Already were they about to give judgment of death upon Rachel Dyer,
when two or three of her accusers, who began to fear that she might
escape, had another fit.
Why are these poor women troubled? asked a judge.
I do not know, was her unstudied reply.
But according to your belief?
I do not desire to say what my belief is. It can do no good, and it may
do harm; for who shall assure me that I do not err?
Don’t you think they are bewitched?
No.
Give us your thoughts on their behavior.
No, Ichabod, no; my thoughts can be of no worth to thee or such as
thee. If I had more proof, proof that ye would receive in law, I might
be willing to speak at large both of them and of their master----
Their master! cried a little man, with a sharp inquisitive eye, who had
not opened his mouth before. Who is their master?
If they deal in witchcraft or in the black art, Joseph Piper, thee may
know as well as I do.
Woman....are you not afraid of death?
No.........not much, though I should like to be spared for a few days
longer.
Not afraid of death!--
No--not much, I say. And why _should_ I be afraid of death? why should
I desire to live?--what is there to attach a thing of my shape to
life, a wretched, miserable, weary....
Ah, ha--now we shall have it--she is going to confess now--she is
beginning to weep, said a judge. But he was overheard by the woman
herself, who turning to the jury with a look that awed them in spite of
their prejudice, told them to proceed.
They’ll proceed fast enough, by and by, said another judge. What have
you done to disturb the faculties of that woman there?
What woman?
Judith Hubbard.
Much. For I know her, and she knows that I know her; and we have both
known for a great while that we cannot both live. This world is not
large enough. What have I done to disturb her faculties? Much. For that
woman hath wronged me; and she cannot forgive me. She hath pursued
me and mine to death; all that are very near and dear to me, my poor
sister and my--and the beloved friend of my sister--to death; and how
would it be possible for Judith Hubbard to forgive us?
But your apparition pursues her.
If so, I cannot help it.
But why is it your apparition?
How do I know? He that appeared in the shape of Samuel, why should he
not appear in the shape of another?
But enough--Rachel Dyer was ordered for execution also. And a part of
the charge proved against her was, that she had been spirited away by
the powers of the air, who communicated with her and guarded her at
the cost of much human life, on the night when she fled into the deep
of the wilderness in company with George Burroughs and Mary Elizabeth
Dyer; each of whom had a like body-guard of invisible creatures, who
shot with arrows of certain death on the night of their escape.
And Mary Elizabeth Dyer was now brought up for trial; but being half
dead with fear, and very ill, so that she was reported by a jury
empannelled for the purpose, to be mute by the visitation of God, they
adjourned the court for the morrow, and gave her permission to abide
with her sister till the day after the morrow.
And so Mary Elizabeth Dyer and Rachel Dyer met again--met in the depth
of a dungeon like the grave; and Elizabeth being near the brave Rachel
once more, grew ashamed of her past weakness.
I pray thee dear sister, said Mary Elizabeth, after they had been
together for a long while without speaking a word, Rachel with her
arm about Elizabeth’s neck, and Elizabeth leaning her face upon the
shoulder of Rachel, I pray thee to forgive me.
Forgive thee ... for what pray?
Do, _do_ forgive me, Rachel.
Why, what on earth is the matter with thee, child? Here we sit for a
whole hour in the deep darkness of the night-season, without so much
as a sob or a tear, looking death in the face with a steady smile, and
comforting our hearts, weary and sick as they are, with a pleasant
hope--the hope of seeing our beloved brother Jacob, our dear good
mother, and our pious grandmother; and now, all of a sudden thee breaks
out in this way, as if thee would not be comforted, and as if thee had
never thought of death before--
O, I’m not afraid of death sister, now--I’m prepared for death now--I’m
very willingly to die now--it isn’t that I mean.
Why _now_?--why do thee say so much of _now_? Is it only _now_ that
thee is prepared for death?
No, no, dear sister, but some how or other I do not even desire to live
now, and yet----
And yet what?--why does thee turn away thy head? why does thee behave
so to me ... why break out into such bitter--bitter lamentation?--what
_is_ the matter I say?--what ails thee?--
Oh dear!
Why--Elizabeth!--what am _I_ to believe?--what has thee been doin’? Why
do thee cling to me so?--why do thee hide thy face?--
O Rachel, Rachel--do not go away,--do not abandon me--do not cast me
off!
Child--why--
No, no!--
Look me in the face, I beseech thee.
No no--I dare not--I cannot.
Dare not--cannot--
No no.--
Dare not look thy sister in the face?
Oh no--
Lift up thy head this minute, Mary Elizabeth Dyer!--let go of my
neck--let go of my neck, I say--leave clinging to me so, and let me see
thy face.
No no dear Rachel, no no, I dare not--I am afraid of thee now, for now
thee calls me Mary Elizabeth--
Afraid of me--of me--O Elizabeth, what has thee done?
Oh dear!
And what have _I_ done to deserve this?
Thee--thee!--O nothing dear sister, nothing at all; it is I--I that
have been so very foolish and wicked after--
Wicked, say thee?
O very--very--very wicked--
But how--in what way--thee’ll frighten me to death.
Shall I--O I am very sorry--but--but--thee knows I cannot help it--
Cannot help it, Mary Elizabeth Dyer--cannot help what? Speak ... speak
... whatever it is, I forgive thee ... we have no time to lose now; we
may never meet again. Speak out, I beseech thee. Speak out, for the day
is near, the day of sorrow----
I will, I will--cried Elizabeth, sobbing as if her heart would break,
and falling upon her knees and burying her head in the lap of her
sister--I will--I will, but--pushing aside a heap of hair from her
face, and smothering the low sweet whisper of a pure heart, as if she
knew that every throb had a voice--I will, I will, I say, but I am so
afraid of thee--putting both arms about her sister’s neck and pulling
her face down that she might whisper what she had to say--I will--I
will--I’m a goin’ to tell thee now--as soon as ever I can get my
breath--nay, nay, don’t look at me so--I cannot bear it----
Look at thee--my poor bewildered sister--how can thee tell whether I
am looking at thee or not, while thy head is there?--Get up--get up, I
say--I do not like that posture; it betokens too much fear--the fear
not of death, but of shame--too much humility, too much lowliness, a
lowliness the cause whereof I tremble to ask thee. Get up, Elizabeth,
get up, if thee do not mean to raise a grief and a trouble in my heart
which I wouldn’t have there now for the whole world; get up, I beseech
thee, Mary Elizabeth Dyer.
Elizabeth got up, and after standing for a moment or two, without
being able to utter a word, though her lips moved, fell once more upon
her sister’s neck; and laying her mouth close to her ear, while her
innocent face glowed with shame and her whole body shook with fear,
whispered--I pray thee Rachel, dear Rachel ... do ... _do_ let me see
him for a minute or two before they put him to death.
Rachel Dyer made no reply. She could not speak--she had no voice
for speech, but gathering up the sweet girl into her bosom with a
convulsive sob, she wept for a long while upon _her_ neck.
They were interrupted by the jailor, who came to say that George
Burroughs, the wizard, having desired much to see Rachel Dyer and Mary
Elizabeth Dyer, the confederate witches, before his and their death, he
had been permitted by the honorable and merciful judges to do so--on
condition that he should be doubly-ironed at the wrist; wherefore he,
the jailor had now come to fetch her the said Rachel to him the said
George.
I am to go too, said Elizabeth, pressing up to the side of her sister,
and clinging to her with a look of dismay.
No, no--said he, no, no, you are to stay here.
Nay, nay, sister--dear sister--do let me go with thee!
It is not for me to speak, dear, _dear_ Elizabeth, or thee should go
now instead of me. However----
Come, come--I pity you both, but there’s no help for you now--never
cry for spilt milk--you’re not so bad as they say, I’m sure--so make
yourself easy and stay where you be, if you know when you’re well off.
Do let me go!
Nonsense--you’re but a child however, and so I forgive you, and the
more’s the pity; must obey orders if we break owners--poh, poh,--poh,
poh, poh.
A separation like that of death followed. No hope had the two sisters
of meeting again alive. They were afraid each for the other--and
Elizabeth sat unable to speak, with her large clear eyes turned up
to the eyes of Rachel as if to implore, with a last look, a devout
consideration of a dying prayer.
If it may be, said Rachel turning her head at the door if it may be
dear maiden, it shall be. Have courage--
I have, I have!
Be prepared though; be prepared Elizabeth, my _beautiful_ sister. We
shall not see each other again ... that is.... O I pray thee, I do pray
thee, my dear sister to be comforted.
Elizabeth got up, and staggered away to the door and fell upon her
sister’s neck and prayed her not to leave her.
I must leave thee ... I must, I must ... would thee have me forsake
George Burroughs at the point of death?
O no--no--no!
We never shall meet again I do fear--I do hope, I might say, for of
what avail is it in the extremity of our sorrow; but others may--he and
thee may Elizabeth--and who knows but after the first shock of this
thy approaching bereavement is over, thee may come to regard this very
trial with joy, though we are torn by it, as by the agony of death
now--let us pray.
The sisters now prayed together for a little time, each with her
arm about the other’s neck, interchanged a farewell kiss and
parted---parted forever.
And Rachel was then led to the dungeons below, where she saw him that
her sister loved, and that a score of other women had loved as it were
in spite of their very natures--for they were bred up in fear of the
dark Savage. He sat with his hands locked in his lap, and chained and
rivetted with iron, his brow gathered, his teeth set, and his keen eyes
fixed upon the door.
There is yet one hope my dear friend, whispered he after they had been
together a good while without speaking a word or daring to look at each
other--one hope--laying his pinioned arm lightly upon her shoulder,
and pressing up to her side with all the affectionate seriousness of a
brother--one hope, dear Rachel--
She shut her eyes and large drops ran down her cheeks.
--One hope--and but one--
Have a care George Burroughs. I would not have thee betray thyself
anew--there is no hope.
It is not for myself I speak. There is no hope for me. I know that--I
feel that--I am sure of it; nor, to tell you the truth, am I sorry--
Not sorry George--
No--for even as you are, so am I--weary of this world--sick and weary
of life.
Her head sunk upon his shoulder, and her breathing was that of one who
struggles with deep emotion.
No--no--it is not for myself that I speak. It is for you--
For _me_--
For you and for Elizabeth--
For _me_ and for Elizabeth?--well--
And if I could bring you to do what I am persuaded you both may do
without reproach, there would be hope still for--for Elizabeth--and for
you--
For Elizabeth--and for me?--O George, George! what hope is there now
for me? What have I to do on earth, now that we are a----she stopped
with a shudder--I too am tired of life. She withdrew the hand which
till now he had been holding to his heart with a strong terrible
pressure.
Hear me, thou high-hearted, glorious woman. I have little or no hope
for thee--I confess that. I know thee too well to suppose that I could
prevail with thee; but ... but ... whatever may become of us, why not
save Elizabeth, if we may--
If we may George--but how?
Why ... draw nearer to me I pray thee; we have not much time to be
together now, and I would have thee look upon me, as one having a right
to comfort thee and to be comforted by thee--
A right ... how George?
As thy brother--
As my brother.... O, certainly----
Nay, nay ... do not forbear to lean thy head upon thy brother ... do
not, I beseech thee. What have we to do here ... what have we to do
now with that reserve which keeps the living apart ... our ashes, are
they to be hindered of communion hereafter by the unworthy law of--ah
... sobbing ... Rachel Dyer! ... can it be that I hear you--_you_! the
unperturbable, the steadfast and the brave ... can it be that I hear
you sobbing at my side, as if your very heart would break....
No no....
There is to be a great change here, after we are out of the way....
Where--how?
Among the people. The accusers are going too far; they are beginning to
overstep the mark--they are flying too high.
Speak plainly, if thee would have me understand thy speech--why do thee
cleave to me so?--why so eager--why do thee speak in parables? My heart
misgives me when I hear a man like thee, at an hour like this, weighing
every word that is about to escape from his mouth.
I deserve the rebuke. What I would say is, that the prisons of our land
are over-crowded with people of high repute. Already they have begun
to whisper the charge against our chief men. This very day they have
hinted at two or three individuals, who, a week before they overthrew
me, would have been thought altogether beyond the reach of their
audacity.
Who are they?
They speak of Matthew Paris.
The poor bewildered man ... how dare they?
And of the Governor, and of two or three more in authority; and of all
that participated in the voyage whereby he and they were made wealthy
and wise and powerful----
I thought so ... I feared as much. Poor man ... his riches are now
indeed a snare to him, his liberal heart, a mark for the arrows of
death....
Now hear me ... the accusers being about to go up to the high places
and to the seats of power, a change, there must and there will be, and
so----
And so ... why do thee stop?
Why do I stop ... did I stop?
Yea ... and thy visage too ... why does it alter?
My visage!
Yea ... thy look, thy tone of voice, the very color of thy lips.
Of a truth, Rachel?
Of a truth, George.
Why then it must be ... it is, I am sure ... on account of the ... that
is to say ... I’m afraid I do not make myself understood--
Speak out.
Well then ... may I not persuade you, my dear, _dear_ sister ... to ...
to ... in a word, Rachel....
To what pray ... persuade me to what?... Speak to me as I speak to
thee; what would thee persuade me to, George?
To ... to ... to confess ... there!
To confess what, pray?
That’s all....
George....
Nay, nay ... the fact is my dear friend, as I said before: I ... I ...
if there be a change here, it will be a speedy one.
Well--
And if--and if--a few weeks more, a few days more, it may be, and our
accusers, they who are now dealing death to us, may be brought up in
their turn to hear the words of death--in short Rachel, if you could
be persuaded just to--not to acknowledge--but just to suffer them
to believe you to be a ... to be a ... I forget what I was going to
say----