A Little Life sweetly Lived
Deliverance awakened happily the next morning for she had been dreaming
of home, but as she glanced around her, her smile vanished. Nevertheless,
her heart was lighter than it had been for many days. Moreover, she was
refreshed by slumber and was surprised to find she enjoyed her breakfast.
She no longer dreaded the anticipated visit of Sir Jonathan. He seemed
only an evil dream which had passed with the night. Yet when she heard
the tap of his awful stick in the corridor, and his voice at the door,
she had no doubt he was a terrible reality. So great was her fear that
she could not raise her voice to greet him when he entered, although,
remembering her manners, she rose and, despite the clanking chain,
courtesied.
He came in pompously, flinging the flaps of his cape back, revealing his
belted doublet and the sword at his side.
“’Tis o’er close and warm in here,” he said; “methinks you have forgotten
a seat for me, goodman.”
“Ha’ patience, ha’ patience,” muttered the old jailer, “I be no so young
and spry as ye, your lordship.” Grumbling, he left the cell.
While Sir Jonathan waited, he leant against the door-casing, swinging his
cane in time to a song he hummed, paying no attention to the little maid.
The jailer brought him a three-legged stool. He seated himself opposite
the little maid, saying naught until the old man had closed the door and
turned the key.
Deliverance dared not raise her eyes.
Sir Jonathan observed her sharply from underneath his steeple-hat, his
hands clasped on the top of his walking-stick.
This little witch appeared harmless enough, with the fringe of yellow
hair cut straight across her round forehead. The rosy mouth was tightly
compressed; from beneath the blue-veined lids, two tears forced
themselves and hung on her eye-lashes.
“There is no need to be afeared of me,” said he. “I come only from a
godly desire to investigate how you became a witch, for I am thinking of
writing a learned book on the evil art of witchery, which shall serve as
a warning to meddlers. Also I seek to lead you to confess, ere it be too
late and you descend into the brimstone pit.”
Deliverance had heard such words before and known them to be for her
soul’s good. But her heart was hardened toward her present visitor, and
his words made no more impression upon her than water dropping on stone.
She looked up bravely.
“Good sir,” she said staunchly, “the King sends for his black powder.”
Sir Jonathan’s face grew white and he stared at her long. He opened his
mouth to reply, but his dry lips closed without a sound. He jumped up,
overturning the stool, and paced up and down the cell.
“You witch!” he cried: “for I ’gin to think you are a witch and a limb of
Satan.”
Deliverance prayed aloud, for she feared he would strike her with his
walking-stick.
Sir Jonathan paused and listened with amazement. At last he laughed
abruptly. “Are you indeed a witch, or are you gone daft and silly that
you pray?”
“I be no witch,” replied the little maid with dignity, “and it be no
daffy nor silly to pray. And if it seemeth so to ye, ye be a most ungodly
man and the burning pit awaits ye.”
Sir Jonathan turned up the stool and sat down again.
“Mistress Deliverance Wentworth,” quoth he, wagging his red beard at her,
“children were not so illy brought up in my young days. They were reared
in righteous fear of their elders and betters. But I have important
business with you and no time to talk of froward children. Now, you will
please tell me who taught you the lesson you repeat so well.”
Deliverance answered never a word.
Sir Jonathan regarded her anxiously. “I could go to the magistrate and
have you forced to speak,” he said slowly, after awhile, “but ’tis a very
private matter.” Suddenly a light broke over his countenance. “Ha, ha, my
fine bird,” he cried, “I have caught you now! You saw the parchment with
the royal seal I left with your father.”
“Good sir,” she answered wonderingly, “I wot not what ye mean.”
“You have been well taught,” he said, frowning.
“Ay, good sir,” she replied sincerely, “I have been most excellently
taught.”
He puzzled long, shaking his head anon, gazing steadily at the ground.
“Mistress,” said he at last, looking up eagerly, “I had no thought of
it before, but the man in the forest—who might he be? Ay, that is the
question. Who was he? In velvet, with slashed sleeves, the old yeoman
said. Come, come,” tapping the floor with his walking-stick, “who was
this fine gentleman?”
Deliverance perceived he was greatly perturbed, as people are who
stumble inadvertently upon their suspicions of the worst.
“I cannot get through my head,” said he, “who this fine gentleman might
be. Come, tell me of what sort was this fine Cavalier.”
Deliverance made no reply.
“I am sore perplexed,” muttered Sir Jonathan; “this business savours
ill. I fear I wot not what. Alack! ill luck has pursued me since I left
England. Closer than a shadow, it has crept at my heels, ever ready to
have at my throat.”
So real was his distress that Deliverance was moved to pity. For the
moment she forgot his persecution. “I be right sorry for ye,” said she.
Now as Sir Jonathan heard the sympathy in the sweet voice, a crafty look
came into his eyes, and his lids dropped for fear the little maid might
perceive thereby the thought that crossed his mind. He rested his elbow
on his knee, bowed his head on his hand, and sighed heavily.
“Could you but know how persecuted a man I am, mistress,” said he, “you
would feel grief for my poor cause. Alackaday, alackaday! that I should
have such an enemy.”
“Who might your enemy be, good sir?” asked the little maid.
“You would not know him,” he answered. “In England he dwells,—a man of
portly presence, with a dash, a swagger, a twirl of his sword. A man
given o’er to dress.”
Now, in thinking he could surprise Deliverance into admitting that the
fine gentleman she had met that eventful day in the forest was a man of
such description, he was mistaken, for the little maid had been taught to
keep a close mouth.
“Perchance, I had best tell you my sad tale,” continued Sir Jonathan. “I
was obliged to flee England, lest mine enemy poison me. Spite of his open
air and swagger, he was a snake in the grass, forever ready to strike at
my heel, to sting me covertly in darkness. An honest man knows no defence
against such a villain. Why look you so at me? I harbour no malice
against you.”
“But why, good sir,” said she, “and ye bore me no malice, did ye tell the
reverend judges that I had muttered an imprecation, and cast a spell on
ye?”
“How did you know the words you spoke, words which filled me with
bitterness and pain, unless you have a familiar spirit?” he asked.
“No familiar spirit have I,” answered Deliverance, pitifully. “I be no
witch to mutter unco words.”
“I know not, I know not,” said Sir Jonathan, shrugging his shoulders;
“but I shall believe you a witch and you be unable to explain those
words.”
“Oh, lack-a-mercy-me!” said Deliverance. “Oh, lack-a-mercy-me, whatever
shall I do!” And she lifted her petticoat, and wiped her eyes and sighed
most drearily.
Sir Jonathan sighed also in a still more dreary fashion.
“This be fair awful,” said Deliverance. “I ken not which to believe, ye
or the gentleman in the forest.”
“What said he?” asked Sir Jonathan, eagerly.
“Nay, good sir,” protested Deliverance, “I must have time to think.” Even
as she spoke, she recalled the stranger’s smile, the love-light in his
eyes as he showed her the miniature of his sweetest daughter. All doubt
that he had deceived her was swallowed up in a wave of keenest conviction
that only an honest gentleman could so sincerely love his daughter,—even
as her father loved her. And all the former distrust and resentment she
had entertained toward Sir Jonathan came back with renewed force.
“I will not tell ye,” she said. “Have I not given my good and loyal word?
Nay, good sir, I will not tell ye.”
“There are ways to make stubborn tongues speak,” he threatened.
Deliverance pursed up her mouth obstinately, and looked away from him.
Sir Jonathan pondered long.
“There are ways,” he muttered. “Nay, I would not be ungentle. We’ll
strike a goodly bargain. Come now, my pretty mistress, tell me the
secret the stranger telled you. It has brought you naught but grief. I
promise, and you do, that you shall not be hanged. How like you that?”
At these words Deliverance paled. “How could ye keep me from being
hanged, good sir?” she faltered, and hung her head. She did not meet
his glance for very shame of the thought which made parleying with him
possible,—the desire to save herself.
“Ay, trust me,” he replied. “I will be true to my bargain and you tell me
the truth. I am a person of importance, learning, and have mickle gold.
This I tell with no false assumption of modesty,” he added pompously. “I
will tell the magistrates that I have discovered the witch who hanged her
evil deeds on you, that the law has laid hold of the wrong person. Then
will I demand that you have a new trial.”
Deliverance began to sob, for at his words all her terror of being hanged
returned. Suppose Abigail should fail,—she grew faint at the thought.
Was it not better to tell the secret and return to her poor father, to
Ronald, and to Goodwife Higgins? So she wept bitterly for shame at the
temptation which assailed her, and for terror lest she should be hanged.
“Good sir!” she cried piteously, “I pray ye tempt me not to be false to
my word. I pray ye, leave me.”
Sir Jonathan rose. A fleeting smile of triumph appeared on his face.
“Think well of my words, mistress,” said he; “to-morrow at this time I
will come for my answer.” He knocked on the door with his walking-stick
for the jailer to come and let him out. While he waited, he hummed
lightly an Old World air, and brushed off some straws which clung to his
velvet clothes.
Deliverance, still weeping, hid her face in her hands, deeply shamed. For
she feared what her answer would be on the morrow.
The jailer returned from showing Sir Jonathan out. He picked up the stool
to take it away, yet hesitated to go.
“I ha’ brought ye a few goodies,” he said, and dropped the sweetmeats in
her lap.
“I thank ye,” said Deliverance, humbly, “but I have no stomach for them.”
Still the old man lingered. “Mayhaps ye confessed to his lordship?”
“I be no witch,” said Deliverance.
The old man nodded. “Ay, it be what they all say. It be awful times. I
ha’ lived a long life, mistress, but I ne’er thought to see such sights.”
He tiptoed to the threshold, and looked up and down the corridor to
assure himself none were near to hear. “I ha’ my doubts,” he continued,
returning to the little maid, “I ha’ my doubts. I wot not there ha’ been
those that ha’ been hanged, innocent as the new-born babe. Who kens who
will next be cried upon as a witch? As I sit a-sunning in the doorway,
smoking my pipe, the whilst I nod i’ greeting to the passers-by, I says
to myself, ‘Be not proud because ye be young, or rich, or a scholar. Ye
may yet be taked up for a witch, an’ the old jailer put i’ authority
o’er ye.’” He lifted the stool again. “I ha’ my doubts,” he muttered,
going out and locking the door.
Late in the afternoon Abigail came again.
“Deliverance,” she said, “be ye there?” She could not see Deliverance,
who lay on her straw bed beneath the window.
A meek voice from the darkness below replied, “I be here wrestling with
Satan.” Deliverance rose as she spoke. “Oh, Abigail,” she said, meeting
her friend’s glance, “I be sore bruised, buffeting with Satan. I fear
God has not pardoned my sins. I be sore tempted. Sir Jonathan was here
to-day.”
“Bah, the Old Ruddy-Beard,” sniffed Abigail, “with his stick forever
tapping and his sharp nose poking into everybody’s business! I suspicion
he be a witch. Where gets he his mickle gold?”
“He be a wicked man,” answered Deliverance, “and now I do perceive he be
sent o’ the Lord to test my strength. But have ye heard yet o’ the fine
gentleman I telled ye o’ yesterday?”
“Nay,” replied Abigail.
“Then summat unforeseen has held him in Boston Town, for the more I think
o’ his goodly countenance, the more convinced I be o’ his goodly heart,
though he be high-stomached and given o’er to dress, which ye ken be not
the way to heaven,” continued Deliverance. “Did ye bring the paper?”
“I brought my diary,” answered Abigail, “and ye can tear out as many
pages as ye need, but no more, and I also brought ye your knitting that
ye might have summat to do.”
She lowered by a string the little diary, the tiny ink-horn and quill,
and a half-finished stocking, the needles thrust through the ball of yarn.
In cautious whispers, with eyes anxiously fastened on the door lest it
open, the two little maids planned every detail of the course of action
they had decided to follow.
But after Abigail had said good-night, Deliverance sat motionless a
long time. All knowledge of the village came to her only in the sounds
that floated through the window. She heard the jingle of bells and a
mild lowing, and knew it was milking-time and that the cows were being
driven home through Prison Lane. She wondered if Hiram had yet mended the
meadow bars. Later she heard the boys playing ball in the lane, and she
seemed to see the greensward tracked by cow-paths and dotted by golden
buttercups. At last the joyous shoutings of the boys ceased and gave way
to the sound of drumming. She could see the town-drummer walking back and
forth on the platform above the meeting-house door, calling the people to
worship.
Suddenly she thought of her father. She put forth her arms, reaching in
vain embrace. “Oh, my dear father,” she cried, and her voice broke with
longing, “oh, my dear father, I be minded o’ ye grieving for me all so
lonesome in the still-room! Alas, who will pluck ye June roses for the
beauty waters?”
Sad though her thoughts were that she could not see him, yet these very
thoughts of him at last brought her peace.
She knew that Sir Jonathan’s proposal to procure a new trial for her
had found favour in her heart, and she feared what her answer would be
on the morrow. Underneath her tears and prayers, underneath her gladness
and relief to see Abigail and the plans they had devised, was the shamed
determination to reveal the secret rather than be hanged. She would
hold out to the last moment, then—if Abigail were able to accomplish
nothing—the little maid’s cheeks burned in the darkness, burned with such
shame at her guilty resolve that she put her hands over them.
In the darkness she saw forming a shadowy picture of the dearest face
in the world to her, her father’s long thin face, with its kindly mouth
and mild blue eyes. All her life Deliverance believed that, in some
mysterious way, her father came to her in prison that night. However it
was, she thought that he asked her no question, but seemed to look down
into her heart and see all her shame and weakness.
She shrank from his gaze, putting her hands over her breast to hide her
heart away from him. Was it not better, she urged, she should commit
just one small sin, and return to him and Ronald, and live a long life so
good that it would atone for the wrong-doing?
But he answered that a little life sweetly lived was longer in God’s
sight than a life of many years stained by sin.
She asked him if it were not a great pain to be hanged when one was
innocent, and he admonished her that it was a greater pain to lose one’s
loyal word and betray one’s King who was next to God in authority.
All at once he faded away in a bright light. Deliverance opened her eyes
and found that the long night had passed, that the morning had come, and
that she must have been dreaming. She lay silent for a long time before
rising. All the shame of yesterday had gone from her heart, which was
washed clean and filled with peace. She whispered very softly the words
of her dream, A little life sweetly lived.
Her hour of temptation was passed.
Thus Deliverance knew God had pardoned her sins.