THE PRISON WEDDING.
That was a gloomy, almost terrible wedding. There those young people
stood waiting for the ceremony, pale as death, their trembling hands
linked together, shivering with nervous chills, as if it were a doom of
judgment about to be pronounced upon them, rather than those sacred
words which should make love immortal.
When she entered the dungeon, Elizabeth had cast herself at Barbara's
feet, and meekly begged the pardon that young heart would never grant
itself. All the doubt and bitterness which had blinded her so long were
swept away. The true-hearted young creature would have found courage to
die in the place of her victim, and think that too little atonement for
the evil she had done. But, alas! alas! the power of restitution is not
always vouchsafed to our crimes or our mistakes in this world. The
inexorable law had seized upon its victim, and Elizabeth Parris might
moan her life away in unavailing regret without aiding her, or
arresting, for one moment, the doom that was darkly closing around her.
"Nay," said Barbara, lifting the wretched girl from her feet and resting
that beautiful head on her bosom; "it is not your fault that I am here,
simple child; destiny wove its own cruel links around me. Do not mourn
for the harmless part assigned to you in the tragedy which will close
to-morrow. The evidence you gave was true in all its parts. If
superstition blinded my judges, the fault rests with them only, my
daughter."
A strange thrill connected the two women as Barbara uttered the word
daughter. Elizabeth lifted her blue eyes with a sudden glow of pleasure,
and the prisoner kissed her twice upon the white forehead, as if she
were sealing that young heart for its baptism of love.
"Norman, come hither, and take your wife from my arms," said the
prisoner, turning her face, all glowing with generous exaltation, on the
young secretary. "I give her to you. Love her--trust her; and remember
on this earth God has no more precious gift for any man than the love of
a good woman."
Norman Lovel came forward and took Elizabeth gently from the arms that
supported her.
"What is it you ask of us?" he said, addressing Barbara in a trembling
voice. "I, for one, am ready for any thing."
"Nay," said Barbara, "I ask but that your happiness shall be assured
before I leave you."
The young man shook his head.
"There will be little happiness for us after that," was his sorrowful
answer; "but it will be some consolation if we can mourn together."
"Norman, you love this girl?"
"Better than my life--better than any being on earth, save one, who,
living or dead, will ever share my heart with her."
Tears swelled into Barbara Stafford's voice before she could answer.
"You will not grudge me a place in his memory?" she said, turning to
Elizabeth.
"Oh! If it were to save your life, I would give him up! I would--I
would!" sobbed Elizabeth.
"It will make the few hours left to me almost happy, if you become his
wife now," said Barbara, placing her hand on the little book which lay
near her.
"Elizabeth, your father has consented that it shall be even as I wish.
Do you love this man well enough to wed him in the gloom of a prison?"
"Do I love him! But that I loved him so madly you would never have been
in this strait," cried the girl.
"Then let it be as I wish, dear child. Love makes its own sunshine even
in a dungeon. Norman, take her hand. Samuel Parris, they are ready."
The old minister, who stood leaning against the wall, came forward
silently, took the two hands reached out to him in his firm clasp, and
in a few, deep, solemn words, made Elizabeth Parris Norman Lovel's wife.
Just as the ceremony was completed a cloud passed over the sun, and its
light, filtering dimly through the iron bars which grated the window,
shed a weird gloom over the group of persons so strangely brought
together. While the newly-wedded pair stood hand in hand, pale as death,
and scarcely daring to feel happy. Barbara went to her pallet-bed, and
took a leathern case from beneath the pillow. This she unlocked with a
key suspended to her neck, and opening it revealed the contents. A
quantity of bank notes, bills of exchange, and gold, lay in one
compartment; from the other she took the coronet of diamonds, which had
been mentioned as the witch-crown at her trial, and placed it on the
head of the bride.
"It is my gift to your wife, Norman," she said, addressing the young man
with subdued tenderness. "Before long you will both prize it for
something more than its value. Here are other jewels for the bosom and
arms. My sweet child, may the heart which beats under them prove happier
far than their poor owner has been. Some day you will know why she gives
them to you."
Elizabeth shrunk, and almost cried out with terror, as the coronet
settled down upon the waves of her hair, for, spite of herself, thrills
of superstition shook her disturbed nerves, and it seemed as if the
prisoner were crowning her with coals of fire. But the sweet voice of
Barbara Stafford soothed all fear away, and the bride received this
princely gift with her head drooping in meek thankfulness under its
starry crown.
Lovel was astonished and bewildered. As he turned to gaze upon his bride
the sun broke out, and streaming through the window set the coronet on
fire with rainbow hues. "Lady, lady, I know the value of these things.
We must not accept them," he exclaimed.
"What will they be worth to me after to-morrow?" answered Barbara.
"But would you have us profit by the awful crime which your enemies will
perpetrate?" he persisted.
"Hush!" she said; "it must be so. The gold for yourself--the jewels for
your wife. I will not be disputed in this."
"Oh, lady! I shall never have the heart to wear them," said Elizabeth;
"they burn my temples even now."
"Yes, child, you will learn to wear them for my sake; and because I
loved you--for my sake, remember."
"Oh! this kindness is breaking my heart!" sobbed the bride. "Only
reproach me, and I can bear it better."
"Reproach you! Come, come, we will lock the gems in their case again,"
said Barbara, smoothing Elizabeth's golden tresses with her hands, as
she took off the coronet. "They do seem like a mockery in a dungeon.
When this dark passage of our lives is over, they will not seem so out
of place."
As she spoke, Barbara locked the leathern casket again and, taking its
key from her neck, gave both to Samuel Parris.
"When you go forth take them with you," she said; "but they must not be
otherwise disposed of."
Parris took the case in silence. He knew, far better than the others,
how sacredly these young people would hold her wishes hereafter.
"Now, my child, farewell! We must not see each other again on this
earth," said the prisoner, kissing Elizabeth on the forehead. "When we
do meet, be able to look in my face and say, 'I have been a faithful and
good wife to the man who blessed me with his love.'"
Bathed in tears, and trembling under the solemn effect of these words,
Elizabeth left the dungeon with her father. Lovel remained behind.
When they were alone, Barbara stood before her son. Slowly her eyes
filled with the intense love which up to that moment she had suppressed
in her heart. She reached forth her arms and, without understanding the
power of natural affection that urged him on, Norman wound his arms
around her neck, and resting her head on his shoulder, broke into a
passion of grief that shook his whole frame. She trembled in his arms,
not with sorrow, but thrilled with a joy so intense that it lifted her
into a state of wonderful exaltation.
"He loves me completely, with more than filial devotion, and yet knows
nothing of our kinship--never dreams that I--even I--am his mother," she
thought. "After this one moment I should of a truth be ready to die, for
the bliss of a life-time falls upon me now."
But that craving affection which never was, and never will be, fully
satisfied in a loving woman's heart, demanded an assurance of this
feeling in words. She drew her head back, and looked into Norman's face.
"And you love me?" she said, passing her hand over his hair in an
unconscious caress. "My noble boy, you love me!"
"If I could but explain how much, and with what pure, pure affection!
Surely the Catholics must worship their saints as I worship you. My love
for you is made up of tenderness and prayer. I shall never kneel to my
God hereafter without feeling that you are near him."
"And near you, also, my--my friend. If spirits are ever permitted to
retrace their steps in the eternal progress, no grief shall ever reach
you that I will not be near to soothe."
"My heart will feel your presence, and take comfort from it, sweet
mother."
"Mother! boy--boy! Why did you call me mother?"
"If I did so, the word escaped my lips unconsciously. Forgive it."
"Forgive it--yes, yes, my son, I can forgive it, for the word has a
sweet sound."
"You called me son," said Norman, gazing on her with a sad smile.
"Did I? That sprung from the word mother. I would gladly hear it from
those lips again. Norman, I once had a child--a sweet babe, which was
taken from me long before it could pronounce the word mother, and no
one, even by accident, ever called me by that dear name till now."
"Mother! mother!" repeated the young man, pausing on each word, as if to
drink in its hidden music. "It is very strange, but ever since I first
saw you that word has been constantly whispered in my heart. I never
thought of it before, save as a sound full of regrets. To me, an orphan
from the first, it had no other meaning."
"But now--now you love it?"
"Yes; now it has depth and significance. A tender significance, which
makes my heart swell, and fills my eyes with tears. Lady, I am glad the
word escaped me, since it does not wound or offend you, for it has
unlocked my heart. I could rest your head on my bosom thus, and weep my
life away with yours."
"Oh!" exclaimed Barbara, "if God would be merciful, and let us die so."
"Or permit you to live. How beautiful existence would be for us all!"
Instantly, the holy tenderness that had trembled on Barbara's features
went out from her face. Her head rested like marble on the young man's
shoulders. The thought of what must happen to-morrow broke through her
exaltation, and froze her into ice.
"Go," she said, in a husky whisper. "Go! your wife is waiting. Take her
out of this place--from the town itself. You must not be near me when
the time comes. I shall be better alone."
"Not near you!" exclaimed the young man. "Though my heart break--and I
feel that it must--you shall not drive me from your side."
"But it will take away my strength. I shall falter at the last moment.
Boy, can you not see how weak I am?"
Her voice broke out of its husky whispers; she shivered from head to
foot, and held out her shaking hands that he might clasp them.
Norman folded her close in his arms till the trembling subsided. Then
she was firm again, but cold as stone.
"Go, now," she said. "Here we part forever. To-morrow, if I am to perish
as a Christian woman, with the example of our blessed Saviour before me,
I must meet the agonies of death alone. With you standing near me, my
friend, it would be to die twice. Nay, take your arms from around me. I
am stronger standing alone. But--but your hand still; let me hold that
to the last."
"Oh, that it had the power to lead you from this horrible place!"
"Hush! hush! we must not think of that. Farewell! farewell!"
The last words were spoken on whispers, that came like a breath of
frosted air from her lips.
"Farewell!" cried the young man, wringing her cold hand. "My God! my
God! this is indeed like parting with a mother."
Norman moved toward the door, and struck its oaken planks blindly with
his hand, thus summoning the turnkey. Barbara followed him a single
step, her blue eyes strained with anguish, her lips moving like snow
stirred by the wind.
A key turned in its lock; a heavy bolt was drawn. The door slowly
opened. Then her voice broke out in a sharp cry.
"Norman!"
The young man turned and received her in his arms. She laid her hand
faintly on his shoulder again.
"My--my friend, kiss me before I die."
Norman pressed his lips upon her forehead. She drew a deep breath, the
pallor of her face broke away, leaving it calm and still. She sunk from
his arms to the floor, and he left her kneeling there, so close to her
God that she did not know when he left the dungeon.
Norman Lovel found his bride and her father waiting for him in an
ante-room of the prison.
Samuel Parris had resumed all his vigor of mind. When a duty was to be
performed he was prompt and energetic enough.
"Young man," he said to Norman, when the poor fellow came in, white and
haggard with suffering, "we have not a moment to spare. Leave this child
to me; but that I am old and feeble, the duty of saving the grand woman
in yonder should be mine. But on an errand like this, strength and
endurance are wanted. Go to the governor's stable, mount his fleetest
horse, and hie thee with full speed on the road to Providence. Sir
William is heavy-hearted, and perchance may stop on the way, but pause
not to eat or draw breath till he is found. Then say to him--'Thy old
friend, Samuel Parris, having the fear of God before his eyes, desires
thee to come back at once to Boston, that a great crime and a terrible
murder may be prevented.' Say to him that the woman condemned to die on
the morrow has privately confessed every thing; setting forth her own
innocence, and the wrong that has been done her. Tell him to trust in
the faith of an old man who, like Paul, has had his eyes unsealed in the
very midst of his blind persecutions, and come back to save the
innocent. If he hesitates, or falters, tell him that it is to save his
own soul from eternal remorse that I command him to retrace his steps."
Norman listened eagerly. "Is there hope in this?" he asked.
"Hope for us all. Life for her!" was the answer.
Norman snatched Elizabeth to his bosom, and sprang to the door.
"I will reach him. Be sure I will reach him," he cried, almost with a
shout of triumph; and he dashed away on what was in truth an errand of
life and death.