose infanthad died in her arms; and children stood looking on with stupid wonderto whom she had given flowers, and primers, and, more than all, her owngentle smile. But now every eye was averted, or turned on her withsuspicion and terror,--so hardening is the power of fanaticism.
I believe I have said that my heroine was not beautiful; but the inwardharmony must have given a spiritual beauty to features animated withintellect, and softened by tenderness of heart; and a self-relyinginnocence and purity imparted something more of grace to her person thanthe most finished art could have given.
Edith became very pale as she entered; and Dinah, who had followed herclosely, begged permission to stand near and support her. This wasdenied, and she was placed between two men, who each held an arm, and infront of those who were to examine her.
The afflicted--that is, the accuser--was now called in. Edith lookedeagerly around, and, with grief and astonishment, saw her little Phoebe,the child of her care, when almost close to her, utter a piercing cry,and fall down in violent convulsions. She started forward to assist andraise her, but the men drew her rudely back. And this was her accuser!
At the same time with Edith, a poor old woman, nearly eighty years ofage, was brought in. Her accuser was her own grandchild,--a girl aboutthe same age as Phoebe. Together they had concerted this diabolicalplot, and had rehearsed and practised beforehand their contortions andconvulsions, excited, no doubt, by the notoriety of wicked children theyhad heard of.
The poor old creature was bent and haggard. She would have wept, but,alas! the fountain of her tears was dried up; and she looked at hergrandchild with a sort of stupid incredulity and wonder. Her inabilityto weep was regarded as an infallible proof of her guilt. As she stoodbeside Edith, she shook with age and terror; and Edith, touched withpity, though she trembled herself, and was deadly pale, tried to giveher a smile of hope and encouragement. The poor old wretch did not needit: she not only confessed to every thing of which she was accused, butadded such circumstances of time and place, and of the various forms thedevil had taken in her person, that Edith almost sickened with disgust.She could not understand how an old person, on the very verge of thegrave, could wish to lengthen out her few years by such base and wickedlies.
The young cannot believe that the old are unwilling to die. But it is anacknowledged truth, that the longer we have worn our earthly vesture,the dearer becomes the thin and faded remnant. The young resign theirhold of life with hardly a regret, while the old cling with the utmosttenacity to the wavering and nearly-parted thread.
Edith turned away from the partner of her suspected guilt, and asked tohave the child brought near her. She held out her hand, and lookedmildly in her face. The moment the child touched Edith's hand, she wasstill: this was a part of the plot: but the moment her hand waswithdrawn, she fell down again in violent convulsions, and cried outthat pins were thrust into her. In the midst of this acting, she caughtDinah's stern, reproachful eye fixed upon her, and she instantly becamestill. But this did not aid poor Edith's cause; for they cried out thatthe child was struck dumb by the accused.
The old woman also, feeling perhaps that Edith's integrity was areproach to her own weakness, cried out that she was pierced with pins,and pinched by Edith, although with invisible fingers, as she stood nearher; and, turning back her sleeve from her bony and wrinkled arm, sheshowed a discolored spot, which she declared had not been there when sheleft her home. It had not, indeed; but every one knows how quickly abruise is visible in the stagnant blood of age, and the mark had beenleft by the hand of the person who held her arm.
Edith, wearied and disgusted, desired to be taken back to her prison,there to await her trial before the judges of the Province. Every thinghad occurred that was most unfavorable to her, and she felt but too wellthat she must bear the suspicion of a crime of which she was asunconscious as the unborn infant. Her heart yearned towards the poorinfatuated child, and she earnestly begged that she might be permittedto talk with her alone. This was granted, and she was guarded to herprison.
There was no proper prison in our village, and Edith was guarded in oneof the rooms of the deacon's house who had been so active in heraccusation.
During the night that passed after her examination, Edith had time toarrange her thoughts. Before she knew who her accusers were, she hadbeen moving in the dark; and now, when she thought of the whole insaneproceeding, she could scarcely believe they would be guilty of themonstrous crime of condemning her on the testimony of that child alone.
When the deacon visited her in the morning, she said, with much warmth,"Have the days of Queen Mary come back? Am I to be suspected, condemned,imprisoned, on the testimony of that poor child,--the child that I tookto my home when no one else among you would offer her a shelter?"
The deacon answered, "that the testimony was so much more convincing, asthe child had lived in the house with her."
"And is her word to be taken against the testimony of my whole life? Youknow how I have lived among you from my infancy."
"Yes; but God may choose the fairest of his works as instruments of hissovereign will."
"Have you forgotten my father?" said Edith,--"how he lived among you? Hewas ever your friend--always near you in every trouble. And myself"--shestopped; for she would not remind them of her deeds of kindness,--of thedaily beauty of her life in their humble circle; nor would she recallher orphanhood, her unprotected state; but she looked down, and her eyesfilled with tears. "God," she said, at length, "is the protection of
theorphan; and he will avenge this great sin, and you will answer for it athis bar."
The deacon looked sternly decided and unmoved, but he began to urge herto confess,--to do as others had done, and save her life byacknowledging the crime.
Indignation kindled in Edith's eye; but she checked it, and said, "Icannot, I durst not, belie my own soul, and commit so great a sin. God,who is the searcher of my heart and your heart, as we shall both answerat the judgment day, is witness that I know nothing of witchcraft,--ofno temptation of the evil one. I have felt, indeed--as who has not?--thetemptations that arise from our own passions; but I know no other, andcan confess no other."
She then desired that Phoebe might be brought to her, and Dinahpermitted to attend her in her prison. They consented that Edith shouldsee the child in the presence of one witness; and the mild old man whowas with the deacon said he would bring her himself.
Delusion; or, The Witch of New England Page 15