University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

So then—It was Bridget Pope you were speaking of
all the time, hey, continued the father.

To be sure it was—what's the matter now?

Why—a—a—the fact is, brother—

You are displeased, I see.

Not at all—not in the least—no business of mine,
brother George—none at all, if you like Bridget Pope
as much as ever—child though she is—no business of
mine brother Burroughs—I am sure of that.

So am I—

You may laugh brother B., you may laugh.

So I shall brother P.—so I shall. O, the sick and
sore jealousy of a father! Why—do you not know
Matthew Paris—have I not given you the proof—that
your Abigail is to me even as if she were my own child
—the child of my own dear Sarah? And is not my
feeling toward poor Bridget Pope that of one who foresees
that her life is to be a life, perhaps of uninterrupted
trial and sorrow, because of her extraordinary character.
I do acknowledge to you that my heart grows
heavy when I think of what she will have to endure, with
her sensibility—poor child—she is not of the race about
her—

There now George—there it is again! That poor
child has never been out of your head, I do believe, since
you saw her jump into the sea after little Robert Eveleth;
and if she were but six or eight years older, I am

persuaded from what I now see, and from what I have
seen before—

Matthew Paris!

Forgive me George—forgive me—I have gone too far.

You have gone too far.

Will you not forgive me?

I do—I do—I feel what you have said though; I feel
it sharply—it was like an arrow, or a knife—

Allow me to say—

No, no—excuse me—I know what you would say.

Her great resemblance to your wife, which everybody
speaks of, and her beauty—

No, no, Matthew, no, no....I cannot bear such talk.

Ah George!

Both my wives were very dear to me; but she of
whom you speak, she whom you saw upon the bed of
death in all her beauty—she who died before you, in all
her beauty, her glorious beauty! but the other day as
it were.....

The other day, George?

—Died with her hand in yours but the other day,
while I was afar off—she whom neither piety nor truth
could save, nor faith nor prayer—she of whom you are
already able to speak with a steady voice, and with a
look of terrible composure—to me it is terrible Matthew
she is too dear to me still, and her death too near, whatever
you may suppose; you, her adopted father!—you,
the witness of her marriage vow—you, the witness of her
death—for me to endure it—O my God, my God—that
such a woman should be no more in so short a time!

Dear George—

—No more on the earth....no more in the hearts of
them that knew her.

Have I not lost a wife too?....a wife as beautiful as the
day, George, and as good as beautiful?

—No more in the very heart of him, her adopted
father, who sat by her and supported her when she drew
her last breath—

Dear George....would you break the old man's heart?
why should I not speak of them that are dead, as freely
as of—

The children....the children, Matthew—how are they?

The children?

I have work to do before I sleep. It grows late....how
are they?

No longer what they were, when you saw them about
my table five years ago....

I dare say not—five years are an age to them.

But they are better now than they were at the time of
the trial; we begin to have some hope now—

Have you, indeed?

Yes, for they have begun to....she has begun, I should
say....Bridget Pope....

I understand you—the father will out....

—She has begun to look cheerful and to go about the
house in that quiet smooth way—

I know, I know....it was enough to bring the water
into my eyes to look at her—

Robert Eveleth is to be with us to-night, and if we
can persuade him to stay here a week or two, I have
great hope in the issue....

What hope—how?—

That both will be cured of their melancholy ways—
Bridget Pope and my poor Abby—

Their melancholy ways—why, what have they to do
with Robert Eveleth?

Why—don't you see they are always together when
he is here—

Who—Abigail and he?

No—Bridget Pope—

Well, what if they are—what does that prove?

Prove!

Yes—prove—prove—you know the meaning of the
word, I hope?

Don't be angry, George.

Angry—who's angry?—poh, poh, Matthew, poh,
poh, poh; talk about love in a girl of that age for a boy
of that age—

Love—who said anything about love?

Poh, poh poh—affection, or love—or—whatever you
please, Matthew—it isn't the word I quarrel with—it is
the idea—I wonder that you should put such things into
their head—

I!

A man of your age, Matthew Paris—

Ah, brother, brother.

Sir.

There you go again!—But I see how it is, and I shall
say no more about Bridgy Pope or the boy, Robert Eveleth,
till you are a—

For shame—

Why so, George? All I wanted to say was, that when
Robert is here, the children are happy together and
cheerful. They go romping about in the woods together,
up all the mows in the neighbourhood, or along by
the sea-shore, (between schools) and spend half their
play-time in the blackberry-swamp—you look very serious....

I feel so....good by'e.

Good by'e—I thought you had come to see the children?

To see the children?—so I did—as I live, Matthew!
Lead me to them—

Follow me in here—they are just going to bed, I see.

So I did—I came for no other purpose—

Really?

Really—

A tip-toe, brother, if you please—the sight of you may
do them good—

I hope so, said Burroughs—beginning to feel what he
had never till that hour had the slightest idea of—jealousy—downright
jealousy, and of a nature too absurd
for belief, except with such as have been afraid in a like
way, of losing the chief regard of no matter what—anything
for which they cared ever so little, or ever so much
—a bird or a kitten, a dog or a horse, a child or a woman.

I hope so, he repeated, as he followed the preacher
on tip-toe and peeped into the little room to survey their
faces before he entered, that he might enjoy their surprise.
But he started back at the first view, and caught by
the arm of his aged brother—for there sat the poor children
with their little naked feet buried half leg deep in
the wood-ashes, their uncombed hair flying loose in the
draught of the chimney, each with her wild eyes fixed upon
the hearth, and each as far from the other as she could
well get in the huge fire-place; and so pale were they,
and so meagre, and their innocent faces were so full of
care and so unlike what they should have been at their
age—the age of untroubled hope and pure joy—that he
was quite overcome.

They heard his approach, either his step or his breathing,
and started away from their settles with a cry that
pierced his heart.

I pray you! said he.—But Abigail ran off and hid
herself in a far corner of the room, where a bed was turned
up in a niche, and waited there, gasping for breath,
as if she expected to be eaten alive; and Bridget Pope,
although she stood still and surveyed him with a steady
look, made no reply to what he said, but grew very pale,
and caught by a chair when he spoke to her.

Why how now, said Mr. Paris, how now, children?
what's the matter with you, now?

Father—father! cried Abigail, peeping out with eyes
full of terror, and speaking with a voice which made her
father look toward the door as if he expected Burroughs
to assume another shape, or somebody else to appear
from the darkness behind. O father—father—O my!
—there, there!—there he goes!

Where—where—what is it, my poor child?

Why—Burroughs—Burroughs—there, there! there
now, there he goes again!—that's he—there, there—
don't you see him now, father?

See whom, dear?—see what?

Why, Burroughs, to be sure—Burroughs, the bad man
—there—there—there—

God help us!

I never saw him afore in that shape, father, never in
all my days, but I know him though, I know him wel
enough by the scar on his forehead—there, there—there
he goes!—can't you see him now, father?

See him—to be sure I do.

Gracious God—Almighty Father—what can be the
matter with the poor child? I begin to perceive the truth
now, said Burroughs, I do not wonder now at your faith,
nor at your dreadful terror.

There—there—didn't you hear that, father?—it
spoke then—I heard it speak as plain as day—didn't you
hear it, father?

Why—Abigail Paris—don't you know me dear?
don't you know your uncle George?

There again—that's jest the way he speaks—help,
father, help!

What is the matter with you, child?

Nothin' father; nothin' at all now—it stops now—it

was a comin' this way when you spoke—my stars! anybody
might know it, father.

Know what, Abby?

Make me believe that aint George Burroughs, if you
can, father.

Why, to be sure it is, cried Burroughs, going a step
nearer to the place where the little creature lay, cuddled
up in a heap, with a quantity of split-wood and pitch-knots
gathered about her. Why do you tremble so, dear?—
what's the matter with you?—what are you afraid of?

Father—father—shrieked the poor child, stop it,
father!

Why!—don't you know me Abigail?—nor you neither
Bridget Pope—don't you know me dear?

O Sir—Sir—is it you?—is it you yourself, Mr. Burroughs?
cried the latter, huddling up into the shadow,
and catching her breath, and standing on tip-toe, as if
to get as far out of his reach as possible. O Sir—is it
you?....

To be sure it is—look at me—speak to me—touch
me—

O Sir, Sir—no, no, Mr. Burroughs—no, no.

Why what on earth can possess you Bridget Pope?
—what on earth is the matter with you?—what are you
afraid of?

O Lord Sir—I hope it is you!

Who else can it be?—don't you see me?—don't you
hear me speak?—O I'm ashamed of you, such a great
girl, to be afraid of a—

Who else?—how should I know Sir? and if I knew,
I should be afraid to say; but I don't know Sir, I don't
indeed Sir—and how should I, pray, when I never saw
you before to night—

Never saw me before to night!

No Sir, never—never—

Are you out of your head Bridget Pope?—never saw
me before?

No Sir—never, never—I wish I may die if I ever did,
though others have—your shape I mean Sir—but I
would never allow they told the truth about you when
they—O, Abigail, Abigail!

Did you speak to me, Bridgy Pope?

O my, O my!—it is your uncle George!—it is indeed—I
see the ring he used to wear—that's the very
ring!

You don't say so Bridgy!—mother's pretty ring?

Speak to it now Abby—you aint afeard now—speak
to it, will you?

No, no, Bridgy, no, no—you speak to it yourself—
what are you cryin' about father?

I did speak to it Abby—it's your turn now—

But you're the nearest—

But you're the furthest off—

Ah—but you're the oldest!—

But you are the youngest....

Father—father—its lookin' at me now!

Well, what are you afread on Abby—I don't believe
he's one o' the crew—is he, uncle Matthew?

The preacher was afraid to open his mouth—his heart
was too full. It was the first time they had called each
other Abby and Bridgy, for months.

And so—and so—they may say what they like; and
I—I—as for me Abby, I'm not afeard now, one bit—

How you talk Bridgy.

No—and I'll never be afeard again—so there!

Why—Bridgy!

And so you'd better come out o' your cubby-house,
and go up to it and speak to it; I'm not afeard now,
you see.

Nor I.

Yes you be, or you wouldn't stay there.

What if you speak to it agin Bridgy?

So I will. How d'ye do Sir, how d'ye do?

My!—if 'taint a laughin' at you!

I hope you're satisfied now—

Aint you railly afeard one bit though, cousin Bridgy?

No indeed, not I. See if I be now—look at me and
see what I'm a goin' to do. There Sir!—there Mr.
Burroughs, or whatever you be, there's my hand Sir—
there—

Laying it on the table before him and turning away
her head just as if she were going to have some hateful
operation performed....

—You may touch it if you like—

God bless you dear.

I'm not afeard of you now—am I Sir?

No, no—my brave girl.

And you are not ashamed of me now I hope—are you
Sir?

No—no —but I am proud of you—

He touched her hand as he spoke, but released
it immediately, for he saw that he had a very cautious
game to play.

By jingo Abby!

By jingo—what for?

Why the hand is warm after all; it is Mr. Burroughs
himself—it is, it is!—I know him now as well as I
know you—hourra!

O my!

As sure as you are alive Abby.

Why, Bridget Pope, said her uncle. What on earth
are you made of?

Me—uncle Matthew?

Why....it appears that you did not know him just
now, when you spoke to him.

No Sir—I wasn't very sure—not so sure as I am now.

There's courage for you—true courage, Matthew
Paris; a spirit worthy of all admiration.

Very true—very true—but she is two years older than
Abby.

Not so much, Matthew, not so much—well dear?

May I go now—please....

You are not afraid of me now, dear?

No Sir—if you please—not much—

And you never will be so again, I hope?

So do I Sir—so do I....I hope so too....for its an awful
thing to be afeard of anybody.

Poor child.

To be afeard in the dark Sir—in the dead o' the night
Sir—when you're all livin' alone Sir—O, it is dreadful.

So it is, our Bridgy.

But I never mean to be afeard again Sir.

There's a good girl.

Never, never (catching her breath)—if I can help it.

Nor I nyther, Bridgy—

Never....(lowering her voice and peeping under the
bed) never without I see the wicked Shape as they do
—right afore me in the path, when I go after the cows,
or when I go to look for the pretty shells on the seashore—

What wicked Shape?

Your own Sir—please.

Ah.

And so Sir—and so—and so uncle Matthew—and so
you'd better come out o' your hole, Abby dear.

After a deal of persuasion, Abby dear began to creep
out of her hiding-place, and by little and little to work her
way along, now by the split-wood, now by the wall, and
now with her back toward the place where the Shape sat

holding his breath and afraid to move, lest he should
scare away the new-born courage of the little thing.

After a while she got near enough to speak; and holding
by her father's coat all the time, she sidled up to
Burroughs, who would not appear to see what she was
about, aud lifting up her innocent face, articulated just
loud enough to reach him—There now.

Well dear—

Off she started, the moment he spoke.

But finding she was not pursued, she stopped a
yard or two from his chair, and peeping over the flap of
her father's coat—and seeing that the shape was looking
another way—she came a little nearer—stopped—a little
nearer still—inch by inch—stopped once more, and
looking up at him, as if she knew not whether to run off
or stay, said—You be Mr. Burroughs—I know?

He was afraid to speak yet, and afraid to move.

Uncle George—ee.

God bless the babe!

There now—I told you so—you be uncle George,
baint you?

Yes dear—but who are you—you little wayward imp,
with such a smutty face and such ragged hair....poh, poh
....poh....what are you afraid of?

O father, father! he's got me! he's got me!

Well—there, there—if you don't like to stay with me,
go to your father....

Why....what a funny Shape it is father—if it is a
shape.

I don't believe your hair has been combed for a twelvemonth.

O but it has though....

It is no fault of ours, my friend, said her father, delighted
to see her at the knee of Burroughs. We do all
we can, but the more we scrub, the more we may; the

more we wash, the dirtier and blacker she grows, and
the more we comb, the rougher looks her beautiful hair
....it was beautiful indeed a year ago—

It was like spun gold when I left you.

—But she is no longer the same Abigail Paris that you
knew—

Why....father!....

Be careful Sir; metaphors and poetry are not for
babes and sucklings....

You be a good man after all....baint you Sir? continued
she, getting more confidence at every breath, now
that she found the Shape willing to let her go whenever
she chose to go. You be a good man after all Sir....
baint you Sir?

I hope so dear.

You never torments the people, do you? Leaning
with her whole weight upon his knee, letting go her father's
coat, and shaking her abundant hair loose.

I!....no indeed I hope not....I should be very sorry to
torment the people.

Would you though?

Yes dear....

Uncle Georgee! said the child in a whisper that
sounded like a whisper of joy....dear uncle George....and
he drew her into his lap, and she put her mouth close to
his ear and repeated the words again, so that they went
into his heart—O, I do love you, uncle Georgee!

Having passed a whole hour in examing the two little
sufferers (whom he left asleep in each other's arms) he
went away utterly confounded by their behaviour, and
with little hope of reaching the truth; for if Abigail Paris
and Bridget Pope were what they seemed to be....what
they undoubtedly were indeed,—innocent as the dove—
how could he say after all, that they were not bewitched?
Still however there was one hope. That which

he saw might proceed from disease or from fear, the
natural growth in that age and among that people, of a
solitary situation. But if so, what was he to think of
others, who had a like faith, and yet lived in a populous
neighborhood and were cheerful and happy? Anxious
to arrive at the truth, he set off immediately to see Rachel
and Elizabeth Dyer, knowing that under their quiet
roof, he should be at peace, though he failed to procure
what he needed....further information about her who had
abused the people and the judges with a tremendous
forgery.