Chapter XI

Abigail goes to Boston Town


That same morning, while it was still in the cool of the day and the
sun cast long shadows across the dew-wet grass, Abigail was making her
way along the forest path which led to Deliverance’s home. In a pail
she carried ginger-cookies her mother had sent in exchange for some of
Goodwife Higgins’ famous cheese-balls.

Since such woeful misfortune had befallen its little mistress, the
farmhouse seemed to have acquired a sorrowful aspect. The gate swung open
dismally, and weeds had sprung up boldly in the garden. Abigail went
round to the kitchen.

It was empty. The floor had been freshly sprinkled with sand; the
milk-pans were scoured and shining in the sun; a black pot, filled with
water, swung over the fire, and Deliverance’s kitten slumbered on the
hearthstone.

Abigail placed the pail of cookies on the table and seated herself to
await Goodwife Higgins’ return. Soon the goodwife entered, bearing a big
golden pumpkin from the storehouse.

“I be glad to see ye, Abigail, if a sorrowful heart kens aught o’
gladness,” she said, putting down the pumpkin. “Ye look well and
prosperous. I wonder if my little Deliverance has sufficient to eat and
warm clothing o’ night. I have reared her tenderly, only to strike her a
blow when most she needed me. I carry a false and heavy heart.” She sat
down and, flinging her apron over her head, sobbed aloud.

Abigail longed to tell the poor dame she had seen Deliverance, but dared
not.

After a little, the goodwife drew her apron from her head and wiped her
eyes with a corner of it. “Hark ye, Abigail, the Lord has punished me,
that I took it upon myself to be a judge o’ witches. Ye recall how I
telled the reverend judges I had seen a yellow bird. I saw that bird
again at rise o’ sun this morn.”

Abigail shivered, although the fire was warm, and glanced around
apprehensively. “It was the witch,” she cried, “what hanged her evil
deeds on Deliverance.”

“It was no witch,” cried the goodwife. “I would it had been a witch.”

Abigail edged off her stool. “I must be going,” she said; “methinks I
hear a witch scratching on the floor.”

But her companion pushed her back. “Sit ye down. I have summat to tell
ye. The hand o’ the Lord be in it, and laid in judgment on me. Betimes
this morn, led o’ the Lord, I went to Deliverance’s room. There on the
sill was the yellow bird. My heart was so full o’ sadness, there was no
room for fear. ‘Gin ye be a witch, ye yellow bird,’ said I, ‘ye will have
hanged a maid that knew not sin.’ At this the bird flew off and lighted
in the red oak tree o’ the edge o’ the clearing. I put my Bible in my
pocket and hurried out after it. As I neared the red oak, I shuddered,
for I thought to find the bird changed into an hag with viper eyes. But
naught was to be seen. I looked up into the branches. I cried, ‘Ye shall
not escape me, ye limb o’ Satan,’ and with that I clomb the tree. It was
a triumph o’ the flesh at my years, and proof that the Lord was holpen
me. As I stood on the lower branches, I spied a nest and four eggs. I
heard a peep, and saw the mother-bird had fluttered off a little way.
At her call came the yellow bird, her mate, and flew in my face. Then I
was minded these very birds nested there last spring. I suspicioned all.
My little Deliverance had scattered crumbs on the window-ledge for the
birds.”

“Did ye look for to see?” asked Abigail.

The goodwife nodded sadly. “Ay, I found many in the cracks. I be going
to see the magistrate and confess my grievous mistake. Bide ye here,
Abigail, whilst I be gone, as Master Wentworth has gone herb-gathering. I
will stop by and leave the cream cheeses at your mother’s.”

Left alone, Abigail tied on an apron and went briskly to work at the task
the dame had given her. She cut the best part of the pumpkin into dice
an inch square, in order to make a side dish to accompany meat. When well
made it was almost as good as apple sauce. Having cut the pumpkin up,
she put it into a pot, and poured over it a cup of cider-vinegar. Then
she swung the pot on the lugpole and stirred the fire. She sighed with
relief when the task was finished. At last she was free to attend to
Deliverance’s errand. Was ever anything so fortunate as the goodwife’s
mission to the village?

She opened the still-room door and stepped inside. The window-shutters
were closed. All was cool, dark, and filled with sweet scents. At first
she could see nothing, being dazzled by the light from which she had
just come. Something brushed against her ankles, frightening her. But
when she heard a soft purring, she was greatly relieved that it was
Deliverance’s kitten. With great curiosity she looked around the room,
which she had never before entered. Under the window a long board served
as a work-table. It held a variety of bowls, measuring spoons, and
bottles. In the centre was a very large bowl, covered by a plate. She
lifted the cover and peered in, but instantly clapped the plate on again.
A nauseating odour had arisen from the black liquid it contained. Hastily
Abigail closed the door that the terrible fumes might not escape into
the kitchen. She now perceived close by the bowl a parchment, which was
written upon with black ink and stamped with a scarlet seal. With fingers
that trembled at their daring, she put the parchment in her pocket. As
she turned to go she screamed, unmindful in her fright that she might be
heard.

For, from a dark corner, there jumped at her a witch in the form of a
toad.

Now it is all very well for a little maid to stand still and scream
when assailed by a witch, but when a second and a third, a fourth, a
fifth, and even a sixth witch appear, hopping like toads, it behooves
that little maid to stop screaming and turn her attention to the best
plan of removing herself from their vicinity. So Abigail frantically
stepped upon a stool and thence to the table. Then she looked down.
She saw the six witches squatted in a row on the floor, all looking
up at her, blinking their bright eyes. They had such a knowing and
mischievous air that she felt a yet greater distance from them would be
more acceptable. With an ease born of long experience in climbing trees,
she swung herself to the rafter above the table. Her feet, hanging over,
were half concealed by the bunches of dried herbs tied to the beams. She
had no sooner seated herself as comfortably as possible, when she heard
footsteps and the tap of a walking-stick in the kitchen. Another moment
and the door opened, and Sir Jonathan Jamieson put his head inside.

“Are you in, Master Wentworth?” he asked. Receiving no reply he stepped
inside. He lifted the cover from the large bowl and instantly recoiled.
“Faugh,” he muttered, “the stuff has a sickish smell.” He searched the
table, even peered into the pockets of Master Wentworth’s dressing-gown
hanging on the wall.

Abigail, holding her small nose tightly, silently prayed. The dust she
had raised from the herbs made her desire to sneeze.

Suddenly Sir Jonathan sneezed violently.

“Kerchew,” came a mild little echo.

“Kerchew!” sneezed Sir Jonathan again.

“Kerchew,” went Abigail in instant imitation.

“Kerchew!” sneezed Sir Jonathan, more violently than ever this third time.

“Kerchew,” followed Abigail.

Sir Jonathan glanced around suspiciously at this last distinct echo. But
he saw nothing unusual. He poked the toad witches with his stick. “Scat!”
said he, and they all jumped back into their dark corners. After some
further searching, he went out muttering to himself.

Abigail could see him through the open door pacing up and down the
kitchen, awaiting Master Wentworth. But at last growing impatient he went
away.

Abigail, not daring to get down, quivered at every sound, fearing it
was Master Wentworth returning. An appetizing odour of the pumpkin was
wafted to her. She was indeed in a quandary now. If she descended, how
should she escape the witches? If she let the pumpkin burn, she would
have to explain how it happened to the goodwife. She sniffed anxiously.
Surely the pumpkin was scorching. All housewifely instinct aroused, she
descended, and with a shudder at encountering the witches, bounded from
the room, slamming the door after her.

She was just in time to save the pumpkin. She added some butter and
sweetening and a pretty pinch of ginger. While thus engaged, Master
Wentworth returned. He greeted her kindly, not observing the goodwife’s
absence, and seated himself at the table to sort his herbs.

But Abigail noticed he did not touch them, only sat quietly, shading his
eyes with his hand.

The silence was broken by a scratching at the still-room door.

Master Wentworth rose and opened it, and the kitten walked out purring,
its tail proudly erect.

There are various ways of banishing indiscreet witches who assume the
form of toads.

“It is strange how it came in there,” remarked Master Wentworth, mildly;
“the goodwife seldom enters.”

Abigail, with guiltily red cheeks, stirred the pumpkin briskly. But when
she glanced again at her host, she perceived he was thinking neither of
her nor of the kitten. She could not know, however, that his eyes, fixed
in a far-away gaze, seemed to see the green and sunken grave, blue with
innocents and violets, where Deliverance’s mother slept.

“Master Wentworth,” Abigail summoned up courage to ask, “would ye mind
biding here alone until the goodwife returns?”

“Nay,” he answered, “I mind it not.”

“And would ye be above giving the pumpkin a stir once in awhile?” she
ventured timidly. And as he nodded assent, she put the spoon in his hand
and left him.

When Goodwife Higgins returned, weary, disappointed that she could not
obtain the hearing of the magistrates,—who were in court,—she found
Master Wentworth sitting as in a dream, the spoon in his hand and the
odour of burning pumpkin filling the air.

“The naughty baggage!” muttered the goodwife; “just wait till I clap eyes
on her.”

The following day the disappearance of Abigail Brewster caused general
consternation in Salem Town. She had left home early in the morning for
school. Several boys asserted having seen her in Prison Lane. No further
traces of her were found. Many villagers had seen evil spirits in the
guise of Frenchmen and Indians lurking in the surrounding forest; and
when by night the child was still missing, it was popularly believed that
one of these evil spirits had borne the little maid away.

Meanwhile the object of this anxiety was trudging serenely the path to
Boston Town, carrying her shoes and stockings, her petticoat turned up to
her knees, there being many fordways to cross.