University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

A long silence followed—a silence like that of death
—at last Rachel Dyer spoke:

George Burroughs—I understand thee now, said she,
I understand it all. Thee would have me confess that I
deserve death—only that I may live. Thee would have
me acknowledge (for nothing else would do) that I am
a liar and a witch, and that I deserve to die—and all
this for what?—only that I may escape death for a few
days. O George!

No, no—you mistake the matter. I would not have
you confess that you deserve death—I would only have
you speak to them—God of the faithful!—I cannot—I
cannot urge this woman to betray her faith.

I understand thee, George. But if I were to do so,
what should I gain by it?

Gain by it, Rachel Dyer?

Why do thee drop my hand? why recoil at my touch
now?

Gain by it! siezing both her hands with all his might,
and speaking as if he began to fear—not to hope—no,
but to fear that she might be over-persuaded—

Yea—what have I to gain by it?

Life. You escape death—a cruel ignominious death
—a death, which it is not for a woman to look at, but
with horror.

Well George—

By death, you lose the opportunity of doing much good,
of bringing the wicked to justice, of aiding them that

are now ready to die with terror, of shielding the oppressed—

Well—

Well—and what more would you have? Is not this
enough?

No, George.

Hear me out Rachel. Do not reprove me, do not
turn away, till you have heard me through. My duty is
before me, a duty which must and shall be done, though
it break my heart. I am commanded to argue with
you, and to persuade you to live.

Commanded?—

What if you were to confess that you deserve death?
What if you were to own yourself a witch? I take your
own view of the case.—I put the query to you in a shape
the least favorable to my purpose. What if you were to
do this; you would be guilty at the most but of a—of a—

Of untruth George.

And you would save your own life by such untruth,
and the lives, it may be, of a multitude more, and the
life you know, of one that is very dear to you.

Well—

No no—do not leave me in this way! Do not go till I
—I beseech you to hear me through—

I will—it grieves me, but I will.

Which is the greater sin—to die when you have it in
your power to escape death, if you will, by a word? or
to speak a word of untruth to save your life—

George Burroughs—I pray thee—suffer me to bid
thee farewell.

No no, not yet. Hear me through—hear all I have
to say. By this word of untruth, you save your own
life, and perhaps many other lives. You punish the
guilty. You have leisure to repent in this world of that
very untruth—if such untruth be sinful. You have an

opportunity of showing to the world and to them that
you love, that you were innocent of that wherewith you
were charged. You may root up the error that prevails
now, and overthrow the destroyer, and hereafter obtain
praise for that very untruth, whereby you hinder the
shedding of more innocent blood; praise from every
quarter of the earth, praise from every body; from the
people, the preachers, the jury, the elders—yea from
the very judges for having stayed them in their headlong
career of guilt—

O George—

But if you die, and your death be sinful—and would
it not be so, if you were to die, where you might escape
death?—you would have no time to repent here, no opportunity,
no leisure—you die in the very perpetration
of your guilt—

If it is guilt, I do—

And however innocent you may be of the crimes that
are charged to you, you have no opportunity of showing
on this earth to them that love you, that you are so. Yet
more—the guilt of your death, if it be not charged hereafter
to you, will be charged, you may be sure, to the
wretched women that pursue you; and all who might be
saved by you, will have reason to lay their death at your
door—

Well—

About life or death, you may not much care; but after
death to be regarded with scorn, or hatred or terror,
by all that go by your grave, my sister—how could you
bear the idea of that? What say you—you shudder—and
yet if you die now, you must leave behind you a character
which cannot be cleared up, or which is not likely to
be cleared up on earth, however innocent you may be (as
I have said before)—the character of one, who being
charged with witchcraft was convicted of witchcraft and

executed for a witchcraft. In a word—if you live, you
may live to wipe away the aspersion. If you die, it may
adhere to you and to yours—forever and ever. If you live,
you do may do much good on earth, much to yourself and
much to others, much even to the few that are now
thirsting for your life—you may make lighter the load
of crime which otherwise will weigh them down—you
may may do this and all this, if you speak: But if you
do not speak, you are guilty of your own death, and of
the deaths it may be of a multitude, here and hereafter.

Now hear me. I do not know whether all this is done
to try my truth or my courage, but this I know—I will
not leave thee in doubt concerning either. Look at me.

There—

Thee would have me confess?

I would.

Thee would have Elizabeth confess?

I would.

Do thee mean to confess.

I—I!—

Ah George—

I cannot Rachel—I dare not—I am a preacher of the
word of truth. But you may—what is there to hinder
you?

Thee will not?

No.

Nor will I.

Just what I expected—give me your hand—what I
have said to you, I have been constrained to say, for it is
a part of my faith Rachel, that as we believe, so are we
to be judged: and that therefore, had you believed it to
be right for you to confess and live, it would have been
right, before the Lord.—But whether you do or do not,
Elizabeth may.

True—if she can be persuaded to think as thee would

have her think, she may. I shall not seek to dissuade
her—but as for me, I have put my life into the hands of
our Father. I shall obey him, and trust to the inward
prompting of that which upholds me and cheers me now
—even now, George, when, but for His Holy Spirit, I
should feel as I never felt before, since I came into the
world—altogether alone.

Will you advise with her, and seek to persuade her?

No.

Cruel woman!

Cruel—no no George, no no. Would that be doing
as I would be done by? Is it for me to urge a beloved
sister to do what I would not do—even to save my life?

I feel the rebuke—

George, I must leave thee—I hear footsteps. Farewell—

So soon—so very soon! Say to her, I beseech you—
say to her as you have said to me, that she may confess
if she will; that we have been together, and that we
have both agreed in the opinion that she had better confess
and throw herself on the mercy of her judges, till the
fury of the storm hath passed over.—It will soon have
passed over, I am sure now—

No George, no; but I will say this. I will say to
her—

Go on—go on, I beseech you—

—I will say to her—Elizabeth, my dear Sister; go
down upon thy knees and pray to the Lord to be nigh to
thee, and give thee strength, and to lead thee in the path
which is best for his glory; and after that, if thee should
feel free to preseve thy life by such means—being on
the guard against the love of life, and the fear of death—
the Tempter of souls, and the weapons of the flesh—it
will be thy duty so to preserve it.

Burroughs groaned aloud—but he could prevail no

further. Enough, said he, at last: write as much on this
paper, and let me carry it with me.

Carry it with thee—what do thee mean?

I hardly know what I mean; I would see her and
urge her to live, but when I consider what must follow,
though I have permission to see her, my heart fails me.

Thee is to meet her with me, I suppose?

No, I believe not—

How—alone?—

No no—not alone, said the jailor, whom they supposed
to be outside of the door, till he spoke.

More of the tender mercies of the law! They would
entrap thee George—

And you too Rachel, if it lay in their power—

Give me that book—it is the Bible that I gave thee, is
it not?

It is—

It belonged to my mother. I will write what I have
to say in the blank leaf.

She did so; and giving it into the hands of the Jailor
she said to him—I would have her abide on earth—my
dear, dear sister!—I would pray to her to live and be
happy, if she can; for she—O she will have much to
make life dear to her, even though she be left alone by
the way-side for a little time—what disturbs thee
George?—

I am afraid of this man. He will betray us—

No—no—we have nothing to fear—

Nothing to fear, when he must have been at our elbow
and overheard everything we have whispered to
each other.

Look at him George, and thee will be satisfied.

Burroughs looked up, and saw by the vacant gravity
of his hard visage, that the man had not understood a
syllable to their prejudice.

But Elizabeth—I would have her continue on earth, I
say—I would—if so it may please our Father above; but
I am in great fear, and I would have thee tell her so,
after she has read what I have written there in that book.
She will have sympathy, whatever may occur to us—
true sympathy, unmixed with fear; but as for me, I have
no such hope—and why should I wrestle with my duty
—I—who have no desire to see the light of another day?

None Rachel?

None—but for the sake of Mary Elizabeth Dyer—and
so—and so George, we are to part now—and there—
therefore—the sooner we part, the better. Her voice
died away in a low deeply-drawn heavy breathing.

Even so dear—even so, my beloved sister—

George—

Nay, nay—why leave me at all?—why not abide here?
Why may we not die together?

George, I say—

Well—what-say?

Suffer me to kiss thee—my brother—before we part....

He made no reply, but he gasped for breath and shook
all over, and stretched out his arms with a giddy convulsive
motion toward her.

—Before we part forever George—dear George, putting
her hand affectionately upon his shoulder and looking
him steadily in the face. We are now very near to
the threshold of death, and I do believe—I do—though
I would not have said as much an hour ago, for the
wealth of all this world....nay, not even to save my life
....no....nor my sister's life....nor thy life....that I shall die
the happier and the better for having kissed thee....my
brother.

Still he spoke not....he had no tongue for speech. The
dreadful truth broke upon him all at once now, a truth
which penetrated his heart like an arrow...and he strove to

throw his arms about her; to draw her up to his bosom—
but the chains that he wore prevented him, and so he
leaned his head upon her shoulder....and kissed her
cheek, and then lifted himself up, and held her with one
arm to his heart, and kissed her forehead and her eyes
and her mouth, in a holy transport of affection.

Dear George....I am happy now....very, very happy
now, said the poor girl, shutting her eyes and letting two
or three large tears fall upon his locked hands, which
were held by her as if....as if....while her mouth was
pressed to them with a dreadful earnestness, her power
to let them drop was no more. And then she appeared
to recollect herself, and her strength appeared to come
back to her, and she rose up and set her lips to his forehead
with a smile, that was remembered by the rough
jailor to his dying day, so piteous and so death-like was
it, and said to Burroughs, in her mild quiet way—her
mouth trembling and her large tears dropping at every
word—very, very happy now, and all ready for death.
I would say more....much more if I might, for I have not
said the half I had to say. Thee will see her....I shall
not see her again....

How—

Not if thee should prevail with her to stay, George.
It would be of no use—it would only grieve her, and
it might unsettle us both—

What can I say to you?

Nothing—Thee will see her; and thee will take her
to thy heart as thee did me, and she will be happy—very
happy—even as I am now.

Father—Father! O, why was I not prepared for this!
Do thou stay me—do thou support me—it is more
than I can bear! cried Burroughs, turning away from
the admirable creature who stood before him trying to

bear up without his aid, though she shook from head to
foot with uncontrollable nmetion.

Thee's very near and very dear to Mary Elizabeth
Dyer; and she—she will be happy—she cannot be
otherwise, alive or dead—for all that know her, pity her
and love her—

And so do all that know you—

No, no, George, love and pity are not for such as I—
such pity I mean, or such love as we need here—need I
say, whatever we may pretend, whatever the multitude
may suppose, and however ill we may be fitted for inspiring
it—I—I—

Her voice faltered, she grew very pale, and caught by
the frame of the door—

—There may be love, George, there may be pity, there
may be some hope on earth for a beautiful witch....with
golden hair....with large blue eyes....and a sweet mouth
....but for a....for a....for a freckled witch....with red hair
and a hump on her back—what hope is there, what hope
on this side of the grave?

She tried to smile when she said this....but she could
not, and the preacher saw and the jailor saw that her
her heart was broken,

Before the former could reply, and before the latter
could stay her, she was gone.

The rest of the story is soon told. The preacher saw
Elizabeth and tried to prevail with her, but he could
not. She had all the courage of her sister, and would
not live by untruth. And yet she escaped, for she was
very ill, and before she recovered, the fearful infatuation
was over, the people had waked up, the judges and
the preachers of the Lord; and the chief-judge, Sewall
had publicly read a recantation for the part he had played
in the terrible drama. But she saw her brave sister
no more; she saw Burrows no more—he was put to

death on the afternoon of the morrow, behaving with
high and steady courage to the last—praying for all and
forgiving all, and predicting in a voice like that of one
crying in the wilderness, a speedy overthrow to the belief
in witchcraft—a prophecy that came to be fulfilled
before the season had gone by, and his last words were
—“Father forgive them, for they know not what they
do!”

Being dead, a messenger of the court was ordered
away to apprise Rachel Dyer that on the morrow at the
same hour, and at the same place, her life would be required
of her.

She was reading the Bible when he appeared, and
when he delivered the message, the book fell out of her
lap and she sat as if stupified for a minute or more; but
she did not speak, and so he withdrew, saying to her as
he went away, that he should be with her early in the
morning.

So on the morrow, when the people had gathered together
before the jail, and prepared for the coming forth
of Rachel Dyer, the High-Sheriff was called upon to
wake her, that she might be ready for death; she being
asleep the man said. So the High-Sheriff went up and
spoke to her as she lay upon the bed; with a smile
about her mouth and her arm over a large book....but
she made no reply. The bed was drawn forth to the
light—the book removed (it was the Bible) and she was
lifted up and carried out into the cool morning air. She
was dead.