THE MINISTER.
Norman Lovel and the old minister walked on toward the town in company.
The earth was still wet and heavy after the storm, and a sullen moan
came up from the depths of the far-off ocean, which filled the bright
morning as with a wail of sorrow.
But the old man was strong, and the youth full of that elasticity which
springs more from the soul than the body. If either of them felt any
evil effect from the storm, the vigorous speed at which they walked bore
no evidence of it.
For some time they moved on in silence. The minister seemed lost in a
reverie; the youth was thinking, with strange interest, on the lady he
had left behind.
They came down upon the shore where the accident of the previous night
had happened. A fragment of the boat lay where it had ploughed in upon
the sand, burying itself so firmly that the waves had failed to draw it
back again, and so had lost their plaything.
The two men paused a moment, looking at the broken timbers. The youth
shuddered.
"To think," he said, looking wistfully at his companion,--"to think that
these treacherous bits of wood alone kept her from the deep, and
I--you--it seems all like a dream."
"It seems like the great mercy it was," said the minister, lifting his
eyes to heaven; "for of a verity we were but as two rushes in the midst
of the waves, frail like the timbers at our feet, and as easily broken.
Believe me, young man, God has protected this poor lady with his
especial providence."
"Indeed I believe it," replied the youth, lifting his cap, for a
momentary feeling of devotion came over him; "I most devoutly believe
it; as a token, see how the beautiful morning smiles upon the waters.
The harbor seems scattered with rose leaves. The very sands at our feet
are turning to gold."
"Truly, God smiles upon us," said the minister, looking abroad with an
enthusiasm deep as that which flashed in the eyes of the youth, and far
more concentrated. "But we linger here unadvisedly; the glory of a
morning like this rests not in one place. Let us move on; the chimneys
over yonder are beginning to vomit forth smoke, soon the town will be
astir."
The youth did not hear him, but darted down to the edge of the water,
where a strip of ribbon tinted a spent foam wreath with its blue. He
seized upon the ribbon, shook it, scattering the foam like snow-flakes
with the motion, and came back to where the minister stood.
"It must be hers," he said, revealing a locket of chased gold, with a
broad lock of hair white as snow, knotted with pearls upon the back. "It
must be hers."
Parris reached forth his hand, as if to take the trinket, but the youth
gathered the ribbon hastily in his palm, and clasped his fingers over
it.
"We have no right to examine it, knowing, as we do, the owner," he said,
hastily. "The spring is closed. It is evidently some portrait."
"But the water may have penetrated to the painting and will destroy it."
"True, true!" The youth, still reluctant to give up the locket, touched
the spring, and with difficulty opened it.
The water had indeed penetrated the clasp, but a crystal underneath
protected the portrait, which was that of a middle-aged man, evidently
of the highest rank, for his dress was of the most costly material, and
enriched with several jewelled orders which were easily distinguished as
belonging to the English court.
"It is a strange face," said Parris, bending his head to examine the
portrait, "hard as iron and full of worldly pride. Young man, I have
seen this face before; but where--when?"
"How can I tell?" answered the youth, who was gazing wistfully at the
face.
"Yes," he said, after a moment; "it is hard as iron, but a grand
countenance, nevertheless. That man would have died for an idea."
"Died for an idea!" repeated the minister; "how many have done that, yet
the idea a false one? But where have I seen that face?"
The youth covered the portrait with its gold again, and the two walked
on more rapidly for the time they had lost. All at once young Lovel
stopped as if some important idea had flashed upon him.
"Sir," he said, eagerly, "did I not hear your name yesterday, or have I
dreamed it over night--Samuel Parris--was it in truth from your own lips
I heard the name?"
"Even so, young man."
"Samuel Parris, minister of the gospel in Salem?"
"Even to that honored post the Lord and his people have appointed me."
"One question more--only one--then forgive me if I am too bold. There is
a young lady at our house--that is, at the house of Governor Phipps--her
name is Parris also, and her father is minister of a congregation in
Salem--tell me if this fair maiden is your child."
"My child!" cried the old man, lifting up his face to heaven with a look
of exultant thanksgiving; "yes, Elizabeth is my child, the first-born of
that beautiful one who is a leader among God's angels. Ask me if the
heart which lies in my bosom--the brain that thinks--the blood that
beats in these veins are mine, and I will answer, Yea. But not so
closely do these things encompass me as does my love for Elizabeth, the
babe that my young wife left in my embrace as a blessing and a comfort,
before she was enrolled among the just made perfect."
The young man drew a quick breath; the enthusiasm and energy of the
minister's speech, so uncalled for by the simple question he had put,
startled him not a little. Besides this, other anxieties sprang up in
his mind, and knowing the man with whom he had been cast so strangely by
his true name, he was struck dumb with the rush of emotions which this
knowledge aroused.
"Her father," he said inly; "her father--and is this our first meeting?"
"My child, my child!" cried the old man, forgetting his companion, while
his eager eyes were turned towards the town. "Have I not fasted,
watched, prayed, nay, sent her forth from beneath my roof that this
great love may not be as a snare, and stand between me and my
God--between me and the angel that has gone before! Now, when I have
been two whole days within sight of the roof that covers her, holding
down my heart, and fasting with a soul-fast--the very mention of her
name, even by a stranger, sends the breath in quick gushes to my lips,
and I tremble like a little child."
The old man stood still upon the shore, and the youth paused with him,
gazing up into his face with a look of strange sympathy.
"I am grieved, I am very sorry!" he said, scarcely knowing that he had
spoken at all.
"God forgive you, young man, but you have unsealed this heart to its
depths. The weakness is still here; instead of singing, 'Hosannah to the
Lord,' it cries out, 'My child, my child!' Pray as I will--fast as I
will--her name always comes first, and thus I droop before the Lord full
of terror and self-reproach, an unfaithful servant, still keeping back a
portion of my master's treasures."
"Forgive me!" pleaded the youth, struck with sudden remorse for the
sorrows he had evidently excited.
"Forgive _you_," answered the old Christian, for such he undoubtedly
was. "What have you done that I should claim the power to forgive? It is
my own heart, which, strive as I may, will cling to its idol."
"But I have given you pain."
The old man bent his eyes on that ingenuous face, and before he lifted
them again they were full of tears; those cold watery tears that come up
like melted ice from the heart.
"Ah!" exclaimed the youth, "now I see a resemblance, vague, hardened,
but still I should know that Elizabeth Parris was your daughter."
The minister's face brightened like a lamp suddenly illuminated. He
reached forth his hand, grasped that of the young man, and his features
quivered all over with the gush of feeling that swelled within him.
"Is she--is the dear child indeed so like her father? And you know
her--you have seen her, perhaps; tell me is she well--does she grieve at
the thoughts of home--does she pine for a sight of her father?"
He waited for no answer, but heaped question upon question with
breathless eagerness.
The youth looked at him with amazement. The intense affection which
transfigured those stern features exhibited itself so unexpectedly, that
for the moment he was speechless.
The old man noticed this with a deprecating movement.
"She was the daughter of my old age!" he said, with ineffable humility,
while his shoulders drooped, and his face bent towards his breast, "she
looks so like her young mother."
"She is beautiful as an angel!" exclaimed Lovel with enthusiasm.
"She is like her mother!" murmured the minister, clasping his hands and
looking wistfully out into the distance. "Ah, so like her mother!"
"No wonder you loved her mother, then!" said the youth, drawing close to
the old man with prompt sympathy.
"Loved her--oh, God forgive me--how I did love her, young man! The very
daisies upon her grave are like the stars of heaven to me, and she has
been dead since Elizabeth was a babe."
"Oh, no wonder you look so old and care-worn; it must be like burying
one's own soul, to see the mother of one's child die."
The old man did not answer, but his hands interlocked more firmly. The
feelings swelling in his bosom were too painful for utterance. How far
the intense affection, which death could not diminish, had approached
insanity, it would be impossible to say; but all unconsciously, the
young man had made the minister quiver in every nerve by the genuine
sympathy he had given.
They walked on together, and entered the streets of Boston in company.
When they reached the heart of the town, the old man stopped
reluctantly, reaching forth his hand with a piteous smile.
"Farewell, young man," he said, "we may never meet again, but--"
"Nay, nay," cried the youth, blushing scarlet, "not meet again--God
forbid that you speak sooth in this. Indeed, indeed--"
But the minister wrung his hand, turned suddenly down a cross street,
and disappeared before the sentence was finished.
Young Lovel looked after him for a moment, made a step to follow the
course he had taken, then returning slowly, walked on.