CHAPTER XIV.
From that hour he was another man. His heart was alive with a new hope. The dark desolate chambers thereof were lighted up with a new joy. And what if there was no love, nor beauty, nor music sounding in them all the day through, such as there had been a few brief years before, in the spring-tide of his youthful courage; they were no longer what they had been at another period, neither very dark, nor altogether uninhabited, nor perplexed with apparitions that were enough to drive him distracted—the apparition of a child—the apparition of a dead hope—for with him, after the death of a second wife, hope itself was no more. He was now a messenger of the Most High, with every faculty and every power of his mind at work to baffle and expose the treachery of those, who pretending to be afflicted by witchcraft, were wasting the heritage of the white man as with fire and sword. He strove to entrap them; he set spies about their path. He prayed in the public highway, and preached in the market place, for they would not suffer him to appear in the House of the Lord. He besought his Maker, the Searcher of Hearts, day after day, when the people were about him, to stay the destroyer, to make plain the way of the judges, to speak in the dead of the night with a voice of thunder to the doers of iniquity; to comfort and support the souls of the accused however guilty they might appear, and (if consistant with his Almighty pleasure) to repeat as with thenoise of a multitude of trumpets in the sky, the terrible words,Thou shalt not bear false witness.
But the death of Martha Cory discouraged him. His heart was heavy with a dreadful fear when he saw her die, and before anybody knew that he was among the multitude, he started up in the midst of them, and broke forth into loud prayer—a prayer which had well nigh exposed him to the law for blasphemy; and having made himself heard in spite of the rebuke of the preachers and magistrates, who stood in his way at the foot of the gallows, he uttered a prophecy and shook off the dust from his feet in testimony against the rulers of the land, the churches and the people, and departed for the habitation of Mr. Paris, where the frightful malady first broke out resolved in his own soul whatever should come of it—life or death—to Bridget Pope, or to Abigail Paris—or to the preacher himself, his old associate in grief, straightway to look into every part of the fearful mystery, to search into it as with fire, and to bring every accuser with whom there should be found guile, whether high or low, or young or old, a flower of hope, or a blossom of pride, before the ministers of the law,—every accuser in whom he should be able to see a sign of bad faith or a look of trepidation at his inquiry—though it were the aged servant of the Lord himself; and every visited and afflicted one, whether male or female, in whose language or behaviour he might see anything to justify his fear.
It was pitch dark when he arrived at the log-hut of Matthew Paris, and his heart died within him, as he walked up to the door and set his foot upon the broad step, which rocked beneath his agitated and powerful tread; for the windows were all shut and secured with new and heavy wooden bars—and what appeared very surprising at such an early hour, there was neither light nor life, neither sound nor motion, so far as he couldpercieve in the whole house. He knocked however, and as he did so, the shadow of something—or the shape of something just visible in the deep darkness through which he was beginning to see his way, moved athwart his path and over the step, as if it had pursued him up to the very door. He was a brave man—but he caught his breath and stepped back, and felt happy when a light flashed over the wet smooth turf, and a voice like that of Mr. Paris bid him walk in, for he was expected and waited for, and had nothing to fear.
Nothing to fear, brother Paris.... He stopped short and stood awhile in the door-way as if debating with himself whether to go forward or back.
Why—how pale and tired you are—said Mr. Paris, lifting up the candle and holding it so that he could see the face of Burroughs, while his own was in deep shadow. You appear to have a—the Lord have pity on us and help us, dear brother! what can be the matter with you?—why do you hold back in that way?—why do you stand as if you haven’t the power to move? why do you look at me as if you no longer know me?—
True—true, said Burroughs—very true—talking to himself in a low voice and without appearing to observe that another was near. No, no ... it is too late now ... there’s no going back now, if I would ... but of a truth, it is very wonderful, very ... very ... that I should not have recollected my rash vow ... a vow like that of Jeptha ... very ... very ... till I had passed over that rocky threshold which five years ago this very night, I took an oath never to pass again. What if the day that I spoke of be near?... What if I should be taken at my word! Our Father who art in....
Sir—Mr. Burroughs—my dear friend—
Well.
What is the matter with you?
With me? ... nothing.... Oh ... ah ... I pray you, brother, do not regard my speech; I am weary of this work, and the sooner we give it up now, the better. I have done very little good, I fear ... two deaths to my charge, where I had hoped a ... ah, forgive me, brother; pray forgive me.... But how is this?... What’s the matter withyou?
With me!
Yes—with you. What have I done, that you should block up the door-way of your own house, when you see me approach? And what have I done that you should try to hide your face from me, while you are searching mine with fire, and looking at me with half-averted eyes?
With half-averted eyes—
Matthew, Matthew—we are losing time—we should know each other better. You are much less cordial to me than you were a few days ago, and you know it. Speak out like a man ... like a preacher of truth—what have I done?
What have you done, brother George—how do I know?
Matthew Paris ... are we never to meet again as we have met? never while we two breathe the breath of life?
I hope ... I do hope.... I am not less glad to see you than I should be; I do not mean to give you up, whatever others may do, but—but these are ticklish times brother, and just now (in a whisper) situated as we are, we cannot be too cautious. To tell you the truth ... I was not altogether prepared to see you, after the—
Not prepared to see me! Why you told me before you lifted the latch that I was expected, and waited for—
So I did brother ... so I did, I confess—
And yet, I told nobody of my intention; how did you know I was to be with you?—
One of the children said so above a week ago, in her sleep.
In—deed.
Ah, you may smile now, brother George; but you looked serious enough a moment ago, when I opened the door, and if what they say is true—
How did I look, pray?
Why—to tell you the truth, you looked as if you saw something.
Well ... what if I did see something?
The Lord help us brother—what did you see?
I do not say—I am not sure ... but I thought I saw something.
The Lord have mercy on you, brother—what was it?
A shadow—a short black shadow that sped swiftly by me, but whether of man or beast, I do not know. All that I do know, is—
Lower ... lower ... speak lower, I beseech you, brother B.
No brother P. I shall not speak lower.
Do ... do—
I shall not. For I would have the shadow hear me, and the body to know, whether it be man or devil, that if either cross my path again, I will pursue the shadow till I discover the body, or the body till I have made a shadow of that—
Walk in brother ... walk in, I beseech you.
I’ll not be startled again for nothing. Ah—what are you afraid of?
Afraid—I—
Brother Paris—
There now!
Look you brother Paris. You have something to say to me, and you have not the courage to say it. You are sorry to see me here ... you would have me go away.... Ido not know wherefore ... I do not ask; but I know by the tone of your voice, by your look, and by everything I hear and see, that so it is. In a word therefore ... let us understand each other. I shall not go away ... here I am Sir, and here I shall abide Sir, until the mystery which brought me hither is cleared up.
Indeed, indeed Mr. Burroughs, you are mistaken.
I do not believe you.
Sir!
I do not believe you, I say; and I shall put you to the proof.
George Burroughs—I will not be spoken to, thus.
Poh—poh—
I will not, Sir. Who am I, Sir—and who are you, that I should suffer this of you?—I, a preacher of the gospel—you, an outcast and a fugitive—
Burroughs drew up with a smile. He knew the temper of the aged man, he foresaw that he should soon have the whole truth out of him, and he was prepared for whatever might be the issue.
—Yea, an outcast and a fugitive, pursued by the law it may be, while I speak; I, a man old enough to be your father—By what authority am I waylaid here, underneath my own roof—a roof that would have been a refuge for you, if you were not a—
A what Sir?
I have done—
So I perceive Matthew. I am satisfied now—I see the cause now of what I charged you with. I do not blame you—grievous though it be to the hope I had when I thought of you—my—my—brother. I feel for you—I pity you—I am sorry now for what I said—I pray you to forgive me—farewell—
Hey—what—
Farewell. You saw me, as you thought, pursued bythe law—flying to the shadow of your roof as to a refuge, and so, you stood at the door and rebuked me, Matthew.
You wrong me—I love you—I respect you—there is no treachery here, and what I have said, I said rashly, and I know not why. Forgive me brother George ... forgive the old man, whose fear hath made him overlook what is due to them, whoever they are, that fly to his habitation for shelter.
I do forgive you ... my brother. Let me also be forgiven.
Be it so ... there ... there ... be it so.
But before I take another step, assure me that if I enter the door, neither you nor yours will be put in jeopardy.
In jeopardy!
Am I pursued by the law? ... am I, of a truth?
Not pursued by the law, George: I did not say you were; I do not know that you will be ... but indeed, indeed, my poor unhappy friend, here is my roof, and here am I, ready to share the peril with you, whatever it may be, and whatever the judges and elders and the people may say.
You are.
Yes.
I am satisfied. You have done your duty.... I shall now do mine. You are a true brother; let me prove that I know how to value such truth. I am not pursued by the law, so far as I know or have reason to believe, and if I was ... I should not come hither you may be assured for safety ... nay, nay, I do not mean a reproach.... I have absolute faith in your word now; I do believe that you would suffer with me and for me ... but you shall not. If Iwerehunted for my life, why should I fly to you?... You could be of no use to me ... you couldneither conceal me nor save me ... and I might bring trouble upon you and yours forever. What would become of you, were I to be tracked by the blood-hounds up to your very door?
I pray you, said the aged man, I do pray you ... looking about on every side, shadowing the light with his meagre hand, the whole inward structure whereof was thereby revealed, and speaking in a low subdued whisper—as if he knew that they were overheard by invisible creatures.... I pray you brother ... dear brother ... let us have done with such talk—
Why so ... what are you afraid of?
Softly ... softly ... if they should overhear us—
They ... who ... what on earth are you shaking at?
No matter ... hush ... hush ... you may have no such fear brother B. ... you are a bold man brother B. ... a very bold man ... but as for me ... hark!...
What’s the matter with you? ... What ails you?
Hush! ... hush ... do you not hear people whispering outside the door?
No.
A noise like that of somebody breathing hard?—
Yes—
You do ... the Lord help us.
I do man, I do—but it is yourself—you it is, that are breathing hard—what folly Matthew—what impiety at your age!
At my age ... ah my dear brother, if you had seen what I have seen, or heard what I have heard, or suffered as I have, young as you are, and stout and powerful as you are, you would not speak as you do now, nor look as you do now....
Seen ... heard ... suffered. Have I not seen ... have I not suffered!... How little you know of me....
Here Matthew Paris, after securing the door with amultitude of bars and bolts of oak, led the way with a cautious and fearful step toward a little room, through the gaping crevices of which, a dim unsteady light, like the light of a neglected fire could be seen.
Death Sir ... death in every possible shape, I might say ... but who cares for death? ... peril which, whatever you may suppose Matthew, at your age—old as you are ... why—what am I to understand by your behaviour! ... you don’t hear a word I am saying to you.
There, there—not so loud I entreat you ... not so loud—there’s no knowing what may be near us.
Near us—are you mad?—what can be near us?
There again—there, there!
Stop—I go no further.
My dear friend—
Not another step—ifyouare crazy, I am not—I will be satisfied before I go any further. Were I to judge by what I now see and hear—did I not believe what you said a few moments ago; and were I not persuaded of your integrity, Matthew, I should believe my foes were on the look out for me, and that you had been employed to entrap me, as the strong man of old was entrapped for the Philistines, with a show of great love—
Brother!
—Nay, nay, it is not so; I know that very well. But were I to judge by your behavior now, I say, and by that alone, I should prepare my fingers for the fight, and this weapon for war.
And I—if I were to judge by your looks and behaviour at the door, I should believe that you were flying for your life, and that betaking yourself to my roof, without regard for me or mine, you were willing to betray us to the law.
Man—man—how could you believe such a thing of me?
You were pale as death, George—
Speak louder—
Pale as death, and you did not answer me, nor even appear to see me, till after I had spoken to you two or three times.
Of a truth?—
You appeared unwilling to trust yourself beneath my roof, when you saw me—
Did I—
—So that I was driven to recall the transaction which drove us apart from each other—
Did I, Matthew?—I am sorry for it—
Yes—and your behavior altogether was very strange—is very strange now; it is in fact, allow me to say so, just what I should look for in a man who knew that his life was in jeopardy. Take a chair—you are evidently much disturbed, you appear to have met with some——surely—surely—my brother, somethinghashappened to you.
—Did I—
You do not hear me—
True enough, Matthew—I am very tired—please to give me a drop of water and allow me to rest myself here a few minutes—I must be gone quickly—I have no time to lose now, I perceive.
You take a bed with me to night, of course.
No.
You must—indeed you must, my good brother—I have much to ask—much to advise with you about. We are in a dreadful way now, and if we—
Impossible Matthew—I cannot—I dare not. I have more to do than you have to say. Are the children a-bed yet?
Ah brother, brother—you have not forgotten the dear child, I see.
Which dear child?
Which dear child!—why—oh—ah—I thought you meant little Abby—the very image of my departed wife.
Is Bridget Pope with you now?
—She often speaks of you, the dear little babe ... she wears the keep-sake you gave her, and won’t let any body sit in your place, and if we desire to punish her, we have only to say that uncle George won’t love her....
The dear child! I saw her with Bridget on the day of the trial, but I had no time to speak to either. I hope they are both well—Bridget has grown prodigiously, I hear—
And so has Abby—
Indeed!
Indeed—why—is it so very wonderful that Abby should grow?
To be sure—certainly not—she was very fair when I saw her last—when I left this part of the world, I mean.
Very—
So upright, and so graceful and free in her carriage....
Free in her carriage?
For a child, I mean—so modest, and so remarkable in every way—so attentive, so quiet—
Ah my dear friend—how happy you make me. You never said half so much about her, all the time you lived here; and I, who know your sincerity and worth and soberness—to tell you the truth George—I have been a little sore....
....So attentive, so quiet and so assiduous....
Very true ... very true ... and to hearyousay so, is enough to make her father’s heart leap for joy.
What—in the grave?...
In the grave?...
And after all, I do not perceive that her eyes are too large....
Too large?
Nor that her complexion is too pale....
Nor I....
Nor that her very black hair is either too....
Black hair ... black ... pray brother B. do you know what you are saying just now? black hair ... why the child’s hair is no more black than—large eyes too—why it is Bridget Pope that has the large eyes—
Bridget Pope—to be sure it is—and who else should it be?