CHAPTER XIV.
"There has been too much cause to observe that the Christians that were driven into the American desert which is now called New England, have, to their sorrow, seen Azahel dwelling and raging there in very tragical instances."
COTTON MATHER.
The delusion that passed through our country in 1692 has left a darkchapter in the history of New England. But it was not alone in NewEngland that this fearful delusion influenced the minds and actions ofmen. It was believed all over Europe, in the seventeenth century, thatevil spirits mingled in the concerns of mortals, and that compacts weremade with them, and sealed with the blood of many of the most eminentpersons of the age.
The desire to penetrate the mysteries of the spiritual natures that webelieve every where to surround us, has taken different forms indifferent states of society. In New England, it seems to have begun inthe wicked fancies of some nervous or really diseased children, who werepermitted, at last, to accuse and persecute persons who were remarkablefor goodness or intellect, and especially females who were distinguishedfor any excellence of mind or person.
An historian of the time says, "In the present world, it is no wonderthat the operations of evil angels are more sensible than that of thegood; nevertheless 'tis very certain that the good angels fly about inour infected atmosphere to minister to the good of those who are to bethe heirs of salvation. Children and ignorant persons first complainedof being tormented and affected in divers manners. They then accusedsome persons eminent for their virtues and standing in society."
We have seen that Edith was disposed to think lightly of the subject atfirst, although she rejoiced that the old woman of the cliff had escapedsuspicion by a timely death. But when she found that some of her ownneighbors had been suspected, and that one old woman, in anothervillage, for denying all knowledge of evil spirits, had been executed,she was filled with consternation; and when others, to save themselvesfrom the same dreadful fate, increased the delusion of the times byconfessing a compact with the evil one, her pity was mingled withindignation. With so much clearness of intellect, and simplicity ofheart, she could not persuade herself that it was any thing but wilfulblindness, and a wicked lie.
But Edith began soon to feel much anxiety for her faithful Dinah.Persons in any way distinguished for any peculiarity were most likely tobe accused, and she had secretly made arrangements to send her away, andconceal her, should the smallest indication of suspicion fall upon her.For herself Edith had no fears. It would have been hard to make thispure and simple-minded creature believe that she had an enemy in theworld. She had not read the French maxim, that there may be such aweight of obligation that we can only be released from it byingratitude.
Dinah had remarked, for several days, in the little Phoebe most strangeand unnatural contortions, and writhings of the body, startings andtremblings, turning up her eyes and distorting her mouth; and also thatshe took little food, and often was absent from home; but, with herusual tenderness, and fear of giving anxiety to Edith, she had forborneto mention it.
Indeed, the child had always been wayward and strange, and especiallyindocile to Edith's instructions, although she seemed at times to have astrong affection for her. She was fond of long rambles in the woods, andof basking in the sun alone on the beach, and retained all her love forthose vagrant habits she had learned from her grandmother. Edith had toomuch tenderness and indulgence to restrain what appeared a harmless andperhaps healthful propensity.
She had tried, however, to civilize the poor, neglected child, and hadtaught her to say her prayers every night, kneeling at her side.
It was a cold, chilly evening in our tardy spring: the little family haddrawn around the cheerful evening fire, and the evening meal was justfinished: Edith felt happy, for she had been reading a cheerful letterfrom Seymore. The shutters were closed, and she had indulged the littlePhoebe, as she often did at this hour, with a noisy game. Edith wasalready tired: she looked at the clock: it was the bed hour for thechild.
"Come, my child, be serious for a moment, and say your evening prayer."Phoebe kneeled: the prayer was short, but whenever she came to the wordGod, or Savior, she cried out that she could not say it.
Edith concealed her fears, and said, very quietly, "I will say it foryou; and now, my child, go peaceably to bed, and pray to God to keep youfrom telling falsehoods." Phoebe was awed by her calm, decided manner,and, without further disturbance, went quietly to bed.
Full of anxiety, and even terror, Edith sought her humble friend, toldher the circumstance, and besought her to fly and conceal herself. Shehad provided the means for flight and concealment, and entreated her touse them before it was too late.
"I do not fear for myself, my dear mistress," said Dinah. "If the childhas such design, she has already formed her plan and already accused us;and she will not be content with accusing me; you are not safe. You donot know her hard and stubborn temper. She is like the young hawk in thenest of the dove."
Seeing Edith was dreadfully alarmed, Dinah added, "Do not fear; we arein _his_ hand who feeds the young ravens, and numbers the hairs of ourheads."
Edith began to be a little more composed, when a loud knocking washeard at the door. Two men entered, well known to Edith; the officialsin all occasions of this nature. One was the deacon of the church, aheated fanatic, full of religious bigotry, whose head was too weak togovern the passionate and blind motions of his heart. While he had beenunder the restraint of Mr. Grafton's calm, enlightened reason, he hadbeen only a zealous and useful officer of the church; but now, that heconsidered his own light as no longer hidden under a bushel, his zealburned out with more violence, and he lent himself to all the wildfanaticism of the time. The other was an old man, an elder in thechurch; with much tenderness of heart; but he was timid, and reliedlittle on his own judgment, which was so little enlightened that heeasily yielded to what he afterwards, when the delusion passed away,bewailed with bitter tears.
Edith was perfectly acquainted with the characters of both. When she sawthem enter, she turned deadly pale; but she pointed courteously to aseat, and placed herself instinctively between them and Dinah, to shieldher, for she knew too well that there was no escape for her humblefriend if once in their power. She felt, therefore, a sensible reliefwhen she found that she was herself the object of their visit.
Edith had had time to recover a little from her first consternation,and, with much self-possession, she asked who were her accusers, anddemanded the right of being confronted with them.
The men informed her that she would be taken in the morning to themeeting-house for examination, and then it would be time enough to knowher accusers: in the mean time they should leave a guard in the house,to prevent all attempts to escape.
Escape! ah, there was none for her. But Edith answered that she wishednot to escape; that she should demand an examination. Alas! she knew notyet the spirit of the times. She was deluded by her own consciousness ofinnocence, and she thought fanaticism itself could not attach asuspicion to harmlessness like hers.
Not so Dinah. She was seized with a terror and grief that, for onemoment, shook her faith in God, and took away all self-possession. Sheknew that innocence, youth, piety, beauty, had been of no avail againstthe demoniac fury of the accusers. She besought, on her knees, and withfloods of tears, her dear child--as, in her agitation, she calledher--to avail herself of flight. She convinced Edith that they couldeasily elude the vigilance of their guard; that they could escape bywater. Paul was an excellent boatman, the sea smooth as a mirror, themoon nearly full; they could reach Boston without suspicion. Or shewould hide her in the woods: she herself knew a place where she couldbring her food and clothing, and form a shelter for her, and keep hersafe till all suspicion had ceased.
It would have been better for Edith had she yielded; but her own clearreason, free from the mists of fanaticism, deluded her into thepersuasion that, as nothing could appear against her, it would confirmthe suspicions against her if s
he were to avoid by flight a full andopen examination.
Before they retired for the night, they kneeled down to pray. Dinahcould not subdue her sobs; but Edith's voice was calm and firm as sheasked the protection of the Father of the fatherless, and committed herpoor friend to him who is no respector of persons.
Dinah entreated her mistress to allow her to sit by her all night andwatch, while she tried to sleep. This Edith refused: she wished to bealone. She had much to do to prepare herself for to-morrow, and shejustly feared that Dinah's distress would soften her heart, and shakeher firmness too much.
As they passed through the chamber, Dinah bearing the candle, the littlePhoebe, restless in her sleep, had nearly thrown herself out of bed.Edith stopped, and, bending over, replaced the bedclothes, and saidsoftly to Dinah, "If to-morrow should be fatal, if I should not live tokeep my promise to the old woman, I can trust her to you: you will be toher, as you have been to me, a mother; O, more than a mother?"
She stopped; her voice choked. She removed the thick hair from the browof the sleeping child, but even in sleep her face wore the frown that sooften marred its beauty. "Dinah," she said, "she is yours; you will loveher as you have me."
"That I can never promise; but I will do my duty," said Dinah.
Edith pressed her lips--thirsting as they ever did for a return oflove--on the fair brow, and then, taking the candle from Dinah, enteredher own room. Her heart was oppressed with apprehension, and she wouldnot trust herself to say good night to her faithful servants.