Chapter XIV

A Fellow of Harvard


His book lay open between his elbows, and his chin was propped on his
hands. His cap lay on the grass near by.

Abigail’s shyness tempted her to hurry by him without attracting
attention, but when she remembered that he might know something of the
fine gentleman she was seeking, she paused bravely.

“It will be a fair day, sir,” she said in a quavering voice.

The young man rolled over on his elbow. He wore no wig, and his lank dark
hair, parted in the centre, fell on either side of his long, colourless
face. His eyes were sharp and bright.

“On what authority dare you make so rash a statement?” inquired he,
sternly. “Take heed how you say such things, lest it rain and thunder and
the wind blow, and a hurricane come upon us this afternoon, and you be
prosecuted for telling a falsehood.”

Abigail failed to perceive he was but jesting, and this, as well as
timidity and anxiety, so wrought upon her, that without further ado she
began to cry.

At this the student jumped up, deeply repentant, and entreated her to
rest in the shade of the old elm tree by him. He gave her his kerchief to
dry her eyes, and offered an apple from his pocket.

“There, there,” he said, “’twas but an idle jest. I am a bit of a
merry-andrew in my way, but a harmless fellow, without a grain of malice
in me. Sure the sun will shine all day when the morn is fair like this.
Look up, my pretty lass. See, it still shines.”

Abigail obediently blinked her tear-wet lashes at the dazzling sun, then
turned her attention to the apple. She ate it with great relish, the
while the student leant back against the tree, his hands in his pockets
and his long legs crossed. Thus leisurely reclining, he sang a song
for her pleasure, such as never before had greeted her staid, religious
little ears. His voice was wondrous mellow, and its cadences flung over
her a charmed spell.

“It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey and a ho and a hey-nonino.
That o’er the green corn fields did pass
In the spring-time, the only pretty ring-time
When birds do sing, hey-ding-a-ding, ding,
Sweet lovers love the spring.”

“Beshrew me,” remarked Abigail, taking a bite of her apple, “but ye sing
strange songs in Boston Town.”

“Did ye ne’er hear tell of Willie Shakespeare, the play-actor,” cried
the student. “I am amazed, sore amazed, at your ignorance. Many a rare
rhyme has he written, God rest his bones, and betwixt you and me, I, as
a Fellow of Harvard, privileged to be learned, find that there are times
when his poesy rings with more relish in my ears than the psalms. I have
tried my hand at verse-making with fair fortune, though I say it as
should not.” Then he burst forth into another rollicking song:—

“Full fathoms five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell—”

“Beshrew me, sir,” interrupted Abigail, her disapproval too strong to
be repressed, “but these songs are not to my liking.” She rose. “I will
be pleased to have you read this description, sir,” she said, drawing a
paper from her pocket tied by a string around her waist, “and tell me if
ye ken aught o’ this fine gentleman.”

The student rose and made her a low bow. “Since you be pleased to put on
such dignity, mistress,” said he, with a fine and jesting air, “I must
needs fall in with your ways.”

He took the paper she extended to him and unfolded it with many airs, the
while crooking his little fingers daintily.

This was what he read, written in a fair and flowing hand as did befit a
teacher of the Dame School:—

“A descripshun of ye fine gentellman whom I met in ye forest on
ye afternoon of June 3 wich is herein sett downe. He be aboute
three score more or less & be of make suffishunt large to be
stared att & for ye naughty boys of ye streete to call att,
he having an immoderate goodly girth arounde ye middle. shure
did yu know him yu would be of my minde that he had grate rank
across ye seas fore he wears full breeches with knots of ryban
of a Purple-Blue colour att his knees. alsoe he do walke inn
grate bootes. his Sleeves be of fine Velvet withe watchet-Blue
Tiffany peeping through ye Slashes. alsoe he carried a blacke
case bestock with smal sharp knives exceeding bright. he showed
me a picture of his lyttle maide of faire countenance. As
regardes ye countenance of ye fine gentellman itt was wrighte
goode to looke att having Witte Beauty & Goodness, as theay
say. alsoe he weares a light Brown Wigg, parted to ye Crown
& falling in Naturall Silke curles to his Shoulders. his
Moustache curls finely towards his Nose.

by ye wich descripshun Abigail finde him & deliver ye pckge soe
saye I & ye Lord be willing.

Deliverance Wentworth.

note. alsoe he weares a sword.”

“Well-a-day!” laughed the student as he finished, “this is a pretty joke.”

“It be no joke at all, sir,” said Abigail, “and ye will pardon my
frowardness in contradicting ye, for my dear friend Deliverance will be
hanged o’ Saturday for witchery.” And putting the kerchief to her eyes
she wept afresh. As she did so, she heard a strange sound like a groan,
and looked up quickly.

The student was leaning against the elm, his eyes closed and his face
whiter than the paper which had fluttered from his fingers to the ground.

“Haps it that ye ken her, sir?” she asked in an awed whisper.

He looked at her and tried to regain his composure. His lips moved
dumbly. He turned away and put his hand over his eyes, leaning once more
against the tree. When he looked again at Abigail, she saw that tears
bedimmed his eyes. This exhibition of feeling on the part of this gay
student seemed an even more serious thing than the fact that Deliverance
was in jail, or that she herself had passed a night in the forest,
exposed to savages and wolves.

The student, looking at the little maid’s troubled, tear-stained
countenance, smiled in a faint, pitiful fashion, bidding her have hope
and cheer. But his voice faltered and broke.

Something in his smile arrested Abigail’s attention. Suddenly, a light
of recognition breaking over her face, she put forth her hands, crying
joyfully: “Ye be Ronald. Ye be Deliverance’s brother. She telled me to
look for ye, but I ne’er suspicioned it to be ye. But when ye smiled I
thought o’ her, and now I have remembrance o’ having seen ye in Salem
Town.”

Young Wentworth made no reply save by a groan. “Long have I misdoubted
these trials for witchery,” he muttered. “It tempts one to atheism. She,
Deliverance, a witch, to be cast into prison! a light-hearted, careless
child! God himself will pour out His righteous wrath upon her judges if
they so much as let a hair of her head be harmed. They have convicted her
falsely, falsely! Come,” he cried, turning fiercely upon Abigail, “come,
we will rouse the town! We shall see if such things can be done in the
name of the law. We shall see.”

Now such anger had been in his eyes as to have burned away his tears, but
all at once his fierceness died and his voice broke.

“Did they treat her harshly,” he asked,—“my little sister, who since her
mother died, has been a lone lassie despite her father and brother. Tell
me again, again that it be not until to-morrow,—that one day yet of grace
remains.”

So Abigail told him all she knew. But when he desired to see the letter
she was to give to the Cavalier, she protested:—

“I promised not to read it myself nor to let any other body, except him,
for Deliverance said it must be kept secret, she being engaged on a
service for the King. She said when I found ye, ye would go with me to
look for the fine gentleman.”

“Very well, we will go,” he answered briefly, and took her hand, seeing
that it would only trouble her then to insist upon having the letter, but
resolving to obtain possession of it at the first opportunity.

“We will go to the Governor’s house, first,” he added, “and see if he
knows the whereabouts of any such person. If not, then I must read the
letter and find the clue to unravel this sad mystery.”

Master Ronald walked on rapidly, holding her hand in so tight a grasp
that she was obliged to run to keep up with him. They soon left the
Common and entered a street. There were no sidewalks then in Boston Town.
The roadways, paved with pebbles, extended from house to house. They took
the middle of the street where the walking was smoothest. Once Master
Ronald paused to consider a sun-dial.

“It lacks o’er an hour of ten,” he said; “we shall be obliged to wait.
The new Governor is full of mighty high-flown notions fetched from
England, and will see no one before ten, though it be a matter of life
and death. It sorts not with his dignity to be disturbed.” He glanced
down at Abigail as he finished speaking, and for the first time took
notice that she was tired and pale.

“Have you broken fast this morn?” he inquired; “I should have bethought
me of your lack. There is yet ample time, and you must eat. Come,” he
added, taking her hand again and smiling, “it is good for neither soul
nor body that the latter should go hungered. The Queen’s coffee-house
lies just around yon corner.”

A few moments later Abigail found herself seated at a table in a long,
dark room, very quiet and cool, with vine-clad windows. Only one other
customer besides themselves was in the room. He was an old gentleman in
cinnamon-brown small-clothes, and he was so busy sipping a cup of coffee
and reading a manuscript, that he did not glance up at their entrance.
The inn-keeper’s buxom wife received Master Ronald’s order. Quite on her
own account she brought in also a plate of cookies.

“Kiss me well, honey-sweet,” said she, “and you shall have the cookies.”

So Abigail kissed the goodwife in return for her gift.

“Heigh-ho!” remarked Master Ronald, “in all this worry and grief I forgot
that every maid has a sweet tooth, if she be the proper sort of maid.” In
spite of his little pleasantry, his troubled look remained.

Abigail ate steadily, not pausing to talk, only now and then glancing at
her companion. After awhile Master Ronald rose, and strode up and down
with savage impatience. “Alack!” he said, “I seem to be losing my wits.”

Abigail, having finished, commenced putting the remaining cookies in her
pocket.

“Why do you do that?” asked Master Ronald.

“I want summat to eat on my way home,” answered Abigail, resolutely,
crowding in the last cooky.

The young man laughed, but his laughter ended abruptly in a sigh of pain.

Abigail could not but admire the grand and easy way in which, with a wave
of his hand, he bade the inn-keeper charge the breakfast to his account,
as they left the coffee-house.

He led the way back to the sun-dial. They had been gone not more than
twenty minutes. Frowning, Master Ronald turned his back toward the dial
and leant against it. “We may as well stop here,” said he, “and wait for
the minutes to speed.”

Abigail pushed away the vines to read the motto printed on the dial. “‘I
marke the Time; saye, gossip, dost thou soe,’” she read unconsciously
aloud.

“Time,” echoed Master Ronald, catching the word, “time.” He shrugged his
shoulders. “What is more perverse than time? It takes all my philosophy
to bear with it, and I oft wonder why ’twas e’er put in the world. ’Tis
like a wind that blows first hot then cold. It must needs stand still
when you most wish it to speed, and when you would fain have it stand
still, it goes at a gallop.” He sighed profoundly and kicked a pebble
with the toe of his shoe.

His expression was so miserable that Abigail’s ready tears flowed again
in sympathy, so that she was obliged to pick up the hem of her petticoat
and wipe them away. Her attention was suddenly attracted by noisy singing
and much merriment. She dropped her petticoat. “Happen like there be a
dancing-bear in town?” she asked eagerly.

“Nay,” answered Master Ronald, “’tis some of my fellows at the tavern,
who have been suspended a day for riotous conduct.”

“Come, come,” cried he, taking her almost fiercely by the hand. There was
a new ring in his voice, a sudden strong resolve shining in his face. He
led her along the road in the direction from which the sounds proceeded,
and paused at last in front of a tavern which had as a sign a head of
lettuce painted in red. From this place came the singing.

Master Ronald, still holding her hand, swung the door open and stepped
inside with her. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light she
perceived some eight or ten young fellows with lank locks falling about
their faces, seated around a large bowl of hasty pudding, into which bowl
they dipped their spoons. Two or three who were perched on the table,
however, had ceased eating, and were smoking long brier-wood pipes. They
did not perceive Master Ronald and Abigail. Suddenly they all lifted
high their mugs of sack and broke into song.

“Where the red lettuce doth shine,
’Tis an outward sign,
Good ale is a traffic within.
It will drown your woes
And thaw the old snow
That grows on a frosty chin,
That grows on a frosty chin.”

“Enough, enough, sirs!” Master Ronald cried sharply; “down with your
mugs! Are ye to drink and be merry when murder—murder, I say—is being
done in the name of the church and the law?”

The students turned in open-mouthed amazement, several still holding
their mugs suspended in the air. At first they were evidently disposed to
be merry as people accustomed to all manner of jesting, but the pallor
and rigid lines of the young man’s face checked any such demonstration,
as well as the unusual appearance of a little maid in their midst.

Then one tall and powerful fellow rose. “Murder,” he said slowly, shaking
back his hair, “murder—under sanction of the church and law. How comes
that?”

Master Ronald made a gesture commanding silence, for the others had
risen, and a confused hubbub of questions was rising. Then he pointed to
Abigail, who was near to sinking to the floor with mortification, as all
eyes were turned upon her.

“This little maid,” he continued, when the room was again silent,
“journeyed alone from Salem to Boston Town, to find and tell me that in
Salem prison there is confined another maid condemned for witchery and
under sentence of being hanged on the morrow.”

His words were interrupted by groans and hisses.

“A plague upon these witch-trials,” cried one of his hearers; “a man dare
not glance askance at his neighbour, fearing lest he be strung up for
sorcery. And now ’tis a maid. Lord love us! Are they not content with
torturing old beldames?”

There came a flash into the eyes of the stalwart youth who had first
spoken. “’Tis not so long a journey to Salem Town but we might make it in
a night.”

An answering flash lit the eyes of his fellows as they nodded and laughed
at the thought which, half-expressed, showed in the faces of all. But
they grew quiet as Master Ronald began speaking once more.

“’Tis a matter of life and death. The imprisoned maid is near the age of
this little maid, as innocent, as free from guile—.” He broke down and
dropped into a chair, folded his arms on the table, and buried his face
in them while his shoulders shook with repressed grief.

The rest, troubled and embarrassed by his emotion, drew together in a
little group and talked in low tones.

“Perchance ’tis a relation, a sister,” commented one young man, “a maid,
he said, like yonder little lass;” and the speaker indicated Abigail,
who had edged over to the door and stood, with burning face, nervously
fingering her linsey-woolsey petticoat.

“I have no patience with these, our godly parsons,” cried another
student, who wore heavily bowed spectacles. “I have here a composition,
which with great pains I have set down, showing how weak are the proofs
brought against those accused of witchery.” He took off and breathed on
his spectacles and wiped them on his kerchief. Then, having replaced them
on his nose, he drew a written paper out of his pocket and unfolding it
began to read aloud.

But he was interrupted impatiently by the rest. “’Tis no time for words
but action, Master Hutchinson,” they cried, giving him the prefix to his
name, for these young Cambridge men called each other “Master” and “Sir”
with marked punctiliousness.

“It behooves me ’twere well to inquire into the merits of this case, but
I am loath to disturb him,” said one bright-eyed young man, whom his
fellows called Philander, glancing at Master Ronald’s bowed head. “Ah, I
have it!” he cried, clapping the man nearest him on the shoulder: “we’ll
not disturb his moping-fit but let him have it out. Meanwhile we’ll make
inquiry of this little maid.”

As he drew near Abigail, she, startled, flew to Master Ronald’s side and
shook him. “Oh, sir,” she cried, “wake up! They are going to speer me.”

At this the gravity of the young men relaxed into laughter so hearty that
even Master Ronald, looking up, comprehended the situation and smiled
faintly.

“They are less amusing and more dangerous than dancing-bears, eh,
Mistress Abigail?” he asked, rising to his feet.

Abigail did not commit herself by replying. “Let us haste away, sir,” she
said; “bethink yourself how Deliverance waits, and you will pardon my
rudeness, but, sir, it be no time now for a moping-fit.”

“Bravo!” cried Master Philander, “there is the woman of it. You prefer to
do your duty first and have your weep afterwards.”

“I will take you to see the Governor in a moment, Mistress Abigail,” said
Master Ronald; “we will be there prompt on the moment. There is that
whereof I would speak to my friends who are bound to any cause of mine,
as I to theirs, in all loyalty, when that cause be just.”

At this the students interrupted him by shouts, but he raised his hand to
silence them. “Hear me to the end without interruption, as the time waxes
short. In Salem, my fair young sister, scarce more than a child in years,
languishes in jail, for having, it is asserted, practised the evil art of
witchery. On the morrow she will be hanged, unless, by the grace of God,
the Governor may be prevailed upon to interfere. If he refuses justice
and mercy, then have we the right to take the law into our own hands, not
as trespassers of the law, but rather as defenders of law and justice.
As men sworn to stand by each other, how many of you will go with me to
Salem Town this night and save the life of one as innocent and brave, as
free from evil, as this maid who stands before you now?”

There was no shouting this time, but silently each young man moved over
and shook hands with the speaker in pledge of his loyalty and consent.

“And now,” added Master Ronald, “I will go to the Governor’s house, that
you may have your say with him, Mistress Abigail.”

“We will escort you there,” said the stalwart young fellow Abigail had
first noticed. Before she could protest, to her indignation he had seized
her and swung her up on his broad shoulder, passed her arm around his
neck, and rested her feet on his broad palm.

“Now I have placed you above learning, little mistress,” he cried gayly;
“duck your head as we go through the door.”

Abigail clasped his neck tightly, and lifted up her heart in prayer.
Intense was her mortification to observe how the people turned and looked
after them. She grew faint at the thought of her father’s awful, pious
eye beholding her.

“They may be much for learning,” she murmured, glancing over the heads of
the students, “but, beshrew me, they be like a pack o’ noisy boys. Oh,
Deliverance, Deliverance, how little ye kenned this torment!”