So then--It was Bridget Pope you were speaking of all the time, hey,
continued the father.
To be sure it was--what’s the matter now?
Why----a----a----the fact is, brother--
You are displeased, I see.
Not at all--not in the least--no business of mine, brother George--none
at all, if you like Bridget Pope as much as ever--child though she
is--no business of mine brother Burroughs--I am sure of that.
So am I--
You may laugh brother B., you may laugh.
So I shall brother P.--so I shall. O, the sick and sore jealousy of a
father! Why--do you not know Matthew Paris--have I not given you the
proof--that your Abigail is to me even as if she were my own child--the
child of my own dear Sarah? And is not my feeling toward poor Bridget
Pope that of one who foresees that her life is to be a life, perhaps of
uninterrupted trial and sorrow, because of her extraordinary character.
I do acknowledge to you that my heart grows heavy when I think of what
she will have to endure, with her sensibility--poor child--she is not
of the race about her--
There now George--there it is again! That poor child has never been out
of your head, I do believe, since you saw her jump into the sea after
little Robert Eveleth; and if she were but six or eight years older, I
am persuaded from what I now see, and from what I have seen before----
Matthew Paris!
Forgive me George--forgive me--I have gone too far.
You _have_ gone too far.
Will you not forgive me?
I do--I do--I feel what you have said though; I feel it sharply--it was
like an arrow, or a knife--
Allow me to say--
No, no--excuse me--I know what you would say.
Her great resemblance to your wife, which everybody speaks of, and her
beauty--
No, no, Matthew, no, no.... I cannot bear such talk.
Ah George!
Both my wives were very dear to me; but she of whom you speak, she whom
you saw upon the bed of death in all her beauty--she who died before
you, in all her beauty, her glorious beauty! but the other day as it
were....
The other day, George?
--Died with her hand in yours but the other day, while I was afar
off--she whom neither piety nor truth could save, nor faith nor
prayer--she of whom _you_ are already able to speak with a steady
voice, and with a look of terrible composure--to me it is terrible
Matthew she is too dear to me still, and her death too near, whatever
you may suppose; you, her adopted father!--you, the witness of her
marriage vow--you, the witness of her death--for me to endure it--O my
God, my God--that such a woman should be no more in so short a time!
Dear George----
--No more on the earth ... no more in the hearts of them that knew her.
Have I not lost a wife too? ... a wife as beautiful as the day, George,
and as good as beautiful?
--No more in the very heart of him, her adopted father, who sat by her
and supported her when she drew her last breath----
Dear George ... would you break the old man’s heart? why should I not
speak of them that are dead, as freely as of--
The children ... the children, Matthew--how are they?
The children?
I have work to do before I sleep. It grows late ... how are they?
No longer what they were, when you saw them about my table five years
ago....
I dare say not--five years are an age to them.
But they are better now than they were at the time of the trial; we
begin to have some hope now--
Have you, indeed?
Yes, for they have begun to ... she has begun, I should say ... Bridget
Pope....
I understand you--the father will out....
--She has begun to look cheerful and to go about the house in that
quiet smooth way--
I know, I know ... it was enough to bring the water into my eyes to
look at her--
Robert Eveleth is to be with us to-night, and if we can persuade him to
stay here a week or two, I have great hope in the issue....
What hope--how?--
That both will be cured of their melancholy ways--Bridget Pope and my
poor Abby--
Their melancholy ways--why, what have they to do with Robert Eveleth?
Why--don’t you see they are always together when he is here--
Who--Abigail and he?
No--Bridget Pope--
Well, what if they are--what does that prove?
Prove!
Yes--prove--prove--you know the meaning of the word, I hope?
Don’t be angry, George.
Angry--who’s angry?--poh, poh, Matthew, poh, poh, poh; talk about love
in a girl of that age for a boy of that age--
Love--who said anything about love?
Poh, poh, poh--affection, or love--or--whatever you please, Matthew--it
isn’t the word I quarrel with--it is the idea--I wonder that you should
put such things into their head--
I!
A man of your age, Matthew Paris--
Ah, brother, brother.
Sir.
There you go again!--But I see how it is, and I shall say no more about
Bridgy Pope or the boy, Robert Eveleth, till you are a----
For shame--
Why so, George? All I wanted to say was, that when Robert is here, the
children are happy together and cheerful. They go romping about in the
woods together, up all the mows in the neighbourhood, or along by the
sea-shore, (between schools) and spend half their play-time in the
blackberry-swamp--you look very serious....
I feel so ... good by’e.
Good by’e--I thought you had come to see the children?
To see the children?--so I did--as I live, Matthew! Lead me to them--
Follow me in here--they are just going to bed, I see.
So I did--I came for no other purpose--
Really?
Really--
A tip-toe, brother, if you please--the sight of you may do them good--
I hope so, said Burroughs--beginning to feel what he had never till
that hour had the slightest idea of--jealousy--downright jealousy, and
of a nature too absurd for belief, except with such as have been afraid
in a like way, of losing the chief regard of no matter what--anything
for which they cared ever so little, or ever so much--a bird or a
kitten, a dog or a horse, a child or a woman.
I hope so, he repeated, as he followed the preacher on tip-toe and
peeped into the little room to survey their faces before he entered,
that he might enjoy their surprise. But he started back at the first
view, and caught by the arm of his aged brother--for there sat the
poor children with their little naked feet buried half leg deep in the
wood-ashes, their uncombed hair flying loose in the draught of the
chimney, each with her wild eyes fixed upon the hearth, and each as far
from the other as she could well get in the huge fire-place; and so
pale were they, and so meagre, and their innocent faces were so full of
care and so unlike what they should have been at their age--the age of
untroubled hope and pure joy--that he was quite overcome.
They heard his approach, either his step or his breathing, and started
away from their settles with a cry that pierced his heart.
I pray you! said he.--But Abigail ran off and hid herself in a far
corner of the room, where a bed was turned up in a niche, and waited
there, gasping for breath, as if she expected to be eaten alive; and
Bridget Pope, although she stood still and surveyed him with a steady
look, made no reply to what he said, but grew very pale, and caught by
a chair when he spoke to her.
Why how now, said Mr. Paris, how now, children? what’s the matter with
you, now?
Father--father! cried Abigail, peeping out with eyes full of terror,
and speaking with a voice which made her father look toward the door
as if he expected Burroughs to assume another shape, or somebody else
to appear from the darkness behind. O father--father--O _my_!--there,
there!--there he goes!
Where--where--what is it, my poor child?
Why--Burroughs--Burroughs--there, there! there now, there he goes
again!--that’s he--there, there--don’t you see him now, father?
See whom, dear?--see what?
Why, Burroughs, to be sure--Burroughs, the bad
man--there--there--there--
God help us!
I never saw him afore in that shape, father, never in all my days,
but I know him though, I know him well enough by the scar on his
forehead--there, there--there he goes!--can’t you see him now, father?
See him--to be sure I do.
Gracious God--Almighty Father--what can be the matter with the poor
child? I begin to perceive the truth now, said Burroughs, I do not
wonder now at your faith, nor at your dreadful terror.
There--there--didn’t you hear that, father?--it spoke then--I heard it
speak as plain as day--didn’t you hear it, father?
Why--Abigail Paris--don’t you know me dear? don’t you know your uncle
George?
There again--that’s jest the way he speaks--help, father, help!
What _is_ the matter with you, child?
Nothin’ father; nothin’ at all now--it stops now--it was a comin’ this
way when you spoke--my stars! anybody might know it, father.
Know what, Abby?
Make me believe that aint George Burroughs, if you can, father.
Why, to be sure it is, cried Burroughs, going a step nearer to the
place where the little creature lay, cuddled up in a heap, with a
quantity of split-wood and pitch-knots gathered about her. Why do you
tremble so, dear?--what’s the matter with you?--what are you afraid of?
Father--father--shrieked the poor child, stop it, father!
Why!--don’t you know me Abigail?--nor you neither Bridget Pope--don’t
_you_ know me dear?
O Sir--Sir--is it you?--is it you yourself, Mr. Burroughs? cried the
latter, huddling up into the shadow, and catching her breath, and
standing on tip-toe, as if to get as far out of his reach as possible.
O Sir--is it you?...
To be sure it is--look at me--speak to me--touch me--
O Sir, Sir----no, no, Mr. Burroughs--no, no.
Why what on earth can possess you Bridget Pope?--what on earth is the
matter with you?--what are you afraid of?
O Lord Sir--I hope it _is_ you!
Who else can it be?--don’t you see me?--don’t you hear me speak?--O I’m
ashamed of you, such a great girl, to be afraid of a----
Who else?--how should I know Sir? and if I knew, I should be afraid to
say; but I don’t know Sir, I don’t indeed Sir--and how should I, pray,
when I never saw you before to night--
Never saw me before to night!
No Sir, never--never--
Are you out of your head Bridget Pope?--never saw me before?
No Sir--never, never--I wish I may die if I ever did, though others
have--your shape I mean Sir--but I would never allow they told the
truth about you when they--O, Abigail, Abigail!
Did you speak to _me_, Bridgy Pope?
O my, O my!--it _is_ your uncle George!--it is indeed--I see the ring
he used to wear--that’s the very ring!
You don’t say so Bridgy!--mother’s pretty ring?
Speak to it now Abby--you aint afeard now--speak to it, will you?
No, no, Bridgy, no, no--you speak to it yourself--what are you cryin’
about father?
I did speak to it Abby--it’s your turn now--
But you’re the nearest--
But you’re the furthest off--
Ah--but you’re the oldest!--
But you are the youngest....
Father--father--its lookin’ at me now!
Well, what are you afeard on Abby--I don’t believe he’s one o’ the
crew--is he, uncle Matthew?
The preacher was afraid to open his mouth--his heart was too full. It
was the first time they had called each other Abby and Bridgy, for
months.
And so--and so--they may say what they like; and I--I--as for me Abby,
I’m not afeard now, one bit--
How you talk Bridgy.
No--and I’ll never be afeard again--so there!
Why--Bridgy!
And so you’d better come out o’ your cubby-house, and go up to it and
speak to it; I’m not afeard now, you see.
Nor I.
Yes you be, or you wouldn’t stay there.
What if you speak to it agin Bridgy?
So I will. How d’ye do Sir, how d’ye do?
My!--if ‘taint a laughin’ at you!
I hope you’re satisfied now--
Aint you railly afeard one bit though, cousin Bridgy?
No indeed, not I. See if I be now--look at me and see what I’m a goin’
to do. There Sir!--there Mr. Burroughs, or whatever you be, there’s my
hand Sir--there----
Laying it on the table before him and turning away her head just as if
she were going to have some hateful operation performed....
--You may touch it if you like--
God bless you dear.
I’m not afeard of you now--am I Sir?
No, no--my brave girl.
And you are not ashamed of me now I hope--are you Sir?
No--no--but I am proud of you--
He touched her hand as he spoke, but released it immediately, for he
saw that he had a very cautious game to play.
By jingo Abby!
By jingo--what for?
Why the hand is warm after all; it is Mr. Burroughs himself--it is, it
is!--I know him now as well as I know you----hourra!
O my!
As sure as you are alive Abby.
Why, Bridget Pope, said her uncle. What on earth are you made of?
Me--uncle Matthew?
Why ... it appears that you did not know him just now, when you spoke
to him.
No Sir--I wasn’t very sure--not so sure as I am now.
There’s courage for you--true courage, Matthew Paris; a spirit worthy
of all admiration.
Very true--very true--but she is two years older than Abby.
Not so much, Matthew, not so much--well dear?
May I go now--please....
You are not afraid of me now, dear?
No Sir--if you please--not much--
And you never will be so again, I hope?
So do I Sir--so do I.... I hope so too ... for its an awful thing to be
afeard of anybody.
Poor child.
To be afeard in the dark Sir--in the dead o’ the night Sir--when you’re
all livin’ alone Sir--O, it _is_ dreadful.
So it is, our Bridgy.
But I never mean to be afeard again Sir.
There’s a good girl.
Never, never (catching her breath)--if I can help it.
Nor I nyther, Bridgy--
Never ... (lowering her voice and peeping under the bed) never without
I see the wicked Shape as they do--right afore me in the path, when I
go after the cows, or when I go to look for the pretty shells on the
sea-shore--
What wicked Shape?
Your own Sir--please.
Ah.
And so Sir--and so--and so uncle Matthew--and so you’d better come out
o’ your hole, Abby dear.
After a deal of persuasion, _Abby dear_ began to creep out of her
hiding-place, and by little and little to work her way along, now by
the split-wood, now by the wall, and now with her back toward the place
where the Shape sat holding his breath and afraid to move, lest he
should scare away the new-born courage of the little thing.
After a while she got near enough to speak; and holding by her father’s
coat all the time, she sidled up to Burroughs, who would not appear to
see what she was about, and lifting up her innocent face, articulated
just loud enough to reach him--There now.
Well dear--
Off she started, the moment he spoke.
But finding she was not pursued, she stopped a yard or two from his
chair, and peeping over the flap of her father’s coat--and seeing that
the shape was looking another way--she came a little nearer--stopped--a
little nearer still--inch by inch--stopped once more, and looking up at
him, as if she knew not whether to run off or stay, said--You be Mr.
Burroughs--_I_ know?
He was afraid to speak yet, and afraid to move.
Uncle George--ee.
God bless the babe!
There now--I told you so--you be uncle George, baint you?
Yes dear--but who are you--you little wayward imp, with such a smutty
face and such ragged hair ... poh, poh ... poh ... what are you afraid
of?
O father, father! he’s got me! he’s got me!
Well--there, there--if you don’t like to stay with me, go to your
father....
Why ... what a funny Shape it is father--if it _is_ a shape.
I don’t believe your hair has been combed for a twelvemonth.
O but it has though....
It is no fault of ours, my friend, said her father, delighted to see
her at the knee of Burroughs. We do all we can, but the more we scrub,
the more we may; the more we wash, the dirtier and blacker she grows,
and the more we comb, the rougher looks her beautiful hair ... it was
beautiful indeed a year ago--
It was like spun gold when I left you.
--But she is no longer the same Abigail Paris that you knew--
Why ... father!...
Be careful Sir; metaphors and poetry are not for babes and sucklings....
You be a good man after all ... baint you Sir? continued she, getting
more confidence at every breath, now that she found the Shape willing
to let her go whenever she chose to go. You be a good man after all Sir
... baint you Sir?
I hope so dear.
You never torments the people, do you? Leaning with her whole weight
upon his knee, letting go her father’s coat, and shaking her abundant
hair loose.
I! ... no indeed I hope not.... I should be very sorry to torment the
people.
Would you though?
Yes dear....
Uncle Georgee! said the child in a whisper that sounded like a whisper
of joy ... dear uncle George ... and he drew her into his lap, and she
put her mouth close to his ear and repeated the words again, so that
they went into his heart--O, I do love you, uncle Georgee!
Having passed a whole hour in examining the two little sufferers (whom
he left asleep in each other’s arms) he went away utterly confounded
by their behaviour, and with little hope of reaching the truth; for if
Abigail Paris and Bridget Pope were what they seemed to be ... what
they undoubtedly were indeed,--innocent as the dove--how could he say
after all, that they were _not_ bewitched? Still however there was
one hope. That which he saw might proceed from disease or from fear,
the natural growth in that age and among that people, of a solitary
situation. But if so, what was he to think of others, who had a like
faith, and yet lived in a populous neighborhood and were cheerful and
happy? Anxious to arrive at the truth, he set off immediately to see
Rachel and Elizabeth Dyer, knowing that under their quiet roof, he
should be at peace, though he failed to procure what he needed ...
further information about her who had abused the people and the judges
with a tremendous forgery.