University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

The first month of Mary Woodcock's married life passed
pleasantly away. The cloud which overshadowed her as
she entered it, was temporarily lifted, and a calm and sweet
content succeeded to the apprehensions and disquietudes
that had gathered so closely about her. Slander having
done its worst to thwart her plans and ruin her hopes,
withdrew for a time its cruel offices, and waited for
renewed strength and fresh opportunities. She saw but
little company, and hardly ventured beyond the inclosures
of her dwelling. Hugh was rarely out of her sight, and, so
long as he was near, she cared for nothing beyond. She
lavished upon him all the deep fondness of her powerful
nature, and, in her own happiness and his, demonstrated
the perfect legitimacy of the union between them—a union
popularly deemed faulty, not because it was unnatural, but
because it was unusual, in its relations.

Little by little, however, the slanderous murmur was
renewed. Hugh, whenever he stirred abroad, came home
with a troubled brow and a heavy heart. Poisoned words
were flung in his ears from brawling tongues, and calumnies
were breathed in sly insinuations. Much as he endeavored
to cover their effect upon his mind from her sight, he could
never succeed in doing it. She read his face on every return
as if it were the most legible of tablets, and he could
never refuse her demand to tell her everything. The effect
of these things on Hugh's mind made them doubly oppressive
to her.

For herself, she could defy and despise those who sought

her injury, but the thought that they were endeavoring
day by day to undermine her husband's confidence in her,
and had fully succeeded in filling him with perplexity and
anxiety, cut her to the quick, and often fairly disrobed her
of her strength.

At times, when she was alone with Hugh, talking upon
the ever prevalent subject, she gave way to wild bursts of
impatience and passion that fairly frightened him; and then
she would weep upon his neck like a child, telling him
that he was all the comfort she had in the world, and
begging him never to forsake her, and never to distrust
her.

Mary found, whenever she ventured abroad, that she was
regarded with a kind of impudent curiosity by every one
she met, and that nearly all with whom she conversed
seemed to lie in wait for her words and to ask her strange
and irrelevant questions. Sometimes, in her contempt for
the efforts made to entrap her in her expressions, she gave
derisive replies, humoring her questioners in their conceits
touching herself, and confirming their suspicions by her
own confessions, uttered with an irony of tone that none
but those wilfully perverse, or wholly stultified, could fail
to understand.

During these conversations, few though they were, she
unfortunately, and perhaps unwisely, let drop many expressions
that were tortured into slander, and perverted into
confessions of guilt. These expressions were bandied about
from mouth to mouth, till once more she had become
thoroughly and offensively notrious.

Matters had gone on badly in this way, until, one evening
in the depth of winter, as Hugh and Mary were sitting
by their glowing fire, a rap resounded upon the door of the
cabin, and the same was slightly opened, though not sufficiently
to reveal the visitor. Hugh went to the door and
undertook to open it wider, but it was held where he found

it, and, through the crack, Hugh heard the words: “Can't
you come out here a minute, Hugh?”

Hugh was slightly frightened, and did not detect the
voice as quickly as Mary, who, rising suddenly from her
chair, advanced to the door, and, seizing it strongly, pulled
Peter Trimble plump into the room. Peter was very evidently
taken by surprise, and had not a single pimple ready
for exhibition.

Drawing his hand suddenly down over his face, and
taking a hurried survey of his trousers, which were somewhat
seriously patched, he took the chair offered him, and
held out his blue and horny hands to the fire, warmed first
one ear and then the other, slid from a violent shiver into
a snicker, and turning and slapping Hugh on the shoulder exclaimed,
“By George! Hugh, you've got the stoutest wife
there is in this place. Now, you needn't say you haven't, for
I know you have. There ain't another woman in the plantation
could have pulled me in as she did. I couldn't hold
the door—upon my word I couldn't—any more'n if an
elephant was hold of it.”

Mary and Hugh both greeted Peter's highly appreciative
compliment with a merry peal of laughter, which Peter impulsively
united in at first, but a sudden thought struck him
into soberness, as if it had smitten him across the mouth.
Mary and Hugh both noticed it, and the former spoke of
it, and rallied him upon it.

“The fact is,” said Peter, “I didn't come hear to laugh,
and I didn't mean to come in at all; but there's something
I ought to tell you, and something that you ought to know,
and I sort o' mistrusted that I could help you out of it.”

“You? Who are you talking to—Hugh, or me?” inquired
Mary with sudden energy.

“Well, I meant you, but I was talking to Hugh, because
I didn't expect to say anything to you.”

“What is the matter?”

“It's nothing that I've had anything to do with,” replied
Peter, “but I heard something that was going to be done,
and I thought perhaps I could tell Hugh how you could
dodge it.”

“Peter,” said Mary, rising and grasping him by the arm,
“tell me what you mean.”

Peter began to blubber, but managed to keep the mastery
of his emotion and his tongue sufficiently to say, “Mary,
they're agoing to take you up to-morrow, for saying something
bad about widow Marshfield;” and as he saw her
looking blankly into his face, endeavoring, as she was,
to comprehend the disgrace before her, he continued—
“and I thought perhaps I could tell you how to dodge the
whole thing.”

“Something bad about widow Marshfield? Take me
up?” said Mary slowly and wonderingly.

“I don't say you said something bad about her,” replied
Peter, “but they're r'ally going to do something. Now
don't feel so, for I think it can be dodged by coming a
small rig. If it was me that was going to be took up”
(continued Peter, with an encouraging expression of countenance,
and a lively tone of voice), “I shouldn't lose any
sleep, and I tell you how I should work it. I'd have rheumatism
enough to kill three men, and get the case put off.
Or I'd break my leg or something of that kind. Land ahead!
there aint any surgeon here—they wouldn't know—and all
you've got to do is to holler like bloody murder if they
touch you.” Peter saw that his revelations were rather
enlivening the countenance of his auditors, and went on.
“Or I'd make believe I was crazy, and spit all over my clo'es,
and take off my boot and wipe my nose on it, and flip beans
all day at a mark, and walk around among the trees, and
make believe they are men, and say, `How are you, Mr.
Beech? How do you do, Mr. Pine? Hullo! Mr. Apple!
how do you do, and how's your orchard?' Land ahead!

that ain't a beginning. I could do any quantity of things.
The fact is, there ain't any end to the things I could do,
if I r'ally set out for it.”

All this would have been amusing enough under less
serious circumstances, but Mary could only give it a tolerating
smile, and ask Peter if he knew what charges were to
be brought against her. Peter did not know, but he rather
thought there would be enough of them, and that perhaps
it would be safe to assume the double affliction of rheumatism
and insanity.

All three sat in silence for some minutes, when Peter rose
with lively energy in his feet, with the inquiry, “Have you
got any money?”

“Yes—why?” replied and inquired Mary.

“Because, if you should happen to break down on the
rig, you might want some. If it goes agi'n you, we all
know mighty well what it will be. We ain't rich enough
to have a jail yet, and it's nothing but money or whipping.”

At the last word Mary sprang to her feet, and uttered a
groan so full of acute pain that Hugh and Peter both
turned pale with fright. Then, while her eyes flashed, and
the old bright spots burned upon her cheeks, she paced up
and down the apartment, her lips tightly compressed, and
her arms folded closely across her breast. If she had been
stung in the bosom by a viper, she could not have been
more terribly agitated.

The possibility that she should be subjected to such a
disgrace as a public whipping was maddening. The consciousness
that she was generally suspected and hated, the
uncertainty in regard to the nature of the charges to be
made against her, her anxiety for Hugh, and her desire not
to be disgraced in his eyes—all this conspired to induce a
state of mind bordering on distraction.

Peter was greatly agitated by the effect he had produced,
but not being particularly sensitive himself, he could hardly

appreciate the real cause of her suffering. “If it really
comes to that,” said he, soothingly, “I've got a piece of
buckskin that you can put under your clo'es, where the
constable can't see it, and he can't hurt much through that,
now I tell you.”

When he had concluded, Mary came up to him, and said,
“Peter, be kind enough to leave us now. You mean us
well, and I thank you for having told us what you have,
but you cannot do us any good, and we want to be alone.”

“Well, I'll go,” replied Peter, and buttoning up his
shabby coat to the chin, and drawing his cap down over his
ears, he bade the sad pair “good night,” and picked his way
along the poorly made snow-path homewards.

The first thing which Mary attended to after his departure
was the counting of her money. It was a handsome little
sum, and one which seemed competent to cover any fine that
might be imposed upon her for any offence that malignity
might charge her with or perjury convict her of.

The pair sat and talked late into the night, and retired at
last to a sleepless bed, where they tossed in feverish
wretchedness until the morning. Breakfast was prepared,
and each tried to sustain the other by an appearance of appetite,
but it was a hard task, and was soon relinquished.
After the table was cleared, both sat down to wait impatiently,
and with anxious uncertainty, the development
of events.

There were frequent visits to the window looking out
upon the village, and questions asked and answered in an
under-tone, until, at last, Mary started suddenly back from
one of her visits to the window, and took her seat in silence
at the fire. Hugh understood the movement, and arose to
look for himself. He saw what he looked for, and returned
and tremblingly took his seat, and gazed with painful sympathy
upon his wife. She was looking into the fire, whispering
to herself, and nervously shaking her head, as if she

were holding an imaginary altercation. Hugh dared not
address her, and hardly ventured to draw a long breath.
At length, the feet of a briskly walking man were heard approaching,
and, as he came into the yard, Mary rose to her
feet, walked to the door, and throwing it open, exclaimed,
“Thomas Merrick, do your devil's work, and have it over
with.”

The constable stopped as if he had been thunderstruck.
He had never seen such an impersonation of desperation,
and had anticipated quite a different scene. He could only
stand speechless for a minute, and look into her face; and
he did not stir until Mary imperatively demanded of him his
errand.

“I came,” said the constable, recovering himself, and
advancing into the cabin, “to arrest you on a charge of
slander.”

“And whom have I slandered?”

“Widow Marshfield.”

“What am I accused of saying about the precious widow
Marshfield?” inquired Mary with a bitter sneer.

“You will learn that soon enough, I dare say,” replied the
constable.

“Goodman Merrick,” said Mary, walking closely up to
him, and looking him fiercely in the eye, “what can they do
to me, if lies enough are told about me to prove what I am
charged with?”

“The magistrate can fine you, or order you to be whipped,
or both together. He could do more and worse than
this, but those are the common punishments here.”

“You do the whipping, do you?”

“The constable always does it.”

“And would you whip me?”

“I have sworn faithfully to perform the constable's
duties.”

“Well, now, mark you, Thomas Merrick (and Mary kept

her fierce eyes fixed upon him), I am as innocent of the charge
that you have arrested me on as an unborn child—as my
unborn child—(and her voice sank to a trembling whisper)
and if you abuse me, or bring peril on my burden, I will
pray God to curse you with the last breath I draw. You
are a husband and a parent. Act like one. The people of
this town are determined to make hell of my home; don't
you be guilty of making a devil of me.”

The constable was overcome. He knew that Mary despised
his office and disliked him, but there was something in
her fiercely courageous earnestness that commanded his
respect, and something in her appeal which softened him
wonderfully. “All I can do consistently with my oath to
make your sentence light shall be done,” said he. “What
can I say more?”

“Nothing. I am content. Shall I go now?”

“Now, if you please.”

Mary whispered a few words to Hugh, who, in accordance
with her instructions, went to the closet where she
kept her money, and drawing forth the purse deposited it in
his pocket. She then put on such extra clothing as the cold
weather demanded, and, drawing her hood closely down
over her face, declared her readiness to accompany the constable.
Hugh had, in the meantime, prepared himself to
go with them, and all issued from the door together. The
morning was biting cold, but the air was still and peaceful,
and the smoke went up from all the chimneys of the settlement
like incense. Children were shouting in the distance, the
teamster was merrily cracking his whip, tidy housewives
were brushing off their door steps with their heavy birch
brooms, and all seemed careless, lively, and happy. But in
Mary's heart, as she passed one house after another, where
she knew that her name had met with foul treatment, there
was rebellion and wretchedness. All were happy but herself,
and the one dearest to her.

Her appearance with the constable was the subject of
lively gossip along the street, and many a gratified stare
was directed to her from the windows. These she did not
see, but, as she passed the house of Holyoke—the home of
the happiest portion of her childhood—she could not forbear
raising her eyes to see if her truest friend were the witness
of her disgrace. Mary Holyoke stood at the window,
pale with recent illness, and smiled so sweetly as she bowed
to her, and wafted to her a kiss so affectionately, that, softened
into tears, she bowed her head, and sobbed during the
remainder of the distance to the house of the magistrate.

Leaving them in the room in which the trial was to be
held, the constable retired to summon the witnesses, or,
rather, to announce to them the readiness of the court.
The passage of the constable with his prisoner through the
street, was a sufficient advertisement of the affair in progress,
and one after another dropped in to witness the trial.
Peter was the first, having secured his release from labor
for the day during the previous evening. He was a good
deal affected by the appearance of the pair. They seemed
to have grown haggard and old since, but a few hours
before, he had unintentionally greeted them at their hearth-stone.
Mr. Moxon, Mr. Holyoke, Deacon Chapin, and nearly
a dozen women, were also among the crowded audience.
Mary wondered who the witnesses against her might be,
but she paid little attention to the throng about her, for
she was conscious of being the subject of their conversation.

At last, Mr. Pynchon made his appearance, and took his
seat at his desk. Looking over it, he gazed long and anxiously
at the prisoner, who turned with a look of honest
innocence and trust, and met his inquiring eyes. Mr. Pynchon
had seen the girl much, as she had grown up under
the care of his daughter, and had always entertained a
peculiar regard for her as the child of a strange man whom

he had never ceased to love and respect. Her present
position was one which gave him severe pain, but, from the
industrious representations made to him by many persons
in the plantation, and in consequence of definite though
frivolous charges, he had, at last, concluded to issue a warrant
for her arrest.

As he met her look—so pleading and trustful—he repented
of the step he had taken, and wished the business
off his hands. As he sat there, looking half vacantly at the
spirited woman whose mute appeal he had felt, he could
not help recalling a scene that occurred on the same spot
many years before—when her father was on trial for the
same offence, nominally, with which she was charged, and
when she was an ill-trained and wayward child.

Then his eye passed over to Mr. Moxon, in whose hatred
and hallucinations the troubles of both father and child had
originated, and he felt how poorly justice was meted out in
this world, and especially how impossible it was for him to
render equity in judgment to the people of his charge. The
laws were defective, as their human authors were, and,
even when operating for the general good, sometimes discriminated
in favor of the doers of evil against the holders
of the right.

“Mary Parsons,” said the magistrate, at length, in a mild
voice, “you will stand, and listen to the charge upon which
you have been arrested.”

Mary rose, and, turning boldly around, looked her judge
in the face with an eye so bright and strong that it almost
overthrew his equanimity, and he hesitated before proceeding.

“You are charged,” continued he, “with defaming the
good name of the widow Marshfield, in reporting her to
have been suspected for a witch. The bringing of such a
suspicion as this—a suspicion of having familiar dealings
with the Adversary—against a respectable and innocent

woman, is a very grave offence. Are you guilty or not
guilty?”

“Not guilty!” exclaimed Mary, with a sudden shake of
her head, and a voice almost spiteful in its decisiveness.

The interested individuals in the audience exchanged
significant glances, and Mr. Moxon shifted uneasily in his
seat, as if he were in some way connecting her answer with
the previous remark of the magistrate. Goody Marshfield,
the spirited looking widow who had made the complaint,
sat but a short distance from the prisoner, and, tossing her
head saucily, nodded at two or three friends with a smile
which, being interpreted, said, “Did any one ever see such
impudence!”

It was evident from the expression upon the faces of all
the men present that the widow was a woman equally
courted and feared—one who assumed the place of a popular
favorite, and maintained it at the point of her wit and
the edge of her sarcasm. In fact, it was owing to her
cutting speeches in regard to Mary that the latter had been
led into remarks from which the present charge was
trumped up.

“Goody Marshfield,” said the magistrate, “who are your
witnesses?”

Now the term “Goody” did not sound pleasantly to
the spirited widow, and a flush of anger passed over her
features as she replied, “John Matthews and Goody
Matthews.”

“The witnesses named by Goody Marshfield will arise
and receive the oath,” said the magistrate.

The man and his wife did as they were bidden, but, as
they arose and advanced to the stand, they shunned the
burning eye which Mary Parsons fixed upon them, and
looked far more like culprits than she.

“John Matthews,” said the magistrate, after administering
the oath to the pair, “have you ever heard Mary

Parsons say that Goody Marshfield had been suspected for
a witch?”

“Yes, sir, I have,” replied the man, while his heart
bumped so heavily against the walls of his chest as to jar
his voice.

“Will you tell me when and where, and give all the
circumstances connected with the matter?”

“Well, Goody Parsons come to my house one time when
my wife and I was both to home, and we got to talking
about one thing and another, when my wife, says she,
`Mary—Widow Marshfield says you'v'e took a child to
bring up, but he's so small he'll never make much Hugh-and-cry.”
(A titter all about the room, and a nod from the
widow which meant, “Pretty good—wasn't it.”) “Well,
this made Mary mad, and says she to my wife—Widow
Marshfield has been grudging every child that's been born
in the plantation, because her girl didn't have any; and as
soon as she had one, it died, and her cow died at the same
time, and died a' bellering, 'cause she thought the child
was her'n.” (“Sharp shooting,” whispered Deacon Chapin
to Mr. Moxon, the widow meanwhile assuming an air of
charming imperturbation, and the magistrate drawing his
hand slowly down over his mouth, as if he rather enjoyed
it.) “And then she went on, Mary did, and said that
widow Marshfield was suspected for a witch when she
lived in Windsor, and, for all she knew, the child and the
cow were bewitched when they died, and that was what
ailed them. I told her she ought to be ashamed of herself
to talk so about a respectable woman, and that I didn't
believe a word of it; but she stuck to what she said, and
when I asked her what she knew about it, she said it was
known all over Windsor that the Devil had a private room
in her house, where he met all the witches once a week, to
have a grand feast and lay out his work; and she didn't
see any reason why she shouldn't have dealings with him

in Springfield as well as Windsor. That is pretty much all
I heard, but she and my wife were keeping up the talk
when I come away.”

“Was Goody Parsons talking in earnest, or was she only
trying to see what she could say, as an offset to Goody
Marshfield's sharp words?”

“I never see a woman more earnest in my life,” said the
witness, forgetful of tense and truth together.

“And you really believe she meant all she said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may sit down, and Goody Matthews will take your
place.”

The new witness was a woman greatly given to gossip,
carried a glib and ready tongue, and presented a thin form
and face whose sharp outlines accorded well with her character.
In all her allusions to her husband, she ignored
everything else masculine in the universe, by speaking of
him as he—that pronoun, in its several cases, being assumed
as descriptive of and applicable to, that individual alone
whom she had sworn to love, honor, and obey, and whom
she had repeatedly made to swear, by declining to do anything
of the kind.

“Goody Matthews, what do you know about this case?”
inquired the magistrate.

“I know just the same as him, only he left before we got
through talking, and didn't hear it all.”

“Then your husband's testimony is correct, so far as it
goes, is it?” inquired the magistrate.

“He ain't in the habit of swearing to lies;” and the
offended wife pursed up her mouth, and assumed an air of
offended sensibility that drew a smile upon Mr. Pynchon's
face in spite of himself.

“Very well—what did you hear more?”

“Well, I was telling her about something that happened
the day before, when I was getting ready to get dinner.

I'd put about half a pound of veal into the pot—he don't
care much about meat, and veal ain't very good warmed
over—”

“Was this operation performed when Mary was in the
house?”

“No,” replied the witness; “this was what I was telling
her. I was saying to her that I'd put about half a pound
of veal into the pot—it wasn't much, but he never did like
veal—and I'd put the water in, and put on the cover, and
when the time come to hang it over the fire, I hung it right
on, without thinking of looking in, because I knew I put the
veal in, and poured in the water, and put on the cover—I
remember it, because I did it just after I'd washed out the
pot, and I know I thought to myself that's clean enough for
anybody; and right after that I put in the veal. Well,
after it had been over the fire, I should think pretty near
half an hour, I took off the cover to see if the water wasn't
pretty near biled away, and there wasn't a particle of veal
in the pot, and it didn't look as if there had been, and I
haven't seen hide nor hair of the piece ever since.”

“What has this to do with the case?” inquired the magistrate.

“I was just going to say, that as soon as I had told Mary
of this, I said I wondered what had become of that veal;
and says she, `don't you think it was witched away?' and
says I, Mary, what is it makes you all the time talking
about witches? You don't believe there's any witches in
the town, do you? Says she, yes—I know there is; and
she come into my house, when I was carding wool, and as
long as she was there, I couldn't make the wool into rolls.
Says I, who is it? Says she, it's her.”

“Who do you mean?” inquired Mr. Pynchon.

“I mean widow Marshfield, that we'd just been talking
about; and then says she, Mr. Stebbins told me all about
it, and told me how she was always set down for a witch in

Windsor, and how, ever since she'd been in Springfield,
we'd had the strangest lights in the meadows over the
river—blue ones, and green ones, and red ones—and—I
don't know—there was a great many things she said, but I
can't remember them.”

“What was it about the grudging of other people's
children?”

“It is just as he said,” replied the woman, “about the
grudging, and the child and the cow dying at the same
time.”

“And you have no doubt that she told you these things
expecting and intending that you should believe them?”

“Not any.”

“And you have reported all about the neighborhood,
I suppose, that Mary Parsons told you these things, and
done all you could to make the widow Marshfield suspected
for a witch.”

“I have told you all I know about it,” said the witness,
sharply.

“Very well—you can sit down,” said Mr. Pynchon.
Then, addressing Mary, he said, “What have you to say
to this testimony?”

“I say that it is a downright lie,” replied Mary, stamping
her foot decidedly.

“Do you say that you have said none of these things
that they have testified to as your statements?”

“I said what I said,” replied Mary, her eyes flashing
angrily, “to a couple of fools about a woman who hated
me, and who had made them believe that I was a witch
myself. I said it not because I cared anything about the
woman or her slanders, nor because I supposed they were
going to believe me in earnest in what I said. I said it
laughing all the time—just to show them how easy it was
to lie about people, if one had the mind, and that I could
say `witch' as easy as anybody else could. They have

said many things that are absolutely false, and what they
have repeated from me was said with no intention of injuring
anybody.”

“Then it is not all a downright lie.”

“It is, as they have given it.”

“I notice,” said Mr. Pynchon, looking around the room,
“that we have a greater number present than is usual at
trials of this kind, and if Mr. Moxon or any officers of the
church present wish to make any remarks in reference to
this case, they can have the liberty.”

Mr. Moxon rose partly from his seat, and then the
thought of what he had promised Woodcock many years
previously, struck him, and he sat down, and bowed to
Deacon Chapin.

The deacon was conscientiously opposed to the practice
of slander as it existed in many of the Puritan communities,
and it was his policy to crush it with an iron heel. So he
rose with a good deal of alacrity to say that it seemed to
him that a clear case, and a very aggravated case, of
slander, had been made out; and, for one, he hoped that
at least exemplary punishment would be administered to
the offender, who, it seemed to him, carried a very haughty
and froward spirit. Such matters were treated at the Bay
with great severity, as the only true policy. He wished
that the magistrate, whose moderation all knew and admired,
would yet see it in the line of his duty to deal more
severely and effectively with these little sins, than it had
previously appeared proper for him to deal. He thought,
too, that a woman of the widow Marshfield's respectability,
situated somewhat defenselessly, as she was, personally, had
peculiar claims upon the protection of the law.

The magistrate then asked Mr. Holyoke if he had any
remarks to offer.

“Not at present,” replied that gentleman. “I have no
wish to interfere with the strict operation of the law in this

case, or in any other; or to influence the magistrate's decision
in the slightest degree. He is bound by his oath to
administer the law, and the case—a very frivolous one it
appears to me—is before him. If, when the decision is
rendered, there are any who would like to hear what I have
to say, I shall have no objection to speaking very plainly
upon the subject.”

As Mr. Holyoke resumed his seat, the magistrate turned
to the prisoner, and bade her rise and receive her sentence.
Mary now grew pale and trembling for the first time during
the trial, and pressed against her heart with both hands,
while poor Hugh hung his head, and wrung his hands in
the profoundest distress. “Mary Parsons,” said Mr. Pynchon,
“I find you guilty of defaming the good name of the widow
Marshfield, and I sentence you to be well whipped on the
morning after lecture, with twenty lashes by the constable—”

Mary stood and heard him thus far, and then uttered a
scream so shrill and terrible, so charged with intense agony
—that it brought nearly all the individuals in the room
upon their feet, and thrilled them with a terrible shudder.
But there stood Mary still, her eyes strained wildly open,
but horribly vacant and meaningless.

Hugh burst into a flood of tears, and cried like a child—
cried as if his warm and womanish heart had been swept
by the fiercest breath of desolation, and his nicely strung
sensibilities thrown into irredeemable discord. The sentence
was a crown of thorns to the phantom of her fears,
and as it was pressed down, her heart gave way, and she
fell for the moment into a wild, hysterical insanity.

“Except you pay,” continued the magistrate, in concluding
his sentence, after the momentary interruption and
excitement were past, “to the widow Marshfield the sum of
three pounds, in satisfaction of the damages inflicted by you
upon her reputation.”

As he concluded, Mary still stood, looking vacantly at
him. Immediately Mr. Holyoke arose, and, advancing to
the desk, commenced to count out the amount of her fine.
This she seemed to comprehend, for she turned and said,
“Hugh, if there's money to pay, pay it.”

“Have you money to pay the fine, Hugh?” inquired the
magistrate.

“I have,” replied the poor fellow, going forward and
placing his heavy purse upon the desk.

As the sum of the fine was counted out, there was a shrug
of the shoulders among the audience, a general whisper and
a stare of wonder. Holyoke's movement, too, combined
with the altogether unlooked for exhibition of sensibility on
the part of the prisoner and her husband, had turned the
current of sympathy for the moment into a new channel.
The spirited widow saw only averted or vacant eyes around
her, and felt greatly uneasy with the cheaply gotten gold.

As soon as the fine had been counted out from Hugh's
purse, and the remainder handed back to him, he took
Mary by the arm, and endeavored to lead her away. As
the magistrate saw that she hesitated, he told her that she
was at liberty, and with some hesitation, as if she but dimly
comprehended the fact of her release, she suffered Hugh to
lead her from the apartment.[1]

As the door closed upon the distressed pair, Holyoke,
who had not resumed his seat, pointed at their retreating
figures, and said slowly and solemnly, “You have had an
exhibition of law. Do you call it justice? Here is a poor
girl who had the misfortune to have a father made lawless
by law, and who has been for years a most offenceless
object of suspicion in this plantation. She was complained
of by a woman who I very well know has slandered her;
and testified against by individuals who richly deserve the
punishment she has received, for reporting and garbling her
idle words. She is brought here by law, shocked into
insanity by law, has paid a fine according to law, and has
been wounded irrecoverably in her feelings by law. If this
is in accordance with the spirit of the Bay, I pray God the
Bay Path may be obliterated, that no more of the spirit

reach us. I believe this whole system of brutal punishments
for inferior crimes, and all these nicely drawn laws
against the venial sins of imperfect communities, are infernal
—unworthy of a Christian people, and demoralizing to
every one living under, or in association with them. I do
not speak reproachfully of the magistrate, or condemnatory
of his decision. He has acted in accordance with his oath,
and as you all cannot help but know, against his inclinations.”

During this brief and impassioned speech, each word of
which seemed to burn into every one's ears with a strange,
irresistible power, and to sweep away from every eye the
mists of prejudice and error, Mr. Pynchon sat with his
head leaning upon his hand. At its close, one after another
rose and left the house, until, at last, Holyoke and his
father-in-law were left together. “Elizur,” said the old man,
raising his head and extending his hand, “you are nobly
right, and if you could only know how wholly sick I am of
this poor business of dealing out justice according to law
you would pity me.”

Holyoke had said what he had to say, and, with a sad
and indignant heart, walked homewards, to tell his wife of
the disgrace and suffering of her protegée, and to think of,
and labor and pray for, a reformation in public sentiment,
and its liberal expression in the colonial statutes.

Poor Hugh and Mary, in their deep distress, walked
home regardless of the observation they elicited on the way,
and entered their dwelling—once the brightest spot to them
in all the world—now dark, spiritless, and gloomy. Mary
had hardly taken a seat before a terrible chill assailed her,
and in a few hours Hugh was sitting at her bedside, wetting
her parched lips and bathing her throbbing temples, and
heaving sighs and dropping tears of distress, as he listened
to her incoherent ravings.

As Hugh sat like a patient girl, watching by the bedside

of his wife, day after day, and saw her spirit broken down by
shame and sickness, and witnessed the wasting of her noble
form, and the falling of the rose leaves from her cheeks;
and as he nursed her in impatience and petulance, during the
protracted period of her convalescence, Mr. Moxon, instead
of visiting her, rose from his table a dozen times in a day,
and asked the question: “Where did she get that money?”