Chapter I

A Meeting in the Forest


Over two centuries ago a little Puritan maiden might have been seen
passing along the Indian path which led from out Salem Town to her home.
It was near the close of day. The solemn twilight of the great primeval
forest was beginning to fall. But the little maid tripped lightly on,
unawed, untroubled. From underneath her snowy linen cap, with its stiffly
starched ear-flaps, hung the braid of her hair, several shades more
golden than the hue of her gown. Over one arm she carried her woollen
stockings and buckled shoon.

A man, seated near the path on the trunk of a fallen tree of such
gigantic girth that his feet swung off the ground, although he was a
person of no inconsiderable size, hailed her as she neared him. “Where do
you wend your way in such hasty fashion, little mistress?”

She paused and bobbed him a very fine courtesy, such as she had been
taught in the Dame School, judging him to be an important personage by
reason of his sword with its jewelled hilt and his plumed hat. “I be
sorely hungered, good sir,” she replied, “and I ken that Goody Higgins
has a bowl o’ porridge piping hot for me in the chimney corner.” Her
dimpled face grew grave; her eyelids fell. “When one for a grievous sin,”
she added humbly, “has stood from early morn till set o’ sun on a block
o’ wood beside the town-pump, and has had naught to eat in all that time,
one hungers much.”

“And would they put a maid like you up for public punishment?” cried the
Cavalier. “By my faith, these Puritans permit no children. They would
have them saints, lisping brimstone and wrestling with Satan!”

“Hush, hush!” cried the little maid, affrighted. “Ye must not say that
word lest the Devil answer to his name.” She pointed to where the sunset
glimmered red behind the trees. “Do ye not ken that when the sun be set,
the witches ride on broomsticks? After dark all good children stay in the
house.”

“Ho, ho!” laughed the stranger; “and have you a law that witches must not
ride on broomsticks? You Puritans had best be wary lest they ride your
nags to death at night and you take away their broomsticks.”

“Ay,” assented the maid. “Old Goody Jones is to be hanged for witchery
this day week. One morn, who should find his nag steaming, flecked with
foam, its mane plaited to make the bridle, but our good Neighbour Root.
When I heard tell o’ it, I cut across the clearing to his barn before
breakfast, and with my own eyes saw the nag with its plaited mane and
tail. Neighbour Root suspicioned who the witch was that had been riding
it, but he, being an o’er-cautious man, kept a close mouth. Well, at
dawn, two days later, he jumped wide-awake all in a minute,—he had been
sleeping with an eye half-cocked, as it were,—for he heard the barn door
slam. He rose and lit his lantern and went out. There he saw Goody Jones
hiding in a corner of the stall, her eyes shining like a cat’s. When
she saw he kenned her, she gave a wicked screech and flew by him in the
form o’ an owl. He was so afeared lest she should bewitch him, that he
trembled till his red cotton nightcap fell off. It was found in the stall
by our goodly magistrate in proof o’ Neighbour Root’s words.”

The Cavalier’s face grew grim. “Ay,” he muttered, “the Lord will yet
make these people repent the innocent blood they shed. Hark ye, little
mistress, I have travelled in far countries, where they have the Black
Plague and terrible diseases ye wot not of. Yet this plague of witchery
is worse than all,—ay, even than the smallpox.” He shrugged his shoulders
and looking down at the ground, frowned and shook his head. But as he
glanced up at the maid’s troubled countenance, his gloom was dispelled by
a sunny smile. He reached out and took her hand, and patted it between
his big warm palms.

“Dear child,” he said, “be not afeared of witches, but bethink yourself
to keep so fair and shining a conscience that Satan and his hags who
work by the powers of darkness cannot approach you. We have a play-actor
in England, a Merry Andrew of the town, a slender fellow withal, yet
possessed of a pretty wit, for wit, my little maid, is no respecter
of persons, and springs here and there, like as one rose grows in the
Queen’s garden and another twines ’round the doorway of the poor. Well,
this fellow has written that, ‘far as a little candle throws its beams,
so shines a good deed in a naughty world.’ Many a time have I catched
myself smiling at the jingle, for it minds me of how all good children
are just so many little candles shining out into the black night of this
evil world. When you are older grown you will perceive that I spake true
words. Still, regarding witches, I would not have you o’er bold nor
frequent churchyards by night, for there, I, myself, have seen with these
very eyes, ghosts and wraiths pale as blue vapour standing by the graves.
And at cockcrow they have flown away.” He released her hand. “Come now,”
he said lightly, “you have not told me why you were made to stand on a
block of wood all day.”

“Good sir,” she replied, “my punishment was none too heavy, for my heart
had grown carnal and adrift from God, and the follies and vanities o’
youth had taken hold on me. It happed in this wise. Goodwife Higgins, who
keeps our home since my dear mother went to God, be forever sweethearting
me because I mind her o’ her own little girl who died o’ the smallpox.
So she made me this fair silken gown out o’ her wedding-silk brought
from England. Ye can feel for yourself, good sir, if ye like, that it
be all silk without a thread o’ cotton in it. Now, Abigail Brewster,
whose father be a godly man, telled him that when I passed her going to
meeting last Sabbath morn, I switched my fair silken gown so that it
rustled in an offensive manner in her ears. So the constable came after
me, and I was prosecuted in court for wearing silk in an odious manner.
The Judge sentenced me to stand all day on the block, near the town-pump,
exposed to public gaze in my fine raiment. Also, he did look at me o’er
his spectacles in a most awesome, stern, and righteous fashion, for he
said I ‘drew iniquity with a cord o’ vanity and sin with a cart-rope.’
Then he read a stretch from the Bible, warning me to repent, lest I grow
like those who ‘walk with outstretched necks, mincing as they go.’” She
sighed: “Ye ken not, sir, how weary one grows, standing on a block,
blinking o’ the sun, first resting on your heels, then tipping forward
on your toes, and finding no ease. About the tenth hour, as I could see
by the sun-dial, there comes Abigail Brewster walking with her father.
When I catched sight o’ him I put my hands over my face, and weeped with
exceeding loud groans to show him I heartily repented my wickedness in
the sight o’ God. But he, being spiritually minded at the time, had no
thought for a sinner like me and went on. Now, I was peeking out betwixt
my fingers, and I saw Abigail Brewster had on her gown o’ sad-coloured
linsey-woolsey. Her and me gave one another such a look! For we were
both acquainted like with the fact that that sad-coloured linsey-woolsey
petticoat and sacque were her meeting-house clothes, her father, as I
telled ye, having no patience for the follies o’ dress. Beshrew me, sir,”
added the little maid, timidly, “but I cannot refrain from admiring your
immoderate great sleeves with the watchet-blue tiffany peeping through
the slashes.”

“Sit you down beside me, little mistress,” said the Cavalier, “I would
ask a question of you. Ho, ho, you are afeared of witches! Why, see the
sunset still glimmers red. Have you not a wee bit of time for me, who am
in sore perplexity and distress?”

“Nay, nay, good sir,” she rejoined sweetly, “I be no afeared o’ witches
when I can assist a soul in sore distress, for as ye telled me, a witch
cannot come near one who be on a good errand.”

She climbed up on the trunk and seated herself beside him, swinging her
sturdy, bare feet beside his great high boots.

“Can you keep a close mouth, mistress?” asked the Cavalier.

She nodded. Irresistibly, as her companion remained silent a moment in
deep thought, her fingers went out and stroked his velvet sleeve. She
sighed blissfully and folded her hands in her lap.

“I was telled by a countryman up the road that there is a house in your
town which has been recently taken by a stranger. ’Tis a house, I am
informed, with many gables and dormer windows.” The speaker glanced
sharply at his companion. “Do you hap to know the place?”

“Yea, good sir,” she replied eagerly; “the gossips say it be a marvel
with its fine furnishings, though none o’ the goodwives have so much as
put their noses inside the door, the master being a stern, unsocial body.
But the Moorish wench who keeps his home has blabbed o’ Turkey covers
and velvet stool cushions. Ye should hear tell—”

“What sort of looks has this fine gentleman,” interrupted the Cavalier;
“is he of lean, sour countenance—”

She nodded.

“Crafty-eyed, tall—”

“Nay, not so tall,” she broke in; “about as ye be in height, but not
so great girth ’round the middle. The children all run from him when
he strolls out at even-tide, tapping with his stick, and frowning. Our
magistrate and minister hold him in great respect as one o’ wit and
learning, with mickle gold from foreign parts. The naughty boys call him
Old Ruddy-Beard, for aught ye can see o’ his face be the tip o’ his long
nose ’neath the brim o’ his beaver-hat and his red beard lying on his
white ruff. Also he wears a cape o’ sable velvet, and he be honoured with
a title, being called Sir Jonathan Jamieson.”

During her description the Cavalier had nodded several times, and when
she finished, his face was not good to look at. His eyes, which had been
so genial, were now cold and shining as his sword.

“Have I found you at last, oh mine enemy,” he exulted, “at last, at last?”

Thus he muttered and talked to himself, and his smile was not pleasant
to see. Glancing at the little maid, he perceived she was startled and
shrank from him. He patted her shoulder.

“Now, hark ye, mistress,” he whispered, “when next you pass this man, say
softly these words to greet his ears alone: ‘The King sends for his black
powder.’”

“Perchance he will think me a witch and I say such strange words to him,”
she answered, drawing away; “some say no one be more afeared o’ witches
than he.”

The Cavalier flung back his head. His laughter rang out scornfully.
“Ho, ho,” he mocked, “afeared of witches, lest they carry off his black
heart! He be indeed a lily-livered scoundrel! Ay, care not how much you
do fright him. At first he will doubtless pretend not to hear you, still
I should not be surprised and he pause and demand where you heard such
words, but you must say naught of all this, e’en though he torment you
with much questioning. I am on my way now to Boston Town. In a few days I
shall return.” He tapped her arm. “Ay, I shall return in state, in state,
next time, little mistress. Meanwhile, you must keep faith with me. Let
him not suspicion this meeting in the forest with me.” He bent his head
and whispered several sentences in her ear.

“Good sir,” said the little maid, solemnly, when he had finished, “my
King be next to God and I will keep the faith. But now and ye will be
pleased to excuse me, as it be past the supper hour, I will hasten home.”
Saying which, she slipped down from the trunk of the tree and bobbed him
a courtesy.

“Nay, not so fast, not so fast away,” he cried. “I would show you a
picture of my sweetest daughter, Elizabeth, of whom you mind me, giving
me a great heart-sickness for her bonny face far across the seas in Merry
England.” From inside his doublet he drew forth a locket, swung on a
slender gold chain, and opened it. Within was a miniature on ivory of a
young girl in court dress, with dark curls falling about a face which
smiled back at them in the soft twilight.

“She be good to look upon and has a comely smile, I wot,” said the little
Puritan maid; “haps it she has seen as many summers as I, who be turned
fourteen and for a year past a teacher in the Dame School.”

“Sixteen summers has she lived,” answered the Cavalier. “Eftsoons, she
will count in gloomier fashion, for with years come woes and we say so
many winters have we known. But how comes it you are a teacher in the
Dame School?”

“A fair and flowing hand I write,” she replied, “though I be no great for
spelling. My father has instilled a deal o’ learning into my pate, but I
be not puffed up with vanity on that account.”

“’Tis well,” said the Cavalier; “I like not an unread maid. Neither do
I fancy one too much learned.” He glanced again at the miniature. From
smiling he fell to sighing. “Into what great girls do our daughters
grow,” he murmured; “but yesterday, methinks, I dandled her on my knee
and sang her nursery rhymes.” He opened a leathern bag strapped around
his waist. Within it the little maid caught a glimpse of a gleaming array
of knives both large and small. This quite startled her.

“Where did I put them?” he frowned; “but wait, but wait—” He felt in his
pockets, and at last drew forth a chain of gold beads wrapped in silk.
“My Elizabeth would give you these were she here,” he said, “but she is
far across the seas.”

Rising, he bent and patted the little maid’s cheek. “Take these beads,
dear child, and forget not what I telled you, while I am gone to Boston
Town. Yet, wait, what is your name?”

“Deliverance Wentworth,” she answered. With confidence inspired anew by
the kindly face, she added, “I have a brother in Boston Town, who be a
Fellow o’ Harvard. Should ye hap to cross his path, might ye be pleased
to give him my dutiful love? He be all for learning, and carries a
mighty head on young shoulders.”

Then with another courtesy she turned and fled fearfully along the path,
for the red of the sunset had vanished.

Far, far above her gleamed two or three pale silver stars. The gloom of
twilight was rising thickly in the forest. Bushes stretched out goblin
arms to her as she passed them. The rustling leaves were the whisperings
of wizards, beseeching her to come to them. A distant stump was a witch
bending over to gather poisonous herbs.

At last she reached her home. A flower-bordered walk led to the door.
The yard was shut in by a low stone wall. The afterglow, still lingering
on the peaked gables of the house, was reflected in the diamond-paned
windows and on the knocker on the front door. There was no sign of life.
Save for the spotless neatness which marked all, the place had a sombre
and uninhabitable air, as if the forest, pressing so closely upon the
modest farmstead, flung over it somewhat of its own gloom and sadness.

Deliverance hesitated a moment at the gate. Her fear of the witches was
great, but—she glanced at the gold beads.

“I will say a prayer all the way,” she murmured, and ran swiftly along
the path a goodly distance, then crossed a belt of woods, pausing neither
in running nor in prayerful words, until she reached a hollow oak. In it
Deliverance placed the beads wrapped in their bit of silk.

“For,” she reasoned, “if father, though I be no so afeared o’ father,
but if Goodwife Higgins set her sharp eyes on them, I should have a most
awesome, weary time with her trying to find out where I got them.”

She was not far from the sea and she could see the tide coming in, a line
of silver light breaking into foam. Passing along the path which led to
Boston Town, she saw the portly figure of the Cavalier, the rich colours
of his dress faintly to be descried. An Indian guide had joined him. Both
men were on foot. Deliverance, forgetful of the witches, the darkening
night, watched the travellers as long as she could see them against the
silver sea. At a fordways the Cavalier paused, and the Indian stooped
and took him on his back. This glimpse of her merry acquaintance, being
thus carried pickapack across the stream, was the last glimpse she had of
him for many days to follow. Once she thought he waved his hand to her
as he turned his head and glanced behind him. In this she was mistaken.
He could not have seen the demure figure of the little Puritan maiden,
standing in the deep dusk of the forest edge.