Mr. Cotton Mather visits Deliverance
Now, upon the very day of Abigail’s disappearance, ye godly minister
of Boston Town, Mr. Cotton Mather, was in Salem in attendance upon the
trial of an old woman, whose spectre had appeared to several people
and terrified them with horrible threats. Furthermore, the Beadle had
testified to having seen her “Dead Shape” lurking in the very pulpit
of the church. It was with unusual relish Cotton Mather had heard her
condemnation to death, considering her crime, in particular, deliberate
treason to the Lord.
As he stepped from the hot and dusty court into the fresh air, salt with
the sea and bright with the sunshine, a great rush of gladness filled
his heart, and he mentally framed a prayer that with God’s assistance
he might rid this fair, new land of witches, and behold the church of
his fathers firmly established. Leaving his horse for the present where
it was tied to the hitching-post, outside the meeting-house, he walked
slowly down the village street to the inn, there to have luncheon before
setting out for Boston Town.
The fruit trees growing adown the street were green, and cast little
clumps of shadow on the cobblestone pavement. And he thought of
their fruitage—being minded to happy thoughts at remembrance of duty
done—in the golden autumn, when the stern Puritans held a feast day in
thanksgiving to the Lord.
All the impassioned tenderness of the poet awoke in him at the sight of
these symbolical little trees.
“And there are the fair fruit trees,” he murmured, “and also the trees of
emptiness.”
Now he bowed to a group of the gossips knitting on a door-stoop in the
sun, and now he stooped to set upon its feet a little child that had
fallen. At the stocks he dispelled sternly a group of boys who were
tickling the feet of the writhing prisoners.
Thus, in one of the rarely serene moments of his troubled life, he made
his leisurely way.
But only his exalted mood, wrapping him as an invisible, impenetrable
garment, enabled him to pass thus serenely.
To every one else a weight of terror hung like a pall. The awful
superstition seemed in the very air they breathed. How unnatural the
blue sky! What a relief to their strained nerves would have been another
mighty storm! Then might they have shrieked the terror which possessed
them, but now the villagers spoke in whispers, so terrible the silence
of the bright noonday. And many, although aware of the fact that the
evil spirits were mostly abroad at night, yet longed for the darkness
to come and cover them. No man dared glance at his neighbour. From one
cottage came the cry of a babe yet in swaddling clothes, deserted by its
panic-stricken mother, who believed it possessed by an evil spirit.
Yet, mechanically the villagers pursued their daily duties.
At the tavern, Cotton Mather found Judge Samuel Sewall and the
schoolmaster—who acted as clerk in court—conversing over their mugs of
sack. Pleased to fall in with such company, he drew his stool up to their
table.
“Alas, my dear friend,” said the good judge, “this witchery business
weighs heavy on my soul! I cannot foresee an end to it, and know not who
will next be cried out upon. ’Tis a sorry jest, I wot, but meseemeth, in
time, the hangman will be the only man left in this afflicted township.
E’en my stomach turns ’gainst my best loved dishes.”
On the younger man’s serene, almost exalted face came a humanizing gleam
of gentle ridicule. “Then indeed has the Lord used this witchery business
to one godly purpose, at least, if you do turn from things of the flesh,
Samuel.” A rare sweetness, born of the serenity of his mind and his
friendship, was in his glance.
“Nay, nay,” spoke the good judge, gruffly, “’tis an ill conscience and
an haughty stomach go together. No liking have I for the man who turns
from his food. Alas, that such a man should be I and I should be such a
man!” he groaned. “The face of that child we condemned troubles me o’
nights.”
A menacing frown transformed Cotton Mather’s face, and he was changed
from the genial friend into the Protestant priest, imperious in his
decisions. He struck his hand heavily on the table. “Shall we, then, be
wrought upon by a round cheek and tender years, and shrink from doing
the Lord’s bidding? Most evil is the way of such a maid, and more to be
dreaded than all the old hags of Christendom.”
“Ay,” joined in the schoolmaster, “most evil is the way of such a maid!
Strange rumours are afloat regarding her. ’Tis said, that for the peace
of the community she cannot be hanged too soon. ’Tis whispered that the
glamour of her way has e’en cast a spell on the old jailer. Moreover,
the woman of Ipswich, who was hanged a fortnight ago, did pray that the
witch-maid be saved. Now ’tis an unco uncanny thing, as all the world
knows, that one witch should desire good to another witch.”
Cotton Mather turned a terrible glance upon the great judge. “O fool!” he
cried, “do you not perceive the work of the Devil in all this? The woman
of Ipswich would have had the witch-maid saved that her own black spirit
might pass into this fair child’s form, and thus, with double force,
working in one body, the two witches would wreak evil on the world.”
“Nay, nay,” protested the judge, “my flesh is weaker than my willing
spirit, and, I fear me, wrought upon by a fair seeming and the vanity
of outward show. But we must back to court, my good friend,” he added,
addressing the schoolmaster.
So the two arose and donned their steeple-hats and took their
walking-sticks, and arm-in-arm they went slowly down the middle of the
street.
Cotton Mather, as he lunched, became absorbed in troubled thought. The
conviction grew that it was his duty to investigate to the full and
personally these rumours of the witch-maid. Also, he would seek to lead
her to confession to the salvation of her own soul, and, further, that
he might learn something regarding the evil ways of witches, and by some
good wit turn their own methods against them to the establishment of the
Lord.
Full of eager resolve, he did not finish his luncheon, but left the
tavern and proceeded to the jail.
There he had the old jailer open the door of the cell very softly, that
he might, by some good chance, surprise the prisoner in evil doing.
Quietly the old jailer swung open the door.
Cotton Mather saw a little maiden seated on a straw pallet, knitting.
Some wisps of the straw clung to her fair hair, some to her
linsey-woolsey petticoat. Where the iron ring had slipped on her white
ankle was a red mark.
All the colour went from Deliverance’s face as she looked up and
perceived her visitor. Before his stern gaze she trembled, and her head
drooped, and she ceased her knitting. The ball of yarn rolled out from
her lap over to the young minister’s feet.
She waited for him to speak. The moments passed and still he did not
speak, and the torture of his silence grew so great that at last she
lifted her head and met his glance, and out of her pain she was enabled
to speak. “What would ye have with me, good sir?”
“I have come to pray with you, and to exhort you to confession,” he
answered.
“Nay, good sir,” protested Deliverance, “I be no witch.”
The old jailer entered with a stool for Mr. Mather, and having set it
down, went out and left the two together.
Ere either could speak, there was a rapping at the door.
In answer to the young minister’s summons to enter, Sir Jonathan Jamieson
came in.
Deliverance glanced dully at him, all uncaring; for she felt he had
harmed her all he could, and now might nevermore injure her.
The young minister, having much respect for Sir Jonathan, rose and begged
that he be seated. But Sir Jonathan, minded to be equally polite, refused
to deprive Mr. Mather of the stool. So they might have argued and bowed
for long, had not the jailer appeared with another stool.
“I did but see you enter now, as I chanced to come out of the tavern near
by,” remarked Sir Jonathan, seating himself comfortably, leaning back
against the wall, “and, being minded to write a book upon the evil ways
of witchery, I followed you in, knowing you came to exhort the prisoner
to repentance. So I beg that you will grant me the privilege to listen in
case she should confess, that I may thereby obtain some valuable notes.”
As he spoke he shot a quick glance at Deliverance.
She could not divine that menacing look. Was he fearful lest she should
confess, or did he indeed seek to have her do so?
Cotton Mather turned, his face filled with passionate and honest fervour,
toward the speaker.
“Most gladly,” he answered with hearty sympathy; “it is a noble and
useful calling. I oft find more company with the dead in their books
than in the society of the living, and it has ever been one of my chief
thanksgivings that the Lord blessed me with a ready pen. But more of this
later. Let us now kneel in prayer.”
They both knelt.
But Deliverance remained seated.
“Wicked and obstinate o’ heart I be,” she said, “but Sir Jonathan holds
me from prayer. I cannot kneel in company with him.”
She no longer felt any fear to speak her mind.
At her words Cotton Mather glanced at Sir Jonathan and saw the man’s
face go red. His suspicions were aroused thereat, and he forgot all his
respect for Sir Jonathan’s great position and mickle gold, and spoke
sternly, as became a minister, recognizing in his profession neither high
nor low.
“Do you indeed exercise a mischievous spell to hold this witch-maid from
prayer when she would seem softened toward godliness?”
“Nay,” retorted Sir Jonathan, “’tis the malice of her evil, invisible
spectre whispering at her ear to cast a reflection on me.”
“I prithee go, however, and stand in the corridor outside, and we will
see if the witch-maid, relieved of your presence, will pray,” advised
Cotton Mather.
Sir Jonathan was secretly angered at this command, yet he rose with what
fair show of grace he could muster, and went out into the corridor. But
an indefinable fear had sprung to life in his heart. For, lo, but a look,
a word, an accusation, and one was put upon as a witch.
Deliverance, although she feared the young minister, yet knew him to be
not only a great but a good man, and desirous for her soul’s good. Thus
willingly she knelt opposite him.
Long and fervently he prayed. Meanwhile, Sir Jonathan sauntered up and
down the corridor, swinging his blackthorn stick lightly, humming his Old
World tune.
Every time he passed the open door, he cast a terrible glance at
Deliverance over the minister’s kneeling figure, so that she shuddered,
feeling she was indeed besieged by the powers of darkness on one hand,
and an angel of light on the other.
Cotton Mather could not see those terrible glances, but even as he
prayed, he was conscious of Sir Jonathan’s unconcerned humming and light
step. This implied some disrespect, so that it was with displeasure he
called upon him to return.
“I cannot understand, Sir Jonathan,” he remarked, rising and resuming his
seat, “how it is that you who are so godly a man, should exercise a spell
to hold this witch-maid from prayer.”
Sir Jonathan shrugged his shoulders. “She has a spectre which would do
me evil. ’Tis a plot of the Devil’s to put reproach on me, in that I have
refused to do his bidding.” An expression of low cunning came into his
glance. “Have not you had similar experience, Mr. Mather? Methinks I have
heard that the tormentors of an afflicted young woman did cause your very
image to appear before her.”
“Yea,” rejoined Mr. Mather with some heat, “the fiends did make
themselves masters of her tongue, so in her fits she did complain I put
upon her preternatural torments. Yet her only outcries when she recovered
her senses were for my poor prayers. At last my exhortations did prevail,
and she, as well as my good name, was delivered from the malice of Satan.”
Sir Jonathan stooped to flick some dust off his buckled shoe with his
kerchief. “One knows not on whom the accusation of witchery may fasten.
Even the most godly be not spared some slander.” Now when he stooped,
Deliverance thought she had seen a smile flicker over his face, but
when he lifted his head, his expression was deeply grave. He met the
young minister’s suspicious and uncomfortable glance serenely. “What most
convinces me,” he continued easily, “of the prisoner’s guilt, e’en more
than the affliction she put upon me, is the old yeoman’s testimony that
he saw her conversing in the woods with Satan. Could we but get to the
root of that matter, perchance the whole secret may be revealed. But I
would humbly suggest she tell it in my ear, alone, lest the tale prove of
too terrible and scandalous a nature to reach thy pious ear. Then I would
repeat it to you with becoming delicacy.”
“Nay,” answered Cotton Mather, “a delicate stomach deters me not from
investing aught that may result to the better establishment of the Lord
in this district.”
Deliverance began to feel that her secret would be torn from her against
her will. Alas, what means of self-defence remained to her! Her fingers
closed convulsively upon the unfinished stocking in her lap. The
feminine instinct to seek relief from painful thought by some simple
occupation of sewing or knitting, awakened in her. She resolved to
continue her knitting, counting each stitch to herself, never permitting
her attention to swerve from the task, no matter what words were
addressed to her.
So in her great simplicity, and innocent of all worldly
conventionalities, she sought security in her knitting.
This action was so unprecedented, it suggested such quiet domesticity and
the means by which good women righteously busied themselves, that both
priest and layman were disconcerted, and knew not what to do.
Suddenly Sir Jonathan laughed harshly. “The witch has a spice of her
Master’s obstinacy,” he cried. “Methinks ’twere right good wisdom,
since your prayers and exhortations avail not with her, to try less
gentle means and use threats,” his crafty mind catching at the fact that
whatever strange, but, he feared to him, familiar tale, the little maid
might tell, it could be misconstrued as the malice of one who had given
herself over to Satan.
“Perchance ’twould be as well,” assented Cotton Mather, greatly perplexed.
Sir Jonathan shook his forefinger at Deliverance. “Listen, mistress,”
said he, and sought to fix her with his menacing eye.
Deliverance, counting her stitches, heeded him not.
How pale her little face! How quick the glancing needles flashed! And
ever back of her counting ran an undercurrent of thought, the words of
her dream,—A little life sweetly lived.
“This would I threaten you,” spoke Sir Jonathan. “You have heard how old
Giles Corey is to be put to death?”
The knitting-needles trembled in the small hands. Now she dropped a
stitch, and now another stitch.
“And because he will say neither that he is guilty, nor yet that he is
not guilty, it is rumoured that he is to be pressed to death beneath
stones,” continued Sir Jonathan.
A sigh of horror followed his words. The involuntary sound came from
Cotton Mather, whose imaginative, highly-strung organism responded to the
least touch. His eyes were fixed upon the little maid. He saw the small
hands shaking so that they could not guide the needles. How small those
hands, how stamped with the innocent seeming of childhood! Oh, that the
Devil should take upon himself such a disguise!
“And so, if you do not confess,” spoke Sir Jonathan’s cold, menacing
voice, “you shall not be accorded even the mercy of being hanged, but
tied hands and feet, and laid upon the ground. And the villagers shall
come and heap stones on you, and I, whom you have afflicted, shall count
them as they fall. I shall watch the first stone strike you—”
A loud cry from the tortured child interrupted him. She sprang to her
feet with arms outstretched. “And when that first stone strikes me,” she
cried, “God will take me to Himself! Ye can count the stones the others
throw upon me, but I shall never ken how fast they fall!”
Cotton Mather was moved to compassion. “Let us use all zeal to do away
with these evil sorcerers and their fascinations, good Sir Jonathan, but
yet let us deal in mercy as far as compatible with justice, lest to do
any living thing torture be a reflection on our manhood.” With gentleness
he then addressed himself to Deliverance, who had sunk upon her pallet
and covered her face with her hands. “Explain to us why the woman of
Ipswich, that was hanged, did seek that you be saved.”
Deliverance made no reply. Nor could he prevail upon her in any way;
so, after a weary while spent in prayers and exhortations, he and Sir
Jonathan rose and went away. At the threshold Cotton Mather glanced back
over his shoulder at the weeping little maid.
“This affair savours ill,” he remarked, laying his hand heavily on his
companion’s shoulder as the two went down the corridor; “my heart turned
within me, and strange feelings waked at her cry.”
It was late in the afternoon. It would not be possible for the young
minister to reach Boston Town until after midnight, so he decided to
postpone his journey until the next day. Moreover, he rather seized at
an excuse to remain for the morrow’s court, having great relish in these
witch-trials.
But that night Cotton Mather had a strange vision.