Читать книгу Ye Lyttle Salem Maide - Pauline Bradford Mackie - Страница 4

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Although it was an evening in early June, the salt breeze blowing damp and cold from off the sea made Master Wentworth’s kitchen, with its cheerful fire, an agreeable place for the goodwives of the village to gather with their knitting after supper.

Goodwife Higgins, seated at her spinning-wheel, made but brief replies to the comments of her guests upon the forward behaviour of her foster-child Deliverance. Yet her glance was ever cast anxiously toward the door, swung half-open lest the room should become too warm.

“I trow the naughty baggage deserved correction to put to such ungodly use the fair silk ye gave her,” remarked one portly dame. “Goody Dennison says as it was your standing-up gown ye brought from England to be wed in.”

“Ay,” said Goodwife Higgins, grimly. Her face lighted as she spoke, for the door was flung wide and the little maid of whom they spoke entered, breathless with running.

“It be time ye were in,” frowned Goodwife Higgins, a note of relief in her sharp tone. “I gan to think a witch had catched ye.”

“Come, come, child, stand out and let us see those fine feathers which have filled your foolish pate with vanity,” cried Goody Dennison.

Deliverance sighed profoundly. “I do repent deeply that iniquity and vanity should have filled my carnal heart because o’ this fair gown o’ silk. Ye can feel for yourself and ye like, Goody Dennison, there be no thread o’ cotton in it.”

As she spoke she glanced out of the corners of her downcast eyes at a little, rosy, freckled girl, who sat at her mother’s side, knitting, but who did not look up, keeping her sleek brown head bent resolutely over the half-finished stocking.

“Have ye had aught to eat, child?” asked Goodwife Higgins.

Deliverance shook her head.

“And ye would go off with but a sup o’ milk for breakfast,” scolded the goodwife, as she rose and stirred the porridge she had saved. “Sit ye down by Abigail, and I will bring ye summat nourishing.”

Now, Deliverance had stood long in the hot sun with naught to eat, and this and her long walk so weighed upon her that suddenly she grew pale and sank to the floor.

“Dear Goody,” she murmured faintly, “the Lord has struck my carnal heart with the bolt o’ His righteous anger, for I wax ill.”

That the welfare, if not the pleasure, of their children lay very close to the hearts of the Puritans, was shown by the manner in which the goodwives, who had greeted Deliverance with all due severity, dropped their knitting and gathered hastily around her.

“It be too long a sentence for a growing child, and it behooves us who are mothers to tell our godly magistrate so,” grumbled one hard-featured dame.

“Dear child,” murmured a rosy-cheeked young wife, who had put her baby down to assist Deliverance, “here be a sugar-plum I brought ye. We must have remembrance, gossips,” she added, “that her mother has long been dead, though Goodwife Higgins cares for her and that be well, Master Wentworth being a dreamer. Ye ken, gossips, I say it with no malice, the house might go to rack and ruin, for aught he would care, with his nose ever in the still-room.”

“Best put the child in the chimney-corner where it be warm,” suggested Goody Dennison; “beshrew me, gossips, the damp o’ these raw spring nights chills the marrow in your bones more than the frosts o’ winter.”

So Deliverance was seated on a stool next to Abigail Brewster, with Goodwife Higgins’ apron tied around her neck, a pewter bowl of steaming hasty-pudding in her lap, a mug of milk conveniently near.

The goodwives, their attention taken from the little maid, turned their conversation upon witchcraft, and as they talked, sturdy voices shook and florid faces blanched at every gust of wind in the chimney.

“Abigail,” whispered Deliverance, “did ye e’er clap eyes on Goody Jones sith she became a witch?”

“Never,” answered Abigail. “Father telled me to run lest she give me the malignant touch. Oh dear, I have counted my stitches wrong.”

The humming of Goodwife Higgins’ spinning-wheel made a musical accompaniment to all that was said. And the firelight dancing over the spinner’s ruddy face and buxom figure made of her a pleasant picture as she guided the thread, her busy foot on the treadle.

Ah, what tales were told around the fireplace of the New England kitchen where centred all homely cheer and comfort, and the gossips’ tongues wagged fast as the glancing knitting-needles flashed! High in the yawning chimney, from ledge to ledge, stretched the great lugpole, made from green wood that it might not catch fire. From it swung on hooks the pots and kettles used in cooking. Bright andirons reflected the dancing flames and on either side were the settles. From the heavy rafters were festooned strings of dried fruit, small yellow and green squashes, scarlet peppers. Sand was scattered over the floor. Darkness, banished by the firelight, lurked in the far corners of the room.

Abigail and Deliverance, to all outward appearance absorbed in each other’s society, were none the less listening with ears wide open to whatever was said. Near them sat young wife Tucker that her baby might share the warmth of the fire. It lay on her lap, its little red hands curled up, the lashes of its closed eyes sweeping its cheeks. A typical Puritan baby was this, duly baptized and given to God. A wadded hood of gray silk was worn closely on its head, its gown, short-sleeved and low-necked, was of coarse linen bleached in the sun and smelling sweetly of lavender. The young wife tilted it gently on her knees, crooning psalms if it appeared to be waking, the while her ever busy hands were knitting above it. Once she paused to touch the round cheek fondly with her finger.

“Ye were most fortunate, Dame Tucker,” said one of the gossips, observing the tender motion, “to get him back again.”

“Ay,” answered the young wife, “the Lord was merciful to the goodman and myself. Ne’er shall I cease to have remembrance o’ that wicked morn. I waked early and saw a woman standing by the cradle. ‘In God’s name, what come you for?’ I cried, and thereat she vanished. I rose; O woeful sight these eyes beheld! The witches had taken away my babe and put in its stead a changeling.” The young wife shuddered, and dropped her knitting to clasp her baby to her breast. “Long had I been feared o’ such an evil and ne’er oped my eyes at morn save with fear lest the dread come true. Ye ken, gossips, a witch likes best a first bairn. There the changeling lay in my baby’s crib, a puny, fretful, crying wean, purple o’ lips and white o’ cheeks. Quick the goodman went out and got me five eggs from the black hen, and we burnt the shells and fried the yolks, and with a jar o’ honey (for a witch has a sweet tooth) put the relishes where she might find them and be pacified. She took them not. All that day and the next I wept sorely. Yet with rich milk I fed the fretting wean, feeling pity for it in my heart though it was against me to hush it to sleep in my arms. The night o’ the second day the goodman slept heavily, for he was sore o’ heart an’ weary. But the changeling would not hush its wailing, so I rose and rocked it until worn out by much grief I fell asleep, my head resting on the hood o’ the crib. When I oped my eyes in the darkness the crying was like that o’ my own babe. I hushed my breath to listen.

“Quick I got a tallow dip and lighted it for to see what was in the crib. I fell on my knees and prayed. The witches had brought back my bairn, and taken their fretting wean away.”

“How looked it?” asked Deliverance, eagerly. She never wearied hearing of the changeling, and her interest was as fresh at the third telling of the story as at the first. And, although under most circumstances she would have been chidden for speaking out before her elders, she escaped this time, so interested were the goodwives in the tale.

“Full peaked and wan it looked,” answered the young wife, solemnly, “and blue it was from hunger and cold, for no witches’ food will nourish a baptized child.”

“I should have liked to see where the witches took it, shouldn’t ye?” whispered Abigail to Deliverance.

“Abigail,” said Deliverance, in a cautious whisper, although the humming of the spinning-wheel almost drowned her voice, “if ye will be pleasant-mouthed and not run tittle-tattling upon me again, perchance I will tell ye summat, only it would make your eyes pop out o’ your head. Ye be that simple-minded, Abigail! And I might show ye summat too, only I misdoubt ye have a carnal heart which longs too much on things that glitter. Here, ye can bite off the end o’ my sugar-plum. Now, whisper no word o’ what I tell ye,” putting her mouth to the other’s ear, “I be on a service for his majesty, King George.”

A door leading from an inner room into the kitchen opened and a man came out. He was tall and hollow-chested and stooped slightly. His flaxen wig, parted in the centre, fell to his shoulders on either side of his hatchet-shaped face. He had mild blue eyes. His presence diffused faint odours of herbs and dried flowers and fragrance of scented oils. This sweet atmosphere, surrounding him wherever he went, heralded his presence often before he appeared.

“Has Deliverance returned, Goodwife Higgins?” he asked. “I need her to find me the yarrow.”

“And do ye think I would not have the child housed at this hour o’ night?” queried the goodwife, sharply; “your father needs ye, Deliverance. Ye ken, gossips,” she added in a softened voice, as Master Wentworth retired, “that the poor man has no notion o’ what be practicable. It be fair exasperating to a decent, well-providing body to care for him.”

Deliverance hastily set the porridge bowl on the hearth, and followed her father into the still-room.

Next to the kitchen the still-room was the most important one in the house. Here were kept all preserves and liquors, candied fruits and spices. From the rafters swung bunches of dried herbs, the gathering and arrangement of which was Deliverance’s especial duty. From early spring until Indian summer did she work to make these precious stores. With the melting of the snows, when the Indian women boiled the sweet waters of the maple, she went forth to hunt for winter-green. Together she and her father gathered slippery-elm and sassafras bark. Then, green, fragrant, wholesome, appeared the mints. Also there were mysterious herbs which grew in graveyards and must be culled only at midnight. And there was the blessed thistle, which no good child ever plucked before she sang the verse:—

“Hail, to thee, holy herb,

Growing in the ground,

On the Mount of Calvarie,

First wert thou found.

Thou art good for many a grief

And healest many a wound,

In the name of Sweet Jesu,

I lift thee from the ground.”

And there were saffron, witch-hazel, rue, shepherd’s-purse, and bloody-dock, not to mention the yearly store of catnip put away for her kitten.

Master Wentworth swung her up on his shoulder so she could reach the rafters.

“The yarrow be tied fifth bunch on the further beam, father,” she said; “there, ye have stopped right under it.”

Her small fingers quickly untied the string and the great bunch of yarrow was in her arms as her father set her down. He handed her a mortar bowl and pestle.

“Seat yourself, Deliverance,” he said, “and pound this into a paste for me.”

Vigorously Deliverance pounded, anxious to return to Abigail.

The room was damp and chilly. No heat came in from the kitchen for the door was closed, but the little Puritan maiden was inured to the cold and minded it not. The soft light that filled the room was given by three dipped candles made from the fragrant bayberry wax. This wax was of a pale green, almost transparent colour, and gave forth a pleasant fragrance when snuffed. An hour-glass was placed behind one of the candles that the light might pass through the running sands and enable one to read the time at a glance. At his table as he worked, her father’s shadow was flung grotesquely on the wall, now high, now low. Into the serene silence the sound of Deliverance’s pounding broke with muffled regularity.

“I am telled, Master Wentworth,” said a harsh voice, “that your dear and only daughter, Deliverance, be given o’er to vanity. Methinks, the magistrate awarded her too light a sentence for her idle flauntings. As I did chance to meet him at the tavern, at the nooning-hour, I took it upon myself to tell him, humbly, however, and in no spirit of criticism, that too great a leniency accomplishes much evil.”

Deliverance fairly jumped, so startled was she by the unexpected voice. Now for the first time she perceived a gentleman, in a sable cape, his booted legs crossed, and his arms folded on his breast, as he sat in the further corner of the room. One side of his face was hidden from view by the illuminated hour-glass, but the light of the concealed candle cast so soft and brilliant a glow over his figure that she was amazed at not having seen him before. His red beard rested on the white ruff around his neck. She could see but the tip of his long nose beneath his steeple-crowned hat. Yet she felt the gaze of those shadowed eyes fixed upon her piercingly. None other than Sir Jonathan Jamieson was he, of whom the stranger in the forest had made inquiry.

As she remembered the words she was commissioned to say to this man, her heart throbbed fast with fear. She ceased pounding. Silently she prayed for courage to keep her promise and to serve her King.

At Sir Jonathan’s words, Master Wentworth glanced up with a vague smile, having barely caught the drift of them.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “women are prone to care for fol-de-rols. Still, I have seen fine dandies in our sex. I am minded of my little girl’s dear mother, who never could abide this bleak country and our sad Puritan ways, sickening for longing of green old England.” He sighed. “Yet,” he added hastily, “I criticise not our godly magistrate’s desire to crush out folly.” He turned and peered into the mortar bowl. “You are slow at getting that smooth, daughter.”

Deliverance commenced pounding again hurriedly. Although she looked straight into the bowl she could see plainly that stern figure in the further corner, the yellow candle-light touching brilliantly the red beard and white ruff. She trembled and doubted her courage to give him the message.

“Take care lest you harbour a witch in yonder girl.”

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But there was staunch stuff in this little Puritan maid, and as her father’s guest rose to depart and was about to pass her on his way to the door, she looked up.

“Good sir,” she whispered, “the King sends for his black powder.”

Thereat Sir Jonathan jumped, and his jaw fell as if he had been dealt an unexpected blow. He looked down at her as if he beheld a much more terrible sight than a little maid, whose knees knocked together with trembling so that the mortar bowl danced in her lap, and whose frightened blue eyes never left his face in their fascinated stare of horror at her own daring. A moment he stared back at her, then muttering, he hurried out into the kitchen and slammed the door behind him.

“Gossips,” he cried harshly, “take care lest you harbour a witch in yonder girl.”

With that, wrapping his cape of sable velvet around him, and with a swing of his black stick, he flung wide the kitchen door, and passed out into the night.

“Father,” asked Deliverance, timidly, “how haps it that Sir Jonathan comes this way?”

Master Wentworth answered absent-mindedly, “What, daughter, you are concerned about Sir Jonathan. Yes, yes, run and get him a mug of sweet sack and you like. Never let it be said I sent from my door rich or poor, without offering him cheer.”

“Nay, father,” she protested, “I but asked—”

“Let me see,” murmured Master Wentworth; “to eight ounces of orris root, add powdered cuttle-bone of like quantity, a gill of orange-flower water. What said you, child,” interrupting himself, “a mug of sack for Sir Jonathan. Run quickly and offer it to him lest he be gone.”

Reluctantly, Deliverance opened the door and stepped out into the kitchen. Sir Jonathan had been gone several moments. She was astonished to see the goodwives had risen and were huddled together in a scared group with blanched faces, all save Goodwife Higgins, who stood alone at her spinning-wheel. The eyes of all were directed toward the still-room. The baby, clutched tightly to its fearful young mother’s breast, wailed piteously.

Deliverance, abashed although she knew not why, paused when half-way across the room.

“Look ye, gossips,” cried one, “look at the glint o’ her een.”

To these Puritan dames the extreme beauty which the solitary childish figure acquired in the firelight was diabolical. The reflection of the dancing flames made a radiant nimbus of her fair, disordered hair, and brought out the yellow sheen in the silken gown. Her lips were scarlet, her cheeks glowed, while her soft eyes, wondrously blue and clear, glanced round the circle of faces. Before that innocent and astonished gaze, first one person and then another of the group cowered and shrank, muttering a prayer.

Through the door, swung open by the wind, swept a terrible gust, and with it passed in something soft, black, fluttering, which circled three times around the room, each time drawing nearer to Deliverance, until at last it dropped and fastened itself to her hair.

Shrieking, the women broke from each other, and ran from the room, all save Goodwife Higgins, who clapped her apron over her head, and fell to uttering loud groans.

Master Wentworth came out from the still-room, a bunch of yarrow under one arm, and holding the mortar bowl.

“What ungodly racket is this?” he asked. “Is a man to find no peace in his own house?”

Upon hearing his voice, Goodwife Higgins’ fright somewhat abated. She drew down her apron, and pointed speechlessly to Deliverance who was rigid with terror.

“Lord bless us!” cried the goodman. “Have you no wits at all, woman?” He laid the bowl on the table, unconsciously letting the herbs slip to the floor, and hastened to Deliverance’s assistance.

“You have catched a bird, daughter, but no singing-bird, only a loathsome bat. Why, Deliverance, weep not. My little Deliverance, there is naught to be frightened at. ’Tis a very pitiful thing,” he continued, lapsing into his musing tone, while his long fingers drew the fair hair from the bat’s claws with much deftness, “how some poor, pitiful creatures be made with nothing for to win them grace and kind looks, only a hideous body, so that silly women scatter like as a viper had come amongst them; and yet, even the vipers and toads have jewelled eyes, did one but look for them.”

He crossed the room, and put the bat outside, then bolted the door for the night.

“I am minded of your dear mother, daughter,” he said, a tender smile on his face; “she was just so silly about some poor, pitiful creature which had no fine looks for to win it smiles. But she was ay bonny to the poor, Deliverance, and has weeped o’er many a soul in distress.”