University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

After the house of Mr. Moxon was built a room was
finished in one corner for a study. This looked out upon
the street, and being furnished with a snug fire-place
afforded the occupant a pleasant view, whether he confined
his attention within the room or dissipated it in looking
abroad. In this room the minister spent the most of his
time. The late passenger at night often saw his shadow on
the wall or curtain, as he paced up and down his little apartment,
or observed him at the window looking out into the
night or gazing abstractedly at the stars. After occupying
himself at his sermons during the day he often gave himself
up to reveries, which possessed him until his fire had expired
in its own ashes, and he was reminded of his bed by a
feverish head and a cold and benumbed frame.

It was here that he brooded over the trials and disappointments
of his life. It was here that he wept over the
afflictions of his children, and speculated upon the cause of
the calamity with which they had been visited. It was
here that in weakness and blindness he wrestled with the
angel of God in prayer. It was here that dim suspicions
entered his mind, coming in like shadows and growing into
form and fulness under his searching vision, until the door
at which they entered became too small for their egress,
and they remained in throngs.

It was during a crisp and cool evening in the latter part
of autumn that Mr. Moxon, having concluded the labors
of the day, drew his chair before the fire and subsided into
one of his frequent reveries. He went back in memory to

the time when Woodcock was a resident of the plantation,
and as he called up the scene near Holyoke's house where
that individual visited him with personal indignity, and
thought of the girl who in a moment of blind passion inflicted
a wound whose scar seemed to be always thrusting
itself into his sight, the old flush of shame and humiliation
mantled his face and thrilled through every sensitive fibre
of his frame. This was the sorest spot in all his experience,
and one which he could never touch without the
keenest pain.

As the pang struck him and diffused its subtle frenzy he
rose from his chair with a hurried sigh, and after pacing up
and down his apartment for a few minutes, stopped before
the window and looked out. He had stood but a moment
when a singular figure crossed his vision. It was that of a
man clothed like an Indian, but clumsy and moving with a
different gait. The man had evidently been standing at a
short distance from the window, and was induced to move
by the impression that the minister saw him. He was,
however, soon out of sight, and Mr. Moxon forgot the circumstance
as he resumed his seat at the fire.

Soon the old subject recurred, and, this time, his
thoughts stopped with Mary Woodcock. From the time
she had bitten him until then, her act had never been
alluded to by him. She had grown up to womanhood, and
with such a determined character that he did not choose
to violate his promise to her father not to molest her. But
he could not give up the desire to detect the agent in the
affliction of his children, nor the suspicion that she was the
guilty party.

At that time, sorcery and witchcraft were prevalent in
England, and had been, for the previous fifty years. He
had written for and received books, giving the details of
numerous cases, and had sought for light upon the subject
in all possible directions. While, upon this occasion, he

was wondering what means could be resorted to for the
detection of Mary Woodcock, he recalled the singular communication
which has already been mentioned as having
fallen into his hands. Immediately rising, he went to his
desk, and, opening a drawer, withdrew a small package.
Taking off the wrapper, he selected the communication
alluded to, and replaced the package in the drawer.

As he was turning to leave the desk, he knocked from a
shelf an apple—one of the first fruits of the new orchards
of the plantation, which had been presented to him—but,
instead of returning it to its place, he took it with him to
the fire, and set it upon the hearth to roast. He sat down,
and opened the communication. It was evidently written
with a pencil of common lead, upon a strip of birch
bark:

“Mary:—Be gentle and good, and please your master,
and you shall be helped by one you cannot see.”

These words, clumsily traced and sadly misspelled, comprised
the entire text of the wonderful manuscript. The
minister inserted his knife under a layer of the bark, and,
separating it, threw it upon the coals. The flash from it
was as instantaneous as if it had been gunpowder—so sharp
and powerful that he started with affright, and retreated to
his desk with the communication, in order that it might be
beyond the reach of the flame.

He had hardly reseated himself, when he heard a rap at
the door, and, on opening it, greeted and admitted a resident
of the plantation with whom the reader has not yet
made an acquaintance. This man was Deacon Samuel
Chapin, a tall, austere-looking individual, whom the minister
saluted with much warmth, and who, on advancing
into the little study, looked around, with a not unpleasant
expression in his keen grey eyes, and said, “It seems pleasant,
now and then, to visit the place where you prepare the
food for the flock of Christ. I warrant I have disturbed

you in meditations which belong to the whole of your little
Israel.”

“No, sir, sit down,” said Mr. Moxon pleasantly, “I have
been thinking of something more strictly selfish and personal.”

Deacon Chapin's eyes looked pleased, while his face still
maintained its austere expression, as he accepted the minister's
invitation, and, slowly rubbing his hands before the
fire, said, “I esteem your society a great privilege, Mr.
Moxon, and shall be very happy to enjoy it, if I can do so
without disturbing you, and being the means of sending
leanness into the bones of the other members of your
flock.”

The reader will at once perceive that Deacon Chapin
was a good man, and thoroughly understood the road to
his minister's heart. He did not become a settler at Agawam
until several years after the first planters, but his
severe manners, pliable tongue, and shrewd personal policy,
had carried him along rapidly in the path of advancement.
On being made a deacon of the church, he had moved for
the erection of a meeting-house, and it had risen, with its six
blank looking windows, and its two turrets—a belfry and a
watch-tower—and had become the place for holding meetings
upon the Sabbath, and all the public assemblies of the
plantation. He had been the means, too, of bringing
several members of the church under wholesome discipline.
In short, he had been an active man, in everything pertaining
to the spiritual well-being of the community, a
strict adherent to orthodox doctrine, and one who, in
coming from the Bay, brought the spirit of the Bay with
him.

It was noticed that after the meetings of the plantation
were removed from the house of Mr. Pynchon to the new
meeting-house, the influence of the latter gentleman in the
minor affairs of the settlement had declined, but no one

supposed that Deacon Chapin had an eye to this result in
obtaining the erection of the house. Everybody knew him
for a thrifty man—a man who slid into prosperity and preferment
with a kind of facility that betrayed a pushing will
and a track made smooth by a never-tiring urbanity. The
young men and young women were afraid of him. The
boys took off their hats to him by instinct, as they had been
taught to take them off in obeisance to the minister, the
magistrate, and Mr. Holyoke.

Deacon Chapin sat and rubbed his hands with pleasant
dignity before Mr. Moxon's fire, after his considerate expression
of care for the church, and waited for the minister
to begin the conversation.

“I have long desired,” said the latter, hesitatingly, “to
say something to you upon a subject which interests me
deeply, but have been prevented by the wish not to burden
others with trials sent upon me.”

Dea. Chapin made a bow, said nothing, and kept slowly
rubbing his hands before the fire.

“You have probably heard of occurrences which took
place previous to your settlement in Agawam.”

Dea. Chapin bowed again, as if he perfectly understood
the allusion, and would spare the minister the pain of referring
to them more definitely.

“You doubtless know something of the trials I have
experienced in my family since your residence here.”

Dea. Chapin bowed again, and, shifting in his seat, leaned
his ear towards the minister, in a way quite expressive of a
desire to learn something more.

“The children are different,” said Mr. Moxon, instantly
seeming to catch the deacon's meaning, as the deacon had
caught his own. “Martha is extremely wild at times, and
is open and free in her accusations of the one who afflicts her.
I have told no one but you of this, but the people, I understand,
have fastened their suspicions upon the same individual.”

Dea. Chapin bowed again, and turned his face directly
towards the minister, as if he expected that gentleman to
unbosom himself entirely.

“Rebekah, on the contrary, is gentle, and seems to be in
some mysterious manner connected with her sister. It has
been so from the first. They seem to suffer together,
though in different kind and degree. I have read extensively
in regard to witchcraft, and the open manifestations
of the Adversary among men, and I have been convinced,
for ten years, that Satan is afflicting me through my children,
and them through the wicked agency of individuals in this
plantation.”

“It will hardly be necessary for me,” said the deacon
blandly, “to remind my minister that whom the Lord
loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he
receiveth.”

Mr. Moxon drew a painful sigh, as he replied, “It is long
since I have been in the habit of appropriating to myself
the promises of God. It seems as if His threatenings were
intended for me, and they hang above my soul always, as
if ready to fall upon and crush me.”

“But you must remember,” said the deacon, “that if you
were not a true branch of Christ, you would be taken away.
The branches that bear fruit are those which are purged,
that they may bring forth more fruit.”

Now the deacon was not consciously insincere in his address
to the minister. He was in the habit of saying comforting
things, and pleasant things, to those who held position
and influence. It was the habit of his life. It did him
good, and it did them good; and his policy in this matter
had wrought, in deed and in truth, a very good work in the
plantation. Many a man went about his business from an
interview with Dea. Chapin with a self-respect that was a
rarity in his experience, and played a better and more dignified
part in life, until the influence of the interview had

departed. Some flattering or encouraging word, some
expression of respect, or some marked attention, always
made impressively grateful by the dignified politeness of its
style of exhibition, had a marvellous effect upon all with
whom he came in contact.

It is true that it all made the deacon's path more pleasant
and easy, and gave him consideration and power with
all, but few ever dreamed that he had an eye to his own interests
in the premises. The minister knew him, and was
glad to see him. The deacon knew the minister, and, while
he really had a desire to cheer him, and had brought honestly
before him the comforts of religion, he had also a desire
to learn certain things which the minister knew, and with
that object definitely in view had thus far pursued his course
and conversation.

“You spoke,” said the deacon, “of one individual whom
you suspected of being the agent of Satan in your affliction;”
and he paused, as if that were a direct and definite question.

“His daughter,” replied the minister.

The deacon threw up his chin decisively, as if it were a
confirmation of his own suspicions.

“Just before you entered,” said Mr. Moxon, “I was examining
a little communication which you probably heard
of at the time it was discovered. Perhaps you would like
to look at it again,” and he rose and handed to him the
mysterious note.

The deacon read it through, held it against the light,
and then inquired of the minister whether he knew the
hand-writing.

“I do not,” replied the minister. “It is not that of any
man in this plantation. What do you think of it? Who
is he whom she cannot see? What is he going to help her
to do? Who is her master? What does he mean by being
gentle and good?”

These questions were pronounced at little intervals, the
deacon bowing at each, as if he were swallowing it for digestion.
When they were concluded, he simply said, “It's all
very strange, is it not?”—and reaching down to the minister's
apple, where it was sputtering and becoming brown
before the fire, he turned it round by the stem in order to
expose the other side.

“I suppose, of course,” said the deacon, as he resumed
his position, “that you have talked this all over with your
friend Mr. Pynchon. He is somewhat advanced in years,
and grey hairs should bring wisdom.”

“I formerly communicated with him upon the subject,”
replied the minister, “but he gave me neither comfort nor
instruction.”

“Perhaps we expect too much of him,” suggested the
deacon. “He has a great many cares, and I understand
that he spends a great deal of time in study. Do you know
anything of the book he has recently written?”

“Yes—I have seen something of it,” replied Mr. Moxon.

“Something which will edify the church—something
sound and well adapted to these Zions in the wilderness,
I presume,” continued the deacon, affirmatively and suggestively
together.

“Doctrinal, mostly,” said the minister.

“Orthodox, I'll warrant. Ah! that's a very fine old
man!” and the deacon rubbed his hands and pushed his
chair back from the hearth, as if, with such a generous glow
of friendship in his bosom, the fire was a little too much for
him.

Mr. Moxon moved uneasily in his seat, for the deacon,
when he resolutely set about boring for a secret, never released
him till the fountain was reached, and had relinquished
its treasure. He understood him on this tack in the
progress of conversation, as well as on those which had preceded
it, but he hesitated to speak fully of matters concerning

which he knew it became him to preserve silence; so he
simply assented to the latter clause of the deacon's exclamation
without any allusion to the former.

“Man's inability?” suggested the deacon, with an inquiring
turn of the head.

“No. Oh! no.”

“Depravity?”

“Not if I remember correctly.”

“Atonement?” and the deacon turned directly around,
and looked the minister in the face.

“No—that is—not exactly. The subject is connected
with the atonement, somewhat intimately, to be sure, but—”
and the minister hesitated whether to put a stop to the conversation
where it was, or to go on, and reveal what he knew.

“That is a favorite subject with the old man,” interrupted
the deacon. “What view did he take?”

“Well, sir,” proceeded the minister, reluctantly, “on
the subject of the nature of Christ's sufferings, he has not
advanced and defended the views which prevail in the Bay
churches. I differ with him, and perhaps it is my duty to
make his views a matter of inquiry in the church,—perhaps
I have been remiss.”

“It cannot be anything very heretical, I know,” remarked
the attentive deacon. “It would not be like him to conceive
it, nor like you to conceal it. What are his peculiar views?”

“Well, if I understood him, he does not believe that
Christ suffered the essential torments of hell for the salvation
of men, and contends that God did not impute the sins
of men to him.”

“I think you must have misunderstood him,” said the
deacon positively, and with every manifestation of charitable
confidence in the magistrate.

“That could hardly have been,” replied the minister,
“for I argued the matter with him at length.”

“What did he say? What could he say?”

“Well, he said it was an absurdity to accuse a God of
justice, while vindicating his justice, of imputing sin to an
innocent being; and that hell torment, being directly connected
with a consciousness of personal guilt, could never
be experienced by Jesus Christ, from the fact that personally
he was never guilty. I found it a difficult matter to
overthrow his subtle reasonings, and left him, praying that
he might fall into no fatal errors.”

The deacon looked for a long minute into the fire, and
then, with a sigh, remarked that it was strange how the
best minds in the world would sometimes be left to the
entertainment of dangerous heresies. He thought it was
a lesson to the ministry, on the importance of keeping
before the people constantly the great doctrines of the Gospel
in all their simplicity and purity. He had been running
back in recollection to see if Mr. Moxon had preached
a sermon against this peculiar form of heresy, and ended
by informing that gentleman that he had doubtless preached
upon the subject on some Sabbath when he (the deacon)
was detained at home by sickness. Mr. Moxon colored
slightly at the reproof, and confessed that he never had felt
called upon to preach directly to Mr. Pynchon, as, if he
could not convince him of his error in a personal argument,
it would hardly avail him more to engage in a pulpit demonstration
against his private opinions.

“That would depend something upon what the book was
written for,” replied the deacon. “If it was written for
private gratification, to be shown only to friends, it would
doubtless save scandal in the church to refrain from its
exposure. I presume that Mr. Pynchon would hardly
think of publishing his book.”

“On the contrary,” replied the minister, desperately, for
he saw that it must come, “the book has long been in the
hands of the printers in London, and may be expected at
the Bay within a short time.”

Deacon Chapin shook his head slowly as he sat gazing
into the fire, and said, “I'm sorry—very sorry,” and then,
as he had sifted this matter sufficiently, he suddenly remembered
that he had drawn the minister away from the subject
upon which he had commenced, and turning to him, he
observed that gentleman engaged in snuffing suspiciously
at the piece of birch bark which he had not yet returned
to the desk.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the deacon gravely, but with a
smile in his eyes, “are you on the scent?”

The minister, without noticing the attempt at raillery,
handed the deacon the bark manuscript, with a nod which
meant “Smell of it yourself.”

The deacon did so, and exclaimed “Musk!”

“He's around to-night,” remarked the minister nervously.
“I feel him myself, and so do my children, I presume. You
will find this scent all over the house. You will find it, I
have no doubt, in the very centre of that apple, which has
been roasting before the fire ever since you have been here.”

The deacon stooped to lift the apple, and drawing out his
knife, cut it in two. The stench reached his nostrils before
the apple itself was half way there, and impulsively he
dashed the whole upon the hearth, where it lay, crushed
and steaming, and filling the room with its odor to a
greatly offensive degree. The man was evidently astonished.
It was such a demonstration as he had not dreamed
of witnessing, and one which he regretted to have witnessed.
But his equanimity did not forsake him, and he coolly asked
the minister whom he alluded to.

“Martha, and those generally who are bewitched, call
him the Black Man,” replied the minister. “I have no
doubt that he is one of the emissaries of the Adversary,
and that he has been drawn here by our conversation about
this piece of birch bark,” and rising, the minister returned
it to the desk.

He had hardly reseated himself when his oldest daughter,
in a loose night robe of white, and with her long black hair
dangling upon her shoulders, threw the door hurriedly open,
and, gliding into the study, went directly to the fire, seated
herself close up to the ashes upon a stick of wood, and
gazed with a vacant stare into the flames.

The movement was accomplished so quickly and so
silently, that both of the witnesses were entirely absorbed
in the vision, and remained quietly in their seats. Mr.
Moxon looked at his daughter a moment, and then,
covering his eyes with his hand, gave his mind to silent
prayer.

It was a strange, wild sight. The girl was pale, and her
countenance seemed almost deathlike in the contrast with
her black hair and eyes; and as the flame flashed high in
the chimney, and fluttered about the jambs, and painted
dim and uneasy shadows upon the walls and ceiling of the
room, and irradiated her impassive features with its trembling
and fitful glories, the imagination of the deacon
became inflamed with fears which he could not repress. He
felt almost as if he were within the power of the Adversary
himself. Every hair upon his head prickled with a preternatural
apprehension, and he felt himself shivering and the
cold perspiration starting from his forehead. Before the
power of speech came to him, and while, half fascinated, he
sat absorbed in the weird vision, the girl whispered faintly,
“Where is my supper?” Then, as if her question had been
answered to her mind, she turned around upon her seat,
with an expression of delight upon her tongue, but with no
corresponding expression upon her face, and dropping her
hand suddenly to the hearth, took up the crushed and still
steaming and offensive apple, and devoured it with a greediness
that was sickening. When she had swallowed the
apple, she turned again to the fire, and gazed unblinkingly
into the blaze.

“Martha!” said Mr. Moxon tenderly, as he uncovered
his eyes.

The girl lifted her eyes to him, but made no reply.

“Martha, what did you come in here for to-night? What
made you come here?”

“I came after my supper,” said the girl. “She told me
to come.”

“She means the one we were talking about,” remarked
the minister, in a side explanation to the deacon.

The deacon nodded and drew a long breath which must
have filled the furthest recess of his lungs, and it was well
that he received, at the moment, its fortifying influence, for,
in the high tension of his nervous sensibilities, he detected
a slight sound at the door, and on turning his eyes in that
direction, the younger sister made her appearance, walking
slowly, with her eyes fixed on some object before her. The
attention of both the deacon and the father of the child
became absorbed in observing the movements of Rebekah,
who, with perfect serenity upon her features, advanced
towards the desk, and taking up the bark manuscript, held
it to her forehead, and stood motionless with it there, for
several minutes.

In the meantime, Martha had risen from her seat, and,
advancing towards her sister, gently removed the manuscript
from her hand, replaced it upon the desk, and led
her to the fire, where the two stood in a sisterly embrace,
and in apparent unconsciousness of the presence of the
deacon. The latter individual had seen much more than
he anticipated, and was really anxious to leave the house.
His superstitious fears had never been so much excited,
and had never been excited on so rational a stimulant.

“Perhaps,” said the deacon kindly, addressing the
minister, and rising and rubbing his trembling hands, “you
would prefer to be left alone with your poor children. I
think I had better bid you a good evening.”

The minister rose, as Deacon Chapin addressed him, and
the latter observed that he was under a new and strange
influence. He was deadly pale, and was trembling violently.
On turning again to the children, they were observed to be
similarly affected. The father drew them to him, and sank
into his chair with them in his embrace, and there the three
shuddered and shook together. The deacon's equanimity
was fairly upset, and he began to draw his breath spasmodically,
and to tremble with fear and sympathy.

Looking up, with a determination to break from a scene
whose horrors were every moment increasing, his eye detected
a black, grizzly face at the window, looking fixedly in
upon the group. He wiped his eyes to assure himself that
it was not a phantom of his excited imagination, but there
it stood; and, as the fire danced in the chimney, and played
upon the walls, and sent out its flashes into the darkness, it
painted that face alternately with scowls and sneers, or
lighted its eyes with a fiendish glare, or shaped its lips to a
horrible grin. He stepped across the room to assure himself
that it was not as illusion wrought by the imperfect
glass, but the face remained. He would then have left the
house, but he did not wish to encounter the owner of that
face in the darkness.

“Do you know that there is a very singular-looking face
at the window?” said the deacon softly, bending down to
the minister's ear.

“I know that the tormentor is very near,” replied the
minister with a renewed shiver. “I feel his presence, and
these poor children feel it even more than myself. We can
do nothing but submit, and give ourselves to prayer.”

The deacon turned his attention to the window again, and
there still hung the face, paling and flushing, and scowling
and grinning fantastically in the fire-light, but the eyes were
evidently looking at an object on the desk, near the window,
and did not observe, for a moment, their observer. In an

instant, a pane of glass was burst through, and a rough arm,
reaching to the desk, snatched the dark manuscript, and
withdrawing it, disappeared with the face in the darkness.
The children uttered a wild scream as the glass flew out and
came tinkling across the floor, which was echoed by the
retreating visitant with a peal of derisive laughter; and that,
in turn, seemed to be echoed by intermingled screams and
laughter that were repeated from the walls of houses, or
came more faintly back from distant hill sides.

When the last hollow murmur had died away, the children
rubbed their eyes, looked up in surprise upon the face of the
deacon, then down upon their night dresses, and were
beginning to cry, when their father hurriedly led them from
the room.[1] The visitor could not leave, of course, until the
return of the minister, and so stood, hat in hand, in the middle
of the little study, until that gentleman came feebly
back, and closed the door behind him. They stood face to
face for a moment, when the deacon, having been thoroughly
melted into sympathy, the two impulsively laid their hands
on each other's shoulders, and bowed before a common emotion.
The embrace was not long, but it did the minister good,
for he thought there was one heart at least thoroughly won
to an apprehension and appreciation of his trials.

The deacon did not linger, but, with a few kind words of
counsel and sympathy, took his leave, and, with a sense of
relief, drew a long breath again in the open air. The coolness
of the night restored tone to his trembling nerves, and
as he bent his steps homewards, he found himself calmly
revolving and analysing what he had seen. There was
something in it very mysterious—that was certain. There

was such a thing as witchcraft—everybody admitted that—
and this was a genuine case. What was the true policy in
regard to its treatment? Was it best for him—Deacon Chapin—and
for the settlement generally, to engage in a vigorous
crusade against the foul sin, and be the means of expurgating
the community of it, or to keep in the background, and
wait for the indication of occasions? He would think of it
after he had slept.

When the deacon arrived at his home he found a neighbor
waiting to transact some business, and met him with a dignity
of manner and austerity of countenance that characterized
him in his usual intercourse,—with not a trace of the
emotions by which, within the previous hour, he had been
agitated. The shrewd and pleasant eyes moved calmly in
their sockets, the little word that should make that man's
heart feel warm all the way home—warm towards the
world in general, and Deacon Chapin in particular—was
said, the bargain was closed, and the neighbor was on his
homeward way, smiling and talking pleasantly to himself.

When the deacon calmly closed his eyes in sleep that
night, the minister rose from his chair, replenished his fire,
and until after midnight his sturdy shadow mingled upon
the wall with those that play hide-and-seek with the freakish
flashes of the fire-light.