University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—Interior of the Village-Inn.
Enter Deacon Gidney, Just. Fisk and Pudeater, L. H.
Justice F.
What ails you, Cephas Pudeater, that you
Make that murmuring noise, and look amazed!

Deacon G.
He wishes to give his testimony—
And in this little pause, while greater hopes
Are making to a head—Pudeater, you may tell
What you have wished to say to us; we'll not
Arrest you now.

Pudeater.
'T is that that vexes me. She will not
Let me speak. Often this way have I been
Troubled in the fields, sometimes upon the road,
And stood dumb-foundered by the hour.

Justice F.
Is this the shape of your affliction?

Pudeater.
No, sir—it has no shape, but every sort
Of form, puts on to devil me.

Deacon G.
How was 't
With your oxen, Master Pudeater?

Pudeater.
[Crosses to C.]
That was the worst of all, your reverence;
Two noble cattle as ever trod a hoof
(You recollect them, Master Justice,—the brindles
That I bought of William Hoisington, beyond the bridge?)
I heard that Mistress Bodish had hard-threatened me,
And moved them to a meadow, farthest
From her house; no sooner there, than a great fly
In overpowering swarms, came on them,
And they fell lean as rakes. I took them then,
To Salisbury beach, where cattle used to gain
Their flesh; no sooner there, than up they ran
Unto the mouth of Merr'mack river,
Dashed into the water toward Plum Island—
And, swimming out to sea, have ne'er returned!

Deacon G.
And stopped your trouble there?

Pudeater.
That was its starting-point, your reverence;
For quickly after this, going one night
To barn, I suddenly was taken from the ground,
And thrown blank 'gainst a wearisome stone wall,
And after that again wondrously uphoisted,
And cast down a bank at the end o' the house;
And after still, merely passing her house,
This Ambla Bodish's, a horse,—I borrowed
Him at Walcutt's, since my oxen's strange
Navigation—with a small load of grain,
Striving to draw, his gear flew all in pieces,
The cart fell swiftly clattering down, and I
Poor Cephas Pudeater, hastening then
To lift a bag of corn—two bushels say,
In hest, could not upraise it with all my strength.
I was not drunk, your reverence, I'm sure
I was not drunk!

Justice F.
And what at Maple Hill?

Pudeater.
Oh, ask me not of that—one night
As I was passing, just in sport, I thrashed
The bushes with my staff, (I carry it
For safety in these troubled times, where'er I go)—
And out there sprung, I could not tell them
In the dark, great creatures of some sort,
Black-beaked and yellow-winged—two owl-like birds!
In fear I fled the spot—and as I ran,
Old Ambla Bodish, light-like, crossed my path,
Without the use of limbs—for in the air she
Seemed to glide, as though she were a crow!
A charm I had of cunning Goodwife Prawl,
'Gainst witchery in every shape, saved me
From harm—or Cephas Pudeater would not,
The Lord preserve us, now be standing here.
I was not drunk, your reverence; I'm sure
I was not drunk.

Deacon G.
Wear you still the charm?

Pudeater.
I do, your reverence—these two horse shoes—
But I do fear their potency is gone.
[Crosses to R.
As sure as wax is wax I was not drunk!

Deacon G.
[Pauses.]
What say you now, good Master Justice?

Justice F.
I think the cup is full.

[Rises.
Deacon G.
[Rises.]
I think it overflows:—
This will not bear a longer tarrying,
This afternoon should fix her. Have you
The warrant writ?

Justice F.
'T has been writ a week; but as in her,
We strike at the great head of this bewilderment,
Our weapons must be sharp and sure.

Deacon G.
We 're armed on every side, with witnesses,
Of all degrees; with testimony various
As the devil's shifts—slips she one rope,
There'll be a dozen to catch her. I 've had
A hand in that, you know, and I work sure—
So I am told, in all the parish business.

Justice F.
Pudeater, come hither.

[Takes Pud. aside.
Enter Topsfield, L. H.
Topsfield.
[Looking back.]
Come, Simon, linger not,
The time is urgent, and the hour draws on.

Enter Braybrook, L. H.
Deacon G.
Are you prepared to set forth to the Falls?
'T is there our closing confirmation lies.

Topsfield.
We are, and come to have direction
From your worships.

Deacon G.
There is a thunder-blighted child, made idiot
In a storm, at Newberry Falls—you are to learn
Whether any fresh pains have racked it
In the last ten hours. Mark well the faces
Of the people who report it to you.

Justice F.
If Justice Bly, of Norridgewook
Come out, as you pass, as no doubt he will—
Asking how we get on, tell him we 've twenty
In the jail; and if he can come to Salem
On Friday next, he'll see a goodly hanging:
We'll be ready, Deacon, by that time?

Deacon G.
No doubt, we shall.

Pudeater.
Your worship,
Might he ask the Judge to bring with him,
Good Marshal Williams, his own officer,
To see how we dispose our work? I shall
Be well enough to help, by then.

Deacon G.
But to the matter more in hand.

Justice F.
Here 's a list of some suspected,
Whom you may look for by the way.

Deacon G.
Bring you but word the child is dead—we know
Who launched the bolt—and all is sealed!
[Topsfield and Braybrook are going, L.
Halt there!—what, would you dare to venture forth,
Without a benediction—and be snatched away
To utter darkness, ere you know it! You,
Thomas Topsfield, and Simon Braybrook, you—
Upon an errand of the Lord are sent! Go forth
Neither to smite, nor slay, nor judge unjustly,
But to seize and hale before this Court,
Maligners of the sacred name, and doers
Of the works of darkness. Be wary—
Look to your stirrups at the Cross-Roads;
My blessing with you, my masters, and now
Ride forth courageously. Remember,
Master Topsfield, the news you bring will fix
Beyond appeal, the fate of Ambla Bodish!

[Exeunt Topsfield and Braybrook, L. H., Deacon G., Justice F. and Pudeater, R. H.

SCENE II.

—A Garden.
Susanna and Gideon discovered.
Gideon.
Oh, pardon each ungentle word, I e'er
Have spoken, and listen to me now!

Susanna.
Gideon—you are not free to speak,
But underneath a tyranny you live,
Which rules the very glances of your eyes.

Gideon.
I am not free to speak!—I am and will—
You are the crown of all things beautiful,
Susanna! when glow your cheeks, the sun-set
Flashes in them! the lovely heaven is
In your eyes! and in your sweet motions live
The glad boundings of the springy deer!

Susanna.
You are constrained by power you cannot stem
To speak thus now. You love me not!

Gideon.
No, no, Susanna, 't is the free utterance
Of a heart too long o'ercharged. Truly
The love I bear for you—and long have borne—
But kept concealed within the darkness
Of my heart,—is more than mortal. It hath
Conditions of increase, yea, speedier
Than the free bird's wing—more large than all
The great wood's summer growth, and deeper
Than the infinite sea! I know not how it grew;
Whether as trees do in their nature;
By miracle of swift surprise it came,
As doth the wild cloud, now seen not, now filling
All sight, blinding, bewildering and possessing
All the universe—full of delightful
Agitations, with magic in them.

Susanna.
Oh, there it is! Forego this violent joy!

Gideon.
I would not give its balmy pains, Susanna,
For calmest health, its pangs delicious,
Troubles full of joy, wakenings electrical
At dead of night.

Susanna.
An evening shower makes morning brighter!
You look more cheerful than I ever knew you,
Gideon—fairer to mine eye
And ruddier far!

Gideon.
I must not look so—more.

Susanna.
You must, and shall, and ever will.

Gideon.
[Aside.]
The fatal spell still clouds her faculty!
She must dismiss this love which is a weight
To drag my mother down. Susanna,
Knew you what I have known, had heard what I
Have heard, to shake pure Nature from her seat,
And cast her powers into a fearful ecstacy,
You would not wish to join your tender fortunes
With mine.

Susanna.
You know not that, Gideon!

Gideon.
It must be so. By all the love I bear
And plead to you—turn, elsewhere, turn your love!
Oh! to some other give thy gentle heart!

Susanna.
Never!—wouldst thou have me, Gideon,
In this hour of bliss, ere it is a minute old,
Banish so sweet a dream?

Gideon.
Leave me, Susanna! for, each moment
That thou tarriest here, the despotism
Grows—go hence, forever!

Susanna.
No more these garden paths to walk
In happy hope? I cannot, Gideon.

Gideon.
Leave me, rash girl! why will you linger?
Look not upon me—turn your face away.

Susanna.
Gideon, thy heart is troubled and I
Will cling to thee.—Shall woman fly, now for the first
Since Eve that elder garden walked, from him
She loves—when sorrow frets his brow?

Gideon.
By these dark times our nature all is changed!
Oh, would that bitter words were needed not!
If e'er again this threshold thou dost cross—
If e'er again thy face is towards me turned—
If e'er in love thou thinkest more of me—
(I'd spare thee this, did not another life
Dearer than life demand the holy sacrifice)—
May heaviest curses light upon thy brow—
Thy young blood grow cold and chill thee
In the summer's prime.—Depart, Susanna!

Susanna.
And must I then leave thee, Gideon?

Gideon.
Depart, I say, in peace,—while there is any peace
Betwixt us. Delay not, lest I curse thee now!

Susanna.
The heaviest hour of all my life has come.
[Exit Susanna, L. H.

Gideon.
The very blackness I would rend, doubles
Its folds: is there no hope, in man nor heaven,
That I must stand, dry of its blissful help,
As if no rain of mercy ever fell!

Enter Topsfield, R. H.
Gideon.
Is it then so?

Topsfield.
It is: and I, this very minute, am speeding
Forth, to the Great Falls near Atkins' well,
To seek the last testimony.

Gideon.
You, Thomas?

Topsfield.
Aye, Gideon—and should I bring report
As all believe I will, it seals the doom
Of one I need not name to you.

Gideon.
Then, Thomas, to your old playfellow hand,
It is assigned to strike the fatal blow?

Topsfield.
Gideon—I fear it is! But if I strike
Or seem to strike, harshly, 'gainst you—it is
For Salem's sake.

“Gideon.
Let me implore you, go not on this quest!
“'T has happened, Thomas, lately that you and I
“Have walked but little, as we used, our old
“Familiar ways. Shall we no more be friends?
“Oh, let us be friends once more again,
“And lead our lives out in a joyful amity!
“Thomas, you know you have often asked me
“To come forth more into the fields with you.
“The sun is fair to-day.

“Topsfield.
I see the cloud you thought you saw,
“When we were out upon the panther hunt.

“Gideon.
You will not say the fields have lost their fairness;
“That you desire to sit by the hearth, while trees
“Grow greenly in the air, the young deer skip,
“And streams run clear as light with leaping sport?

“Topsfield.
The hunt is over, Gideon,
“And the fresh following of the field is over;
“All sport hath lost its sportfulness, and trouble
“Moves the waters everyway.

“Gideon.
Oh, Thomas, say not so;
“Now knew you of a stalk of glossy deer,
“A mile, or two, or three, beyond the bridge,
“Could your soul sleep and not take after?

“Topsfield.
My road lies that way, but in another quest.

“Gideon.
What say you to a great-antlered elk,
“Tangling his horns amid the branches
“Of the hemlock wood—to speckled swimmers
“In still-water stream. Shall we not bear each
“Other company?

“Topsfield.
The horned beast we hunt,
“Takes not the woods, but keeps the open way,
“And makes his prey of all of us.

“Gideon.
Can we be friends, no more?

“Topsfield.
Would that we might, but who shall move the bar
“That falls between us, as an iron line?

Gideon.
Now let the heavens in pieces break,
And night come up to claim the universe,
For her's in fee! The sun has lost his use;
We know not what we see. The earth hath foothold
For the unsubstantial dark alone,
And sea and shore divide us, all in vain,
From nothingness! Thomas, oh let me take
Your hand once more, and know reality
Of flesh and blood.

Topsfield.
[Avoiding Gideon.]
I would
That this had never been! Gideon, bear up
Against what comes, with all the strength, and all
The truth, and all the sturdy manliness,
You 've drawn from this clear air, this honest earth,
These upright woods about us! Fare you well—
I must hasten—or all is lost!
[Exit Topsfield, L. E.

Gideon.
He, too, has passed the way of all—the shadow
Of a friend, evanishing where all is shadow—
The beauty of this world is gone forever!—
The temple, day by day, I builded up,
Whose sanctity and shadowy awe
Grew on me every hour, and every hour
Gave gentle shelter to my climbing love,
Is falling to the earth, and all its glory
Seeks the common dust!—My mother—oh, my mother!
I hear the murmur of a sea-like sigh—
Who is it yonder creeping through the leaves
So stealthily? Perturbed singing too;
It rises now, and now it dies away,
And looses itself even as could we ourselves—
My mother! my mother! I see she's there!
I see the dark woods shake, from this—Heaven!
Be it the breath of thy good wind, and not
An evil spirit stirring them!

[Ambla Crosses from L. to R.
Ambla.
My child against me! The sharpest dagger yet.
Can life hold out when universal nature
Casts it off, and leaves its widowed singleness,
To keep a wilderness of thought? A wolf
Left out to hunt alone on the wide waste,
Would tear himself and die! Ah, I thought
Just then, a face put close 'gainst mine laughed hollowly!
That face again—and now, it is the chief
Of many, that fill the air and mock at me.
Black-browed suggestions cave yourselves again!
A step,—'t is Gideon's! I'll talk with him,
A little while, and wear a face of stone,
Lest he go mad—troubled too much.

Gideon.
[Coming forward.]
Drive off these spectres, dear mother,
And behold your son! He lives and they are not.

Ambla.
I see you, but not as of old.

Gideon.
Oh, be yourself, that I may be the same.

Ambla.
No, touch me not, 'till this has passed away.
Your hand must be unfilial ever, while
Bear your eyes that look—I am sorely tried,
My son, yet hope to live; tried in my mind—
And not in that without.

Gideon.
Fight with the Tempter, mother, and come off
Victor and pure!

Ambla.
Interrupt me not!—'t is there—behold:
If flies and I must follow!

Gideon.
What marvel now is this?

Ambla.
Sometimes it wanders the wood, sometimes
The free-flowered air: come softly on!

Gideon.
She seems so raised in spirit,
As if the unbarred heaven might open
And snatch her, even visibly, away.

Ambla.
It pauses by the murmuring tree, it stops
Now fast by the sweet brook, but not to drink!
It shapes its way—Gideon—oh, heaven, be merciful!
Toward our house, toward my sad roof, and see
It enters in!

[They enter the house of Ambla Bodish.

SCENE III.

—An upper Chamber—a Table.
Enter Ambla followed by Gideon.
Ambla.
I see it, there it is—look, look, tread lightly,
Or you will wrongfully affright it!
[To the Apparition.]
Welcome! but wherefore new and thus?
You cannot speak? What binds you to silence?
If I may speak, lift up your hand!—I may.

Gideon.
All-Gracious! What passes now, that thus
My mother shakes, and yet keeps fast her look,
Sealed to an empty chair! She moves her lips;
As I have seen her move them, with nothing
Holding long discourse: that might be age
And faculties beyond control: this is not age.

Ambla.
Be silent, Gideon— [Sternly.]
it is
Myself that speaketh with my other self!
Can Nature grant a higher act? Hush, son—
'T is troubled if you speak.

Gideon.
Blest Heaven! uphold her!

Ambla.
[To the Apparition.]
You are not sad? nor angry? nor hopeless?
You blow the Great Book's leaves apart, I see;
[The leaves of the Bible on the table fly open.
And point me to it: mine eyes are dimmed
By years, may he, this youth—our son? He may.
Gideon!
[Gideon approaches fearfully.
Mark where the spirit points
And read. [Commandingly.]


Gideon.
I see no pointing, no spirit, mother.

Ambla.
See you not his finger airy? Bend down—
You see it now.

[She points.
Gideon.
[Reads.]
‘Set thine house in order, for thou shalt die’!
Uphold me, or I fall—ha! ha!
[He is convulsed.
[Awakening.]
'T is true, and I the son of one accursed—
The veil is rent—and the dread power, whose work
You 've done so well, stands master at your side,
And thus he claims you—a lost, doomed woman!

Ambla.
No, no, Gideon, it is a better spirit—
Hear me, my son!

Gideon.
Your son no longer, nor you my mother—
The thunderbolt has fallen. Heaven deserts you!—
I'm smitten to earth—Thomas, your quest
Was right and lawful! The spell that tangled you,
Susanna, was forged in dark and dreadful fires!
Horror! The whirlwind, whose cloudy breath
I 've felt so long, wraps her about at last,
And sweeps her from my sight.

Ambla.
Gideon! my son—my son!

Gideon.
Behold the damning evidence of guilt—
See, see it flaming on the offended sky,
And written in the air—“A witch!” Oh God!
“A witch!” “A witch!”

[At the word “witch” Ambla shrieks wildly, and falls on her knees at the side of Gideon.]