CHAPTER XVI.
He was not altogether disappointed. Rachel Dyer knew much of the woman who had fabricated the story of the spindle and sheet, and was only waiting for proof to impeach her for it, face to face, before the people and the judges. Her name was Hubbard; she was in the prime of life, with a good share of beauty; bold, crafty and sly, and very much feared by those who believed her story; and Rachel Dyer, though a woman of tried worth and remarkable courage, was unwilling to appear against her, till she could do so with a certainty of success, for it would be a fearful stake to play for, and she knew it—nothing less than life to life—her life against that of Judith Hubbard.
But though she knew this, having been very familiar with the aspect of peril from her youth, and being aware that she was looked up to with awe by the multitude—not so much with fear, as with a sort of religious awe—great love mingled with a secret, mysterious veneration, as the chief hope of her grandmother, Mary Dyer, the prophetess and the martyr—she determined to play for that stake.
She knew well what a wager of death was, and she knew well the worth of her own life. But she knew what was expected of her, and of what she was capable, in a period of general and sore perplexity and sorrow; for twice already in her short life she had approved her high relationship to the martyr, and the sincerity ofher faith as one of that people, who, when they were smitten of one cheek, turned the other, and who, when they were reviled, reviled not again,—by going forth into the great woods of North-America, while they were beset with exasperated savages and with untamed creatures of blood, forever on the track of their prey, to intercede for those who had been carried off into captivity by the red heathen ... pursuing her fearful path by night and by day ... in winter and in summer ... and always alone ... to prove her faith; and prevailing in each case where there seemed to be no sort of hope, and thereby preserving to the colony eight of her precious youth; and among others, one who had despitefully used her a little time before, and whose grandfather was reputed to have been the real cause of her beloved grandmother’s death.
When Burroughs arrived at the door, and laid his hand upon the rude latch, he started, for the door flew open of itself; there was no lock on it, no fastening, neither bolt nor bar. He found the two sisters with a large book open before them, and Rachel reading to Elizabeth in a low voice, with her arm about her neck. How now? said he.
They gave him a hearty cheerful shake of the hand; but he observed, or thought he observed a slight change of colour in the face of Rachel, as he turned his eye to the book and saw a paragraph with her name in it.
You were reading, said he, as he drew up a chair to the table. Go on, if you please.
Thank thee, George; we had nearly finished....
What are you reading, pray?
We were just reading the beautiful story of ... why, Rachel Dyer ... if thee ain’t a goin’ to shet up the book afore we are half done with the chapter! said Elizabeth, jumping up with a look of surprise ... well, I do think!
Rachel turned away her head with a somewhat hastymotion, pushed the book toward Elizabeth, and sat back as far as she could possibly get into her grandmother’s huge arm-chair; but she made no reply, and Elizabeth saw that something was the matter.
Thee’s not well, I’m afeard, sister ... dear sister, said she, going up to her and throwing her arms about her neck, and kissing her as a child would kiss a mother.
Rachel burst into tears.
Why! exclaimed Elizabeth ... why! ... what is the matter with thee, Rachel ... thee turns away thy head ... thee will not look at me ... what have I done, I beseech thee, dear sister ... what have I done to grieve thee? Speak to her, George ... do speak to her ... I never saw her in this way before.
Poor soul, said he, going up to her and speaking with visible emotion; but as he drew near and would have put his hand upon hers, like a brother, she pulled it away; and then as if suddenly recollecting herself, she rose up, and after a short struggle, turned to him with a smile that affected him even more than her tears, and spoke to him very kindly, and put her hand into his, and prepared to finish the chapter. It was the story of the patriarch, who, after cheating his father in his old age, and betraying his brother Esau, went away into the land of the people of the East, where in due course of time he was overreached and betrayed by his mother’s brother; and the voice of the reader was firm and clear, and her look steady, till she came to these words—
“And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Lear, and the name of the younger was Rachel.
“Lear was tender-eyed, but Rachel....
Her voice quavered now, and she proceeded with visible effort and hurry.
——“But Rachel wasbeautiful and well favored. And Jacob loved Rachel.
A moment more—and she recovered her voice entirely, and finished the chapter without a sign of emotion, as if she knew in her own soul that Burroughs and Elizabeth were watching her as they had never watched her before.
Strange morality—said he, as they laid the Book aside. This patriarch, and others who happen to have been greatly favored in that age by the God of the patriarchs were guilty of more than we, with our shortsighted notions of propriety, should be very willing either to overlook or forgive—
George Burroughs—
My dear friend—what I say is very true, and to pass over David, the man after God’s own heart, I would ask you whether he who cheated his father and his brother, by the help of his mother, while he was yet a youth, and as he grew up laid before the stronger cattle the rods which he had peeled—as we have it in the Book—and suffered the cattle that were weak—as we read there—to conceive in their own way, so that “the feebler were Laban’s cattle and the stronger Jacob’s ... whether he, I say....
I see no advantage in this ... we have a faith of our own, said Rachel, interrupting him with a mild seriousness which he dared not contend with. I pray thee to spare us,—and thyself George....
Are we not to bear witness to the truth, Rachel?
It may be the truth George, but ... glancing at Elizabeth who sat as if she expected the roof to fall in, or the earth to give way under their feet and swallow them up for their dreadful impiety ... some truths we know are for the strong, and some for the weak.
Ah ... what was that! cried Elizabeth catching at her sister’s arm.
Poor child ... there George there ... thee sees the effect of thy truth ... why, Lizzy!
O I did hear something ... I did, I did! continued Elizabeth, clinging to her sister and fixing her eyes upon the roof. O I’m sure there’s something up there.
Well, and what if there is, pray? What’s thee afraid of?... Is the arm of our Father shortened or his power shrunk, that we are not safe?
Nay nay Rachel ... no wonder she’s afraid. You are lying asleep as it were, in the very path-way of the prowling savage and the beast of blood, with no lock on your outer-door, not so much as a wooden bolt, with no sort of security for you, by day or by night; and all this in a time of war, and you living on the outskirts of the wood ... why it’s no better than tempting Providence, Rachel Dyer....
Just what I say ... said Elizabeth....
And I am sorry to hear thee say so....
Nay nay Rachel ... why so grave? I confess to you that I should not like to live as you do....
I dare say, George....
It would be impossible for me to sleep....
No no ... not impossible.
And I should expect a savage or a bear to drop in, every hour of the day....
Thee wouldn’t always be disappointed George.
And every hour of the night, Rachel, without ceremony.
We disregard ceremony, George.
Why, what are you made of Rachel Dyer....
Of earth, George.
Not of common earth....
George Burroughs!
But of a truth now, are you not afraid of a call someone of these dark nights from a stray savage, a Pequod, or a Mohawk—or an Iroquois?
She smiled.
Are you not? We are at open war now with half the tribes of the North.
No ... and why should I be? I know them all and they know that Elizabeth and I are what they call poo-ka-kee....
Poor quakers, hey?...
Yes, and thee may be very sure that we have not much to be in fear of when I tell thee ... prepare thyself George ... that hardly a day goes over without my seeing some one or two of thy tribe, or of the Iroquois.
What! cried the preacher, leaping out of the chair and looking up at the roof ... there may be somebody there now.
Not up there George....
Where then?
It would be no easy matter for me to say: for whoever it is, he will not appear till thee is gone ... why, what’s thee afraid of? ... and then he will open the door as thee did, and walk in. Thee may put up thy knife George, and lay down thy staff ... they’ll never cross thy path, nor harm a hair of thy head....
How can I be sure of that?
By believing what I say to thee.
I know the savages better than you do, my dear friend.
I have my doubts, George. They never harmed a visiter of mine yet, neither going or coming; and I have had not a few of their mortal foes under my roof while they were lying within bow-shot of the door. Be assured of what I say ... thee has nothing to fear....
Would we let thee come, George, if it wasn’t very safe? asked Elizabeth.
Forgive me, said he, forgive me; and his eyes flashedfire, and Elizabeth hid her face, and Rachel turned away her head.
Why, how now? said he, looking at both in astonishment, you appear to have a——
He stopped short ... he had an idea that he knew the character of both sisters well; he had been acquainted with Mary Elizabeth from her childhood up, and with her grave sister from her youth up, and he had always perceived that there was a something in the nature of both, but especially in that of Rachel Dyer, unlike the nature of anybody else that he ever knew; but he had never been so puzzled by either as he was now——
I hope I have not offended you? said he, at last.
Dotheefeel safe George?
Yes ... but you are not safe ... ah, you may smile and shake your head, but you are not safe. How do you think the authorities of the land will endure to be told that you are on such familiar terms with the foe? Have a care ... you will get yourself into trouble, if you don’t.
Make thyself easy George. We are quite safe; we belong to neither side in the war, and both sides know it. By abiding here, I am able to do much good....
As how, pray?
By showing that I am not afraid to trust to the good-faith of savages; by showing them that they are safe in trusting tomygood-faith, and above all, that weapons of war, whatever thee may say, George, are not necessary to them who put their trust in the Lord....
What if we were to entrap some of your visiters without your knowledge?
It would be no easy matter. They guard every path I do believe, that leads to my door....
Every path....
Yes ... and let me tell thee now, that if it should ever happen to thee to go astray in these woods, thee willhave nothing to fear so long as thee pursues a path which leads to my door ... if thee should miss thy way, inquire aloud, and thee will be safe....
How so?
Thee will be overheard....
You astonish me.
And guarded, if it be necessary....
Guarded!...
Up to my very door ... thee can hardly put faith in what I say. Do thee know George, that to be a poo-ka-kee, is to bear a charmed life, as thee would say, not only here, but in the great wilderness? Do thee know too, that among the tribes of the north, it is a common thing to charge a captive with cruelty to the quakers.
I do ... and I have heard every cry of a pale man at the stake answered by ... Ah ha! what for you farver ’im choke-a poo-ka-kee-ooman?
Poor soul....
They alluded I suppose to your grandmother. How you like em dat? said a Mohawk chief, putting his belt round the neck of another, and pulling it just hard enough to choke him a little. Ah ha! ... what for you do so?... You choke-a poo-ka-kee-ooman, hey? ... you kill um ’gin? ah ha....
No, no George ... no, no.... I can’t bear to hear thee ... it reminds me of the poor youth I saved. They frightened him almost to death before they would give him up, only because they had a tradition in their tribe that his grandfather was in some way, the cause of my grandmother’s death; and I am quite sure that he would not have been given up to anybody but me ... well....
Hark ... hark! said Elizabeth, interrupting her sister.
Well, what now?
I heard a voice....
A voice ... where ... when ... what was it like?
Like the voice of a woman, a great way off—
A female panther I dare say ... it’s high time to look to the door.
There ... there ... oh, it’s close to the door now!
A low sweet voice could be distinctly heard now, but whether on the roof or up the chimney, or at the window or the door, it was quite impossible to say.