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.