CHAPTER XXI.
A long silence followed—a silence like that of death—at last Rachel Dyer spoke:
George Burroughs—I understand thee now, said she, I understand it all. Thee would have me confess that I deserve death—only that I may live. Thee would have me acknowledge (for nothing else would do) that I am a liar and a witch, and that I deserve to die—and all this for what?—only that I may escape death for a few days. O George!
No, no—you mistake the matter. I would not have you confess that you deserve death—I would only have you speak to them—God of the faithful!—I cannot—I cannot urge this woman to betray her faith.
I understand thee, George. But if I were to do so, what should I gain by it?
Gain by it, Rachel Dyer?
Why do thee drop my hand? why recoil at my touch now?
Gain by it! siezing both her hands with all his might, and speaking as if he began to fear—not to hope—no, but to fear that she might be over-persuaded—
Yea—what have I to gain by it?
Life. You escape death—a cruel ignominious death—a death, which it is not for a woman to look at, but with horror.
Well George—
By death, you lose the opportunity of doing much good, of bringing the wicked to justice, of aiding them thatare now ready to die with terror, of shielding the oppressed—
Well—
Well—and what more would you have? Is not this enough?
No, George.
Hear me out Rachel. Do not reprove me, do not turn away, till you have heard me through. My duty is before me, a duty which must and shall be done, though it break my heart. I am commanded to argue with you, and to persuade you to live.
Commanded?—
What if you were to confess that you deserve death? What if you were to own yourself a witch? I take your own view of the case.—I put the query to you in a shape the least favorable to my purpose. What if you were to do this; you would be guilty at the most but of a—of a—
Of untruth George.
And you would save your own life by such untruth, and the lives, it may be, of a multitude more, and the life you know, of one that is very dear to you.
Well——
No no—do not leave me in this way! Do not go till I—I beseech you to hear me through—
I will—it grieves me, but I will.
Which is the greater sin—to die when you have it in your power to escape death, if you will, by a word? or to speak a word of untruth to save your life—
George Burroughs—I pray thee—suffer me to bid thee farewell.
No no, not yet. Hear me through—hear all I have to say. By this word of untruth, you save your own life, and perhaps many other lives. You punish the guilty. You have leisure to repent in this world of that very untruth—if such untruth be sinful. You have anopportunity of showing to the world and to them that you love, that you were innocent of that wherewith you were charged. You may root up the error that prevails now, and overthrow the destroyer, and hereafter obtain praise for that very untruth, whereby you hinder the shedding of more innocent blood; praise from every quarter of the earth, praise from every body; from the people, the preachers, the jury, the elders—yea from the very judges for having stayed them in their headlong career of guilt—
O George—
But if you die, and your death be sinful—and would it not be so, if you were to die, where you might escape death?—you would have no time to repent here, no opportunity, no leisure—you die in the very perpetration of your guilt—
If it is guilt, I do—
And however innocent you may be of the crimes that are charged to you, you have no opportunity of showing on this earth to them that love you, that you are so. Yet more—the guilt of your death, if it be not charged hereafter to you, will be charged, you may be sure, to the wretched women that pursue you; and all who might be saved by you, will have reason to lay their death at your door—
Well—
About life or death, you may not much care; but after death to be regarded with scorn, or hatred or terror, by all that go by your grave, my sister—how could you bear the idea of that? What say you—you shudder—and yet if you die now, you must leave behind you a character which cannot be cleared up, or which is not likely to be cleared up on earth, however innocent you may be (as I have said before)—the character of one, who being charged with witchcraft was convicted of witchcraft andexecuted for a witchcraft. In a word—if you live, you may live to wipe away the aspersion. If you die, it may adhere to you and to yours—forever and ever. If you live, you may do much good on earth, much to yourself and much to others, much even to the few that are now thirsting for your life—you may make lighter the load of crime which otherwise will weigh them down—you may do this and all this, if you speak: But if you do not speak, you are guilty of your own death, and of the deaths it may be of a multitude, here and hereafter.
Now hearme. I do not know whether all this is done to try my truth or my courage, but this I know—I will not leave thee in doubt concerning either. Look at me
There——
Thee would have me confess?
I would.
Thee would have Elizabeth confess?
I would.
Do thee mean to confess.
I—I!—
Ah George—
I cannot Rachel—I dare not—I am a preacher of the word of truth. But you may—what is there to hinder you?
Thee will not?
No.
Nor will I.
Just what I expected—give me your hand—what I have said to you, I have been constrained to say, for it is a part of my faith Rachel, that as we believe, so are we to be judged: and that therefore, had you believed it to be right for you to confess and live, it would have been right, before the Lord.—But whether you do or do not, Elizabeth may.
True—if she can be persuaded to think as thee wouldhave her think, she may. I shall not seek to dissuade her—but as for me, I have put my life into the hands of our Father. I shall obey him, and trust to the inward prompting of that which upholds me and cheers me now—even now, George, when, but for His Holy Spirit, I should feel as I never felt before, since I came into the world—altogether alone.
Will you advise with her, and seek to persuade her?
No.
Cruel woman!
Cruel—no no George, no no. Would that be doing as I would be done by? Is it for me to urge a beloved sister to do what I would not do—even to save my life?
I feel the rebuke—
George, I must leave thee—I hear footsteps. Farewell—
So soon—so very soon! Say to her, I beseech you—say to her as you have said to me, that shemayconfess if she will; that we have been together, and that we have both agreed in the opinion that she had better confess and throw herself on the mercy of her judges, till the fury of the storm hath passed over.—It will soon have passed over, I am sure now—
No George, no; but I will say this. I will say to her—
Go on—go on, I beseech you—
—I will say to her—Elizabeth, my dear Sister; go down upon thy knees and pray to the Lord to be nigh to thee, and give thee strength, and to lead thee in the path which is best for his glory; and after that, if thee should feel free to preserve thy life by such means—being on the guard against the love of life, and the fear of death—the Tempter of souls, and the weapons of the flesh—it will be thy duty so to preserve it.
Burroughs groaned aloud—but he could prevail nofurther. Enough, said he, at last: write as much on this paper, and let me carry it with me.
Carry it with thee—what do thee mean?
I hardly know what I mean; I would see her and urge her to live, but when I consider what must follow, though I have permission to see her, my heart fails me.
Thee is to meet her with me, I suppose?
No, I believe not—
How—alone?—
No no—not alone, said the jailor, whom they supposed to be outside of the door, till he spoke.
More of the tender mercies of the law! They would entrap thee George—
And you too Rachel, if it lay in their power—
Give me that book—it is the Bible that I gave thee, is it not?
It is—
It belonged to my mother. I will write what I have to say in the blank leaf.
She did so; and giving it into the hands of the Jailor she said to him—I would have her abide on earth—my dear,dearsister!—I would pray to her to live and be happy,if she can; for she—O she will have much to make life dear to her, even though she be left alone by the way-side for a little time—what disturbs thee George?——
I am afraid of this man. He will betray us—
No—no—we have nothing to fear—
Nothing to fear, when he must have been at our elbow and overheard everything we have whispered to each other.
Look at him George, and thee will be satisfied.
Burroughs looked up, and saw by the vacant gravity of his hard visage, that the man had not understood a syllable to their prejudice.
But Elizabeth—I would have her continue on earth, I say—I would—if so it may please our Father above; but I am in great fear, and I would have thee tell her so, after she has read what I have written there in that book.Shewill have sympathy, whatever may occur to us—true sympathy, unmixed with fear; but as for me, I have no such hope—and why should I wrestle with my duty—I—who have no desire to see the light of another day?
None Rachel?
None—but for the sake of Mary Elizabeth Dyer—and so—and so George, we are to part now—and there—therefore—the sooner we part, the better. Her voice died away in a low deeply-drawn heavy breathing.
Even so dear—even so, my beloved sister—
George—
Nay, nay—why leave me at all?—why not abide here? Why may we not die together?
George, I say—
Well—what-say?
Suffer me to kiss thee—my brother—before we part....
He made no reply, but he gasped for breath and shook all over, and stretched out his arms with a giddy convulsive motion toward her.
—Before we part forever George—dear George, putting her hand affectionately upon his shoulder and looking him steadily in the face. We are now very near to the threshold of death, and I do believe—I do—though I would not have said as much an hour ago, for the wealth of all this world ... nay, not even to save my life ... no ... nor my sister’s life ... nor thy life ... that I shall die the happier and the better for having kissed thee ... my brother.
Still he spoke not ... he had no tongue for speech. The dreadful truth broke upon him all at once now, a truth which penetrated his heart like an arrow ... and he strove tothrow his arms about her; to draw her up to his bosom—but the chains that he wore prevented him, and so he leaned his head upon her shoulder ... and kissed her cheek, and then lifted himself up, and held her with one arm to his heart, and kissed her forehead and her eyes and her mouth, in a holy transport of affection.
Dear George ... I am happy now ... very, very happy now, said the poor girl, shutting her eyes and letting two or three large tears fall upon his locked hands, which were held by her as if ... as if ... while her mouth was pressed to them with a dreadful earnestness, her power to let them drop was no more. And then she appeared to recollect herself, and her strength appeared to come back to her, and she rose up and set her lips to his forehead with a smile, that was remembered by the rough jailor to his dying day, so piteous and so death-like was it, and said to Burroughs, in her mild quiet way—her mouth trembling and her large tears dropping at every word—very, very happy now, and all ready for death. I would say more ... much more if I might, for I have not said the half I had to say. Thee will see her ... I shall not see her again....
How—
Not if thee should prevail with her to stay, George. It would be of no use—it would only grieve her, and it might unsettle us both—
What can I say to you?
Nothing—Thee will see her; and thee will take her to thy heart as thee did me, and she will be happy—very happy—even as I am now.
Father—Father! O, why was I not prepared for this! Do thou stay me—do thou support me—it is more than I can bear! cried Burroughs, turning away from the admirable creature who stood before him trying tobear up without his aid, though she shook from head to foot with uncontrollable emotion.
Thee’s very near and very dear to Mary Elizabeth Dyer; and she—she will be happy—she cannot be otherwise, alive or dead—for all that know her, pity her and love her——
And so do all that know you—
No, no, George, love and pity are not for such as I—such pity I mean, or such love as we need here—needI say, whatever we may pretend, whatever the multitude may suppose, and however ill we may be fitted for inspiring it—I—I—
Her voice faltered, she grew very pale, and caught by the frame of the door—
—There may be love, George, there may be pity, there may be some hope on earth for a beautiful witch ... with golden hair ... with large blue eyes ... and a sweet mouth ... but for a ... for a ... for a freckled witch ... with red hair and a hump on her back—what hope is there, what hope on this side of the grave?
She tried to smile when she said this ... but she could not, and the preacher saw and the jailor saw that her heart was broken.
Before the former could reply, and before the latter could stay her, she was gone.
The rest of the story is soon told. The preacher saw Elizabeth and tried to prevail with her, but he could not. She had all the courage of her sister, and would not live by untruth. And yet she escaped, for she was very ill, and before she recovered, the fearful infatuation was over, the people had waked up, the judges and the preachers of the Lord; and the chief-judge, Sewall had publicly read a recantation for the part he had played in the terrible drama. But she saw her brave sister no more; she saw Burroughs no more—he was put todeath on the afternoon of the morrow, behaving with high and steady courage to the last—praying for all and forgiving all, and predicting in a voice like that of one crying in the wilderness, a speedy overthrow to the belief in witchcraft—a prophecy that came to be fulfilled before the season had gone by, and his last words were—“Father forgive them, for they know not what they do!”
Being dead, a messenger of the court was ordered away to apprise Rachel Dyer that on the morrow at the same hour, and at the same place, her life would be required of her.
She was reading the Bible when he appeared, and when he delivered the message, the book fell out of her lap and she sat as if stupified for a minute or more; but she did not speak, and so he withdrew, saying to her as he went away, that he should be with her early in the morning.
So on the morrow, when the people had gathered together before the jail, and prepared for the coming forth of Rachel Dyer, the High-Sheriff was called upon to wake her, that she might be ready for death; she being asleep the man said. So the High-Sheriff went up and spoke to her as she lay upon the bed; with a smile about her mouth and her arm over a large book ... but she made no reply. The bed was drawn forth to the light—the book removed (it was the Bible) and she was lifted up and carried out into the cool morning air. She was dead.