m 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 DOROTHY THE PURITAN.
 
 DOROTHY THE PURITAN 
 
 Ube Stors ot a Strange 
 Delusion 
 
 BY 
 
 AUGUSTA CAMPBELL WATSON 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE OLD HARBOR TOWN" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 
 
 31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 
 1893
 
 Copyright, 
 
 E. P. BUTTON & Co. 
 1893. 
 
 Press of J. J Little & Co. 
 Astor Place, New York
 
 ps 
 
 35^5 
 W33U 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. DOROTHY i 
 
 II. THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN' 24 
 
 III. SIR GRENVILLE LAVVSON 41 
 
 IV. DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION 63 
 
 V. THE FLIGHT 88 
 
 VI. THE WINTER IN THE FOREST 106 
 
 VII. ELIZABETH HUBBARD 123 
 
 VIII. THE WANDERER'S RETURN 139 
 
 IX. THE WITCHES 154 
 
 X. THE RENEWAL OF LOVE 172 
 
 XI. DOROTHY'S CONTRITION 189 
 
 XII. THE MARRIAGE 209 
 
 XIII. THE PASSING FOOTSTEPS 226 
 
 XIV. THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS 242 
 
 XV. THE WARNING IN THE MARKET-PLACE 260 
 
 XVI. THE SCENE AT THE JUDGE'S HOUSE 277 
 
 XVII. IN PRISON 294 
 
 XVIII. THE TRIAL .. 307 
 
 XIX. ON GALLOWS HILL 319 
 
 XX. " IN A FAR COUNTRY." 334 
 
 3 
 
 1592767
 
 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DOROTHY. 
 
 WlLD, gloomy forests through whose interlacing 
 boughs the sunshine scarcely penetrated, and whose 
 weird recesses seldom echoed to the footsteps of the 
 white man, stretched for many miles beyond the 
 little town, or rather hamlet, of Salem. This forest 
 was admirable, as it displayed the grand proportions 
 of uncultivated nature. To the homesick, pining 
 emigrants, however, seeking an asylum in an un 
 known country, its mysterious, unexplored depths 
 were tremendous obstacles to be overcome. These 
 early pioneers, whose destiny it was to settle here, 
 were indeed courageous souls. 
 
 It was an age of superstition. What more natural 
 than that the Puritans should have peopled these 
 unknown wilds with demons, witches, and strange
 
 2 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 beings, whose baleful influence, issuing from these 
 dark retreats, spread destroying hands upon helpless 
 humanity? 
 
 Of the Salem of those days few vestiges remain ; 
 two hundred years have obliterated many of the old 
 landmarks. Our imagination must therefore come 
 to our aid in picturing the little puritanical town and 
 its sober citizens, with their superstitions and their 
 straight-laced doctrines. 
 
 It is May-day in the year 1691 ; a brilliant flood 
 of sunshine rests upon the grassy village street in 
 long, warm, golden bars of light. A soft breeze, 
 laden with the odor of salt, blows from the sea ; the 
 blossoms upon the fruit-trees are expanding into 
 pink masses of color, and all the air is filled with the 
 kindly warmth of spring. 
 
 Before a low wooden house, built on a narrow lane 
 that leads from the principal thoroughfare, a young 
 girl is swinging on a wooden gate. As she swings 
 back and forth she sings in soft, cooing tones, the 
 notes rising clear and true. The gate creaks on 
 its hinges as she propels it violently backward and 
 forward, sending forth a discordant protest against 
 such ill-usage. 
 
 The unpainted, weather-beaten house, standing
 
 DOROTHY. 3 
 
 back some distance from the road, was two stories 
 in height, having four windows in both upper and 
 lower stories ; the door, however, instead of being 
 between the windows on the lower floor, was for 
 some unaccountable reason at the end of the house, 
 and had above it a small, roughly constructed porch. 
 
 In the front yard bloomed in straggling disorder 
 many vines and shrubs, which later in the season 
 would blossom into flowering beans, southernwood, 
 lad's-love and fennel, sweet-brier, ferns, and bay- 
 berries. Back of the house lay the farm, its farthest 
 fields terminating in a sandy beach on the shores of 
 the harbor. 
 
 On the north side of the house grew a gigantic 
 oak, its great branches resting upon the sloping roof, 
 protecting the lowly, simple home from the scorching 
 suns and beating storms : no doubt this king of the 
 forest had been left standing when its companions 
 fell by its side to build the farmhouse beneath it. 
 On the south side a stately poplar reared its haughty 
 head ; straight, unbending, giving no shade, fit em 
 blem of the austere character of the inhabitants of 
 the little town. 
 
 This May-day was a glorious day ; to be alive 
 was happiness ; the knowlege of having within one's
 
 4 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 self the capacity of enjoying God's great gifts made 
 life indeed a blessing. The girl, swinging lazily 
 back and forth upon the gate, raised her voice higher, 
 and sent forth little trills of delight that soared 
 upward till the birds flying above her head paused 
 upon the wing, listened, and responded as to a lov 
 ing mate. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped abruptty in her singing and 
 turned her head. Around the corner of the house 
 a woman came hurriedly. She was large and stout, 
 with a florid complexion, and her eyes were dark, 
 small, and bright. Her gray hair was drawn tightly 
 back from her forehea :\. She wore a sober-colored 
 gown of coarse cotton ; also a cap, whose frill flapped 
 about her face. Over the gown she wore a bodice 
 of dull-blue holland, and a white neckcloth was 
 pinned across her breast. Her sleeves were rolled 
 up, and her firm, well-rounded arms were covered 
 with some cooking ingredients. 
 
 As she approached the girl, she cried loudly and 
 angrily, " Dorothy Grey, thou lazy, shiftless hussy, 
 what doest thou, wasting thy time in song and riot ? j 
 Out upon thee! I'll give thee a piece of my mind! 
 Get thee to the well for the water." As she spoke 
 she surveyed the girl contemptuously, resting her
 
 DOROTHY. 5 
 
 hands upon her hips and throwing her head back 
 with an impatient motion. 
 
 " Aunt Martha, I'm truly sorry thou hadst to 
 wait, yet thou knowest I sang but a little song ; it 
 was scarce louder than the robins sing. I caused 
 no riot ; none heard me save the little bird who did 
 respond for very doubt but what his mate did call 
 him." 
 
 Dorothy laughed ; and when she laughed one 
 became conscious of the wondrous beauty of her face. 
 This beauty consisted partly in the freshness of 
 extreme youth, her presence affecting one as does 
 the early dawn of a morning in spring, or the pink 
 bud of an unopened rose, the dew still upon its 
 leaves, its sweet incense yet undiffused. Her eyes 
 were of a translucent blue, innocent in expression, 
 the pupils large and dark. Her hair was a light 
 brown, gold when the sun touched it, bringing a 
 shimmering luster to its waving confusion. Her 
 complexion, bronzed by the sea air, was in strange 
 contrast to the clear blue of her eyes, yet it but lent 
 an added charm to the winsomeness of her face. 
 Her figure, though slight and girlish, yet gave 
 evidence of strength and endurance. She stepped 
 down from the wooden gate, and stood irresolutely
 
 6 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 swinging her foot to and fro upon the rough garden 
 path. 
 
 Aunt Martha glared angrily at the smiling girl, 
 and yet her manner was partly indulgent. " I want 
 to know if thou art going to bring that pail of water 
 from the well or no," she said. " Seventeen years 
 old, and no more use than a yearling colt! Thine 
 uncle and I berate thee from morning till night ; it 
 is of no avail ; thou dost not care ; thou fliest in the 
 face of Providence." She paused an instant, then 
 continued more vehemently, " Dost not know thou 
 must give account of all thine idle moments? How 
 long will thine account be? Tell me that, Dorothy 
 Grey." 
 
 Dorothy kept her eyes downcast ; her face was 
 covered with a cloud of discontent, her full red lips 
 were pouting. Then she glanced up shamefacedly, 
 yet impatiently, at her aunt. " I care naught about 
 the account;" she muttered. " I add not up every 
 time I swing on the gate and sing." 
 
 " I shall argue no further with thee," interrupted 
 her aunt. " Get that water, and do not bespatter it ; 
 bring it to the kitchen door, and hasten thy lazy 
 steps." 
 
 Aunt Martha finished her remarks as she walked
 
 DOROTHY. 7 
 
 around the side of the house to the rear door, her 
 voice rising higher and shriller as she retreated. 
 
 Dorothy gazed a moment down the wide, strag 
 gling street, then went slowly over the grass-grown 
 path to the well, which lay at some little distance 
 from the house, under the shade of lilac bushes. 
 When she reached the well she threw her hat on 
 the grass, and commenced slowly raising the heavy 
 sweep, preparatory to dropping the pail into the 
 water. She made a lovely picture as she raised her 
 strong arms to propel the sweep, the exercise bring 
 ing a bright glow to her brown cheeks, the quaint 
 costume of the Puritan maiden lending an added 
 grace to her pensive beauty. 
 
 Suddenly, before the pail was half filled, she 
 dropped the pole and looked down into the well. 
 She could see herself reflected in its clear depths, 
 her image looking back at her like a picture out of 
 a dark frame. She leaned over the mossy curb, 
 and gazed long and earnestly, drawing her mouth 
 down solemnly, then smiling archly to catch the 
 different expressions. Once she turned her pretty 
 head on one side, and shook her finger reproachfully 
 at the image in the water. "Thou art an idler!" 
 she said. Then she placed a little bunch of dande-
 
 8 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 lions that grew in the grass near by in her hair, and 
 a spray of lilacs in her bodice, tossing her head as 
 she admired the effect. Then she laughed softly a 
 little cooing laugh. 
 
 Aunt Martha and her errand were forgotten. 
 This pleasant occupation was certainly more at 
 tractive than carrying heavy pails of water to the 
 kitchen. Dorothy became so preoccupied in the 
 admiring contemplation of herself that she did not 
 hear steps approaching. 
 
 " Dorothy," cried a voice, " what art thou doing? 
 Art not afraid of slipping into the well, child?" 
 
 The girl raised her head quickly, and her eyes 
 rested on the stern face of her Uncle David. She 
 tore the flowers from her hair and bodice and grasped 
 the well sweep vehemently. 
 
 David Holden was a stout, broad man, his figure 
 giving one the impression of great weight combined 
 with lightness of foot. He had an honest face, a 
 pair of keen eyes, and an aquiline nose. A head of 
 bushy gray hair, thick and rebellious, rose in rather 
 a formidable manner above a broad, intellectual 
 brow, while the lower part of his face was bearded 
 after the custom of those days. His dress consisted 
 of knee-breeches, belted doublet, hose of leather, and
 
 DOROTHY. 9 
 
 a high, stiff hat ; across his arm rested a long mantle 
 of dull-colored stuff that fell part way to the ground. 
 
 Dorothy turned toward him with an embarrassed 
 smile. " I was but looking at mine image in the 
 well. I must take a pail of water to the house, and 
 must hasten; Aunt Martha is most urgent." 
 
 The old man's eyes had a twinkle in them, as he 
 answered : " Hast never seen thine image before ? 
 Methinks thou hast. What does the good minister 
 tell thee on the Lord's Day?" His voice took on 
 a more solemn tone. " Thy time is not thine own ; 
 'tis but loaned. We are in probation ; waste not 
 the fleeting moments." 
 
 . " He says many things that I do not always 
 heed," she replied carelessly. " To speak the truth, 
 I sleep more often than I listen." As she spoke she 
 raised the sweep again ; the pail fell into the well, 
 emitting a gurgling sound as it rilled with water. 
 
 " Dorothy," screamed her aunt, " I want to know 
 if the well is empty, and thou goest a mile to the 
 creek for water? " 
 
 " I am coming," called Dorothy, as she raised her 
 eyes to see her aunt in the door of the kitchen, 
 'one foot raised, preparatory to descending the three 
 stone steps that led to the ground.
 
 10 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 Uncle David chuckled. " Thou hadst better make 
 haste, Dorothy ; she is wroth with thee." 
 
 Dorothy grasped the brimming pail, and stooping 
 to one side, her arm stretched out to balance herself, 
 she walked quickly toward the house. 
 
 Seven years after the landing on Plymouth Rock 
 the colony of Salem was formed, and Salem village 
 founded as its capital ; the name typifying the peace 
 which the brave and persecuted Puritans hoped to 
 win in the New World. 
 
 The first permanent settlement of the place was 
 made in 1628, John Endicott, the first governor, 
 coming to the bleak, inhospitable shores with the 
 immigrants. 
 
 In 1630 a body of colonists from England were 
 introduced to the new settlement by the succeeding 
 governor, John Winthrop. 
 
 Both Endicott and Winthrop held the welfare of 
 the new province very near their hearts, and they 
 laid many ambitious plans for its advancement. 
 Their policy was excellent in inducing intelligent 
 and worthy men to settle, bringing their energy and 
 high purpose to bear upon the future of the town. 
 
 Naturally, the principal occupation in those early 
 times was farming. By industry, patience, and
 
 DOROTHY. I I 
 
 thrift, the somber forests gradually gave place to 
 rich and profitable farms. The wild beasts and the 
 Indians were driven to seek remoter haunts, though 
 the latter were a constant menace for many years 
 to the early settlers, often entering the villages and 
 committing many deeds of violence. 
 
 These self-contained, undemonstrative Puritans 
 were possessed of a strong religious fervor, a fervor 
 that permeated their every- day lives ; their religion 
 was their law. Neither friend nor foe was able to 
 eradicate the clinging fibers of their creed, which, 
 like the roots of a great tree, spread throughout 
 their whole being. The Scriptures contained for 
 them all the requirements needed for the saving of 
 their souls. Their daily lives were to them exam 
 ples of a faith which demonstrated fully that this 
 short earthly span was but a probation in hardship 
 for a happier existence. So cold, so austere, so un 
 smiling was the weary routine they practiced. 
 
 They had left their homes in England to seek in 
 a new land both political and religious freedom, and 
 there was no room in the new settlement for those 
 who differed from themselves. Thus, unconsciously, 
 they gave what they had received, intolerance for 
 intolerance, narrowness for narrowness.
 
 12 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 Some sixteen years before the opening of this 
 story an emigrant ship sailed before a brisk wind 
 toward the shores of Salem harbor. On the deck, 
 eagerly scanning the fast approaching land, stood a 
 woman, holding a baby in her arms. By her side 
 stood a tall, muscular-looking man. These people 
 were David Holden, Martha his sister, and their 
 little niece Dorothy. Driven by persecution and 
 injustice from the mother-country, they were seek 
 ing an asylum in the New World. 
 
 A year before their pretty, blue-eyed sister had 
 died. Her husband, a rollicking trooper in the army 
 of " Merry Charles," had been killed in battle, so 
 Martha and David took their beautiful child to their 
 hearts. They made the subject of her adoption a 
 theme for lengthy and serious prayer, asking God 
 that He would teach them how to do their duty by 
 the little orphan, so that her feet might ever tread 
 the narrow path narrow, unfortunately, in more 
 ways than one. 
 
 When Dorothy entered the kitchen her aunt was 
 busy assisting a bond-servant to prepare the simple 
 midday meal. She did not look up or address her 
 niece. Dorothy placed the pail of water upon a low 
 bench near the door, then, going to the window, 
 commenced to drum upon the small diamond panes
 
 DOROTHY. 13 
 
 of the casement. She leaned lazily forward upon 
 the deep window-ledge and gazed dreamily out into 
 the sunshine. Just beyond the kitchen door, on the 
 bough of a lilac bush a little, fat yellow-bird was 
 singing sweetly, stopping now and then to peck at 
 his feathers and glance cautiously around. Then he 
 would throw back his glistening head, bursting into 
 trills of exquisite melody, like some tiny, perfect 
 organ endowed to chant the Creator's praise. Dor 
 othy listened sympathetically, longing to join him in 
 his chorus, envying him his freedom and lightness of 
 heart. 
 
 Presently David Holden came in with slow and 
 solemn gait. He washed his hands in the basin near 
 the door, then seated himself not far from the table 
 where Martha was working some pats of butter into 
 various shapes. 
 
 Suddenly Dorothy turned toward them impetu 
 ously, deserting her view of the sunshine, her enjoy 
 ment of the song of the little bird. Her manner 
 was nervous and excited. The rigid austerity of 
 their countenances and demeanor, so at variance 
 with her laughter-loving nature, oppressed her 
 strangely. Perhaps there flowed in her quickly 
 moving blood something more akin to her dare 
 devil father, the jolly trooper, than to her gentle
 
 14 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 Puritan mother. Perhaps the beautiful May-day, 
 with GocTs gift of flowers and sunshine, had made 
 her feel with keener intensity the somberness and 
 narrowness of her life. 
 
 " Aunt Martha " there were tears in her voice as 
 she turned excitedly toward the unsmiling couple, and 
 she spoke rapidly, the sentences tumbling upon each 
 other in a torrent of vehemence " I would that I 
 might go away from Salem ; I am not happy here. 
 Ah, that I might go to England to my father's peo 
 ple ! Mistress Hobbs did tell me but yesterday that 
 there they sing and dance and attend the plays; 
 that great pageants are in the streets, and the great 
 ladies wear embroidered bodices of scarlet and fine 
 attire of linen and of satin." She paused ; her breath 
 came quickly, her cheeks were flushed, the light in 
 her blue eyes glowed like stars. " I love the sun 
 shine and the woods," she continued; "I love to 
 sing and laugh. Why does the good Book forbid us 
 to be happy?" she demanded impatiently. "Why 
 should we be miserable when all else that are created 
 are free to enjoy their lives?" 
 
 Martha had turned from the table and her work, 
 and stood eying her niece in amazement and dis 
 pleasure. Her uncle had closed his mouth grimly.
 
 DOROTHY. 15 
 
 " Thou art an ungrateful wench," said her aunt 
 sternly. " Have I not loved thee and toiled for 
 thee? And now thou wouldst turn and sting me. 
 Dorothy, Satan is tempting thee ; beware of his 
 foils; pray that thou mayest resist his wiles." 
 
 Dorothy flung out her hands wildly. " I must 
 speak, I must tell thee both of my feelings ; I can 
 withstand this desire within me no longer; I must 
 sing and dance ; I like not to pray forever. Ah, 
 that I might be free, free, just once to go forth into 
 the great world where, I care not, only to be free ! " 
 She choked hysterically ; her listeners eyed her in 
 amazement and dread. Before her scandalized aunt 
 and uncle were aware of her intentions, she had 
 frantically torn the little mob-cap from her curls, and 
 taking hold of her skirts on either side, she lifted 
 them slightly above her trim ankles, and, singing 
 more sweetly than the yellow-bird that listened on 
 the flowering bush, without the door, she tripped 
 lightly across the kitchen boards in a fantastic dance, 
 keeping time to her steps with a sweet roulade 
 heard from the gossiping Mistress Hobbs : 
 
 " Ah, to be free, 'neath the greenwood tree, 
 
 With my true-lover bold! 
 There to sing, while cowslips bring 
 Sweet dew in cups of gold."
 
 1 6 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 Martha, her stern old face suffused with a blush, 
 cried angrily, " Dorothy, cease, I say ; cease, thou 
 wicked girl ! I will e'en tell Mr. Wentworth of thee ; 
 he will commission Mr. Parris to call thee out in 
 meeting. Hast thou no self-respect? Thy dance 
 is an abomination. Cease!" She started in pursuit 
 of the laughing girl, who adroitly evaded her grasp. 
 The rather unusual spectacle then took place of 
 the staid middle-aged woman taking part in what 
 appeared to be an impromptu dance. Round and 
 round went Dorothy, laughing, singing, every mo 
 tion filled with grace, her lovely face dimpled with 
 mischief, as she dodged her panting, corpulent aunt, 
 who followed in hot pursuit. 
 
 " Only one more round, Aunt Martha," she cried, 
 " then I will ask thee to forgive me, and I know 
 thou wilt; thou canst not help it." 
 
 She started again, and danced forward into a 
 patch of sunlight that lay across the wtfoden floor; 
 holding her skirts higher on one side and peeping 
 over them, she gave a clear, rippling laugh, like that 
 of a child caught in mischief. She looked back over 
 her shoulder toward her uncle, who had turned his 
 head discreetly aside, deeming the mere witnessing 
 of this unhallowed scene a falling from grace ; then
 
 DOROTHY. 17 
 
 with lowered eyelids, and making a deep, mocking 
 curtsey, she rose abruptly, to behold the stern eyes 
 of Mr. Wentworth, the foremost deacon of the Puri 
 tan Church, looking down reprovingly upon her from 
 the open doorway. 
 
 Aunt Martha stepped forward and took the em 
 barrassed girl by the shoulder, shaking her a little 
 roughly. " She is a headstrong girl ; thou must re 
 prove her," she cried excitedly to the man who stood 
 waiting expectantly upon the doorstep. " She has 
 danced a most heathenish dance, here, in the Holden 
 home; thou hast just witnessed those outlandish 
 steps. My advice is not heeded ; she is a degener 
 ate sinner. I am indeed most fearful for the welfare 
 of her soul." 
 
 Mr. Alden Wentworth, the new-comer, was the 
 rising young advocate of Salem ; in fact, he had 
 already been called to the dignity of the bench. He 
 was also a deacon in the church, and much esteemed 
 by the Rev. Mr. Parris, the pastor of the Salem flock. 
 He had held these two important positions but a 
 year; in that short time, however, he had succeeded 
 in gaining the love, respect, and confidence of the 
 community at large, besides being held in high esti 
 mation by the governor. Mr. Wentworth was still
 
 1 8 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 a young man, being between thirty and thirty- five 
 years of age ; a scholar, honest, upright, conscien 
 tious, and the staunchest of Puritan adherents. 
 Moreover, he was handsome, with dark, deep-set, 
 penetrating eyes, and a firm mouth whose lines de 
 noted gentleness combined with a strong will. He 
 was tall and well formed, his muscular frame indi 
 cating health and great strength. 
 
 Dorothy looked frightened and embarrassed as 
 Mr. Wentworth's reproving glance fell upon her. 
 She hung her head ; the rosy glow that had recently 
 burnt in her cheeks spread to her brow and neck. 
 
 "A dance!" echoed the shocked deacon in dis 
 may. " Dorothy, I scarce can credit these words ; 
 thou, a child of prayer!" 
 
 Dorothy looked up at him timidly through her 
 long lashes, now wet with tears. " I am indeed a 
 wicked girl, Mr. Wentworth," she glanced appeal- 
 ingly upward, " yet when the robins and the little 
 yellow-birds sang I felt full envious of them. I 
 must e'en join them in their melody, then the dance 
 must needs come next ; I could not still my feet, I 
 had not power. Thou wilt forgive me if I transgress 
 no more. Thou wilt not, oh, thou wilt not tell Mr. 
 Parris? he surely will call me out in meeting."
 
 DOROTHY. 19 
 
 Alden Wentworth did not reply immediately ; he 
 gazed earnestly at the pleading face upturned to his, 
 as she stood in the patch of yellow sunlight, the 
 clear radiance seeming part of her own vivacious 
 personality. A strange, inscrutable expression 
 shone in his eyes as he watched her. Then he 
 stepped forward abruptly ; the sunshine enveloping 
 Dorothy became obscured by the tall shadow that 
 fell across its brightness. With its fading a gloom 
 spread itself upon the dull, smoked walls of the 
 kitchen. The girl seemed snatched, as it were, from 
 the sound of song and joy to the coldness, bleak 
 ness, and silence of night. 
 
 " Dorothy," he said in his quiet voice, its intona 
 tions solemn with a subdued, pious melancholy, " I 
 shall not acquaint Mr. Parris of thy misdeed, though 
 for the levity of a dance he surely would call thee 
 out in meeting; but far be it from my policy to thus 
 shame thee. Thou art as God made thee, filled with 
 the life of youth and joy. That thou canst not 
 help; 'tis thine inheritance." He paused, then con 
 tinued more solemnly : " But be ever on thy safe 
 guard that this inheritance draw not its net more 
 closely around thy life and strangle thee. Satan 
 hath many devices ; he gives lightness to the foot
 
 2O DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 and sweetness to the song ; beware lest he control 
 thy steps awry." 
 
 Martha and David listened respectfully to this 
 reproof, now and then shaking their heads in acqui 
 escence, and glancing askance at Dorothy, as she 
 wiped the fast-falling tears with the corner of her 
 apron, her rosy, pouting lips trembling, as she en 
 deavored to regain her self-control. 
 
 Presently she drew nearer to the reproving judge. 
 " Then thou art not wroth with me, Mr. Went- 
 worth?" 
 
 " No, my child," he answered kindly. 
 
 She stepped close to him, and grasped his hand. 
 " I thank thee ; thou art more kind than aunt. I 
 will come to meeting always, and I will obey thee, 
 and never laugh in the Lord's house again when the 
 tithing-man strikes old Goodman Weldon with the 
 hard stick on his bald head for sleeping. He cried 
 out loud last Sabbath. Didst hear him, Mr. Went- 
 worth? It was such rare sport to see his grimace." 
 
 Mr. Wentworth smiled slightly, but did not 
 reply. 
 
 " Ah, that sermon," she continued mournfully, 
 " was full three hours long. I saw the hour-glass 
 on the pulpit ledge turned so oft, and the sands fell
 
 DOROTHY. 21 
 
 through so slowly. I cannot tell thee how weary I 
 was. I wish that Mr. Parris would let some other 
 minister preach. He drones and drones, till one 
 grows weary with sleep." 
 
 " No, no, Dorothy, say not that ; 'tis not respect 
 ful to thy pastor. Methinks the sermon last Lord's 
 Day was filled with solace and godly sayings. 
 Three hours is not long to hearken to the Word of 
 God." 
 
 " Tis long when the soul is far away," answered 
 Dorothy dreamily. " Full oft I know not where I 
 am till Mr. Parris calls loudly from the pulpit for 
 attention." 
 
 Mr. Wentworth smiled indulgently. " Thou art 
 but a child as yet; wisdom will come in time." He 
 then turned abruptly to Martha and David. " I 
 called to acquaint thee, Mistress Holden, with the 
 fact that old Goody Trueman hath been seen again 
 on the edge of the forest. They do say her cloak 
 was of the color of fire ; that a black demon stood 
 by her side, and did hover over her as she plucked 
 the poisonous ivy that grew upon the rocky hillside. 
 When Jonathan Wells, who saw her approach, raised 
 his stick to send her adrift she was no more seen ; 
 the stick did but cleave empty space; only a small
 
 22 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 red glow was visible against the clouds. It was as 
 though she had risen with her imps in the air." 
 
 " I can well credit all I hear of Goody Trueman ; 
 she is of a .certainty a witch, and hath signed the 
 treaty with the Prince of Darkness," said David. 
 
 Martha made no comment. She looked distressed 
 and troubled. 
 
 " Perchance thy words are true," answered the 
 judge gravely, " yet we conjecture not aright always 
 when we think we behold the agents of the devil. 
 I do but speak to thee of these sayings that be 
 abroad in Salem to warn thee to be circumspect, 
 and if this creature do possess this dreaded power, 
 to be on thy guard." 
 
 " Kindness is ever thy forte," replied David. 
 " We thank thee for thy warning." 
 
 Mr. Wentworth replaced his steeple-crowned hat 
 and stepped toward the door. As he changed his 
 position, the shadow fell from Dorothy. She stood 
 once more in the sunshine, his earnest glance resting 
 upon her. " I bid thee good-day, Dorothy," he 
 said. " I trust to see thee in thy place to-morrow 
 at the meeting-house. Dry thy tears, and when 
 thy feet are restless, walk to the Lord's house and 
 commune with God in thy soul. 'Tis far better for
 
 DOROTHY. 23 
 
 thee than the riotous dance. When thou must sing, 
 sing the psalms. Are they not filled with peace 
 and all good promises? " 
 
 " Methinks I am not good as thou art, Mr. Went- 
 worth. I have another self within me that does 
 ever urge me in the wrong direction. Why has 
 God willed us to be unhappy when He has given us 
 so much to enjoy? " she concluded sadly. 
 
 " 'Tis for discipline, the preparation for immortal 
 ity," he replied earnestly ; " pray constantly that thy 
 probation be acceptable. We were not created for 
 happiness, but that through our privations we might 
 atone for our many sins, and through much misery 
 be saved, and found at the last garnered into the 
 Lord's house." 
 
 " I will e'en try, Mr. Wentworth, yet it is very 
 hard." She smiled her pretty smile upon him; he 
 bowed, and went his way under the drooping lilac 
 bush, and the little bird upon its branch burst forth 
 into merry song again. 
 
 Dorothy folded her hands demurely, and looking 
 toward her aunt, she said contritely, " I am sorry I 
 danced that awful dance, Aunt Martha. Shall I not 
 help thee form the butter-pats?"
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN. 
 
 IT is well to state here the position in which the 
 ministers of the Puritan days stood in relation to 
 their people. None of the early colonists would 
 have dared or, it is likely, wished to disparage their 
 pastor's teachings, or in fact any of the ordinances 
 of the church. No reproaches were tolerated, no 
 criticisms condoned. Severe were the whippings 
 and fines that befell any luckless delinquent who 
 might express disapprobation of the length of the 
 sermons or prayers of the pastor. 
 
 This unlimited control extended not only over the 
 religious life, but also over the secular. The minis 
 ter's word was law ; even in regard to many trivial 
 every-day concerns he was consulted, and his decis 
 ion abided by. 
 
 The honor of being deacon was second only to 
 that of being minister. The deacons had especially 
 important duties to perform. During the absence 
 of the pastor one of them conducted the service. 
 
 24
 
 THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN. 25 
 
 The deacons' pew occupied a position raised above 
 the level of the ground, and there they sat in solemn 
 state, leaning against their stiff, high-backed chairs, 
 the objects of great respect, not to say reverential 
 awe. 
 
 The Sabbath day was observed literally according 
 to the command of the Bible, " Remember the Sab 
 bath day to keep it holy;" and many other strict 
 laws were enforced, and in most part cheerfully 
 consented to by the people. To enhance the sacred- 
 ness of the Lord's Day, it was filled from early 
 morning till sundown with prayers, sermons, and 
 singing of psalms. All attended the meetings, some 
 coming from a long distance and suffering much 
 inconvenience in the heat of summer, or in the cold 
 and storms of the long New England winters. 
 
 Little children came, tiny images of their solemn 
 parents, while a tithing-man kept order with a long 
 stick, prodding the unfortunate ones who fell asleep 
 during the three-hour sermons. The seats were 
 hard, mere boards without backs; the men sat on 
 one side of the edifice, the women on the other. 
 
 Unruly boys, "sons of Belial," as the deacons 
 called them, had seats by themselves in the gallery, 
 and the tithing-man hovered in their vicinity with
 
 26 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 frowns and threatening gestures, his formidable bear 
 ing reducing the giggling, wriggling, weary little 
 Puritan boys to a condition of depressed submission. 
 
 The meeting-house was roughly constructed and 
 unpainted. The rafters were exposed to view, and 
 spiders spun great gossamer webs from beam to 
 beam, airy, waving structures ; an endless joy and 
 diversion to the poor little restless boys and girls 
 who nodded and twisted uneasily on the hard seats 
 below. 
 
 There were no shutters to the building, so that 
 the glare in summer must have been intolerable ; 
 while in winter the aching feet and hands and be 
 numbed frames of the pious church-members, seated 
 rigidly in the fireless building, surely showed of 
 what heroic material these old Puritans were made. 
 
 Between the services a lunch was, partaken of in a 
 " Sabba-house," built on one side of the church for 
 that purpose. It was a very solemn lunch ; no hilar 
 ity being allowed, no jest or light word being per 
 mitted. Then back they repaired to the meeting 
 house to more psalm-singing, more lengthy sermons ; 
 then home in the evening glow of the twilight to 
 the grim routine of the hard-working week to come. 
 
 This is certainly a drear, cold picture to contem-
 
 THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN. 2J 
 
 plate, gazing backward through the centuries, from 
 the luxury and ease of our modern days. It is not 
 unnatural that the hardships they encountered in 
 the mere struggle for existence, the fear of Indians 
 and of wild beasts, their dread imaginings regarding 
 the mysteries of nature, which lay yet hidden in the 
 depths of the unexplored wilderness, should have 
 imparted a gloom and a mysticism to their disposi 
 tions, and belief in the supernatural. 
 
 The settlement of Salem was somewhat scattered ; 
 its houses were simple but comfortable, built princi 
 pally after a uniform pattern large, dormer-win 
 dowed, and gambrel-roofed. The land was rocky 
 and difficult to farm ; the roads mere bridle paths 
 cut through the gloomy wilderness. 
 
 Yet these Puritans gloried in their hardships. 
 They had come to the New World for freedom of 
 thought in their belief, and they had gained what 
 they sought; they were content; they asked no 
 more ; their sufferings but increased the value of 
 their freedom. As is the case, however, with all 
 bigotry and prejudice, they drew the bands too 
 tight ; they snapped, and dire was the result. 
 
 From the frivolities and follies of the English 
 court, from the lawlessness of the Cavaliers, they
 
 28 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 recoiled in horror. They preferred a life of weary 
 hardship, with permission to worship God in their 
 own way, to the daintiest home-nest in the mother- 
 country. And so they came, a gloomy, solemn 
 company, from over the seas, bringing with them 
 in their characters the results of injustice and of 
 intolerance. 
 
 The pleasant May had passed. June, glorious 
 with the brilliancy of flowers and fleecy clouds, and 
 the pleasant shade of full-leaved trees, had come to 
 the little village. Dorothy wandered often by the 
 edge of the forest, sometimes alone, sometimes with 
 her girl friends. 
 
 She loved best to be alone ; the straight-laced, 
 sad little maids of the settlement were not much to 
 her liking. She would gather the wild violet and 
 
 9 
 
 the strange feathery ferns that bordered some little 
 murmuring stream, and as she placed them in the 
 bodice of her dress or in her hair, she would speak 
 to them : " Thou art free, little violets and soft green 
 fern ; thou canst live thy life as thou wilt ; none can 
 hinder thee ; thou canst sit in the shade and nod and 
 dream right merrily till the summer grows hot and 
 dry ; then thou fallest asleep, till another year shall 
 wake thee again."
 
 THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN. 2Q 
 
 The rippling stream would answer for the silence 
 of the flower, responding to her queries in low, sing 
 ing tQ.nes. It seemed to comprehend her loneliness 
 and her seeking for the right to indulge in the natural 
 gayety of youth. She returned one evening at dusk 
 to the farm, after one of these wanderings prolonged 
 beyond the usual hour. She had been alarmed by 
 the appearance of old Goody Trueman, the acknowl 
 edged witch, whom she had seen standing on a dis 
 tant hill and whom she held greatly in dread. 
 
 Dorothy hastened her footsteps, speeding lightly 
 along over the grassy road that led through the 
 narrow lane. The darkness was coming on rapidly ; 
 strange sounds issued from the rustling trees and 
 from the summer foliage, growing thick and luxu 
 riantly by the roadside. An owl hooted in a tall 
 oak ; a bat flapped his wings across her face. The 
 air was filled with the soft, aromatic scents of shrubs 
 and w r ild-flowers, their delicate perfumes intensified 
 by the dew that rested on their leaves. 
 
 The realization that she had been in the actual 
 presence of the witch, though distant from her, filled 
 Dorothy with a nameless dread. When she reached 
 the farm gate, she threw it open and walked quickly 
 up the path to the little porch. Her heart was
 
 3O DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 beating wildly and her breath came in short gasps. 
 She seated herself on the rough bench in the porch, 
 and removed her cap from her heated brow. , 
 
 It was quite dark now ; the night had come, a 
 few pale stars hung twinkling in the sky ; banks of 
 somber clouds floated up from the north. Far off 
 toward the east a circle of light glowed, the harbin 
 ger of the " Queen of Night." All was still about 
 the farm. 
 
 Dorothy experienced a peculiar restlessness, a 
 loneliness encompassed her ; she felt as if she must 
 speak to some one, at least feel a living presence, or 
 from the sheer nervousness of fear scream aloud. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and Martha, closely 
 followed by David, stepped to Dorothy's side. 
 
 " Dorothy," she said (there was a suppressed 
 eagerness in her voice, an exultant sound, very 
 different from her usual rasping, fault-finding into 
 nations), " hast thou been here long? I did not hear 
 thee come. Thy uncle and I have been waiting 
 impatiently for thee ; we have a subject of great im 
 portance to discuss with thee." She came close to 
 the girl, laid her hand tenderly upon her shoulder, 
 and leaned over to look into her face. 
 
 " I have been here but a short time. I have been
 
 THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN. 31 
 
 sorely affrighted, aunt. Goody Trueman was upon 
 the hill, beyond the settlement ; she did send a bat 
 and owl to torment me. They flapped their wings 
 upon me, but I did utter a prayer most fervently 
 and hasten my steps, and they left me then in peace." 
 She hesitated, then continued : " For the space of 
 many moments I deemed she might cast her spell 
 upon me ; I covered my face with my mantle ; when 
 I dared look again she had disappeared. Dost think 
 she mounted her broomstick ? I looked most search- 
 ingly into the clouds but could see nothing." Dor 
 othy asked this anxiously. 
 
 Martha tossed her head impatiently, but David 
 shook his in acquiescence, and with decision. " No 
 doubt she flew above thy head invisible. Ah, it is 
 an awful thing to contemplate," he said. "A great 
 danger surely confronted thee." 
 
 " 'Tis arrant folly; broomsticks forsooth!" cried 
 Martha scornfully. " I cannot understand such non 
 sense ; the one who spreads such reports should 
 have the broomstick laid across his back ; yet, poor 
 child, I have no doubt it alarmed thee." She 
 paused, then continued more hurriedly : " Let that 
 pass ; words are but vain ; we will not worry our 
 selves about this witch. I have great news for thee ;
 
 32 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 thou canst never conjecture. I will tell it thee right 
 close by thine ear, my little Dorothy. Now hark 
 ye : thy blue eyes and winsome face have won for 
 thee the greatest honor thou canst imagine. Alden 
 Went worth hath asked thy uncle and me to give 
 him our little niece in marriage." When Martha's 
 voice pronounced the last words it echoed with a 
 ring of genuine triumph and elation. 
 
 " Yes," said David, "our Dorothy hath made the 
 greatest match in Salem village. Thou didst not 
 scheme for it ; it came to thee, a great blessing and 
 a great honor." 
 
 Dorothy did not speak; she was bewildered, 
 amazed ; she clasped her bunch of violets tighter 
 in her hand, and arose from her low seat. 
 
 " Aunt, uncle," she gasped, " this honor surely 
 cannot be for me. Mr. Wentworth hath scarce 
 addressed me, save in reproof ; dost thou think thine 
 ears heard aright? " 
 
 " Surely we heard aright ; our ears did not deceive 
 us. And let me tell thee, Dorothy, he loves thee 
 deeply ; not in words do I judge of this, but his 
 face shone with the great affection he held for thee. 
 I read it there, and when he spoke he said, ' Tell her 
 my heart is hers ; I pray that she may care for me.' '
 
 THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN. 33 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Martha, I never can, I never can ! My 
 mind is filled with fear of him. He is so far above 
 me, so good, so different from me, when he draws 
 nigh my life seems slipping from me. I do honor 
 and respect him, but can I love one who so sorely 
 doth affright me? " 
 
 " Thou art but a fanciful child ; thou knowest not 
 whereof thou speakest ; thou wilt learn to love him. 
 Hast thou no ambition ? Why, thou wilt have the 
 first place in the meeting-house, the first position in 
 the colony. Not one maiden in all Salem would hesi 
 tate. As for his goodness, that is what thou needst. 
 His age is also well; he can guide thee better." 
 
 The position enjoyed by the minister's wife and 
 the wives of the deacons in those far-off days of 
 Puritan New England was indeed a burdensome 
 one, though probably filled with a triumph of its 
 own. No doubt this distinction was partly owing 
 to the fact that there were few positions of impor 
 tance to fill. 
 
 The wife who held so prominent a place amongst 
 the women of the meeting-house paid in part her 
 debt for that greatness by being continuously under 
 the most critical supervision from the watchful eyes 
 of the flock. Her actions, her motives, her house-
 
 34 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 hold management, and above all her observance 
 of the Lord's Day, was freely, perhaps not always 
 kindly, discussed. Still, the position was one of de 
 cided distinction ; though the disadvantages were 
 perhaps balanced by the benefits. 
 
 Poor little laughter-loving Dorothy recoiled in 
 dread from filling this exalted place. She could not 
 grasp its honors ; she felt only that with it came 
 an added shade of dullness and suppression. She 
 looked out silently into the sweet-scented gloom of 
 the summer night, past the tall shrubs that stood up 
 ghost-like in the darkness, toward the distant line of 
 sky that appeared to scintillate and throb with its 
 thousands of twinkling stars. 
 
 A depression settled upon her spirits ; her rosy- 
 colored views of life changed to blackness. Her 
 cage seemed to have become more heavily ironed, 
 more cramped; she felt the fetters tugging at her 
 heart, binding her tightly, strengthened by this 
 destiny which fate had evidently ordained for her. 
 
 " No, no, Aunt Martha, I am not worthy to be the 
 wife of Judge Wentworth. I would shame him by 
 my levity. Why, even now I am a scorn to the 
 good matrons in the meeting-house. Had he come 
 to me, I would have answered him."
 
 THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN. 35 
 
 " Dorothy Grey," cried -her aunt sternly, " I and 
 thy uncle have promised thee ; thou belongst to 
 us to do with as we will. We give thee to Alden 
 Wentworth. Come to thee, indeed, a willful child ! 
 He knew the respect due to us." 
 
 " Yet, aunt, without my will surely he would not 
 take me; he has overmuch pride for that." 
 
 " He comes again to-night for thy answer." Her 
 aunt spoke decidedly. " Thou shalt tell him yes. 
 Speak, David; thou art her lawful guardian." 
 
 " Dorothy, I have promised for thee," said her 
 uncle firmly. " Thy happiness is my wish. In this 
 I see the hand of God ; by that guidance I thus 
 command thee. Remember, thou art my ward ; 
 thou hast no voice of thine own." 
 
 Dorothy bowed her head, her whole frame trem 
 bled ; the nerveless hands that held the flowers' 
 clasped and unclasped, the petals fell withered to 
 the floor of the porch. 
 
 " I must e'en say yes," she replied in a low voice ; 
 " my will is not strong enough to contend against 
 thee. And yet yet if Heaven," she spoke de 
 spairingly, " would but send a spark of love to aid 
 me in this choice, it were not so hard." 
 
 " Thou art a good, obedient child ; thou wilt be
 
 36 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 happy. I tell thee that all the girls in Salem will 
 envy thee. That bold wench, Elizabeth Hubbard, 
 hath cast love-eyes for full six months at Mr. Went- 
 worth, but he heeds her not, the silly thing, with 
 her wicked black eyes. But thou hast won him 
 with thy sweet face, and I am proud of thee. Why, 
 Dorothy, we will be among the first people in the 
 colony." 
 
 " Elizabeth is my dearest friend, Aunt Martha. 
 I would he had chosen her; she would make a 
 worthier wife than I." 
 
 "Out upon thee, say not such things! Rather 
 thank an all-merciful Providence that hath given 
 thee this good place ; thou art ungrateful. We will 
 leave thee now to reflect ; in a short space the judge 
 will be here. See thou treat him kindly. Tis 
 'well the night is dark, else he would see thy pale 
 face." 
 
 Dorothy threw her arms with a desperate tender 
 ness around her aunt's neck and laid her cheek 
 against hers. " I would that he had frowned upon 
 me," she murmured ; " I do so fear him. Can I 
 ever be what he would desire? No no, Aunt 
 Martha, no no."
 
 THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN. 37 
 
 " Hush, hush! Compose thyself; all will be well. 
 'Tis but the suddenness of the offer." 
 
 She released the clinging arms and departed with 
 her brother, leaving Dorothy seated alone in the 
 porch. 
 
 It was not long before the girl heard the firm 
 steps of Alden Wentworth upon the garden path. 
 He joined her, and they conversed gravely for some 
 moments on indifferent subjects ; then he drifted 
 gradually upon that deeper theme which filled his 
 heart. An hour passed by ; the moon rose high 
 among the clouds, her soft light resting upon Doro 
 thy as she leaned listlessly against the back of the 
 old settle. Alden Wentworth had risen and stood 
 looking down upon her as he conversed in his calm, 
 even tones, for the Puritans believed in moderation 
 in all things, considering it unnecessary to raise the 
 voice to impress the hearer. 
 
 " I am glad thou hast been sincere with me, Dor 
 othy ; I know now that thou dost not love me deeply 
 as yet, but thou wilt, thou wilt." An undertone of 
 strong passion lent an intensity to his voice as he 
 spoke, though in all probability had he been con 
 scious of this quality he would have crushed it then
 
 38 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 and there. " My love will draw thee to me; I am 
 patient, I am content to wait for what will surely 
 come. Be thou always open and frank with me, as 
 thou hast been to-night. Do not deceive me ; be 
 sincere with me. The future of my soul and thine 
 requires that all should be as clear as noonday be 
 tween us." 
 
 A shudder passed over Dorothy at these words, 
 a coldness and a nameless fear. " I will never de 
 ceive thee," she said. " I will never deny to thee 
 the right to read the truth between us. What could 
 I withhold? I have led but a child's life under 
 thine eyes in Salem." 
 
 "Thou art mine, then, forever." 
 
 " Ay, I am thine ; be thou lenient to my youth 
 and follies. Fate has given me to thee ; I have 
 not wished this honor. Be kind to my weaknesses." 
 
 " I will, Dorothy, I will." 
 
 " I am not calm like the people about me ; thou 
 hast heard of my father, and of the life he led at 
 court as one of the favorite troopers of Charles. They 
 say I have my mother's face and my father's tem 
 perament. It were a wrong to thee did I deceive 
 thee in regard to my true feelings. Now never 
 canst thou reproach me for a falsehood."
 
 THE WOOING OF THE PURITAN. 39 
 
 " Never," he replied. "All is fair between us. 
 Some day thou wilt love me, and I will try very 
 hard to make thee happy." 
 
 So Alden Wentworth went his way over the sum 
 mer fields back to the town. Dorothy stood where 
 he had left her, thinking. The brilliant moonlight 
 enveloped her in its clear luster, her face was up 
 raised to the heavens. On her cheeks rested tears. 
 The soft wind blew across her face ; it did not dry 
 the tears. Ah no! they came too rapidly. A bat 
 flapped his wings across her hair. "Again," she 
 cried ; " twice this day ! 'Tis an evil omen ; it comes 
 from the forest witch. O Alden," she stretched 
 forth her arms before her in despair, " no luck at 
 tends our betrothal. Would that I might recall my 
 promise! I was so weak to yield, as though my 
 life was not dull and lonely enough ; but I must 
 consent to still my song and stay my feet, and wed 
 the foremost deacon in the church." . 
 
 She sat very still for some time within the shelter 
 of the porch, picturing vaguely the sad-colored path 
 destiny was preparing for her as the wife of the 
 Puritan judge. " This honor that has come to me 
 is but void and dead," she murmured. " There is 
 no love attending it to give it life. Had I the cour-
 
 40 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 age I would even now retract my promise. Should 
 I do this, however, Aunt Martha and uncle would 
 disown me ; and I have no other home, no fortune. 
 There is no doubt that I shall become the scandal 
 of the town, for surely at times my spirits will gain 
 the mastery." She smiled mischievously, and yet 
 sadly, at this last reminder.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 
 
 THE betrothal was made known, and great was 
 the surprise and consternation that seized upon the 
 good people of Salem. Many a wise head did wag 
 in ominous presentiment of dire results. Many a 
 sharp tongue did expostulate in the privacy of the 
 home circle upon the grave judge being bewitched 
 by the light in a fine blue eye, not seeking further 
 for the heart beneath. 
 
 Be that as it may, Mr. Wentworth appeared con 
 tent. It was with a tremulous eagerness he leaned 
 from the deacon's pew the following Lord's Day, 
 and gazed upon Dorothy, seated demure and pale 
 among the stern-visaged matrons, the forced grav 
 ity of her face and manner being in marked contrast 
 to her usual restless condition. Her hands were 
 folded quietly in her lap, her gaze wandering dream 
 ily at times through the bare, uncurtained windows 
 to the low line of hills beyond. 
 
 It was to Wentworth as if all the inlets to his soul 
 41
 
 42 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 were opened, and through them entered the sweet 
 ness, light, and love of a new world a world that 
 held in its vague, intangible depths a vista stretching 
 over flowering vales to the possibilities of an exist 
 ence made complete by Dorothy's little weak hand. 
 It appeared to him that the dull atmosphere that 
 lay thickly above the narrow path in which he had 
 trodden hitherto had risen and revealed a widened 
 road. On that road there was room beside him for 
 one in whom all his dreams of unalloyed happiness 
 were centered. 
 
 Perhaps it was true, as the villagers said, that he 
 was deceived by a sudden fancy. Be that as it may, 
 in this deception rested his hopes ; he did not desire 
 the veil lifted. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth possessed to the fullest degree the 
 cramped, restricted, puritanical character; he shared 
 freely in the superstitions of his creed and age. Yet 
 a wealth of silent sentiment lay buried under his 
 reserve, and deeper still the capabilities of a strong, 
 unswerving affection. 
 
 This element in his nature appalled him at times 
 by its intensity, when its object rose before his men 
 tal vision, effacing for the moment the customary 
 monotony of his life. At such times he reproached
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 43 
 
 himself for permitting the earthly to overshadow the 
 heavenly. "Still," he argued, "I am but a man, 
 and I love her." Then relapsing into retrospection, 
 he would question seriously : " Can it be wholly of 
 God, this mighty love, or can it be that underneath 
 it lie the temptations of the Evil One ? Why should 
 that fair face come between me and my Bible, and 
 smile upon me from the leaves of my psalm-book, 
 and cause me to wander in my prayers? If a 
 Heaven-sent gift, why thus clog the wheels of 
 duty?" 
 
 Dorothy, who had not yet felt within her the 
 capacity for a great love, calmly acquiesced in the 
 accepted order of things. And Wentworth, slow to 
 express his feelings, did not cause any unrest within 
 her mind by protestations of affection. The wooing 
 went placidly on its calm way, like a smooth river, 
 no warning ripples on its surface indicating the deep, 
 dangerous channel beneath. 
 
 It was the custom at stated times of the year for 
 the good matrons of the village to assemble in the 
 great kitchen at the parsonage, each with her wheel, 
 flax, and distaff, there to spin a goodly supply of 
 firm linen to replenish the oaken chests where the 
 minister's wife kept her household stuffs.
 
 44 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 On a charming afternoon in midsummer quite 
 a company of worthy dames were seated at their 
 work, their tongues going almost as fast as the 
 merry w r heels over which they bent. The kitchen 
 was long and low, its great beams overhead exposed 
 to view. From them were suspended strings of 
 dried Indian corn and sundry herbe ; the latter dis 
 tilled a faint spicy odor that permeated the atmos 
 phere pleasantly. Very little furniture encumbered 
 the room, with the exception of a heavy table and 
 some high-backed chairs and settles. 
 
 Upon the mantel in tall candlesticks stood candles 
 made of pale-green tallow, the compound of bay- 
 berries, gathered by the wayside, and " dipped " by 
 the economical wife of the minister. The windows 
 were open, letting in a cool, refreshing breeze laden 
 with the sweet breath of cowslips, clover, and newly 
 cut grass. The bees hummed noisily as they flew 
 by, and occasionally the strange, wild note of a 
 forest bird mingled with the call of the robin and 
 the blackbird. The floor of the kitchen was of clay, 
 damp and cool. 
 
 Mistress Parris sat among the women, plying her 
 needle upon some homespun garment, now and then 
 gazing delightedly upon the stout runs of linen
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 45 
 
 thread that were gradually accumulating from the 
 industrious energies of the spinners. This texture, 
 she mentally pictured, would eventually take the 
 shape of good sheets to fill her stout chests, and add 
 materially to her wealth ; for linen was held only 
 second in value to silver. 
 
 There was no thought of idleness among these 
 conscientious women; they were using the Lord's 
 time, which was' only loaned to them for a short 
 space. So they diligently reeled, carded, and 
 combed the flax. 
 
 At length a stern, dark-browed matron laid down 
 her work for an instant, and looking up, addressed a 
 woman seated near her, who had made a deprecat- \ 
 ing remark in reference to Mr. Wentworth's coming 
 marriage. 
 
 "Perchance," said she in a cold voice, "it is not 
 for me to question the motives of one who hath 
 been set by Providence above me ; if I err, I pray 
 thee, pardon me, Mistress Parris." 
 
 " Speak on, thou hast a right; I question it not." 
 
 " They say," continued the speaker, " the judge 
 doth not bring great credit upon the colony by his 
 betrothal, or, for that matter, great credit upon him 
 self. Why, good wives," she cried, her voice grow-
 
 46 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 ing shriller as she proceeded, " what think ye of 
 that vain, idle minx being placed above us in the 
 meeting-house? Her levity, her laughter, and her 
 antics are a scandal to the edifice. It is but a month 
 or more come yesterday that she did tickle the neck 
 of Goodman Wells with a mint-stick ; he, poor man, 
 having e'en lost himself in the seventhly of the ser 
 mon, was asleep. He did awake with a start, being 
 confused, thinking a spider was on his neck, having 
 spun from the beams aloft. He did fall forward, 
 and strike his head with violence, so much so that a 
 great bump did appear thereon the following day." 
 
 " Ay, that is so," echoed a chorus of voices. 
 
 " But," replied Mistress Parris, " that was before 
 the announcement ; since then most circumspect has 
 been her demeanor." 
 
 " I wot it will not last," continued the dark-browed 
 woman ; " she knows what is for her good. Think 
 ye she will lose this great honor by any vicious deeds 
 at this late day? Not she. I have it on good au 
 thority that some time previous Mr. Wentworth 
 contemplated advising Mr. Parris to call her out in 
 meeting. She is sufficiently unruly to have a scat 
 on the boys' bench and have the good stout stick
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 47 
 
 laid across her shoulders. In faith she has bewitched 
 him." 
 
 At the word " bewitched " Elizabeth Hubbard, 
 whose head had been bent over her wheel, raised it 
 and looked squarely into the speaker's face. There 
 was a mesmeric influence in the girl's glance. Eliz 
 abeth was a dark-skinned, dark-eyed young woman, 
 handsome in a wild, elfish way, with a heavy mass 
 of hair of inky hue that waved about her temples in 
 tangled confusion. There rested an expression of 
 alert interest upon her face, the well-traced lines 
 about her mouth denoting a fierceness of disposition 
 and an untamed, headstrong will. Her presence 
 affected the beholder with a weird, incomprehensible 
 fascination. 
 
 "What dost thou mean by 'bewitched'?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Mean?" echoed Mistress Parris. "Why, that 
 her blue eyes and pretty face hath cast a spell, as 
 thy black eyes will do some day, Elizabeth." 
 
 Elizabeth turned impatiently to her wheel, and 
 did not reply. 
 
 " Thou speakest of her antics at the meetings ; 
 what think ye all of her lonely wanderings in the
 
 48 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 forest? Oft hath she been seen on the edge of the 
 great woods at evening, singing, and with her hands 
 full of strange plants and flowers." 
 
 The dame who thus spoke had a low, intense 
 voice. The rest of the circle gazed toward her 
 where she sat in the farther end of the long room ; 
 her foot was upon the treadle, her head bent eagerly 
 forward ; she held aloft in her hand a hank of linen 
 thread. The women drew closer together as though 
 something in these words had alarmed them. 
 
 " What doeth she there? " continued the vibrating 
 tones. " It were more to her credit did she bide at 
 home, assisting with the farm work." 
 
 " Ay, thou speakest truly," said Mistress Parris. 
 " Still, her family is of good repute ; none better or 
 stauncher church-members have we than David and 
 Martha Holden. She is but a child, and seeks a 
 child's pleasures. Why, it seems but yesterday that 
 little Dorothy Grey ran heedless upon the village 
 streets, the torment of her good aunt, and withal 
 her happiness ; for ye must confess she is full lov 
 able." 
 
 These kindly words were met with silence, broken 
 presently by the sharp voice of the woman in the 
 distant corner.
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 49 
 
 " It is well known of the naughty baggage that 
 she doth not do the will of her good guardians. 
 Little cares she if they berate her; she is a wild 
 thing, and, I fear me, the learned judge hath taken 
 a firebrand into his heart. It is beyond my poor 
 wits that a man of so great intelligence, and so filled 
 with the strength won by prayer and a godly life, 
 can so bemean himself as to choose this silly child 
 for the sake of a fair exterior." 
 
 " Mercy on us, good friends," cried Mistress Hodg 
 son, a sprightly matron who had not hitherto spoken, 
 " ye are too hard ; she is but young. Let her laugh 
 while she can ; let her gather the flowers. The 
 years will come soon enough when perchance she 
 cannot laugh, and when the flowers will fade. As 
 for the meeting-house, I have smiled full oft myself 
 at the hilarity in the boys' benches. And thou 
 knowest that when old Goody Farnham called out 
 ' The Lord have mercy on us ' when the minister 
 did start his sermon on the third hour she being 
 deaf, and having slept, thinking it time to re 
 spond in the psalm it was hard to be calm and 
 serious." 
 
 A slight ripple of suppressed humor ruffled the 
 countenances of the stern matrons at this reminder.
 
 50 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 It fell like a gleam of wintry sunshine upon a sad- 
 colored landscape. 
 
 " Thou art right," said Mistress Parris, " the young 
 should laugh betimes; tears will furrow their cheeks 
 and make yet deeper wrinkles than do their smiles. 
 And hark ye, charity is surely a godly virtue, and 
 cloaks the follies of youth. Methinks ye should 
 consider well the roistering, rollicking trooper, who 
 did serve an ungodly master, and who has left to his 
 daughter a light and verily a foolish nature." 
 
 " Thou art kindly disposed," said the cheerful 
 Mistress Hodgson ; " an inheritance like Dorothy's 
 makes life a hard battle to conquer. They do say 
 a more dancing, singing, light-minded trooper than 
 William Grey never followed the service of that 
 ' Imp of Satan,' the wicked Charles." 
 
 " I find not fault with her inheritance," said Dor 
 othy's denunciator. " Yet hearken unto me." The 
 woman arose from her wheel and came forward 
 amongst them. She looked searchingly into the 
 intent face of Elizabeth, raised expectantly toward 
 her. " From the dormer-window of my garret 
 chamber I have at the dusk of evening seen Dorothy 
 emerging from the forest." She paused; her listen 
 ers looked up eagerly from their work. " Not far
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 51 
 
 distant, upon a rise of ground, the fading sunlight 
 on her wicked face, stood Goody Trueman. Draw 
 thine own inference. I say naught ; I watch." 
 
 This announcement was received in a peculiar 
 manner by the auditors. They did not speak, but 
 drew their chairs closer together, looking tremblingly 
 and affrighted over their shoulders toward the wide 
 mouth of the great chimney. 
 
 " Did she vanish into air as thou watched ? " asked 
 Mistress Parris in an anxious tone. 
 
 " I know not; I dared look no further for dread 
 of her horrid spell." 
 
 The women worked silently and steadily for some 
 time after this. Suddenly the cadence of a low, 
 humming sound resembling the sweet notes of the 
 meadow-lark broke upon the quiet of the summer 
 afternoon. The dames lifted their heads and lis 
 tened, looking toward the open windows. 
 
 Elizabeth leaned forward over her wheel and 
 raised her finger. " 'Tis Dorothy," she said; "I 
 know her voice. She sings while we work." 
 
 The sound of a light step was heard without the 
 kitchen door. The latch was lifted and Dorothy 
 stood smiling upon the threshold. In the bodice of 
 her gown a great bunch of purple clovers nestled
 
 52 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 and hung their honey-laden heads. She held her 
 apron in one hand, and over its hem fell great masses 
 of wild- wood ferns and columbine, and cool green 
 sprays of vines and moss. The other hand held 
 close to her ear the rim of a beautiful pink-tinted 
 gea-shell. 
 
 " Dorothy," cried the minister's wife, looking up 
 reprovingly, "where hast thou been? Methinks 
 thy Aunt Martha believed thee at the spinning. 
 Where is thy wheel, child?" 
 
 The girl threw back her head and laughed a clear, 
 ringing laugh of girlish merriment. " My wheel, 
 good Mistress Parris, my wheel, I judge, is rusting 
 from want of use. In these summer days the flax 
 doth stick and cling. I trow I like not spinning, but 
 I will tell thee all where I have been. Surely a 
 little diversion should be welcome after this laboring 
 with the flax." 
 
 She paused and looked around mischievously 
 upon the stern-browed group of women, who re 
 turned no answering smile. She heeded not their 
 coldness, but appeared rather to enjoy their discom 
 fort. Coming forward, she laid her hand upon the 
 lathe of Elizabeth's wheel ; it gave a loud whirring 
 sound and stopped violently in the spinning. She
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 53 
 
 laughed loudly as the flax broke with a snap, her 
 pretty, teasing face glowing with merriment. " I 
 am glad 'tis broke ; now thou canst not work, and 
 be a reproach to me in my idleness." 
 
 " I will tell thy aunt of thee," cried Mistress Par- 
 ris, not relishing the loss of linen and time. " The 
 years bring thee no sense or godliness, Dorothy." 
 
 " I fear not Aunt Martha overmuch ; she forgives 
 and forgets my misdeeds. Why not tell Mr. Went- 
 worth ? Yet, listen, scold me no more ; I will tell 
 thee whither I have been whilst thou hast worked." 
 
 The group looked up sternly into the laughing, 
 roguish eyes, and listened, partly unwilling, yet 
 partly won by her sweetness. 
 
 " I have wandered in the forest, where all was 
 cool and quiet, and where the bird and butterfly did 
 bear me joyous company. Thence over the fields 
 and meadows have I walked, e'en down to the edge 
 of the sea. I did rest upon the sand and watch the 
 little waves come up unto my feet, back and forth, 
 back and forth, tiny, blue, lapping waves, and they 
 did sing a right merry song to me. Being warm 
 and tired, I fell asleep beneath the shelter of a rock, 
 and I did dream a bright dream." She paused; a 
 dimness gathered in her eyes. "A dream of a home
 
 54 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 far away, beyond the seas, a home among my father's 
 people. When I awoke I was still in this cold land, 
 where they blame me when I laugh and sing. Ah, 
 that I might have dreamed longer!" 
 
 " Hush, Dorothy, it is not grateful for thee to 
 pine," interrupted Mistress Hodgson; " thou hast 
 been snatched from the fire of wickedness in that 
 benighted land. With thy temperament, thou 
 wouldst most assuredly have fed the blaze which 
 that degenerate people have built to their own un 
 doing." 
 
 " Yet let me tell thee," cried Dorothy, unheeding 
 this reproof, " something that will make thee all put 
 thy wheels against the wall and go with me." 
 
 "What dost thou mean, Dorothy? What hast 
 thou to tell?" asked Elizabeth quickly. 
 
 " Now hold thy patience, Elizabeth. When I did 
 awake from my dream I did start and sit upright ; 
 mine eyes were dim at first, but presently far away 
 against the sky, full as far as my vision could reach, 
 I did behold a great ship. Its sails were unfurled 
 like the wings of a spirit, and its bows were turned 
 toward me." 
 
 The women all arose quickly, and gazed excitedly 
 toward the speaking girl.
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 55 
 
 " And I did speak aloud, and say, ' 'Tis the good 
 ship " Hope," so long expected. It is filled with 
 new souls for the colony, and much merchandise.' 
 I watched it growing larger and larger, and coming 
 nearer and nearer ; in my excitement I saw naught 
 else ; it seemed to fill the whole space between sky 
 and sea." 
 
 " Sayst thou truly, Dorothy?" cried the excited 
 women. 
 
 " Ay, truly, and I did place this sea-shell against 
 mine ear, and it did speak to me of the sea and the 
 ships. And it did whisper at first but faintly, then 
 in a low and sadder voice, ' Dorothy, yonder ship 
 brings some one to thee ; some one looks thy way.' 
 . Think ye, Mistress Parris, it can be one of my father's 
 people? For of a truth I did hear the shell say, 
 ' Dorothy, Dorothy, I am coming to thee.' ' 
 
 " Thou art a fanciful child ; none can speak to 
 thee that hath not life. 'Tis thine idleness, my child, 
 that aileth thee ; far better were it that no tidings 
 of thy father's people ever reached thine ears. Come, 
 let us hasten to the shore and bid a right welcome 
 cheer to the emigrants. They have good winds to 
 their favor, and soon, if Dorothy sayeth truly, will 
 be beyond the bar. Waste no time ; hasten to the
 
 56 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 harbor." She turned eagerly to the women, who 
 had already commenced to place their wheels against 
 the wall. 
 
 No news of such great and welcome import ever 
 greeted the ears of the early settlers as that announc 
 ing the arrival of a ship from the fair, far-off land of 
 England. It meant a wider interest ; it meant news 
 from absent ones ; it meant gifts and added com 
 forts ; it meant an increase in the settlement, also a 
 knowledge of the political situation of the mother- 
 country. In short, it meant every joy desirable to 
 the good people of two hundred years ago. 
 
 So the good wives gathered on the shore to bid 
 the brave ship welcome. They did not hurrah and 
 cheer, as we would of a later date ; they stood sober 
 and quiet, uttering little ejaculations of thankfulness 
 to God for His great mercies. The good ship 
 " Hope " came to anchor, the emigrants landed, and 
 great was the sober rejoicing. 
 
 Alden Wentworth stood by Dorothy's side and 
 gazed down upon her sparkling face, a look of tender 
 yearning in his deep-set, solemn eyes. He con 
 stantly experienced, when with her, an unsatisfied 
 longing, that, owing to his own conservativeness, 
 gave little promise of gathering a plentiful harvest
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 57 
 
 from that unawakened nature, yet hovering upon 
 the narrow borderland between childhood and 
 womanhood. 
 
 "Thou art glad, Dorothy," he said, "to see the 
 landing? " 
 
 "Ay, truly," she answered; " I wot it brings me 
 some one from England. I trust it brings some one 
 of my father's kin." 
 
 He started at these words. " Thy father's kin!" 
 he echoed. "And art thou not content, that thou 
 shouldst seek the society of those unhallowed 
 ones? " 
 
 She drew away from him ; he frightened her, and 
 she perceptibly shrank from him. 
 
 "They are of my father's people," she explained. 
 " I know not that they are wicked because they 
 differ from us." 
 
 As she thus spoke a gorgeous apparition stepped 
 from the gang-plank to the shore. A murmur of 
 disapprobation ran through the assembled throng. 
 And, indeed, most appalling must it have been to 
 the sober-minded, solemn Puritans to thus behold 
 this splendidly attired personage, a full-fledged cav 
 alier, their hatred and abomination. 
 
 The crimson velvet breeches, with ruffles of lace
 
 58 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 hanging full below the knee ; the russet-leather top- 
 boots ; the slashed satin coat, with soft puffings of 
 mull between the slashes ; the great hat with its 
 nodding plumes held in place by a jeweled buckle ; 
 the embroidered gloves ; and above all, the saucy, 
 smiling, handsome face of a gay follower of a cor 
 rupt court and a licentious monarch. He looked 
 upon the solemn assemblage with an amused smile ; 
 an expression of half-haughty condescension curved 
 his short upper lip, which sported a blond curled 
 mustache. 
 
 He was alone, and appeared to know no one. He 
 passed through the crowd, which fell away from him 
 as from one who was contaminated, and who might 
 spread some deadly disease, moral, at least, if not 
 physical. 
 
 Dorothy gazed openly upon him, her blue eyes 
 wide and staring with unconcealed admiration for 
 the glitter and glimmer of the stranger's magnifi 
 cence. 
 
 He saw her, and started perceptibly, his step 
 halting slightly, and looked boldly upon that sweet 
 face, yet filled with but the glow of curious, innocent 
 childhood. Curious she was, indeed, to see some
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 59 
 
 one from the gay life of that land of which she 
 dreamed and thought continually. Like a child 
 whom the first glimpse of some unsuspected beauty 
 has completely mastered, she gave a little gasp of 
 delight, and bent eagerly forward. He passed on, 
 leaving her blushing deeply at his bold glance and 
 looking down. 
 
 Alden Wentworth turned to a neighbor standing 
 near, and said, " Hast heard whom yonder bird of 
 bright plumage may be? May the Lord preserve 
 us from all such." 
 
 " They do say he is Sir Grenville Lawson. The 
 account he gave of himself on shipboard is this. At 
 least my cousin Timothy from Harrow, who is among 
 the newly arrived, has so informed me. He was a 
 cavalier at the court of Charles. Since the accession 
 of William and Mary and the flight of James he hath 
 been indiscreet, and for political reasons seeks an 
 asylum in the New World till the storm blows past. 
 Bestrew me, but he is a merry gallant, if one can 
 read a countenance aright." 
 
 Alden Wentworth turned quickly toward Doro 
 thy ; she was looking after the departing stranger. 
 
 " Look not his way, Dorothy," he said. " Satan
 
 60 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 hath many guises for his followers, and many tricks 
 to catch the hearts of the unwary ; this man belongs 
 to the company of the lost, misguided ones." 
 
 Dorothy did not reply. She felt a coldness and 
 depression coming over her as the bright presence 
 of the stranger was withdrawn, even as a thick sea- 
 mist shuts out the beauty of the land. When she 
 spoke her voice was low and sad. 
 
 " The good ship ' Hope ' hath brought no one to 
 me. I did so earnestly believe it would. In faith, 
 my father's people have forgotten me." 
 
 Alden turned almost fiercely upon her. It was 
 as if the true nature of the man endeavored to out 
 step the bounds of austerity, which like bands of 
 steel fettered his life of narrow conventionality. The 
 aching and jealous longing of his heart at length 
 found utterance. 
 
 " What dost thou desire, Dorothy, from another 
 land than this? Thy desire should be here, in this 
 thy home. Art thou not mine? Am I not thine? " 
 
 She drew away from him ; he saw the motion 
 with a cold sinking at his heart. 
 
 " Ay," she answered wearily, " thou hast my 
 promise. I am thine and yet and yet " 
 
 " Yet what? " he demanded quickly.
 
 SIR GRENVILLE LAWSON. 6 1 
 
 " I would I were more worthy of thee and that 
 thou didst understand me better." 
 
 The people were now dispersing rapidly, and but 
 few stragglers remained upon the shore. He leaned 
 over her ; when he spoke a depth of passion was in 
 his words and tone. 
 
 " Thou art worthy, thou art ! I am the culprit 
 God forgive me!" He made a frantic gesture with 
 his hands as he spoke. " I seek to take from thee 
 thy life, thy joyous youth; to steal the perfume 
 from the flower ere yet its petals have unfolded ; to 
 crush thee into silence ; to still thy song. And why ? 
 That I might make thee what I desire ; to mold 
 thee to a form that will rob thee of thy greatest 
 charm. Forgive my selfishness. Thou art God's 
 handiwork forgive me!" 
 
 The intense feeling of the man appalled her. The 
 mingling of this abandon of passion with his exterior 
 coldness was beyond her comprehension. She re 
 leased herself from his clinging clasp. 
 
 " I fear thee," she murmured, " I fear thee!" 
 
 " No, no," he said hoarsely, " say not those words. 
 Thou canst not know, Dorothy, what thou art to me. 
 I live in thee!" She drew closer to him again, and 
 looked up into his face as a little child seeking for-
 
 62 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 giveness, yet hardly comprehending in what it has 
 offended. 
 
 " I am grieved if I have pained thee," she said 
 nervously. " I will endeavor to be to thee all that 
 thou wouldst have me. Alden, thou wilt pardon 
 me ? I promise thee I will do better from this 
 time on."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 
 
 A WEEK or more had elapsed since the landing 
 of the emigrant ship " Hope." Dorothy and Went- 
 worth were seated side by side in the porch of the 
 farmhouse. It was evening, and the long shadows 
 were creeping stealthily over the lonely fields, noise 
 less specters mourning for the death of day. These 
 forerunners of the darkness, with ghost-like tread, 
 spread themselves upon the land, clothing it in a 
 subdued, mysterious light. The heavily foliaged 
 trees stood out in one unbroken line of blackness 
 against the sky, from which the after-glow was 
 rapidly fading, leaving level streaks of palest red and 
 purple in its wake. 
 
 The sounds of night insects, mingling with the 
 croaking of frogs and the hoot of the owl, broke 
 upon the stillness with startling intensity. The 
 sweet scents of the shrubs, added to the spicy odor 
 of the ten-weeks stock that grew near the gate, rose 
 upon the air strong and penetrating. 
 
 63
 
 64 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 The couple in the doorway had not spoken for 
 some minutes. Wentworth was thinking deeply, 
 and Dorothy's eyes were seeking to pierce the dark 
 ness ; the solemnity of the hour depressed her some 
 what, her sensitive organization being particularly 
 susceptible to atmospheric influences. She gazed 
 intently before her, toward the forest, as though loth 
 to lose a glimmer of the fast decreasing twilight as 
 it faded behind the great expanse of wooded coun 
 try that towered in the west. 
 
 Presently Alden leaned toward his betrothed, and 
 taking her hand, said in rather a strained, unnatural 
 voice : " Thou knowest that the summer is rapidly 
 passing by, that the days are shortening. When the 
 autumn is here, Dorothy, I would that thou shouldst 
 come to me. I have oft endeavored to speak of 
 this, and have ever desisted for fear of alarming thee ; 
 now I can wait no longer I must speak. What 
 dost thou think, Dorothy?" 
 
 Dorothy arose hurriedly from her seat, and going to 
 the front of the porch gazed silently over the garden 
 to the road beyond. Then she turned and came to 
 ward Wentworth, and laid her hand upon his shoul 
 der. He looked up expectantly, and even in the dim 
 ness he noticed that her face shone with a pale light.
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 65 
 
 " Alden," she said softly, and in her sweet voice 
 was a cadence of deepest sadness, " I told thee once 
 that I did not love thee as thou wouldst have me. 
 I do respect thee and give thee all honor. I am 
 proud that thou hast chosen me. Yet methinks 
 that in my being is a font of affection that is not 
 thine." 
 
 " Not mine ! " he said hurriedly. " Dost thou then 
 love another? Hast thou deceived me?" 
 
 " No, no, not so ; I love none other. I wish to 
 be upright and honest with thee, that is all. Art 
 thou content, art thou fully satisfied to take me as I 
 am ? Perchance when I am older and wiser I shall 
 learn to love thee as thou desirest, and my rebellious 
 will and love of mirth time may yet subdue." 
 
 The child for child she was as yet in years and 
 experience did not comprehend the nearness of the 
 precipice upon which her feet were faltering. She 
 simply felt that she owed Wentworth more than she 
 could give. If he was satisfied, however, with part 
 payment, her responsibility ceased ; she had done 
 all that was required of her, and the link that united 
 her to him became strong enough for her conscience. 
 
 " Thou wilt learn to love me, my beloved ; thou 
 wilt," he said eagerly. " I am fully content with
 
 66 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 thee; I would not have thee other than thou art. 
 Did I force thy true nature into another channel 
 then I should indeed distort the real Dorothy, and 
 in its stead find, no doubt, only a mirthless .echo." 
 He kissed her, and she submitted passively. 
 
 The wedding-day was set for early October. 
 Wentworth would then leave the old manse, where 
 he had previously resided with his superior, Mr. 
 Parris, and go into a house of his own. A rather 
 peculiar custom then prevailed, in direct contrast to 
 the rule of our time at least. A man was allowed 
 no independence whatever until after his marriage. 
 He was obliged to submit in all particulars to the 
 order of the court ; he might not even live alone, 
 but was forced to reside with some family, becoming 
 a member of the household. 
 
 In fact, it is highly probable that these restrictions 
 often forced the poor man into matrimony. The 
 policy of the shrewd old Pilgrim Fathers was not so 
 bad a thing after all ; a householder certainly being 
 a more influential personage in many particulars 
 than a bachelor. 
 
 There was one man in the olden time who was 
 not driven into marriage by the stern decree of the 
 Puritan code. Wentworth, with the heavy odds
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 67 
 
 against him of Dorothy's lukewarmness, worked, 
 planned, and lived for the bright hopes of the 
 future. He silenced the doubts that arose within 
 him, crushing the slightest tendency to a possible 
 disastrous termination of his desires, bidding the 
 small voice be still that warned him of his unwise 
 course. 
 
 The morning following the conversation in the 
 farmhouse porch, Dorothy in her sober gown, bright 
 ened somewhat by a bodice of blue embroidered 
 with silk thread, her dun-colored cape of "tiffany" 
 across her shoulders, her little Puritan cap upon her 
 head, took her way over the newly mown fields to 
 the meeting-house. She held her psalm-book in 
 her hand, and as she walked gazed demurely down 
 at the ground, endeavoring to force her tripping 
 steps into a mincing, sober gait, as became a Puritan 
 maiden on her way to meeting. 
 
 She was thinking of many things ; among others, 
 that it would not be very long now before she would 
 be Dorothy Wentworth. All would be so changed. 
 She and Alden would walk side by side to meeting, 
 and she would sit in one of the uppermost seats, the 
 large square pew on the side of the pulpit, which 
 faced the " foreseat," as it was called the seat of
 
 68 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 greatest honor, kept sacred for the dignitaries of the 
 colony. 
 
 This seat was raised some inches above the floor, 
 and poor Dorothy knew that in this exalted position 
 she should never dare smile during the sermon or 
 the most lengthy prayer; it would scandalize the 
 deacons, whose stern eyes she knew would follow 
 her every motion. 
 
 Her mouth looked pensive and there was a listless 
 droop in the willowy figure. She met many neigh 
 bors on her way, who greeted her with a staid in 
 clination of the head. She walked behind her aunt 
 and uncle, who stalked along silently in best attire, 
 their faces drawn down into appropriate gravity for 
 the service of the day. 
 
 On Sunday morning in New England in the long 
 ago those whose homes were near the church edifice 
 always walked reverently and slowly along the grass- 
 grown streets to service. Those who lived at a dis 
 tance rose early, sometimes with the sun ; they sad 
 dled their horses, and with a pillion strapped on 
 behind each saddle for wife or daughter they rode 
 across the fields, or took the narrow bridle paths 
 through the thick woods to church. No storms, no 
 hardships ever interfered with this, their first duty.
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 69 
 
 Many curious eyes followed Dorothy's winsome, 
 sober face as she entered the building and seated 
 herself sedately by her aunt. Her uncle joined the 
 men on the other side, that being the accepted 
 custom. 
 
 Dorothy experienced a peculiar sensation of ela 
 tion, surely pardonable, that after all she had carried 
 off the prize without so much as preparing a single 
 weapon of warfare. This thought lent a slight dig 
 nity to her youthful bearing. 
 
 Presently the minister and deacons entered. Dor 
 othy flushed slightly as she encountered a grave, 
 kind glance from Alden Wentworth. The service 
 commenced after seating the meeting, which pro 
 ceeding took much time. Though the Puritans dis 
 approved of ceremonies and forms, yet, with praise 
 worthy inconsistency, each individual was assigned 
 a place in the church according to his position of 
 rank or importance, and a high seat in the synagogue 
 was a boon earnestly desired. 
 
 One can see the picture distinctly, descending like 
 a pale ghost through the mist of many generations, 
 a sad-colored ghost indeed : the pkin whitewashed 
 walls of the meeting-house reflecting the glare of 
 the sun from the staring, uncurtained windows ; the
 
 70 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 rows of sober-faced, sedate men and women, upon 
 whose countenances were plainly marked the traces 
 of their mournful existences ; the benches of unruly, 
 riotous boys, belabored now and then by raps from 
 the stick of the tithing-man, that fussy personage 
 who flittered here and there as occasion required, no 
 doubt delighted at the prospect of changing his posi 
 tion as often as possible ; the monotonous droning 
 of the psalms ; the spiders spinning in the rough- 
 hewn beams aloft ; the nodding, weary little chil 
 dren, seated on their" hard hassocks ; without the 
 church the sound of many birds and insects, and the 
 distant swash of the waters on the shores of the har 
 bor. There is nothing cheerful in this picture. We 
 surely have the best of it in the nineteenth century. 
 The sun fell upon Dorothy's bright face as she 
 sang in her sweet tones the quaint old hymns, the 
 words of which ran into each other in a most puz 
 zling manner, the meaning as abstruse as the tunes 
 were grating. Still it was singing, and Dorothy 
 greatly enjoyed it. In her absorption she was not 
 conscious of a step that paused hesitatingly near her 
 and then proceeded. Presently she became aware 
 of a bright red glow upon the floor of the aisle a 
 glow that appeared to creep, like some living thing,
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 71 
 
 along the floor. She turned quickly, almost drop 
 ping her psalm-book, and looked into the face of Sir 
 Grenville Lawson, who stood but a few feet from 
 her in the center of the aisle. The scarlet gleam 
 upon the floor was caused by the sun reflecting the 
 rich hue of his satin cloak. He gave her a glance 
 keen and penetrating, then turned abruptly and took 
 a seat nearly opposite her among the men. 
 
 Dorothy had seen Sir Grenville thrice since he 
 came to Salem. Twice had she passed him on the 
 village street, but had not then raised her eyes to 
 gaze upon him. Had not Alden said he was a 
 degenerate sinner? Once again near the forest, 
 where, the path being narrow, he stepped into the 
 brambles that grew on the side to give her room to 
 pass. He had doffed his hat, and with bold glance 
 and courtly bow had bid her proceed. She had 
 smiled shyly into his handsome face, blushed, and 
 passed by, conscious that he looked after her, and 
 when she reached a safe distance she herself looked 
 back and saw him standing watching her. 
 
 The psalm-book trembled in her hand, her voice 
 ceased singing abruptly, and she watched him with 
 covert admiration from under her long lashes. From 
 admiration her thoughts drifted into interest. In
 
 72 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 Dorothy's composition reverence certainly held a 
 small part as yet. Any subject to occupy her 
 thoughts during these wretched, weary hours was 
 seized upon with avidity. 
 
 She fancied herself the center of some happy, im 
 possible situation. Her mind soared far away from 
 the monotonous voice of Mr. Parris, as he proceeded 
 laboriously to expound his doctrines in sundry 
 dreary, intricate passages, filled with doleful fore 
 bodings of everlasting damnation, to his grave, re 
 spectful flock. She did not see the little meeting 
 house, nor the hearers, nor the spiders spinning, 
 nor the fussy tithing-man. Her imagination painted 
 a much more alluring picture. She saw instead a 
 beautiful home far away over the seas, in that 
 pleasant land of England. She saw the k'ing and 
 queen, the splendors of the court, and she triumphant 
 amidst it all ; and by her side, not Alden, the staid 
 Puritan judge, in his black attire and with his dreary 
 views of living ; instead, a gay and knightly form 
 in satin, lace, and jewels. She laughed, sang, and 
 danced, and acted out her nature. Poor little simple 
 Dorothy dreamed and sang mechanically, absorbed 
 in the airy fabrics of her brain. 
 
 The long, tedious service at last drew to a close ;
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 73 
 
 the pious members rose, much elated that Mr. Parris 
 had been able to preach two hours and twenty min 
 utes on the ever- popular subject of the terrible pun 
 ishment of sin by fire and brimstone. 
 
 Dorothy came out into the aisle, and Sir Grenville 
 came from his place opposite, fate pointing with 
 mocking finger at the pair as side by side they 
 walked forth into the sunshine of that perfect Sab 
 bath morning. 
 
 Mr. Parris and Wentworth, with the rest of the 
 deacons, stood in the church door to greet the parish 
 ioners as they came forth, shaking hands, and asking 
 sundry questions of interest, principally regarding 
 domestic matters. 
 
 As Dorothy advanced, the glow of Sir Grenville's 
 scarlet cloak seemed enveloping her sober-tinted 
 gown in ruddy light. It touched her hair, her face, 
 and thence wandered down upon her garments. 
 Thus Alden saw her as she came out into the day 
 light, and a jealous rage arose within him, a spark 
 of anger crept into his eyes. This nearness of his 
 chosen one to this abomination of wickedness ap 
 peared to him like desecration. 
 
 Sir Grenville bowed and passed back of her, hesi 
 tating a moment as if intending to speak. He re-
 
 74 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 ceived no encouragement, however, from the black- 
 browed clergyman or the grave deacons, who stood 
 cold and erect. He smiled and hastened by, going 
 alone up the village street. 
 
 The summer days passed rapidly, and beautiful 
 September beamed with kindly smiles that held 
 within their radiance some of the warmth of the 
 departed season. The time of the cutting of wheat, 
 the harvesting of apples, the gathering of nuts had 
 come, with its added burden of work to the little 
 town. 
 
 Martha was very industriously planning and spin 
 ning for the bride. Great preparations were making 
 in the farmhouse. Dorothy grew quiet and morose, 
 and expressed little interest in the proceedings, tak 
 ing no part in the weaving. She went seldom to 
 the new house now building on the outskirts of the 
 village, the erection of which Wentworth watched 
 with pride and interest. 
 
 Dorothy's aunt did not chide her, though inwardly 
 she was much disturbed. If Alden was satisfied, 
 she argued, why should she complain? It was for 
 him to speak, not her. 
 
 It was now the 2Oth of September, but three 
 weeks before the wedding-day. Dorothy was nerv-
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 75 
 
 cms and restless. The chain which she had at first 
 been willing to assume now proved unbearably irk 
 some. Each day, as it brought her nearer to that 
 new position, brought with it dread. She betook 
 herself one afternoon to her favorite nook in the 
 forest, seeking a moss-covered tree-trunk that grew 
 near a rippling stream, too remote from the confines 
 of the woods for danger of interruption. It was a 
 densely shaded spot, cool, damp, and still. Nature's 
 sweet companionship soothed her into rest. Here 
 she reposed and watched the dancing brook, address 
 ing it in tones of tender endearment as it hurried on 
 its way. The forest gloom was deep around her ; a 
 few stray gleams of sunshine fell through the heavy 
 foliage, though scarce illuminating the somber sur 
 roundings, and causing the darkness to seem more 
 dark where they did not descend. 
 
 As she leaned back against the tree an inde 
 finable sensation crept over her, the consciousness 
 of another's presence. Terrified at the thought of 
 the possible proximity of some supernatural agency, 
 she started from her seat, intending to turn her steps 
 homeward. 
 
 As she did so, a man stepped out from the gloom 
 of the overhanging shrubs and vines. He stood
 
 76 DOROTHY Till-: 1'1'KITAX. 
 
 quietly an instant, the straggling sunbeams falling 
 upon the jewel in his hat, thence down upon his rich 
 apparel. She took a few steps forward, blushing 
 deeply, her breath coming quickly. Like a timid 
 woodland fawn uncertain of the good intentions of 
 its hunter, she hesitated, and receded a few steps. 
 Her timidity was exquisite in its naturalness. 
 
 " Do not be afraid," said the cavalier, advancing. 
 " I have watched for you this many a day." He 
 did not use the quaint tJicc and tJiou of the Puritans. 
 " I have with patience discovered where you make 
 your haunts. In yonder vile town, where they dread 
 lest I breed a pestilence by my presence, I have 
 sought and gained information. I know much of 
 your history." 
 
 She came nearer to him, watching him eagerly. 
 " Know much of my history!" she echoed. 
 
 " Ay, indeed," he said. 
 
 " Then tell me ; I long to hear," she said earnestly. 
 
 " Your father, Trooper Grey, was known to me 
 from stories heard at court. He was a well-known 
 protege of Charles." Here the cavalier paused, as 
 if amused at some recollection which the uttering 
 of this name aroused. He then continued more 
 earnestly : " I feel some sympathy for his daughter,
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 77 
 
 compelled to a living death among this stiffnecked 
 people. " Your father angered the king when he 
 married your mother, the Puritan, and indeed his 
 marriage was a mystery, for a better mimic of these 
 worthy saints never pleased a merrier monarch. Ah 
 well, Cupid takes his revenge at times." He ad 
 vanced nearer and took her hand, which she held out 
 tremblingly before her. " Be not afraid ; I would 
 not harm a hair of that lovely head." 
 
 "Thou" she gasped " thou art Sir Grenville 
 Lawson, the courtier. What seekst thou of me, the 
 Puritan? Sayest thou truly thou hast heard of my 
 father? It is no jest, no prank that thou wouldst 
 play? " 
 
 " Truth is in my words," he answered. Her blue 
 eyes shone with excitement. " I seek to offer com 
 fort," he continued. " I can read a riddle: I know 
 the story of the coming wedding in Salem. It be 
 hooves me to say the bride is not happy ; she is even 
 now distraught with perplexities and doubts doubts 
 of her right to wed the saintly Mr. Wentworth, with 
 but coldness for him in her heart." 
 
 " What right hast thou, a stranger, to address me 
 thus?" she replied quickly. 
 
 " The right I take in saving so much grace and
 
 78 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 beauty from a fate so dire in this benighted spot of 
 the New World. You are as yet innocent of what 
 the world contains. I trow I could tell a story that 
 would make a smile as bright as heaven come over 
 the sweetest face the sun ever shone upon." As he 
 spoke he leaned toward her and looked boldly and 
 laughingly into her downcast countenance. 
 
 She gave him a shy glance, and said, " Tell me 
 the story, Sir Grenville, I would fain hear it. Is it 
 of fair England? " 
 
 He laughed softly. " It is of England. Ah, that 
 I could with the power of words depict the joys of 
 that gay city of London! It is pitiful that one born 
 to grace so high a state should feel but half the pulse 
 of living. Of a certainty it is death when one lays 
 aside all that makes life bearable. One can renounce 
 no more when he lies down in the cold earth forever." 
 
 Then followed a long account of the feasts and 
 revels, of the court pageants, the gorgeous dresses 
 of the knights and the fair ladies. Dorothy listened 
 entranced, clasping her small hands and looking 
 earnestly into his face. She became absorbed, car 
 ried beyond a thought of the impropriety of thus 
 conversing in these lonely woods with a stranger, and 
 one, too, so steeped in the wiles of Satan.
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 79 
 
 " And thou hast seen all this? " she asked. "Ah, 
 that I might have just one little glimpse ! But no, 
 I never shall." 
 
 " Why not? " he said. " Surely you have a right 
 in the disposal of your future; your life is your 
 own." 
 
 She shook her head sadly but decidedly. " No, 
 no, I have no right ; I am a ward and under age. 
 But let me tell thee why I was so sad when thou 
 didst draw near to comfort me for thou hast com 
 forted me with thy beauteous story." She hesitated, 
 awed by the unusual desire that assailed her to thus 
 confide in a stranger. But Sir Grenville urged her 
 to proceed, drawing nearer to her, and watching de 
 lightedly the varying expressions of her innocent 
 face. 
 
 " I will tell thee, then," she said. " It was but 
 this morn that I did search in the old chest in the 
 garret for things wherewith to add to my wedding 
 outfit. I did find there a gorgeous robe of blue 
 tiffany and a red whittle embroidered in gold, and a 
 coiffure with long silk lappets, and sundry other 
 parts of a gala dress. They were fine!" she cried 
 excitedly. " Furthermore, I did find a long chain 
 of gold beads" She paused. "Oh, such bright
 
 80 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 gold beads ! I donned this brave attire and did 
 descend to the kitchen to Aunt Martha." The tears 
 gathered in her eyes ; she hesitated. 
 
 " Well, what then? " urged Sir Grenville. " I wot 
 the old dame was wroth," he laughed. 
 
 " She was greatly angered with me. She said 
 they were my mother's robes, given her by my god 
 less father, and she did keep them hidden. I must 
 e'en take them off and put them away. She would 
 not let me have the golden beads, though I beggcd 
 with tears." 
 
 Sir Grenville threw back his head and laughed 
 loudly. He had removed his large hat and thrown 
 it on the grass beside him ; his blonde hair shone 
 brightly in the light. 
 
 "That is of a certainty a grievous trouble," he 
 replied soothingly, becoming grave at her expression 
 of solemn surprise at his mirth ; " but fret not. Come 
 here this time to-morrow, and I will give you a far 
 more costly chain of gold than that Aunt Martha 
 has refused to give. Your trouble is one that will 
 quickly heal." 
 
 " Ah, no, no," she said, shaking her head. "Aunt 
 Martha would not let me keep it." 
 
 He watched her curiously an instant, then said,
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 81 
 
 " Why tell her? Keep the secret. What she does 
 not know will not trouble her; take this little gift 
 from me. Come to-morrow and I will bring the 
 chain. Be not alarmed ; I will not bind you with 
 the bauble." 
 
 She still shook her head. " I fear me it is not 
 right, yet methinks I desire much to possess the 
 beads. Yet if I may not speak of them they do not 
 benefit me ; as well might they remain in the old 
 chest in the garret." 
 
 " Those treasures in the chest are not in your 
 possession ; there will be a great difference, as you 
 will find when you own the gold chain. Our neigh 
 bor's good things, be they never so costly, equal 
 not our own little jewel of perchance but meager 
 price." 
 
 She still reiterated her denial. " I dare not," she 
 said. 
 
 "Are they not worth this little walk and talk?" 
 urged Sir Grenville coaxingly. " And they would 
 so well become you." 
 
 " Perchance I shall come, then, to the woods 
 again, if thou art sure I do no harm. Yet I will not 
 take the beads; I will but look and admire them." 
 
 " Harm ! " he cried. "As much harm as the dove
 
 82 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 does, or the gentle lamb. I shall look to-morrow 
 at this hour for your sweet presence, and shall bring 
 the jewel for your inspection." 
 
 He took her hand, and bowing low over it, kissed 
 it. She blushed and drew it quickly away. 
 
 " I fear me thou art over bold," she said. 
 
 " It is the custom at the court," he explained. 
 "And be not angry if I bring the bauble ; if you 
 are still hard-hearted I shall take it back. I cannot 
 force it upon you. Methinks," he laughed softly, 
 " when once seen it will prove a powerful argu 
 ment." As he spoke these last words he cast a 
 piercing glance upon her. 
 
 She shivered under it. " I will come," she said 
 simply, and left him, not looking back, but going 
 quietly over the meadows toward the farm. 
 
 That night a new strength came to the girl, and 
 she resolved to go no more to the woods ; yet with 
 this resolve mingled the desire for further converse 
 with the fascinating cavalier. When the morning 
 dawned her will had weakened ; as the sun dries up 
 the dew upon the grass, so the light chased away 
 her good resolutions. 
 
 The soft glow of the afternoon sun, shimmering 
 through thick-leaved boughs, fell upon Dorothy
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 83 
 
 seated once more by the side of Sir Grenville. He 
 had drawn the glittering coil of gold from the bosom 
 of his lace-frilled shirt, and was holding it up to her 
 admiring gaze. 
 
 "Ah!" she exclaimed, entranced. "It is most 
 beautiful ! I would it were not wrong to take it 
 from thee ; I fear Satan controls my will and forces 
 me to wish for its possession. But let me hold it in 
 my hand once that will be no harm ; I will give it 
 back to thee." 
 
 He held it out to her, and she took it in her hand ; 
 the glittering chain seemed to coil around her slen 
 der fingers like some living thing. She leaned over 
 it, examining its workmanship ; then, holding it to 
 ward him, she spoke : 
 
 " Perchance I might take it from thee, were it not 
 for a troublous dream I had yesternight. In my 
 dream I saw my mother bending above me ; she 
 held her arms out toward me, as though to draw 
 me to her, and she did say, ' Dorothy, my child, 
 my child, may God protect thee!' I tried to go to 
 her ; I could not ; something of great force held me 
 back, and when I looked to see whence came this 
 great strength, it was a chain of gold that did bind 
 me. Then I did awake, and in the moonlight on
 
 84 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 the floor I thought I saw my mother kneeling. I 
 heard low sounds of weeping, though of a certainty 
 that must have been the wind ; and I was cold and 
 much affrighted, and did repeat, to reassure myself, 
 one of the psalms." 
 
 For an instant Sir Grenville's hand that held the 
 trinket trembled. He made a gesture as if to re 
 place it in the bosom of his shirt ; a troubled look 
 came upon his face ; then he threw up his head 
 defiantly and laughed. 
 
 " Truly your dream was of a troubled nature. A 
 dream is naught ; forget it. The moonlight must 
 have fallen across your face and addled your brain. 
 Let me clasp this chain about your throat, then look 
 you in yonder clear brook and see how well it be 
 comes you." 
 
 " I will not promise to take it from thee," she 
 pouted ; " I will but place it upon my throat and 
 then return it." 
 
 Sir Grenville smiled. " When it shines upon your 
 white neck I wot you must possess it, else you were 
 not a woman." 
 
 She allowed him to clasp the jeweled trinket about 
 her slim throat, her blushes coming and going, and 
 her eyes shining. Then, stooping over the clear
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 85 
 
 pool, where the little brook had widened and made 
 a natural mirror framed in a delicate fringe of softest 
 green moss, she gazed intently at the reflection of 
 herself. She turned her head to catch the glitter of 
 the beads as the sun shone upon them. Sir Greri- 
 ville looked over her shoulder, his handsome face 
 close to hers, his breath warm on her cheek. No 
 warning came to the smiling girl that far off in the 
 west a cloud was rising, a cloud scarce larger than a 
 bubble, and scarce more tangible, but from whose 
 infinitesimal beginning might ere long gather a 
 mighty tempest. 
 
 Dorothy smiled at the two reflections in the 
 stream, and said, " Methinks I will keep the trinket, 
 it becomes me well ; and I will follow thy advice 
 and say naught of it." 
 
 Dorothy came again many times to the seclusion 
 of her woodland haunt, and never did she sit alone 
 upon the gnarled seat of oak. Sir Grenville under 
 stood perfectly the nature he was dealing with, and 
 was most wary and cautious in his advances. He 
 had been trained in the school of duplicity, and 
 made an excellent instructor for so pliable and inno 
 cent a scholar as Dorothy. 
 
 Alden Wentworth was forgotten ; his stern, quiet
 
 86 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 image faded from her mind ; in its place stood the 
 gay, smiling face of the courtier. The domestic 
 
 future that would have been hers in the new home 
 
 
 
 now building gave place to a glittering life beyond 
 the seas a life so radiant with all this world can 
 offer that her imagination soared upward in a tumult 
 of exaltation and triumph. 
 
 The wedding-day drew near. October, cool, 
 crisp, and beautiful, came with soft winds and a blue 
 haze upon the hills. Among the woods the trees 
 gleamed in gold and scarlet ; the fields and late 
 fall flowers glowed with a tropical splendor ; in the 
 woods and reedy marshes hundreds of fall birds 
 came flocking to become a prey to the hunter. The 
 little village basked pleasantly in the grateful warmth, 
 which was the more welcome in anticipation of the 
 rigors of coming winter. 
 
 Dorothy, her cheeks bright with color, her face 
 radiant, flittered with an unusual restlessness in and 
 out of the farmhouse. She kept aloof as much as 
 possible from Wentworth, startling him at times 
 with unaccountable fits of childish petulance. He 
 watched her with a hungry wistfulness that was most 
 pathetic to behold. He scarcely understood her 
 varied moods, yet he trusted her perfectly, and
 
 DOROTHY'S TEMPTATION. 87 
 
 loved her with a passion that had complete posses 
 sion of him. 
 
 The strict discipline of his age and creed might 
 have made him suspicious of the motives of others, but 
 the innate goodness of his mind and heart counter 
 acted this possible effect. He looked upon Dorothy 
 through the lens of his affection an affection not 
 unmixed with awe, for he felt that she had qualities 
 beyond his comprehension. She was to him as a 
 beautiful wild bird, whose strange songs and flutter 
 ing wings would become quiet when her true rest 
 ing-place was found. 
 
 The stolen meetings in the dim recesses of the 
 woods continued. At length came a memorable 
 day, when Dorothy, her hand held closely by Sir 
 Grenville, upon her ringer a jeweled circlet which 
 was to be removed and concealed later, promised to 
 leave Salem secretly, go with him to Boston, there 
 marry him, then cross the seas to England as Lady 
 Grenville Lawson.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 THE early morning sunshine cast pale, cold rays 
 upon the wooden floor of the kitchen at the Holden 
 farm. The breakfast- table was set for the plain, 
 substantial breakfast, while Martha bustled about the 
 stove, rattling pots and pans. David was seated 
 near the window, looking out over the fields, where 
 the wheat rose in stacks and the corn stood tied in 
 hillocks, the yellow pumpkins showing between the 
 rows. 
 
 The brother and sister had not spoken for some 
 minutes ; then David, turning from his dreamy sur 
 vey of the fields, looked anxiously toward Martha ; 
 she, as if compelled by his glance, turned quickly. 
 
 " Martha," he said, a heavy frown upon his stern 
 face, " I have suffered much this past night in my 
 mind about Dorothy. The child's manner is un 
 natural, and yestereven, when Wentworth came 
 nigh her, she shuddered and drew away from him ;
 
 THE FLIGHT. 89 
 
 I saw the motion with dismay. Alas ! I fear some 
 hideous outcome from this strange demeanor. Anx 
 ious thoughts of her robbed me of my hours of 
 sleep." 
 
 " Out upon thy prating, man!" said Martha stur 
 dily, brandishing an iron pot in her hand. " The girl 
 is, as all girls are, silly and full of whims. I tell 
 thee Alden Wentworth will tame her. He is patient 
 now for blind love of her; when he is the master I 
 wot he will clip her wings." 
 
 " I know not, I know not. Dost think we did 
 wrong to urge the child? Perchance, had she her 
 way, she would not have married him." 
 
 " I tell thee, David, thou art a weak fool. Why 
 not bid a riotous colt go its way through the streets? 
 Dost thou not bridle it till it is subdued and tamed ? 
 Dorothy is but a child ; I take no doubt to my con 
 science but we did the right in compelling her." 
 
 " It may be ; and yet for reasons that do assail 
 me at times I am anxious. I have judged, 'tis true, 
 but by her looks and fearsome manner." 
 
 " 'Tis all right, take my word for that. Though 
 at times I well-nigh lose all patience, I subdue my 
 desire to punish her. So bide, David; let her go 
 her way. Alden is a saint-like man, yet he is mas-
 
 9O DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 terful. The results of his training will tell a different 
 story a year hence, so fear not." She paused and 
 took some steaming porridge from the fire, and placed 
 it upon the table. Having accomplished this, she 
 stood a moment in the center of the room, irresolute, 
 then continued, " The child is late this morn ; she 
 has overslept. I will call her." 
 
 Martha walked across the kitchen to the inner 
 room, whence her voice came loud and shrill, calling 
 Dorothy to breakfast. No voice responded from the 
 upper chamber. David leaned forward, his head 
 bowed within his hands. " Yes, she is late," he said. 
 
 Presently Martha reentered the kitchen ; her face 
 wore a strange expression. She walked slowly, and 
 in her hand she held a crumpled sheet of paper. 
 " David David," she gasped, coming forward, " she 
 she has left us! " 
 
 The woman laid her hand upon the side of the 
 kitchen table, as if to steady herself, and stared 
 straight before her. David snatched the letter from 
 his sister's hand. He did not speak, but the heavy 
 frown deepened between his brows. Then he read 
 the note aloud in a low, firm voice, his manner giv 
 ing the impression that he had expected this, and 
 was prepared to meet it.
 
 THE FLIGHT. 91 
 
 " ' AUNT MARTHA AND UNCLE DAVID : I am 
 unhappy in Salem. I go to my father's people. I 
 give Alden back his troth, and I beseech thee, if 
 thou hast loved me, to forgive 
 
 " ' DOROTHY.' 
 
 "That is all," said David; " she has forgotten all 
 these years of love and care ; there is no word of 
 gratitude. Yet 'tis unlike Dorothy ; she was ever 
 grateful. Methinks some evil spirit hath entered 
 into her, and she doeth this thing against her will." 
 
 "Against her will!" shrieked Martha, the rage 
 that burned within her leaping all bounds. " She 
 hath for her heritage the godless spirit of her father ; 
 she hath no heart or soul for good ; she is an un 
 grateful, deceitful, lying wench. I cast her from 
 me ; no part within me holds she from henceforth ; 
 no home of mine shall she enter more." 
 
 David laid his hand upon the shoulder of the trem 
 bling, excited woman. " Martha, remember she is 
 our little sister's child ; remember the promise thou 
 hast made to her dead mother." 
 
 Martha tore herself from his touch and burst into 
 a torrent of sobs, leaning her head down upon the 
 table, her shoulders shaking with a paroxysm of
 
 92 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 grief. David stood over her, looking down sadly 
 upon her bowed head. 
 
 " Martha," he said, " God hath afflicted us." His 
 voice had a solemn ring, like the voice of a minister 
 when he reads the last rites over the dead. " He 
 has permitted this grief to come upon us ; all that 
 He doeth is right." 
 
 The couple did not hear a step upon the narrow 
 walk that led around the side of the house, nor did 
 they move until a voice said : 
 
 " Good-morning, Mistress Holden. I am an early 
 caller; the freshest bunch of Michaelmas daisies in 
 all Salem I must perforce bring Dorothy, the dew 
 yet wet upon their leaves. Has she not risen?" 
 
 Martha lifted her head ; her swollen, tear-stained 
 face was filled with terror and dismay. She held 
 out her shaking hands toward Wentworth, who, 
 sorely puzzled, stood upon the threshold holding the 
 bunch of fall flowers in his hand. 
 
 " Alden Alden, God give me strength to tell 
 thee! She hath left thee hath given thee back 
 thy troth ; she has renounced thee, and we shall see 
 her no more." 
 
 Alden Wentworth did not move; he had not 
 grasped her meaning. He stood irresolute a moment,
 
 THE FLIGHT. 93 
 
 then advanced a step. " Given me back my troth? 
 I know not what thou canst mean," he said slowly. 
 
 "Read this read this! She was not in her 
 room last night ; she has gone ; this is what is left 
 us." Martha held the note out toward him. 
 
 Wentworth took the note, and the flowers dropped 
 from his nerveless fingers upon the floor, and lay 
 there, mute reproaches for their useless mission. He 
 read the few words and handed the note back. A 
 pallor spread itself over his dark face, a dullness 
 settled in his eyes. 
 
 " Hath she left naught for me ? " he said. " Sure 
 ly, surely she cannot have forgotten that I would 
 suffer most." 
 
 " She hath left naught," answered Martha. 
 
 The morning breeze blew gently through the 
 open door, carrying with it the sweet, cool odors of 
 the autumn ; it rustled the leaves of the bunch of 
 daisies that lay upon the floor. 
 
 "Naught?" he cried. "Then, O my God, I am 
 indeed left desolate. Dorothy, Dorothy, thou hast 
 broken my heart!" 
 
 He swayed slightly, but steadied himself, and 
 passed his hand across his brow. Then he stooped 
 and picked up the flowers, and handed them with a
 
 94 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 sad smile to Martha. " I have brought them for 
 her burial, it seemeth. She is dead." He paused, 
 then continued in a low voice, as if communing with 
 himself: "Perchance such love as mine shall but 
 slumber in hope, and in a better world will re 
 awaken, where Dorothy and I shall have eternity 
 together. I might have seen this result, had I not 
 forced myself into blindness. I have been a weak 
 fool; she never loved me, and I knew it." 
 
 Martha was frightened. His quiet, self-contained 
 nature had never, to their knowledge, overstepped 
 the bounds of a gentle passiveness. In fact, there 
 had been times when they had deemed him almost 
 lacking in an interest in human joys. Now, like a 
 mighty torrent, the suppressed, unsatisfied longings 
 of his heart burst forth, and the brother and sister 
 were dismayed at the very humanity of the man. 
 
 The depth of feeling and despair manifested in 
 his words and actions compelled Martha to silence 
 her own grief ; and, rising from her seat, she laid 
 her hand on Wentworth's arm. " Forget her," she 
 said. " She was never worthy thy affection. Thou 
 wast not guided aright in thy choice. Heaven for 
 give me for thus urging it. It was my pride and 
 ambition I did ever force the child."
 
 THE FLIGHT. 95 
 
 "Forget her!" he said sadly. "Can the world 
 forget the sun when it has hid its light and the dark 
 ness comes? Do the flowers forget the summer 
 when the winter is here and they sleep in hopes of 
 an awakening? Can I forget one who has been 
 more to me than sun or many flowers one who has 
 been my life, whose image I have enthroned above 
 my duty to my Creator?" He paused. "Let us 
 speak no more of her. I have little strength left; I 
 will go to my work." 
 
 He stepped through the doorway a little unstead 
 ily, then passed out of sight, the weeping woman 
 looking wistfully after him. 
 
 When Dorothy in the gloom of night passed down 
 the .creaking staircase of the old farmhouse and 
 thence through the kitchen, where the tins upon the 
 wall reflected the tiny moonbeams that stole through 
 the chinks of the wooden shutters, no apprehension 
 assailed her. The thought of leaving those who had 
 been kind to her from infancy, and who, in accord 
 ance with all laws of nature, she should have loved, 
 did not trouble her for the moment. Her mind was 
 filled with dreams of grandeur and freedom from 
 restraint. 
 
 As she went across the moonlighted fields, and
 
 96 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 down the country road, she did not hesitate or turn 
 back but once, and that was when the low hoot of 
 an owl echoed mournfully from a tree by the way 
 side. She started at the cry and glanced nervously 
 about her, a little wistfully, perhaps. She gazed 
 backward an instant toward the slumbering village 
 that lay so quiet and motionless beneath the stars, 
 then her glance wandered toward the farmhouse, 
 looking lonely amidst its wide fields. 
 
 " Aunt Martha will be grieved for me," she mur 
 mured. " But Sir Grenville has promised that some 
 day I shall return in splendor" she threw up her 
 graceful head proudly " and then all Salem shall 
 see what a grand dame little wild Dorothy can 
 make." 
 
 Sir Grenville had planned the elopement with all 
 secrecy, and Dorothy had acquiesced, never demur 
 ring at any of the details of their contemplated jour 
 ney. He, knowing, or at least fearing, that his dis 
 appearance simultaneously with hers might excite 
 the suspicions of the villagers, had left Salem some 
 days previous. He was then to return on an ap 
 pointed night, when he would wait for Dorothy on 
 the borders of the forest. With a good fresh horse 
 and a pillion behind the saddle they would take the
 
 THE FLIGHT. 97 
 
 bridle path to Boston, a distance of some sixteen 
 miles not long in these days of smooth roads, but 
 quite a hazardous undertaking over a rough, stony 
 path, through a gloomy forest, and in the darkness 
 of the night. 
 
 When Dorothy reached the trysting-place, Sir 
 Grenville stepped hastily forward from the thickets, 
 and, grasping her hand, drew her quickly toward 
 him. "Ah, at last!" he murmured. "You are 
 late." 
 
 " I have hastened," she replied; "yet methinks it 
 reached the hour of ten before the house became 
 quiet and I might with safety venture forth." 
 
 " We must delay no longer ; all is ready. I will 
 mount you upon the pillion, and we will hasten on 
 our journey ; I wish to profit by the light of the 
 moon as long as may be." 
 
 She obeyed him, and they started, riding slowly 
 and cautiously through the gloom. The horse 
 picked his way carefully, now and then stopping to 
 shy at some fantastic form that fell across the road 
 occasioned by the gentle swaying of a branch. 
 
 Dorothy did not speak ; her mind was too en 
 grossed in the contemplation of the wondrous picture 
 held before her delighted gaze, so cunningly colored
 
 98 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 by her admirer's hand that the true outline of the 
 figure was hid in a blaze of deceptive splendor. 
 
 Suddenly an unaccountable depression settled like 
 a heavy weight of iron upon her spirits. She re 
 mained passive in her seat behind Sir Grenville, 
 speaking when he addressed her, but only in mono 
 syllables. This depression (the first faint stirring of 
 conscience) was no doubt increased by her surround 
 ings. The murmurings in the trees resembled the 
 sighing of human voices; the tinkling noise made 
 by little wayside brooks sounded loud and ominous ; 
 while horrible forms and faces were conjured up by 
 her vivid imagination from the restless swaying of 
 the branches. 
 
 Sir Grenville was apparently occupied in guiding 
 his horse, and indeed it was most necessary that he 
 should do so, for now and then the steed would 
 stumble and almost fall upon its knees. Once 
 this mishap actually occurred. Dorothy started and 
 trembled as Sir Grenville uttered an oath and reined 
 the animal up so viciously that they were almost dis 
 mounted. It was the first time she had heard his 
 voice in other tones save courtesy and affection. A 
 shudder passed over her. 
 
 "Thou art cruel to the poor beast," she remon-
 
 THE FLIGHT. 99 
 
 strated. "He cannot see; he carries a double 
 load." 
 
 " He must watch his steps, or he will become dis 
 abled. I like not the prospect of spending the re 
 mainder of the night hours in these woods, even 
 with so fair a charmer." 
 
 She said no more, and in silence they traversed 
 the remainder of the journey. When they reached 
 the outskirts of Boston, Sir Grenville reined in the 
 horse, and turning in the saddle said : 
 
 " I would have you dismount and rest a while 
 before entering the town ; I have made all arrange 
 ments for your reception in the place, yet methinks 
 the ride has been long, and a change of position 
 would be agreeable. Furthermore, I have some 
 thing I wish to tell you before we proceed." 
 
 She detected a peculiar trembling in his voice that 
 alarmed her ; a muffled sound, and a halting inflec 
 tion never heard before. She did, however, as he 
 desired, and presently they were standing side by 
 side, at no great distance from the horse, and near 
 the trunk of a fallen tree. Through the interstices 
 of the branches of some tall shrubs they could dis 
 tinguish a few faint lights, indicating the direction 
 of the seaport town. He had clasped her hand fran-
 
 IOO DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 tically, and was bending over her, seeking as he 
 spoke to watch her face, which he could see but 
 dimly, the lantern hanging on the pommel of the 
 saddle emitting but a faint gleam. 
 
 " Dorothy, I know not why I tell you of this, un 
 less it be a force from within compelling me, against 
 which I cannot contend." He paused. She trem 
 bled visibly, but did not reply. " Perchance," he 
 continued, " I am not the hardened wretch I deemed 
 myself; or possibly from a superstitious terror of 
 the warning evinced in your mother's dream, I per 
 force can deceive you no further." His breath came 
 quickly, and he hesitated. " You have trusted me. 
 What if I should tell you that in one thing I have 
 deceived you; would you despise me?" 
 
 " How can I tell till thou shalt acquaint me with 
 the secret? " She looked innocently and unsuspect 
 ingly toward him. " I am no witch, I cannot read 
 thy mind." 
 
 " I have wronged you, Dorothy," he cried ; 
 " wronged you to win you ; lied to you that you 
 might become mine." 
 
 "Lied to me!" she murmured. "In what hast 
 thou lied?" 
 
 " I cannot marry you," he said desperately. "At
 
 THE FLIGHT. IOI 
 
 the court of William and Mary e'en now there is a 
 lady in waiting on Her Majesty who is my wife." 
 He spoke as though the words were forced from 
 him against his consent. " I did marry her some 
 years previous. We were unhappy, and I left her; 
 she hates me, and I do most heartily reciprocate. 
 Yet the bond is still between us the hated binding 
 yoke ; she is of the Church of Rome, that permits 
 no divorce. The union was not of my choice, Dor 
 othy, it was made for me." 
 
 Dorothy did not reply ; she drew the embroidered 
 whittle more closely about her shoulders, although 
 the night was not cold, and stood motionless. Then 
 she touched his arm and looked up into his face. 
 
 " I fear me I have not heard thee aright," she 
 said. " If thou hast said truly, then why am I 
 here? " 
 
 " You are here," he cried passionately, " because 
 I would not let that hated bond part us. I drew 
 you into my heart I could not cast you forth. You 
 held me by your beauty, by your innocence. I 
 could not lose you, could not release you. Yet 
 since I heard from you that in a dream your mother 
 came to pray for her child, to guard her from all 
 harm, I could wrong you no further. The path is
 
 102 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 now clear between us ; all is told, and for the very 
 love I bear for you, whose depth has no measure, I 
 beseech you, forgive me forgive me!" 
 
 He stepped from her sjde a few paces, and, fold 
 ing his arms, looked down upon the ground. As 
 he receded she followed him, and clasped his arm 
 fiercely. Lowering her head, she looked into his 
 partly averted face. 
 
 " Then, Sir Grenville, I am naught to thee, nor 
 can I ever be ; thou hast deceived me, else I would 
 not have fled with thee. Yet in one deed thou hast 
 been kind ; I thank thee that thou hast told me this. 
 Thou hast betrayed me, 'tis true, into a grave mfs- 
 take. Thou hast relented, and e'en now, if thou 
 wilt, thou canst restore me to my home ere yet the 
 morning cometh." 
 
 He turned vehemently upon her. " How cool 
 and calm, Mistress Dorothy, is your voice ! Did I 
 go to this excess of trouble only to restore my prize? 
 Not I. You mistake the man. I have been a lucky 
 hunter my bird is caught. I have done wrong, 
 I own it, yet not I alone ; I have left my wife for 
 you, you have tricked your rightful lover for me. 
 Are we not quits? The stones you cast at me I can 
 e'en with justice return." 
 
 This insight into his selfish nature disgusted and
 
 THE FLIGHT. 1 03 
 
 angered her. She the victim, he the strong con 
 queror! This chance upheaval of his nearly dor 
 mant conscience by a superstitious terror of conse 
 quences having been stilled by his confession, she 
 was now to be dragged into the meshes of his net, 
 to lose all semblance of goodness, to sink with him 
 into the depths. 
 
 " Thou didst seek me," she cried angrily, " and 
 cajole me. I know now full well it was not thee I 
 cared for, else far different emotions would assail me 
 now ; but it was that exalted position thou didst 
 promise me." 
 
 "Say you so, indeed, O worldly one? Well, 
 that position is still yours." 
 
 " Thou knowest a falsehood is in thy words," she 
 cried excitedly, stamping her foot upon the ground 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " What may be pleased to be your wish, fair 
 lady ? " he said sarcastically. " We can talk in these 
 woods no longer; the light of the morning will soon 
 be upon us. Let me help to mount you once again 
 into the pillion, and we will then ride into Boston 
 town. On the way think deeply ; I warn you it 
 were better for you to bridle your words, and take 
 the ' goods the gods provide.' ' 
 
 " I will not go with thee!" she cried.
 
 104 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " I can compel you. Remember, I like not to 
 use force, but as a last alternative I will bind a cord 
 about you in the pillion." 
 
 "Thou dare not!" she exclaimed in a frenzy of 
 terror. 
 
 " Listen," he said coaxingly : " no aid is near, no 
 help can come ; why not submit ? You cannot re 
 turn to Salem ; your absence will have been noticed 
 ere this. Those exalted pious people, the elect of 
 God's earth, will turn the cold shoulder. Be discreet, 
 be wise." 
 
 She looked down moodily upon the ground, and 
 appeared to be thinking earnestly, then she spoke. 
 " Well, then, mount thou first," she muttered sul 
 lenly, after some moments of apparent indecision. 
 " The horse is restive. I want thee not to touch me. 
 Mount, hold the steed's head firmly, and I will follow 
 thee. Yet lay this to thy mind, Sir Grenville : I 
 leave thee in Boston, and had I loved thee more I 
 would be more aggrieved. I know now the ambition 
 that was in my vain heart, and the wickedness of 
 thine. Mine eyes are opened; I see clearly." 
 
 Sir Grenville hesitated a moment, then vaulted 
 into the saddle and leaned over the pommel, holding 
 out his hand to Dorothy. Like a flash she seized
 
 THE FLIGHT. 1 05 
 
 a stout stick from the ground, and grasping it in 
 both hands she drew as near as was safe to the 
 horse, and struck him a strong blow upon the hind 
 legs, saying, as she did so, " Thou art a coward, Sir 
 Grenville, thou hast lied to me!" 
 
 The horse, panic-stricken, darted forward, dashing 
 headlong down the narrow stony road, out of sight, 
 Sir Grenville cursing and straining at the reins as 
 the frenzied animal swerved wildly from side to 
 side. As the horse started, Dorothy observed two 
 figures rise abruptly from the shelter of a thick 
 clump of bushes and disappear in the shadows of 
 the woods. She waited for no further develop 
 ments, but turned and dashed precipitately from the 
 bridle path into the thickness of the forest.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE WINTER IN THE FOREST. 
 
 WHEN the terror-stricken and panting girl dashed 
 headlong from the bridle path, whither she knew 
 not, she was conscious of but one thing : that was of 
 being hotly pursued. The crackling of leaves and 
 twigs and the breaking of branches were plainly 
 audible. The echoing steps of Sir Grenville's rapidly 
 returning horse also greeted her ears, the loud thud 
 of the hoofs of the galloping steed sounding near and 
 menacing. She paused not to look behind her. On, 
 on she rushed, fear and desperation lending her cour 
 age and strength. She struck her head against low- 
 hanging boughs, lacerated her hands upon the briers 
 of the wild berry bushes and creepers, but still she 
 ran, all unaware of weariness. 
 
 Presently all grew strangely still about her. The 
 pursuing steps ceased, the sound of the horse's 
 labored galloping died away, and Dorothy, ex 
 hausted, trembling with fear, sank down at the foot 
 
 1 06
 
 THE WINTER IN THE FOREST. 
 
 of a great tree. Her mind surged with a tumult of 
 varying emotions, accompanied by the beating of 
 her heart. It seemed to her that the fevered pulsa 
 tions must be heard upon the stillness of the night. 
 She touched her brow ; it was wet. In the faint 
 light that shone upon her from the now waning 
 moon she saw that the wet stains upon her hands 
 were blood. 
 
 " I am hurt," she said to herself; "yet methinks 
 I felt nothing." She rested for a short time, leaning 
 her head back and closing her eyes, yet listening 
 sharply for any suspicious sound that might warn her 
 of pursuit. At times she opened her eyes, and gazed 
 upward at the great expanse of foliage above her 
 head. Awful phantoms appeared to leer upon her 
 from the oscillating boughs. To her highly strung 
 fancy, some pointed the finger of scorn and derision, 
 others opened their strangely distorted mouths and 
 laughed at her discomfort, though no sound came 
 from them, nothing save the hoarse murmur of the 
 wind, whose tones seemed filled with mockery and 
 glee over her hapless condition. The moon's light 
 was growing paler, the sky was filled with myriads 
 of bright stars, that twinkled tremulously in the cool 
 air of the October night.
 
 108 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 A terrible dread settled upon the tired girl. Per 
 haps she was not safe even here ; she must hasten 
 onward. She arose laboriously, her stiffened limbs 
 refusing to act immediately, and looked fearfully 
 about her, then fled like an affrighted deer, onward, 
 onward, to some possible safe retreat whither her 
 enemies could not follow. She hoped that when 
 the morning dawned she would find herself near 
 some settlement or clearing in the wilderness. She 
 walked for perhaps a mile or more farther, dragging 
 her wearied feet, her shoes torn and dilapidated, her 
 head hanging forward, her mind scarce cognizant of 
 her actions. Her one clear idea was that she must 
 keep moving. 
 
 Presently she came upon a small clearing, appar 
 ently in the very heart of the forest. A small, 
 weather-beaten house stood in the center of the 
 clearing. It was built of rough-hewn logs, and was 
 of one story in height, with an L at the back. A 
 general air of neglect was apparent in the surround 
 ings of the place, visible even in the dim light. 
 There was no sign of life about the house, and no 
 light in the window. 
 
 Dorothy crept cautiously forward, noticing, as she 
 did so, that the clearing was surrounded by a wooden
 
 THE WINTER IN THE FOREST. IOQ 
 
 paling that inclosed a garden. The pungent odor of 
 some fall flowers and herbs assailed her nostrils. 
 
 " Some one lives here," she murmured. " Per 
 chance they will pity me and give me shelter, e'en 
 though the hour is so late." 
 
 She entered the garden gate, and approached the 
 house. The door stood open. Peeping cautiously 
 within, Dorothy beheld a few flickering flames from 
 a fire upon the open hearth flash upon the wooden 
 floor. She hesitated, and stopped abruptly in the 
 path. That fear of the supernatural, implanted in 
 her very being and fostered by her training, rushed 
 upon her with an irresistible force. There was some 
 thing uncanny in the open door, in the dancing fire 
 light at this late hour, when all honest folks were 
 asleep. The picturesque solitude of the place seemed 
 to warn her that this was the abode of no simple, 
 honest woodcutter. 
 
 A numbness crept over her; her limbs shook be 
 neath her as she clung for support to the broken 
 palings of the little porch ; great beads of perspira 
 tion gathered on her forehead and rolled down her 
 face. She stood irresolute for an instant ; then, as 
 if impelled onward by a will outside herself, she 
 crossed the threshold of the door.
 
 IIO DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Is any one here who will give me shelter? " she 
 said softly, with trembling tones. 
 
 No voice responded. The dying fire, fanned by 
 the motion made by her entrance, flamed up, then 
 died out to a tiny red spark. She stepped farther 
 into the room, the dim light from the flames serving 
 to make visible the furniture of the abode, which 
 consisted of a bed, a few chairs, and a large oaken 
 chest. The bed stood near the fire. 
 
 Dorothy sank down upon the floor near it, her 
 head resting against its side. A few dried twigs 
 were lying on the hearth, and she laid some of these 
 upon the blaze. It started up again, casting distorted 
 shadows upon the ceiling and walls. 
 
 Some occupants of the room, that had been doz 
 ing in a corner, now came forward and stretched 
 themselves before the hre, gazing up into Dorothy's 
 face with large, yellow, solemn eyes. These unex 
 pected visitors were three black cats black, with 
 out a single white hair. Their movements and the 
 increased light aroused yet other sleeping denizens. 
 Soon there was a flutter of wings, and a- large white 
 arctic owl perched upon the bed-post and blinked 
 uneasily. Other birds in cages awoke and fluttered
 
 THE WINTER IN THE FOREST. I I I 
 
 their wings, the cats purred, and the room seemed 
 alive with all these gentle noises. 
 
 Dorothy did not speak or move ; she was utterly 
 exhausted. She sat staring with strained eyes into 
 the fire. Presently an ominous sound greeted her 
 ears ; she started : the sound of heavy steps, ac 
 companied by the click of a crutch. The steps 
 came nearer halting, uncertain, dragging steps, that 
 seemed to scarcely advance, so slow \vas their ap 
 proach. 
 
 Dorothy became as one without feeling. The 
 steps and the click of the crutch sounded louder and 
 more distinct, first upon the garden path, then upon 
 the wooden floor. They had passed the doorstep 
 and \vere coming forward into the circle of light. 
 
 The girl did not move ; she clenched her hands, 
 and her breath came in short, quick gasps. What 
 was this thing, that walked as no human creature 
 walked, that wandered abroad at midnight, that kept 
 for company the owl and bat, and whose home was 
 in the solitude of the forest, away from the abode of 
 man? Dorothy dared not conjecture. The steps 
 ceased suddenly. 
 
 " I hear human breathing," said a voice. " Ha!
 
 112 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 ha ! None can deceive old Goody. Come forward, 
 whoever my visitor may be." 
 
 Like a flash the horrible reality burst upon Doro 
 thy. This was the hut of Goody Trueman, the witch 
 of the wilderness : the one who had signed the com 
 pact with the King of Darkness; the one who rode 
 at midnight upon the back of a vampire, followed 
 by thousands of serving imps ; the one whose name 
 stood .foremost in the Black Book, and who was in 
 league with the powers of the Evil One. The girl 
 shrank into a heap upon the floor, her hands held 
 out helplessly before her as if to shield herself from 
 some horrible fate, her head falling forward on her 
 breast. 
 
 " Why dost thou not speak? " said the voice. " I 
 saw thee, from the edge of the woods, enter my 
 house. I have sharp eyes. Speak up, speak up! 
 I know thou art here." 
 
 The voice had an odd, uncertain cackling in its 
 tones. Dorothy leaned forward from her position 
 upon the floor, trembling in every limb ; she raised 
 her eyes fearfully and kept them, as if fascinated, 
 upon the withered, wrinkled face bending above her. 
 
 Goody Trueman was certainly in appearance the 
 veritable type of a witch : small, shrunken, hunch-
 
 THE WINTER IN THE FOREST. 113 
 
 backed, her head resting low between her shoulders, 
 her eyes catlike and deep-set, her skin like brown 
 parchment, her nose and chin almost meeting, and 
 her bony, restless hands crooked like the claws of an 
 eagle. On her head she wore a steeple-crowned hat, 
 and over her quilted petticoat a brilliant scarlet cloak, 
 which, when the firelight struck it, glowed a flame 
 color. Her shadow spread in gigantic proportions 
 upon the wall, covering even across the low ceiling. 
 
 She appeared to Dorothy to be standing in the 
 midst of fire, like the lost, hideous soul she was 
 deemed to be. She was indeed the realization of 
 that terrible creature so often pictured to the little 
 Salem girl. The supposed witch advanced a step 
 nearer, and held out her crooked hands to the blaze. 
 One of the cats leaped forward and nestled upon her 
 shoulder, purring as he placed his black, furry face 
 close beside that of his mistress. 
 
 Dorothy gazed an instant at this fearful picture, 
 then from her white lips came a piercing shriek, so 
 startling to the feathered inhabitants of the hut that 
 they fluttered in affright. 
 
 " Satan hath won me ! 'Tis the witch, 'tis the 
 witch!" she called loudly. "I am lost, I am lost! 
 'Tis for my many sins!" and throwing up her arms
 
 114 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 wildly, she fell back unconscious upon the floor. 
 When animation returned, Dorothy saw that morn 
 ing had come. Through the small-paned windows 
 the somber, cold light of the early dawn was enter 
 ing, bringing into clear and matter-of-fact relief those 
 objects which by the weird firelight enhanced the 
 terrors of the night. A pillow had been placed be 
 neath her head, a coverlet thrown over her feet. 
 
 Old Goody was standing before the fire. She was 
 stirring some savory mixture in a saucepan, mutter 
 ing to herself as she did so. Perhaps the beams of 
 morning, perhaps the slight rest which unconscious 
 ness had brought her, dispelled Dorothy's great dread 
 and fear. She raised herself slightly and watched 
 the old woman at her work. 
 
 Presently Goody turned her head, bending her 
 withered countenance upon the girl. By daylight 
 she did not resemble so decidedly Dorothy's idea of 
 a servant of the devil. Her very human occupation 
 of cooking was certainly at variance with the popular 
 notion that witches did not eat, save at those terrible 
 orgies held with their imps at midnight in the forest. 
 
 " Thou art awake," said Goody. " I have a good 
 and soothing draught brewed for thee ; see, it is hot ; 
 thou must take it." As she spoke she hobbled
 
 THE WINTER IN THE FOREST. 115 
 
 across the room, and coming to the side of the girl 
 where she lay upon the floor, leaned over her. 
 
 " No, no," said Dorothy, warding her off with her 
 outstretched arm ; " thou wouldst have me drink to 
 my soul's damnation. I can take no draught from 
 thine hand." 
 
 " Out upon thee, child! Hast thou no sense? I 
 am no witch, only a harmless old woman who seeks 
 thy good." 
 
 " Ay, so thou sayest. Dost thou not at midnight 
 ride upon thy charger through the air, and fly above 
 the houses in Salem? Oft have the good people 
 heard thee, like a mighty wind rushing by, thy imps 
 with thee. Dost thou not gather the deadly night 
 shade and brew a draught that weakens men's souls, 
 so that they cannot say thee nay, but consent to sign 
 their names in the Black Book thou hast always un 
 der thy arm? " 
 
 " No, no, child ; those are silly stories ; heed them 
 not." 
 
 " Yet I am sorely afraid of thee. I dare not take 
 thy brew. I have been ever taught that thou art 
 an enemy to all that is good, and dost seek to harm 
 all mankind." 
 
 " No, no, that is untrue. I had a grievous trouble
 
 Il6 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 once, long ago, beyond the seas in my old home. 
 I grew afraid to trust all human love, so I did seek 
 solitude in these forests. Much brooding hath made 
 me what I am, distraught perhaps at times, but 
 never seeking harm to aught. Thou must not fear, 
 me, child. Thou must not turn thy pretty, winsome 
 face from me. I seek to help thee." 
 
 " Then thou wilt not make me sign my name in 
 the Black Book ?" 
 
 " No, no; I know of no book." 
 
 "Wilt thou promise?" persisted Dorothy. 
 
 " I wish no communion with the witches. I scorn 
 and fear their practices." The old woman laughed 
 her discordant, cackling laugh. " I promise thee. 
 If old Goody is all thou wilt ever have to fear in this 
 world, thou needst fear naught." 
 
 "Then I will take the brew." 
 
 Soon Dorothy fell into a deep, tranquil sleep. 
 When she awoke the cheerful sunlight was flood 
 ing the apartment, but she felt weak and her head 
 was strange and dizzy. These were the premonitory 
 symptoms of a long attack of fever which kept her 
 a prisoner in the little house through the pleasant fall 
 and bleak winter and even into the early spring. 
 
 The memory of those weary, miserable days never
 
 THE WINTER IN THE FOREST. 117 
 
 passed from Dorothy's mind through all her future 
 life. The utter loneliness of her existence ; the ter 
 rible winter storms sweeping through the desolate 
 woods, bending the monstrous trees ; then the fierce 
 snows and the bitter cold ; the solitude, the appar 
 ent death of all things beautiful in nature, taking 
 their rest, wrapped in their white ice- draped shrouds 
 all these things combined to make for her a mem 
 ory of horrors. 
 
 Old Goody was kind and patient, and soon won 
 Dorothy's heart. Her dread melted away before 
 the true gentleness of the old woman's disposition. 
 But the apathy that had fastened itself like an in 
 cubus upon the girl increased as the days passed. 
 She could find in her heart no hope, nor even a wish 
 to form plans for herself. The thought of returning 
 to Salem was abhorrent to her. Tricked, deceived, 
 humiliated, what story could she invent that would 
 be believed or condoned ? Ashamed to speak of her 
 disastrous flight with Sir Grenville, afraid to tell of 
 her habitation in the hut of the dreaded witch, she 
 was indeed in a most perplexing situation. 
 
 One day, seated, pale, listless, and dispirited, on 
 the old settle near the fire, her hands hanging before 
 her, a hopeless, despairing look in her blue eyes,
 
 Il8 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 that appeared large and hollow for the dark circles 
 surrounding them, her thoughts wandered through 
 the wide field of retrospection. 
 
 Suddenly there burst upon her a torrent of self- 
 reproach and remorse. Unable to quell the tumult 
 raging within her, she broke out excitedly to old 
 Goody, who had been sitting quietly in a farther 
 corner of the room. 
 
 " Goody, Goody, speak a word of comfort to me ! " 
 Dorothy held out her thin, shaking hands. " If per 
 chance this misery that I now endure had been the 
 work of others, I might gain strength to bear it ; but 
 it was my own wretched ambition, my deceit, my 
 discontent. All is over for me no hope, no home, 
 no future!" The despairing echo of the sad voice 
 rang through the room in a cadence of deepest regret. 
 
 Old Goody arose from her seat, and coming to the 
 side of the unhappy girl, looked down upon her 
 bowed head. 
 
 " Methought," she said, " in time thy heart would 
 unburden itself. It is good for thee ; yet tell me 
 only what thou wilt ; be cautious, lest thou shouldst 
 regret it later." 
 
 Dorothy did not reply at once, then she started 
 from her seat and said impetuously :
 
 THE WINTER IN THE FOREST. I 19 
 
 " I will tell all, Goody, save the names ; those I 
 will withhold. Then give me thy advice and truly 
 from thy heart tell me what I shall do, for of a cer 
 tainty I am friendless and desolate." 
 
 " I will counsel thee," said Goody, watching the 
 girl intently from under her overhanging brows. 
 
 " I have been ever thoughtless," Dorothy began, 
 " hating all useful occupations, and filled with dis 
 content. I was unhappy in my home. I longed for 
 change, for a wider field. Then I was betrothed to 
 one so noble, so good, so true." Dorothy paused; 
 her lips trembled. " I broke plight with him, and 
 for this wretched bauble thou seest on my neck, this 
 chain of golden beads, which did seem to me to 
 lighten up a way to riches and honors. I fled with 
 one who deceived me, lied to me, and from whom 
 I escaped to thee, Goody, that night I came through 
 the forest to thy hut" 
 
 "Is that all?" said Goody. "Hast thou kept 
 naught back? " 
 
 " I have told thee all, save one thing." As she 
 spoke she tore the beads from her neck and threw 
 them angrily from her. They fell, and lay like a 
 glittering coiled serpent upon the floor. " I do de 
 spise and hate where once I thought I loved, and
 
 I2O DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 where I willingly followed. The one I wronged hath 
 gained a great revenge : he hath come to me in other 
 guise. In the darkness of the night, when all is still 
 save the wind, I hear his voice ; he steps from out 
 the shadows that surround me ; I see his face and 
 gentle smile ; then I awake and I am alone. Never 
 more will he come to me save in dreams. With my 
 own hand have I opened the gate that guarded my 
 happiness and sent it forth. I stand without, where 
 no hope is, and weep." 
 
 " Canst thou not seek his forgiveness? " 
 
 " No, no ; there can be no forgiveness for me. 
 The truth would but separate us further. I deem 
 my misdeed hath in his eyes all the enormity of a 
 great sin. The hand of God hath pointed no way, 
 yet retribution hath come heavily upon me. In the 
 bitterness of a broken spirit, Goody, I have learned 
 to love the one I wronged." 
 
 " Then go to him ; tell him all. It were better 
 than the agony that now assails thee. My advice 
 is, return to thy home, unburden thy secret, and per 
 chance a kindly Providence will cause the light of 
 peace to fall once more upon thee." 
 
 " I fear me never can thy prophecy be fulfilled. 
 Thou knowest not, Goody, how weak are my spirit
 
 THE WINTER IN THE FOREST. 121 
 
 and will. I dread lest I destroy forever all hope 
 by telling of my misdeed. They would despise and 
 hate me. How can I account for my long absence ? " 
 
 "The truth, my child, the truth," cried Goody; 
 " it is thy only safeguard." 
 
 " I have no faith in myself; I dare not return. 
 If, perchance, I could not bring to myself the effort 
 of will needed to speak the truth, my soul were in 
 deed lost ; and if I speak the truth, they will disown 
 me and cast me forth. I shall be excommunicated 
 from the meeting-house." 
 
 " It is e'en now drawing near the spring," said 
 Goody earnestly ; " there is no time for thee to waste. 
 Pray constantly for strength. Return, return ; be 
 brave. Tell this one whom thou lovest the truth, 
 and all will yet be well with thee. God will be thy 
 friend, if thou wilt but do what is right." 
 
 "Ah, that I could take thy advice!" Dorothy 
 knelt by the old woman, and clasping her withered 
 hand, kissed it. " Goody, Goody, I am grateful to 
 thee for thy kindness. I wronged thee ; thou art no 
 witch. Yet in thy words is little comfort for either 
 way a truth or an untruth I have killed my hap 
 piness." 
 
 Dorothy, full of deepest concern over Goody's ad-
 
 122 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 vice, fell that night into deep musings. The days 
 were lengthening; the first faint cries of the birds 
 were again heard in the early morning ; the winds 
 blew less fiercely ; the snowdrops peeped forth in 
 sheltered places, and the sun's rays in their length 
 ened sojourn gave out an added degree of warmth. 
 The words, "There is no time for thee to waste," 
 echoed like a funeral knell upon the jaded nerves of 
 the perplexed girl. No time, and she had already 
 wasted four months ; it was even now the month of 
 March. 
 
 The strong desire within her at last compelled her 
 to form a settled resolution. She would return to 
 Salem ; then, if she could summon strength, she 
 would tell the truth and abide the consequences. 
 The roads were not yet passable, but soon would be 
 relieved of their obstructions of ice and snow. As 
 soon as was practicable, the journey would be un 
 dertaken.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ELIZABETH HUBBARD. 
 
 THE circumstances of Dorothy's flight were nec 
 essarily entirely a matter of conjecture among the 
 worthy people of Salem. There were no means of 
 any accurate knowledge of her whereabouts being 
 gained, even by the most astute of village gossips. 
 The absence of Grenville was not commented upon. 
 He had left the place some time previous to the girl's 
 flight and had never been seen in her company, nor 
 had he made a confidant of any one, having, in fact, 
 rather shunned all companionship than otherwise. 
 The women had discussed the unusual affair in all 
 its bearings, and much sympathy had been expended 
 upon David and Martha in their affliction. 
 
 The silent dignity maintained by Alden Went- 
 worth forbade all curious prying into the sacredness 
 of the trouble that had come upon him. If he grew 
 thinner and paler, if his face became fixed in a set 
 tled look of melancholy, and if his dark, somber eyes 
 appeared at times to rest upon some vision unseen 
 
 123
 
 124 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 by others, those others dared not question him. In 
 his gentle way he repelled all sympathetic inter 
 ference. 
 
 " I tell ye, neighbors," said a brawny dame to 
 her friends in the market-place one morning, " if 
 the wench had had a different bringing up I wot 
 this would not have happened. The rod was ever 
 spared because she was an orphan child ; and look 
 ye, what good hath it done ? My policy ever was, 
 strike hard and long when the subject is a wayward 
 one. The rod is wholesome discipline ; the young 
 require its usage." 
 
 " People say," said another, " that she hath been 
 taken by the Indians. Ye all know she was ever 
 wandering alone in the forests ; she had no fear of 
 the dark woods." 
 
 " I believe it not," said the harsh, deep voice of 
 Elizabeth Hubbard. " I was Dorothy's friend ; I 
 knew her better than others. I do not think she 
 hath been taken by the Indians. She has been in 
 my poor knowledge I say this bewitched by the 
 black man, and is perchance e'en now concocting 
 evil schemes against us. She ever loved to be alone ; 
 he has taken her unawares." 
 
 The women looked askance at each other as these
 
 ELIZABETH HUBBARD. 125 
 
 words were spoken, and instinctively lowered their 
 voices, drawing closer together. 
 
 " What have ye seen or heard, Elizabeth? " they 
 said. 
 
 " I have seen naught and heard naught; I speak 
 but on conjecture." Then more hurriedly she con 
 tinued : " Why^ did Dorothy ever seek the woods 
 alone? She was never God-fearing, so it was not 
 for prayer and meditation. She hath been taken 
 unawares, I repeat, and been forced to sign her soul 
 away. Satan hath claimed her for his own." 
 
 As Elizabeth ceased a murmur of disapprobation 
 rose 'clamorously upon the air, stilled abruptly, how 
 ever, by the sharp, loud voice of a woman who had 
 joined the chattering group. 
 
 "And thou art her friend and speakest thus? 
 Truly a firm support in time of trouble, a good 
 friend!" said the new-comer sarcastically at Eliza 
 beth's elbow. 
 
 The girl turned upon the speaker a glance of 
 deepest hatred and malevolence, her dark Spanish 
 face growing white with passion. 
 
 " Speak of what thou knowest, Neighbor Holden. 
 Dorothy was perchance of such credit to thee that 
 thou art proud to speak for her; a bond, forsooth,
 
 126 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 of love and obedience was ever between thee and 
 her." 
 
 "Thou false girl!" cried Martha angrily. "Thou 
 dost malign her memory for a purpose. I have eyes 
 and ears to see and hear. Thou dost throw thyself 
 boldly at Alden Wentworth. Save thy pains: he 
 will never turn from Dorothy to thee^ thou hast too 
 poor weapons at thy command. And let me tell 
 thee, Elizabeth, traduce not the memory of the 
 woman he has loved, and who was also thy friend. 
 Build not thy future upon so false a foundation." 
 
 " I scorn thee," cried the angry girl, " and thy 
 words ! I shall remember them, nevertheless, sever 
 fear. Think what ye will. As for Mr. Wentworth, 
 I wot he is glad to be rid of the silly thing, who 
 possessed naught but a fair face. Such wounds as 
 his do quickly heal." Elizabeth laughed, and when 
 she laughed the company started, so hollow and un 
 natural was the sound. 
 
 " Go thy way, go thy way," said Martha. " I 
 trust Dorothy is in a better world than this, where 
 she is safe from all harm, poor little motherless girl ! 
 Yet thy words are a reproach to me. I was not 
 always gentle with the child. Now that she has 
 gone from rne I know I was too harsh ; but no one in
 
 ELIZABETH HUBBARD. I2/ 
 
 my presence shall malign her memory." She left 
 the women when she finished speaking, and walked 
 swiftly through the market-place. 
 
 Elizabeth looked after her, an unfathomable gleam 
 in her angry eyes. Some of the party smiled and 
 glanced mischievously toward the scowling girl. 
 
 " Thou hast received a right just reproof from 
 Mistress Holden," said one of the women. " Me- 
 thinks God hath afflicted her sorely ; it is not for us 
 to make the burden heavier. And there is truth in 
 her words. Twice, and even thrice, hast thou been 
 seen on the village streets and in the lanes, and not 
 alone, but by thy side Alden Wentworth. Say I 
 not truly?" turning, as she spoke, to the listening 
 women. 
 
 "Ay, ay," cried one, "thou sayest truly. Doro 
 thy is forgotten. Perchance Elizabeth doth catch 
 the prize on the rebound." 
 
 They all laughed loudly. Elizabeth blushed 
 deeply, the color spreading into a flame over her 
 swarthy face. 
 
 " I care not that for all thy envious speech." She 
 snapped her fingers as she spoke, and tossed her 
 head defiantly. " Let me alone; I ask not thy ad 
 vice. Tend to thy own business. I would scorn
 
 128 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 to be called one with the gossips of the market 
 place." 
 
 The women laughed louder and more derisively 
 than ever, their hands upon their hips, their buxom 
 forms shaking with merriment. During the general 
 outcry Elizabeth escaped, not once looking back 
 ward as they shouted sarcastic jeers after her. 
 
 Elizabeth Hubbard was the niece of Mrs. Griggs, 
 wife of the physician of the village ; she was also a 
 member of his household. She had from childhood 
 been possessed of a peculiar, erratic temperament, 
 which, added to her tropical style of beauty, made 
 her ever prominent in all gatherings of any impor 
 tance that took place in Salem. 
 
 She was steeped to the utmost in the beliefs of 
 the age. Witchcraft, that dread calamity that had 
 swept over the seas from the shores of Europe, like 
 a hungry vulture was hovering with claws extended 
 above the little restful hamlet in the New World. 
 To this whimsical creature all that was incomprehen 
 sible, all that lay below the surface, all that needed 
 the gentle touch of faith to make tangible and per 
 fect, savored to her of the supernatural. This mor 
 bid disposition throve upon the not unpalatable food 
 prepared for it.
 
 ELIZABETH HUBBARD. I2Q 
 
 The belief in witchcraft was sanctioned by many 
 of the most learned men of those times, and, under 
 the protection of the clergy, flourished into a plant 
 of prodigious growth. 
 
 Elizabeth was emotional, perhaps what in this day 
 we call hysterical, and she magnified all natu 
 rally explained causes into spectral results. Her dis 
 torted imagination pictured strange, weird sights, 
 and her ears heard the sound of spirit voices from 
 the other world. These voices spoke to her from 
 the trees and plants; they whispered in the air; 
 they floated down to her from the clouds. By in 
 dulging these fancies they became realities to her, 
 and she spake wondrous things, " as one having the 
 voice of prophecy." 
 
 She had within her nature the power of a great 
 passion, also the strength of an iron will that nothing 
 could bend or sway, but hastened on, unheeding all 
 obstacles to the desired end. Her affection for Dor 
 othy had been firm until that fatal day when Alden 
 Wentworth placed his preference upon the latter and 
 asked her to be his wife. Then Elizabeth's rage, 
 disappointment, and despair turned the stream of 
 love into a new channel. Dorothy was hurled aside 
 as an impediment to her own desires.
 
 130 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 This great passion did not die when the young 
 advocate's choice had been publicly proclaimed ; far 
 from it ; it grew and grew, as a plant grows in a 
 noisome soil. At times, when she sat with Dorothy 
 in the old farmhouse kitchen and watched the prep 
 arations going forward for the wedding, murder 
 was in her heart, if a wish could have killed. 
 
 
 
 When at last she realized that the field \vas once 
 more clear, her joy leapt beyond all control. Her 
 beauty increased, her black eyes shone resplendent. 
 Woe be to the one that now stepped across her 
 path! 
 
 The pleasant spring days were not far distant, 
 though there still lingered in the air the parting chill 
 of winter, and the wind still blew strong and fierce 
 from the north. Snow yet lay in patches in shaded 
 places where the sun's warmth did not reach. The 
 trees had as yet put forth no foliage, and their bare 
 gray boughs swayed against a cold sky. 
 
 Alden Wentworth was wandering slowly and list 
 lessly across the fields one afternoon toward the 
 latter part of March. He had been calling upon a 
 sick friend, and on returning had taken a secluded 
 by-way, seeking to be free from molestation. His 
 mind was heavy. He envied that happy, waiting
 
 ELIZABETH HUBBARD. 131 
 
 soul he had just left, so soon to be freed from earthly 
 grief and care, so soon to enter into rest and peace. 
 He was thinking of Dorothy. When did he not 
 think of her, save in sleep, and then he dreamed of 
 her. In these dreams, from which he dreaded the 
 awakening, she was always near him. 
 
 This short span had passed, and in a new land, 
 where all looked shadowy and unreal, she was by 
 his side. It was as if their parting had never been ; 
 in the semblance of two blissful disembodied spirits, 
 they rejoiced in the experience of a perfect unity. 
 
 His eyes were turned toward the ground, yet he 
 saw not the wild-flowers that peeped cautiously 
 forth from sheltered places and nodded as he passed. 
 This pensive reverie was so absorbing, that, all un 
 awares, he came upon the figure of a woman. Her 
 head was bowed, her frame shaken with sobs ; she 
 was seated upon a wooden log placed against a gate 
 way that led to the field. As he approached she 
 raised her head. 
 
 " Elizabeth," he said kindly, " why art thou here? 
 Art thou troubled? Can I help thee?" 
 
 He came close and stood looking down upon her. 
 These ever-recurring meetings with the girl had not 
 caused any suspicions to rise in his mind ; his was
 
 132 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 not a suspicious nature. He was always glad to see 
 her ; had she not been his beloved's chosen friend ? 
 Perchance, he reasoned with himself at times, when 
 he could summon strength to speak of Dorothy 
 whom better could he address than Elizabeth, her 
 companion, who had loved her? 
 
 " I am in sore distress, Mr. Wentworth," said Eliz 
 abeth, glancing toward him. 
 
 He started, then stepped backward, for the first 
 time conscious of the wondrous beauty of her face. 
 " Thou knowest," she continued, " that many do 
 accuse me and say I do dissemble when I speak 
 what is within me. This doubt of my sincerity pains 
 me. What object could I have in feigning this 
 thing?" 
 
 " Heed them not," he interposed, " for surely the 
 spirits of the air are amongst us, and it is necessary 
 for us to be zealous." 
 
 " Can I help it if I have been chosen as a mouth 
 piece to denounce wickedness?" 
 
 " No, surely no," he said. 
 
 She continued : " It has come to me that I and 
 others, perchance, do feel it our bounden duty, as 
 the great call is within us, to accuse one who has 
 been accurst this many a day ; whom all do fear, for
 
 ELIZABETH HUBBARD. 133 
 
 the great calamities she hath power to bring upon 
 us. A witch indeed is in our midst." 
 
 " I deem I heard thee not aright," cried Went- 
 worth excitedly. " Thou surely wouldst not accuse 
 one of witchcraft? " 
 
 " I ? Not I, Mr. Wentworth ; I accuse no one. 
 The voice that is within me controls my words, other 
 wise I should possess no power." 
 
 "Of whom dost thou speak?" he demanded 
 sternly. 
 
 " Of one Goody Trueman, the forest woman. 
 Thou knowest her well ; all Salem knows of her, and 
 fears her." 
 
 The young man drew a step nearer to the girl. A 
 shudder passed over him as he gazed like one fas 
 cinated upon this woman of prophecy. 
 
 "Yet surely," he said earnestly, "thou wouldst 
 not desire the death of a fellow-being! Well thou 
 knowest the penalty of witchcraft. Remember, Eliz 
 abeth, thou canst never return that which thou shalt 
 take. Accuse, but not openly, this wretched crea 
 ture, if perchance she hath had counsel with those 
 imps that do infest the forest. Let her bide there ; 
 molest her not. Beware lest thou fall into a griev 
 ous error."
 
 134 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " I tell thee, Mr. Wentworth," the girl rose ex 
 citedly, and held out her hands before her with a 
 tragic gesture, " I will not rest night or day till the 
 power that is within me shall have done its utmost 
 to rid the world of these lost beings, who have sold 
 their souls to the King of Darkness. It is my mis 
 sion ; I shall fulfill it." 
 
 Again that shudder passed over Wentworth ; his 
 lips trembled and whitened. " Beware, beware, lest 
 in thy zeal thou shalt condemn an innocent woman. 
 A life, remember, is in thy hands." 
 
 They did not speak for some moments ; then Eliz 
 abeth broke the silence. On her face rested a cun 
 ning expression ; she read well the man before her. 
 " I have not dared, ere this; to speak to thee of a 
 
 subject near my heart and thine ; yet methinks 
 
 She hesitated, then looked over the cold, somber- 
 hued meadows and bleak landscape. The wind 
 blew her black hair about her face and shook her 
 garments fiercely. She clasped her cloak tightly 
 with one hand, the other she laid timidly on the 
 man's arm, glancing shyly up into his face. 
 
 He started. " Thou wouldst speak of Dorothy," 
 he said quickly. 
 
 "Ay," she replied.
 
 ELIZABETH HUBBARD. 135 
 
 " What of her?" he demanded expectantly. 
 " Hast heard aught?" 
 
 " Naught. I wished only that I might speak to 
 thee some words of comfort. She is as dead to us 
 forever. Surely a chaplet of tears and kindly words 
 we may lay upon her grave." 
 
 Alden Wentworth groaned aloud. " Say not 
 those words," he cried. "There is ever a hope 
 within me that she is living, and that some day I 
 may see her again." 
 
 "And thou canst forgive her?" Her voice was 
 filled with tremulous eagerness. 
 
 " She hath much to forgive also, Elizabeth. Thou 
 dost not know all ; I will tell thee. She was ever 
 frank with me ; she told me of her true feelings. No 
 deceit could rest within her. She did not love me, 
 and I, in my blind folly, did force her into my keep 
 ing. A wild dream of some time winning her heart 
 controlled my wish to possess her. At the last, she 
 left me to escape a life which she could not accept. 
 I see it all," he continued dreamily, as though he 
 thought himself alone. " My beloved, I have driven 
 thee from thy home; thou art a wanderer on this 
 earth. Hast thou found a resting-place ? Art thou 
 safe, my Dorothy?" He turned impetuously to-
 
 136 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 ward the girl, who watched him sharply. " Now, 
 Elizabeth, thou knowest all my remorse and the 
 vain regrets that I fear will ever be mine while I 
 live." 
 
 Elizabeth did not reply ; she tapped her foot im 
 patiently upon the ground, and threw the rebellious 
 locks of heavy hair back from her forehead. Rage 
 at her own disappointment and scorn for what she 
 considered his weakness were struggling for the 
 mastery, but she quelled them by an effort of will. 
 
 " Dorothy," she said decidedly, " will never re 
 turn. Perchance she is among her father's people 
 in England, or with the Indians, or she may have 
 been forced into compact with the spirits of the air, 
 and may be now in their keeping." These last 
 words she spoke slowly and cautiously. 
 
 "The latter is not so, that I swear," said Went- 
 worth angrily. " No imps of darkness could live 
 beside purity such as hers. No, no, Elizabeth. And 
 beware lest thou speak thus to any save myself; 
 spread not this calumny abroad. Yet truth may be 
 in thy words, though thou know it not : be she with 
 the spirits, as thou sayest, they are spirits of light in 
 God's kingdom. Let us hasten," he concluded ab 
 ruptly, " the night is coming ; it is chill. I will see
 
 ELIZABETH HUBBARD. 137 
 
 thee to thy home ; then I must hasten to the manse 
 to speak with Mr. Parris. I have many important 
 matters to transact in regard to this same trouble 
 with the witches, which doth engross much attention 
 at present, having even reached the ears' of the offi 
 cials in Boston." 
 
 " Of a truth there is much to discuss," she replied 
 eagerly, keeping step beside him as he strode across 
 the meadow. " Hast heard of the yellow-bird that 
 did appear to Farmer Morton and sit perched upon 
 his mantel, and which when he strove to drive it off 
 did ope its mouth, and 'from its tongue darted a 
 flame of fire? " 
 
 Her companion trembled. " No, I heard not of 
 it, nor do I believe it. This terrible thing is surely 
 gaining great proportions. Mr. Parris is most strong 
 in his belief. I think of a certainty that if it contin 
 ues he will take a hand in punishing the witches. 
 Heed thy words, fan not the blaze ; it is an awful 
 thing to take away human life." 
 
 "Yet thou believest?" she queried. 
 
 " In part," he replied, " not in all." 
 
 After Wentworth had bid her good-night at the 
 door of her home, Elizabeth did not enter imme 
 diately. She waited until the echo of his footsteps
 
 138 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 had died away, then descended the steps of the 
 porch and repaired to the garden. The night was 
 cold and bleak ; no moon or stars were visible ; the 
 wind moaned dismally among the trees. But she 
 heeded not the darkness or the solitude, for the fire 
 of passionate grief that burned within her. She 
 clasped and unclasped her hands as she stood in the 
 garden path, her rigid outline looming like some 
 specter of the night above the shrubs that bordered 
 the walk. 
 
 " I will not give him up," she muttered. " He 
 has been restored to me from one who did not value 
 him. She will never return she is dead. Why 
 should I fear? Though I make no plot, his heart 
 must turn to me. Can a merciful Providence have 
 placed this love within me, to requite me not? By 
 the very power of my nature I will win him, if if 
 she return no more."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 
 
 OUR New England ancestors had undergone great 
 persecutions in their homes beyond the seas, and 
 had suffered many privations. These, added to the 
 joyless existence that was their lot for many years 
 after landing on the shores of the New World, 
 caused them to become gloomy and taciturn, ever 
 taking a depressing view of life. Their surround 
 ings tended to increase this romantic, melancholy 
 disposition hence their credulity regarding super 
 natural agencies. 
 
 The country was too wild and unexplored for 
 much travel, the hills and valleys being covered with 
 dense forests, whose somber shades appeared to this 
 superstitious people to be inhabited by witches, de 
 mons, black imps, and all horrible beings possessed 
 of unnatural powers to work harm to God-fearing 
 people. This condition of mind easily grew into 
 fanaticism when fostered by the accounts that came 
 
 i39
 
 140 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 across the seas from Europe, of the burning, hang 
 ing, and torturing of witches for their evil deeds. 
 
 On a certain evening Martha and David were 
 seated together, as usual, in the kitchen. David 
 leaned his head against the back of his high wooden 
 chair, his stern countenance clouded by a shade of 
 deep thoughtfulness. Martha sat near the window, 
 watching the last lingering glow reflected from the 
 distant clouds where the sun had descended in a 
 blaze of glory. There were tears in her eyes, and 
 her hands trembled as she brushed the drops away. 
 Lying across her lap was a little child's gar 
 ment. 
 
 " David," she said presently, " I am sad and con 
 science-stricken. When I look far across the fields, 
 on such a night as this, to the west, I seem to see 
 the opened gate of heaven ; and then a great terror 
 falls upon me, lest by my hand that gate has been 
 closed to Dorothy. Ah, David, David! where is 
 our sister's child? Did I do right by the little one? 
 Did I do all my duty? " she concluded piteously. 
 
 "Torture not thyself, Martha; thou didst all thy 
 duty. The child possessed her father's headstrong 
 will ; it proved too great for thee ; thou couldst not 
 gainsay it. I have forgiven the child. I pray she
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 141 
 
 be safe with God. Yet I reproach not myself. I 
 did what I thought was best." 
 
 " No, no," she wailed, " I did not all my duty. I 
 did ever thwart her in all gayety and display. I did 
 her a wrong ; she was but young. Then worse, far 
 worse than all, I did force the betrothal to Alden 
 Went worth." 
 
 " It is past," said David solemnly, " we can do no 
 more. We must submit in all humility. Methinks 
 this terrible thing that hath come upon Salem doth 
 drive at times all thoughts of Dorothy from my mind. 
 Thou hast heard of the three women that have been 
 accused of witchcraft, and are to be tried in the 
 meeting-house this day two weeks?" 
 
 "Ay, I have heard," replied Martha scornfully. 
 " I heed not such folly. Such trials do but disgrace 
 the meeting-house." 
 
 The kitchen was quite dark now, save for the pale 
 light that fell from the crescent of the new moon 
 hanging above the hills, its reflection resting in a 
 curved line of silver upon the floor. " David, look ! " 
 As she spoke she held out before her the child's dress 
 that had been lying across her lap. " The little robe 
 that Dorothy wore on that long voyage from Eng 
 land the last thing her mother made. I found it
 
 142 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 to- day in the garret chest. The child hath been in 
 my mind all this day. Methinks I see her now, a 
 babe, a little maid, and then a beauteous woman ; 
 for, David, thou knowest none could compare with 
 our niece in all the village of Salem." 
 
 " Ay, thou sayest truly, Martha." 
 
 " I shall never cease in this world to sorely reproach 
 myself for her misdeeds. I was too hard with her. 
 Perhaps in time, had I been more lenient, this will 
 fulness would have lived out its day, then left her. 
 Yet as I bent over the old chest this morn, I did say, 
 ' I will be kinder, more motherly, and I will forgive 
 all, if a merciful God shall ever restore her to us.' ' 
 
 " Thou mayst have much to forgive," he said 
 gloomily. 
 
 " I lay no account on that. She was never wicked ; 
 naught but foolish and thoughtless. I did expect 
 that William Grey's daughter could be a pattern of 
 excellence ; my years should have taught me more 
 wisdom than that." 
 
 " He was a riotous, rollicking good-for-naught," 
 said David impatiently, " ever ready with his un 
 seemly song and his mug of spiced wine ; truly one 
 of Satan's most zealous followers. Yet let him bide. 
 I care not to talk of him ; he has gone to his account.
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 143 
 
 The thoughts that stir within me are of such dread 
 and fear, they drive all else from me." 
 
 "What dost thou mean?" cried Martha. She 
 dropped the little dress upon the floor, and drawing 
 nearer to her brother peered down into his face. 
 David rose quickly from his seat. 
 
 " I mean that the dread scourge of wickedness is 
 amongst us ; that the Evil One hath sent his mes 
 sengers before him in the persons of these hags that 
 do infest the forest and have signed their names in 
 his Black Book lost souls, doing the will of their 
 master." 
 
 He walked excitedly to the window, looked forth 
 an instant, then retraced his steps and stopped in the 
 center of the room, where the faint light of the moon 
 fell. " Light the candles ; I like not this gloom. 
 They may e'en now have sent their imps to molest 
 us. These agents like well the darkness. Didst 
 not hear a noise of wings without the door, or in 
 yonder chimney? Thou knowest they hold their 
 orgies when the moon is in the first quarter." 
 
 Martha silently lighted the candles upon the 
 mantel-shelf, then turned abruptly to her brother, her 
 hands upon her hips, her sturdy frame held erect. 
 
 " I am ashamed of thee, David Holden ! Thou
 
 144 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 foolish, credulous creature! And thou talkst of 
 gossiping women, who, ye say, have not sense to 
 question and find the truth of a story. I tell thee, 
 give me a man for a fool when a silly yarn is afloat." 
 
 David looked darkly upon her, the candle-light 
 flickering over his determined features. " Martha, 
 it were better for thee if thou didst hold thy peace 
 upon this subject. As there is a heaven above us, 
 the authorities will punish these hags, who do follow 
 the devil's teachings." 
 
 " If they punish those poor old babbling creatures, 
 \vhose minds have gone astray, I give not an atom 
 for their opinion, or for their knowledge of the ways 
 of justice." 
 
 " Thou wast ever a rebellious, stubborn woman, 
 Martha. Bridle thy tongue, I warn thee!" He 
 went to the door while speaking, and stood some 
 moments looking out into the darkness. Martha 
 watched him earnestly a moment, then folded the 
 little robe and ascended the garret stairs to replace 
 it in the chest. Many tear-stains rested on the fine 
 embroidery of the dainty garment as she laid it rev 
 erently away with her rolls of best linen. 
 
 " My poor little Dorothy ! " she sighed. Then she 
 locked the chest, and seating herself amidst the lum-
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 145 
 
 her in the garret she wept softly for the absent 
 one. 
 
 While this conversation was taking place in the 
 farmhouse, a girl, footsore and pale, with tattered 
 garments and torn shoes from which her feet pro 
 truded, was making her way cautiously along the 
 edge of the woods that skirted the settlement. 
 Dorothy had walked all day since early dawn. 
 Now, as the night drew nigh, she was creeping 
 stealthily through the underbrush toward her old 
 home. The thoughts in her mind were sorrowful in 
 the extreme. Look which way she would, she al 
 ways returned to the inevitable question, " Shall I 
 tell the truth, or shall I withhold it? " Around this 
 she fluttered with indecision and doubt. She knew 
 what was right, yet feared that result which her 
 experience led her to expect from the opinion of her 
 townspeople. The reply that always came with the 
 hollow note of despair to her sad communings, " If 
 you tell the truth they will spurn you and cast you 
 forth," caused her to tremble. 
 
 Her thoughts hovered as the pendulum of a clock, 
 back and forth, back and forth, with no resting-place. 
 The great love that had arisen within her from the 
 ashes of so dire an experience would not sleep or rest.
 
 146 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 She could not summon the moral strength to cast it 
 forth and bid it die. " No, no," she murmured, as 
 she slowly wandered over the rough fields, " I can 
 not tell them I cannot tell him. He is nothing to 
 me now. Yet his thoughts of me may be tender. 
 If I speak the truth, that I did fly with one who de 
 ceived me, I could not look upon his face and live." 
 
 When she neared the outskirts of the farm, she 
 paused to rest upon a bank that rose on one side of 
 a newly plowed meadow. It was a glorious night : 
 the stars twinkled and flashed in a nearly cloudless 
 sky ; the crescent had crept lower, until now it hung 
 just above the distant line of sea ; the feeble piping 
 of a few early spring birds sounded from the neigh 
 boring trees. 
 
 The little hamlet lay almost in darkness, save 
 where here and there a stray glimmer shone from 
 some cottage window. Dorothy glanced wistfully 
 up into the heavens. Wondrous stories came to her 
 memory stories she had heard in childhood, of 
 happy homes far away in each bright star. If some 
 angel spirit would but descend and bid her follow, 
 how gladly she would obey! Suddenly a cloud 
 came blowing up from the north, and a soft wind 
 fanned the girl's face.
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 147 
 
 Dorothy felt herself seized with an unaccountable 
 desire for a sign from above that might point her the 
 right course to pursue in her present great dilemma. 
 She rested her back against the soft, damp earth that 
 composed the bank, and clasping her hands upon 
 her breast, raised her head and gazed intently into 
 the radiant sky. 
 
 " If that little cloud that comes blowing from the 
 north," she said aloud, " doth cross the moon and 
 dim its light, I deem it a sign that should I tell the 
 truth, all the light in my life would depart; then I 
 will not speak. If it passes by the moon, then I will 
 tell the truth, and take it for an omen that the light 
 shall still shine for me again." With the relief of 
 having the decision made by an agency outside her 
 own will a voice from heaven, as she had chosen to 
 interpret it she rose from her low position, and 
 stood watching the oncoming of the cloud. 
 
 There was a weird fascination in thus having 
 nature indicate what fate still held in store for her. 
 On came the cloud, driven swiftly before the wind. 
 At first it appeared to avoid the moon, and shifted 
 in an uncertain manner; then it broke slightly. 
 Suddenly the wind rose to greater volume, and with 
 a sound like the beating of the surf upon a rocky
 
 148 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 shore, it whispered hoarsely among the trees in the 
 not far distant woods. 
 
 The scattered drifts of clouds formed into somber 
 masses ; in an instant the light of the moon became 
 obscured, and the beauty of the night was dimmed. 
 Dorothy, her hands clasped before her face, her form 
 shaking from the reaction which came to her, burst 
 into a passionate flood of tears and leaned her head 
 down upon the dewy bank of earth. The moon 
 went down enveloped in clouds and mist. 
 
 The hours of the night passed slowly by. Doro 
 thy arose and continued her way over the few re 
 maining fields that lay between her and the farm 
 house. She walked with a buoyant tread. Had 
 not fate decided for her? Was she not free? A 
 sign had come from heaven : by that sign she would 
 guide her fate. Once more her life was clear and 
 open ; the reproachful memories of her past follies 
 were dead, buried, and forgotten. No one need 
 ever know. She would be silent ; her ingenuity 
 would help her to invent some plausible tale that 
 would be accepted, and no witness could disprove 
 her statement. 
 
 Presently she noticed a dark object coming toward 
 her over the meadows. The object approached
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 149 
 
 slowly and cautiously, keeping its head toward the 
 ground and growling ominously. " Old Rollo ! Old 
 Rollo ! " called Dorothy in a low voice. " Come here, 
 good fellow, come here." 
 
 The farm dog, hearing her voice, hastened his 
 pace, and was soon careering about her with dumb 
 expressions of delight and welcome. She threw 
 her arms about his shaggy neck, and laid her face 
 close against his. " I need not lie to thee, good 
 fellow," ^he said tearfully. " I could tell thee all, 
 and thou wouldst think no less of me." The dog 
 looked up into her face and whined. " It is because 
 thou hast no mind to judge that thou lovest me. I 
 would that others were as kind as thou art, poor 
 dumb beast ! Never, never wilt thou turn reproach 
 ful eyes on thy old friend Dorothy." 
 
 The dog thus appealed to drew closer to her, and 
 with low murmurs of delight and affection licked her 
 hands, and laid his paw in her lap as he nestled to 
 her side. "Come," she continued, "protect me. 
 They will not drive thee, a dog, away. They may 
 then have pity upon me, a poor human penitent." 
 
 The two united friends walked over the little dis 
 tance remaining of the Holden property. All was 
 very still around the house ; no lights were seen, for
 
 150 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 the hour was late, and all were asleep. Disheart 
 ened and frightened, Dorothy seated herself on the 
 settle in the porch, and with the dog close by her 
 side she decided to wait until morning. In a short 
 space of time she had fallen asleep. It was a deep, 
 dreamless sleep, produced by extreme exhaustion 
 and excitement. 
 
 Aunt Martha rose early the following morning, as 
 was her usual custom, and thinking she heard a noise 
 in the porch, went to the window that overlooked 
 the front door. Her eyes fell upon Dorothy, still 
 fast asleep, her listless attitude resembling the deep 
 repose of death. The dog looked up and whined 
 when the window above his head opened, but he did 
 not desert his charge. In another moment two ex 
 cited old people came hurriedly down the creaking 
 staircase. " Come to the back door," whispered 
 Martha. "Do not frighten her; let her awaken 
 naturally." 
 
 When Dorothy opened her blue eyes they rested 
 upon the happy faces of her aunt and uncle. 
 "Aunt Martha!" Dorothy's voice was soft with 
 wistful pleading. "Forgive, forgive!" She could 
 say no more, but held out her wasted arms. 
 
 " My little girl," said Aunt Martha, " thou art
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 151 
 
 welcome home!" and kissed her. Supported be 
 tween the two, the wanderer entered the farmhouse. 
 
 And so the prodigal was received with joy, and 
 the fatted calf was killed for the penitent. Yet she 
 was only half a penitent, for with remorse came not 
 confession. 
 
 Her aunt and uncle fully believed her story. 
 She had left her home, she said, for very weariness 
 and hatred of her existence ; also on account of the 
 forced bond of her betrothal. She had wandered 
 in the forest, endeavoring to reach Boston, but had 
 strayed from the bridle path and lost her way. At 
 length she had been taken in by a kindly woman, 
 a wood-cutter's widow, living in the heart of the 
 woods, who had nursed her through a long attack of 
 fever. Then she had for a time feared to return, 
 but at last, hoping for forgiveness, had summoned 
 the courage. 
 
 The old life was now resumed, save that the still 
 small voice was never silent in the ears of the mis 
 taken girl. For some days she refused to leave the 
 farmhouse, making her aunt and uncle promise that 
 they would not yet tell in Salem of her return. 
 
 "Not even Alden Wentworth ? " asked Martha. 
 " Methinks it is but his due."
 
 152 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 "No, no," said Dorothy with a shudder, "not 
 him ; I must have strength to meet him. I am still 
 but weak." 
 
 Martha was puzzled at this repugnance to meet 
 one to whom she had been so indifferent. " Why, 
 Dorothy, child, thou wert ever careless of his opin 
 ion. He cannot harm thee, and surely he will not 
 reproach thee, save in his capacity of deacon to one 
 of the erring flock. He is a proud man ; he will 
 never seek to force himself upon thee again. Fear 
 not." 
 
 " Is he, then, so indifferent to me? " asked Doro 
 thy humbly. " Have I offended him past all for 
 giveness? " 
 
 Her aunt gave her a sharp, curious glance. " Of 
 that I cannot say. He doth not speak of thee. 
 There is one whom gossips say he hath been seen 
 much with. I set no store, however, on the idle 
 talk of the women." 
 
 "Who is it?" asked Dorothy, "that seeks so 
 soon to fill my place?" There was a touch of bit 
 terness in her voice. 
 
 " Elizabeth Hubbard," replied her aunt. 
 
 "Surely Elizabeth can be no friend of mine!" 
 She spoke angrily.
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 153 
 
 " Keep thy temper, Dorothy, keep thy temper. 
 When thou throwest precious goods away, some 
 there will ever be to pick them up. But I have 
 said I would not reproach thee, and I never will." 
 
 " Aunt Martha," replied she solemnly, " what we 
 possess we often set no store by. What we lose, of 
 a surety that we do prize, but we do hate the one 
 who profits by what we recklessly have lost." 
 
 Aunt Martha drew near her niece, and with a ten 
 derness unusual in one of her self-contained disposi 
 tion, kissed her gently upon her brow. " Dorothy, 
 I fear thou hast lost the greatest blessing of thy life. 
 Heaven help thee if the love which it was once thy 
 right to feel has come to thee too late ! I fear thou 
 hast killed it in that other one with thine own hand." 
 
 Dorothy threw herself upon her knees, laid her 
 head against the old kitchen settle, and sobbed. 
 " He might have remembered me a little while," she 
 said brokenly. " Forgotten in a few short months-, 
 and he said he truly loved me!" 
 
 " Hush, child. I know not that he has forgotten ; 
 'tis perchance but idle gossip." As Martha spoke 
 she stroked the bright brown hair. " Surely," she 
 said, " thy misdeed has brought its punishment."
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE WITCHES. 
 
 THE strange and terrible delusion of witchcraft 
 had fallen upon Salem with great virulence. Horri 
 ble tidings had found their way from distant lands, 
 of the wholesale destruction of victims accused of 
 this crime. In England, France, and Germany was 
 this superstition prevalent. Witches were burned by 
 hundreds and thousands. This belief did not confine 
 itself to the poor or illiterate ; many of the highest 
 in all lands shared in the error of the day. 
 
 In England one Matthew Hopkins assumed the 
 title of Witch-finder, and invented horrible tests 
 whereby to vindicate his claims to such an exalted 
 position. One of his most cruel proofs was this : 
 after capturing the supposed witch, to tie the thumb 
 of the right hand to the great toe of the left foot, 
 then proceed to drag the poor wretch through a pond. 
 If the frightened creature floated, there could be no 
 doubt whatever that she was a witch and she al 
 ways floated ! Through the instrumentality of Hop- 
 
 '54
 
 THE WITCHES. 155 
 
 kins it is said that nearly sixty persons lost their lives 
 by fire and hanging. 
 
 Our ancestors believed that a witch had willingly 
 given her soul and body into the keeping of the 
 devil : she had signed her name in his great Black 
 Book. This ceremony accomplished, she was his 
 forever. He, in return for her allegiance to him-and 
 her work in his behalf, endowed her with wondrous 
 and supernatural powers, whereby she might do harm 
 to all she wished, and to all who opposed her will. 
 
 These supposed witches had most marvelous gifts 
 conferred upon them by their master: they could 
 raise a storm at sea ; they were given unusual 
 physical strength ; they could cause a tornado, 
 fire churches, pinch, throttle, cause disease, destroy 
 reason, and even take human life. Their actual 
 presence was not considered necessary for the con 
 summation of these terrible evils ; an apparition or 
 shape, sent in the form of some animal a dog, cat, 
 toad, spider, or the ever-popular yellow-bird was 
 sufficient for the success of their undertakings. 
 These witches were supposed to go through weird, 
 uncanny dances with their imps and ungodly follow 
 ers, under the forest trees. 
 
 Another favorite pastime consisted of swift flights
 
 156 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 through the midnight air, generally astride a broom 
 stick, their attendants from the lower world following 
 them with fiendish cries and hideous laughs. 
 
 When the good people in those old days of New 
 England heard strange, unaccountable noises on 
 blowy nights, in the chimney or around their houses, 
 they did not rise and with candle in hand investigate 
 the cause ; instead, they shuddered and lay still, 
 whispering with bated breath, " The witches are 
 abroad to-night ; they are riding above the house 
 tops ! " The mother clasped her little one closer, and 
 murmured, " God keep thee, my child!" 
 
 During two preceding winters, those of 1691 and 
 1692, a society, or rather a circle, as it was called, 
 consisting mostly of young girls, had been formed in 
 Salem. This circle appears to have had for its first 
 object amusement, the young people of those days 
 sadly lacking any diverting pastimes. Gradually, 
 however, these evening meetings, which took place 
 principally in the house of the Rev. Mr. Parris, as 
 sumed a more serious aspect, and instruction in the 
 black art became one of the main features of the en 
 tertainment. Mr. Parris had in his employ two ser 
 vants, or rather slaves, a man and his wife, named 
 John Indian and Tituba.
 
 THE WITCHES. 157 
 
 These slaves Mr.' Parris had brought with him from 
 the Spanish Indies. They were steeped in witch 
 craft, and understood many of the horrible practices 
 of the ignorant tribe from which they came. They 
 instructed the circle, and kept it well supplied with 
 material calculated to inflame the imaginations of the 
 already intensely excited young people. The result 
 of all this conjuring was that a species of hysteria 
 seized upon the girls, and their antics soon began to 
 give evidence according to the popular idea that 
 they were bewitched. 
 
 Elizabeth Hubbard's erratic temperament had 
 made her from the start a prominent actor in this 
 magic circle. She now became possessed of the 
 marvelous power of interpreting the spell of the 
 witches ; at least she claimed this honor. 
 
 The good people of Salem, at first surprised, soon 
 became alarmed at the curious performances of the 
 members of the society. They finally consulted the 
 village doctor. 
 
 He was nonplused, read some learned documents, 
 shook his head gravely, declared the disease unknown 
 to science, and considered the girls certainly under 
 the dreaded spell of witchcraft. They went through 
 some of their antics for his benefit, creeping under
 
 158 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 chairs, uttering piercing cries, falling into convulsions, 
 laughing and crying, until the poor, bewildered old 
 man fled in dismay. 
 
 The afflicted children, as they were called, went 
 triumphantly on their course, and were looked upon 
 with sympathy and tenderness by the community at 
 large. At last, intoxicated by the exalted position 
 they now sustained in the village, they grew bolder, 
 and openly accused three poor old helpless women 
 of having bewitched them. From this small and 
 apparently innocent source sprang the terrible tor 
 rent that swept so many blameless lives into eternity. 
 
 When Dorothy returned to Salem it was to find 
 her old home given over to the wildest confusion. 
 The daily work was neglected, the fields were not 
 sown, while the people gathered, with bated breath 
 and grave countenances, upon the streets, to discuss 
 this appalling condition that had come amongst them. 
 Three old women lay terrified in prison, awaiting 
 their trials, on the testimony of the accusing girls. 
 
 Alden Wentworth had kept aloof as much as pos 
 sible from the general alarm and confusion : not that 
 he was an unbeliever in witchcraft that \vould have 
 been an impossibility in such an age, with such sur 
 roundings and teachings, to say nothing of natural
 
 THE WITCHES. 159 
 
 temperament. He did not believe, however, in the 
 power of human agency to discover a witch ; and he 
 predicted that many grievous mistakes would follow 
 a trial by law of such an anomalous crime. He had 
 faith in the efficacy of prayer and good deeds to 
 avert, and in time to overcome, this fearful affliction ; 
 but he advised no violent measures. 
 
 The allusion that Elizabeth had made to Dorothy's 
 being in the keeping of these lost creatures had 
 alarmed and disturbed him ; not that he seriously 
 considered her words, but for the possible effect they 
 might have on others, should Elizabeth speak of her 
 suspicions abroad. 
 
 In March two distinguished magistrates, John 
 Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin, came to Salem to 
 try the accused witches. Alden was present in the 
 meeting-house during these trials, though he took 
 no part in the proceedings beyond that of interested 
 listener, having peremptorily refused from the be 
 ginning of the witchcraft trouble to sit in judgment 
 upon the accused parties so long as spectral testi 
 mony was taken in evidence. The trial was at 
 tended with considerable pomp and ceremony. 
 Great crowds watched the proceedings with awe 
 and respectful attention, drinking in with credulous
 
 I6O DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 eagerness the absurd testimony tendered by the 
 girls. 
 
 It was the last day of the trial. Old Goody 
 Trueman, who had been taken into custody shortly 
 after Dorothy's departure from her home, lay very 
 ill in the jail. It was impossible to bring her from 
 Ipswich, where the prisoners were confined. The 
 crowd was in a fever of expectancy, awaiting the 
 verdict. All were silent ; the unusual event had 
 made a deep impression upon the populace. Now 
 and then one of the " afflicted children " would dis 
 turb the solemnity of the scene by screaming out 
 that one of the witches was torturing her ; then she 
 would fall upon the floor in a fit or a faint. 
 
 Wentworth, wearied, sick at heart of this horrid 
 spectacle, left the church and repaired to the quiet 
 resting-place of the dead, whose narrow confines 
 bordered upon the meeting-house grounds. He 
 looked down upon a newly covered grave : a few 
 new shoots of tender grass grew upon the damp 
 earth; the* early spring sunshine fell warm about 
 him. He removed his hat reverently, and gazed 
 upon the peaceful scene. He did not hear a step 
 on the soft ground near him, when, turning sud 
 denly, he encountered the keen eyes of Martha
 
 THE WITCHES. l6l 
 
 Holden watching him intently. She now came 
 quickly forward, lifting her skirts as she stepped 
 over twigs and brambles that lay upon some of the 
 neglected mounds. He did not speak ; something 
 in her face drove the words from his lips. She had 
 reached him now and stood close beside him. 
 " Alden," she said, then hesitated, " I have some 
 thing to tell thee." 
 
 " Yes," he said quickly, drawing near to her. 
 
 " It is of Dorothy. Methought I would seek thee 
 here and speak, while those gaping idiots are trying 
 the poor old dotards, placing their keen wits against 
 their befogged brains!" She glanced angrily to 
 ward the meeting-house as she spoke. " I knew 
 thou couldst not stay in there for long!" She 
 pointed contemptuously over her shoulder as she 
 finished speaking. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he interrupted impatiently; "but 
 what of Dorothy?" 
 
 She gave him a searching glance, then said 
 abruptly, "She has come home." 
 
 He paled a moment ; then a light like the glow 
 of the sun when it is highest in the heavens over 
 spread his countenance. " Home ! " he gasped 
 "home!"
 
 1 62 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Yes, she has been home some days ; she wished 
 it not told abroad." 
 
 " Where has she been ? What says she of of 
 me?" 
 
 " She has spoken but once of thee, and then in 
 tones of deepest contrition. She left thee for the 
 wrong she thought she would do thee, did she 
 marry thee without loving thee. She hath been 
 ill in the house of a kind woman who pitied her 
 when, after wandering in the forest, she lost her 
 way. She was seeking to reach the seacoast, to 
 embark for England." 
 
 " God bless that kindly woman, whoever she may 
 be," said Wentworth reverently. 
 
 Martha continued : " Speak not much to her of 
 her wanderings when thou dost see her; she is yet 
 over weak, and allusions to her troubles do but 
 harass her greatly." 
 
 "Will she see me? I fear she may not desire it 
 after all that I have brought upon her; for thou 
 knowest, Martha, fear of me drove her from her 
 home." 
 
 " Not so," said Martha. " I do love the child, 
 yet I can see her faults: she was ever unhappy, 
 seeking advancement. Be not too humble ; women
 
 THE WITCHES. 163 
 
 like not men that do bemean themselves. Show 
 her that thou art master. If I were a married 
 woman, I would not let thee into this secret." 
 She laughed. " Too much leaven makes the bread 
 hollow." 
 
 For very happiness he laughed too, then checked 
 the mirth as a sound unbefitting the sacredness of 
 the place where they stood. 
 
 " I will not let her know that I have seen thee," 
 said Martha warily. " Come some time as though 
 by chance. Remember, she has changed. She 
 will not meet thee dancing that heathenish dance, 
 as thou hast once seen her; her heart is not so 
 light as then." She paused, and continued sadly: 
 " No doubt this discipline is better for her, but she 
 is little wild Dorothy no longer." 
 
 They were startled from further converse by 
 shouting and screams and the .tramping of many 
 feet. They turned, to see crowds issuing from the 
 doors of the meeting-house. The verdict had been 
 rendered, the trial was over. The prisoners were 
 being led, or rather dragged forth, by their jailers. 
 Following closely came the " afflicted children," 
 calling loudly after them : 
 
 " See where they go, their imps surrounding
 
 1 64 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 them ! They do pinch us, and prick us, and choke 
 us." 
 
 "They do seek our souls!" shrieked the deep 
 voice of Elizabeth Hubbard, as she strode, tall and 
 menacing, in their wake, the picture of an avenging 
 goddess loth to let her prey escape. 
 
 The two poor friendless old women, cowering 
 and trembling before her cries and frenzied atti 
 tude, raised their hands imploringly. Their eyes 
 were dim with age, and their forms bent by the in 
 firmities of many years. 
 
 "Away with them!" she cried. "Their eyes do 
 pierce our souls like coals of fire ! Take them from 
 our sight, else we suffer from the torments they do 
 send upon us." 
 
 Then followed fits and swoons, and gestures of 
 apparent terror and dismay. 
 
 "I am no witch!" called one of the prisoners 
 angrily, in a high, cracked voice. " Ye do dis 
 semble. I have no contact with the Evil One ; ye 
 have, for ye seek our lives." 
 
 " She tortures these poor children," said the mag 
 istrate, from his position on the upper steps of the 
 church. " See ye not their sufferings ? Put these 
 accursed fiends into the cart, and hasten with them
 
 THE WITCHES. 165 
 
 to the jail. Pollute our presence no longer by these 
 hags of wickedness." 
 
 Amidst great confusion on the part of the crowd, 
 and groans from the two terrified old women, the 
 latter were placed in the cart; and followed by 
 jeering, hooting boys hurling sticks and stones, 
 they proceeded down the country road in the direc 
 tion of the prison. Martha and Wentworth gazed 
 upon this spectacle with varying emotions : Went 
 worth with deep pity, yet powerless to interfere, for 
 were these prisoners not tried by law? Martha 
 with anger uncontrollable. She turned impatiently 
 to her companion. 
 
 " Why seek ye not to influence Elizabeth Hub- 
 bard?" she said. " Methinks she would heed thee, 
 the wicked baggage! Out upon her, with her heart 
 of stone! She is the leader in all this wickedness." 
 
 Elizabeth had been standing for some minutes 
 with her back to them, not seeing the two figures 
 watching quietly among the graves ; she was gaz 
 ing gloomily after the retreating crowds. She now 
 turned quickly, hearing her name, and encountered 
 the grave, reproachful glance of the young judge 
 and the wrathful eyes of Martha. But her gaze 
 did not fall before theirs. She came rapidly toward
 
 166 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 them over the rough ground, not avoiding the rest 
 ing-places of the dead, but stepping heavily upon 
 the raised hillocks as though there was no sacred- 
 ness in the place. As she neared them, she turned 
 defiantly upon Martha and touched her arm. 
 
 " Why were ye not at the trial, Mistress Holden ? 
 It was a rare scene." 
 
 "I detest such sights!" said Martha angrily, 
 twitching her arm from the girl's grasp. " When I 
 make war, I make it not on two poor imbecile old 
 women. Ye had better be about some other busi 
 ness, or methinks ye will do better work for Satan 
 than aught thy victims can do." 
 
 Wentworth laid his hand on the outstretched arm 
 of the excited woman. " Be discreet, be discreet," 
 he said. 
 
 " I approve not of such deeds, and I am not 
 afraid to say so," she replied. 
 
 Elizabeth watched the angry woman with a hard, 
 determined expression. " Discretion were better 
 for thee," she said slowly. " Mr. Wentworth ad 
 vises well. Yet let me tell thee the import of the 
 trial. In a few weeks they will be hung, Old 
 Goody Trueman with the rest, or as soon as her 
 health permits her to mount Gallows Hill."
 
 THE WITCHES. 1 67 
 
 "Surely, surely not!" cried Alden Wentworth ' in 
 dismay. 
 
 " Ay, 'tis true and just ; the magistrates have so 
 decreed it." 
 
 " I say it is not just," interrupted Martha hotly. 
 " Thou art a wicked girl ; yet thou wilt receive thy 
 reward. Methinks thou hast received already a 
 portion of it. Fate can spin a web stronger than 
 thou canst, Elizabeth. Whom dost thou think has 
 returned to Salem?" As she spoke Martha smiled 
 triumphantly upon her angry auditor, cocking her 
 head on one side, and laughing softly. " Thou wilt 
 not have it all thine own way now." 
 
 "Who?" inquired the girl. "I care not who 
 comes and goes from Salem." 
 
 Alden Wentworth was not taking part in the 
 angry discussion between the two women. He had 
 retired a few steps from them and stood motionless, 
 his head raised, a happy, dreamy light in his fine 
 eyes. Elizabeth watched him intently an instant 
 and read the answer to her question on his face. 
 
 "Dorothy," she said, "Dorothy has returned." 
 Her voice sounded strained and unnatural. 
 
 " Yes, forsooth, Dorothy, thy old friend, whom I 
 heard thee malign in the market-place. No doubt
 
 1 68 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 thou wilt be happy to welcome her again," she con 
 cluded sarcastically. 
 
 "Where has she been these four months?" de 
 manded Elizabeth. 
 
 " What is that to thee ? Thou canst have no 
 interest in the matter. If thou canst not prove 
 thyself a friend in need, in good times we want 
 thee not. I wish thee to come no more to the 
 farm." 
 
 " Yes, Elizabeth," said Went worth, the sound of 
 Dorothy's name recalling him from his reverie, " she 
 has returned amongst us. The heavy remorse I 
 have carried within me is no more. My prayers 
 are answered. We should all bid her welcome, 
 both for her own sake and for the sake of her good 
 aunt and uncle." 
 
 "And ye advise me thus?" she said, stamping 
 her foot passionately, and striking her hand vio 
 lently against a headstone raised upon an adjacent 
 grave. " Ye are blind, ye cannot see. I wish that 
 I were dead, dead, lying here below where my feet 
 tread. There is no hope, no happiness more for me." 
 
 Wentworth and Martha started in dismay at this 
 exhibition of anger and despair, and drew back a 
 few paces.
 
 THE WITCHES. 169 
 
 " Ye may well shrink from me," she cried. " Ye 
 have ever said that I was wild and had no reason in 
 me. Ye have doubted that I did see visions." She 
 drew nearer to them and peered into their faces. 
 " Look, I see one now; it rises from yonder grave." 
 She pointed, as she spoke, to a sunken depression 
 in a neighboring plot. " Ye cannot see it. It is 
 well that ye cannot. It rises from the dead, to the 
 dead it returns. And ye ye have made me see 
 this vision." She clutched the young man's arm 
 convulsively, and her voice died away in a low echo 
 that resounded over the lonely field. 
 
 " Calm thyself, calm thyself/' said Wentworth, 
 much alarmed. " These witch trials do but make 
 thee beside thyself ; thy mind is dwarfed. To me 
 thy words are riddles." 
 
 " Riddles ! " she cried mockingly. " He calls them 
 riddles. Perchance ye will have the wisdom given 
 thee some day wherewith to read them." She 
 laughed that eerie, haunting laugh of hers. 
 
 " Hush, Elizabeth, hush!" he reiterated. 
 
 " I will not," she said. " I will have my say, 
 then I will depart. As I have entertained thee 
 well, I will soon bid thee good-day. Be not dis 
 turbed, Mistress Holden, I will not call at the farm.
 
 I 70 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 Yet wait ; I have a message for Dorothy. Tell her 
 from me, that when she marries and is from under 
 thy influence I will bring her a wedding gift." 
 
 "She wants none of thy gifts, thou false girl!" 
 said Martha. 
 
 " Nevertheless I will bring her one, and it shall 
 be woven good and stout, and shall be of goodly 
 length." 
 
 She left them abruptly. When she reached the 
 gate of the little graveyard she paused and glanced 
 back over her shoulder. Her face looked so dark 
 and menacing, her eyes so black and baleful, peer 
 ing forth from the masses of somber-hued hair, her 
 whole expression so malignant, that Martha, shud 
 dering, drew closer to Wentvvorth. 
 
 "What meaning lies in her words?" she gasped. 
 " She must be crazed. Was ever girl so daft? " 
 
 " She means harm to Dorothy," said Wentworth 
 slowly. " Yet surely I cannot understand why she 
 should hate her, her old friend." 
 
 " Ye men are stupid," answered Martha impa 
 tiently. " I know well why she hates her. Thou 
 canst not see through a clear glass ye have no 
 discernment." 
 
 Wentworth looked helplessly upon his companion,
 
 THE WITCHES. I 71 
 
 but did not reply. They waited a few moments 
 longer, communing with their own thoughts. The 
 wind blew damp and chill about them ; the sky was 
 fast deepening into the gray tints of a somber sun 
 set ; the little graveyard grew bleak and dull-hued. 
 
 Suddenly he spoke : " Come, let us be going ; 
 'tis cold among the graves." 
 
 "Yes," said Martha, "let us be going; at home, 
 perhaps, we can drive the ill-omened words of this 
 girl adrift. My heart is heavy ; this hillside is an 
 uncanny spot."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE RENEWAL OF LOVE. 
 
 THE air was growing warm with the sweet breath 
 of spring. The wild violets, anemones, and the 
 wind-blown grass flowers were gazing coyly forth 
 from their winter resting-places. In the orchards 
 the pink and white masses of buds upon the fruit- 
 trees flung out their fragrance to the breeze. The 
 little brooks sang merrily through the woods, joining 
 with the joyous songs of birds. Upon the bare, 
 bleak hills the foliage spread and covered the gray 
 boughs, and the brown earth lay hidden beneath 
 richest verdure. 
 
 The door of the farmhouse was open, but the 
 soft air, the sunshine, the fragrance, and the songs 
 of the merry birds were all unnoticed by the girl 
 who sat within the threshold, her head bowed above 
 her spinning-wheel. Her hands were busy, her foot 
 was upon the treadle, but her thoughts were far 
 distant in another spring, just one year ago. Poor, 
 erring Dorothy! 
 
 172
 
 THE RENEWAL OF LOVE. 173 
 
 " Just one year ago," she mused, " I did fling my 
 happiness aside, and now, like a child who has no 
 power to help itself, I weep for the ruin I have 
 wrought." 
 
 She dropped the linen she had been weaving, 
 and rising, went to the open door. She looked 
 across the smooth fields to where the line of sea 
 glittered, then upon the cattle grazing peacefully in 
 the meadows, then to the blue sky above her head. 
 " I seem to care for naught," she said aloud; " it is 
 as though I had no feeling left in me. Yet once a 
 day like this, and I could have danced and sung, as 
 happy as yonder bird who hastens to his nest." 
 She drew her hand across her eyes: they were 
 filled with tears. " I had thought perhaps he would 
 have come and yet, why should I wish to be more 
 miserable than I am ? He cares not for me, he has 
 forgotten." 
 
 She returned to her work. Round and round 
 went the busy wheel, the lint from the linen flying 
 through the atmosphere, the whirring sound echoing 
 pleasantly, like the song of a good housewife happy 
 at her task. Dorothy's passage through the fire of 
 tribulation had purified much of the light dross which 
 had been hers both by inheritance and temperament.
 
 174 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 The merriment of her nature had toned to a gentle 
 humor, which, though seldom seen, shone forth oc 
 casionally, like the rare glimpse of the sun on a 
 winter's day. 
 
 Her beauty had increased and expanded. The 
 childish contour of her face was replaced by firmer, 
 sweeter lines, while a pathetic pensiveness had taken 
 the place of her former mischievous archness. Her 
 perverse, irritating moods had departed, and in 
 their stead came a quiet acquiescence that amounted 
 at times almost to indifference. This latter change 
 in Dorothy was the cause of much disquietude to 
 her aunt. 
 
 Alden Wentworth, true to his word, had not yet 
 called upon his old love, and she, all unsuspecting 
 Martha's interview with him, watched and waited, 
 hoping, yet fearing his coming. 
 
 As Dorothy sat before her wheel this day, she 
 made a pleasant picture. She wore a blue petti 
 coat, a bodice with slashed sleeves, a lace neck 
 cloth around her slender throat, and upon her pretty 
 drooping head a silken hood rested, the brown curls 
 falling in little rings upon her forehead. Her small 
 feet were shod with high-heeled shoes with silver
 
 THE RENEWAL OF LOVE. 175 
 
 buckles, and the pretty apron that covered her dress 
 in front was daintily embroidered. 
 
 The practice of the Puritans in regard to dress 
 was in some respects at variance with their theories, 
 many vanities of the toilet being allowed. This 
 was probably in defiance of the severity of the at 
 tire of the Quakers, a sect whom they abhorred. 
 
 The shadow rested near the hour of four upon 
 the dial in the garden path. Dinner had long been 
 over ; David had returned to the field ; Martha was 
 in the milk-room, busy with her churning. The 
 house was very still ; old Rollo lay curled up on the 
 doorstep, fast asleep. 
 
 Dorothy took her foot from the treadle, bowed 
 her head upon her arm, and leaned forward upon 
 the wheel. The breeze stirred her soft hair and 
 fanned her neck, but she was oblivious to all sur 
 roundings. Her thoughts were blended in a maze 
 of regrets and remorse for the past year the year 
 of her grave mistake. She did not hear a step 
 pause upon the walk, or the rustle of the shrubs 
 near the door. 
 
 She did not move until a well-remembered voice 
 said, " Dorothy!"
 
 i;6 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 She then started quickly, and rose to her feet, a 
 blush mounting over her pale face a scorching, 
 crimson blush. She held out her small hands dep- 
 recatingly ; her sensitive lips quivered like a fright 
 ened child's. 
 
 Wentworth took a step forward, watching her in 
 tently as he did so. " Welcome home, Dorothy," 
 he said, " welcome home." 
 
 By a great effort of will she quelled the hysterical 
 desire to sob, and in a voice scarce audible replied, 
 " Thou art kind to bid me welcome ; I merit not such 
 words from thee." She leaned tremblingly against 
 the spinning-wheel, and gave him such a pleading, 
 piteous glance that Wentworth was deeply moved. 
 
 " Be not afraid of me, Dorothy ; I would not 
 harm thee. No thought against thee has ever 
 found place in my heart. The wrong thou hast 
 done me is balanced by the wrong I did thee." 
 
 They stood facing each other, the yellow sunlight 
 from the open door falling over both. 
 
 At these words a tremor passed over Dorothy. 
 " No, no," she said vehemently, " say not so. I am 
 all to blame. I left thee I left thee She 
 
 could not continue ; her voice broke, and she turned 
 away her head.
 
 THE RENEWAL OF LOVE. 177 
 
 He came nearer to her, and clasped her hand 
 firmly in his. " I know thou didst leave me, and I 
 know wherefore. I will not reproach thee ; thou 
 hast ever been frank and true. Let it be between 
 us henceforth as though this had never been. Let 
 us turn our feet into a new path, leaving the land 
 marks on the old forgotten." 
 
 " No, no," she said, weeping, " it. can never be 
 the same again. How can it, when this my mis 
 deed is ever between us? We cannot bury it, for, 
 like a buried seed, it will grow and bear fruit. I 
 fear myself, I fear myself!" She tried to draw her 
 hand from his grasp, but he held it firmly, and 
 forced her to look upon him. 
 
 " Thou art weak yet from the fever. Thy words 
 are not the truth of thy heart. I will wait. Time 
 is naught, if it bring me at length what I once 
 thought was mine. Dost thou feel as cold toward 
 me as formerly? " 
 
 She threw out her disengaged hand with a pas 
 sionate gesture. " No, no, Alden, no, no. Yet 
 I am not fit to be to thee what thou wouldst have 
 me I am not fit." 
 
 "Not fit!" he said. "Thou art too good, too 
 pure, too true for me."
 
 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 As he spoke these words, she trembled so per 
 ceptibly that he thought she would have fallen ; her 
 face grew white and drawn. " Sit here near the 
 door, on the settle," he said anxiously, putting his 
 arm about her and guiding her steps. She leaned 
 against him helplessly. " I have alarmed thee," he 
 said. " Forgive me." 
 
 " Nay, it is not that. I am not good or true ; I 
 am neither; I have done that which can never be 
 forgiven." 
 
 He, thinking that in her weak condition her over 
 taxed nerves caused this magnifying of her offense, 
 soothed her, speaking gently to her, now and then 
 placing his hand tenderly upon her hair. When he 
 did this, she shrank as from a blow. Seeing this 
 movement he drew his hand away, but not in dis 
 pleasure, for he had read in Dorothy's manner and 
 words something that caused his pulse's to throb 
 and his heart to beat joyously. 
 
 " My child," he said, " let us converse calmly. I 
 will not pester thee with questions of thy feelings ; 
 tell me of thy wanderings. Did the dark forests 
 not affright thee greatly ? Who was this kindly 
 woman who took thee in? I would I might requite 
 her for her care of thee."
 
 THE RENEWAL OF LOVE. 179 
 
 A gray pallor overswept her face, more alarming 
 than had been her previous whiteness. She could 
 not answer him ; her lips became dry, her tongue 
 dumb. Requite her! If he but knew of those 
 beads of gold that Goody had taken for her recom 
 pense those beads that bought her to follow a ly 
 ing deceiver, that glittering chain that bound her to 
 her own destruction he would scorn and spurn her, 
 she thought, looking up into the kind face observing 
 her, a voice within her convincing her that that face 
 could look cold and stern and pitiless. 
 
 " I cannot talk of that dreadful time," she said. 
 " Ask me not ; it frightens me to recall it. Tell me 
 of thyself and Salem, and of this terrible sorcery 
 that is in our midst." 
 
 He did as she required. " I can well believe that 
 it pains thee to speak of so much sorrow. I fear, 
 however, this witchcraft plague is not a more cheer 
 ful subject. It is growing to great dimensions. 
 Many have been arrested and now lie in prison 
 awaiting trial." 
 
 " I hear Elizabeth is one of the foremost of 
 accusers." 
 
 " She is vehement in her charges ; yet not she 
 alone, for most of the people do affirm that there is
 
 l8o DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 a diabolical agency in this strange demeanor of the 
 afflicted children." 
 
 "Aunt Martha bides at home and forbids me to 
 attend the trials, though indeed I desire not to see 
 the doings." 
 
 " It is no place for thee." He spoke decidedly. 
 " Hast heard that old Goody Trueman lies in Ips 
 wich jail yet very ill? Thou wilt remember her. 
 Thou hast seen her on the edge of the forest at 
 sundown, a glow upon her form like fire. Many do 
 affirm, though I must confess I have seen it not, 
 that a black dog appears and disappears by her side 
 in the twinkling of an eye ; and they do say further, 
 that at midnight, in the glen, she leads the dance of 
 the witches." 
 
 "I believe it not! It is false!" she cried ex 
 citedly. " I believe she is a good old woman." 
 
 He eyed her curiously a moment. " Thou art so 
 good, Dorothy, that thou canst see no harm in 
 others." 
 
 She winced at these words, and her hands worked 
 nervously as they lay in her lap. 
 
 He arose presently. " See," he said, " the even 
 ing has come ; already the sun is sinking. I must 
 leave thee. I have pressing business at the manse.
 
 THE RENEWAL OF LOVE. l8l 
 
 A great meeting of the clergy will be held this 
 night week in reference to witchcraft ; as deacon 
 of the Salem church, I must prepare a discourse for 
 that occasion. Dorothy, good-night." 
 
 She rose from the settle and placed her hand in 
 his. " Good-night," she said simply. 
 
 He hesitated an instant on the doorstep, then said 
 slowly, " Thou hast naught to tell me why I should 
 not come to see thee oft? Wilt thou welcome 
 me?" he pleaded wistfully. 
 
 She tried to speak, but no sound came from her 
 lips. 
 
 " Am I not welcome, then? " 
 
 "Thou art welcome," she said at last, scarcely 
 recognizing her own voice, it was so strained and 
 hoarse, " and and I have naught to tell thee." 
 
 " I shall come, then, again, and soon." He went 
 from her presence down the garden path in the fast 
 gathering twilight. 
 
 When he reached the gate she called him back. 
 "Alden, Alden!" she said. He was by her side 
 quickly. " I know not why I called thee back," she 
 said brokenly ; " perchance an impulse to tell thee 
 something. It has gone from me again ; I cannot 
 remember; it was no doubt but a trifle." She
 
 1 82 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 spoke feverishly and grasped his arm. " Tell me, 
 tell me, hast thou forgiven me? Give me some 
 penance, that I may perform it some hard deed 
 that I may do to prove that I have indeed been 
 pardoned, and for my soul's peace." 
 
 " I have forgiven thee, freely, fully ; it is as 
 though thy desertion had never been. Wilt thou 
 not believe me? We have both erred and have 
 both forgiven." 
 
 "Thou hast not erred, thou hast not," she said. 
 " Couldst thou forgive everything for the love thou 
 hast for me all weakness, all wrong?" She dared 
 not look into his face as she asked this question. 
 
 " No, Dorothy, not everything : not deceit, nor 
 unfaithfulness ; methinks that would kill all love in 
 me. But why thus torture thyself? I deem that 
 there still lurks the fever about thee." 
 
 " Ay," she replied, " but not fever of body. 
 Good-night, good-night, Alden. Dream of me as 
 thou knewest me a year ago, not as now. Dream 
 of me." Her voice sounded sweet and gentle. 
 
 " I shall dream of thee now, as always, my be 
 loved one, who holds my heart and faith and hopes." 
 He clasped her passionately and kissed her. " Thou 
 lovest me, thou lovest me," he murmured.
 
 THE RENEWAL OF LOVE. 183 
 
 " Ay," she said, " I love thee ; yet pity me, pity 
 me, Alden. My will is weak. Oh, let me go, let 
 me think!" She released herself from his arms. 
 " I am so tired. I have battled against this love ; 
 thou hast won wilt thou be merciful?" 
 
 " Dorothy, thy words are strange ; I understand 
 them not. Dearest, all is right between us once 
 more. It is as though the sun of happiness had 
 spread his rays upon us, to lighten the way in which 
 our feet shall tread. Surely God has been good to 
 us; He has tried our affection and found it strong." 
 He went again down the path, looking back once 
 when he reached the gate. 
 
 In the fast waning light she strained her eyes for 
 the last glimpse of him as he passed from her sight. 
 Then she leaned her head against the doorpost, her 
 eyes wide and dry, and looked straight before her, 
 seeing nothing: not the gorgeous coloring in the 
 western sky, where shafts of crimson and of gold 
 stretched across the heavens ; not the white mist of 
 the coming night, that lay like a shroud upon the 
 trees and shrubs ; not the long line of cattle cross 
 ing the meadows to the barnyard ; not even old 
 Rollo, looking affectionately up into her face. Ah 
 no, her thoughts were turned inward, were com-
 
 1 84 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 muning in that secret place where none had been 
 admitted. 
 
 She realized fully that the disclosure of her flight 
 with Grenville would cost her the love of Went- 
 worth. Furthermore, the knowledge of her long 
 residence in Goody Trueman's hut would cause the 
 suspicions of the excited populace to descend upon 
 her, and these once aroused, there was no conject 
 uring what the end would be. This latter conclu 
 sion did not affect her with that shrinking dread and 
 quaking at her heart as did the fear of losing one 
 whom she now felt to be more than life to her. 
 
 Then the horrible doubt dawned upon her, that 
 he would not believe the account of her residence 
 with the witch and her escape from Grenville, and 
 she had no witness to prove her words. Who 
 would credit the evidence of a lost creature such as 
 Goody? "I know not, I know not," she mur 
 mured, " which way to turn for counsel." Then in 
 her ears sounded, with grave decision, old Goody's 
 warning "Tell the truth, tell the truth." " I dare 
 not, I dare not; the price is too great." She 
 clasped her hands and looked up into the sky, now 
 dark with the coming night. " Oh, for a voice from 
 that great throne above, not to tell me what is right
 
 THE RENEWAL OF LOVE. 185 
 
 that I know but to give me strength to fling 
 aside what I most desire." No voice came from 
 the somber clouds ; no sound was heard except the 
 rustle of the wind across the* fields and the evening 
 songs of the little birds in their nests, joining with 
 the whirring of insects. " Methinks God has for 
 gotten me for that false step," she whispered sadly, 
 " and as I once did err, has taken from me all 
 strength to resist temptation." 
 
 While she thus thought bitterly, old David came 
 across the path. He walked slowly, for he was 
 wearied by a hard day's work. He took a seat be 
 side his niece upon the doorstep. 
 
 " So Wentworth has been here," he said, glanc 
 ing sharply at Dorothy from under his beetling 
 brows; " I saw him leave the house." 
 
 " Yes, he has been here." 
 
 " Is he coming again? " he demanded quickly. 
 
 " He is coming again," she answered quietly. 
 
 " Then take heed, Dorothy, if it be thy wish that 
 he comes to thee, that no more shall thy tempers, 
 thy follies, and thy whims rise up between thee." 
 
 She did not reply. 
 
 " Dost thou hear me? " he demanded. " Now let 
 me say further, then I shall speak no more upon
 
 1 86 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 this subject: he has forgiven thee, freely and fully." 
 He paused, then continued gravely : " If I read the 
 man aright, he could be pitiless and cruel to one 
 whom he deemed had* injured him. Be sure that 
 thou goest to him with all thy heart, no secrets hid 
 from him. I am an old man, Dorothy, and my in 
 terest is in thy welfare." 
 
 Instead of replying she left her seat hurriedly and 
 stepped into the path and took a few hasty steps to 
 and fro, then cried angrily : 
 
 " Why dost thou irritate me, uncle? What could 
 be kept secret between us ? He knows all. Shall I 
 crawl upon my knees to him? Perchance that is 
 what thou wouldst have me do." She laughed hys 
 terically. " I will go to the milk-room and help 
 Aunt Martha. She is ever kind to me since my re 
 turn ; she does not cast suspicious gibes at me." 
 
 Thus Dorothy thrust aside another opportunity, 
 and with each baffled effort the spinning of the web 
 grew stronger, and the little spider of deceit ran 
 gleefully up and down the strands, carrying ever 
 fresh materials for the structure. We deceive our 
 selves when we consider that the enormity of the 
 sin lies in the sin itself. If such were the case then 
 would there be but one victim to suffer for a
 
 THE RENEWAL OF LOVE. 187 
 
 broken law, and that one might pay the penalty by 
 atonement and restitution, and all be made perfect 
 once more, unheeded by the thoughtless one, how 
 ever the mighty consequences stretch out their 
 clinging, penetrating fibers, drawing in all who come 
 within the reach of their influence. It is indeed 
 one of the most torturing symptoms of remorse 
 that we cannot suffer alone, but that those we love 
 and fain would shield must also be dragged down 
 into the deep waters of tribulation with us. 
 
 Dorothy buried her secret for the present ; it 
 rested not in the grave she dug for it, but arose and 
 stalked forth in the broad light of day. To her 
 feverish imagination it seemed that a being re 
 sembling herself, yet different, and unseen by all 
 eyes save her own, walked forever by her side. It 
 stood close beside her in the market-place, in the 
 house, in the church, in the fields, in her dreams. 
 And that other self, the one being who knew the 
 secret of her heart, mocked and jeered, pointing the 
 finger of scorn and derision. " Thou deceivest 
 others, but there is One thou canst not deceive, 
 One who looks down upon thee from the heavens, 
 One who knows all, One to whom the judgment of 
 mankind is as nothing." It was as if a new life was
 
 1 88 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 hers and she but a part of that life, for another 
 shared it with her a hated presence, that sent its 
 poison into her being, obliterating the spell of peace 
 and draining the springs of her will. 
 
 Dorothy was fighting hopelessly against a tender 
 conscience. It was doubtless true that the awak 
 ened power and passion of her affection kept her 
 silent. Had she not dreaded losing her lover she 
 would have unburdened her heart to her aunt and 
 uncle and abided by their decision. The words 
 trembled constantly upon her lips, " I have de 
 ceived, I have lied." But the thought always fol 
 lowed, " I cannot give him up ; death were far 
 better."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 DOROTHY'S CONTRITION. 
 
 WENTWORTH, after leaving his love standing in 
 the doorway of the farmhouse, went directly to the 
 abode of Mr. Parris, where he remained for some 
 time in close conversation with his pastor. The re 
 sult of this interview was that some impatient, if not 
 angry, words passed between the two men. 
 
 " I fain would counsel thee," said Mr. Parris in 
 his harsh, decided manner, " not to overdo this 
 matter. This witch, this Goody Trueman, of a 
 surety is an accursed creature. Why does the soul 
 which she has sold require the offices of the church ? 
 It would be but a hollow mockery." 
 
 " I differ from thee in this matter, Mr. Parris ; not 
 doubting the verdict of the magistrates who have 
 condemned her to death, but for the sake of a 
 humanity which she possesses with us all, I think it 
 her right that some' spiritual yes, perhaps earthly 
 comfort should be meted out to her." 
 
 189
 
 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 After a pause, during which Mr. Parris looked 
 closely at the younger man, he said sarcastically : 
 "What wilt thou do? go to Ipswich and hold 
 prayers in the jail ? " 
 
 " No, certainly not. I shall not usurp thy office. 
 I shall simply see these condemned women, and 
 perchance speak some holy words to them. This 
 old Goody is aged, diseased, and helpless." 
 
 " I fear me, Wentworth, thou hast not considered 
 well this step. Thou surely canst not be in sym 
 pathy with these lost creatures!" As Mr. Parris 
 spoke, he looked suspiciously upon his parishioner, 
 who returned the glance defiantly. 
 
 " My sympathy and my purpose are my own. I 
 need no other man's guidance." Wentworth spoke 
 decidedly, though respectfully. " I need not tell 
 thee that I believe in witchcraft ; I do certainly 
 credit the power of the spirits of the air. Yet I do 
 affirm that this kind are but exorcised by fasting 
 and prayer. What good is accomplished if we take 
 their miserable lives? We do but send them to 
 their master. Were it not better to force that mas 
 ter to relinquish his hold upon them on this earth, 
 while there is time for repentance? " 
 
 " Go thy way," cried Mr. Parris angrily ; " go
 
 DOROTHY'S CONTRITION. 191 
 
 thy way. I promise thee thy work will be useless ; 
 thou wilt sow thy seed on barren ground." 
 
 When Alden informed Dorothy the following day 
 of his intention to visit the condemned witch, she 
 turned as pale as the bunch of white blossoms she 
 held in her hand. 
 
 " Is it required of thee? " she said slowly. 
 
 " Not ordered by my superiors, oh no," said 
 Went worth ; " the clergy have no sympathy with 
 the witches ; yet I feel as though this undertaking 
 were but part of the life-work I have chosen as 
 deacon of the church, to visit those condemned 
 to die. The layman has a duty as well as the 
 pastor." 
 
 "When wilt thou go?" she inquired in a low 
 voice. She appeared calm, but her heart was beat 
 ing so rapidly it seemed he must hear its throbs. 
 
 "In a day or so," he replied. "To-morrow I 
 attend a meeting at a town not far distant ; per 
 chance the following day I shall go to Ipswich." 
 
 The result of this conversation was that at an 
 early hour of the following morning, as Alden jour 
 neyed to his meeting, Dorothy started in the oppo 
 site direction with a small basket in her hand and a 
 roll of some material, prepared for bandages, under
 
 1 92 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 her arm. She had risen early, in fact with the first 
 gleam of dawn, explaining to her aunt her intention 
 of spending the day with friends living on a distant 
 farm. Instead she turned her steps toward the jail 
 in the adjoining town. The broiling, blinding sun 
 beat down upon her as she walked, the perspiration 
 started upon her forehead ; she shifted the basket 
 from one hand to the other as though it contained 
 some weighty substance. The road was many 
 inches deep in dust. Little clouds of powdery 
 earth rose in yellow mist about her feet. It was a 
 tedious walk, with little shade, the monotony of the 
 way unrelieved save by the occasional passing of a 
 farm wagon. Once a good-natured farmer offered 
 her a seat beside him, but she declined, shaking her 
 head, and plodded sturdily along. Back from the 
 hot road were shaded glens, through which flowed 
 cool, deep streams, running between fern-clothed 
 banks. She dared not pause and rest among them, 
 for time was precious ; she must return to Salem 
 before night set in. So she looked neither to the 
 right nor the left, but walked rapidly on, breaking 
 into a run when the road was clear of passers. 
 
 After about two hours or more of this energetic 
 proceeding, she stood before the jail. It was a
 
 DOROTHY'S CONTRITION. 193 
 
 stout wooden edifice, with iron doors and small, 
 grated windows. After much parleying with the 
 jailer, she was conducted to old Goody's cell. 
 Dorothy had claimed relationship with the prisoner, 
 saying she had come from a great distance beyond 
 Salem to bring her a remedy for her disease, which 
 she was lying ill of and near to death. 
 
 " It is contrary to rules to see the prisoners at this 
 hour," said the keeper, " yet for thy long walk thou 
 deservest some reward. Thou mayst talk to the 
 witch for a few moments. But be cautious ; go 
 not nigh her, for she hath spells we know not of. 
 If ye see a spider or a toad or rat in her cell, call 
 the jailer." 
 
 Some moments later the keeper opened the 
 heavy grated door and admitted Dorothy into the 
 gloomy cell. Coming so suddenly from the outside 
 glare, she blinked an instant in the darkness before 
 being able to decipher objects before her. 
 
 Old Goody lay upon her back on a pile of straw 
 in the corner of the cell. She had heavy irons 
 upon her arms and ankles. The small shaft of light 
 that came from the narrow window in the upper 
 part of the wall shone across her withered features. 
 She looked indeed hideous and haglike.
 
 194 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Goody, Goody," said Dorothy softly, stepping 
 across the stone floor to the center of the cell. 
 
 " Who calls me? " answered the cracked, cackling 
 voice of the old woman. She did not open her 
 eyes or move as she spoke. 
 
 " I, Goody, a friend." The girl stepped to the 
 poor creature's side and bent over her. " See, I 
 have brought thee a little basket of good things, a 
 roll of linen, and some fine salve for thy sickness. 
 Thou surely wilt remember me." 
 
 Goody opened her dim eyes ; a spark of loving 
 gratitude shone within them. "Ay," she said, " I 
 know thee. Could I forget my little wild-flower of 
 the forest? Ah, well indeed I remember the night 
 thou earnest to bloom for me in my poor home." 
 
 " Hush," said Dorothy, holding up a warning fin 
 ger, "hush!" As she spoke the jailer passed the 
 door of the cell, placing his eye to the grating as he 
 did so. " Be cautious ; speak lower, I beseech thee." 
 
 Goody gazed earnestly at the pretty, troubled 
 face bending above her. 
 
 " I have brought these things for thee ; sec, here 
 are some sweetmeats and other things of use," said 
 Dorothy in a high voice, for the edification of the 
 jailer.
 
 DOROTHY'S CONTRITION. 195 
 
 " Are these all for me? " queried Goody. " Was 
 it thy pretty face, then, that gained thee admittance 
 to the jail ? Thou art my only friend ; no one has 
 yet called to see the poor old witch. They deem 
 me lost, yet I have done no harm; I am but a poor 
 distraught creature whom man maligns." 
 
 " One will come to see thee perchance to-mor 
 row," said Dorothy earnestly, " and I implore thee, 
 speak not of me to him. I have called to-day with 
 a double purpose to see thee, to comfort thee, and 
 to tell thee this.'' 
 
 "Why this secret, child?" said Goody, rising 
 from her lowly bed, and looking sharply at the 
 partly averted face opposite her. 
 
 " I cannot tell thee why, yet I do implore thee, 
 speak not of me, of ever having known me. This 
 is more than life to me. O Goody, Goody, if thou 
 hast ever loved me, promise me this." Dorothy 
 clasped her hands and looked beseechingly at the 
 troubled face of the old woman. 
 
 " I surely will grant any wish of thine ; I could 
 not refuse it, my faithful little comforter." 
 
 " I thank thee, Goody, so much, and I fear sorely 
 for thee ; these cruel men have punished thee 
 greatly. Would I could aid thee ! When I was ill
 
 196 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 no one could be kinder than thou wert to me, and I 
 am grateful. I had a little gold saved ; I made it 
 by my own spinning. Perchance it may buy thee 
 some little comfort ; thou canst bribe the jailer. It 
 is in the basket underneath the box of salve." The 
 tears were running down Dorothy's face as she 
 spoke. 
 
 " Weep not," said the old woman ; " it is but for 
 a little while. I am very old and sick ; my ap 
 pointed time is near. Pray ye that God will call 
 me to Himself soon." 
 
 " I will, I will ; every day will I pray for thee. I 
 love thee, Goody, thou hast been so kind to me. 
 Would I were possessed of power to unbar thy 
 prison doors!" She smoothed the wrinkled cheek, 
 then kissed her gently. " To-morrow, when he 
 comes, he will comfort thee ; he is so good, so just ; 
 but remember thy promise I am a stranger to 
 thee." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I remember." 
 
 " And now, now the time is up ; I hear the jailer 
 coming. I will bid thee farewell." 
 
 " Farewell, little forest bloom. Perchance when 
 we meet again it will be in a better world than 
 this."
 
 DOROTHY'S CONTRITION. 197 
 
 "Ay, Goody, God will it so some day." 
 
 " Mistress, time is up," called the stern voice of 
 the jailer. 
 
 Goody lay back upon her straw bed, and Doro 
 thy passed from the gloom and dampness of the 
 prison out into the sunlight. 
 
 When she reached the narrow lane that led to 
 the farm it was growing dark. She was exhausted 
 from her great exertion and the nervous excitement 
 of the day; her limbs trembled beneath her, her 
 face was flushed, and dark rings encircled her eyes. 
 She seated herself upon a rustic stile for a few mo 
 ments to rest and gain composure before entering 
 the house, and as she did so beheld Wentworth 
 coming hastily across the great grass-meadow that 
 lay near the shore and which sloped downward to 
 the harbor. He came directly toward her, waving 
 his hand in welcome as he approached. She arose 
 to meet him, advancing a few steps. He smiled as 
 he accosted her. " I wot this has been a weary 
 day for thee," he said ; " the Leavitt place is a 
 good three miles from here. Didst walk all the 
 way? Thy aunt has told me it was a sudden re 
 solve on thy part to make this visit. Thou art a 
 whimsical little one," he laughed.
 
 198 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " I walked all the way," she answered wearily. 
 
 " We will not go to the house," he said presently. 
 " Come to the shore and rest ; I have much to say 
 to thee, and the time is short." 
 
 "No, no," she answered; "I must go home, I 
 must see Aunt Martha, and I am very tired." 
 
 " I am more important than Aunt Martha, am I 
 not? " He laughed again. " Come with me to the 
 shore." 
 
 She took a step forward, then one backward, still 
 hesitating. A strange mood was upon her. In 
 shadowy outline she beheld that other self close be 
 side her, holding up a warning finger, her lips fram 
 ing the words, "Thy last chance." " Methinks it 
 is damp by the sea," she said ; " I like not to cross 
 those marshy pools at evening." She spoke like a 
 fretful child. 
 
 He laughed once more, then taking her by the 
 hand led her across the salt marshes down to the 
 shore. She did not object further, but followed as 
 in a dream. Looking far over the water, her gaze 
 upon the sails of a vessel in the distance, her hand 
 within her lover's, won by his earnest solicitation 
 she named the wedding-day. As she named it a 
 cold horror took possession of her and made her
 
 DOROTHY'S CONTRITION. 199 
 
 shiver and tremble. Was it the forerunner of the 
 breeze that stirred the ocean, as yet miles away, 
 where it lay like a dark mantle upon the wide ex 
 panse of water? She knew not. She drew her 
 cloak more closely about her and glanced fixedly as 
 if fascinated at the profile of the strong face beside 
 her. 
 
 " Wilt thou ever be harsh to me, Alden, if I of 
 fend thee?" she said wistfully, her pretty, sensitive 
 lips quivering as she spoke. 
 
 " No, dearest, I never will be harsh to thee." 
 
 " If I did something that was very wrong?" she 
 urged. 
 
 " Nothing that thou wilt do could be very 
 wrong; so long as thou art true and sincere, and 
 thy love is mine, I can ask no more of thee." 
 
 " And thou wouldst never believe evil of me? " 
 
 " Thou couldst do no evil ; that word belongs not 
 to thee," he said quickly. 
 
 It was quite dark now, and the outline of the dis 
 tant vessel on the horizon that was sailing swiftly 
 before the wind had faded from view ; a flock of 
 seagulls were flying toward the south, calling loudly 
 and in discordant notes ; the soft lap of the waves 
 on the beach sounded faintly in their ears ; in the
 
 2OO DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 sky hung the beautiful evening star. Dorothy 
 arose from her low position, and standing before 
 Wentworth spake words that sounded incompre 
 hensible in his ears. 
 
 " Alden, Alden," her voice rang with a pathos 
 and deep regret, " wilt thou blot out all that has 
 gone from thy memory all, all, and take me from 
 this moment as I am, and with the help of One who 
 is above us all? I will be to thee so true, so faith 
 ful, that no reproach shall ever fall from thy lips 
 for my misdeeds. I come to thee, Alden, with no 
 past; I am born anew in thy love." 
 
 " My dearest, my little Dorothy!" That was all 
 he said. He could not understand her vehemence, 
 her tone of entreaty, and her pale face startled him. 
 " Thou art tired ; this has been a hard day for 
 thee." 
 
 She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and 
 spoke no further. He did not understand her and 
 she could not explain. They walked home, over 
 the fields, in the sweet, mild night. The air from 
 the sea blew in their faces ; the solemnity of the 
 evening hour cast its pensive spell upon them, com 
 pelling them to silence. 
 
 The wedding was to take place in June, but a
 
 DOROTHY S CONTRITION. 2OI 
 
 short time hence ; yet why delay ? The bridal out 
 fit was ready, the new house was ready, and the 
 lover urgent. 
 
 That night, as Dorothy sat in her casement win 
 dow brooding deeply upon her sad position, she fell 
 asleep, her head leaning upon the window-ledge, 
 the dews falling upon her hair, and the chill night 
 air blowing over her. In this sleep she was visited 
 by a dream, or rather by a vision a vision clear 
 and startling in its significance. She appeared to be 
 wandering alone in a dreary valley ; great cypress- 
 trees grew thick about her path, obscuring the light 
 of the sun. At her feet were pools and morasses, 
 slimy and green ; horrid creeping things appeared 
 and disappeared from out their stagnant waters. 
 The scene was dismal in the extreme, and fraught 
 with great danger ; to advance or to retreat seemed 
 equally hazardous. Suddenly a figure shining with 
 an unearthly luster came forth from beneath the 
 drooping boughs of the trees. This bright being 
 was clothed in flowing drapery, and upon its fore 
 head was a star that shone as with the light of the 
 sun, its powerful rays spreading through all the 
 lands of the earth. Dorothy trembled and stood 
 motionless. " My child, my child," she heard a
 
 202 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 voice of rarest sweetness say, " there is but one 
 way for thee." As these words were uttered, the 
 wondrous stranger pointed to a narrow path that 
 led beyond the pools and morasses and noisome 
 reptiles. "At the end of this path is the temple of 
 truth ; I am its guardian. Behold, I have opened 
 the way." Dorothy held out her hand, but her 
 radiant guide had disappeared as mysteriously as 
 she came. 
 
 Dorothy stirred uneasily and awoke. Her hair 
 and face were clammy from the falling dews, and 
 the night air caused her to shiver ; but she paid no 
 heed to these discomforts. Going to her dressing- 
 table she took from it paper and pens. Seating 
 herself, she wrote a full confession of her flight with 
 Grenville. After having finished this task, she held 
 the letter in her hand an instant, looking sadly 
 down upon the folded paper. " My death war 
 rant," she murmured, "signed by mine own hand." 
 Then she placed the document beneath her pillow 
 and crept quietly into bed. 
 
 She did not sleep during the remaining hours of 
 the night ; her mind remained full of activity ; she 
 lived again through the scenes of her past life. As 
 regarded her future she made no prophecies, rea-
 
 DOROTHY'S CONTRITION. 203 
 
 soning thus with herself : " Without Alden there 
 will be for me no future, only a blank lapse of 
 time." That he would forgive her, she did not for 
 one moment dream. Had she not been living a 
 lie ? His faith in her would be forever shaken, and 
 without faith his ' affection would be incomplete. 
 She must reap as she had sown ; she must bow her 
 head to the whirlwind ; it was her righteous pun 
 ishment. A falsehood could never win for her the 
 kingdom on this earth that she desired ; she must 
 build her hopes on a firmer foundation. 
 
 When the morning dawned she arose weak and 
 languid, scarce able to leave her room. She crushed 
 back the tears, and forcing her countenance into a 
 semblance of repose she descended to the kitchen. 
 
 " Alden has been here," said her aunt, looking 
 up from her work ; " he stopped to leave- thee 
 these blossoms. He was on horseback, on his way 
 to Ipswich ; he will be gone two days. He is a 
 kindly man to thus interest himself in these unfort 
 unate old women." 
 
 " I saw him pass from my casement," said Doro 
 thy listlessly, taking the flowers from her aunt's 
 hand as she spoke, her heart giving a joyful bound 
 of relief at the news of this respite. She had de-
 
 2O4 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 cided that no one should hand Wentworth the con 
 fession save herself, and now fate had doled out to 
 her forty-eight hours in which to reconsider her 
 decision. 
 
 A remarkable change took place in Dorothy's de 
 meanor; it was as if a prisoner condemned to die 
 had received the tidings of a new trial. She smiled, 
 chatted, then walked with a song upon her lips 
 down the flower-bordered paths of the old-fash 
 ioned garden. A certain self-congratulation as 
 sailed her. Had she not the means at hand to 
 debase herself? Had she not of her own free will 
 yielded up all she valued ? Why begrudge her 
 these few hours of peace? As if in mockery to the 
 sincerity of her atonement, she eagerly grasped at 
 this slight temporary delay. 
 
 All her light-heartedness and buoyancy of spirits 
 returned to her. She seated herself beneath a 
 flowering fruit-tree, close to the old dial. In the 
 darkness and silence of night the mysterious mes 
 sage brought by the beautiful dream visitor had 
 impressed itself upon her emotional nature with all 
 the distinctness of a command from above. In 
 the light of day, amidst the charms of nature, the 
 vision became as other dreams that pass away, leav-
 
 DOROTHY'S CONTRITION. 205 
 
 ing in its place but a faint shadow of its unreal 
 presence. 
 
 " I have not done so very wrong," she thought ; 
 " I will keep the confession, and not tell him yet. 
 I will think further upon it. I was alarmed at the 
 dream last night. Why should I thus throw away 
 my happiness?" As she argued thus, she walked 
 down the box-bordered path. 
 
 When she neared the confines of the garden, she 
 noticed a tall figure coming down the country road. 
 It was the figure of a woman walking swiftly. 
 Dorothy saw that it was Elizabeth Hubbard. The 
 latter did not glance toward the girl in the garden 
 path until immediately opposite her; then she 
 veered round excitedly, as if compelled to do so by 
 an impulse beyond her control. 
 
 " Well, Mistress Dorothy, a good-morning to 
 thee." She paused, then continued mockingly : 
 " So, forsooth, we are to have a bride after all at 
 the new house on the outskirts. Dost thou know 
 thy mind this time, or wilt thou give Salem another 
 surprise?" As she spoke she looked sharply at 
 Dorothy, a curious expression in her black, staring 
 eyes. 
 
 " Yes, Elizabeth," said Dorothy simply, " I am
 
 206 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 to be married ; the time is but a short way off 
 now." 
 
 " I wish thee luck ; still, I ween Mr. Wentworth 
 had better be in attendance on these great events of 
 the day ; he is ever negligent of his duties. Dost 
 thou know he did not attend the three last trials of 
 the witches? He spends his time with thee to the 
 scandal of the ministers and magistrates." 
 
 Dorothy flushed angrily. " His attention to me 
 is his affair and mine," she replied. 
 
 Elizabeth smiled. " I will not quarrel with thee. 
 Hast thy aunt told thee of the wedding gift I am 
 weaving for thee? " 
 
 " No; is it fine?" asked Dorothy eagerly. 
 
 " Ay, fine and strong. When thou art married I 
 will give it thee. If thou dost not marry Alden 
 Wentworth, then it shall not be thine." 
 
 "Perchance it is a great roll of linen?" queried 
 Dorothy. 
 
 "Ha, ha!" laughed Elizabeth. "No, not linen; 
 thou shalt know in time." She glanced craftily at 
 Dorothy's puzzled countenance. " It is but just 
 begun, though I work swiftly, and I protest no 
 other gift like mine shalt thou receive among all 
 the offerings of the dames of the town." She then
 
 DOROTHY'S CONTRITION. 207 
 
 passed on with her stately step, turning back her 
 head once to smile. 
 
 Dorothy, leaning over the gate, looked after her 
 until she disappeared from view. " Elizabeth is 
 jealous," she thought. " She hates me; she would 
 be in my place if she could." This idea, so sud 
 denly suggested, appalled Dorothy. Having made 
 her bargain of self-sacrifice she had not taken into 
 account the possibility of another's filling her place. 
 
 She had pictured Wentworth alone and wretched, 
 even as she herself would be alone and wretched. 
 That he would ever yield himself to the charms of 
 another was poison to the life of the partly formed 
 resolve of confession. " She shall not have him ; 
 he is mine," she said aloud. 
 
 All the good impulses that had risen within her 
 became dulled, stupefied, by this unexpected turn 
 of affairs. She could renounce him, but she could 
 not give him into the keeping of another ; that was 
 simply beyond all power of will she possessed. She 
 remained in the position in which Elizabeth had left 
 her for some time, looking with strained eyes down 
 the winding road. 
 
 At last she turned and hastened back to the 
 farthermost part of the garden. Beneath the roots
 
 208 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 of a spreading shrub that grew near a sheltered 
 ledge the written confession was buried. After 
 having smoothed the earth above it, she stood a 
 moment irresolute. " It is written," she thought, 
 " and at some future day I will take Jt from its 
 place and tell him, but not now, not now." 
 
 The feeling that she had accomplished at least 
 one step in the right direction served to impress her 
 with the sense of a possible entrance at some future 
 time into the confidence of one to whom she owed 
 much. To be sure, the paper was but an inanimate 
 object, but she had written it with the right inten 
 tion ; that was certainly a good beginning.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 SWEETLY bloomed the wild roses along the way 
 side on that bright June morning long ago when 
 Dorothy and Wentworth were married in the little 
 Salem meeting-house. The atmosphere was redo 
 lent with the sweet scents of the early summer, the 
 lilacs were in bloom, the foliage upon the trees was 
 fresh and green. The harbor was bathed in sun 
 light, and far distant, where its waters joined the 
 sea, it sparkled with the glitter of brilliant gold. 
 Bees and butterflies darted through the air; and 
 the birds fluttering near the little church blended 
 their clear notes with the strains of the marriage 
 hymn, the scarlet-crested songster mingling his lark- 
 like tones with the sad cadence of some forest wan 
 derer. 
 
 All the people of the settlement turned out to do 
 honor to the wedding of the handsome, distin 
 guished, popular Judge Wentworth. Some were 
 
 present from interest, many from curiosity. The 
 
 209
 
 2IO DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 wedding was a welcome break in the midst of the 
 terrible depression that lay like a mantle of death 
 upon the spirits of the multitude. But a few days 
 previous one of the professed witches had been exe 
 cuted on Gallows Hill, in the presence of most of 
 those now watching stolidly the simple ceremony of 
 the Puritan marriage. 
 
 Dorothy moved like a white spirit from another 
 sphere, so emotionless, so passive did she seem. Her 
 lovely head drooped like a lily on its stalk ; her face 
 was pale in the midst of the pretty bridal finery ; 
 her eyes were downcast, and the hands that clasped 
 the^ psalm-book trembled slightly. Her voice was 
 scarcely audible in the responses. 
 
 When she passed out into the brilliant light of 
 the bright day, she shuddered even in the warmth 
 of the sun, and when her neighbors pressed about 
 her, and addressed her by her new name, Dorothy 
 Wentworth, she listened eagerly, yet did not seem 
 to understand its significance. She stood an instant 
 upon the upper steps of the church porch, and 
 glanced languidly over the heads of the people. Her 
 hand rested tremblingly upon her husband's arm. 
 
 Suddenly a spasm of fear crossed her features a 
 visible contraction of the muscles of her mouth, a
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 211 
 
 nervous closing of her lips. In that curious watch 
 ing throng she had recognized one countenance, the 
 handsome mocking face of Sir Grenville Lawson, 
 his gorgeous apparel and great cavalier's hat mak 
 ing him most noticeable among his more somberly 
 attired neighbors. -She gazed upon him as if fas 
 cinated, her glance riveted upon his bold eyes 
 those eyes that compelled her attention by that 
 mesmeric force that once had won her from her true 
 allegiance. In her thoughts she had dreaded this 
 possible encounter at some future time, but had 
 put it aside with all its accompanying danger, and 
 in desperation had taken the great risk. 
 
 There was an inscrutable expression upon the face 
 of Sir Grenville as he watched her intently. Though 
 his features remained passive, yet to one knowing 
 him as Dorothy did there were manifest tokens of 
 his more than common interest in the scene before 
 him. 
 
 Involuntarily she drew nearer to Wentworth and 
 caught his hand convulsively. As she did this, she 
 heard a whisper in her ear, and turning beheld the 
 dark countenance of Elizabeth close beside her. 
 
 " I do present all well wishes for a happy life to 
 the bride," she said, bowing low as she spoke, and
 
 212 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 inclining her head mockingly. " That well- woven 
 gift I promised thee shall be thine in good time." 
 
 " I thank thee, Elizabeth," said Dorothy, her white 
 lips forming the words mechanically, her ears scarce 
 hearing them. 
 
 " Dearest," said Wentworth in a whisper, watch 
 ing the deathlike countenance of his bride, " this 
 has been too much for thee ; we will hasten to 
 the farmhouse for the feast, and there thou canst 
 rest." 
 
 " Yes, yes," she answered, " let us get away, and 
 quickly." 
 
 So the bride and groom walked across the flower 
 ing meadows, followed by the invited guests, to par 
 take of the collation spread in the best room of the 
 farmhouse. When Dorothy reached the door of 
 the house she looked back. Upon the brow of the 
 hill she beheld Sir Grenville standing motionless, his 
 figure outlined against the sky, his face turned to 
 ward her. 
 
 Wentworth's eyes followed the direction of her 
 gaze. " Tis that godless fellow from England," he 
 said. "This is thrice he has been to the settlement; 
 twice since thou hast been away. I know not what 
 brings him hither, save, perchance, a morbid interest
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 213 
 
 in the witch-trials. His silly fopperies do bemean 
 a man; I scorn such empty pates." 
 
 A low, gasping sound issued from Dorothy's lips. 
 "Alden, I am wearied." She tried to smile. " It 
 was the heat of the meeting-house; I am not quite 
 as strong as I was a year ago ; let us go within the 
 house." 
 
 So the friends and neighbors took part in the 
 sober festivities, and in the cool of the pleasant 
 evening Dorothy went to her new home, the fine 
 house on the outskirts. 
 
 After Sir Grenville's fruitless attempt to recover 
 his escaping prey, as related in a previous chapter, 
 he took up his abode near the borders of the woods, 
 confidently expecting that hunger and fear would 
 eventually drive Dorothy forth from her hiding- 
 place. He dismissed the two men whom he had 
 employed to assist him in case she should prove 
 fractious after hearing the disclosures he intended 
 to make in regard to his previous marriage. 
 
 " Now mind, you fellows," he had said, " I have 
 paid you well, and I give you added gold to keep 
 your mouths shut." 
 
 "A sorry trick she played you," said one of the 
 men, smirking.
 
 214 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 "Hold your insolence!" cried Sir Grenville an 
 grily. " How dare you discuss the affairs of your 
 betters?" Then he hesitated and appeared to be 
 considering deeply. " If I need you further I shall 
 acquaint you with my wishes." 
 
 " Very well ; we are always ready to earn a little 
 gold ; any business, so long as it pays," said one of 
 the men eagerly. 
 
 " I am aware of that," said Grenville, eying the 
 evil face before him contemptuously. " That is all 
 for the present ; when I need you I will send a mes 
 sage." 
 
 Sir Grenville's little plot had been a failure ; still 
 he could not leave Salem, but returned twice to the 
 town to wait and watch. Like the moth that flut 
 ters round the decoying candle, he haunted the 
 vicinity of his thwarted plans. She could not be 
 dead, that he would not believe ; fate would cer 
 tainly play into his hands in time ; he would be 
 patient and wait. So by chance he met her once 
 again standing in her dainty bridal dress upon the 
 steps of the church porch. 
 
 As he watched her an intense anger took posses 
 sion of him, an uncontrollable rage. She had escaped 
 him, and by a way in which he could not follow ; she
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 215 
 
 was beyond his reach forever. If it had been possi 
 ble to have taken revenge upon her then and there, 
 to have crushed her, humiliated her, ruined her, he 
 would have done so. But what would that avail 
 him, he reasoned, now that she was married ? No, 
 he would let her suffer the agony and fear of his 
 daily presence ; he would thus torture her, make her 
 life a spell of constant dread. 
 
 Being a keen judge of human nature, he appre 
 ciated fully the manner of man Wentworth repre 
 sented. Grenville felt confident he knew nothing 
 of the elopement escapade. His rigid puritanical 
 code would have forbidden a union with one upon 
 whom the finger of scandal could place its scathing 
 mark. What her story had been, Sir Grenville could 
 not conjecture. He gave her credit, however, for a 
 greater subtlety than he had believed she possessed, 
 knowing that she must have succeeded well in de 
 ceiving all parties. So Sir Grenville took up his 
 abode in the village. 
 
 He passed the new house daily, often glancing 
 toward the partly opened casement, from which a 
 form would quickly retreat at his approach. Then 
 he would smile wickedly to himself. " She fears 
 me. Well, I have her in my power. The little
 
 2l6 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 bride most surely lives a life of torture ; full well I 
 know she has a sensitive nature. My presence is 
 not so welcome, I trow, as when she sat beside me 
 in the forest." 
 
 Sir Grenville conjectured truly when he described 
 Dorothy's existence as torture. She knew no rest, 
 day or night. The appalling knowledge of his near 
 presence, the constant dread of disclosure, the intui 
 tive perception that he had undertaken some scheme 
 of revenge, made every hour a wretched ordeal. 
 She comprehended her husband thoroughly. 
 
 He was a man of great uprightness and unstained 
 honor. Perhaps in these days he would be consid 
 ered narrow and prejudiced ; that, however, was not 
 the fault of his mind, but caused rather by his creed 
 and environments. He had a code of morality that 
 allowed of no diverging ; it was a straight line with 
 out softening curves. Yet he was unsuspicious, 
 loving, and tender, capable of a great and enduring 
 affection. 
 
 The horrors of the witchcraft delusion were in 
 creasing. A month had passed since Dorothy's 
 marriage ; it was now approaching the latter part of 
 July. 
 
 On the i Qth of July five condemned witches, after
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 21 7 
 
 a mere mockery of a trial, had been executed. 
 These victims were Sarah Good, Sarah Wildes, Eliz 
 abeth How, Rebecca Nurse, and Susanna Martin. 
 Their accusers were the afflicted girls, prominent 
 amongst whom figured Elizabeth. 
 
 These trials were attended by most astonishing 
 proceedings. The accused had no council to plead 
 their cause ; they simply were called upon to answer 
 a number of absurd and conflicting questions. These 
 trials were constantly interrupted by fearful perform 
 ances executed by the five cold-blooded girls, who, 
 we trust, were ignorant of the great evil they were 
 doing, and in which they apparently gloried. 
 
 Susanna Martin stands out prominently against 
 the dark background of this dread period. She 
 was a widow living alone. Having, it is presumed, 
 incurred the enmity of the magic circle, she was 
 arrested on a charge of witchcraft and thrown into 
 prison. When brought to her trial before the magis 
 trates and many prominent personages, she stood 
 her ground defiantly, and answered in a fearless 
 manner. When she was brought before the judges 
 for the final verdict, the witnesses immediately went 
 into fits. One of them on recovering threw her 
 glove at the undaunted woman ; another declared
 
 2l8 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 that she was choking her; the rest were struck 
 dumb, their tongues refusing to move. 
 
 " Of a certainty she is a witch," cried the learned 
 judge. 
 
 Susanna laughed, saying such folly was beyond 
 her. 
 
 " Is it folly to see these children hurt? " 
 
 " I never hurt man, woman, or child," she an 
 swered. 
 
 At this one of the girls shrieked, " She is hurting 
 me now! I am in torment!" So the farce went 
 on, and the courageous woman met her fate on 
 Gallows Hill. 
 
 The girls now began to have all honors conferred 
 upon them, being treated with the greatest respect 
 and consideration. Their words were listened to 
 as though they possessed the power of the oracles 
 of old. They went from village to village, accom 
 panied by an escort, ferreting out witches. Woe 
 be to the one that incurred their displeasure by ex 
 pressing doubt of the purity of their motives! 
 
 This acuteness displayed in detecting a witch was 
 considered a peculiar gift, conferred by Providence 
 upon these now all-powerful girls. They became 
 the instruments, as it were, to cleanse the earth of
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 2 19 
 
 this foul plague-spot. When they " cried out," as 
 it was called, upon a suspected person, the unfortu 
 nate individual was summarily dispatched to the 
 prison to await trial on their evidence. 
 
 It seems hardly possible, looking backward 
 through the dim mists of years, that such an igno 
 rant delusion should have gained the prominence it 
 did in an enlightened and God-fearing community. 
 Yet great and undoubtedly sincere men authorized 
 the law to take its course, the legislature making 
 provision for all necessary expenses incurred for the 
 trials of the accused witches. 
 
 Dorothy took no part in the general consterna 
 tion. She crouched upon her knees upon the floor 
 when the cart containing the condemned passed the 
 windows of her house, not daring to look forth. 
 
 " God pity them, God pity them ! " she moaned. 
 "O Goody, Goody!" And she placed her fingers 
 to her ears to still the cries and execrations that 
 arose upon the air from the jeering crowds that 
 followed. She was in a condition bordering upon 
 frenzy ; she realized that she would succumb to a 
 serious bodily ailment did her tortured mind not 
 soon find relief. She was suffering acutely from 
 this unnatural condition one morning while standing
 
 22O DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 in the diminutive garden that lay between tehh ouse 
 and the road. 
 
 Wentworth had just bade her farewell, as he ex 
 pected to be absent for the day. He was going to 
 the presiding judges, to endeavor to use his influ 
 ence in preventing the contemplated arrest of a 
 lady, high in social position and of great goodness 
 and purity, one upon whom the avenging circle had 
 cast its evil eye. He was in much distress of mind 
 when he took his departure, and did not look back, 
 as was his wont, but walked hurriedly in the direc 
 tion of the abode of Mr. Parris. 
 
 Dorothy watched him out of sight, scarce seeing 
 him for the mist of tears that gathered in her eyes. 
 "If he knew! Oh, if he knew! Yet could the 
 misery of that knowledge and his contempt be 
 greater than what I suffer now?" She turned 
 wearily aside and stooped over some beds of simple 
 flowers, touching them tenderly and inhaling their 
 sweet fragrance. She was not aware, in her absorp 
 tion, of the approach of a stranger, till a shadow fell 
 across the flower-bed. She turned quickly, to en 
 counter Sir Grenville's mocking gaze. 
 
 " Sir Grenville," she gasped, placing her hand to 
 her side and stepping backward, " what dost thou
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 221 
 
 seek? Hast thou not injured me enough? Must 
 thou remain to look upon thy work?" 
 
 " Dorothy," he said, and the old sweet seductive 
 ness was audible in his voice, " think not so evil of 
 me. You have escaped me, but I am not wholly 
 depraved. I shall not seek revenge in the way that 
 you seem to fear: I shall never tell your husband. 
 What would that profit me, save to incur your 
 hatred? No, no, I work from deeper motives." 
 
 " What wilt thou do, then ? What can I do that 
 will send thee from this place, that I may see thee 
 no more? Tell me, tell me!" 
 
 Sir Grenville laughed softly. " I shall stay here, 
 my fair pupil ; it is my present wish. And another 
 reason chains me to this spot : the fascination of 
 your presence has not been dispelled as yet. I 
 have not forgotten you, Dorothy, and our little love 
 idyl in yonder forest, while the good and learned 
 judge in all innocence deemed you dreaming of 
 him, perchance. Dost think six months a lifetime 
 and my memory defective?" 
 
 She flushed painfully at these words. " I can 
 acquaint my husband myself; then thou canst have 
 no power over me." 
 
 " Yes, but you will not. You have learned to
 
 222 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 know the man as I read him when I first beheld 
 him by your side. Rouse him not, Dorothy ; light 
 not the flames of a temperament such as his, or the 
 destiny that lies before you as his wife I dare not 
 picture." 
 
 She shuddered, and turned piteously upon him. 
 '' For the affection thou once professed for me, when 
 I believed thy words," he winced at this speech, 
 "have pity on me, molest me no further! Canst 
 thou not see the fear of thy presence is killing me ? 
 Yes, killing me ! At times I wish that death might 
 come, that I might find rest in yonder churchyard, 
 if such a false heart as mine can find rest anywhere." 
 She passed her hand across her brow, pushing back 
 the heavy curls of hair. He noticed how thin her 
 hand was, how clearly the blue veins showed be 
 neath the skin. 
 
 " I shall not molest you simply pass your house 
 occasionally. That will not cause suspicion to rest 
 upon you. I shall never seek to recognize you in 
 public. Yet for the trick you played me, I must 
 seek a little quiet revenge, by remaining near the 
 shy bird that but for a silly, mawkish touch of feel 
 ing I had so nearly snared. Bah," he continued 
 angrily, " what a fool I was, to let sentiment over-
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 223 
 
 rule me ! But for that weakness you would be 
 with me now beyond the seas, away from these 
 soured old Puritans, who make life a curse with 
 their narrow bigotry." 
 
 " Hast thou no heart? " she cried. " Canst thou 
 look upon my wretchedness and thus mock me?" 
 
 " Once you made my happiness," he answered 
 passionately. "Can I forget so soon? I was as 
 capable of loving you as the stern, dark-browed 
 man you have chosen ; yes, and a millionfold more, 
 for I loved you in spite of all. He loves you as the 
 one perfect woman he has chosen, the flawless ob 
 ject he has built his hopes upon ; I loved you with 
 your faults." 
 
 " Hush, hush!" she said. " Thou shalt not speak 
 to me thus; I must not hear thy words." 
 
 " You shall hear them," he answered fiercely. 
 " Then, if you possess the courage, seek your hus 
 band and tell him all." 
 
 "Wilt thou not leave me," she pleaded, "ere I 
 fall at thy feet? This trouble has made me weak. 
 Have mercy!" 
 
 " I will go ; yet remember, I leave not Salem. In 
 the dark watches of the night, when no sleep comes, 
 listen : you will hear my steps without your door.
 
 224 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 I shall not leave you, Dorothy ; there is a bond be 
 tween us, a bond so strong that no power can break 
 it, save the courage which shall unseal your lips." 
 
 " Or death," she said solemnly. 
 
 " I ween that e'en when death comes, no strength 
 would cause you to tell your husband. Tell me," 
 he continued curiously, " what causes this morbid 
 fear of him? " 
 
 "Shall I tell thee, Sir Grenville?" She drew 
 closer to him, speaking in a hoarse whisper. " It is 
 because I fear to lose him ; it is because I love him : 
 in this lies both my happiness and my misery. 
 Thou by thy deceit hast proved to me the cruelty 
 of one man, and hast also opened mine eyes to the 
 honor and goodness of another, and so I have turned 
 to him forever." A little sigh escaped her at these 
 words ; she held out both hands beseechingly. 
 " Thou saidst once thou didst have affection for 
 me ; for its sake leave me in peace ; I ask no more 
 of thee." 
 
 An incredulous expression passed over her com 
 panion's face ; he turned abruptly from her. " Your 
 words belie the substance of your speech," he said. 
 " If it were love of him, you would not fear. Does 
 not the Good Book say, ' Perfect love casteth out
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 225 
 
 fear' ?" He spoke no further, but left her abruptly. 
 As he reached the summit of the hill he met old 
 Martha coming laboriously up the steep ascent to 
 visit her niece. 
 
 Martha turned in the road and looked disapprov 
 ingly after the gayly attired worldling. " Foolish 
 bedizened follower of this earth and its vanities," 
 she muttered, " what canst thou seek in this quiet 
 spot?" 
 
 As if by some mysterious means he interpreted 
 her thoughts, and turned in the narrow foot-path, 
 removing his hat and bowing deferentially. " Good- 
 morning to you, worthy dame," he said. 
 
 Martha vouchsafed no reply ; holding her head 
 stiffly, she passed on, but heard his laugh following 
 her as she did so, echoing until it died in the dis 
 tance with a gay, rollicking sound.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 
 
 THE PASSING FOOTSTEPS. 
 
 WHEN Wentworth returned to his home at even 
 ing, grief and disappointment were apparent in his 
 manner. " I have availed nothing," he said. " Mr. 
 Parris is deeply impressed with the necessity of 
 dealing summarily with this most appalling situa 
 tion. Doubtless in much he is correct, yet I fear 
 me in this case he makes a grave mistake." 
 
 Dorothy listened in silence. " Have they ar 
 rested this good woman?" finally she said. 
 
 " To-night they make the arrest. The afflicted 
 children do affirm that she hath hurt them several 
 times. They say she hath been in the forest at 
 that terrible meeting which takes place at midnight 
 between the imps of Satan and the witches, when 
 they do dance together on the greensward." 
 
 Dorothy listened attentively, leaning forward in 
 her chair. 
 
 " I argued and plead with the ministers and 
 226
 
 THE PASSING FOOTSTEPS. 227 
 
 magistrates that they investigate further into the 
 matter, but all to no purpose." 
 
 Dorothy left her seat, and coming slowly toward 
 her husband looked closely into his face, then 
 placed her hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 He noticed, with misgivings at his heart, how 
 weak and faltering were her steps, how her breath 
 came in short gasps, and how thin and pale her 
 sweet face was growing. " I am fearful for thee, 
 dearest," he said tenderly, drawing her closely 
 toward him ; " each day thou growest more frail. 
 Am I absent too much? Perchance thou art lonely 
 all day alone. This most wretched business has 
 absorbed my time. Truly, our people are bereft of 
 all peace of mind; Satan is busy amongst us." 
 
 " Alden," she said solemnly, " I think not on my 
 bodily condition ; it is my mind that is diseased, 
 and through that ailment my body suffers." She 
 glanced wistfully into his clouded face. 
 
 "My own," he said, "what troubles thee? Tell 
 me ; perchance I can help thee. Am I not thy 
 husband and thy best friend? Is it thine house 
 hold cares that are too great for thee?" 
 
 She clung to him convulsively, dry sobs shaking 
 her slender form as the wind shakes the reeds in
 
 228 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 the meadows. She essayed to speak, but no sound 
 came from her parched lips. 
 
 "Tell me not," he said soothingly, "if it is so 
 hard for thee. I can conjecture it is of thy health. 
 I shall send for Dr. Griggs to see thee to-day. 
 Fret not, it is not serious. This witchcraft trouble 
 has shaken thy nerves." 
 
 " No, no," she said excitedly, drawing away from 
 his clasp, " I will see no doctor; they can do noth 
 ing for me." Then, lowering her voice, she con 
 tinued, as if speaking to herself, " Perhaps God will 
 take me to Himself. He knows all, and He has 
 promised forgiveness." 
 
 " Tell me, Dorothy, what is it that troubles 
 thee? " She had placed her hands before her face ; 
 he drew them down and held them forcibly in his 
 strong clasp. " It is my right. What is this se 
 cret? Surely thou canst trust me." 
 
 A convulsive tremor passed over her; her head 
 drooped. "Thou art right," she said finally, "it is 
 it is my health ; I fear I fear to leave thee," 
 she faltered. Another strand in the web was tight 
 ened ; the poor victim's struggles became weaker. 
 
 " It is, then, as I conjectured ; the doctor will 
 give thee some soothing draught. All will be right
 
 THE PASSING FOOTSTEPS. 229 
 
 again ; if not, we will go to Boston for change. I 
 will endeavor to procure time." 
 
 " No, no," she said vehemently. " I care not to 
 
 ? 
 
 go to Boston." 
 
 He was puzzled at her incomprehensible behav 
 ior, but attributed it to her weakened condition. 
 
 That night, when all was still, Dorothy heard the 
 steps outside her window upon the garden path. 
 Her husband was asleep ; she distinguished his reg 
 ular breathing as it rose and fell upon the quiet of 
 the room. She leaned over him ; a gleam reflected 
 from the patch of moonlight upon the floor fell 
 across his face. She waited an instant, watching 
 him, then rose cautiously, and going to the window 
 looked out through the narrow panes of the case 
 ment. She heard the echoing steps, but saw no 
 one. 
 
 Suddenly a tall figure emerged from beneath a 
 drooping willow. It was Grenville. He was look 
 ing toward her window ; the moonbeams fell across 
 his face, bringing his features into clear relief. 
 
 " Father in heaven," she murmured, " he has no 
 pity!" She fell upon her knees by the window. 
 " Have mercy, O Heavenly One, have mercy ! " 
 She clasped her hands and bowed her head above
 
 230 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 them. Then, as- if impelled by some gigantic force, 
 she trembled as one in mortal terror, rose from her 
 kneeling position, dressed hastily, and noiselessly 
 descended the stairs and went out into the quiet 
 garden. The watching figure came forward and 
 joined her. 
 
 "Away from me!" she said fiercely. "Away, 
 come not nigh me ! I can live my life no longer ; 
 I go to make restitution." 
 
 Grenville started back, appalled. Was she seek 
 ing self-destruction, or was she demented? He did 
 not speak, awed into silence. 
 
 She passed him swiftly, her light step making no 
 sound. She fled through the garden gate, thence 
 down the country road, which was brilliantly illu 
 minated by the white light of the full moon. Sir 
 Grenville followed warily, keeping her form in sight. 
 She never paused, but straight as the bird flies, 
 made her way to the garden that lay back of the 
 Holden farm, the dear old garden that she had 
 tended so faithfully in the happy days now past 
 happy, though she had suspected it not. She has 
 tened to the flowering shrub that grew in the se 
 cluded corner, and there she paused. That she was 
 demented, Sir Grenville did not doubt.
 
 THE PASSING FOOTSTEPS. 231 
 
 He remained motionless, watching her closely. 
 She seized a stick, and with its assistance and that 
 of her hands commenced to dig rapidly in the earth. 
 Presently she drew forth a small box from the 
 ground, the odor of the damp clay rising upon the 
 atmosphere as she did so. She was speaking to 
 herself, but Grenville stood at too great distance to 
 distinguish the words. She brushed the clinging 
 dirt from the box and turned to retrace her steps. 
 
 By slow degrees Sir Grenville reached the con 
 clusion that, after all, there might possibly be a mo 
 tive in this midnight journey, and that his reasoning 
 had been at fault in considering her mind diseased. 
 
 When she reached the road he joined her, and 
 grasped her arm. "What is the meaning of this?" 
 he demanded, drawing her away from the bright 
 highway to the shade of some vines that climbed 
 over a blighted tree near the wayside. 
 
 " Hast thou followed me?" she said desperately. 
 " Can I never escape thee? " 
 
 " In one way, and one only." 
 
 "Then I have found the way," she cried triumph 
 antly. " It is here, in this box ; it contains my death- 
 warrant, yet it frees me from thee." 
 
 "What does that box contain?" he said.
 
 232 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " My confession, which my husband shall see 
 when the morning dawns. Alas ! for me there shall 
 dawn no morning, only a long, long night." 
 
 " Hast thou the courage?" he said softly. 
 
 "Why ask me that question? Have the poor 
 wretches the courage to give up their lives on the 
 hill yonder? It is their fate; this is mine, and 
 thou canst take this thought to thyself, that thou 
 hast made me what I am." 
 
 "No, no, Dorothy, no, no," he said; "say not 
 that." 
 
 " I shall say it ; it is the truth. Was I not an 
 innocent child when I first met thee? What am I 
 now? A terrified, cowed creature, with no will, no 
 balance, starting at every sound, the prey of mine 
 accusing conscience, living a life of deceit, striving 
 to win my happiness with a lie." 
 
 He drew nearer to her. His face was in shadow ; 
 she could not distinguish the expression of his feat 
 ures. The clouds were drifting across the moon, 
 and a dull, somber glow had spread itself upon the 
 fields and distant hills. No sound, save the far-off 
 booming of the waves, broke the tense stillness. 
 " There is a way out of all this misery," he said. 
 "Shall I not speak it?"
 
 THE PASSING FOOTSTEPS. 233 
 
 " There is none," she murmured brokenly. " Oft 
 have I thought, yet ever have I returned to the 
 starting-point." 
 
 " There is a way," he said quickly. " Come with 
 me ; leave this hated spot, where all is fraught with 
 direst danger. Not alone from the wrath of your 
 husband, not alone from my passing steps at mid 
 night, yet still another source from the rage of 
 one who hates you, who seeks to harm you yes, 
 worse than harm who seeks your life, who holds it 
 even now within her bloodthirsty hand." He had 
 spoken loudly ; he paused, his chest heaving with 
 the force of his words. 
 
 She recoiled from him. "And thou, thou," she 
 cried, " who once professed a true, deep love for 
 me, now seekst my destruction." She rushed by 
 him to the center of the road, where she stopped 
 irresolute, swaying backward and forward. 
 
 He did not follow her; he had expected no dif 
 ferent result from his speech. He had given her 
 food for thought, however. That was sufficient for 
 the present. 
 
 She started abruptly, not once looking backward, 
 flying swiftly onward. When she reached the little 
 graveyard on the hill near the meeting-house she
 
 234 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 paused, and gazed over the wooden paling upon 
 the quiet spot. " How calm is their rest!" she said 
 aloud. " Would that I were sleeping with them. 
 Had they ever sorrows such as mine? Do they lie 
 there so still, with secrets hidden in their hearts? 
 I ween not, else they would not sleep so peace 
 fully." She rested for a few minutes longer, her 
 thoughts filled with a vague dreaminess. 
 
 The realities of her position departed from her. 
 In truth she saw before her but the last earthly 
 homes of the dead humble, narrow homes ; but in 
 a vision she caught glimpses of the beautiful possi 
 bilities of a life eternal, reaching far above and be 
 yond those lowly graves, where all would be made 
 right, and an everlasting peace would fill her im 
 mortal soul. She was startled from her reverie by 
 a clear, deep voice at her side, a voice she remem 
 bered only too well. She turned quickly, to behold 
 Elizabeth standing near her. 
 
 " So thou hast been on thy midnight ride," 
 scoffed Elizabeth, " to the forest. Do thy imps 
 dance gayly on such a moonlight night as this ? I 
 ween thou hast been busy, Mistress Dorothy." 
 
 " Thou art crazed, Elizabeth. What know I of 
 imps and midnight rides? I might as well accuse
 
 THE PASSING FOOTSTEPS. 235 
 
 thee of such uncanny practices. Wherefore art 
 thou abroad this hour? " 
 
 " I am about my business. I saw thee alight 
 from thy charger even at this churchyard, and 
 when thou didst alight the moon hid her face. I 
 heard thee mutter in strange words." 
 
 " Go thy way," cried Dorothy angrily. " I am 
 no more a witch than thou art. Thou wilt find it 
 no small matter to accuse the wife of Judge Went- 
 worth. Dorothy Grey would no doubt have fallen 
 an easier victim. I am not afraid of thee, I scorn 
 thee." 
 
 At this Elizabeth drew nearer, shaking her finger 
 menacingly, and trembling with anger. " Thou 
 shalt see who has the greatest influence in Salem, I 
 or Judge Wentworth. It were better for thee to 
 bridle thy speech." 
 
 " I defy a girl who has no more heart than thou 
 hast. I can see through thy efforts : thou wouldst 
 be in my place. I defy thee, I say." 
 
 Elizabeth bent above the defiant girl in the atti 
 tude of an eagle about to swoop upon its prey, 
 then, drawing away from her a few paces, she 
 spoke in tones of concentrated passion. " I hate 
 thee, and thou shalt repent thy words. Thou art
 
 236 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 a witch. Even now the black man is by thy side ; 
 thy imps are dancing among the graves they are 
 near thee to do thy bidding." 
 
 Dorothy laughed hysterically. " Cease thy fool 
 ish raving! I fear thee not. My husband is all- 
 powerful against thee. So long as I hold his love 
 and trust I am safe." Her last words suddenly re 
 called her to a realization of the horror of her posi 
 tion. " His love and trust ! " Like a bolt from a 
 clear sky these words struck home. She cowered 
 before the wrath of this merciless fiend. " Well," 
 she said helplessly, " if thou dost accuse me, what 
 of it ? I shall then be at peace in a land whither 
 thou canst not follow to torment me." 
 
 This strange answer nonplused Elizabeth. She 
 did not reply immediately ; then, as though strug 
 gling to assert again the baleful influence she saw 
 was bewildering Dorothy, she clutched her arm and 
 said, " What hast thou in that box thou claspest 
 in thy hand? I wot it contains love philters and 
 charms perchance some noisome herbs and drugs 
 that do assist thee in thy evil work." 
 
 " No, Elizabeth, no," she answered sadly. 
 " Would that it did contain some spell to dull my 
 conscience, or to blind the eyes of one that believes
 
 THE PASSING FOOTSTEPS. 237 
 
 in me. Alas! it is not so. What it holds is my 
 secret, and one other's." 
 
 " I shall not force it from thee, fear not. I wish 
 no acquaintance with the secrets of thy wicked 
 craft." 
 
 " It would avail thee little. Yet see," she pointed, 
 as she spoke, toward the east, " it is the dawn ; the 
 morning will soon be here. 1 must away." She 
 turned and glanced timidly into the malicious face 
 regarding her. " Thou wilt not harm me, thou wilt 
 not, for the sake of our girlhood's friendship." 
 
 " I am no friend of thine. I shall do the work I 
 have set my hands to do. I have a mission I 
 shall fulfill it." The tones were cold and calm. 
 
 Dorothy turned from her and wrung her hands. 
 "Then I leave thee; I can ask no more." She 
 sped hastily up the street in the direction df her 
 home. 
 
 After Elizabeth was left alone, she hesitated 
 some minutes before leaving the lonely spot. She 
 appeared to be thinking deeply. She rested upon 
 the wooden paling and looked gloomily over the 
 graveyard. Then she descended the hill, going to 
 ward the north of the village. As she passed the 
 clump of vines beneath which Dorothy and Sir
 
 238 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 Grenville had been conversing she thought she 
 heard a rustling of the foliage. She was not mis 
 taken ; her sharp eyes soon discovered a stalwart 
 figure coming cautiously forward, though endeavor 
 ing to keep as near as possible to the shelter of the 
 hedge. She recognized him, however, as the Eng 
 lish lord now domiciled at the inn in the village. 
 She did not address him, but passed on. 
 
 When Dorothy, frightened, distracted, hounded, 
 reached the shelter of her room, she found all as 
 she had left it. Her husband was sleeping quietly ; 
 her absence had not been discovered. She seated 
 herself on the chair by the bedside, the box upon 
 her lap. She was not terrified, only baffled, at this 
 new link in the chain. Even if she were to be ar 
 rested, which in her position as the wife of the pop 
 ular judge she very much doubted, her suffering 
 could not be greater than that she now endured. 
 The power of her grief did not lie in this reflection ; 
 ah, no, but in the knowledge that her life was as a 
 deep pool of deceit, from which there was but one 
 means of extricating herself, and that means she 
 had not the courage to use. 
 
 She leaned over her husband, looking tenderly 
 down upon him, then kissed him gently. He
 
 THE PASSING FOOTSTEPS. 239 
 
 stirred in his sleep but did not awake. " If he 
 knew, if he knew!" she murmured. "Ah, that I 
 had told him that day when he found me weeping 
 at my spinning-wheel ! He might have forgiven 
 me then; now now it is too late." 
 
 The faint glow of the early morning stole in 
 through the lattice ; the birds began to twitter 
 faintly in the trees near the house ; the distant 
 sound of the cattle lowing echoed across the village 
 street ; a faint pink tinge crept furtively around the 
 room, chasing the gray light before it. The articles 
 of furniture became more clearly outlined, then the 
 pink glow deepened into red and stole over the 
 sleeping man and the watching woman. 
 
 Dorothy knew that the sun had risen, and the 
 task she had set herself must be performed before 
 another hour had passed. She clenched her small 
 hands tightly. "Then I can go home," she mur 
 mured. " Perhaps Aunt Martha will take me in. 
 It will only be for a little while ; I shall not trouble 
 any one very long." 
 
 Suddenly she started ; her husband was speaking 
 in his sleep. She listened intently, placing her ear 
 close to his face. A spasm of agony crossed her 
 features as she heard and understood his words.
 
 240 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 "Dorothy," he said, "Dorothy, my own!" He 
 was dreaming of her. 
 
 Such inexpressible affection was in his voice that 
 she rose to her feet as if struck. " God help me, I 
 cannot tell him, I cannot." A dimness came over 
 her sight; she shook as with a chill, though the 
 summer morning was warm. She advanced to the 
 window and looked over the fields toward the sea. 
 Then going softly up the garret stairs, she placed 
 the confession in an oaken chest that contained 
 some old-time treasures. She leaned her head 
 upon the chest after securely locking it, and burst 
 into passionate tears. 
 
 This in her overwrought condition was well, for 
 it relieved the terrible mental strain under which 
 she had been laboring. She then arose, and 
 walked to the small garret window set in the 
 gambrel roof, and gazed out upon the spreading 
 landscape growing gradually from out the misti 
 ness of night to the full glory of a brilliant morn 
 ing. She was scarce appreciative of the beauties 
 of nature encompassed in the fair rural scene before 
 her. 
 
 A dread apprehension had taken possession of 
 her: the fear that some unknown agency outside
 
 THE PASSING FOOTSTEPS. 241 
 
 her will had for its wretched mission the subjuga 
 tion of her powers. Though she could see and rea 
 son aright, nevermore, she believed, would she pos 
 sess the courage to reveal the misery within her. 
 Perhaps a witch now lying in her cell condemned to 
 die was dealing her this deadly harm, sending her 
 agents forth on this diabolical mission, or else tor 
 turing the puppet she had fashioned in the shape of 
 her victim. This was a not unusual conclusion for 
 Dorothy to have reached, considering that witch 
 craft was deemed responsible for nearly all the ills 
 that afflicted mankind.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS. 
 
 THE colony of Salem had reached a pitch of 
 extreme terror and excitement ; the people were 
 floundering in a tempestuous sea of doubt and 
 apprehension. That the dreaded circle might pos 
 sibly be dissembling apparently never occurred to 
 the deluded populace, and the girls were allowed to 
 proceed upon their own wicked way. They were 
 supposed to be under supernatural guidance and 
 fulfilling their ordained mission ; consequently they 
 were objects of awe and respect. This attention 
 naturally caused them to become bold and unscru 
 pulous. From accusing individuals in lowly posi 
 tions and but little considered in the community, 
 they now aimed their deadly shafts at saintly per 
 sons of high standing. 
 
 Mr. Parris had from the beginning of the trouble 
 been most vehement in his denunciation of the 
 witches. He had helped to fan the devastating 
 
 242
 
 THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS. 243 
 
 flames that were raging fiercely over the quiet re 
 pose of this little New World hamlet. 
 
 A secret session was called one afternoon, in the 
 study at the manse. Mr. Parris presided, and many 
 learned men were present. Mr. Wentworth was 
 absent; in fact, he had not been apprised of the 
 meeting. The stern-visaged men sat in solemn 
 rows around a long table in the center of the apart 
 ment. Upon the table were heaped many books 
 and documents. 
 
 Elizabeth Hubbard, erect, watchful, her great 
 eyes, like coals of fire, roving restlessly over the 
 faces before her, stood at one end of the table, one 
 hand upon a book, the other resting upon the back 
 of a chair. The grave countenances of the men 
 were turned respectfully upon her as they listened 
 with the closest attention to the fantastic utterances 
 that fell from her lips. 
 
 " Now sayest thou truly, Elizabeth ? Can it be pos 
 sible that such dread news must be heralded by thee ?" 
 
 It was Mr. Parris who spoke, his voice low and 
 repressed. He turned to the assemblage. " Hast 
 listened well to these awful disclosures?" 
 
 All were silent ; their faces were troubled ; they 
 shook their heads solemnly.
 
 244 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Tell us what else thou wast compelled to wit 
 ness; conceal naught for the sake of any affection 
 or humanity. It is thy duty; proceed." 
 
 " When I did look upon her, she did cower as 
 though seized with a great fear. She held in her 
 hand a box ; I smelt the damp odor of clay issue 
 from it. Doubtless she had dug it with the aid 
 of her attendants, who accompanied her from the 
 graves in the churchyard. I did accuse her to her 
 face. I was strong with righteousness, I had no 
 fear. She flaunted me, saying she was safe, no 
 harm could reach one in her position." 
 
 "What else, what else?" said the frightened 
 company, drawing nearer to each other and listen 
 ing with bated breath and credulous countenances. 
 
 " When she did speak thus I heard laughs come 
 from the hollows in the graves, and strange forms 
 rose into the air and circled about my head. She 
 then did bid me do my worst, and vanished from 
 my sight, whether up into the air or down into the 
 earth I know not, but the place where she was stand 
 ing became vacant. Then I heard the fluttering of 
 wings, lights danced upon the grass, and a great cry 
 came out of the forest toward the north." 
 
 "Horrible, horrible!" said the company. They
 
 THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS. 245 
 
 looked askance over their shoulders, then shuddered 
 as they placed their heads closer together. 
 
 " Surely she has signed a bond with the powers 
 of darkness," said Mr. Parris in a deep voice. 
 
 "Yet let us investigate further into this matter," 
 said one. " What wast thou doing at that hour 
 upon the highway?" 
 
 " I sleep but little," said Elizabeth, eying her in 
 terlocutor malevolently. " I seek ever for proof to 
 cleanse the earth of this dread scourge. Behold, I 
 have been successful : Dorothy Wentworth is of a 
 surety the greatest witch amongst us." 
 
 "She is," cried Mr. Parris with decision, "she is. 
 She shall be dealt with as have been all the rest. 
 No youth or beauty or position shall avail her now. 
 Verily Satan hath chosen a fine instrument for his 
 designs." 
 
 " Softly, softly," said the voice of the cautious 
 one ; " be not rash. Alden Wentworth is a power 
 in the village." 
 
 " He possesses no power great enough to shield 
 one who is accused," answered Mr. Parris, " and who 
 is doubtless guilty." 
 
 " Let me warn Wentworth. Spring not this ap 
 palling revelation upon him."
 
 246 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Not so ; he will aid her to escape. I shall pro 
 cure more testimony, then in a few days I shall issue 
 the warrant for her arrest." It was the voice of the 
 presiding judge who spoke. No one gainsaid the 
 wisdom of his decision. So the meeting dispersed 
 in silence and gloom, the worthy judges remaining 
 huddled together for some time longer in the study. 
 
 They examined carefully the different phases of 
 this most serious case, and twisted it this way and 
 that way, always arriving at the same conclusion. 
 She was a witch ; for the good of mankind she must 
 be immediately dealt with and punished. 
 
 " Know you not," cried Mr. Parris, " that ye do 
 expose your families to a fearful risk in allowing 
 these fiends to live ? The extent of their power for 
 evil is limitless." 
 
 Elizabeth went her way with triumph depicted 
 upon her sinister countenance. After leaving the 
 manse, she wandered toward the seashore, where 
 she often sat for hours brooding gloomily. It had 
 been her daily habit for months ; none questioned 
 it. Had she not been set apart for a sacred work ? 
 Her eccentricities were but accounted outward em 
 blems of her incomprehensible spiritual powers. 
 
 She remained long brooding in the shadow of a
 
 THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS. 247 
 
 great bowlder that shielded her from the curious 
 gaze of any chance passer-by. Looking back upon 
 the terrible fatalities committed by these misguided 
 girls, it were no doubt charitable to consider them 
 demented, or as being themselves deluded. Yet in 
 many of their accusations there appears to have 
 been a perfectly conducted plan, as if they worked 
 from well-defined motives. At any rate, they suc 
 ceeded in deceiving the wisest minds of the times. 
 
 After some minutes of thoughtfulness, Elizabeth 
 laid her head back against a clump of seaweeds that 
 had collected in a nook near her, and fell asleep. 
 She was awakened by the sound of voices harsh 
 men's voices. They were evidently disputing. She 
 did not speak or move, but remained listening in 
 tently. 
 
 " You kept back half the gold that rightfully was 
 mine ; were it not for the wholesome dread I have of 
 Sir Grenville, I would make him pay well for the 
 silence we keep." 
 
 The other voice responded by a coarse laugh. 
 " I ween the pretty little Puritan was a schemer, 
 after all. To think that she should hoodwink our 
 master, and then catch the worthy young judge! 
 Gad, she is a smart one!"
 
 248 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Didst see her face well the night she played the 
 sorry trick upon him?" asked the first speaker. 
 
 " Ay, well, in the light of the lantern they carried 
 on the pommel of the saddle ; she had the sweetest 
 face I ever saw. When I beheld her yestereve on 
 the village street, her hand on the arm of the stiff- 
 necked Puritan she married, I was well-nigh shocked, 
 she looked so pale and wan." 
 
 Elizabeth lifted her head, a lurid glow over 
 spreading her features, the light of a new thought 
 creeping into her somber eyes. A full comprehen 
 sion of the conversation she was listening to gradu 
 ally forced itself upon her. She eagerly gathered 
 together, link by link, Dorothy's failing health, her 
 strange words the night they met by the graveyard, 
 Sir Grenville skulking by the wayside under the 
 shelter of the vines. 
 
 For some moments the voices remained silent, 
 then one spoke defiantly : " I do not fear Sir Gren 
 ville. I shall go to him and buy my silence. It is 
 worth something to him ; if he fails me, I shall seek 
 the gentle, saintly Mistress Wentworth. I wot she 
 never told of her elopement escapade : she would 
 be hounded from the place. These saints of the 
 earth, as they do consider themselves, have no toler 
 ance for a foolish deed."
 
 THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS. 249 
 
 " That would be cruel, mate," said the other, who 
 was evidently made of more gentle fiber than his 
 companion. " Try the master ; if he fails, give it 
 up. Say, now, do you presume he caught the pretty 
 bird in the woods that night nigh Boston town, or 
 did she escape him?" 
 
 " She escaped him : can you not remember his 
 rage and his curses? I cannot say what the out 
 come of it all was ; I know he lingered near the 
 woods for days. I would I knew why she left him, 
 what he told her, and why he engaged us to wait 
 in hiding, bidding us gag her if need be, should she 
 prove rebellious. What became of her? Did she 
 go to England ? And if so, how did she return to 
 Salem?" 
 
 " Let us give up the riddle and go, while the fire 
 is hot within us, and demand hush-money from the 
 gay milord." 
 
 " Ay, the chance is worth trying." 
 
 As the two men arose Elizabeth stepped out from 
 behind the rock which had concealed her presence, 
 and stood before them. 
 
 " I have heard whereof ye have spoken," she said 
 calmly ; " it is of great moment to me. Seek not 
 Sir Grenville Lawson, rather seek me ; I will pay 
 thee well for information on this subject."
 
 250 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Truly we are poor," replied one of the men, 
 " and would have pay. You must know, however, 
 that to us you are a stranger; we can run no risks." 
 
 " I am a stranger: what of that?" She stepped 
 closer to them, her bold glance compelling their at 
 tention. " Is my gold not as capable of use as that 
 English lord's ye have served?" 
 
 " Yes, truly, but we fear him, and are indebted to 
 him greatly." 
 
 " Do not bandy words with me," she said impa 
 tiently ; " name your price. I construe thou hast 
 no great affection for thy taskmaster; leastways, I 
 judged so by thy words." 
 
 " You speak truth there," they said. Then final 
 ly the bolder of the two spoke. 
 
 " If you can procure for us a right goodly sum, 
 you shall be as wise to-morrow as we are to-day." 
 
 " I shall have the money ; I shall be here to-mor 
 row at this time. Remember, fail me not." 
 
 " You will not use the story to the discredit of 
 sweet Mistress Wentworth? If so, I swear I will 
 not tell it," said the more gentle of the two. 
 
 " Hold your prating, fellow," cried the hardened 
 one. " We need the gold ; this is no time for silly 
 sentiment."
 
 THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS. 251 
 
 " A wise and cautious sentence," interrupted 
 Elizabeth with a bitter laugh. " This is no case, I 
 tell thee, for sentiment. Nevertheless, it is a good 
 thing to see heart in one where it is so unex 
 pected." 
 
 "She was so fair and young and innocent," said 
 the fellow. 
 
 "Thou art a fool!" cried Elizabeth angrily. 
 " When one is young, perchance fair, should that 
 cover sin? I tell thee, when one is old and ill- 
 favored, none show mercy. I show mercy to 
 none." 
 
 " She was not sinful," said the fellow stubbornly. 
 " I believe no ill of her." 
 
 " Silence! Know ye who I am?" They started 
 at her question. " I am Elizabeth Hubbard of the 
 accusing circle." 
 
 The men drew hurriedly apart from her, almost 
 tripping each other in their haste. "Ah, I have 
 alarmed ye ! Well, calm yourselves : I shall do 
 ye no harm ; the star of witchcraft is not on your 
 foreheads, your wickedness is too apparent." She 
 laughed sarcastically, then turned from them, glanc 
 ing sidewise upon them as she retreated, regarding 
 them sternly. " Fail me not ; I shall be here.
 
 252 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 Spare no details of the story ; I shall know if there 
 be a falsehood in your speech." 
 
 On the following day Elizabeth heard the ac 
 count of the disastrous journey, and heard it cor 
 rectly save in one particular the men not knowing 
 of a certainty whether Dorothy had been recapt 
 ured or no. 
 
 One might imagine that an evil genius was in 
 waiting upon the will of this demented creature, so 
 aptly and concisely did all the pieces of her puzzle 
 fit. She now had at her command not only the 
 means to drag her rival from her high position, but 
 also to debase her in the eyes of her husband. 
 This latter secret she gloated over .with the glee of 
 a miser gloating over his treasures, for truly it was 
 the most formidable weapon in her armory. 
 
 The reverend Mr. Parris spared neither time nor 
 pains in procuring witnesses and evidence against 
 Dorothy. This was not a difficult task at a time 
 when the slightest individual peculiarity might be 
 distorted into deeds of witchcraft, and seized upon 
 eagerly by the terrified and credulous people. Mr. 
 Parris was a man of narrow instincts, and evidently 
 considered himself working in the light of godliness. 
 That he was intentionally wicked or cruel, history
 
 THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS. 253 
 
 does not assert ; he was only zealous in a mistaken 
 cause. He was not by any means alone in his 
 career of ferreting out the witches ; he had helpers 
 among his brother clergymen, and the name of Cot 
 ton Mather figures conspicuously in the narratives 
 devoted to those distressing days. 
 
 The wretched girls, intoxicated by the attentions 
 conferred upon them by men of such renown, per 
 formed daily their ridiculous pranks for their edifi 
 cation, the wise sages in the meanwhile looking 
 solemnly on, wagging their heads and saying, " Of a 
 certainty these poor girls are bewitched ; it behooves 
 us to hang the witches." 
 
 One of the most heinous crimes Dorothy 'had 
 committed was her persistency in remaining absent 
 from the meetings on the Lord's Day. 
 
 Elizabeth and the rest of her companions asserted 
 that she dared not enter the church, she dared not 
 remain in the presence of good people ; that Satan 
 had claimed her for his own, and if she placed her 
 foot upon the threshold of the holy spot she would 
 emit flames of fire from her mouth. 
 
 All this was drunk in greedily, with shudderings 
 at the horrible condition of this lost soul amongst 
 them. It was but too true that Dorothy had not
 
 254 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 attended any of the church services for some weeks. 
 This was partly owing to her enfeebled state of 
 health, but more particularly to a morbid dread of 
 adding to the great weight of deceit which already 
 burdened her conscience. It was absolute torture 
 to sit in her accustomed place, the pew reserved for 
 the wives of the deacons. In those days this was 
 no mean honor. She felt herself humiliated and 
 crushed, that thus she sat raised high in dignity 
 above them all, when had she her just merits she 
 would stand without the meeting-house door, per 
 haps, excommunicated. 
 
 The rigid code of morals of those days would 
 have pronounced a weighty sentence upon even 
 lighter misdeeds than Dorothy's. The almost sa 
 cred position held by the clergy of Puritan New 
 England forbade the slightest touch of scandal or 
 gossip smirching the name of the minister's wife, 
 without the most penetrating investigation, and this 
 rigid compliance extended in a great degree to the 
 wives of the deacons. It appalled her when she 
 considered that by her example she was expected 
 to teach others the narrow path of righteousness, 
 when in reality she looked upon herself as a miser 
 able castaway.
 
 THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS. 255 
 
 In spite of Alden's persuasions, and much to his 
 distress, she obstinately remained at home. For 
 some time past Wentworth had been uneasy in re 
 gard to Dorothy ; he did not understand her strange 
 moods, her perverse broodings, her forced smiles 
 and sudden bursts of tears. Once indeed the sus 
 picion crossed his mind, engendered by the jeering 
 words of Elizabeth, that Dorothy was bewitched, 
 or he rejected this latter suggestion with horror 
 in league with some restless spirit of the air. 
 
 One night they were sitting silently in Went- 
 worth's study ; he was writing, and she had been 
 sewing, but had dropped her work. Her hands 
 were folded over it in her lap, her eyes fixed upon 
 vacancy. No sound was heard, except the hurried 
 scratching of the quill across the paper. Now and 
 then the boughs of the trees near the house would 
 brush back and forth across the window-panes with 
 a noise resembling the rustling of the garments of 
 some mysterious visitor. The hour was late, it was 
 drawing close to midnight. 
 
 Wentworth was preparing a paper to read before 
 the magistrates, counseling deeper investigation into 
 the testimony advanced by the reckless and blood 
 thirsty circle. Further than advocating such meas-
 
 256 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 tires he dared not go ; living in the age in which 
 he did, it would not have been possible for him to 
 have discredited entirely the supernatural workings 
 of witchcraft. He believed in its existence and was 
 in a measure under its influence, but he did not 
 believe in the power of a chosen few to locate the 
 witches. 
 
 Suddenly Dorothy bent her head forward and 
 inclined her ear in the attitude of intent listening. 
 Presently she stood upright ; her husband was too 
 busily occupied to notice her movements. She 
 took a few steps, then paused and held up her slen 
 der forefinger. Above the sound of the rapid mo 
 tion of the pen and the swaying of the boughs 
 against the windows came yet another vibration 
 upon the stillness of the night. 
 
 Dorothy's face was in shadow ; she stood without 
 the circle of light thrown from the candle that 
 rested upon the writing-desk. She turned ab 
 ruptly, and dropping her extended hand grasped her 
 'husband's arm. 
 
 " The footsteps," she cried hoarsely, " the foot 
 steps! They are passing, they are taking me from 
 thee, my husband ! Save me save me thou canst 
 oh, thou canst!"
 
 THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS. 257 
 
 Wentworth turned impetuously and caught her 
 in his arms. He held her closely to him, and kissed 
 her passionately. " I do not comprehend thee," he 
 said tenderly ; " I hear no footsteps ; 'tis but the 
 phantom of thy brain, or perchance the wind." 
 
 She tore herself from his grasp, and darting to 
 the window drew aside the curtains, and leaned out 
 into the air. He joined her. 
 
 " What dost thou see a night owl? " He spoke 
 coaxingly, as one does to a frightened child. 
 
 " I do not hear them now," she said, " they have 
 gone." Then turning toward her husband, she 
 clasped her hands in the attitude of prayer. 
 
 " Alden " her voice rose shrill and piercingly 
 upon the stillness of the midnight hour " I am 
 crushed to the earth by a sorrow I have not power 
 to reveal to thee. Wretched and sinful I am ; my 
 soul is filled with a great bitterness. Though I 
 cannot tell thee now, a voice within me says thou 
 shalt know ere long. When that time is here, pity 
 me pity me Alden, for the great love I bea 
 thee; it is this love of thee that makes me weak." 
 
 Again, like the flash of a lantern in the dark, 
 across Wentworth's brain darted the words of 
 Elizabeth.
 
 258 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Dorothy, calm thyself," he said sternly. " What 
 means this disclosure? Hast had communication 
 with those instruments of Satan? What is this 
 foolishness? Has the spell been cast upon thee? 
 Art thou in bondage also?" 
 
 " No, no," she exclaimed, " 'tis not that, 'tis not 
 that. I can say no more, I am weary ; let me go ; 
 I would rest the hour is late." 
 
 He looked darkly upon her as she walked toward 
 the door. When she reached the threshold she 
 turned and hesitated an instant. She appeared so 
 fragile, so innocent, so childlike as the glow from the 
 candle fell upon her fair face and burnished hair. 
 As he watched her his heart reproached him for his 
 suspicions. 
 
 " Perchance thou wilt write much later," she said ; 
 " I will bid thee good-night, and God guard thee, 
 Alden, my beloved!" She spoke wistfully. " For 
 get my words. I have grieved thee; forgive me." 
 
 She did not wait for his response, but passed 
 slowly up the narrow staircase to the room above, 
 where, sick and miserable, she found rest at last in a 
 deep, dreamless sleep. 
 
 After Dorothy had left the room Wentworth re 
 mained for a long time in profound thought. The
 
 THE MEETING OF THE MINISTERS. 259 
 
 expression upon his face was stern and severe. He 
 laid his pen aside and bowed his head in his hands. 
 He was baffled at this bewildering array of emo 
 tional tendencies just discovered in Dorothy's com 
 position. Could it be that in some remote manner 
 she was being .influenced by the witches? That 
 she could be one of them he repelled with horror; 
 not for a moment would he allow such a doubt to 
 find lodgment within him. He could scarce contain 
 himself from going to her and craving forgiveness 
 that he should have harbored such a thought even 
 for an instant. He brooded until the morning 
 dawned, and then fell into a troubled sleep in his 
 chair.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE WARNING IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 
 
 THE last month of summer had come, and with 
 it a great heat. The days were radiant with a 
 cloudless expanse of sky that throbbed and shim 
 mered with a white, intense light, undimmed by 
 storm-bursts or mists. The foliage drooped discon 
 solately in the fields and by the wayside. Along 
 the well-trodden country road that ran through the 
 town, thence out toward the edge of the primeval 
 forest, great clouds of blinding dust rose upon the 
 air, whirled hither and thither, as the hot wind blew 
 from the inland. The little brooks rippled faintly in 
 their shallow beds as they flowed slowly through 
 the parched meadows. In the gardens the flowers 
 bloomed scantily. The song of the birds was 
 stilled, they having sought new homes in the deep 
 glens and wooded hollows, where the heat scarce 
 penetrated. 
 
 The heat of nature did not exceed in fierceness 
 the fever of excitement and terror that burned in 
 
 260
 
 THE WARNING IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 26 1 
 
 the hearts of the people as they clustered in groups 
 in the market-place of the little Puritan town. 
 
 It was the iQth of August of the year 1692. 
 On this day five more victims were to pay the pen 
 alty of their friends' bigotry and ignorance. The 
 names of these unfortunates were, George Bur 
 roughs, John Proctor, George Jacobs, John Willard, 
 and Martha Carrier. 
 
 Crowds of men and women, and even children, 
 were standing in knots and scattered groups upon 
 the streets. All were Awaiting and watching in 
 tently for the carts containing the condemned to 
 pass by on their ignominious journey to the place 
 of execution beyond the town. Upon the faces of 
 the crowd, whose cold features seemed hardening 
 into the rigidity of stone, were few signs of compas 
 sion or regret. In some cases a few of the unfort 
 unates had friends who, more bold than the rest, 
 dared speak in derision of the magistrates and in 
 pity for the victims. 
 
 Such a one was Martha Holden. Her buxom 
 figure and broad shoulders towered above many of 
 the crow r d as she elbowed her way through them. 
 Her ruddy cheeks burned to a crimson flush, her 
 gray eyes flashed angrily and defiantly. Dorothy
 
 262 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 walked close by her side with eyes cast down, ex 
 cept when a harsh, denunciatory sentence would be 
 uttered by some person in the crowd, against the 
 condemned. At such a time Dorothy would trem 
 ble and grow pale, look pitifully about her, and at 
 tempt to pass unobserved by keeping in the wake 
 of her portly relative. 
 
 " Fear them not, child," said Martha reassuringly. 
 " Put on a bold front ; I give not a jot for the opin 
 ion of the entire clergy and magistrates," snapping 
 her fingers as she spoke, and pointing contemptu 
 ously toward the court-house, from whence would 
 soon issue the worthy retinue of exalted personages 
 to join the procession to Gallows Hill. 
 
 It had not been Dorothy's wish to be present at 
 this gathering of the town, but Wentworth had 
 peremptorily bidden her to do so. His reason she 
 suspected. Of late he had watched her suspi 
 ciously, ever since the night she had lost her self- 
 control and had revealed to him that some secret 
 sorrow was weighing upon her. Try as he would, 
 a lurking doubt assailed him ; he fought against it 
 valiantly, yet all to no purpose. 
 
 It was commonly believed that one in league 
 with the witches dared not look upon them as their
 
 THE WARNING IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 263 
 
 souls passed to that dread reunion in the realms of 
 their master. If one who understood their baleful 
 workings and dealt in their horrid practices gazed 
 steadfastly upon them, some sign of their brother 
 hood would become known to the observers. 
 Wentworth watched his wife closely from the win 
 dows of the court-house as she stood by her aunt's 
 side on the street below. 
 
 The suspicion once fastened upon his imagination 
 that this secret trouble of Dorothy's was connected 
 with the delusion that filled every nook and cranny 
 of the village was gaining slowly but steadily upon 
 him. He could conjecture no other solution of the 
 mystery of her sighs, her tears, her incomprehen 
 sible remarks, her desire for solitude, her fear to 
 enter a church. Yet all these things might be ex 
 plained naturally, he argued ; at all events he must 
 first have proof, and strong proof, that she had 
 
 sealed that fatal covenant. And then then 
 
 He dared think no further; his brain reeled, his 
 thoughts wandered aimlessly, ending in a chaos of 
 doubt and loss. 
 
 " The magistrates know their business, Martha," 
 remonstrated a friend who was speaking softly to 
 the excited old woman, who, with shrill speech and
 
 264 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 harsh epithets, gave voice to her rage at the pro 
 ceedings. 
 
 " Know their business!" repeated Martha. " Is it 
 their business to murder these God-fearing, pious 
 persons? Forsooth, I would I had the right to sit 
 in judgment on these wiseacres. I would place on 
 each empty pate the fool's-cap and bid them march 
 through the streets of Salem." 
 
 " Hush, hush, Aunt Martha," said Dorothy; 
 " the people are all looking our way." 
 
 "What care I for the people?" She raised her 
 voice until it reached a shout. " I tell them all, 
 and without fear, that they have committed a most 
 grievous wrong a wrong they can never right. 
 Goodwives, have ye no heart? Will ye look on 
 while these our old friends die in innocence?" 
 With desperate eagerness she rushed forward, and 
 mounting upon a cart that stood in the center of 
 the street, she gazed bravely over the heads of the 
 cold, silent throng. "Will ye hear me?" she cried. 
 " Let these poor prisoners free. Ye cannot know 
 the fearful thing ye do permit. Beseech the judges 
 for their lives; there is yet time." 
 
 " Out upon her!" called a harsh voice. " Put the 
 old woman out, drag her from the cart, throttle her ! "
 
 THE WARNING IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 265 
 
 "Hush, hush, for mercy's sake! " said Dorothy 
 tearfully, starting forward, and standing by the side 
 of the cart. " They will do thee harm ; they are 
 overwrought." 
 
 "' I will not hush. I have my speech ; I shall use 
 it in defense of these my poor friends." 
 
 At this a terrible commotion was visible among 
 the people ; they swayed back and forth with the 
 intense excitement that possessed them, and Martha 
 was roughly jostled to the ground by the surging 
 mass. On closer examination it was discovered 
 that one of the afflicted children had been taken 
 with a strange and terrible spasm. Her limbs were 
 drawn up, her mouth was twitched to one side, her 
 eyes rolled horribly. From her throat issued pierc 
 ing shrieks interspersed with denunciatory words 
 against some one who did afflict her, and who, 
 she did assert, was even then standing in the 
 crowd. 
 
 "Where is she? Where is she?" cried an emo 
 tional individual. " I will strike her," twirling his 
 cane as he spoke, so that it came in rather uncom 
 fortable proximity to the heads of some of the as 
 semblage. 
 
 " She is near me ! Her eyes are piercing mine,
 
 266 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 they burn! I suffer tortures! Take her away, take 
 her away!" 
 
 At this juncture a tall, imposing figure made her 
 way with some difficulty through the closely packed 
 throng. The people gazed with awe and respect 
 upon the new-comer, though not unmixed with a 
 superstitious fear. Elizabeth, for it was she, did 
 not notice their deference. Going swiftly to the 
 girl, she stooped over her and spoke some words 
 close to her ear. Even as she did so she was also 
 seized with a like spasm, only, if possible, more 
 
 * 
 
 fearful to behold. 
 
 " We are bewitched," she shrieked, as she writhed 
 upon the ground, " we are bewitched ! The woman 
 who doeth us this harm is standing in the crowd." 
 
 "Where, where? " called a chorus of voices. 
 
 " There she stands," cried Elizabeth, rising to her 
 feet and pointing toward Dorothy. Her face was 
 pale, her eyes bloodshot, her whole bearing instinct 
 with a frenzy approaching madness. " I scarce 
 dare look upon her there, with the old woman by 
 her side. She is the queen of the witches; they 
 do her bidding night and day. I do denounce 
 thee, Dorothy Wentworth, I, Elizabeth Hubbard, 
 the inspired."
 
 THE WARNING IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 267 
 i 
 
 The people all drew tremblingly away from 
 Dorothy and her aunt. The women hurriedly gath 
 ered the little children together and stood in front 
 of them. Dorothy did not flinch ; she stood mo 
 tionless an instant, then looked calmly around upon 
 the clouded faces of her townspeople. 
 
 " I have done thee no harm, Elizabeth ; where 
 fore dost thou accuse me? " Her sweet voice rang 
 with dignity and reproach. 
 
 " Thou art a witch, thou art a witch ! Cast her 
 forth, cast her forth!" The two girls were now 
 calling and shouting like two demons. Dorothy's 
 voice could not be heard above the general uproar. 
 
 Wentworth had left the window a few minutes 
 before, having been called to ^attend to some last 
 requests of the condemned in their cells. Some of 
 the men now rushed toward Dorothy, but Martha 
 stepped in front of her, spreading out her powerful 
 arms. 
 
 "Touch her if ye dare," she cried, "and my 
 curse upon ye shall be heavier than any witch's 
 spell!" She was deathly pale; the crimson flush 
 had faded from her cheeks ; her old figure was 
 erect, though trembling with agitation. The men 
 drew back a few paces ; Dorothy was as one in a
 
 268 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 dream. The swaying throng, the angry faces, the 
 heated street, the intense blue of the midday sky, 
 all took on phantom shapes, intangible, unreal. 
 
 " Away with the witch ! She tortures us ! Away 
 with her!" again came the cries. 
 
 The men started forward once more. " Let us 
 take her e'en now before the judges," they said. 
 " There is still room in the carts for another of these 
 accursed creatures." 
 
 " Thou canst not arrest her, thou hast no war 
 rant," cried Martha triumphantly. "Come, Doro 
 thy, come with me ; we will leave this place ; come 
 to thy home, they cannot harm thee." 
 
 The bewildered girl turned mechanically, and 
 Martha grasped her, hand. The men stood irreso 
 lute ; they knew they could not arrest her without 
 the necessary warrant. The two women proceeded 
 a few steps down the street, the people watching 
 them sullenly, then Martha turned. Shaking her 
 finger in the direction of Elizabeth, who stood dark 
 and sinister, watching Dorothy intently, she said, 
 " Thou art a wicked girl. I know thy motive. 
 Thou art a murderess; woe be to thee! The future 
 will bring thee thy punishment." 
 
 Dorothy did not speak as they walked slowly
 
 THE WARNING IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 269 
 
 onward. Her throat was dry, her lips parched, but 
 one idea shone clearly before her mind. The be 
 ginning of the end had come, the dread expected 
 with all its accompanying horrors had fallen. The 
 hot sunshine fell upon her delicate face, which was 
 growing paler from the effect of the heat, but she 
 scarcely heeded it; no physical discomfort could 
 trouble her now. 
 
 " I am tired, Aunt Martha," she said finally ; 
 " let us rest here awhile," pausing under the shade 
 of a willow-tree. 
 
 Some members of the angry crowd had followed, 
 and a few stones had been thrown by vicious boys ; 
 now, however, they had returned to their places, 
 eager not to miss any portion of the procession 
 forming, as they could tell by the heavy rolling of 
 the carts and the distant shouts of the men. 
 
 The street on which the two women rested was 
 merely a narrow lane leading from the market 
 place. It was very quiet, there being few houses 
 in the vicinity, and every one that could attend had 
 been anxious to join the parade of the day, and 
 thus bear witness by their presence to their sym 
 pathy with the dictates of justice. 
 
 A little child came out of a house at some dis-
 
 270 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 tance down the lane and advanced singing in glee 
 along the road, all unconscious of the dreadful trag 
 edy which was being enacted close at hand. The 
 little fellow came up to Dorothy and smiled con 
 fidingly upon her, laying his chubby hand on her 
 knee. At sight of his sweet face she burst into 
 tears and drew him closely to her side. 
 
 " He believes in me," she said sadly. " Happy 
 little boy, thou knowest no trouble as yet. May 
 thy life be brighter than mine has been." She 
 kissed him tenderly upon his forehead, and he 
 nestled close beside her, looking up smilingly into 
 her face. 
 
 At this instant a loud cry was heard from a 
 woman, who came rushing down the lane from the 
 direction of the court-house. As she neared the 
 group beneath the willow-tree, they noticed that 
 she was in a state of consternation and fear. 
 "Take thy defiled touch from off my child!" she 
 screamed. " Wouldst thou seek to add his name 
 to thine in the Black Book? Come hither to thy 
 mother." She rushed forward and snatched the 
 child to her breast. " She is a witch, little one ; 
 she will harm thee." 
 
 At the word " witch " the boy set up a cry of ter-
 
 THE WARNING IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 271 
 
 ror ; he clung to his mother, then slipped from her 
 clasp and tried to hide amongst her skirts. Martha 
 appeared to be struck dumb by this distressing scene. 
 
 " Surely, neighbor," she said finally, " thou canst 
 not believe these lies against the wife of the hon 
 ored judge, who is also thy friend." 
 
 There was indescribable pathos and supplication 
 discernible in Martha's voice ; her courage and de 
 fiance had deserted her ; she was now the supplicant. 
 
 " Why, then, does she not attend the meetings on, 
 the Lord's Day ? " said the woman. " Of a certainty 
 they have found much proof against her." As she 
 spoke she endeavored to still the frenzied screams 
 of the child, who tugged at his mother's skirts and 
 now and then looked forth from their shelter with a 
 glance of fascinated childish terror upon Dorothy. 
 
 " They have no proof save that gathered by that 
 wretched circle. I fear not for Dorothy. Alden 
 can protect her. They will not dare issue a war 
 rant against the wife of one so high in favor, and a 
 friend of the governor's." 
 
 The woman did not reply immediately ; then she 
 said, as she turned from them, " Elizabeth Hubbard 
 hath denounced her; what greater proof need ye?" 
 
 She hurried from them along the road, hushing
 
 2/2 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 the child. She had lifted him in her arms, and she 
 now pressed his head close against her shoulder, so 
 that he could not look back upon the bowed figure 
 resting under the drooping willow branches. 
 
 The figure remained motionless. She might have 
 been dead for all outward signs of animation : her 
 head was bent forward in her lap, her arms hung 
 heavily by her side, stray sunbeams lay upon her 
 brown, waving hair. 
 
 "Rouse up, child, show thy spirit." Martha 
 shook her by the arm. Poor Martha's courage was 
 well-nigh spent ; she fully realized the hopelessness 
 of the case of one denounced by the all-powerful 
 circle ; her heart was heavy with a dread fore 
 boding. 
 
 " I have no spirit," said Dorothy. " I have 
 fought so long that now my strength is gone. 
 What matters it? I am no better than those who 
 have gone before, and who now are at rest." 
 
 " Say not so, say not so. There is still hope, I 
 wot, that Alden hath more influence than those 
 wicked imps of Satan, who desire to drink innocent 
 blood." 
 
 " He will not plead for me ; he is from hence 
 forth as one apart from me."
 
 THE WARNING IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 273 
 
 " Dorothy, art thou crazed ? What is the mean 
 ing of such words? " 
 
 " Thou wilt know soon, yet not from me ; I must 
 tell another first. I can speak no further. Let us 
 hasten home ; I hear the fearful din and the rumble 
 of the carts. Let us get within the shelter of the 
 house." 
 
 The two women walked silently the short remain 
 ing distance. They entered the low gate before 
 the new house that abode wherein two happy 
 united hearts had thought to live in peace and love. 
 Dorothy looked sadly around upon the familiar 
 scene ; her aunt stood by her side, her eyes down 
 cast and filled with blinding tears. 
 
 "Alas, alas!" she sobbed, "the child that I 
 tended so faithfully to come to this! 'Tis hard, 'tis 
 hard!" 
 
 "Grieve not," said Dorothy solemnly; "thou 
 hast been ever kind and good. I did but ill re 
 quite thee. Yet now I love thee dearly. Thou 
 canst not help me in this trouble none can, save 
 God." 
 
 The two women seated themselves in the door 
 of the porch, each engrossed with her own bitter 
 thoughts. The afternoon was drawing near; the
 
 274 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 sun was already stealing toward the west. The 
 light and heat had become somewhat diminished ; a 
 welcome breeze sprang up from the north, rustling 
 the leaves gently with its cool breath, till they 
 looked as though nodding and addressing each 
 other ; the drooping flowers appeared less despond 
 ent as the shadows of the trees near the house fell 
 across them. 
 
 A man came wearily up the narrow garden path. 
 
 * 
 
 His face was pale, deep lines were indented upon 
 his forehead. He stooped as he walked, and his 
 hands hung by his side. When he reached the 
 porch, the two women arose and waited for him to 
 speak. His words came quickly, thrilled with pas 
 sion intermingled with anxiety and fear. 
 
 " Dorothy, I know all : they have accused thee 
 publicly in the market-place. Thou art under the 
 ban. They will seek to procure a warrant. Yet 
 fear not. God forgive me that I ever doubted thee. 
 Thou art innocent, and I am thy husband and thy 
 protector. I will shield thee, no matter what powers 
 there be against thee. Canst thou forgive me that 
 I ever doubted thee, so pure and good?" 
 
 She winced at these words. " Thou wilt aid me
 
 THE WARNING IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 275 
 
 no matter what happens? " she repeated with trem 
 bling eagerness. "Art thou certain of thy words 
 no matter what powers there be against me? " 
 
 " Ay, I know whereof I speak. I have influence 
 with those high in office." 
 
 As if controlled by some recollections, he shud 
 dered when he had finished speaking, and placed 
 his hands before his face. 
 
 " Merciful Heaven, spare me the fearful sights I 
 have witnessed this day! I have lost my strength 
 from very horror of the deaths of those creatures, 
 be they guilty or innocent of the charges held 
 against them." 
 
 "Speak not of it, I cannot bear it!" wailed 
 Dorothy. 
 
 Martha left them as they conversed, turning at 
 the gate to wish them good-night. Wentworth's 
 arm was across Dorothy's shoulder, she was leaning 
 against him. The daylight was waning, the lowing 
 of the cattle sounded distinctly across the meadows. 
 Side by side they watched the setting of the sun 
 behind the low line of hills. The yellow glow stole 
 tenderly across Dorothy's face, and lingered upon 
 her simple gown of blue tiffany. She appeared
 
 276 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 irradiated by an everlasting glory from another 
 world, so ethereal was her bearing. Wentworth 
 drew her lovingly toward him. 
 
 "They shall not harm thee, my own," he said. 
 She did not answer; she was unconscious of his 
 presence. The world was slipping from her grasp. 
 She saw nothing material ; she was gazing yearn 
 ingly into that beautiful new life beyond the sunset.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE SCENE AT THE JUDGE'S HOUSE. 
 
 No doubt the very tenderness of Dorothy's char 
 acter increased in no slight degree the enormity of 
 her offense in her own eyes, while an extremely 
 sensitive organization aided in completing her 
 humiliation. She realized to the fullest extent 
 what was expected of one in her position, and also 
 her utter inability to comply with the demands of 
 her calling. The terrible accusations that had been 
 made against her by the witch-accusers had natu 
 rally alarmed her. This, however, was dwarfed into 
 insignificance by the dread that daily and hourly 
 tortured her of losing her husband's faith and love. 
 This dread robbed every waking hour of peace, and 
 filled her troubled sleep with wretched nightmares. 
 
 There appeared to be no way out of all this mis 
 ery, and sometimes in the silent hours of night the 
 tempter would warily approach her, and whisper in 
 her ear, " Sir Grenville has pointed out a way ; 
 hearken unto him." At such times she would 
 
 277
 
 278 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 shudder and stretch out her hands in the darkness, 
 as if to thrust aside some reality that loomed up 
 from the shadows that surrounded her. 
 
 A week or more had elapsed cince the public de 
 nunciation in the market-place. An ominous silence 
 had followed the storm, ruffled only by the cold, 
 repelling glances that followed her whenever she 
 left the shelter of her home. The little children 
 scattered wildly at her approach, and doors and 
 shutters were hurriedly closed when she passed 
 down the streets. 
 
 The first day of September had come. The 
 weather still remained sultry, though one could no 
 tice a perceptible change in the length of the days. 
 A fall haze gathered upon the hills toward evening, 
 rendering them blue and indefinable. 
 
 Dorothy was seated one afternoon in the living- 
 room of her home. She was idle, or if she em 
 ployed herself occasioanlly upon some fine linen 
 work that lay in her lap, it was by fits and starts ; 
 she drew the thread in and out in a mechanical 
 fashion, her gaze wandering constantly through the 
 opened window, over the widespreading fields of 
 the farming district. On the broad window-ledge 
 rested her psalm-book. She had been hopelessly
 
 THE SCENE AT THE JUDGE'S HOUSE. 279 
 
 seeking its pages for comfort, and had then laid it 
 aside. A pot of plants bloomed upon the ledge ; 
 now and then the breeze rustled the leaves and 
 sent a sweet, penetrating odor into the room. Her 
 spinning-wheel, with its flax ready at hand, was 
 beside her. The sun crept around, till its light 
 stole past the window, leaving the room in semi- 
 coldness and darkness. 
 
 Dorothy leaned back against her high carved 
 chair, closed her eyes, and sat very still ; her work 
 fell to the floor and lay unheeded at her feet. She 
 was aroused from her apathy by the consciousness 
 of some presence near at hand. She started, sat 
 upright, and glanced toward the window. The 
 malevolent countenance of Elizabeth was pressed 
 against the panes. Dorothy rose from her chair, 
 went to the door, opened it, and standing an instant 
 upon the threshold, she timidly invited her enemy 
 to enter. 
 
 Elizabeth came forward, and stood close to her 
 upon the doorstep ; then she brushed hastily by 
 her, entered the doorway, and advanced to the cen 
 ter of the room. She paused an instant, eying 
 Dorothy curiously, then spoke. 
 
 " Thou, methinks, art a worthy personage to hold
 
 280 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 thine exalted place. It is no doubt a merry prank 
 for thee to sit in thy high seat when thou knowest 
 thou art a hypocrite." 
 
 Dorothy recoiled ; little gasps came from her 
 white lips. 
 
 "What dost thou mean?" she said. 
 
 " I know thy secret, thou perverted one. I know 
 of thy escapade with Sir Grenville Lawson. When 
 thou forsooth didst draw the veil well across the 
 eyes of thy friends with stories of sickness and 
 wanderings, it was left to me to expose thee. 
 Thou art indeed a worthy follower of thy master; 
 he has taught thee well the secrets of his art." 
 
 " I know not whereof thou hast spoken," said 
 Dorothy faintly. " Where hast thou heard such a 
 story of me? " 
 
 "That is mine affair; my knowledge is mine 
 own. Yet know this that thou art lost, no power 
 can help thee now ; for of a certainty thy husband 
 will not be thy friend when he hears of this 
 deception." 
 
 At the words " thy husband " Dorothy trembled 
 and grasped the back of a chair to keep herself 
 from falling. Her face appeared to shrivel and 
 grow small and peaked, like the face of the aged.
 
 THE SCENE AT THE JUDGE'S HOUSE. 28 1 
 
 "Wilt thou tell him?" she gasped. 
 
 Elizabeth seized her arm and bent down over her. 
 "Ay, I will tell him, and know well that this is the 
 debt I owe thee. Thou didst take from me the one 
 thing I desired above all others, the one thing that, 
 stolen from me, as thou didst steal it, by false meas 
 ures^ made the world henceforth a wasted place, 
 where I walk without peace or hope." 
 
 " I do not comprehend thee," faltered Dorothy, 
 trying to draw her arm from the fierce clutch that 
 held her like a vise. 
 
 " No, thou canst not ; thy weak, soft nature can 
 not comprehend my strength ; that strength, per 
 verted from its rightful channel, has turned into 
 hatred for thee." 
 
 She released her hold upon her victim and thrust 
 her roughly from her. 
 
 " Spare me," said Dorothy, clasping her wasted 
 hands, " spare me for the sake of the old days when 
 we were friends." 
 
 " I have no pity," cried Elizabeth; " I know not 
 the meaning of the word. Why should I pity 
 thee? Thou hast made me what I am; thou hast 
 woven thy fate the strands are strengthened by 
 thine own hands."
 
 282 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Ay, ay, thou sayest truly ; yet I have suffered 
 thou wilt never know how sorely. Wilt thou not 
 relent? " 
 
 " I tell thee no, for all time." 
 
 " Then thou shalt not do thy worst. I will tell 
 Alden of my deception myself; thy cruel lips shall 
 not reveal to him my error, for error only it was. I 
 will tell thee the truth : I did fly with Sir Grenville, 
 to be married in Boston, thence to sail for England. 
 He deceived me ; he was already married. I escaped 
 him on the confines of the forest. All else that I 
 did tell is truth, save that I did withhold the name 
 of the woman who sheltered me." 
 
 " I believe thee not ; thou hast perjured thyself 
 once, thou canst perjure thyself again when thy 
 life is at stake. On with thy weaving the strands 
 will but draw the tighter noose around thy slim 
 neck." 
 
 Dorothy shuddered, and instinctively placed her 
 hand to her throat. That moment her timidity left 
 her. Drawing herself up, she raised her head 
 proudly. 
 
 " Thou mayst ruin me if thou wilt ; thou canst 
 take my life ; yet it is not in thy power to take from 
 me the love that has been mine, and which is cov-
 
 THE SCENE AT THE JUDGE'S HOUSE. 283 
 
 eted by thee. In the clear light of God's throne 
 the truth is revealed which I repeat to thee. I 
 have been foolish and wayward. I have done that 
 which I regret in bitterest sorrow and remorse. 
 Thou wouldst believe worse of me, Elizabeth, for 
 thine own advancement, but thou art not stronger 
 than the truth." 
 
 " Of a certainty thou hast a cunning manner! A 
 few hours hence will tell how much longer thou 
 canst play thy part. I go to fetch the wedding gift 
 I promised thee." She took a few steps toward 
 the door. Dorothy followed her, and grasped her 
 gown. 
 
 " Have mercy, have mercy, as some day, per 
 chance, thou wilt need mercy. Let me tell my 
 husband. This thing that thou wilt tell is false ; 
 yet should he believe it, it would turn his love to 
 bitterest hatred. He believes in me he believes 
 in me. There is no proof save in my word, and 
 that is doubted ; but there is still a hope within me 
 that he will forgive. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, take that 
 hope from me and naught remains save despair." 
 
 Elizabeth dragged her gown roughly from the 
 clinging hold and stepped over the threshold. 
 
 " Dost thou not know that thou art an accursed
 
 284 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 witch ? A witch has no redress ; she cannot speak 
 the truth, she is one with the father of lies." 
 
 " That is as naught to me ; I did forget it in this 
 greater calamity that has come upon me this story 
 thou hast heard, where, I cannot conjecture. I have 
 no desire to live. No, Elizabeth, all I ask of thee is 
 to let me first acquaint him with the true facts ; then 
 do thy worst, cause my arrest. I care not, if he 
 but believe in me." 
 
 Her tormentor brushed rudely past her, saying, 
 " It is too late ; thou hast made a puppet of thy 
 fate, tossed it hither and thither in wanton sport ; 
 now it recoils on thee for vengeance." 
 
 She strode rapidly from the sight of the frenzied 
 girl and disappeared among the trees. 
 
 After watching the retreating figure till lost to 
 sight, Dorothy returned to her seat by the window, 
 and to her dreary, hopeless thoughts. She had at 
 last fully determined upon her course. When her 
 husband returned, which he would do ere long, she 
 would confess all and abide by the consequences, be 
 they what they may. This decision arrived at, a 
 great calmness crept over her; she sat with folded 
 hands, a patient smile upon her face. 
 
 The weary, useless struggle was over. The night
 
 THE SCENE AT THE JUDGE'S HOUSE. 285 
 
 came on, and the room filled with shadows. All 
 was very still without, no sounds of passing in the 
 street. Nothing broke the silence, save the twitter 
 ing of the birds, singing sweetly as they flew from 
 branch to branch. 
 
 Presently she heard the violent slamming of the 
 garden gate, then hurried steps upon the walk, then 
 a dark figure rushed past the window, and Martha, 
 breathless, panting, dashed into the room. 
 
 " Dorothy, Dorothy, child, where art thou? " 
 
 " I am here, Aunt Martha." 
 
 "Light the candles hasten, hasten! I have 
 much to tell thee ; I am well-nigh crazed." 
 
 As she spoke she lit the candles on the mantel 
 shelf, Dorothy not moving from her chair. Then 
 Martha went to her, and taking her hand led her 
 forward to the light. 
 
 " How can I tell thee, little one," she sobbed, 
 " how can I ? Be thou brave." 
 
 " I know what thou wouldst say, aunt. Speak ; 
 I am strong to-night." 
 
 " It is then too true : they have procured a war 
 rant for thy arrest on the testimony of the circle. 
 Alden has been interceding for thee; he is beside 
 himself with grief. He is e'en now with the judges,
 
 286 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 and most eloquently has he plead in thy defense ; 
 so much so, they do tell me, that the tears did flow 
 down their cheeks, even while they refused to re 
 lease thee." 
 
 "Merciful Heaven!" said Dorothy. "And must 
 I add to grief such as this? " 
 
 '' What is it thou hast said, child? " queried Mar 
 tha curiously. " I do not comprehend. Yet how 
 canst thou speak aught of sense, when this fearful 
 fate is before thee? " 
 
 " I fear not that oh no, not that! There are far 
 worse sorrows than death." 
 
 " Death ! " exclaimed Martha. " I tell thee thou 
 shalt not die by their hands. Dost thou think I 
 shall desert thee? Not so; thou shalt escape. I 
 have brought with me a disguise see, thou shalt 
 don it and I have horses waiting on the borders of 
 the forest, and good trusty friends. There is time ; 
 the streets are quiet. I will go with thee, and with 
 the help of the Father of the fatherless thou shalt 
 be saved from thine enemies." 
 
 "And Alden " 
 
 " He knows of this plan ; as a last resource he 
 advises it. He will be here anon, when he con 
 siders all effort hopeless with the presiding judges."
 
 THE SCENE AT THE JUDGE'S HOUSE. 287 
 
 Dorothy drew nearer to her aunt, and taking her 
 hand looked into her face. The light from the 
 candle fell upon the girl, upon the bronze brown of 
 her hair, holding its reflection until it shone like a 
 halo around the head of a martyred saint. Martha 
 started as the wonderful courage depicted on those 
 yet almost childlike features betrayed itself to her 
 intent gaze. 
 
 "Aunt Martha, I shall not try to escape. I thank 
 thee for thy love and care. I will go with my 
 jailers when they come for me. My heart has been 
 in prison this many a day. What is my body that 
 I should mourn its sufferings?" 
 
 "My child, my little child!" She clasped her 
 convulsively and held her tightly against her breast. 
 " I tell thee, thou art beside thyself, and what won 
 der! Thou must escape! What is this foolish talk 
 of sorrows? Thou art young, thy husband loves 
 thee, thou art honored. Is thy life not worth the 
 saving? I tell thee it is, and I, with the help of 
 God, will save it." 
 
 " No, no," said Dorothy, drawing away from her, 
 " I am determined. I shall not make one effort to 
 escape. It is not a sacrifice, as thou deemest, it is 
 retribution."
 
 288 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " I tell thee, them shalt be saved, even if Alden 
 and I between us carry thee by force and tie thee 
 in the pillion." 
 
 " I will even then not go with thee. Be not too 
 sanguine that my husband will aid me. I have 
 something to tell him which I cannot tell thee." 
 She choked and gasped. " Soon, very soon, thou 
 wilt know all." 
 
 Martha burst into a torrent of uncontrollable sobs. 
 " Can it be that this is the little babe I brought 
 across the seas from England, that I did love e'en 
 better than all else, that I did take such pride in? 
 And now now O Father in heaven, hear me, 
 have pity on me ! " 
 
 "Hush, hush!" said Dorothy. "Hush, I would 
 be calm this hour. Take not from me my 
 strength." 
 
 Martha raised her flushed face, then started to 
 her feet 
 
 "What is that uproar? I hear the tramping of 
 feet," she cried, rushing toward the window. 
 
 Dorothy did not speak ; she stood quietly within 
 the circle of light thrown from the candle on the 
 shelf. A serene peace rested in the lovely wide- 
 opened eyes. Martha darted back from the win-
 
 THE SCENE AT THE JUDGE'S HOUSE. 289 
 
 dow. "Hide, hide!" she shrieked, grasping her 
 arm and endeavoring to drag her from her place. 
 "It is the warrant, it is the warrant!" She could 
 not move the firm, unflinching girl. " Fly to the 
 well- house / will face them. I fear not the whole 
 town of Salem." 
 
 " I tell thee no; bide quiet, I wait for them." 
 
 " My God, help me!" cried Martha. " How can 
 I live and see this thing? 'Tis but yesterday, it 
 seems, thou wast a little helpless infant, and now to 
 give thee up to this awful fate a witch, a witch, 
 hooted, shunned, excommunicated, hung ! Dorothy, 
 Dorothy, I shall not live to see thee suffer! This 
 hour has broken my heart." 
 
 Nearer and nearer came the sound of the advanc 
 ing crowds, echoing loud and distinctly upon the 
 stillness of the night. Then arose hoarse shouts 
 and calls, shrill cries of women and children, and 
 soon the people swarmed into the little garden and 
 filled the street beyond. 
 
 Dorothy, white and calm, went forth to meet 
 them : she stood in the doorway, looking quietly 
 upon the groups of excited, menacing persons. 
 
 " Mistress Went worth," called the stern voice of 
 the beadle, " in the name of his most worshipful,
 
 290 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 the governor, we do arrest thee on the charge of 
 witchcraft. Thou hast been guilty of detestable 
 acts and sorceries ; thine enemies thou hast tort 
 ured, afflicted, pined, consumed, wasted, and tor 
 mented." 
 
 Dorothy stepped forward. " I will go with thee, 
 and though I am no witch and have wronged but 
 one, for that offense Providence has been most 
 kind, in that I may, by this punishment, case a 
 troubled conscience." 
 
 These words stilled the murmurs of the throng, 
 and though furious glances and gestures were di 
 rected toward the fearless girl, they uttered aloud' 
 no denunciations. 
 
 It was a brilliant night ; the gleam of the moon 
 penetrated the surroundings for a considerable dis 
 tance, serving to illuminate the scene, and defining 
 even objects some distance from the house. On 
 the outskirts of the crowd the tall figure of a man 
 suddenly loomed into view. Dorothy instinctively 
 turned her head in his direction, and bent her gaze 
 upon him. A tremor 'passed over her, and she 
 uttered aloud a little cry of almost physical pain. 
 The man lifted his head and gazed fixedly upon her, 
 then forced his way through the throng and came
 
 THE SCENE AT THE JUDGE'S HOUSE. 2QI 
 
 close to her side. She cowered and shrank away 
 from him, as one does in mortal fear. 
 
 " Dorothy," he whispered, as he leaned toward 
 her, "be brave, I will save you; be calm." That 
 was all. He was gone. 
 
 A wailing shriek now arose from among the ex 
 pectant people : " The devil seeks to aid his own, 
 he hath sent his agents. One was with her now 
 the cavalier who did whisper to her, he from the 
 court of the wicked Charles." At this outburst 
 the crowd began to utter groans and cries. " Seize 
 her, ere she mount into the air and escape us," cried 
 one. 
 
 " See her pale face and eyes of fire ! She doth 
 torment us ! Away with her, away with this fiend ! " 
 cried the afflicted children in chorus. A scene of 
 pandemonium followed these cries. The girls of 
 the magic circle groveled on the ground in convul 
 sions, horrible groans issuing from their frothing lips. 
 
 " I make no resistance," said Dorothy quietly to 
 her jailers; "see, I go willingly with thee." She 
 held out her hands to them. " Bind me with thy 
 cords; I am thy prisoner." 
 
 "Ay, bind her, bind her!" yelled Elizabeth, like 
 a maniac. " She will escape. Already I see a host
 
 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 of demons by her side. To the prison with her! 
 Quick, quick, to the prison, ere we die from the 
 spells she casts upon us!" 
 
 "To the prison, to the prison!" came from the 
 hundreds of frenzied persons, now carried away 
 beyond all control. 
 
 " Dorothy, Dorothy," wailed Martha, " to come to 
 this, to come to this ! She is so young, so innocent. 
 Have ye no pity ? " She shook her fists at the crowd 
 and hurled fierce epithets at the girls of the circle. 
 
 The jailers now bound Dorothy's wrists together, 
 and stepping one on each side of her, they marched 
 up the village street to the prison. The crowd fol 
 lowed, hooting, shouting, and throwing sticks and 
 stones. " A witch, a witch, a witch ! Hang her, 
 burn her, cast her forth!" 
 
 When Dorothy reached the prison door she saw 
 her husband standing beside it. He stretched out 
 his arms across the door, thus barring entrance. 
 The look of hopeless misery and utter despair upon 
 his countenance would have caused the most unfeel 
 ing heart to move in pity. 
 
 " They would not hear me," he gasped. " Till 
 this moment I have labored with them. My God, 
 what have I done that this should come upon me !
 
 THE SCENE AT THE JUDGE'S HOUSE. 293 
 
 Dorothy, my wife, I cannot see thee enter these 
 prison doors, I cannot!" 
 
 The jailers drew aside respectfully ; the crowd 
 was awed. Such grief as this won at least their 
 silence. The prisoner did not raise her eyes, though 
 she bent toward him, saying, " Let me enter ; close 
 not the way to mine atonement; 'tis my desire." 
 
 " She is guilty, she confesses! Away with her!" 
 shouted the infuriated populace. 
 
 She turned to them. " I confess not to what 
 thou believest of me," she said. Then, turning 
 toward her husband, she knelt down before him, her 
 fair head bowed low in the dust. " I am a grievous 
 sinner, Alden ; I have deceived thee, and though I 
 am no witch, I have erred. I go to repent." 
 
 The crowd pushed and jostled her roughly. She 
 could scarce regain her feet. "Stop her speech!" 
 they cried. " She casts a spell upon her husband." 
 
 She was carried into the prison, and the heavy 
 oaken doors were closed behind her. The angry 
 faces, the moonlight, her husband's frantic endeavors 
 to follow her, faded from her sight, into a mist that 
 deepened and deepened until it became a great 
 blackness and she lay unconscious on the stone 
 floor of her cell.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IN PRISON. 
 
 DOROTHY had been in prison three days. Dur 
 ing that time she had seen no one but her jailer, 
 who kept a close and constant watch upon her. He 
 had been warned by the authorities that some of 
 her co-workers might, through the aid of their 
 magic arts, gain admittance to her cell, and thus 
 spirit her away, perhaps through the grated win 
 dow, perhaps through the keyhole, or possibly down 
 through the stone floor, thence out beneath the 
 earth, to the sunlight and freedom beyond. She 
 had rested upon her bed of coarse straw the greater 
 part of the day and night, sometimes asleep, some 
 times watching with wide-strained eyes the rays of 
 light that came at certain hours through the small, 
 high window. 
 
 Every time a step was heard upon the corridor 
 without she started and raised her head expectantly, 
 only to let it fall back wearily with a despondent 
 
 294
 
 IN PRISON. 295 
 
 sigh. She knew that by this time Elizabeth had 
 acquainted her husband with the wretched story, 
 exaggerated, no doubt, and painted in colors that 
 would display her in the light of a false, heartless 
 intriguer. 
 
 " Yet," she argued, " why does he not come, if 
 only to denounce me? Surely he will hear from 
 mine own lips my vindication." 
 
 It was a damp, rainy day ; the fall rains were be 
 ginning early. The cell lay almost in the gloom of 
 night, so faint was the little glimmer that fell from 
 the grated pane. Dorothy had fallen into a troubled 
 sleep. In her sleep she dreamed Alden was beside 
 her, and so vivid was the dream that it awoke her. 
 She turned her head, and by the side of her cot 
 stood her husband. She recoiled from him in ab 
 ject terror. Could that stern, cold, pitiless gaze 
 come from the man who had so loved her? She 
 started to her feet, and covering her face with her 
 hands retreated from him, her frame quivering with 
 the misery she endured. 
 
 He followed her, and dragged her hands from 
 her face, holding them firmly in his strong grasp. 
 " So thou wouldst hide thy false face," he said. 
 
 ". Alden, Alden, she has told thee, then. Yet let
 
 2Q6 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 me speak ere thou dost wholly condemn ; it is but 
 justice." 
 
 " Ay, she has told me. I believed her not with 
 out proof. I sought it ; I have seen those men who 
 did aid in thy scheme. Out upon thee for a fair 
 sorceress! So thou hast duped me well; thy nature 
 is full deep." 
 
 " Thou shalt hear me, thou shalt! It is my right! 
 I demand it, and I will have it," she cried. " I 
 have not wholly wronged thee. It was to keep 
 that which I valued above all else, thine affection, 
 that I did deceive thee, for the sake of that love 
 that once was mine. Hear me, hear me, I beseech 
 thee!" 
 
 He looked darkly upon her. "Speak," he said. 
 " I hearken." 
 
 She then told him all the story, omitting no de 
 tails. At its close he laughed a bitter, incredulous 
 laugh. "And so thy voucher is a witch," he said 
 slowly. " Thou hast chosen a valiant witness ! 
 Dost thou think I believe thee? No, no, no a 
 helpless girl like thee to escape Sir Grenville and 
 his tried assistants! And so thine honor hangs on 
 the word of old Goody Trueman." 
 
 She crouched at his feet, her head bent low to
 
 IN PRISON. 297 
 
 the stone floor. "As I stand now in the presence 
 of the Almighty, though unseen by us, I swear I 
 tell thee the truth. Thou must believe me, thou 
 must ; then mete to me my punishment, I will not 
 repine." 
 
 " I believe thee not," he said hoarsely. " I have 
 it within me now to kill thee and send thy perjured 
 soul to its reward." He bent over her as she lay 
 upon the floor. " With my two hands I could 
 strangle thee as thou hast strangled all good within 
 me." 
 
 " Kill me, then ; I take it from thy hands ; it is 
 retribution. Yet, ere I go from thee, look once 
 upon me in forgiveness." 
 
 "Away from me!" he said; " thy touch is pollu 
 tion." He thrust her from him as she tried to draw 
 near upon her knees. " I believe thee not ; I will 
 not forgive thee. Thou hast made me what I am ; 
 no feeling bides within me, I am turning to stone ; 
 thou hast been the sculptor, thy hand hast molded 
 me. How dost thou like thy work?" 
 
 " I have no redress further," she moaned ; " I am 
 indeed left desolate. My fate draws daily nearer, 
 and I wait for it with joy. My husband, a day will 
 come when thou wilt know me as I am when thou
 
 298 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 wilt believe and say, ' Dorothy, I forgive thee;' and 
 I will hear thy voice, though I be in another world, 
 for the love that is between us is sufficiently strong 
 to reach that land toward which my feet are turned." 
 She hesitated and seemed, addressing some inner 
 self. " In that day I shall come to thee ; thou wilt 
 not see me, yet I shall be near and comfort thee in 
 thy remorse." 
 
 " I have no love for thee ; thou hast killed it. I 
 shall feel no remorse." He turned away from her. 
 " What once I felt for thee is dead ; no medicine 
 can revive the departed. Thou hast gone out of 
 my life and thy memory is no more." 
 
 The unimpassioned voice had in its tones no ca 
 dence of the past, no echo of the happy days gone 
 by, when he had believed in her and loved her. 
 She clung to him in desperation, her small hands 
 holding like a vise to his garments. 
 
 " Thou surely canst not leave me thus. Dost 
 know that in this world we shall never meet again ? 
 I beseech thee, Alden, I implore thee see, I kneel 
 to thee as some poor penitent of the erring flock." 
 
 He thrust her from him and she fell heavily to 
 the floor. 
 
 " Get thee from me ! Can I believe thee when
 
 IN PRISON. 299 
 
 thou hast stood beside me in yonder meeting-house 
 to become my wife with a lie upon thy lips ? when 
 of a truth I deemed thee as innocent as the angels 
 above." 
 
 " Ay," she said, " that is what, perchance, thou 
 didst expect for thy helpmate an angel and I was 
 but a woman, a faulty one at that. I would forgive 
 thee twice as much for the love I bear thee." 
 
 He turned from her quickly at these words. " I 
 go from thee ; if thou needst spiritual counsel, Mr. 
 Parris will attend thee. I shall see thee no more." 
 
 A spasm of mental agony convulsed her. It was so 
 great that she uttered a low moan, as in bodily pain. 
 
 " And thou thou wilt leave me thus to die, 
 unloved, forgotten, desolate, hopeless! I tell thee, 
 Alden, when reflection comes to thee thou wilt 
 regret this day. Thou hast made thyself greater 
 than thy God, who forgives all sinners that repent 
 in humble sincerity as I do." 
 
 He moved to the door of the cell, her eyes fol 
 lowing him like those of some hunted animal when 
 the weary chase is over and life is ebbing fast. She 
 started forward when he appeared to hesitate an 
 instant on the threshold, but he did not turn to 
 encounter her wistful, pleading gaze.
 
 300 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Farewell," she said softly, " farewell." He 
 heeded her not, did not turn his head. 
 
 As he laid his hand upon the door of the cell she 
 rushed across the floor, threw her arms about his 
 neck and kissed him. " Thou shalt give it back to 
 me in Paradise," she murmured, then slipped down 
 upon the floor and bowed her head in her hands. 
 
 She listened intently until the sound of his foot 
 steps had died away in the stone corridor, then 
 crouching lower remained motionless, unheeding, 
 her mind filled with confused, meaningless thoughts 
 that crossed and recrossed each other with the 
 rapidity of lightning, conjuring pictures of hopeless 
 despair. How long she remained in this position 
 she did not know. Time passed unheeded, and she 
 noticed no outward things. 
 
 Suddenly, though she had heard no steps or the 
 gentle opening of the door, a hand was placed upon 
 her bowed head, and a well-remembered voice said, 
 " Dorothy, look up, look up ; a friend is near, one 
 powerful to aid." 
 
 Had she slept and died while sleeping? Was 
 this another sphere? And this voice whence 
 came it? She raised her head. The gray light 
 from the small, grated window revealed Sir Gren-
 
 IN PRISON. 301 
 
 ville standing by her side. She arose slowly and 
 with evident difficulty from her low position, and 
 stepping to the center of the small cell, she crossed 
 her arms upon her breast and eyed him defiantly. 
 
 " So thou hast come to gloat over thy work ! 
 Well, what dost thou think? Hast ever beheld 
 wretchedness such as mine? If thou hast desired 
 revenge for the trick I played thee, thou hast it in 
 full measure." 
 
 He gazed silently and reproachfully upon her. 
 The utter abandon of her despair was written upon 
 her countenance, and in her frenzied attitude it 
 appalled him and caused the deepest pangs of regret 
 to assail his selfish nature. Her sweet face had lost 
 its childish, innocent expression, but beauty such as 
 hers increases with experience, be it of joy or sorrow. 
 
 "I have not come to taunt," he said; "far be it 
 from me to add one pang to sorrows such as yours. 
 I come to save, to help, to protect." He spoke 
 excitedly, drawing nearer and whispering close to 
 her ear, " In Salem harbor there is a merchantman 
 vessel; it lies at anchor beyond the bar. I "know 
 the captain well ; he is in my debt ; he awaits my 
 commands. I have gold much gold ; it is all- 
 powerful. I have bribed the jailers in order to
 
 302 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 obtain this interview, and if I pay them well these 
 craven cowards will do my bidding. Do you com 
 prehend my words, Dorothy?" 
 
 " No," she said ; " what wouldst thou have me 
 do?" 
 
 " I would have you go with me ; I can save you." 
 
 "Whither?" she gasped ; "whither?" 
 
 " To some sunny isle beyond the seas ; to the 
 shores of Spain, perchance, or to that fair city of 
 Venice, or, if your choice be different, we can 
 wander on the shores of the Mediterranean. But 
 away, away from this land of bleak snows and gales 
 and heartless humanity." 
 
 "With thee, with thee?" she murmured, her 
 eyes shining with a radiant glow that appeared 
 almost unearthly. 
 
 " Yes, with me. I love you ; I will be to you a 
 slave, a worshiper forever. I will bring the light of 
 peace and joy again into your life. I will be all in 
 all to you. That hated bond in England has been 
 severed by death. I am free as you will be free." 
 
 "And if I do this thing," she said slowly, as 
 though meditating, " I gain life, freedom, and much 
 that this world can offer." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he cried, " all this, and more you
 
 IN PRISON. 303 
 
 gain happiness. In time you will forget this hated 
 spot, and all will be as a fearful dream that has 
 passed." 
 
 " And if I refuse this gift of thine," she continued 
 in the same low, monotonous tone, " I remain here 
 in this prison for a little while, then I go hence to 
 meet my fate at the hands of man on yonder hill." 
 She pointed as she spoke toward the window, from 
 which they could see the fain falling heavily, and 
 some early autumn leaves, driven by the gale, whirl 
 ing past. 
 
 "That fate is surely yours," he said. "Your 
 husband has deserted you ; nothing is left save 
 desolation and an ignominious death." 
 
 She hesitated a moment, then replied. " Never 
 theless, Sir Grenville, I choose the latter course. 
 Did I go with thee, I should but go to save my 
 miserable life, which is not worth the saving. I 
 have deceived and I have suffered, yet now, thank 
 God! I can make atonement. My life is worthless 
 to me; I offer it as the price of my misdeeds." 
 
 "You are crazed," he cried; "this shall not be. 
 A morbid exaggeration of your fault has caused this 
 recklessness. Do you realize your approaching fate ? 
 Surely not. And the one that should forgive and
 
 304 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 protect you is your enemy. Can you still cling to 
 him who scorns you ? " 
 
 " Speak not of him," she said solemnly. " I 
 wronged him, I wronged him. I lied to him." 
 
 " I will not take your decision. Even against 
 your will I will save you. Oh, that some medicine 
 possessed the power to still your conscience ! gladly 
 would I procure it." 
 
 " There is none ; urge me no further, for in this 
 decision I am strong. Go thy way ; if thou canst, 
 forget me. In a few short days I shall have gone 
 to my last account. Yet let me warn thee meet 
 not my husband. In his present state he is as one 
 enraged, and without control. He would murder 
 thee." 
 
 " Perchance," he replied scornfully, " or I him. 
 So you have made your choice?" 
 
 "Yes, for all time." 
 
 " Then I go from you, but, Dorothy, I shall still 
 work to save you." A tear glistened in his eye. 
 " Even though you flaunt my efforts, I cannot see 
 you die, I cannot; the thought unmans me. Though 
 my selfish love has been your dire destruction, yet 
 that love was full deep and strong. Think think ; 
 once again, let me save you, and I ask no price."
 
 IN PRISON. 305 
 
 " I have made my final decision ; have I not told 
 thee?" she said firmly. "Go go; I desire soli 
 tude, I would pray." 
 
 He walked toward the door of the cell, then 
 turned and held out his arms, his handsome face 
 pale with agony. " I have brought you to this, I 
 
 have brought you to this! Forgive forgive " 
 
 his voice died in his throat. 
 
 She looked kindly upon him. " I forgive thee ; 
 thou wilt suffer longer than I." 
 
 " Ay, truth speaks then ; I shall surfer while I live 
 and remember." 
 
 " Thou canst take one grain of comfort to thyself, 
 Sir Grenvilln in that by this opportunity thou hast 
 given me to-day thou hast made mine atonement 
 more complete." 
 
 At this instant the jailer opened the iron door. 
 "Time is up, my lord," he said. 
 
 Sir Grenville looked back once upon the slight 
 figure standing erect in the gloomy cell, and in that 
 look was the reverence one feels for a saint, or for 
 the peace of a dead friend. After his departure the 
 hapless prisoner fell upon her knees below the high 
 window, from which gleamed now but a tiny shaft 
 of light, for the gray day was drawing near its close.
 
 306 DOROTHY THE PURITAN". 
 
 As she looked upward and prayed, she caught 
 glimpses of swift-flying clouds. All the clinging 
 desire of earth departed from her. To her imagina 
 tion the narrow walls of her cell opened wide, and 
 she stood without them, in the unseen glory of a 
 world where there are no mistakes, no farewells, 
 no tears. Care and conflict were no more, a gentk 
 peace was within her, her soul was alone with her 
 God. 
 
 The jailer, passing, glanced into her cell, and the 
 glow from the lantern he carried fell across her 
 features, revealing so unearthly and serene an ex 
 pression that his heart scarce beat for terror of the 
 supernatural. 
 
 " Surely she is not of common clay," he whispered. 
 " If a witch, why that holy peace ? To what Deity 
 does she pray that He helps her so greatly in this 
 hour?"
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 WHEN Martha became acqainted with the secret 
 so long guarded by Dorothy she was shocked and 
 pained, but she did not falter in her allegiance. 
 Later, when she heard from Wentworth's lips the 
 second version of the affair which Dorothy had 
 intrusted to her husband, she believed it, even 
 when he called it a "parcel of lies." 
 
 "Dost thou think," he demanded, "that I can 
 credit her story? It is not in the possibilities of 
 man that she could have escaped that night in the 
 forest. No, she fled with this arch-traitor whither, 
 I know not. Can I accept the word of that accursed 
 creature, the witch Trueman? Out of this web of 
 deceit how am I to glean the truth?" 
 
 " I know not, I know not," said Martha helplessly. 
 " Yet this I do know : I have ever loved the child, 
 and for that love's sake I do forgive her now. 
 And thou knowest well, Alden Went worth, 'that at 
 the first she told thee she did not love thee ; there 
 
 307
 
 308 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 was no deceit then. Then she met this handsome, 
 wicked fellow, and foolish-like she followed him. 
 I see it all. Then for love of thee she kept the 
 secret of her flight and escape from him. I believe 
 her, Alden, I believe her; she thought to make a 
 grand marriage, poor little Dorothy!" 
 
 " I never shall forgive her," he cried fiercely. " I 
 leave her to her fate." 
 
 Martha looked curiously upon him, then said : 
 "And this is the fruit of thy religion! Surely the 
 teachings of thy creed are cruel. What says Holy 
 Writ ? Art thou not a believer in the Word of 
 God?" 
 
 He started as if stung by her words. "Attack 
 not my creed ; it is the man who has been wronged." 
 
 " Alden, Alden, thou hast made a grave mistake. 
 Take heed ; repent and forgive ere it be too late 
 and thy future life be imbittered by this error." 
 
 "The consequences be upon my head," he cried. 
 " I shall not forgive her." 
 
 Some three days after Sir Grenville's visit to 
 Dorothy in her cell she was brought to trial to 
 answer the charge of witchcraft. Eight prisoners 
 had already been disposed of by the judges, and 
 had then been taken back to their cells. Dorothy
 
 THE TRIAL. 309 
 
 was the last culprit brought into court. When taken 
 from the darkness of her prison quarters, the sun 
 shine of the brilliant day caused her to blink in the 
 bright light. Her steps faltered from weakness, her 
 whole frame trembled as she advanced, supported 
 between two powerful keepers. 
 
 Owing to the great throng attracted thither by 
 the unusual trial of the wife of a judge for sorcery, 
 the court had adjourned from the " ordinary " to 
 the meeting-house. The place was filled with 
 excited spectators, who jostled and pushed each 
 other roughly. Before the pulpit a raised platform 
 had been built, upon which were seated the judges, 
 with their secretaries. Many distinguished person 
 ages occupied chairs upon this raised dais; the poor 
 wretches who were unfortunate enough to be called 
 before this bar for justice had generally been con 
 demned previously by public sentiment. They had 
 no counsel, and in many cases no friends, people 
 being afraid to openly espouse the cause of one 
 against whom public indignation had been turned. 
 
 When Dorothy entered the court-room, she raised 
 her eyes wistfully, as if seeking some friend, but 
 quickly dropped them and trembled perceptibly as 
 she encountered the stony glances of her one-time
 
 310 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 admirers and neighbors. She walked slowly, lean 
 ing heavily against the jailers who supported her. 
 She was exhausted from insufficient food and want 
 of sleep. She was placed about eight feet from the 
 judges, and below the platform upon which they 
 were seated. 
 
 Between her and the judges, upon the same level 
 with herself, were ranged the accusing girls. She 
 was peremptorily directed to stand erect and keep 
 her eyes fixed upon the magistrates. Moreover, an 
 officer was commanded to hold her hands lest she 
 should afflict some one present. Then the judges 
 held a rigid examination, demanding her reasons for 
 having sold herself to Satan, also her mode of con 
 ducting the direful torments she had brought upon 
 these poor, unhappy girls who suffered by her 
 wickedness. 
 
 " I am no witch," said Dorothy calmly, not 
 understanding half the confusing questions ad 
 dressed to her, simply denying her guilt with a 
 grave shake of her head. 
 
 " Say the Lord's Prayer," commanded the judge 
 sternly, this being considered one of the important 
 tests of the guilt of the witches. Dorothy had 
 hardly commenced the first words of the prayer
 
 THE TRIAL. 311 
 
 before the girls began to fall to the floor in spasms. 
 She ceased, her words became confused, and she 
 stopped abruptly. 
 
 " She cannot say it!" they shrieked. " She can 
 not pray! She is a witch, she has sold herself!" 
 
 Presently all the girls became dumb, staring fix 
 edly upon the prisoner, their mouths twitching, their 
 fingers pointed at Dorothy's white, haggard face. 
 Then one spoke in a high, shrill voice : " I see the 
 evil eye upon her! The black man is looking even 
 now over her shoulder ! She is one of them, she is 
 one of them! See the yellow-bird perched upon 
 her hair!" 
 
 These cries, uttered in a loud, groaning chorus, 
 were certainly sufficient to overcome the nerves of 
 the weakened girl. She endeavored again to repeat 
 the words of the prayer, but her voice fell and broke 
 feebly. " I have done naught, your honors ; I have 
 done no harm," she pleaded. But her words were 
 so low they were scarcely heard. 
 
 The presiding judge paid no attention to this 
 trembling little protest. Turning to the circle, he 
 said, " Which among you has the courage to approach 
 the prisoner at the bar and touch her? " 
 
 They all started forward, but retreated immedi-
 
 312 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 ately in terror, saying they dared not, she had hosts 
 of demons flying about to destroy them. The judge 
 looked alarmed at this communication, and stared 
 angrily at the prisoner, who gazed gently at him, 
 her blue eyes suffused with tears. 
 
 " At what date was thy name signed in the Black 
 Book?" he demanded. 
 
 " I have signed no book. I am not guilty of 
 witchcraft ; I know none of its practices. I am 
 innocent of the charges brought against me." 
 
 " She does know, she does ! She is not inno 
 cent!" shouted Elizabeth. " She has dug up moldy 
 things from the churchyard hideous secrets used 
 for our undoing. She deals in all charms and spells ; 
 she draws men's souls to destruction. I suffer, I 
 burn, I am tortured in her presence!" 
 
 " Hold her hands more firmly, jailer," called the 
 judge, "lest she escape us." 
 
 " She has cast a spell even now upon the magis 
 trates," again screamed Elizabeth. "A demon sits 
 upon the platform by Mr. Parris." 
 
 Mr. Parris rose hastily, shook his garments, and 
 began cleaving the air with his cane. 
 
 " He has fled from thee," said Elizabeth. "Thou 
 art a righteous man he has no power over thee," 
 and Mr. Parris sat down more at his ease.
 
 THE TRIAL. 313 
 
 The case then proceeded, interrupted presently 
 by the announcement that a great bird was sitting 
 aloft on the beam. At this, all the girls fell to the 
 floor screaming, and apparently in convulsions. 
 
 "Take her away, she tortures us, take her away! 
 We cannot live in her presence!" 
 
 Dorothy shook as one in violent chills, the horror 
 and confusion of the scene acting upon her over 
 wrought nerves with such violence that it seemed 
 to her she would have fallen dead to the floor. 
 
 " Remove the prisoner," commanded the judge 
 in a loud, harsh voice. " Of a surety she is a witch ; 
 we need no added proof. Put irons upon her in 
 her cell, let the jailer guard her constantly." 
 
 At these words Dorothy raised her head proudly. 
 " I am no witch, honored sir; these girls do dissem 
 ble, and ye have committed a grievous error. Nev 
 ertheless, I accept what fate has ordained, I rebel 
 not ; I accept it as my due for my many sins, and 
 do most earnestly believe that through the mercy 
 of God this punishment will be mine atonement." 
 
 " She confesses, she confesses!" shrieked her tor 
 mentors. 
 
 "I confess nothing; I deny that I am what ye 
 say. I am as guiltless of the acts of witchcraft as 
 ye say ye are."
 
 314 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 " Remove her ! She hath sent her agents to 
 choke us, to stab us! Away with her!" 
 
 Dorothy did not speak again. Amidst the gen 
 eral clamor she was escorted back to her cell, 
 through the densely packed throng of eager, solemn 
 spectators. She was but dimly conscious of her 
 surroundings, until some one among the crowd 
 leaned forward and wiped the falling tears from her 
 face. She glanced up gratefully, to encounter the 
 troubled, sympathetic eyes of Martha. The jailer 
 thrust the ministering hand aside, and the dazed girl 
 was led back to the darkness of her cell. 
 
 An hour or so following the trial, a group stood 
 before the meeting-house door, talking eagerly. 
 
 " Dost thou think Went worth believes her guilty ? " 
 said a large man, a farmer from the district, who had 
 attended the day's proceedings. 
 
 " Of a certainty. He plead not in her defense ; 
 he was absent from the meeting-house. They do 
 say he has not entered her cell save once, and that 
 he walks ever restless upon the streets both day and 
 night. He speaks to no one, and if one does address 
 him, he answers him not." 
 
 " Truly he is much to be pitied," said a stout 
 woman, a matron from the village. "Ah, that was
 
 THE TRIAL. 315 
 
 a foolish marriage. She was ever a wild, idle 
 thing." 
 
 "Will they hang her?" inquired a young girl in 
 an awestruck whisper. 
 
 " They will, surely ; the evidence was most dam 
 aging." 
 
 " She is so fair and sweet," said the girl sadly. 
 " She was ever kind to me." 
 
 " Heaven bless thee for those words," said a voice, 
 and Martha joined the group. " If they do hang 
 her," she exclaimed, looking fiercely around upon 
 the now silenced assemblage, " they commit a mur 
 der! I say it without fear, and those fiends that 
 do accuse her will burn in everlasting fire." 
 
 " Hush, hush, here comes Elizabeth," spoke some 
 voices in an awed whisper. 
 
 "What care I for that bloodthirsty girl?" She 
 raised her voice, and casting her bloodshot eyes 
 upon the sinister but handsome face that now con 
 fronted her, she continued : " The day will come 
 when thy power will be gone, and then I wish thee 
 a long life with thy conscience. I trow it will cut 
 deeper than the hangman's rope." 
 
 Elizabeth passed by unheeding, the group gazing 
 after her with respectful deference. Elizabeth had
 
 316 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 not spoken of what she knew in regard to Dorothy's 
 sad story, save to Wentworth and Martha. She 
 had two reasons for this secrecy : first, she wished 
 to establish a tacit bond between herself and Went 
 worth, that might prove the nucleus of her future 
 plans ; secondly, she was astute enough to know 
 that if she brought forward any personal motive for 
 revenge, it would be likely to tell in favor of the 
 suspected one. 
 
 By a strange coincidence, the cell in which Goody 
 Trueman had been confined, and in which she now 
 lay, suffering from a fatal disease, was next to that 
 in which Dorothy awaited the last sentence of the 
 court, the day decreed for her execution. The jailer 
 had acquainted Dorothy with the fact of Goody's 
 near abode, she having inquired who moaned and 
 wept continuously so near her. The jailer, who had 
 more compassion than one might expect in a person 
 whose life is passed amidst prison scenes, expressed 
 sympathy, although in guarded terms, for the old 
 woman. When Dorothy begged for admittance to 
 the presence of the sufferer, he consented. 
 
 Though Dorothy wore irons upon her wrists and 
 ankles, she had not been shackled to the floor, as 
 was the case in many instances. When admitted to
 
 THE TRIAL. 317 
 
 the adjoining cell, which was even smaller, darker, 
 and closer than her own, Dorothy stood a moment 
 
 irresolute, hoping that Goody would recognize her 
 
 
 
 before she spoke, dreading the possible shock to the 
 already enfeebled heart and body. As Goody did 
 not move or speak, Dorothy went up to the cot, her 
 chains clanking as she advanced. " Goody, Goody," 
 she said, " I have come to speak with thee ; dost 
 know me? " 
 
 The dim eyes looked up. "Ay, I know thee," 
 she replied feebly. " Whence comest thou ? Not 
 condemned, surely not condemned!" 
 
 " Only too true are thy words : I am a condemned 
 witch. Yet now I can tell thee all my story, for I 
 have naught to gain in this world, yet much, I trust, 
 in another." 
 
 So, leaning her face against the withered hand 
 that lay upon the side of the cot, she told all. At 
 the conclusion she paused an instant, then contin 
 ued : " I ask but one favor of thee : if my husband 
 comes to thee and speaks of me, that thou wilt plead 
 for me, Goody. Thou wilt? " 
 
 " And so my little wild wood-blossom has with 
 ered at the first fierce touch of the sun ! Ay, my 
 child, and those hot rays which scorched thee were
 
 3l8 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 fed by thy deceit. Ah well, the aged cannot always 
 guide the young." 
 
 " No, no, Goody, yet reproach me not." 
 
 " No, surely I will not, and if thy husband comes 
 to me I will plead, though it were with my dying 
 breath, for thee. But I despair, I hope not. I am 
 an outcast; my word is hooted and despised." 
 
 " I know, I know ; and yet when one is drowning 
 one clings to even the frailest bark for help. Thou 
 art good; perchance some truth in thy speech might 
 convince him." 
 
 "If the chance comes to me, I will, I will, my 
 child." 
 
 So Dorothy crept back to her cell, and sat quietly 
 in the dark, repeating over and over again, in low 
 tones, portions of the Psalms which she had sung so 
 often to the droning, dragging tunes beloved by the 
 Puritans, as she stood, in the days now gone forever, 
 within the walls of the meeting-house.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ON GALLOWS HILL. 
 
 ALDEN WENTWORTH was indeed a most 
 
 * 
 
 wretched man ; the dream of peace and happiness 
 which had been his was gone forever. In its stead 
 stalked the specters of buried hopes, dead desires, 
 and shattered faith. The deadly poison of suspicion 
 was working within him. All Dorothy's acts and 
 words tended but to exaggerate his belief in her 
 guilt. Though he longed to believe her story, yet 
 viewing them in the light of subsequent events, he 
 could not. No, she had led him on deliberately, 
 then duped and fooled him. She had lied to him 
 once, she would lie again. Much was at stake her 
 life and she was young. 
 
 Over and over he said to himself, with clenched 
 fist and furrowed brow, " I cannot trust her; she is 
 false. Where she was those four months I know 
 not, yet this I do know : the truth is not in her, 
 she has schemed full well, and I am her wretched 
 dupe." 
 
 319
 
 320 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 Though Martha had endeavored by every means 
 in her power to gain admittance to the prison, she 
 had not been successful. This was partly owing to 
 her avowed disapproval of the acts of her superiors, 
 partly for fear that she might achieve some method 
 of escape for Dorothy. 
 
 Martha had already come under the eye of the 
 avenging circle, and menacing glances followed her 
 whenever she appeared upon the streets. The 
 bright September days passed rapidly. Nature 
 matured her gifts to man ; the fruits of the full 
 orchards were waiting to be garnered into the great 
 barns and outbuildings of the Salem farms. No 
 heed was taken of the rich and profitable harvest, 
 for the decree had gone forth that on the 22d of 
 September the last of the convicted witches should 
 pay the penalty of the law. In the present excite 
 ment the people had forgotten their daily tasks, had 
 set aside the natural course of their quiet lives, to 
 take part in the general calamity. 
 
 When the jailer brought the final decision of the 
 court to Dorothy she clasped her hands, from which 
 the irons had been removed, saying, " I have waited 
 for some help from my husband ; since it comes not, 
 I ask for nothing. I have no requests; I will be
 
 ON GALLOWS HILL. 321 
 
 ready when thou shalt come for me ; I will make no 
 resistance." 
 
 The eight unfortunate victims of that day were 
 hanged some hours previous to the time set aside 
 for Dorothy's execution. It was growing late in 
 the afternoon when they entered her cell to conduct 
 her to the cart in attendance, that was stationed on 
 the street without. She did not murmur, but stood 
 calm and silent, her lips moving in prayer. Only 
 once she spoke, when standing beside the cart, the 
 eager throngs pressing near her ; she looked up 
 and said sadly : 
 
 " I ween I have no friends ; yet once I was well 
 beloved in Salem. Has every one forgotten me? " 
 
 At these words a woman in the crowd raised her 
 voice and called loudly, " Thou hast one friend, 
 Dorothy thy Aunt Martha." 
 
 " Hush," commanded an official, " be silent. I 
 will place in pillory all offenders against the dignity 
 of this proceeding. Here come the magistrates 
 step back, step back!" 
 
 The procession was then formed. Dorothy, seated 
 upon the rough board placed across the springless 
 cart, was surrounded by officials and dignitaries. 
 Some rode on horseback in advance of her, some on
 
 322 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 either side. The magic circle walked not far from 
 the side of the vehicle, anxious to witness the last 
 hours of their victim. By their absurd antics they 
 intensified the excitement, which already ran fever 
 high. Elizabeth with a swinging gait strode ahead 
 of her companions, looking backward now and then 
 to gaze upon the bowed figure in the cart, swaying 
 with every motion of the wretched vehicle as it 
 jolted clumsily over the stones and uneven surface 
 of the road. The stern- visaged people walked stol 
 idly forward, speaking but seldom, and then in 
 monosyllables. 
 
 At the head of the procession, clad in rich trap 
 pings, rode the chief magistrates and high officials 
 with many eminent personages. Prominent among 
 them was Cotton Mather, who sat his horse well, his 
 handsome face set and cold with a fanaticism none 
 possessed to a greater degree than he. 
 
 " Truly, my friend," he said, turning toward 
 Judge Stoughton, who rode beside him, " this is a 
 most gracious day for the world ; eight lost wretches 
 have we dispatched to their deserts, and now one 
 more " he turned in his saddle at these words, to 
 glance at the last victim " who, judging by her
 
 ON GALLOWS HILL. 323 
 
 countenance, should be as good as the angels. 
 Truly Satan loves to dwell in a fair domicile." 
 
 " Well said, well said," replied Judge Stoughton. 
 " We will at this rate soon rid the land of these imps 
 of iniquity. Yet my heart misgives me for the san 
 ity of Wentworth. He neither speaks nor sleeps. 
 This child- wife of his has surely wrecked him." 
 
 " He will recover," answered the wise Cotton. 
 " He doeth a good deed ; the Lord will reward him." 
 He coughed piously, and crossed his hands, as though 
 in prayer. " He has not rebelled once at the decree 
 of the court ; of a certainty he believes her a witch, 
 and drowns his affection for the good of mankind. 
 A most exemplary man is Wentworth." 
 
 The soft, warm September sun shone upon the 
 curly locks that fell from beneath Dorothy's cap ; it 
 glistened around her sweet face like a nimbus of 
 gold. Her hands were confined behind her back. 
 Her eyes were downcast, the long lashes resting 
 upon her cheeks in a dark circle, causing the white 
 ness of her face to appear the more startling. She 
 spoke not to those near the cart ; she seemed apart 
 from them, already in another sphere. 
 
 As the dreadful journey proceeded, she would
 
 324 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 raise her eyes at intervals and glance wistfully at 
 the old familiar scenes that came under her gaze. 
 The long, wide, straggling street, with its rows of 
 dormer- windowed, gambrel- roofed houses, their un 
 shuttered panes to her vivid fancy watching like so 
 many cold, staring eyes this her ignominious, humili 
 ating ride to death. 
 
 The cart rumbled past the meeting-house, where 
 she had worshiped so regularly every Lord's Day 
 through the cold winters and the hot summers, 
 and where here a tear fell upon her cheek, 
 rested there a moment, thence dropped into her lap 
 she had been married. Could it be that it was 
 only last spring? That beautiful May- day, seemed 
 years ago, so much had she suffered since then. 
 Then they slowly passed the graveyard with its 
 aspect of quiet repose, and now the houses be 
 came less frequent, and the farming lands began. 
 A spasm convulsed her as the Holden place came 
 in sight ; she noticed with loving tenderness old 
 Rollo tied by the kitchen door, barking and tugging 
 at his chain. " Does he know me?" she wondered 
 vaguely. " He cannot understand. Ah, well for 
 him ; he would be but one more unhappy one, for 
 he loved me, kind old dog."
 
 ON GALLOWS HILL. 325 
 
 Here the procession halted a moment for rest. 
 Dorothy turned partly around in her seat. For an 
 instant it seemed to her that her heart, ceased beat 
 ing, and that death had mercifully come. 
 
 Riding upon a large, dark horse was her husband, 
 slowly following in the rear of the cart. He looked 
 coldly and strangely upon her, as though she were 
 unknown to him, an outcast, a stranger. A peculiar 
 fancy now took possession of her faculties a fancy 
 that he saw her not, that his eyes had not the power 
 of vision, that another creature looked forth from 
 those windows of his soul, not Alden. The 
 conviction now forced itself upon her that an 
 other's will than his own was guiding his actions in 
 his hatred and unforgiveness toward her; in fact, 
 that he himself was bewitched, and unable to do 
 otherwise. 
 
 " Hasten, my friends, hasten," called Cotton 
 Mather, " we must not delay ; already the day is 
 late, and the road is long; we must waste no pre 
 cious time." 
 
 The weary tramp commenced again toward Gal 
 lows Hill, or Witch Hill, as it is sometimes called. 
 The ascent of the hill was slow and irksome. It 
 was a gloomy spot, though commanding an excel-
 
 326 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 lent view of the widespreading though not varied 
 landscape. When the large concourse of people 
 had reached the summit of the hill, or rather the 
 spot midway previously designed for the execution, 
 a halt was called, and the prisoner was lifted from 
 the cart. 
 
 As Dorothy stood upon the eminence the people 
 halted slightly below her, the circle-girls being in 
 the foreground, while near her stood the officials 
 and clergy, and not far distant the hangman, his 
 face averted. At some little space to the right of 
 the hangman stood Wentworth. Dorothy moved 
 mechanically when they commanded her to do so ; 
 her spirit was in another world, she obeyed them 
 silently. She turned toward the west as they 
 directed, and remained passive. Only once her lips 
 moved slightly ; it was when she heard a great cry 
 from Martha in the crowd below. 
 
 " Let me get to her, let me get to her ! Ye are 
 all murderers! O Dorothy, Dorothy, my little 
 one!" 
 
 Suddenly a shadow fell across the greensward 
 near her a long, dark shadow. Her husband faced 
 her. Intense silence reigned ; the murmurs of the 
 crowd ceased. It was an awesome moment. Noth-
 
 ON GALLOWS HILL. 327 
 
 ing was heard save the rustle of the wind in the 
 forest trees, and over the fields of wheat, moaning 
 as it advanced from the north. 
 
 The magistrates remained calm, with bowed 
 heads ; they recognized the awful sacredness of the 
 scene the severing of the strongest bond on earth. 
 Dorothy looked up ; her face shone as the face of 
 some unearthly being, the glory of the setting sun 
 casting its reflection tenderly upon her. The purity 
 and sweetness of her beautiful countenance, filled 
 with love and with the resignation of a character 
 made perfect by suffering, appeared to irradiate 
 that lonely hillside with a glimpse of the promised 
 splendors of the infinite. As she gazed upon her 
 husband, no reproach, no coldness was in her look ; 
 all was love, tenderness, forgiveness. 
 
 " Alden," she said softly, " ere I go hence, say 
 that thou wilt forgive me. When I go from thee 
 thy words cannot follow me. Thou knowest, my 
 beloved, that standing with my feet upon the thresh 
 old of that unseen world, I dare not speak a false 
 hood, when I so soon shall enter the presence of 
 God." He stood like one carved from stone, silent, 
 motionless, unheeding. "Thou hearest?" she re 
 peated. " I ask not for life ; only tell me that thou
 
 328 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 dost believe me ; then my body will rest on earth in 
 peace, and my soul will wait for thee. See, I would 
 kneel and clasp my hands to thee, were I not 
 "bound." 
 
 He swayed slightly toward her, held out his hands 
 like one groping in the dark, then, throwing his arms 
 wildly above his head, a cry of agony came from 
 his lips a cry so loud, so deep, so strong, that it 
 resounded over the heads of the people, and a flock 
 of wild birds soaring above flew affrighted toward 
 the sea. " Dorothy, I believe thee, I believe thee ! 
 What am I, that I should usurp the province of the 
 Almighty to withhold forgiveness? God pity me 
 God pardon me " 
 
 She inclined her head, as though listening atten 
 tively, watching him eagerly ; then, grasping his 
 meaning, she tried to reach him, but her steps fal 
 tered. She crept nearer, her lips moving, though 
 no sound came from them. At length, summoning 
 all her strength, she whispered : " My husband, I 
 have now no regrets ; I am happy. Stay thou near 
 me till all is over and I go to my rest." 
 
 The sun was sinking behind the hills, the land 
 scape lay in somber tints and shades of the coming 
 night, the delicate after-glow of the pale fall sunset
 
 ON GALLOWS HILL. 329 
 
 was fading from the sky. Dorothy gazed sadly 
 upon the changing cloud pictures, thence upon the 
 cold, hard faces of her townspeople, thence passed 
 them and looked out over the hills and vales of her 
 home, the distant town, the winding country road, 
 the ships, the harbor, and far away the long line of 
 sea and shores of yellow sand. Then turning, with 
 a smile of unutterable peace, she looked her last 
 upon Went worth. 
 
 " I am ready, Alden, I am ready. Farewell, my 
 own; thou hast forgiven me, I ask no more." She 
 swayed as a reed sways in the gale, her eyes closed, 
 her face relaxed and became still and white as the 
 face of the dead. With a little fluttering cry she 
 fell forward at his feet. Wentworth rushed to her, 
 and lifting her from the ground in his strong arms 
 held her thus an instant, and faced the people. 
 
 "She is mine," he cried, "she is mine! Death 
 has given her back to me!" 
 
 The powerful personality of the man who could 
 hold them spellbound by his fiery eloquence in the 
 court now asserted itself. The crowd, but an instant 
 before eager to cry, "Hang her, she is a witch!" 
 now became silent in the presence of a sorrow such 
 as this.
 
 330 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 He endeavored to force his way through the 
 throng, his helpless burden pressed close against his 
 heart, her head hanging across his shoulder. The 
 people huddled together, the hangman dropped his 
 rope, and the officials began eagerly whispering 
 among themselves. Wentworth had already accom 
 plished a little distance of the descent of the steep 
 hillside, when Elizabeth Hubbard confronted him, 
 holding her arms wide apart to prevent his progress. 
 Her face was black with rage, and like a wild beast 
 deprived of its prey, all reason and humanity had 
 departed from her. 
 
 "She is not dead!" she shrieked. "She does 
 dissemble, she is not dead! Even now I see the 
 demons laughing by her side ! Release her, she is 
 ours, release her!" 
 
 Wentworth turned fiercely upon her. " Out of 
 my way, thou wretched creature, out of my way! 
 Who art thou, that thou canst call the dead to life ? " 
 
 " If she be dead, then her body belongs to the 
 ditch ; no witch can have a Christian burial she is 
 excommunicated." 
 
 " I tell thee depart, ere I curse thee." 
 
 She shrank from him in abject terror at these
 
 ON GALLOWS HILL. 331 
 
 words; the pallor gleamed through her swarthy 
 cheeks, her face grew pinched and drawn. 
 
 " Thou wilt curse me me," she echoed " thou, 
 for whom I have imperiled my immortal soul!" 
 
 Stepping backward, she threw up her arms, and 
 crouching low to the ground tried to hide within the 
 shelter of the densely packed throng. The popu 
 lace, almost beside itself at the passionate intensity 
 of the scene just enacted, swayed like the restless 
 waves of the sea when a storm passes over it. 
 
 Wentworth hastened to the cart, which had been 
 left below the hill beneath a spreading oak-tree. 
 He laid his burden down upon the floor of the cart, 
 and placing his cloak over it, he stood erect and 
 defiant. 
 
 "Who molests her now," he cried, "shall be 
 responsible to me. She is mine ; ye have done 
 your worst." 
 
 The doctor now drew near, and bending over the 
 quiet form touched the face and hands, listening at 
 the heart. Wentworth watched him intently. The 
 doctor lifted his head and gazed steadfastly into 
 Wentworth's face. Their glances met, they under 
 stood each other. Then the doctor turned to the
 
 332 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 people. " She is at rest ye need fear her no more. 
 Give her into her husband's charge." 
 
 At this announcement murmurs arose among 
 the spectators murmurs of disapproval and dissent. 
 Some turned impetuously in the direction of the 
 wagon. At this juncture a woman in the crowd 
 called loudly : 
 
 " See, a horseman ! He rides at great speed 
 along the highway from the town." 
 
 All heads were turned in the direction of the 
 advancing figure on horseback, who came onward, 
 rushing headlong through a cloud of whirling dust, 
 urging his steed to the utmost. As he neared the 
 hill he cried breathlessly : " The governor's ships 
 are in the harbor; he has returned from the Indian 
 wars. He is wroth, they say, at these proceedings 
 in Salem. Return in all haste to the town to wel 
 come him." 
 
 The people gazed awestruck at each other on 
 receiving these tidings. They darted hither and 
 thither, filled with excitement and indecision, and 
 after much delay proceeded reluctantly to form in 
 straggling disorder, preparatory to returning along 
 the road to the town. The officials also appeared 
 troubled and crestfallen. As for Cotton Mather, he
 
 ON GALLOWS HILL. 333 
 
 was exceedingly angry. Nevertheless, they all con 
 sidered it the better policy to welcome the governor 
 properly, and departed slowly in the wake of the 
 procession, Cotton in the meanwhile delivering him 
 self of much pious grumbling. 
 
 Martha had closely followed Wentworth when he 
 placed Dorothy in the cart. She now stood near 
 him, her hand upon his arm, and watched the dis 
 persing of the multitude. 
 
 " We will not take her to the new house," whis 
 pered Wentworth, " she was not happy there ; but 
 to the old farm, where I first met her, a little child." 
 
 Martha wept softly as she looked upon the silent 
 form. "Ay," she said, " we will take her home." 
 
 And so through the misty gloaming of that cool 
 September evening Dorothy was taken back to the 
 scene of that simple life of her childhood. Went 
 worth and Martha walked slowly by the side of the 
 vehicle with bowed heads.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 < 
 
 " IN A FAR COUNTRY." 
 
 WHEN Dorothy was lifted from the cart in her 
 husband's arms and placed upon the bed in her 
 quaint little dormer-windowed room that faced the 
 west and the sea, she was apparently dead ; and so 
 the watchers thought, as they leaned above her and 
 saw no signs of life. The doctor said otherwise. 
 " It is suspended animation ; she may speak again 
 and know ye. Yet be most cautious; she stands 
 upon the borderland of that spirit world." He 
 turned to Wentworth. " Perchance thy voice may 
 have the power to call her back to life. Watch 
 carefully, watch." 
 
 When the night had advanced and the stars were 
 shining brightly in the heavens, Dorothy opened her 
 eyes, to behold her husband. He placed his arms 
 about her. She looked up with the sweet, gentle 
 smile he had seen so often. "Have I died?" she 
 whispered. " Is this another world ? Art thou with 
 me? " 
 
 334
 
 " IN A FAR COUNTRY." 335 
 
 " Thou hast died to sorrow, Dorothy, but thou 
 livest in thy husband's love for evermore, if such a 
 sinner as I deserve such love as thine." . 
 
 She did not reply ; she closed her eyes and lay 
 very still. He kissed her. The light of the stars 
 shone through the small-paned windows, and a 
 peace unutterable entered into the souls of those 
 present. 
 
 That fearful scene on Gallows Hill was the last 
 act of that terrible religious tragedy which disgraced 
 the early days of our ancestors in New England. 
 In October following the entire community became 
 convinced of their fatal error. The light began to 
 dawn, and the power of the magic circle visible in 
 that light of calm reason dwindled and grew pale. 
 " They have perjured themselves," cried many. The 
 dark horror came to an end, the storm settled into a 
 great calm, with the wrecks of homes and hopes and 
 hearts strewing the shore line. The prisons of Ips 
 wich, Boston, Salem, and Cambridge opened their 
 doors, and the poor dazed creatures came forth. 
 The number of those unfortunate ones imprisoned 
 for witchcraft is not definitely known, but it is esti 
 mated that some hundreds suffered this ignominy. 
 
 Great was the remorse experienced among the
 
 336 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 now awakened citizens. They bowed themselves 
 humbly to the earth, beseeching forgiveness for their 
 grievous fault. The governor, Sir William Phipps, 
 commanded that no more cases of witcficraft should 
 be tried, and no more spectral testimony be taken 
 in evidence. 
 
 In one of the most remote settlements of the 
 New World, some eight years after the events re 
 lated in this story, a man and woman might often 
 be seen toward evening, when the day's work was 
 done, leaning upon a low wooden paling surrounding 
 a simple cottage. The man was Wentworth, the 
 sweet-faced woman by his side, his wife Dorothy. 
 He had renounced the brilliant career that lay be 
 fore him, and hand in hand with her he loved had 
 made a new home in a new country far removed 
 from the sad scene of his great sorrow. 
 
 " I am not worthy, I am not worthy," he had 
 maintained, " to point to others the way ; no longer 
 can I lead, yet I can follow in all humility. I did 
 transgress upon the province of God." 
 
 Though Dorothy had endeavored to persuade 
 him from this course, he was determined. In bitter 
 ness of spirit he said, " It was not as though I be 
 lieved thee guilty of witchcraft ; I had not even that
 
 "IN A FAR COUNTRY." 337 
 
 to sanction my great sin. No, I knew that thou 
 wert innocent ; it was for mine own wrongs I sought 
 revenge. In the wickedness of my heart I have 
 been a murderer. I step down from my high place, 
 a penitent sinner." 
 
 " Yet thou art eloquent, Alden ; a great future is 
 before thee." 
 
 " I renounce it ; my great fault has been mine 
 ambition. I take this as my merited punishment." 
 
 So he became a teacher to the Indians, instructing 
 them in reading and writing and in all the practi 
 cal arts that were known in those days. Though 
 directed by no law of churchly sanction, his influ 
 ence for good was sufficiently widespreading to be a 
 beacon-light to those holy men who in later years 
 worked for the advancement of the Indians. 
 
 Wentworth was truly a missionary in his kindly, 
 noble life, a father, a helper, and a friend to those 
 degraded savages. 
 
 It is the 22d of September. The afternoon is 
 warm ; a soft fall haze is in the atmosphere. Doro 
 thy is standing in the porch of the tiny cottage, 
 looking dreamily over the little settlement, thence 
 toward the vast unexplored forests of the north. 
 She is presently joined by Wentworth, leading a
 
 338 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 little girl by the hand. The child is crying bitterly ; 
 her apron is held to her eyes, and her hands are 
 covered with fruit stains. Alden looks down re 
 provingly upon her; she is trying to hide her face 
 with the little chubby hand that grasps the apron, 
 and is endeavoring to hold back and hide behind 
 her father. 
 
 "What has Dot been doing?" asks Dorothy 
 anxiously. 
 
 Wentworth lifts his little girl in his arms, and she 
 presses her pretty face against his shoulder. " What 
 hast thou done, my child?" he says. "Confess to 
 thy mother." 
 
 " I I took the fruit " she pauses and sobs 
 " that that thou didst tell me I could not have." 
 She hefsitates and stops abruptly. 
 
 " What else, what else? " urges her father. 
 
 " I told father I did not take it, and I held my 
 hands behind my back so that he could not see 
 the stains. He took my hands and saw that I 
 I- 
 
 Dorothy snatches the child from its father's arms, 
 a look of terror upon her face ; she clasps her closely 
 against her breast, and bows her head above the 
 little curly one that rests so near her heart.
 
 "IN A FAR COUNTRY." 339 
 
 " Dot, O Dot," she says, the tears in her eyes, 
 " thou hast told a falsehood, thou hast told a false 
 hood, my child; that is a great sin." 
 
 Alden places his hand tenderly upon Dorothy's 
 hair, saying gently, " She was sorry and did con 
 fess. ' ' 
 
 "And thou, what didst thou say to her? " 
 
 He bowed his head humbly. " I forgave her. 
 Could I do otherwise ? " 
 
 " Poor little Dot," says Dorothy, " poor little 
 Dot! Thine earthly heritage is early apparent." 
 
 Together the three remained looking over the 
 lovely rural scene that lay before them, the child 
 asleep upon its mother's lap, the marks of her recent 
 grief upon her face ; now and then she sobbed in 
 her sleep, as though into her dreams she had carried 
 her troubles. Wentworth held Dorothy's hand, and 
 they watched the changing clouds above them drift 
 ing toward the setting sun. 
 
 " We are far away from home," said Dorothy 
 presently. " I ofttimes wonder what Aunt Martha 
 is doing at the farm ; yet I long not for Salem, I am 
 happy.". 
 
 " Yes," said he, " we are happy, and we are not 
 far from home, though on the borders of the great
 
 340 DOROTHY THE PURITAN. 
 
 wilderness ; we do but bide here awhile, till we 
 hasten to our rest in a ' far country/ where our true 
 home shall be." 
 
 The birds began to prepare for the night, the wild 
 wood warblers calling loud and shrill as they flew 
 overhead ; the fall insects piped in discordant notes. 
 The dews began to fall, and Dorothy covered the 
 sleeping child with her shawl. 
 
 " Dear little penitent!" she whispered, and kissed 
 her. 
 
 The sun went down upon the quiet and pleasant 
 scene. If it could have imparted to the watching 
 couple the numerous things it had witnessed in its 
 rounds, it would have told of many interesting events 
 relating to the personages of this story. 
 
 In a foreign town it had viewed not long since 
 Sir Grenville Lawson slain in a duel ; and when they 
 raised him, so that he might breath more easily, the 
 life-blood had gushed from his mouth ; he essayed 
 to speak, and his attendants, bending over him to 
 catch the faltering words, heard him whisper, " Dor 
 othy, forgive!" 
 
 " His mind wanders," they said ; " we know of no 
 such person." 
 
 The day-king had then crossed the seas and 
 looked in at the narrow panes of the Holden farm-
 
 "IN A FAR COUNTRY." 341 
 
 house kitchen, and had shone upon Martha, hale, 
 buxom, as of yore, but alone. Crossing the hill, it 
 rested tenderly upon two graves, not far apart, in the 
 little Puritan " God's-acre." On one simple head 
 stone is carved Goody Tnteman, on the other David 
 Ho I den. 
 
 The destiny of the girls of the accusing circle, with 
 but few exceptions, was shrouded in mystery ; statis 
 tics state little of their subsequent career ; it is very 
 possible that they retired into their quiet lives and 
 oblivion. I doubt if we could mete to them a 
 greater punishment than that engendered by an 
 awakened conscience, with its pangs of bitter re 
 morse. 
 
 It was quite dark now ; the night had come. " It 
 is the anniversary, Alden," says Dorothy softly, 
 after some moments of silence, " the anniversary of 
 the day that I was given back to thee the 22d of 
 September." 
 
 " Ay, dearest," he replies, " I remember; the day 
 God opened mine eyes, and I became, by acknowl 
 edging myself the greater sinner, in part worthy of 
 thee, my beloved." 
 
 " We are happy and united, my husband," she 
 says softly, " the past is forgotten."
 
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