Chapter XII

Mr. Cotton Mather visits Deliverance Now, upon the very day of Abigail’s disappearance, ye godly minister of Boston Town, Mr. Cotton Mather, was in Salem in attendance upon the trial of an old woman, whose spectre had appeared to several people and terrified them with horrible threats. Furthermore, the Beadle had testified to having seen her “Dead Shape” lurking in the very pulpit of the church. It was with unusual relish Cotton Mather had heard her condemnation to death, considering her crime, in particular, deliberate treason to the Lord. As he stepped from the hot and dusty court into the fresh air, salt with the sea and bright with the sunshine, a great rush of gladness filled his heart, and he mentally framed a prayer that with God’s assistance he might rid this fair, new land of witches, and behold the church of his fathers firmly established. Leaving his horse for the present where it was tied to the hitching-post, outside the meeting-house, he walked slowly down the village street to the inn, there to have luncheon before setting out for Boston Town. The fruit trees growing adown the street were green, and cast little clumps of shadow on the cobblestone pavement. And he thought of their fruitage—being minded to happy thoughts at remembrance of duty done—in the golden autumn, when the stern Puritans held a feast day in thanksgiving to the Lord. All the impassioned tenderness of the poet awoke in him at the sight of these symbolical little trees. “And there are the fair fruit trees,” he murmured, “and also the trees of emptiness.” Now he bowed to a group of the gossips knitting on a door-stoop in the sun, and now he stooped to set upon its feet a little child that had fallen. At the stocks he dispelled sternly a group of boys who were tickling the feet of the writhing prisoners. Thus, in one of the rarely serene moments of his troubled life, he made his leisurely way. But only his exalted mood, wrapping him as an invisible, impenetrable garment, enabled him to pass thus serenely. To every one else a weight of terror hung like a pall. The awful superstition seemed in the very air they breathed. How unnatural the blue sky! What a relief to their strained nerves would have been another mighty storm! Then might they have shrieked the terror which possessed them, but now the villagers spoke in whispers, so terrible the silence of the bright noonday. And many, although aware of the fact that the evil spirits were mostly abroad at night, yet longed for the darkness to come and cover them. No man dared glance at his neighbour. From one cottage came the cry of a babe yet in swaddling clothes, deserted by its panic-stricken mother, who believed it possessed by an evil spirit. Yet, mechanically the villagers pursued their daily duties. At the tavern, Cotton Mather found Judge Samuel Sewall and the schoolmaster—who acted as clerk in court—conversing over their mugs of sack. Pleased to fall in with such company, he drew his stool up to their table. “Alas, my dear friend,” said the good judge, “this witchery business weighs heavy on my soul! I cannot foresee an end to it, and know not who will next be cried out upon. ’Tis a sorry jest, I wot, but meseemeth, in time, the hangman will be the only man left in this afflicted township. E’en my stomach turns ’gainst my best loved dishes.” On the younger man’s serene, almost exalted face came a humanizing gleam of gentle ridicule. “Then indeed has the Lord used this witchery business to one godly purpose, at least, if you do turn from things of the flesh, Samuel.” A rare sweetness, born of the serenity of his mind and his friendship, was in his glance. “Nay, nay,” spoke the good judge, gruffly, “’tis an ill conscience and an haughty stomach go together. No liking have I for the man who turns from his food. Alas, that such a man should be I and I should be such a man!” he groaned. “The face of that child we condemned troubles me o’ nights.” A menacing frown transformed Cotton Mather’s face, and he was changed from the genial friend into the Protestant priest, imperious in his decisions. He struck his hand heavily on the table. “Shall we, then, be wrought upon by a round cheek and tender years, and shrink from doing the Lord’s bidding? Most evil is the way of such a maid, and more to be dreaded than all the old hags of Christendom.” “Ay,” joined in the schoolmaster, “most evil is the way of such a maid! Strange rumours are afloat regarding her. ’Tis said, that for the peace of the community she cannot be hanged too soon. ’Tis whispered that the glamour of her way has e’en cast a spell on the old jailer. Moreover, the woman of Ipswich, who was hanged a fortnight ago, did pray that the witch-maid be saved. Now ’tis an unco uncanny thing, as all the world knows, that one witch should desire good to another witch.” Cotton Mather turned a terrible glance upon the great judge. “O fool!” he cried, “do you not perceive the work of the Devil in all this? The woman of Ipswich would have had the witch-maid saved that her own black spirit might pass into this fair child’s form, and thus, with double force, working in one body, the two witches would wreak evil on the world.” “Nay, nay,” protested the judge, “my flesh is weaker than my willing spirit, and, I fear me, wrought upon by a fair seeming and the vanity of outward show. But we must back to court, my good friend,” he added, addressing the schoolmaster. So the two arose and donned their steeple-hats and took their walking-sticks, and arm-in-arm they went slowly down the middle of the street. Cotton Mather, as he lunched, became absorbed in troubled thought. The conviction grew that it was his duty to investigate to the full and personally these rumours of the witch-maid. Also, he would seek to lead her to confession to the salvation of her own soul, and, further, that he might learn something regarding the evil ways of witches, and by some good wit turn their own methods against them to the establishment of the Lord. Full of eager resolve, he did not finish his luncheon, but left the tavern and proceeded to the jail. There he had the old jailer open the door of the cell very softly, that he might, by some good chance, surprise the prisoner in evil doing. Quietly the old jailer swung open the door. Cotton Mather saw a little maiden seated on a straw pallet, knitting. Some wisps of the straw clung to her fair hair, some to her linsey-woolsey petticoat. Where the iron ring had slipped on her white ankle was a red mark. All the colour went from Deliverance’s face as she looked up and perceived her visitor. Before his stern gaze she trembled, and her head drooped, and she ceased her knitting. The ball of yarn rolled out from her lap over to the young minister’s feet. She waited for him to speak. The moments passed and still he did not speak, and the torture of his silence grew so great that at last she lifted her head and met his glance, and out of her pain she was enabled to speak. “What would ye have with me, good sir?” “I have come to pray with you, and to exhort you to confession,” he answered. “Nay, good sir,” protested Deliverance, “I be no witch.” The old jailer entered with a stool for Mr. Mather, and having set it down, went out and left the two together. Ere either could speak, there was a rapping at the door. In answer to the young minister’s summons to enter, Sir Jonathan Jamieson came in. Deliverance glanced dully at him, all uncaring; for she felt he had harmed her all he could, and now might nevermore injure her. The young minister, having much respect for Sir Jonathan, rose and begged that he be seated. But Sir Jonathan, minded to be equally polite, refused to deprive Mr. Mather of the stool. So they might have argued and bowed for long, had not the jailer appeared with another stool. “I did but see you enter now, as I chanced to come out of the tavern near by,” remarked Sir Jonathan, seating himself comfortably, leaning back against the wall, “and, being minded to write a book upon the evil ways of witchery, I followed you in, knowing you came to exhort the prisoner to repentance. So I beg that you will grant me the privilege to listen in case she should confess, that I may thereby obtain some valuable notes.” As he spoke he shot a quick glance at Deliverance. She could not divine that menacing look. Was he fearful lest she should confess, or did he indeed seek to have her do so? Cotton Mather turned, his face filled with passionate and honest fervour, toward the speaker. “Most gladly,” he answered with hearty sympathy; “it is a noble and useful calling. I oft find more company with the dead in their books than in the society of the living, and it has ever been one of my chief thanksgivings that the Lord blessed me with a ready pen. But more of this later. Let us now kneel in prayer.” They both knelt. But Deliverance remained seated. “Wicked and obstinate o’ heart I be,” she said, “but Sir Jonathan holds me from prayer. I cannot kneel in company with him.” She no longer felt any fear to speak her mind. At her words Cotton Mather glanced at Sir Jonathan and saw the man’s face go red. His suspicions were aroused thereat, and he forgot all his respect for Sir Jonathan’s great position and mickle gold, and spoke sternly, as became a minister, recognizing in his profession neither high nor low. “Do you indeed exercise a mischievous spell to hold this witch-maid from prayer when she would seem softened toward godliness?” “Nay,” retorted Sir Jonathan, “’tis the malice of her evil, invisible spectre whispering at her ear to cast a reflection on me.” “I prithee go, however, and stand in the corridor outside, and we will see if the witch-maid, relieved of your presence, will pray,” advised Cotton Mather. Sir Jonathan was secretly angered at this command, yet he rose with what fair show of grace he could muster, and went out into the corridor. But an indefinable fear had sprung to life in his heart. For, lo, but a look, a word, an accusation, and one was put upon as a witch. Deliverance, although she feared the young minister, yet knew him to be not only a great but a good man, and desirous for her soul’s good. Thus willingly she knelt opposite him. Long and fervently he prayed. Meanwhile, Sir Jonathan sauntered up and down the corridor, swinging his blackthorn stick lightly, humming his Old World tune. Every time he passed the open door, he cast a terrible glance at Deliverance over the minister’s kneeling figure, so that she shuddered, feeling she was indeed besieged by the powers of darkness on one hand, and an angel of light on the other. Cotton Mather could not see those terrible glances, but even as he prayed, he was conscious of Sir Jonathan’s unconcerned humming and light step. This implied some disrespect, so that it was with displeasure he called upon him to return. “I cannot understand, Sir Jonathan,” he remarked, rising and resuming his seat, “how it is that you who are so godly a man, should exercise a spell to hold this witch-maid from prayer.” Sir Jonathan shrugged his shoulders. “She has a spectre which would do me evil. ’Tis a plot of the Devil’s to put reproach on me, in that I have refused to do his bidding.” An expression of low cunning came into his glance. “Have not you had similar experience, Mr. Mather? Methinks I have heard that the tormentors of an afflicted young woman did cause your very image to appear before her.” “Yea,” rejoined Mr. Mather with some heat, “the fiends did make themselves masters of her tongue, so in her fits she did complain I put upon her preternatural torments. Yet her only outcries when she recovered her senses were for my poor prayers. At last my exhortations did prevail, and she, as well as my good name, was delivered from the malice of Satan.” Sir Jonathan stooped to flick some dust off his buckled shoe with his kerchief. “One knows not on whom the accusation of witchery may fasten. Even the most godly be not spared some slander.” Now when he stooped, Deliverance thought she had seen a smile flicker over his face, but when he lifted his head, his expression was deeply grave. He met the young minister’s suspicious and uncomfortable glance serenely. “What most convinces me,” he continued easily, “of the prisoner’s guilt, e’en more than the affliction she put upon me, is the old yeoman’s testimony that he saw her conversing in the woods with Satan. Could we but get to the root of that matter, perchance the whole secret may be revealed. But I would humbly suggest she tell it in my ear, alone, lest the tale prove of too terrible and scandalous a nature to reach thy pious ear. Then I would repeat it to you with becoming delicacy.” “Nay,” answered Cotton Mather, “a delicate stomach deters me not from investing aught that may result to the better establishment of the Lord in this district.” Deliverance began to feel that her secret would be torn from her against her will. Alas, what means of self-defence remained to her! Her fingers closed convulsively upon the unfinished stocking in her lap. The feminine instinct to seek relief from painful thought by some simple occupation of sewing or knitting, awakened in her. She resolved to continue her knitting, counting each stitch to herself, never permitting her attention to swerve from the task, no matter what words were addressed to her. So in her great simplicity, and innocent of all worldly conventionalities, she sought security in her knitting. This action was so unprecedented, it suggested such quiet domesticity and the means by which good women righteously busied themselves, that both priest and layman were disconcerted, and knew not what to do. Suddenly Sir Jonathan laughed harshly. “The witch has a spice of her Master’s obstinacy,” he cried. “Methinks ’twere right good wisdom, since your prayers and exhortations avail not with her, to try less gentle means and use threats,” his crafty mind catching at the fact that whatever strange, but, he feared to him, familiar tale, the little maid might tell, it could be misconstrued as the malice of one who had given herself over to Satan. “Perchance ’twould be as well,” assented Cotton Mather, greatly perplexed. Sir Jonathan shook his forefinger at Deliverance. “Listen, mistress,” said he, and sought to fix her with his menacing eye. Deliverance, counting her stitches, heeded him not. How pale her little face! How quick the glancing needles flashed! And ever back of her counting ran an undercurrent of thought, the words of her dream,—A little life sweetly lived. “This would I threaten you,” spoke Sir Jonathan. “You have heard how old Giles Corey is to be put to death?” The knitting-needles trembled in the small hands. Now she dropped a stitch, and now another stitch. “And because he will say neither that he is guilty, nor yet that he is not guilty, it is rumoured that he is to be pressed to death beneath stones,” continued Sir Jonathan. A sigh of horror followed his words. The involuntary sound came from Cotton Mather, whose imaginative, highly-strung organism responded to the least touch. His eyes were fixed upon the little maid. He saw the small hands shaking so that they could not guide the needles. How small those hands, how stamped with the innocent seeming of childhood! Oh, that the Devil should take upon himself such a disguise! “And so, if you do not confess,” spoke Sir Jonathan’s cold, menacing voice, “you shall not be accorded even the mercy of being hanged, but tied hands and feet, and laid upon the ground. And the villagers shall come and heap stones on you, and I, whom you have afflicted, shall count them as they fall. I shall watch the first stone strike you—” A loud cry from the tortured child interrupted him. She sprang to her feet with arms outstretched. “And when that first stone strikes me,” she cried, “God will take me to Himself! Ye can count the stones the others throw upon me, but I shall never ken how fast they fall!” Cotton Mather was moved to compassion. “Let us use all zeal to do away with these evil sorcerers and their fascinations, good Sir Jonathan, but yet let us deal in mercy as far as compatible with justice, lest to do any living thing torture be a reflection on our manhood.” With gentleness he then addressed himself to Deliverance, who had sunk upon her pallet and covered her face with her hands. “Explain to us why the woman of Ipswich, that was hanged, did seek that you be saved.” Deliverance made no reply. Nor could he prevail upon her in any way; so, after a weary while spent in prayers and exhortations, he and Sir Jonathan rose and went away. At the threshold Cotton Mather glanced back over his shoulder at the weeping little maid. “This affair savours ill,” he remarked, laying his hand heavily on his companion’s shoulder as the two went down the corridor; “my heart turned within me, and strange feelings waked at her cry.” It was late in the afternoon. It would not be possible for the young minister to reach Boston Town until after midnight, so he decided to postpone his journey until the next day. Moreover, he rather seized at an excuse to remain for the morrow’s court, having great relish in these witch-trials. But that night Cotton Mather had a strange vision.