THE LAST WISH.
"I awoke in sight of the spot where we had first met, in hearing of the
waves that had borne us, twenty-two years before, a happy pair, across
the ocean. All the dear, old memories came back to me then--the night
when we rode through the forest to your dwelling, and were sacredly
wedded under its roof--the secrecy, the doubt, the happiness, and the
love unutterable which bound me, the daughter of a proud earldom, to the
fate of a being rendered greater still by the energies and strength
which make the nobility of manhood.
"Full of these thoughts, rich in the holy love that runs like a golden
thread from time into eternity, I waited in that old farm-house, to
which exhaustion confined me, for the hour when I could tell my husband
all that I had suffered--all that I had hoped, since the pride of my
father forced us asunder. But while I was resting in the sweet hush of a
new hope, with the sound of the far-off waters reaching me like a
perpetual promise, content with the dear certainty that he was close at
hand, a cruel blow was preparing for me. I was resting in peace, with a
new life before me, and sweet hopes singing at my heart, when a lady
came to my presence, a fair woman, whose smiles made my heart ache under
their sweet welcome. She came with offers of hospitality and cordial
good-will--came in the plenitude of her rich happiness to invite the
storm-tossed stranger to share the luxuries of her home--to share the
society and protection of her husband, Sir William Phipps, Governor of
Massachusetts!
"I fainted at the lady's feet, but kept my secret safe. She left me
smitten to the soul with a great blow, for which I was utterly
unprepared. Old man, you would pity me could you guess at the anguish,
the terrible, terrible desolation that followed this interview with my
husband's second wife!"
"Oh, me!" said Samuel Parris, dropping the hands that had covered his
face--"oh, me! I do pity you. And it was I that married you both--he, so
noble, so grand of character--you, so bright and good. God have mercy
upon us!"
"At last," continued Barbara, "my decision was made. I could not force
myself to wrest happiness from others, or build my home on the ruins of
an honorable household. I would return to my native land, and tread the
ashen desert of life which must yet be mine, for I was strong, and could
not die. Utterly, utterly wretched, for his sake and hers I would take
up this penance of life, and endure its loneliness silently to the end.
But I could not bring myself to this all at once. There came moments
when my soul rose up in arms for its rights, and the love of my youth
grew mighty in its own behalf: but it is easier to suffer than inflict
suffering, better to endure than avenge. I resolved to see my husband,
and after that decide.
"I went to the North Church, where he stood by its altar in the pride of
his state and the humility of his faith, and was baptized for another
life. Then it was, Samuel Parris, that a resolve of perfect
self-abnegation possessed me--then it was that I almost wrested the
consecrated wine from your hands, and made a vow which I have kept even
unto death--a vow to remain dead to the man who had been my husband, to
leave him forever, and go away into utter loneliness.
"But I could not remain dumb within reach of his presence--I could not
see him in domestic converse with another without such anguish as makes
the breath we draw a torture. For one instant he--mistaking me for
her--held me to his heart. Oh, my God, I had need of thy help then! My
resolve grew faint; but that insensibility came, I should have betrayed
myself. Stung with agony, wounded to the soul, I fled from him--fled
through the wilderness to your dwelling; and there--oh! my God! help to
do away the evil--there the mystery spread from my own heart through
your household. You had seen without recognizing me, and I supposed
myself safe till a ship should come. But the instincts of memory filled
you with unrest, and you mistook them for supernatural influences; your
child grew wild with wounded love. So my suffering bore poisonous
fruits, and were tortured into proofs of witchcraft, and for that I am
to die!
"My friend, is it a subject of wonder now that my presence thrilled both
him and you with a mysterious influence? Is it strange that shadowy
memories haunted my footsteps wherever they turned? Can you guess how I
suffered, how terribly I was tempted? And for all this I must die!"
Samuel Parris started to his feet; his eyes were wild, his face haggard.
"Die! die! And is self-sacrifice like this rewarded by murder? Unhappy
lady, sweet martyr, no. I will follow the governor; he must learn the
truth; you shall not die! In this case magnanimity is suicide."
Barbara Stafford laid her hand on his arm. "I should have kept all this
a secret, and died unknown and unregretted, but for the strange
intelligence that reached me from England in the package Norman Lovel
just brought to my prison. Samuel Parris, I am a mother! My son did not
perish, as they made me believe. They took him from me, in my delirium,
and put him out to nurse near London under a false name. Afterwards he
was placed at school, and in his youth sent to America. For three years
he has been under the roof of his own father. Not two hours ago he knelt
here at my feet and bemoaned my fate. After the cruel work of to-morrow
he will be Earl of Sefton--before that, if you will yield to the wish of
a woman standing close to her grave, he shall become the husband of your
child. It was for this I summoned you--for this I laid bare a heart that
meant to carry its secret to the grave. Look up, my good friend, and
smile. What matters it that a few years are taken from either of our
lives so long as our children are made the happier by it? Our
children--our children! Oh, my friend, my friend! it is of no use
deceiving you. I should so like to live, that he might know that I am
his mother. Pity me! pity me! You have been a parent for years, and I so
little time. Husband and son both left behind, and I must die to-morrow!
Oh, it is hard to bear!"
Samuel Parris covered his face with both hands, and tears streamed over
his withered fingers. "Oh, God! teach me how to act," he prayed; "help
me to save this wronged woman, or permit thy servant to depart with
her!"
Barbara drew the withered hands from his face, and held them firmly.
"Nay, do not weep, old friend; pray earnestly, however, that I may be
prepared for death--life is impossible! I was weak a moment since.
Forget it. I but ask strength to endure."
"But thou shalt not die. He can save thee--and shall."
"But how?"
"I will tell him the truth!"
"Against that solemn promise?"
"It was ignorantly given."
"Nay," she said, "I forbid you to interfere in this. I am content to
suffer the penalty awarded by the court. Others, innocent as I, have
suffered death, and to me sleep will be sweet, even in the grave."
But Samuel Parris would not be persuaded: he put her hands away. Now
Barbara Stafford stood up with a gesture of command.
"Old man, you are a minister of the Most High: tell me if a vow, taken
with the sacred wine and strengthened by the breaking of holy bread, can
be put aside because death stands in the way? This vow I have
taken--never to reveal myself to William Phipps, never to claim him or
recognize him, and to its sanctity you, with your own hands,
administered. In the name of the Most High God, who heard us both, I
charge silence upon you now and forever!"
The old man groaned aloud.
"Be comforted! be comforted, my friend! to-morrow terminates the poor
tragedy of a life which has had but little of happiness in it. When I am
gone my husband will feel the shadow, which he could not comprehend,
lifted from his path. It must no longer darken the noble aims of his
existence. What is the life of one person compared with the happiness of
so many? Until you are assured that I am no more, William Phipps must
never guess that his wife lived to perish for his well-being."
Parris lifted his head, and gazed upon her in silent wonder. To his
imaginative nature there was a grandeur in this resolve which bordered
on the marvellous.
"Woman," he said, at last, "art thou tempting me to falsehood? If thou
diest on the morrow, while there is a possibility of salvation, I--even
Samuel Parris--am thy murderer."
"Not so, old man. The law has convicted me of a heinous crime--sentenced
me to a death from which there is no escape, save by the betrayal of a
secret which will heap dishonor and misery on an innocent woman, and a
man whose happiness is a thousand times more precious than the life I am
willing to give. Were it otherwise, what would existence be to one who
has lost all hope, save that which seems to have dawned on my last
moments, only to mock them? But that justice might be secured to my son,
I had gone to the doom which awaits me with sealed lips. Remember that I
voluntarily bound myself to secrecy by an oath taken before Almighty
God, who can alone absolve me from it. Do not, therefore, attempt to
decide between me and my Maker. I will not be pardoned at the cost you
would have me pay for life. Think you I could hurl _him_ from the
profound respect with which men hold him--or her, that gentle, happy
woman, from her place in his home, to shame and undeserved reproach? No,
no, old man. Death is a thousand times sweeter to me than life at the
price of misery like that. Once more I charge you keep sacred the
promise you have given."
"I will, I will," cried the old man, subdued and saddened by the solemn
eloquence of her look and words. "Deal with me as thou wilt, woman, or
angel--I know not which to call thee--that which thou hast entrusted to
me I will surely keep to the last."
"Nay, it must be kept always; and revealed only to William Phipps and
my--own son. In this package is full evidence of Norman's birth and
parentage. All other heirs are dead, and none are left to dispute his
rights: simple proofs of my death will be sufficient. No one will ever
know how his mother perished, or connect the Countess of Sefton with
Barbara Stafford."
Samuel Parris took the package which Barbara held out, and thrust it
into his bosom, bowing his head low for answer to her solemn
injunctions.
"Now," continued Barbara, "I will task your kindness once more, and have
done. My friend, while there is yet time, bring your daughter hither,
with my son--the young man they call Norman Lovel. Before I go they must
be wedded, else some new trouble may arise to separate them."
"Even as thou wishest it shall be done," answered the old man, taking
his hat and staff. "I who have wrought so much evil would fain make
atonement--so far as a weak mortal can."
Parris went to the door, but came back again, struck with a sudden
objection.
"But Sir William Phipps--the young man being his son--might hereafter
blame me as ambitious for my child," he said.
"Have no fear," answered the lady. "When I am dead, he will thank you
for giving me this one gleam of happiness. Norman, when he knows that it
was his mother who blessed him--and he must learn this hereafter--will
look on his young wife with double tenderness."
"And must it now be kept secret from him?"
"Even so, or to-morrow would break his heart."
The old man went out. He had not far to go, for Elizabeth had
accompanied him to the jail, afraid to be separated from him for a
moment, and hoping, poor child, to obtain forgiveness for the honest
evidence she had borne against the unhappy prisoner before the death
hour. She that moment sat shivering in the jailor's room, waiting to be
summoned into Barbara's dungeon. Norman Lovel was by her side, but she
refused to be comforted even by the voice of her lover, who would not
leave her till the minister came. Thus, hand in hand, they were found
together when the old man entered the room, where they sat; and
solemnly, as if he had been summoning them to a funeral, bade them
follow him.