SOUL TORTURES.
When Elizabeth Parris was left standing on the door-step, and saw every
one drift toward the shore, a sensation fell upon her, so strange and
even terrible, that she thought herself dying. The blood seemed to stop
in her veins, blocking up all the avenues of life. The breath choked up
her throat, and from heart to limb she seemed turning to stone. During
some heavy minutes, she stood in this position, like a thing of marble,
save that her hair had sunshine in it, and her eyes deepened in color
till they seemed black. At last she turned, as a statue might have
wheeled from its base, and entered the house.
A little wing had been added to the building, in which Samuel Parris
kept his books, and wrote his discourses. It was dimly lighted, and a
sombre gloom hung about it in solemn accordance with the old man's habit
of mind. Samuel Parris had spent much time in this apartment after the
excitement of returning home; and with a feeling of gentle complacency
was looking over some of the familiar books that lay on the table.
Engaged with these old friends, he did not observe when the door opened,
and his child glided through. Her small hand, pale as wax, dropped
heavily upon the open page he was reading, first warned him of the dear
presence.
The old man gently pushed the hand aside.
"It is the Holy Bible," he said, in explanation of the act.
"The Bible," muttered Elizabeth, bending down and attempting to read.
But the words all ran together and melted into an intangible network of
characters under her gaze. She started back with a moan of horror, and
clasped both hands over her eyes.
The minister looked up in dumb astonishment.
"What--what is this?" he said, greatly troubled. "What have I done to
make you moan so piteously, Elizabeth?"
The young girl dropped her hands from her face, and wrung them in bitter
anguish.
"Father, I am smitten in my sight. The blood is frozen in my veins. The
breath settles in my throat, strangling me when I speak. I scarcely feel
your touch. I cannot draw a deep breath. When I bend my looks on the
Bible, the pages are striped with ragged, black lines, as if a devil,
not God, had written it."
"My child, what is this? A little while ago you were quiet and cheerful.
What disease can have fallen upon you? What evil thing has touched you?"
She fell upon her knees, grovelling on the floor. Her eyes glittered
painfully, her lips bluish white.
"Father, do not touch me. I am smitten. Lo! I am _bewitched_."
The old man began to tremble in all his limbs. He shrunk away from his
child, gazing wildly at her, as some holy man might watch an angel
changing into a fiend before his eyes.
"Elizabeth, daughter Elizabeth," he cried, "oh, my God--my God!"
She bent her face downward, shrouding it with her garments, sobbing out,
"Do not touch me, father. I am unholy--body and soul I am unholy. God
blinds my sight to his word. Fiery fiends have tracked their footprints
over His promises. Oh, me--oh, me--the curse is here!"
More pale, more terribly stricken than his child, the old man stood up,
and, clasping his thin hands, lifted them slowly to heaven. At last he
spoke, in a voice of solemn command, which vibrated to the poor girl's
heart:
"Elizabeth Parris, rise up, and say unto me, who has done this
thing--whence comes thy affliction?"
Elizabeth arose very slowly, and looked her father in the face.
"Come and see!"
Uttering only this one sentence, she led the way out of the house and
into the open air. On she sped, through the sunshine and along by-paths,
toward the sea-shore, looking over her shoulder now and then to be sure
that her father followed close, but never turning aside or speaking a
word.
At last she came out upon a curve of the beach, within sight of the oak
tree under which Barbara Stafford was sitting with Norman Lovel.
"Behold!" she said, throwing out her hand, with the look and gesture of
a priestess. "Behold the strange woman, Barbara Stafford--the evil one
cast forth from the depths of the sea to torment us. Behold the WITCH!"
After the young girl had uttered these awful words, for awful they were
in those days, a dead silence fell upon the father and child. At last
they both turned away, slowly retraced their steps, and entered the
house together. When they were alone in the library, the minister fell
into his chair and began to weep--weep and pray with a troubled
abruptness that proved the terrible hold with which his daughter's
charge had seized upon him. He saw now the complete change that had come
over her, the wildness in her eyes, the deadly white of her face. The
inroads, which a week of anxiety had made upon her person, struck him
with consternation and irresistible belief. What, save some fiendish
influence, could have changed the rosy bloom of her youth into that
dull, hopeless look?
"Kneel down," he said, at last, "Elizabeth, my child; for if all the
evil spirits of the black realm have entered that form, thou art yet my
child. Kneel down, and with thy hand upon the Bible, tell me how this
strange woman has poisoned thy young life; tell me all, that I may ask
the Most High God to help us in this strait."
Elizabeth answered more consistently than her state of terror would seem
to warrant. She had evidently thought deeply on the matter, and reasoned
with an intellect rendered keen by the alarm of a loving heart. She was
very pale, and sharp, nervous quivers shook her now and then, but the
pretty wilfulness of her character had entirely disappeared. She was
like a priestess preparing for some solemn oracle.
"First, let me ask you, father, who is this woman whom you and Norman
Lovel dragged up from the depths of the sea?"
"In truth I do not know," answered the minister, greatly troubled. "Did
I not tell you, Elizabeth, that it happened on the second day of my
arrival in Boston?"
"The second day; and I had not seen you then."
"Truly, these words are sooth, my child. I was beset by this weak heart
to visit thee at once, but some feeling, which seemed from above, held
me back, whispering ever, 'Do not make to thyself an idol of this fair
child, for thy God is a jealous God, visiting the sins of the fathers
upon the children.' Then, feeling that the great love in my bosom might
fall upon thee in wrath for mine offence, I dared not come within sight
of thee, mine only child; but was driven by the storm, as it were, on to
the heights overlooking the ocean."
"And what did you see there, my father?"
"A ship, breaking through the clouds, afar off, that waved and surged
around and above it like fiery banners."
"And this woman came down the sides, entered a boat, and was whelmed in
the waves, from which you and Norman Lovel, my betrothed, rescued her.
All the rest I know. But who is she? Where is her country, and from what
good or evil influence did she get that wonderful power, which wins
every heart to her glance?"
"Elizabeth, I do not know!"
"Father, let us be just. From the depth of my soul I believe this woman
an emissary of the Evil One, sent hither to break up the harmony of our
lives. But speak to her, father; question her, as a judge might do, when
afraid to sentence unholily. If the conviction fastened in this poor
heart springs from the selfishness of too keen affections, let me have
the proof, and I will kneel at Barbara Stafford's feet till she pardons
me. But if there is truth in these things--if she possesses no power to
sweep suspicion of diabolical influence away from her--then will I, of
my own strength, surrender her to the magistrates, that the evil spirit
may be driven from our house."
Samuel Parris was sorely perplexed. In his simplicity, the introduction
of this strange lady into his household had been preceded with none of
the usual explanations. There was something about the woman, a dignity
of reserve, that, notwithstanding her sweet graciousness, forbade all
close questioning. When Samuel Parris remembered all the incidents
connected with their first meeting--the reserve maintained ever
since--the confusion left behind when she fled so strangely from the
governor's house, and the animosities that had sprung up under his own
roof since it had sheltered her--the justice of his daughter's
accusation fastened strongly upon him. He shivered with dread. Events
hitherto of simple solution, took a lurid form in his eyes. He looked
wistfully at the pale face uplifted to his--at the trouble in those
beautiful eyes--and was ready to cry out with anguish when he thought
that it was through him the evil influence had reached that young soul.
"Stay here," he said, rising from his chair, and searching for his
staff, for the tremor in his old limbs was painfully visible. "Sit here,
and pray for help. Before the Lord I will question this woman."
He kissed his daughter on the forehead, trembling all over, as if his
lips pressed the brow of a corpse, and taking up his staff went out,
followed by her heavy gaze, and a succession of low moans; for with
great mental anguish came bodily pain, and for a time Elizabeth Parris
seemed as if shrouded in ice.
The old man bent his steps toward the beach once more.