"William," he said, laying his hand on the governor's arm, "William, my son, sit down by the window here; I have something to say to you."

Sir William smiled kindly and sat down, a little surprised by the old man's nervous manner.

"William, thou rememberest that night when thou camest to my house with that young girl?"

"Remember!" answered Sir William, shrinking visibly, as if some heart-wound had been touched. "Think you, my friend, that I ever forget it for a single hour? After the terrible grief of losing her I am prepared for any thing."

"But she is not lost, William Phipps."

Sir William started up. It was wonderful to see that n.o.ble form so agitated.

"Not lost, old man? I am no longer a boy, and you see how thickly gray hairs are creeping over my head; but I cannot bear to hear her mentioned. I know that in heaven nothing perishes; but this earth lost all its bloom for me when she died. Talk of something else. I would not have the old grief overwhelm my regret for the sweet wife we buried three days ago. It shakes my very soul even to think of that crowning sorrow of my youth. Oh! Parris; she was one of the grandest, most generous, and loving creatures that ever lived. I could weep like a child with the bare memory of what I lost and suffered. I can say this to you now, my faithful friend, without injury to any one. What a life mine would have been, had she lived to share it with me. Now that I am alone, these thoughts crowd upon me. I cannot help it, force them back as I will."

"But I say unto thee, William Phipps, the woman to whom I married thee that night is alive. Thou hast seen her--held her in thy arms. When thy hand signed the pardon for Barbara Stafford, it saved the wife of thy youth!"

"Barbara Stafford? Old friend, do not mock me; I cannot bear it. You are an imaginative man, I know, and harbor strange fancies; but do not let them fire a hope in me which after-truth will quench. You look serious, and wonderfully calm; notwithstanding, I think you are insane, Samuel Parris."

"Nevertheless, the woman who was tried, condemned, and would have suffered for sorcery, but for the interposition of friends more generous than we were, was and is thy wife."

"Was and is my wife? Are you mad, or am I?"

"William! William! look up! how white thou art! Let me wipe the drops from thy forehead. Nay, nay; these strong hands should not quiver thus.

Let them clasp mine. That is well; now look into these eyes, William, and read my story there. As the Lord liveth, and as I am his servant, the wife of thy youth is still living--still loves thee as woman never before loved man. Dost thou believe me?"

A wonderful expression swept the strong man's face, an ecstasy of hope broke into his eyes, and parted his lips with such smiles as no human being had seen there before.

"I do! I do! My wife--my fair young bride. Why, Parris, that stern man parted us in less than a year. Living! loving! and I--are these tears, Samuel Parris? Am I a boy again?"

"There, there, my son; drive all these doubts away; for this life has joy for thee yet, and for her. I tell thee, my son, thy wife, who called herself Barbara Stafford, is a mate for thee, heart and soul, or for any man living."

"My love! my wife! Now I understand how it came about that this heart was so disturbed. But why did she keep away from me?"

"The father, who told thee that thy wife was dead, when thou soughtest her, practised a double deception, and, till his death, she believed herself a widow."

"But she was undeceived, and loved me still?" cried Sir William.

"She came to this country in search of her husband, and found him married to another."

"My poor wife! That was terrible! I understand: she would not claim me; but was ready to suffer doubt, contumely, death, rather than harm her husband. I was not faithless to her. G.o.d is my judge, in this soul I was not faithless. She knew how I had been deceived? She did not hate me?"

"Hate! nay, nay; does hate ever produce actions like hers?"

Sir William Phipps arose; his eyes bright, his face radiant. Even Samuel Parris gazed on him in wonder. Was that the grave, stern man, who had seemed so long incapable of a strong emotion?

"My friend, we will go to her. Where shall we search?"

"She is in England, Sir William; one of the first ladies in that proud land--a countess in her own right--the possessor of great wealth."

"She is my wife! that is all I ask or care," exclaimed Sir William. "Old friend, a ship lies in the harbor; when will she sail?"

"To-morrow. I went forth to inquire this morning."

"I will send at once and bespeak the cabin. You must go with me."

"Aye, truly; but there is something else which thou must hear before we start. Her son and thine is under this roof!"

"Her son and mine? Is it my wife you speak of? That fair girl who loved me so?"

"Even her."

"A child, and I never knew it! Oh! Father of mercies! this makes life too precious! A son? Did you say it was a son, and under this roof? Not the young man I have loved so--not Norman Lovel?"

"Truly, thy heart divines aright. The youth is her son and yours."

"My son! my son! Where is he? Bring Norman hither. Why, it was her soul I saw and loved in his young face. And she knew this? Knew it, and gave him up rather than harm her husband! Old friend, who shall dare to say, after this, that women are on a level with us? or affirm that they never perform the work of angels? And she is now my wife! I have but to stand before her, and she will forgive the unintentional wrong which put another in her place. Samuel Parris, in the joy of this moment, I had forgotten the new-made grave up yonder, where that good and gentle woman lies. Yet I think she, who was all goodness, might forgive me if she knew how I have suffered. Is my son coming, and his wife? So you and I are made nearer by the love which unites our children. I am glad of it.

Is that Norman's step? Norman! Norman!"

The young man heard Sir William's voice, so clear and animated that it thrilled him with pleasure. He entered the library, and saw the governor standing near the table, so changed and brightened by the happiness that filled his whole being that the young man gazed on him in silent astonishment. Sir William came toward him, and, pressing a hand on each of his son's shoulders, looked in his face.

"Norman! Norman!"

His voice failed. For the first time in his life, the young man saw tears in his father's eyes; still, a grand, joyous smile broke through them.

"Norman! my--my--" Sir William's voice broke, and his chest heaved; he threw his arms around the young man, and strained him to his heart.

"Boy, boy, I am your father!" he cried.

"My father! mine!" repeated the young man. "Oh! that it were so in name, as it has been in kindness! Father! how sweet the name sounds!"

"Repeat it again, my son; for before G.o.d and man you are my son. I did not know that human language could be so beautiful!"

Norman released himself gently from the clasp of his father's arms, and stood before him, lost in amazement.

"Has your heart no voice? does your lips refuse to call me father?"

questioned Sir William, in tones that thrilled through and through the son.

"Forgive me, forgive me; but I am bewildered," he said. "You call me son for the first time, having acted more than a father's part by me for many a year. Is it your will that I henceforth call you by the dear name I have never known? If so, from my heart of hearts I thank you."

Sir William saw that he was not fully understood; but impatient affection foiled all explanation. He could only affirm, with imploring tenderness, what he had already said.

"Norman, it is a truth. Receive it into your heart at once. You are my lawfully-born son--a part of my own young life--the child of a love perfect as mortal beings ever knew. It is no adoption I offer. By law and right you, from this day, take position before the world as my son and heir."

"But--but my mother; who was my mother? Not the sweet lady whose death we mourn?" questioned Norman, seized with a sudden pang, "or I should have known this before."

"My son, it is not an hour since I learned it myself," answered Sir William. "Ask this man, my old and faithful friend, who married me to your mother."

The young man's face cleared; his heart flung off the painful dread that had seized upon it.

"Father! father!" he cried, reaching forth his arms; "tell me who my mother was. Have I seen her? Was she ever known as Barbara Stafford? It is impossible, and yet my soul claims her."