"I saw an execution once," continued Lovel, growing pale at the recollection, "and it has haunted me ever since, sleeping and waking.

Two women were the victims--one a withered old crone, and the other a girl, as young and fair as Elizabeth Parris. They brought them out of the jail, where they had lain for weeks--out before that hooting mob, which hailed them with shouts and curses. The old woman, bent and wrinkled, cowered and shrieked, but she might as well have pleaded for mercy from a herd of wild beasts. She struggled and writhed when they bound her hands, but what was her feeble strength in the clutch of those infuriated men? The girl walked out alone--very pale, but calm as a bride on her way to the altar. A Bible was in her hand. Her eyes were raised, and her smiling lips parted in fervent prayer, as if the angels, whom she was so soon to join, were giving her strength in that terrible hour. They cursed her, they reviled her--but she did not heed. They caught hold of her arm to drag her on, but she waved them aside and walked forward to the gallows. It was her own sister who had accused her from jealousy. The fiend stood by and watched the consummation of her work! They tied her hands--the noose was adjusted--the word given; with a shriek the old woman rushed into eternity. Then the pure spirit of that girl followed, her lips moving in prayer to the last."

Lovel broke off, and pa.s.sed his hands before his eyes to drive away the fearful images which his description had aroused. Barbara had fallen back upon her seat, hiding her face in her hands, shivering with horror and pain.

"Terrible! terrible! G.o.d pardon them!" she gasped, "for they know not what they do!"

"I tell you he will curse them for it--oh yes, I do believe there is an eternity of suffering, and it is men like those who must endure it.

There stood the ministers and the judges in solemn array looking on--the selectmen of the church and town--and enormities like these they call religion--"

"No more, say no more!" pleaded Barbara. "I feel it all--I cannot breathe--I seem to have the hangman's cord on my throat--his rough grasp on my arm--do not speak of it again."

She was writhing with strange anguish--it seemed to her as if his words had been a premonition of doom!

"I must go and walk in the garden," she said, arising; "this has driven me wild."

She pa.s.sed down the steps, and the young man turned to follow; but at that moment, through the oaken door, came an imperious summons, twice repeated--

"Norman Lovel! Norman Lovel!"

It was the governor's voice, in a tone of command that he never used unless greatly excited. Norman uttered an apology, which Barbara did not heed, and rushed into the hall.

CHAPTER XX.

WILD JEALOUSY.

When she entered the house so abruptly, Elizabeth Parris went to her chamber, and sitting down upon her bed, remained there in the gloom, brooding over the pa.s.sion and sorrow to which the scene below had given rise. She wept bitterly with mingled anger and grief, striking her hands down upon the counterpane, and sobbing aloud in unwonted excitement.

She believed that Barbara Stafford had lured her young lover from his allegiance, and that she was left to stand quietly by and see this stranger woman usurp and claim the affection which, almost up to that hour, she had deemed wholly her own.

There she sat while the moments crept on, seeming to her like hours. At intervals, through the open cas.e.m.e.nts, came the murmur of voices from the porch, mingling at times with the deeper tones of Sir William Phipps, from where he sat in earnest conversation with his wife in the apartment below.

At length Elizabeth rose and approached the window, flung back the muslin draperies with an impatient movement, and looked out into the night. Those two forms were dimly perceptible, seated side by side on the carved seat, and a pang of jealousy, more acute than she had yet felt, wrung her girlish heart. She leaned over the sill, striving to catch those low tones, then, startled by the meanness of which she had not believed herself capable, drew back, and began to walk up and down the room, weeping with quick, convulsive sobs, which seemed suffocating her.

Still the murmur of those voices was borne up to her tortured ear, rising and falling unequally as if the subject of conversation were of deep interest. This was only an added pain to the poor girl, who kept that gloomy vigil with such unquiet thoughts for her companions.

At last the suspense and wretchedness became too great for her young heart to bear. With it all, there started up in her mind the wilful pride and determination of a petted child accustomed to being treated as the idol of all about her.

"She has stolen him from me--bad, designing woman!" she exclaimed. "But this shall not last--she shall not stay here--I will not be braved by her and set aside that she may be worshipped! She shall see, and Norman Lovel, too; they are laughing at me, I dare say, at this very moment--but they shall not laugh long."

She approached the window once more and looked out. Barbara and Norman Lovel stood side by side, as before; her hand rested on his arm, he was looking into her face. Elizabeth could not clearly distinguish his features, but her jealous fancy required no aid to help her paint that glance. Her own eyes had drooped so often beneath its pa.s.sionate fervor, her girlish heart, ever tremulous, had responded so fully to the tones of that thrilling voice--yes, she could imagine it all!

She flung down the draperies again, and, forcing back the tears which had fairly pained her cheeks as they poured over them, she left the chamber and hurried down-stairs to put in force a resolve formed during her unquiet vigil.

When Sir William Phipps conducted his wife into the house, at the conclusion of that embarra.s.sing scene, they pa.s.sed through the long pa.s.sage and entered an apartment which the governor occupied as his study.

"I was hardly expecting your arrival to-night," Lady Phipps said, as he placed a chair and sat down near her.

"I made all haste, for I was anxious to return--"

"Be careful how you arrive again in the dark," she said, interrupting him in a playful tone, through which some faint annoyance that her husband's mistake had occasioned might have been detected.

"I regret that," replied Sir William, gravely; "but supposing the lady could be no other than my own fair wife, I did not hesitate to greet her."

"Let us say no more about it--we will leave the lady to herself for a little, when she will have recovered from her agitation."

"Is she your friend from the farm house?"

"Yes--it is Mistress Barbara Stafford; you remember the name, and the shipwreck."

"I remember; and you have persuaded her to become our guest at last?"

"I have. You do not disapprove? I thought you desired it."

"Whatever you do, fair lady, must be well done--any arrangement that affords you pleasure always meets with my approval."

Lady Phipps made some laughing remark concerning his habitual courtesy, but Sir William scarcely heard her words. He had fallen into deep thought, so vague and singular that he was himself at a loss to trace its source. He remembered how the presence of that woman had affected him during the holy services of the church, causing his hand to tremble when he raised the sacramental wine to his lips, and rousing emotions which carried his mind far from the solemn interest of the occasion.

Then again that very night--the touch of that head seemed yet upon his heart--the trace of the kiss he had pressed upon her mouth lingered still upon his lips, even the pure embrace of his wife had failed to obliterate it--the entrancing magic of those eyes followed him and burned into his very soul, starting up like some Circean enchantment even between himself and the faithful woman by his side.

With a strong effort he banished those wild reflections, and roused himself to return an answer to the idle question his wife had asked, appearing calm and unconcerned.

"And you are pleased with the lady?" he said, quietly.

"She is charming," returned Lady Phipps; "her manner is perfect, she is a woman of great natural gifts, heightened by cultivation. There is an irresistible grace in her slightest word and movement, an inexplicable charm in every smile and glance, yet--"

"Well," said Sir William, as she paused, "go on, and yet?"

"I cannot tell! I feel drawn toward her by some unaccountable spell; it is as if she attracted me at will, biased my thoughts by her judgment, and held me, during our conversations, completely under her sway."

"She might easily be a very dangerous companion, were this not a mere fancy."

"It is no fancy, Sir William--you will yourself remark it. There is little Bessie, who dislikes her extremely, and yet, at Mistress Stafford's bidding, she will sit down at her feet and listen for hours to her conversation, like one entranced."

"Is not this hypocrisy in our little Bess?"

"No--oh, no. The child is truth and sincerity itself! I have seen her strive to resist the spell, hovering restlessly about like a half-charmed bird; but Mistress Stafford would follow her continually with those wonderful eyes, and in the end, by her power, whatever it may be, she is certain to conquer."

"But why does Elizabeth Parris dislike her?"

"The girl is jealous; Norman Lovel, she tells me, has neglected her of late; she complains that this stranger lures him away, and fears that she will in the end wholly alienate his affection."

"And is this true, or but the suspicion of a foolish girl?"

"I cannot tell; certain it is that since Mistress Stafford's arrival here Norman has been thrown much in her society, but I cannot believe that she would exercise any undue influence over him, or seek to create a coldness between those two young hearts whose mutual affection has been so beautiful to look upon."

Sir William was silent again for a moment; his wife's description of the influence which the stranger exerted over them all accorded so entirely with the impression she had created upon his own feelings, that he was startled and perplexed.