"'T is past! I wake
A captive and alone, and far from thee,
My love and friend! yet fostering, for thy sake,
A quenchless hope of happiness to be;
And feeling still my woman's spirit strong
In the deep faith that lifts from earthly wrong
A heavenward glance."
MRS. HEMANS.
The next morning Edith was informed that Seymore had arrived. As soon as
he received her letter he travelled with all the rapidity the state of
the country permitted, when the journey from Boston to Salem was the
affair of a day, as it is now of half an hour.
From all we have learned of the character of Seymore, the reader will
not be surprised to find that, although never taking an active part in
the persecutions of the time, the character of his enthusiasm was such
that he lent an easy faith to the stories he had heard of the possessed,
and believed that God was manifesting his power by granting, for a
season, such liberty to the prince of evil.
When, however, he received Edith's letter, he felt pierced as it were
with his own sword. He trembled when he thought of his almost idolatrous
love, and with a faith which he fancied resembled that of Abraham, he
believed the time had now come when he must cut off a right hand, and
pluck out a right eye, to give evidence of his submission to the will of
God.
With this disposition of mind he arrived at the scene of our narrative.
In the mean time the tender-hearted elder had become so much interested
to save Edith, that he contrived to have Seymore placed on the jury,
hoping that his deep interest in her would be the means of returning a
verdict of _not guilty_. Seymore was therefore spared the pain of an
interview with Edith, which would probably have convinced him of her
innocence, before the trial.
Edith awoke the next morning from a happy dream. She was walking with
Seymore by the margin of the great ocean, and his low, deep voice
mingled in her ear with the liquid sound of the dying wave. She awoke, a
captive and alone: no, not alone, for the faithful Dinah was standing by
her bedside, so tearful, so subdued, that the smile the happy dream had
left on Edith's lips instantly faded. She remembered it was the day of
her trial, and she prepared to meet it.
These trials were held in the meeting-house, and were opened and closed
with a religious service. This seems like a mockery to us, but our
fathers thought they were performing a sacred duty; and however
frivolous or disgusting were many of the details, the trial was rendered
more appalling by giving to the whole the appearance of a holy
sacrifice.
Edith was far from being insensible to the terrors of her situation, but
she found it necessary to assume a cheerfulness she did not feel, in
order to soothe the dreadful agitation of Dinah. The poor African
trusted in God; but she could not shield her child from the tyranny of
human power.
When Edith entered the thronged meeting-house, a paleness, like that of
death, overspread her countenance. She requested that Dinah might stand
near her to support her, lest she should faint. This was rudely denied.
She was answered, "If she had strength to torment that child, she had
strength to stand alone."
She could not wipe the tears that gushed into her eyes at this cruel
answer, for each hand was extended, and closely held by an officer,--a
precaution always adopted in these trials, lest the prisoner should
afflict some person in the crowded multitude.
She had no sooner become a little calm, than her eye sought Seymore
among the crowd. She was shocked with the change an "o'erwrought spirit"
had effected in his person. His pale forehead was traced with veins that
were swelled almost to bursting; a fire was burning in his dark, sunken
eyes, and crimson spots flushed each cheek.
As Edith looked at him, her heart swelled with an infinite pity. For the
moment, her own appalling situation melted away from her thoughts. For
the moment, it was of little importance to her whether she lived or
died. All she wished was to be near Seymore, to speak to him, to soothe
and calm his agitated spirit.
She was recalled to herself by the opening of the trial. The prisoner
was first commanded to repeat the Lord's prayer. This Edith did in a
low, sweet voice, that sounded to the hushed audience like plaintive
music.
It is not my purpose to enter into the details of this trial. It is
enough that "every idle rumor, every thing that the gossip of the
credulous, or the fertile memories of the malignant could produce that
had an unfavorable bearing on the prisoner, however foreign it might be
to the indictment, was brought before the jury,"[3] in addition to the
testimony of the child, and the falsehood of the old woman.
[Footnote 3: Upham's History of Witchcraft.]
The cause was at length given to the jury. They did not leave their
seats; and when it came to the turn of Seymore, who was the last to
speak, the crimson blood rushed to the cheek, brow, and temples of
Edith, and then left them paler than before: a sick sensation came over
her, and she would have fainted, had she not been relieved by tears,
burning hot, that gushed from her eyes.
Seymore had covered his face when he first entered, and had not looked
at Edith. So hushed was the crowd, that the word "_guilty_," wrung as it
were from him in the lowest whisper, was heard distinctly through the
whole meeting-house. It pierced Edith's ear like the voice of a trumpet;
and from that moment the spirit of a martyr entered her breast. She felt
herself deserted by the whole of her little world, falsely convicted of
a crime she abhorred, and left without human sympathy. She turned to
God. "He who seeth in secret," she said, "knows my innocence;" and she
bowed her head, and made no further answer.
The trial was closed as it began,--with religious services. A hymn was
sung; and Edith, feeling, as I have said, an elevation that she could
not herself understand, joined in the devotion. The others stopped; for
they would not mingle their voices with one convicted of witchcraft: the
very evil one was mocking them. Edith continued alone; and her rich,
sweet tones thrilled their hearts like the voice of an angel. She was
reminded by a whisper from Dinah that she was singing alone; and,
ceasing, she blushed deeply, and covered her face from the curious gaze
of the multitude.
As Edith returned to her prison, guarded on each side, and followed by
Dinah, she thought of the Lady Ursula, whose cruel fate had moved her so
deeply. And was she indeed the same person? The child that had wept her
fate so bitterly was now to meet one far more terrible: and she felt
strength to meet it. Every wave, as it had passed over her, had brought
out the hidden beauty and strength of her soul; and, though there was in
her no air of triumph, a tranquil contentment and repose was expressed
in her whole person.