Silent Struggles Part 22

Barbara Stafford did not reply, and, without looking again at that pale face, the governor pa.s.sed into the house, holding his wife's hand in his own. When they had disappeared from view, and before either of the young persons, who were looking at her in wonder, could move, the wretched lady sank back without a sound, or even a motion of her arms to break her fall, and lay prostrate upon the porch, her loosened hair sweeping the garments of Elizabeth Parris as she fell. The girl shrunk away, as if those shining tresses had been viper coils, and made no movement to a.s.sist her.

"She is dead!" exclaimed Norman, springing forward to raise the motionless form; "call help, Elizabeth."

"Don't touch her!" expostulated the girl, seizing his arm; "I would rather see you pick up a snake--I will call the domestics."

"For shame, Bess!" returned Norman, with indignation; "how can you be so cruel?"

"You shall not touch her, I say you shall not!" she repeated, with unwonted vehemence; "I cannot bear it, indeed I cannot."

"Get me some water, and be silent!" he said, sternly, shaking off her hand and raising the prostrate form.

Elizabeth Parris looked on for a moment in silence, while he swept back the hair from that white face, and threw off the scarf which covered her head; then, before he could repeat his request, she rushed into the house, and closed the door violently behind her.

Norman uttered an exclamation of pa.s.sionate reproach, and raised Barbara in his arms. He placed her on a bench at the end of the porch, where the roses and honeysuckles hung down in luxuriant profusion. He tore off the blossoms with reckless haste, and scattered the dew over her forehead, raising her head upon his shoulder again with the fondness of a brother, while the touch of those rich ma.s.ses of hair sent a thrill to his heart almost painful from its intensity.

Many moments elapsed ere Barbara Stafford revived. She opened her eyes at length, and looked around in the starlit gloom.

"Am I dreaming?" she whispered; "what has happened?--where am I now?"

"You fainted, Madam," said Norman, soothingly; "you have not been well since your shipwreck, I think."

"Fainted--did I--and wherefore? Who was here? I feel as if I had been in a dream--that man--surely I was in his arms--he kissed my forehead--my lips--"

"Sir William mistook you in the darkness for Lady Phipps," said Norman, in explanation.

"I remember, and they looked so strangely at me--all of them--that young girl--"

"You must excuse Elizabeth, Madam; she is a mere child--capricious and spoiled."

"Where are they all? Why did they leave me here alone with you? Could they not deign me even a moment's pity and a.s.sistance?"

"Sir William and Lady Phipps knew nothing of your illness--they had gone into the house--are you well enough now to follow them?"

"Not yet--not yet. I will not intrude upon them--I am better here."

"I will bring you some water--"

"Nothing--only let me be quiet for a few moments, and I shall be well.

These flowers are oppressive--help me away."

He supported her to a seat at a little distance, and resumed his position by her side. Barbara sat leaning her forehead upon her hand, lost in thought, and shivering slightly, as if with cold.

"The night air is chill," said Norman; "I will get your cloak."

He took up the rich mantle and folded it about her; she offered no resistance, looking down at him as he bent forward, and smiling with her patient, resigned smile, in sign of thankfulness for his care.

"Are you better now?" he asked, inexpressibly moved by the beautiful resignation of her look.

"Much better. You are very kind to me--very, I have always something new to thank you for."

"I wish it were indeed in my power to render you any service."

"Ah, you are young, and it is great happiness for the young to feel that they can be of service to those around them! But I have no claim upon your kindness. I am a stranger to you and all about you."

"A stranger--oh, lady, how can you say this? I could never feel that you were indeed a stranger--there are persons with whom one, at the first sight, seems to have been acquainted for years--for a whole life-time."

"Have you felt that, too?" said Barbara, mournfully. "Poor boy! that feeling comes with a rare and peculiar organization, which causes the possessor much suffering."

"And am I to know much suffering, do you think?" the youth questioned eagerly, with a half-defiant look, as if ready to dare the worst that fate could heap upon him. "Shall I suffer, do you think?"

"Is it not the fate of humanity? Endurance is the great lesson of life!

But it is very hard to learn how to suffer with patience--the pain is not so much as the struggle for resignation. Oh, that is hard to bear!"

Barbara's head drooped forward again, and a mist stole over her eyes, till they shone like the reflection of star-beams through dark waters.

"Endurance--I don't like the word! I should never learn to be patient, never!" exclaimed Lovel, with his quick impetuosity. "I could bear any suffering that came to me, but I would not be resigned. I would battle with adversity as if it were an enemy who had a.s.sailed me unawares."

"Poor boy--poor fleeting spring of life!" murmured Barbara. "No, no--you think this now, while the elasticity of your spirits is unimpaired, but that will not outlast a great sorrow, one which crushes out all hope!

You must learn to accept life as it is--press the crown of thorns courageously down upon your heart, and pray to G.o.d for comfort and strength--in His good time and method they would come to you."

"I could not pray if I were wretched," returned Lovel; "I should not believe that G.o.d heard while it pleased Him to chastise me."

"That is not the language of this Puritan land," said Barbara, with sorrowful severity; "the teachings of your boyhood should have prevented the birth of such thoughts. Whence come they?"

"I do not know--they torment me much. Often in church they haunt me, drowning the voice of prayer and thanksgiving."

"Pray to G.o.d!" said Barbara; "He alone can aid you."

"But he seems so far off--I cannot feel that I am heard! The religion that our ministers teach is so hard and stern--so unforgiving and unpitying. Surely, if G.o.d be a just and perfect being, He cannot so harshly regard our errors!"

"Ah, child, He judges not as man does--He sees the motive, and oftentimes pardons that which poor, weak mortals, in their short-sightedness, condemn with relentless severity."

"But what right have they to judge others thus, those cold, iron preachers? Piety does not consist in smothering all the natural and beautiful impulses of the heart--"

"These impulses are the soul's best religion," interrupted Barbara, gently.

"These men have frozen every feeling in their natures, and if they do no wrong it is only because their hearts are so icy that they have few weaknesses left. There is little merit in pa.s.sive goodness when no temptation to error exists."

"Are you not falling into the same fault for which you blame them?" said Barbara, smiling more cheerfully.

"It may be," replied Lovel; "but I lose all patience with their superst.i.tious observances. My heart has turned almost with loathing from their creed since this nightmare of witchcraft has desolated so many happy hearths, and murdered so many innocent creatures."

"It is horrible, indeed," said Barbara, with a shudder; "I have read strange accounts, but they seemed too terrible for reality."

"Lady, they were true--terribly true! The barbarity of these persecutions is beyond the power of words to describe."

"Can human beings thus be led astray by superst.i.tious fears?" said Barbara, shuddering anew beneath the horror of the thought.