THE ACCUSERS OF BARBARA.
When the constable and his followers came into the town of Salem, with
Barbara Stafford in their midst, a wild commotion seized upon the
inhabitants. Every door and window was crowded with human heads. The
public streets were swarming like a bee-hive, and a look of solemn
consternation greeted her at every point. Pale and still Barbara passed
before them. The subdued feeling, the majesty and grandeur of her
carriage, impressed many with awe, and a few with gleams of compassion;
but the ban of witchcraft was upon her, and no one ventured to step
forth for her defence or comfort. She was not insulted: among the whole
crowd there was no man or child cruel enough to assail her. Little boys
who had gathered up stones and handfuls of turf to hurl at the witch,
felt the missiles dropping from their grasp when those great, mournful
eyes turned upon them. Some little girls, in the tenderness of their
youth, began to cry when they saw how her hands were bound; but one or
two old women called out, and with jeers bade her prove her descent from
the devil by breaking her own bonds, exactly as like revilers mocked our
Saviour more than sixteen hundred years before. But some supernatural
power seemed to bind the voices of these women, and the words they would
have uttered died out in low groans: the gentle power of that woman's
presence silenced even the spite of unredeemed old age.
The constable and his men bent their way to the house of Samuel Parris,
where the accused was to be confronted with her victim. The inhabitants
of the town followed the cortege, and gathered in groups upon the
stretch of sward that lay between the minister's dwelling and the
meeting-house; while the functionaries of the church and officials of
the government entered the house.
Elizabeth Parris still kept her room, but in her delirium she had
insisted on wearing her usual apparel, and when her father came up, with
distress in his face, to prepare her for the approach of her strange
visitors, the young girl was resolute to descend to the rooms below
where she would entertain her father's guests with due state.
Possessed of the idea that there was some great entertainment at which
she was to preside, the beautiful lunatic--for such fever and intense
excitement had made her for the time--began to rummage in her chest of
drawers for the pretty ornaments with which she had adorned herself
while the guest of Lady Phipps. The old minister dared not resist her;
with him these vagaries were solemn evidences of witchcraft with which
it was sacrilege to interfere.
Thus, in a little time after Barbara Stafford was led into the house,
Elizabeth Parris appeared on the staircase, crowned with artificial
roses that glowed crimson in her golden hair, and gathering the white
muslin robe to her bosom with one pale hand, as if the inspiration of
some old master, when he searched his soul for the type of a heathen
priestess, had fallen upon her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shone
like stars, and the gliding motion with which she descended the stairs
made her presence spiritual as that of an angel.
Abigail Williams came after, very serious, and with a look of terrible
pain upon her forehead; her eyes, dusky with trouble, watched the
movements of her cousin. She seemed a dark shadow following the spirit.
Then came Samuel Parris; how white his hair had become! how old and
locked were those thin features! He moved like one who felt the curse of
God heavy upon him and his whole house. Desolation was in every
movement.
Old Tituba crept after, quick and vigilant as a fox. She traced back all
this trouble to her own story of the martyred Hutchinsons. From the day
of her confidence with Abby Williams the curse had entered her master's
house. She was the evil spirit that the people sought. She had concocted
the roots into the drinks with which Elizabeth had quenched her fever
thirst when the disease crept insidiously over her. True, Barbara
Stafford had told her they were cooling and wholesome; but what right
had she to take the word of a strange woman like that? Was not her
darling witch-stricken, soul and body, by the very decoctions with which
she had hoped to cure her? Had not the words of her own tongue changed
Abigail Williams from a calm, gentle maiden, full of thoughtful
affections, to a stern prophetess, such as her people evoked when they
thirsted for vengeance?
Tituba had pondered these things over and over in her thoughts till she
almost believed herself a witch and a demon, and this was the frame of
mind in which the poor old creature followed the stricken family into
the presence of the magistrates.
When Elizabeth Parris entered the room that had once been the favorite
retreat of her mother, she bent her slight figure with gentle
recognition of her father's friends, and moving toward the old oaken
chair, which had been, time out of mind, in the family, sat down, or
rather dropped into it, for her strength was giving way. But, feeling
that something was expected of her, she looked around, making mournful
efforts at a smile. Her glance fell on Barbara Stafford, who sat near
the window, watching her movements with a look of gentle compassion.
All at once her eyes dilated and shot fire, her brow began to throb
heavily under the roses that bound it, and uplifting herself from the
chair, she pointed at Barbara with her finger, reeling to and fro, as we
remember Rachel when she sung the Marseillaise almost upon the brink of
her own grave.
"Take her away! take her away! I cannot breathe while she sits yonder,
with her soft, calm eyes! That look has poison in it!"
She began to shudder, and fell back into the chair, crying piteously.
The old man approached Barbara Stafford, and clasping his withered
hands, began to plead with her.
"Behold," he said, stooping meekly toward her, "behold your evil work!
When you came here, only a few days ago, she was bright and fair as the
rose when it opens. Every thing made her happy. If she went out, joy
followed her; when she came back, the sound of her footsteps was like an
answered prayer. Till you came, the Lord dwelt in our household, and
blessed it. We loved each other, and helped each other, as Christians
should. Woman, what had we done that you should drive out our household
angels, and fill their places with fiends of darkness? I saved your
life, and lo, my child, my only child, is accursed before God and man!"
The minister lifted his hands as he ceased speaking, and covering his
face, wept aloud.
"Alas!" said Barbara Stafford, and her voice was full of unshed tears,
"I have done you no wrong, kind old man. The life you saved was of
little worth, but such as it is, I would gladly lay it down to bring
peace under this roof once more. Do believe me, not for my sake, but
your own: Elizabeth Parris is ill from natural causes, not from any
power, evil or good, that rests in me. Sudden excitement--a cold perhaps
taken in the night air--anxiety to which her girlish nature is
unused--all these may have conspired to disturb her brain."
Barbara would have said more, but at the sound of her voice Elizabeth
began to writhe and moan in her chair, till the sound of her anguish
drove the old man wild.
"Oh, my God! my God! why hast thou forsaken this household!" he cried,
while his quivering hands dropped apart and fell downward, and his
deploring eyes turned upon his child.
"Oh, woman, are you not potent to redeem as well as to inflict? Is your
power all evil?"
"I have no power save that which belongs to a weak woman," replied
Barbara; "but if you can unbind my hands, I will strive to soothe the
poor child."
"Unbind her hands," said the magistrate, who had not spoken till then.
"Let the spirit within have full sway. Heaven forbid that we judge
without sure evidence. Constable, set her limbs free!"
The constable unknotted the red shawl from Barbara's shoulders, and
loosened the thongs that tied her wrists together. A broad purple mark
was left on the delicate skin, and her fair hands were swollen with
pain. She drew a deep breath, for the sense of relief was pleasant; and
moving gently across the floor, she laid her two hands on Elizabeth's
forehead.
Up to this moment the girl had moaned and writhed as with overwhelming
pain, but as the hands of Barbara Stafford fell upon her forehead and
rested there, the tension left her nerves, and with a sigh she sank back
in the chair. Barbara smiled, passing her hands softly down the now pale
cheek, till they rested for a moment on the muslin that covered
Elizabeth's bosom. She again lifted them to the drooping forehead, and
let them glide to the bosom again, leaving quiet with each gentle touch.
At last Elizabeth Parris turned her head drowsily, and the lids fell
over her eyes like white rose-leaves folding themselves to sleep, and
with what seemed a blissful shudder, she resigned herself to perfect
rest. Then Barbara looked at her accusers with a sad smile, and took her
seat by the window, little dreaming that the holy impulses of pity that
had just soothed the pain of a fellow-creature would be the most fatal
evidence offered at her trial.
"Take her away--take the woman hence!" cried the magistrate, rising up,
hardened in all his iron nature. "The devil, her master, has for once
betrayed her into what might seem an angel's work, but it proves more
than an angel's power--away with her!"
In his supreme ignorance, this magistrate of the seventeenth century
followed the example of the rabble that hunted our Saviour to death.
Surely the world had progressed but slowly in its soul knowledge since
that awful day of the crucifixion.
While Elizabeth Parris lay sleeping sweetly in her chair--it was the
first slumber she had known in three days--Barbara Stafford was bound
again with those ignominious thongs and taken from the room. Samuel
Parris watched the movements with a thrill of compassion: grateful for
the rest that had been given to his child, he could not see those white
hands bound so rudely without a thrill of pity.
But the people without obtained intelligence of what had been passing,
and the words sacrilegious and blasphemy ran from lip to lip. "What,"
said one, "does the witch mock the holy miracles of our Saviour, and
attempt to heal with the laying on of hands? Dares she to brave God in
the very presence of our most worshipful magistrate, and that
gray-haired Christian, Samuel Parris? Why should we wait for a trial? is
not this evidence enough? Let us take her down to the sea and cast her
into the deep."
"Let us hang her at the town post," cried another. "The sea has vomited
her up once; it is no use trying that."
Then other voices set in, and the tumult became general. The throng
gathered closer and closer around the minister's house; the women most
eager, and crying out loudest that the witch should be given up to them.
The magistrate was, so far as he allowed his own nature freedom, a just
man, and fully believed himself right in giving Barbara up to the law,
still he would have guarded her with his life from the howling rage of
the mob. But it is doubtful if even his steady courage could have saved
her, so intense was the excitement; but just as he appeared on the
door-step standing in front of the prisoner, a company of soldiers,
wearing the colonial uniform, came galloping up the forest road with
Norman Lovel, Governor Phipps's private secretary, at their head.
The crowd fell back tumultuously as the young man came forward, for he
dashed on with little regard to life or limb, and drew up in front of
the house.
"Worshipful sir," he said, addressing the magistrate, "I have come to
relieve you of a painful duty. Here is Governor Phipps's requisition.
This lady being a stranger, will be tried where his excellency can
himself have cognizance of the proceedings. I am authorized to convey
your prisoner to Boston."