University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

From that hour he was another man. His heart was
alive with a new hope. The dark desolate chambers
thereof were lighted up with a new joy. And what if
there was no love, nor beauty, nor music sounding in
them all the day through, such as there had been a few
brief years before, in the spring-tide of his youthful
courage; they were no longer what they had been at another
period, neither very dark, nor altogether uninhabited,
nor perplexed with apparitions that were enough to
drive him distracted—the apparition of a child—the
apparition of a dead hope—for with him, after the death
of a second wife, hope itself was no more. He was now
a messenger of the Most High, with every faculty and
every power of his mind at work to baffle and expose
the treachery of those, who pretending to be afflicted by
witchcraft, ware wasting the heritage of the white man
as with fire and sword. He strove to entrap them; he
set spies about their path. He prayed in the public
highway, and preached in the market place, for they
would not suffer him to appear in the House of the Lord.
He besought his Maker, the Searcher of Hearts, day
after day, when the people were about him, to stay the
destroyer, to make plain the way of the judges, to speak
in the dead of the night with a voice of thunder to the
doers of iniquity; to comfort and support the souls of the
accused however guilty they might appear, and (if consistant
with his Almighty pleasure) to repeat as with the

noise of a multitude of trumpets in the sky, the terrible
words, Thou shalt not bear false witness.

But the death of Martha Cory discouraged him. His
heart was heavy with a dreadful fear when he saw her
die, and before anybody knew that he was among the
multitude, he started up in the midst of them, and broke
forth into loud prayer—a prayer which had well nigh
exposed him to the law for blasphemy; and having made
himself heard in spite of the rebuke of the preachers and
magistrates, who stood in his way at the foot of the gallows,
he uttered a prophecy and shook off the dust from
his feet in testimony against the rulers of the land, the
churches and the people, and departed for the habitation
of Mr. Paris, where the frighful malady first broke out
resolved in his own soul whatever should come of it—
life or death—to Bridget Pope, or to Abigail Paris—or
to the preacher himself, his old associate in grief,
straightway to look into every part of the fearful mystery,
to search into it as with fire, and to bring every accuser
with whom there should be found guile, whether high
or low, or young or old, a flower of hope, or a blossom
of pride, before the ministers of the law,—every accuser
in whom he should be able to see a sign of bad faith or a
look of trepidation at his inquiry—though it were the
aged servant of the Lord himself; and every visited and
afflicted one, whether male or female, in whose language
or behaviour he might see anything to justify his fear.

It was pitch dark when he arrived at the log-hut of
Matthew Paris, and his heart died within him, as he
walked up to the door and set his foot upon the broad
step, which rocked beneath his agitated and powerful
tread; for the windows were all shut and secured with
new and heavy wooden bars—and what appeared very
surprising at such an early hour, there was neither light
nor life, neither sound nor motion, so far as he could

percieve in the whole house. He knocked however, and
as he did so, the shadow of something—or the shape of
something just visible in the deep darkness through
which he was beginning to see his way, moved
athwart his path and over the step, as if it had pursued
him up to the very door. He was a brave man—but
he caught his breath and stepped back, and felt happy
when a light flashed over the wet smooth turf, and a
voice like that of Mr. Paris bid him walk in, for he was
expected and waited for, and had nothing to fear.

Nothing to fear, brother Paris....He stopped short
and stood awhile in the door-way as if debating with
himself whether to go forward or back.

Why—how pale and tired you are—said Mr. Paris, lifting
up the candle and holding it so that he could see the
face of Burroughs, while his own was in deep shadow.
You appear to have a—the Lord have pity on us and help
us, dear brother! what can be the matter with you?—
why do you hold back in that way?—why do you stand
as if you have n't the power to move? why do you look
at me as if you no longer know me?—

True—true, said Burroughs—very true—talking to
himself in a low voice and without appearing to observe
that another was near. No, no....it is too late now....
there's no going back now, if I would....but of a truth,
it is very wonderful, very....very....that I should not
have recollected my rash vow....a vow like that of Jeptha....very....very....till
I had passed over that rocky
threshold which five years ago this very night, I took an
oath never to pass again. What if the day that I spoke
of be near?....What if I should be taken at my word!
Our Father who art in......

Sir—Mr. Burroughs—my dear friend—

Well.

What is the matter with you?

With me?....nothing.......Oh....ah....I pray you, brother,
do not regard my speech; I am weary of this work,
and the sooner we give it up now, the better. I have
done very little good, I fear....two deaths to my charge,
where I had hoped a....ah, forgive me, brother; pray
forgive me....But how is this?....What's the matter with
you?

With me!

Yes—with you. What have I done, that you should
block up the door-way of your own house, when you
see me approach? And what have I done that you should
try to hide your face from me, while you are searching
mine with fire, and looking at me with half-averted
eyes?

With half-averted eyes—

Matthew, Matthew—we are losing time—we should
know each other better. You are much less cordial to
me than you were a few days ago, and you know it.
Speak out like a man....like a preacher of truth—what
have I done?

What have you done, brother George—how do I
know?

Matthew Paris....are we never to meet again as we
have met? never while we two breathe the breath of life?

I hope....I do hope... I am not less glad to see you
than I should be; I do not mean to give you up, whatever
others may do, but—but these are ticklish times
brother, and just now (in a whisper) situated as we are,
we cannot be too cautious. To tell you the truth....I
was not altogether prepared to see you, after the—

Not prepared to see me! Why you told me before you
lifted the latch that I was expected, and waited for—

So I did brother....so I did, I confess—

And yet, I told nobody of my intention; how did you
know I was to be with you?—

One of the children said so above a week ago, in her
sleep.

In—deed.

Ah, you may smile now, brother George; but you
looked serious enough a moment ago, when I opened
the door, and if what they say is true—

How did I look, pray?

Why—to tell you the truth, you looked as if you saw
something.

Well....what if I did see something?

The Lord help us brother—what did you see

I do not say—I am not sure....but I thought I saw
something.

The Lord have mercy on you, brother—what was it?

A shadow—a short black shadow that sped swiftly
by me, but whether of man or beast, I do not know.
All that I do know, is—

Lower....lower....speak lower, I beseech you, brother
B.

No brother P. I shall not speak lower.

Do....do—

I shall not. For I would have the shadow hear me,
and the body to know, whether it be man or devil, that
if either cross my path again, I will pursue the shadow
till I discover the body, or the body till I have made a
shadow of that—

Walk in brother....walk in, I beseech you.

I'll not be startled again for nothing. Ah—what
are you afraid of?

Afraid—I—

Brother Paris—

There now!

Look you brother Paris. You have something to say
to me, and you have not the courage to say it. You are
sorry to see me here....you would have me go away....I

do not know wherefore....I do not ask; but I know by
the tone of your voice, by your look, and by everything
I hear and see, that so it is. In a word therefore....let
us understand each other. I shall not go away....here I
am Sir, and here I shall abide Sir, until the mystery
which brought me hither is cleared up.

Indeed, indeed Mr. Burroughs, you are mistaken.

I do not believe you.

Sir!

I do not believe you, I say; and I shall put you to the
proof.

George Burroughs—I will not be spoken to, thus.

Poh—poh—

I will not, Sir. Who am I, Sir—and who are you,
that I should suffer this of you?—I, a preacher of the
gospel—you, an outcast and a fugitive—

Burroughs drew up with a smile. He knew the temper
of the aged man, he foresaw that he should soon
have the whole truth out of him, and he was prepared
for whatever might be the issue.

—Yea, an outcast and a fugitive, pursued by the law
it may be, while I speak; I, a man old enough to be
your father—By what authority am I waylaid here, underneath
my own roof—a roof that would have been a
refuge for you, if you were not a—

A what Sir?

I have done—

So I perceive Matthew. I am satisfied now—I see
the cause now of what I charged you with. I do not
blame you—grievous though it be to the hope I had
when I thought of you—my—my—brother. I feel for
you—I pity you—I am sorry now for what I said—I
pray you to forgive me—farewell—

Hey—what—

Farewell. You saw me, as you thought, pursued by

the law—flying to the shadow of your roof as to a refuge,
and so, you stood at the door and rebuked me,
Matthew.

You wrong me—I love you—I respect you—there is
no treachery here, and what I have said, I said rashly,
and I know not why. Forgive me brother George....
forgive the old man, whose fear hath made him overlook
what is due to them, whoever they are, that fly to
his habitation for shelter.

I do forgive you....my brother. Let me also be forgiven.

Be it so....there....there....be it so.

But before I take another step, assure me that if I enter
the door, neither you nor yours will be put in jeopardy.

In jeopardy!

Am I pursued by the law?....am I, of a truth?

Not pursued by the law, George: I did not say you
were; I do not know that you will be....but indeed, indeed,
my poor unhappy friend, here is my roof, and
here am I, ready to share the peril with you, whatever
it may be, and whatever the judges and elders and the
people may say.

You are.

Yes.

I am satisfied. You have done your duty....I shall
now do mine. You are a true brother; let me prove
that I know how to value such truth. I am not pursued
by the law, so far as I know or have reason to believe,
and if I was....I should not come hither you may be assured
for safety....nay, I do not mean a reproach....
I have absolute faith in your word now; I do believe
that you would suffer with me and for me....but you
shall not. If I were hunted for my life, why should I
fly to you?....You could be of no use to me....you could

neither conceal me nor save me....and I might bring
trouble upon you and yours forever. What would become
of you, were I to be tracked by the blood-hounds
up to your very door?

I pray you, said the aged man, I do pray you....looking
about on every side, shadowing the light with his
meagre hand, the whole inward structure whereof was
thereby revealed, and speaking in a low subdued whisper—as
if he knew that they were overheard by invisible
creatures....I pray you brother....dear brother....let us
have done with such talk—

Why so....what are you afraid of?

Softly....softly....if they should overhear us—

They....who....what on earth are you shaking at?

No matter.....hush.....hush......you may have no such
fear brother B....you are a bold man brother B....a very
bold man....but as for me....hark!....

What's the matter with you?....What ails you?

Hush!....hush....do you not hear people whispering
outside the door?

No.

A noise like that of somebody breathing hard?—

Yes—

You do....the Lord help us.

I do man, I do—but it is yourself—you it is, that are
breathing hard—what folly Matthew—what impiety
at your age!

At my age....ah my dear brother, if you had seen
what I have seen, or heard what I have heard, or suffered
as I have, young as you are, and stout and powerful
as you are, you would not speak as you do now, nor look
as you do now....

Seen....heard....suffered. Have I not seen....have I
not suffered!....How little you know of me....

Here Matthew Paris, after securing the door with a

multitude of bars and bolts of oak, led the way with a
cautious and fearful step toward a little room, through
the gaping crevices of which, a dim unsteady light, like
the light of a neglected fire could be seen.

Death Sir....death in every possible shape, I might
say....but who cares for death?....peril which, whatever
you may suppose Matthew, at your age—old as you are
....why—what am I to understand by your behaviour!....
you don't hear a word I am saying to you.

There, there—not so loud I entreat you....not so loud
—there's no knowing what may be near us.

Near us—are you mad?—what can be near us?

There again—there, there!

Stop—I go no further.

My dear friend—

Not another step—if you are crazy, I am not—I will
be satisfied before I go any further. Were I to judge by
what I now see and hear—did I not believe what you
said a few moments ago; and where I not persuaded
of your integrity, Matthew, I should believe my foes
were on the look out for me, and that you had been employed
to entrap me, as the strong man of old was entrapped
for the Philistines, with a show of great love—

Brother!

—Nay, nay, it is not so; I know that very well. But
were I to judge by your behavior now, I say, and by
that alone, I should prepare my fingers for the fight, and
this weapon for war.

And I—if I were to judge by your looks and behaviour
at the door, I should believe that you were flying
for your life, and that betaking yourself to my roof,
without regard for me or mine, you were willing to betray
us to the law.

Man—man—how could you believe such a thing
of me?

You were pale as death, George—

Speak louder—

Pale as death, and you did not answer me, nor even
appear to see me, till after I had spoken to you two or
three times.

Of a truth?—

You appeared unwilling to trust yourself beneath my
roof, when you saw me—

Did I—

—So that I was driven to recall the transaction which
drove us apart from each other—

Did I, Matthew?—I am sorry for it—

Yes—and your behavior altogether was very strange
—is very strange now; it is in fact, allow me to say so,
just what I should look for in a man who knew that his
life was in jeopardy. Take a chair—you are evidently
much disturbed, you appear to have met with some—
surely—surely—my brother, something has happened to
you.

—Did I—

You do not hear me—

True enough, Matthew—I am very tired—please to
give me a drop of water and allow me to rest myself
here a few minutes —I must be gone quickly—I have no
time to lose now, I percieve.

You take a bed with me to night, of course.

No.

You must—indeed you must, my good brother—I have
much to ask—much to advise with you about. We are
in a dreadful way now, and if we—

Impossible Matthew—I cannot—I dare not. I have
more to do than you have to say. Are the children a-bed
yet?

Ah brother, brother—you have not forgotten the dear
child, I see.

Which dear child?

Which dear child!—why—oh—ah—I thought you
meant little Abby—the very image of my departed wife.

Is Bridget Pope with you now?

—She often speaks of you, the dear little babe....she
wears the keep-sake you gave her, and won't let any
body sit in your place, and if we desire to punish her,
we have only to say that uncle George won't love her....

The dear child! I saw her with Bridget on the day
of the trial, but I had no time to speak to either. I hope
they are both well—Bridget has grown prodigiously, I
hear—

And so has Abby —

Indeed!

Indeed—why—is it so very wonderful that Abby
should grow?

To be sure—certainly not—she was very fair when I
saw her last—when I left this part of the world, I mean.

Very—

So upright, and so graceful and free in her carriage....

Free in her carriage?

For a child, I mean—so modest, and so remarkable
in every way—so attentive, so quiet—

Ah my dear friend—how happy you make me. You
never said half so much about her, all the time you lived
here; and I, who know your sincerity and worth and
soberness—to tell you the truth George—I have been a
little sore....

....So attentive, so quiet and so assiduous....

Very true....very true....and to hear you say so, is
enough to make her father's heart leap for joy.

What—in the grave?....

In the grave?....

And after all, I do not perceive that her eyes are too
large....

Too large?

Nor that her complexion is too pale....

Nor I....

Nor that her very black hair is either too....

Black hair.....black.....pray brother B. do you know
what you are saying just now? black hair.....why the
child's hair is no more black than—large eyes too—
why it is Bridget Pope that has the large eyes—

Bridget Pope—to be sure it is—and who else should
it be?