University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—Chamber in Ambla Bodish's house.
Enter Gideon.
Gideon.
Throughout the hunt they looked at me
With strangeness, yet something of the old
Fellowship too. What horrible surmise is this
That swims into my brain and swallows reason?
Knew I in member, joint or corner of the soul
Where lurks this boding, I would pluck it thence,
Though life leaped after. They parted with me
As in fear, not of my arm or malice-stroke,
But as if they 'd sever themselves apart,
From an atmosphere of dreadfulness
I bore about me. My mother!—Never!
[He falls back.
Though all the stars turned black upon the face
Of night—though back the true-orbed sun should roll
In heaven, and every evil voice cry out,
I 'd have these eye-balls seared, or not believe it!
Let the fear sleep, 'till some sufficient hand
Shall wake it.

Enter Ambla, followed by Deacon Gidney.
Deacon G.
(R.)
I should be sorry to know your age was racked
With pain, and vexed with old unquietness.
Sleep you well o' nights?

Ambla.
I am thankful for the rest
I find, and if the other villagers
Take what I lose, I am thankful still.

Deacon G.
You seek your bed
Early, I hope, as doth become your age?

Ambla.
A little walk on Maple Hill, a meditation
At the down-falling of the sun, and I
Am lapped in sleep.

Deacon G.
Dream you much now,
My aged friend, we at our age—that is, at yours—
Sometimes forego our dreams.

Ambla.
I have not dreamed a dream,
For three and twenty years, except awake.

Gideon.
[Aside.]
What means this visit,
Of this cold, gloomy and malignant man?
He does not think it worth his while to notice me.

Deacon G.
Was there no vision in your sleep, last night?
You heard of Margaret Purdy's death at Groton?
Her spectre, 'tis given out, passed o'er this house
Of yours, in a white flame, at midnight.

Ambla.
An angel she, to honor so, this low
Unworthy roof.

Deacon G.
You think well, then, of her, do you?
She was no praying woman, I am told,
Had seasons nor times of audible appeal.

Ambla.
There is a silent service, sir, I 've heard
It said, keeps up its worship at the heart,
Although the lips be closed.

Deacon G.
What! prayer irregular and chance-begot!
Sad orthodoxy—I, Deacon Perfect Gidney,
A humble pattern to this lowly parish,
Am used to have a somewhat different way—
I snuff my nightly candle with a prayer—
And with a steady prayer wind up my watch,
And go to prayer at striking of the clock,—
The great one, my learned grandfather's gift,
In the hall,—and kindle with a slow prayer
My morning fire—Surmise seizes on me
Suddenly—Is all right? When do you pray?
What season set?

Gideon.
[Advancing, C.]
Who made you interrogator of this
Aged woman—and of her inmost hours
Disposer?—I tell you, for every evil
Question asked, there shall a hair grow white
Before its day, upon your scoffer's head.

Deacon G.
Who have we here? Young man, there 's devils in you;
You threaten, do you? We'll see, we'll see.
[Looking sternly at Gideon.]
I, Deacon Perfect Gedney, bid thee aroint!
What brimstone whiff is that beats down the chimney?
I am not here, except of choice, and therefore,
May go whene'er I choose—Desire to hold me not!
If you are the devil, or the devil's messenger,
We'll try a bout with you. He 's angry, we know,—
He meant to have the new world for his own,
Nor let the tent-poles of God's holy roof,
Be pitched ever on its green floor.

Gideon.
'T is you who do the devil's work most eagerly;
Why defile you this fresh new world, this air
That blossoms sweetly, unwooed by any
But the blest presence of free men and things
As free—with droppings of your filthy hands?

Deacon G.
I know your father, boy— [Pointing down.

Though he let loose his forty thousand
Fiercest sons, he'll find his match, I reckon.

Gideon.
What snare is this you set about
An aged woman's way?

Deacon G.
Ha! ha! you feel me on your hip, Satan!
Thou devilish woman, and young man no less—
Though overmastered by that aged wickedness,
I see—

Gideon.
You see an aged woman, it is true;
Her walk has, haply, been apart from yours,
But not, I hope, from God's; her lowly voice,
Not often in the sanctuary heard,
Has whispered, perchance, where 't has been hearkened to,
And when she falls, though Israel fall not
With her, some silent place will miss her—
Out of these woods, and from these stillnesses,
A power with her may pass, bearing a light away.

Deacon G.
Blasphemer! She 's not angel or spirit
Anointed, that you dare bespeak her thus!
I have command here, and should know her rank.

Gideon.
Unholy man, the Holiest that sits
Above, gives her a place and you! and while,
With cherubim she rides the heavenly air,
You, beast-like, plough the earth with the nose.

Deacon G.
'T is very good, young man, exceedingly—
You boldly hold at nought all parish powers,
And bear this woman in their face.

Ambla.
I bear myself, and at the accounting,
Will answer for myself.

Gideon.
And answer you for yours!
Dark or bright, I think the All-merciful
May take her, rightly by the hand, while you
Left-smitten, reeling, He sends down the abyss.

[Cross R. H.
Deacon G.
Oh, Heaven uphold
Us, a weak, humble Deacon in thine house,
The evil doer smite and bend the haughty
Neck of every unbelieving Thomas!
The traps are yet to be upsprung in strength,
The toils begin to close about you.
[Exit Deacon Gidney, D. F.

Gideon.
He means us harm, mother, but what I know not.

Ambla.
I care not, my son.

Enter Susanna.
Susanna.
Good morrow, Mother Bodish.

Gideon.
Why call you my mother, Mother Bodish?
Mistress or aunt or goodwife, are the names
Alone, she 's borne in Salem thirty years!
Christen your babes anew, Susanna,
And let the aged live in old respects.

[Crosses to L.
Susanna.
Your tongue is cruel-edged, to-day;
I had a kindness in my thought, Gideon.

Gideon.
[Crosses to L.]
Then show it in your speech, nor Gideon me.

Susanna.
Be soothed—be soothed!—

Ambla.
By what road came you hither, Susanna?

Susanna.
Along the chief highway.

Ambla.
Who met you—any?

Susanna.
Against the orchard, Goodwife Prawl accosted me,
And there were many other village-women
Moving on toward the Deacon's house:
The Deacon too passed me, just now, angrily.

Ambla.
He did!

Susanna.
He did—
But Gideon, be not angry you, with me;
Why loses your voice the music of the spring-time
Long ago, why grow cold your eyes upon me?
Where is the little hand of childish help
You used to give me once, dear Gideon?
Where the soft word and sweetly blissful look
Of pleased encouragement when gathered we
Together, such wandering flowers as these
I bring you, from the sun-bank by the brook?

Gideon.
I want them not, Susanna.

Susanna.
Though you'll not take them from my hand,
They shall remain, and, in some gentler hour,
Remind you of her that gathered them;
[Goes to the table to deposite them.
Who oft with you has harvested the fields
Of all their beauty, and from the hills and plains,
Together, gleaned with you such toys as these—
No—no—not like to these; I pray you, what 's this,
A rude unsightly shape of hideous clay—
What do you, Gideon, with such foolish things?

[Ambla, who has been ruminating, suddenly breaks out into violent speech and gesture.]
Ambla.
Is this the handy-work you have been taught,
To scorn past time and dally with forbiddenness?
Put back that image, child, or I'll do that—
Who reverences not the Past, Hereafter
Shall not reverence, nor hold to have had
A present time.

[Crosses to L.
Susanna.
[In alarm.]
What have I done? Unspeak your words,
I do entreat, spare me that curse, which might
Undo me, to the doomsday! I kneel and beg—

Gideon.
Get up, you silly girl, and go your ways—
My mother was a devil when you came,
And now she is a god; good mother,
We will withdraw farther within our house—
And let her nurse her fancies, by herself!

[Exeunt Gideon and Ambla, 1 L. R.
Susanna.
A double anguish my morning steps have wrought,
Of more and less. Nothing he has to give
And she too much. What mighty wo 's at hand!
What ruin rushes on this ancient house!
I am bewildered and affrighted—relief
I'll seek in the free air, still blue and bright
With Heaven's own light, out of the circle
Of dark Ambla 's look and arm of power.
[Exit Susanna, D. F.