"'T is past! I wakeA captive and alone, and far from thee,My love and friend! yet fostering, for thy sake,A quenchless hope of happiness to be;And feeling still my woman's spirit strongIn the deep faith that lifts from earthly wrongA heavenward glance."Mrs. Hemans.
"'T is past! I wakeA captive and alone, and far from thee,My love and friend! yet fostering, for thy sake,A quenchless hope of happiness to be;And feeling still my woman's spirit strongIn the deep faith that lifts from earthly wrongA heavenward glance."
Mrs. Hemans.
The next morning Edith was informed that Seymore had arrived. As soon as he received her letter he travelled with all the rapidity the state of the country permitted, when the journey from Boston to Salem was the affair of a day, as it is now of half an hour.
From all we have learned of the character of Seymore, the reader will not be surprised to find that, although never taking an active part in the persecutions of the time, the character of his enthusiasm was such that he lent an easy faith to the stories he had heard of the possessed, and believed that God was manifesting his power by granting, for a season, such liberty to the prince of evil.
When, however, he received Edith's letter, he felt pierced as it were with his own sword. He trembled when he thought of his almost idolatrous love, and with a faith which he fancied resembled that of Abraham, he believed the time had now come when he must cut off a right hand, and pluck out a right eye, to give evidence of his submission to the will of God.
With this disposition of mind he arrived at the scene of our narrative. In the mean time the tender-hearted elder had become so much interested to save Edith, that he contrived to have Seymore placed on the jury, hoping that his deep interest in her would be the means of returning a verdict ofnot guilty. Seymore was therefore spared the pain of an interview with Edith, which would probably have convinced him of her innocence, before the trial.
Edith awoke the next morning from a happy dream. She was walking with Seymore by the margin of the great ocean, and his low, deep voice mingled in her ear with the liquid sound of the dying wave. She awoke, a captive and alone: no, not alone, for the faithful Dinah was standing by her bedside, so tearful, so subdued, that the smile the happy dream had left on Edith's lips instantly faded. She remembered it was the day of her trial, and she prepared to meet it.
These trials were held in the meeting-house, and were opened and closed with a religious service. This seems like a mockery to us, but our fathers thought they were performing a sacred duty; and however frivolous or disgusting were many of the details, the trial was rendered more appalling by giving to the whole the appearance of a holy sacrifice.
Edith was far from being insensible to the terrors of her situation, but she found it necessary to assume a cheerfulness she did not feel, in order to soothe the dreadful agitation of Dinah. The poor African trusted in God; but she could not shield her child from the tyranny of human power.
When Edith entered the thronged meeting-house, a paleness, like that of death, overspread her countenance. She requested that Dinah might stand near her to support her, lest she should faint. This was rudely denied. She was answered, "If she had strength to torment that child, she had strength to stand alone."
She could not wipe the tears that gushed into her eyes at this cruel answer, for each hand was extended, and closely held by an officer,—a precaution always adopted in these trials, lest the prisoner should afflict some person in the crowded multitude.
She had no sooner become a little calm, than her eye sought Seymore among the crowd. She was shocked with the change an "o'erwrought spirit" had effected in his person. His pale forehead was traced with veins that were swelled almost to bursting; a fire was burning in his dark, sunken eyes, and crimson spots flushed each cheek.
As Edith looked at him, her heart swelled with an infinite pity. For the moment, her own appalling situation melted away from her thoughts. For the moment, it was of little importance to her whether she lived or died. All she wished was to be near Seymore, to speak to him, to soothe and calm his agitated spirit.
She was recalled to herself by the opening of the trial. The prisoner was first commanded to repeat the Lord's prayer. This Edith did in a low, sweet voice, that sounded to the hushed audience like plaintive music.
It is not my purpose to enter into the details of this trial. It is enough that "every idle rumor, every thing that the gossip of the credulous, or the fertile memories of the malignant could produce that had an unfavorable bearing on the prisoner, however foreign it might be to the indictment, was brought before the jury,"[3]in addition to the testimony of the child, and the falsehood of the old woman.
The cause was at length given to the jury. They did not leave their seats; and when it came to the turn of Seymore, who was the last to speak, the crimson blood rushed to the cheek, brow, and temples of Edith, and then left them paler than before: a sick sensation came over her, and she would have fainted, had she not been relieved by tears, burning hot, that gushed from her eyes.
Seymore had covered his face when he first entered, and had not looked at Edith. So hushed was the crowd, that the word "guilty," wrung as it were from him in the lowest whisper, was heard distinctly through the whole meeting-house. It pierced Edith's ear like the voice of a trumpet; and from that moment the spirit of a martyr entered her breast. She felt herself deserted by the whole of her little world, falsely convicted of a crime she abhorred, and left without human sympathy. She turned to God. "He who seeth in secret," she said, "knows my innocence;" and she bowed her head, and made no further answer.
The trial was closed as it began,—with religious services. A hymn was sung; and Edith, feeling, as I have said, an elevation that she could not herself understand, joined in the devotion. The others stopped; for they would not mingle their voices with one convicted of witchcraft: the very evil one was mocking them. Edith continued alone; and her rich, sweet tones thrilled their hearts like the voice of an angel. She was reminded by a whisper from Dinah that she was singing alone; and, ceasing, she blushed deeply, and covered her face from the curious gaze of the multitude.
As Edith returned to her prison, guarded on each side, and followed by Dinah, she thought of the Lady Ursula, whose cruel fate had moved her so deeply. And was she indeed the same person? The child that had wept her fate so bitterly was now to meet one far more terrible: and she felt strength to meet it. Every wave, as it had passed over her, had brought out the hidden beauty and strength of her soul; and, though there was in her no air of triumph, a tranquil contentment and repose was expressed in her whole person.
"No, never more, O, never in the worthOf its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earthTrust fondly,—never more! The hope is crushedThat lit my life,—the voice within me hushedThat spoke sweet oracles."
"No, never more, O, never in the worthOf its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earthTrust fondly,—never more! The hope is crushedThat lit my life,—the voice within me hushedThat spoke sweet oracles."
The unnatural excitement that had borne our heroine up during the last part of her trial forsook her when she entered once more her dreary prison. She was again alone,—again a weak and timid woman. The momentary exaltation that a sense of injustice had given her when under the gaze of numbers, gave way to memories of the deep and unforgotten happiness she had connected with Seymore. All her sweet anticipations of soothing his spirit, of leading him to more rational views of God and of himself, faded away. In a few days, she would be no more, and remembered, perhaps, with pity or scorn. One last, lingering weakness remained: it was the fear of losing the respect and tenderness of Seymore.
Like all who love deeply, she had dated her existence from the time she became acquainted with Seymore: all before had become a blank in her memory; but now her early years rose up before her, like the reflected sunlight on distant hills. The thought of her father came back with melting tenderness. Ah, now was he avenged for the short forgetfulness with which she had ever reproached herself.
She threw herself on her knees, and prayed silently. She felt calmed and elevated, as if in immediate answer to her prayer. All selfish and agitating emotions passed away. A spirit of forgiveness, of endurance, of calm and patient trust, entered her soul. She felt that, with Seymore's convictions and sense of duty, he could not have acted otherwise; he could not but bear his testimony to what he thought truth; and almost a divine pity for his errors, and a purer love for his truth, filled her heart.
She was informed that Seymore was waiting to see her. This was a trial she had expected, and she was now prepared to meet him. He entered trembling, pale, and wholly unmanned. As he tried to speak, his voice failed, and he burst into tears.
It is fearful to see a strong man weep. Edith was not prepared for this excess of emotion. Those who have seen Retch's exquisite drawing of Cordelia when Lear awakes, and she asks "if he knows her," can imagine the tender pity of her expression as she went to him and placed her hand in his. A sweet smile was on her lips,—that smile that shows that woman can mingle an infinite tenderness with the forgiveness of every injury. He pressed her hand to his heart—his lips; and when he caught her eye,—"O, do not look so mildly at me," he said; "reproach me, scorn me, hate me: I can bear all rather than those meek eyes,—than that forgiving smile."
"Be calm, dear Seymore," she said; "with your convictions, you could not have done otherwise. You believe in the reality of these possessions. The evidence against me was more and stronger than has been sufficient to condemn many as innocent as I am. You can have no cause for self-reproach."
"Innocent! O, say not that you are innocent! God has many ways of trying his elect. You he has tried severely with temptations from the prince of evil. He chooses souls like yours. O, Edith, for my sake, for your own sake, acknowledge that you have been tempted. It only is required that you should say you have been deceived; then all will be well."
For a moment, Edith's face was crimsoned. "What! become a traitor to my own soul! lose forever the unsullied jewel of truth, and the peace of a pure conscience! and do you counsel this?"
"Many have confessed," he said, "many of undoubted truth, of ripe wisdom, who could not be deceived, and who would not confess to a lie."[4]
"ButIshould confess to a lie,—a base and wicked lie. I have no faith in these temptations. I believe God suffers us to be tempted by our own passions and unrestrained imaginations, but not by visible or invisible evil spirits. O, listen to me: go no further in this mad, this wicked delusion. Spare the innocent blood that will be shed. If I must die, let my death be the means of turning you and others from this dreadful sin."
"And can you bear to have your name sullied by this alliance with the wicked? Those who die as criminals are believed guilty of crimes; and can you consent to be remembered as the associate of evil spirits?"
"Falsehood can live but a few years," she answered; "there is an immortality in truth and virtue. I cannot blush to be confounded with the guilty; for it is my unwillingness to sully my conscience with a lie that leads me there."
Seymore was silent for a few moments. "Edith," he said at last, straining both her hands in his, "have you been able to think how cruel this death may be? Have you fortitude? Can you bear to think of it?" and he shuddered, and covered his face with his hands.
Edith for a moment turned pale. "I have ever shrunk," she said, "from physical pain. My own extreme timidity has never given me courage to bear the least of its evils. I believe, then, that it will be spared me: God will give me courage at the moment, or he will mercifully shorten the pain; for what is beyond our strength we are not called to bear."
"And can you part with life thus triumphantly?"
"Ah, my friend, there is no triumph in my soul. In its deepest sanctuary, I feel that God will pardon my sins, and accept my death as in obedience to my conscience. But, O! I have not sought it: life is still sweet to me."
"You shall not die,—you must not! you will not leave me! Edith, have you forgotten our moments of bliss,—our dreams of happiness to come,—the quiet home, the peaceful fireside, where we hoped to pass our lives together? Have you forgotten how long, how truly, how fervently, I have loved you? and is this to be the close of all?"
Edith's hand trembled in his, but she answered cheerfully: "The close! ah, no: look upward. God has tried us both with grievous trials. Mine will cease first. Yours is the hardest to bear: to linger here—to do God's work alone. Let me be to you like one departed a little while before you, that would not be mourned, but remembered always."
They were both silent for some moments; Seymore contending with unutterable regret, oppressed with an emotion that was almost the agony of remorse.
Edith understood his contending emotions. "Think," she said, "that you have been the instrument of Providence to lead me to heaven. I do not regret to die early: God has permitted me to solve the mystery of life. I see his hand even from the moment when that child was committed to my care. Thank God, I can now submit to his will; and, although life were sweet with you, my death may bring you nearer to heaven."
"Edith," he said at last, "I have been deceived. Such faith, such divine forgiveness, such noble fortitude, cannot be the work of evil spirits. Your faith is purer and stronger than mine,—your reason more enlightened. I have erred, dreadfully erred."
A bright smile illumined her face, and she pressed his hand in hers.
"I have done most dreadfully wrong," he said; "I sinned from ignorance."
"God will forgive you," said Edith; "and I,—I cannot forgive, for I could not blame."
He started up. "It is not too late to repair this dreadful evil: it will be easy for you to escape. If I cannot gain a reversion of the sentence, we can escape: we will leave this country of delusion and error; we will go home—to England. There, O Edith—"
The blood for a moment rushed to Edith's cheek and brow; but she answered, sadly, "No, Seymore, it cannot be; after all that has passed, it would ruin your character, your prospects, your usefulness, forever. We are too weak to stem, to oppose this mad delusion. Bigotry and power are all around us."
"You hesitate. Ah, you do not love me as you did;" and he became again violently agitated.
Edith took his hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips. "Tempt me not," she said, "with visions of happiness that can never be. Let us rather pray to God to support us in this bitter hour."
They bowed their young heads together, and their tears mingled. Edith's silent prayer was wholly for him. True to her woman's nature, she forgot herself in his deeper sorrow.
He was calm, and Edith would not prolong the interview; and Seymore left her all the more hastily as he was determined to employ every means to save her. He was not permitted to enjoy that happiness.
"See, they are gone!—The earth has bubbles, as the waters have,And these are some of them. They vanishedInto the air, and what seemed corporal,Melted as breath into the wind."Shakspeare.
"See, they are gone!—The earth has bubbles, as the waters have,And these are some of them. They vanishedInto the air, and what seemed corporal,Melted as breath into the wind."
Shakspeare.
When Edith was alone, she felt that weakness and exhaustion of the body that all the painful excitements of the day had produced. She threw herself on the bed, and Dinah was soon at her side.
"Sing me one of the hymns you used to sing in my happy childhood; perhaps I may sleep."
Dinah sat by the side of the bed, and Edith laid her head on the breast of her faithful friend, while she began in a tremulous, low tone, that became stronger and clearer as the holy fervor of the hymn inspired her.
Edith lay motionless, but between her closed eyelids the large tears forced themselves, and fell slowly down her cheeks. At length, like a tired infant, she slept.
Dinah laid her head gently on the pillow; with the tenderest hand, wiped away the tears; drew the covering over her; with noiseless step excluded the light, and then sat down to watch by her.
It was the bitterest hour poor Dinah had ever passed. She tried to pray, but she found submission impossible. She had had many trials. She had been torn from her native land, chained in a slave ship, exposed for sale in the slave market; but since she had been a Christian, she had blessed her various trials. Now her faith in God seemed entirely to fail.
She took, as she had often done to comfort her, the cool, soft hand of her mistress in hers. It was now burning hot, and her own tears, as they fell, seemed to scald her.
But just at that moment a thought darted into her mind, and she has often said that it was a direct inspiration from God. "I will save her!" was the thought. The blood rushed to her head and face, and then retreated again to the heart; she trembled, and, for the first time in her life, the poor African was near fainting. She fell on her knees: "Yes, God help me, I will save her." The operations of the mind at such moments are rapid as lightning; and, in a few moments, her plan was arranged.
When Edith awoke and saw the change a few moments had wrought in Dinah's appearance, the light that shone in her eye, and her cheek "flushed through its olive hue," she feared, for an instant, that great anxiety and grief had shaken her reason.
"My poor Dinah," she said, taking her hand in hers, "you are ill; you are feverish; you have been too long shut up in this dismal room with me. Go out, I pray you, and take the cool evening air, and I will try to sleep again."
It was what Dinah wished, for she desired to consult Paul; but she busied herself with all those little nameless attentions that love alone can devise. As she was folding her mistress's hair for the night, Edith said, "Dinah, I can escape this dreadful death that awaits me."
"O, my dear mistress, how?" said Dinah, her whole face quivering with emotion.
"With a lie! by confessing that I have tormented that poor child, and that I am myself possessed by evil spirits."
Dinah drooped again. "You could not do that," she said; "no, you could not dishonor yourself with a falsehood: but if you could escape without violating your conscience, would you not?"
"Certainly," answered Edith: "if God were to place the means of escape within my reach, I would make use of them, as I would use the means to recover from a fever. I should violate no law, for the proceedings against me were unjust, and the testimony false. I could not yield to Seymore's desire that I should escape, because his was one of the voices that condemned me, and he could open my prison door, if at all, only by an open and honorable confession of his error."
Dinah trembled with joy at hearing Edith speak thus of her willingness to escape, could it be effected with truth; but she would not hint at her hopes till she had arranged her plan with the assistance of Paul.
After a pause, Edith said, "Alas, there is no hope of escape: and why do you fold my hair so carefully? it will never delight your eyes more."
Dinah answered, "Never despair: I see a light behind the cloud: the morning is breaking."
Dinah consulted Paul, and the plan they concerted together was not difficult to execute. Edith, after long entreaty, yielded to the affectionate creature, and the more readily, as she knew Dinah was so great and universal a favorite in the village that no evil could befall her.
After having her complexion darkened with an herb which Dinah had prepared, Edith exchanged clothes with her humble friend; and at night Dinah remained in the prison, while, with infinite precaution, she eluded the observation of the one person who had been placed at the door to guard her. Paul was secreted without, and the trembling Edith, without being observed, found shelter and concealment in the ruined hut of Phoebe's grandmother.
Paul, as I have said before, was an excellent boatman. Soon as the first streak of dawning light appeared, secretly and in silence, he dipped his oar into the water.
The beautiful morning star shone alone in the sky, and as the shore melted away, Edith strained her eyes to catch the outline of her happy home, and the little mound where her parents reposed.
They reached a place of safety, and Edith was soon made happy by hearing of the safety of her affectionate and humble friend.
It is well known that this fearful delusion of our country ceased as suddenly as it had risen. Edith was one of the last of the accused. When it was discovered that she had escaped, no inquiries were made, and no regret expressed. "The curtain had fallen, and a close was put to one of the most tremendous tragedies of real life. The wildest storm, perhaps, that ever raged in the moral world, instantly became a calm. The tide that had threatened to overwhelm every thing in its fury sank back, in a moment, to its peaceful bed."
What could have been Seymore's emotions when the cloud had vanished, and he stood in the clear sunshine of reason? Happy he was indeed, inexpressibly happy, that his beloved Edith had escaped the most dreadful consequences of this mad delusion.
Whether their union ever took place, I must leave to the imagination of my readers. The young who have never had their hearts stirred with a deeper love than that for a pet lamb, or a canary bird, will reject the thought as impossible. The old, if any who have passed the age of thoughtless amusement should condescend to read these pages, perhaps will judge otherwise. Having learned from that severe teacher, experience, how prone we are to err, and how often we need forgiveness from each other, as well as from Heaven; having found, also, that the jewel of true love, though sullied by error, and sometimes mixed with baser stones, yet, like the diamond, can never lose its value,—they will cherish the belief that Seymore found, in the devoted affection of Edith, a balm for his wounded spirit, and an unfailing strength for the duties and trials of life.
[1]We have in vain endeavored to find the etymology of this name. It might first have been of many colors, and named from the coat of the patriarch's favorite son.
[1]We have in vain endeavored to find the etymology of this name. It might first have been of many colors, and named from the coat of the patriarch's favorite son.
[2]The story of the Lady Ursula is founded on fact. In the author's youth, the farm of "Long Lane" retained its name, and belonged to the C—— family.
[2]The story of the Lady Ursula is founded on fact. In the author's youth, the farm of "Long Lane" retained its name, and belonged to the C—— family.
[3]Upham's History of Witchcraft.
[3]Upham's History of Witchcraft.
[4]"Fifty-five persons, many of them previously of the mostunquestionable character for intelligence, virtue, and piety, acknowledged the truth of the charges that were made against them, confessed that they were witches, and had made a compact with the devil. It is probable that the motive of self-preservation influenced most of them: an awful death was in immediate prospect. The delusion had obtained full possession of the people, the witnesses, the jury, and the court. By acknowledging the crime, they might in a moment secure their lives and liberty. Their principles could not withstand the temptation: they made a confession, and were rewarded by a pardon."—Upham's Lectures on Salem Witchcraft.
[4]"Fifty-five persons, many of them previously of the mostunquestionable character for intelligence, virtue, and piety, acknowledged the truth of the charges that were made against them, confessed that they were witches, and had made a compact with the devil. It is probable that the motive of self-preservation influenced most of them: an awful death was in immediate prospect. The delusion had obtained full possession of the people, the witnesses, the jury, and the court. By acknowledging the crime, they might in a moment secure their lives and liberty. Their principles could not withstand the temptation: they made a confession, and were rewarded by a pardon."—Upham's Lectures on Salem Witchcraft.