His book lay open between his elbows, and his chin was propped on his hands. His cap lay on the grass near by.
Abigail’s shyness tempted her to hurry by him without attracting attention, but when she remembered that he might know something of the fine gentleman she was seeking, she paused bravely.
“It will be a fair day, sir,” she said in a quavering voice.
The young man rolled over on his elbow. He wore no wig, and his lank dark hair, parted in the centre, fell on either side of his long, colourless face. His eyes were sharp and bright.
“On what authority dare you make so rash a statement?” inquired he, sternly. “Take heed how you say such things, lest it rain and thunder and the wind blow, and a hurricane come upon us this afternoon, and you be prosecuted for telling a falsehood.”
Abigail failed to perceive he was but jesting, and this, as well as timidity and anxiety, so wrought upon her, that without further ado she began to cry.
At this the student jumped up, deeply repentant, and entreated her to rest in the shade of the old elm tree by him. He gave her his kerchief to dry her eyes, and offered an apple from his pocket.
“There, there,” he said, “’twas but an idle jest. I am a bit of a merry-andrew in my way, but a harmless fellow, without a grain of malice in me. Sure the sun will shine all day when the morn is fair like this. Look up, my pretty lass. See, it still shines.”
Abigail obediently blinked her tear-wet lashes at the dazzling sun, then turned her attention to the apple. She ate it with great relish, the while the student leant back against the tree, his hands in his pockets and his long legs crossed. Thus leisurely reclining, he sang a song for her pleasure, such as never before had greeted her staid, religious little ears. His voice was wondrous mellow, and its cadences flung over her a charmed spell.
“Beshrew me,” remarked Abigail, taking a bite of her apple, “but ye sing strange songs in Boston Town.”
“Did ye ne’er hear tell of Willie Shakespeare, the play-actor,” cried the student. “I am amazed, sore amazed, at your ignorance. Many a rare rhyme has he written, God rest his bones, and betwixt you and me, I, as a Fellow of Harvard, privileged to be learned, find that there are times when his poesy rings with more relish in my ears than the psalms. I have tried my hand at verse-making with fair fortune, though I say it as should not.” Then he burst forth into another rollicking song:—
“Beshrew me, sir,” interrupted Abigail, her disapproval too strong to be repressed, “but these songs are not to my liking.” She rose. “I will be pleased to have you read this description, sir,” she said, drawing a paper from her pocket tied by a string around her waist, “and tell me if ye ken aught o’ this fine gentleman.”
The student rose and made her a low bow. “Since you be pleased to put on such dignity, mistress,” said he, with a fine and jesting air, “I must needs fall in with your ways.”
He took the paper she extended to him and unfolded it with many airs, the while crooking his little fingers daintily.
This was what he read, written in a fair and flowing hand as did befit a teacher of the Dame School:—
“A descripshun of ye fine gentellman whom I met in ye forest on ye afternoon of June 3 wich is herein sett downe. He be aboute three score more or less & be of make suffishunt large to be stared att & for ye naughty boys of ye streete to call att, he having an immoderate goodly girth arounde ye middle. shure did yu know him yu would be of my minde that he had grate rank across ye seas fore he wears full breeches with knots of ryban of a Purple-Blue colour att his knees. alsoe he do walke inn grate bootes. his Sleeves be of fine Velvet withe watchet-Blue Tiffany peeping through ye Slashes. alsoe he carried a blacke case bestock with smal sharp knives exceeding bright. he showed me a picture of his lyttle maide of faire countenance. As regardes ye countenance of ye fine gentellman itt was wrighte goode to looke att having Witte Beauty & Goodness, as theay say. alsoe he weares a light Brown Wigg, parted to ye Crown & falling in Naturall Silke curles to his Shoulders. his Moustache curls finely towards his Nose.
by ye wich descripshun Abigail finde him & deliver ye pckge soe saye I & ye Lord be willing.
Deliverance Wentworth.
note. alsoe he weares a sword.”
“Well-a-day!” laughed the student as he finished, “this is a pretty joke.”
“It be no joke at all, sir,” said Abigail, “and ye will pardon my frowardness in contradicting ye, for my dear friend Deliverance will be hanged o’ Saturday for witchery.” And putting the kerchief to her eyes she wept afresh. As she did so, she heard a strange sound like a groan, and looked up quickly.
The student was leaning against the elm, his eyes closed and his face whiter than the paper which had fluttered from his fingers to the ground.
“Haps it that ye ken her, sir?” she asked in an awed whisper.
He looked at her and tried to regain his composure. His lips moved dumbly. He turned away and put his hand over his eyes, leaning once more against the tree. When he looked again at Abigail, she saw that tears bedimmed his eyes. This exhibition of feeling on the part of this gay student seemed an even more serious thing than the fact that Deliverance was in jail, or that she herself had passed a night in the forest, exposed to savages and wolves.
The student, looking at the little maid’s troubled, tear-stained countenance, smiled in a faint, pitiful fashion, bidding her have hope and cheer. But his voice faltered and broke.
Something in his smile arrested Abigail’s attention. Suddenly, a light of recognition breaking over her face, she put forth her hands, crying joyfully: “Ye be Ronald. Ye be Deliverance’s brother. She telled me to look for ye, but I ne’er suspicioned it to be ye. But when ye smiled I thought o’ her, and now I have remembrance o’ having seen ye in Salem Town.”
Young Wentworth made no reply save by a groan. “Long have I misdoubted these trials for witchery,” he muttered. “It tempts one to atheism. She, Deliverance, a witch, to be cast into prison! a light-hearted, careless child! God himself will pour out His righteous wrath upon her judges if they so much as let a hair of her head be harmed. They have convicted her falsely, falsely! Come,” he cried, turning fiercely upon Abigail, “come, we will rouse the town! We shall see if such things can be done in the name of the law. We shall see.”
Now such anger had been in his eyes as to have burned away his tears, but all at once his fierceness died and his voice broke.
“Did they treat her harshly,” he asked,—“my little sister, who since her mother died, has been a lone lassie despite her father and brother. Tell me again, again that it be not until to-morrow,—that one day yet of grace remains.”
So Abigail told him all she knew. But when he desired to see the letter she was to give to the Cavalier, she protested:—
“I promised not to read it myself nor to let any other body, except him, for Deliverance said it must be kept secret, she being engaged on a service for the King. She said when I found ye, ye would go with me to look for the fine gentleman.”
“Very well, we will go,” he answered briefly, and took her hand, seeing that it would only trouble her then to insist upon having the letter, but resolving to obtain possession of it at the first opportunity.
“We will go to the Governor’s house, first,” he added, “and see if he knows the whereabouts of any such person. If not, then I must read the letter and find the clue to unravel this sad mystery.”
Master Ronald walked on rapidly, holding her hand in so tight a grasp that she was obliged to run to keep up with him. They soon left the Common and entered a street. There were no sidewalks then in Boston Town. The roadways, paved with pebbles, extended from house to house. They took the middle of the street where the walking was smoothest. Once Master Ronald paused to consider a sun-dial.
“It lacks o’er an hour of ten,” he said; “we shall be obliged to wait. The new Governor is full of mighty high-flown notions fetched from England, and will see no one before ten, though it be a matter of life and death. It sorts not with his dignity to be disturbed.” He glanced down at Abigail as he finished speaking, and for the first time took notice that she was tired and pale.
“Have you broken fast this morn?” he inquired; “I should have bethought me of your lack. There is yet ample time, and you must eat. Come,” he added, taking her hand again and smiling, “it is good for neither soul nor body that the latter should go hungered. The Queen’s coffee-house lies just around yon corner.”
A few moments later Abigail found herself seated at a table in a long, dark room, very quiet and cool, with vine-clad windows. Only one other customer besides themselves was in the room. He was an old gentleman in cinnamon-brown small-clothes, and he was so busy sipping a cup of coffee and reading a manuscript, that he did not glance up at their entrance. The inn-keeper’s buxom wife received Master Ronald’s order. Quite on her own account she brought in also a plate of cookies.
“Kiss me well, honey-sweet,” said she, “and you shall have the cookies.”
So Abigail kissed the goodwife in return for her gift.
“Heigh-ho!” remarked Master Ronald, “in all this worry and grief I forgot that every maid has a sweet tooth, if she be the proper sort of maid.” In spite of his little pleasantry, his troubled look remained.
Abigail ate steadily, not pausing to talk, only now and then glancing at her companion. After awhile Master Ronald rose, and strode up and down with savage impatience. “Alack!” he said, “I seem to be losing my wits.”
Abigail, having finished, commenced putting the remaining cookies in her pocket.
“Why do you do that?” asked Master Ronald.
“I want summat to eat on my way home,” answered Abigail, resolutely, crowding in the last cooky.
The young man laughed, but his laughter ended abruptly in a sigh of pain.
Abigail could not but admire the grand and easy way in which, with a wave of his hand, he bade the inn-keeper charge the breakfast to his account, as they left the coffee-house.
He led the way back to the sun-dial. They had been gone not more than twenty minutes. Frowning, Master Ronald turned his back toward the dial and leant against it. “We may as well stop here,” said he, “and wait for the minutes to speed.”
Abigail pushed away the vines to read the motto printed on the dial. “‘I marke the Time; saye, gossip, dost thou soe,’” she read unconsciously aloud.
“Time,” echoed Master Ronald, catching the word, “time.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What is more perverse than time? It takes all my philosophy to bear with it, and I oft wonder why ’twas e’er put in the world. ’Tis like a wind that blows first hot then cold. It must needs stand still when you most wish it to speed, and when you would fain have it stand still, it goes at a gallop.” He sighed profoundly and kicked a pebble with the toe of his shoe.
His expression was so miserable that Abigail’s ready tears flowed again in sympathy, so that she was obliged to pick up the hem of her petticoat and wipe them away. Her attention was suddenly attracted by noisy singing and much merriment. She dropped her petticoat. “Happen like there be a dancing-bear in town?” she asked eagerly.
“Nay,” answered Master Ronald, “’tis some of my fellows at the tavern, who have been suspended a day for riotous conduct.”
“Come, come,” cried he, taking her almost fiercely by the hand. There was a new ring in his voice, a sudden strong resolve shining in his face. He led her along the road in the direction from which the sounds proceeded, and paused at last in front of a tavern which had as a sign a head of lettuce painted in red. From this place came the singing.
Master Ronald, still holding her hand, swung the door open and stepped inside with her. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light she perceived some eight or ten young fellows with lank locks falling about their faces, seated around a large bowl of hasty pudding, into which bowl they dipped their spoons. Two or three who were perched on the table, however, had ceased eating, and were smoking long brier-wood pipes. They did not perceive Master Ronald and Abigail. Suddenly they all lifted high their mugs of sack and broke into song.
“Enough, enough, sirs!” Master Ronald cried sharply; “down with your mugs! Are ye to drink and be merry when murder—murder, I say—is being done in the name of the church and the law?”
The students turned in open-mouthed amazement, several still holding their mugs suspended in the air. At first they were evidently disposed to be merry as people accustomed to all manner of jesting, but the pallor and rigid lines of the young man’s face checked any such demonstration, as well as the unusual appearance of a little maid in their midst.
Then one tall and powerful fellow rose. “Murder,” he said slowly, shaking back his hair, “murder—under sanction of the church and law. How comes that?”
Master Ronald made a gesture commanding silence, for the others had risen, and a confused hubbub of questions was rising. Then he pointed to Abigail, who was near to sinking to the floor with mortification, as all eyes were turned upon her.
“This little maid,” he continued, when the room was again silent, “journeyed alone from Salem to Boston Town, to find and tell me that in Salem prison there is confined another maid condemned for witchery and under sentence of being hanged on the morrow.”
His words were interrupted by groans and hisses.
“A plague upon these witch-trials,” cried one of his hearers; “a man dare not glance askance at his neighbour, fearing lest he be strung up for sorcery. And now ’tis a maid. Lord love us! Are they not content with torturing old beldames?”
There came a flash into the eyes of the stalwart youth who had first spoken. “’Tis not so long a journey to Salem Town but we might make it in a night.”
An answering flash lit the eyes of his fellows as they nodded and laughed at the thought which, half-expressed, showed in the faces of all. But they grew quiet as Master Ronald began speaking once more.
“’Tis a matter of life and death. The imprisoned maid is near the age of this little maid, as innocent, as free from guile—.” He broke down and dropped into a chair, folded his arms on the table, and buried his face in them while his shoulders shook with repressed grief.
The rest, troubled and embarrassed by his emotion, drew together in a little group and talked in low tones.
“Perchance ’tis a relation, a sister,” commented one young man, “a maid, he said, like yonder little lass;” and the speaker indicated Abigail, who had edged over to the door and stood, with burning face, nervously fingering her linsey-woolsey petticoat.
“I have no patience with these, our godly parsons,” cried another student, who wore heavily bowed spectacles. “I have here a composition, which with great pains I have set down, showing how weak are the proofs brought against those accused of witchery.” He took off and breathed on his spectacles and wiped them on his kerchief. Then, having replaced them on his nose, he drew a written paper out of his pocket and unfolding it began to read aloud.
But he was interrupted impatiently by the rest. “’Tis no time for words but action, Master Hutchinson,” they cried, giving him the prefix to his name, for these young Cambridge men called each other “Master” and “Sir” with marked punctiliousness.
“It behooves me ’twere well to inquire into the merits of this case, but I am loath to disturb him,” said one bright-eyed young man, whom his fellows called Philander, glancing at Master Ronald’s bowed head. “Ah, I have it!” he cried, clapping the man nearest him on the shoulder: “we’ll not disturb his moping-fit but let him have it out. Meanwhile we’ll make inquiry of this little maid.”
As he drew near Abigail, she, startled, flew to Master Ronald’s side and shook him. “Oh, sir,” she cried, “wake up! They are going to speer me.”
At this the gravity of the young men relaxed into laughter so hearty that even Master Ronald, looking up, comprehended the situation and smiled faintly.
“They are less amusing and more dangerous than dancing-bears, eh, Mistress Abigail?” he asked, rising to his feet.
Abigail did not commit herself by replying. “Let us haste away, sir,” she said; “bethink yourself how Deliverance waits, and you will pardon my rudeness, but, sir, it be no time now for a moping-fit.”
“Bravo!” cried Master Philander, “there is the woman of it. You prefer to do your duty first and have your weep afterwards.”
“I will take you to see the Governor in a moment, Mistress Abigail,” said Master Ronald; “we will be there prompt on the moment. There is that whereof I would speak to my friends who are bound to any cause of mine, as I to theirs, in all loyalty, when that cause be just.”
At this the students interrupted him by shouts, but he raised his hand to silence them. “Hear me to the end without interruption, as the time waxes short. In Salem, my fair young sister, scarce more than a child in years, languishes in jail, for having, it is asserted, practised the evil art of witchery. On the morrow she will be hanged, unless, by the grace of God, the Governor may be prevailed upon to interfere. If he refuses justice and mercy, then have we the right to take the law into our own hands, not as trespassers of the law, but rather as defenders of law and justice. As men sworn to stand by each other, how many of you will go with me to Salem Town this night and save the life of one as innocent and brave, as free from evil, as this maid who stands before you now?”
There was no shouting this time, but silently each young man moved over and shook hands with the speaker in pledge of his loyalty and consent.
“And now,” added Master Ronald, “I will go to the Governor’s house, that you may have your say with him, Mistress Abigail.”
“We will escort you there,” said the stalwart young fellow Abigail had first noticed. Before she could protest, to her indignation he had seized her and swung her up on his broad shoulder, passed her arm around his neck, and rested her feet on his broad palm.
“Now I have placed you above learning, little mistress,” he cried gayly; “duck your head as we go through the door.”
Abigail clasped his neck tightly, and lifted up her heart in prayer. Intense was her mortification to observe how the people turned and looked after them. She grew faint at the thought of her father’s awful, pious eye beholding her.
“They may be much for learning,” she murmured, glancing over the heads of the students, “but, beshrew me, they be like a pack o’ noisy boys. Oh, Deliverance, Deliverance, how little ye kenned this torment!”