"Father, let us be just. From the depth of my soul I believe this woman an emissary of the Evil One, sent hither to break up the harmony of our lives. But speak to her, father; question her, as a judge might do, when afraid to sentence unholily. If the conviction fastened in this poor heart springs from the selfishness of too keen affections, let me have the proof, and I will kneel at Barbara Stafford's feet till she pardons me. But if there is truth in these things--if she possesses no power to sweep suspicion of diabolical influence away from her--then will I, of my own strength, surrender her to the magistrates, that the evil spirit may be driven from our house."

Samuel Parris was sorely perplexed. In his simplicity, the introduction of this strange lady into his household had been preceded with none of the usual explanations. There was something about the woman, a dignity of reserve, that, notwithstanding her sweet graciousness, forbade all close questioning. When Samuel Parris remembered all the incidents connected with their first meeting--the reserve maintained ever since--the confusion left behind when she fled so strangely from the governor's house, and the animosities that had sprung up under his own roof since it had sheltered her--the justice of his daughter's accusation fastened strongly upon him. He shivered with dread. Events. .h.i.therto of simple solution, took a lurid form in his eyes. He looked wistfully at the pale face uplifted to his--at the trouble in those beautiful eyes--and was ready to cry out with anguish when he thought that it was through him the evil influence had reached that young soul.

"Stay here," he said, rising from his chair, and searching for his staff, for the tremor in his old limbs was painfully visible. "Sit here, and pray for help. Before the Lord I will question this woman."

He kissed his daughter on the forehead, trembling all over, as if his lips pressed the brow of a corpse, and taking up his staff went out, followed by her heavy gaze, and a succession of low moans; for with great mental anguish came bodily pain, and for a time Elizabeth Parris seemed as if shrouded in ice.

The old man bent his steps toward the beach once more.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

DENUNCIATION AND REPROACHES.

Barbara Stafford was both disturbed and offended by the abrupt challenge of the minister. There was something wild, even rude in his manner, that aroused all the force of her really proud nature.

"Leave me, Norman!" she said, gently. "It was wrong to abandon the young lady on the first hour of your arrival; one does not readily forgive such slights. Go back to the house, and make atonement."

Norman obeyed, lifting his hat with haughty reverence as he pa.s.sed the minister. The old man turned, and followed him half way to the house.

Then he paused--stood a moment lost in thought, and slowly retraced his steps.

Barbara would not appear to wait his coming. She had wandered forth, as was her frequent habit, in search of rare flowers that excited her botanical fancy, from their beauty; or roots that possessed some medicinal property, useful in the minister's household. Without appearing to heed the old man, she left the foot of the oak, and was walking along the curving lines formed where the forest turf crumbled away into a surface of white sand. Now and then she paused to gather a leaf, or some wood blossom, which she put in a little Indian basket, which hung upon her arm.

As the minister came up with her, she was kneeling on the turf and eagerly unearthing a bulbous root, from which two or three rich leaves sprang, shading a cone of red berries that shot up from their midst like a flame.

She looked over her shoulder, as the minister approached, and half rose, with the little stiletto, with which she had been digging, in her hand.

"Wait a moment," she said, falling to her work again. "This is a rare specimen. I have almost uprooted the bulb. Old t.i.tuba will find it wonderfully useful in making up her drinks."

The minister grew pale, as he stood leaning on his staff gazing at the root. Barbara spoke again, rather cheerfully, for exercise and a bright sea-breeze had excited her a little.

"It has a common name, I think, among the people here. Wake robbin--isn't that correct?"

"Wake robbin--wild turnip, a deadly poison," answered the old man, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Ah, that is as you take it. Well dried, and ground to powder, it is sometimes a wholesome medicine. I will teach t.i.tuba how to use it."

"t.i.tuba--my woman servant, t.i.tuba--and is she of this diabolical confederacy?" muttered the old man, while a sensation of horror crept over him. "Am I beset with fiends?"

Barbara arose from the earth, held up the cone of scarlet berries in the sun, while the bulb was clasped in her hand, with the green leaves falling over it.

"How can poisonous things be so beautiful?" she said, with a sigh. "Who would believe that one of these glowing drops could take a human life?"

"You know it to be deadly, then?" questioned the old man.

His voice was so hoa.r.s.e that Barbara looked him earnestly in the face.

"Yes," she answered, thoughtfully, "I know all its good and all its evil qualities. Like many other things in life it can both cure and kill."

As she spoke, Barbara cut away the leaves and the red cone with her poignard, dropping the root into her basket. Then she put away the stiletto somewhere in the folds of her dress, and dashed off the soil that clung to her white hands.

"You would speak with me, I think?" she said, a little anxiously.

"She knows that already," thought the old man, feeding his suspicions with every word Barbara Stafford uttered: but he only said:

"Lady, what have you in common with the young man who sat with you a few minutes ago, under the oak yonder?"

Barbara smiled. These words were a relief to her. She had expected something more important by his strange manner.

"Oh, Mr. Lovel--he joined me on the sh.o.r.e where I went in search of a shrub I wanted for old t.i.tuba who has a bad cough. I hope his wish to join me has not encroached on pleasanter duties."

"And he too?" muttered the old man--"he too?"

Barbara listened keenly, but the words escaped her. Her silence, however, was impressive.

"Let us go forward to the oak yonder," he said, pointing the way with his staff.

Barbara turned, without a word, and walked slowly toward the oak.

They sat down together, the old man and the strange woman--she with a calm look of preparation; he stern and pale, but hesitating how to begin. Her dignity and the grave attention with which she waited took away all his self-possession.

"You would speak with me," Barbara said, at length: "you look agitated.

Surely nothing has gone amiss since I left the house!"

The old man's face changed, and his voice trembled as he spoke.

"Lady, I helped to save you from the deep. I surrendered to you the sacred wine after it had touched the lips of the man who stands highest in our land. I have given you shelter in my dwelling, and placed you at the same table with my daughter and my niece; yet so far as your worldly life is concerned, I know you not, neither your outgoing nor your incoming. What could I answer to the Lord, were he to say to me, 'Samuel Parris, who is the woman with whom you have broken bread, and shared the same roof?' I could but reply, 'Lord, I know not--for good or for evil she was cast upon my care, like a drift of sea-weed from the great deep--without a history--without a friend!'"

"And in so much your answer would prove correct. Be satisfied, kind old man, that you have done a Christian duty, for which the poor woman you saved will not prove ungrateful."

The minister shook his head, muttering to himself,

"The arch enemy is most potent when he speaks in a sweet voice, and takes on himself the meekness of an angel."

Barbara only heard a word or two of this low speech, but she saw that the old man was troubled, and a mournful smile came to her lips.

"You are weary of me, I have become a burden in your house; do not fear to say this."

"Not a burden, lady, but a mystery--not an unwelcome guest, but one around whom tears and discord centre, like storm clouds over the sky.

Lady, in the name of G.o.d, I ask, who are you, and for what purpose do you sojourn among us?"

Barbara Stafford arose, pressed both hands to her eyes for a moment, and answered--ah, so sadly--

"I am nothing but a lone, lone woman, Samuel Parris, a sorrowful woman whose way of life lies through the ashes of dead hopes. I am a woman to whom love is a forbidden blessing. This is your first answer. As for my object in coming among you, it is not accomplished, but dead. A few weeks and I shall pa.s.s away. The sea, which would not mercifully overwhelm me, spreads its waters between us and the land where my grave will be dug. Let me rest in peace, old man, till a ship sails for some British port: then I will trouble no one longer."

"Then she will trouble no one longer," muttered Parris, writing with his stick upon the ground. "G.o.d teach me how to deal with this beautiful demon, if such she is: her words disturb my soul with compa.s.sion against its will."