Delusion, or The Witch of New England Part 12

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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d.

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 of _not 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 a.s.sume a cheerfulness she did not feel, in order to soothe the dreadful agitation of Dinah. The poor African trusted in G.o.d; 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 mult.i.tude.

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.

[Footnote 3: Upham's History of Witchcraft.]

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 G.o.d. "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 mult.i.tude.

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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"No, never more, O, never in the worth Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth Trust fondly,--never more! The hope is crushed That lit my life,--the voice within me hushed That 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 antic.i.p.ations of soothing his spirit, of leading him to more rational views of G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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! G.o.d 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]

[Footnote 4: "Fifty-five persons, many of them previously of the most _unquestionable 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._]

"But _I_ should confess to a lie,--a base and wicked lie. I have no faith in these temptations. I believe G.o.d suffers us to be tempted by our own pa.s.sions 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 a.s.sociate 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 fort.i.tude? 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: G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.s 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. G.o.d has tried us both with grievous trials. Mine will cease first. Yours is the hardest to bear: to linger here--to do G.o.d'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: G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 n.o.ble fort.i.tude, 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.