Mrs. Parris gazed at the intruder with renewed affright. Though clad as a savage, with moccasins on her feet, leggins of crimson cloth, and a dress of deer skin, gorgeous with embroidery in beads, porcupine quills, and stained gra.s.ses, she had nothing of the Indian in her countenance or complexion. The hair that fell down from a broken coronet of feathers, which had once been gorgeous, was of a rich golden tint, and curled in heavy ma.s.ses, though the woman had reached mid-age in fact, and was much older in appearance.
The eyes which she fixed on the young wife, though wild with the fires of death, had once been blue as a summer sky.
She could not speak--this strange wild woman--but gazed at the innocent wife standing there in her sweet motherly hopes, till great tears fell down her cheeks, and sobs rose and swelled in her throat, almost choking her.
"Who are you--what can I do for you?" said Mrs. Parris, gathering up all her courage to speak. "The minister is away; I am all alone; if more of your tribe are here, and wish me harm, I am helpless enough."
The woman put her hand up, and strove to force back the sobs that held her speechless, then she drew close to the young wife, and her voice broke forth in a gush of tender anguish, that thrilled her listener through and through.
"Rachael!"
That had been the orphan"s name, forgotten long ago, for when they baptized her in the church she was called Elizabeth. But the anguish, the pathos with which it was uttered, made her pulses swell and her heart beat.
"_Rachael!_" The sound grew familiar, the voice came to her from the depths of the past, as a ghost glides out from the darkness that surrounds it. The knowledge that she had once known a sister came back.
"Rachael, my sister Rachael!"
Her soul gave up its past at the cry. She stretched forth her arms as she had done a thousand times in her helpless infancy, and fell into the embrace that gathered her up to the very heart of that dying woman.
"Rachael!"
"Sister!"
Language was mute then, and silence became eloquent; the blood in those two hearts throbbed with kindred fire, those arms clung together like vines rooted in the same soil.
At last the woman began to stagger.
"Let me sit down, Rachael." She fell into the easy-chair, gasping for breath.
"Lay thy head here close--close, sister--sister!"
"You are ill--dying!"
"Not yet--there--there--it is well; thee will try and remember how dear the little Rachael was to her sister, thee will know how true this heart is by its beating--its last beat, for I am about to die."
"Yes, I remember, as in a dream; but still I know who you are, spite of this dress, spite of time."
"And now, sister, dear sister, I have come to ask, for my little one, the care which thee received at my hands; for as our mother took thee from her bosom when she came to her death in the wilderness, I charge thee, sister Rachael, with my only daughter, Abigail Williams, for thus thee must call my child. She has another name, but that would bring fierce enemies upon her."
"G.o.d so deal with me as I deal with this little one!" was the reply, and reaching forth her arm, Mrs. Parris drew the child from the feet of her mother, kissing her softly amid her tears.
"Rachael!"
"Sister!"
"When thee was a little child like her, I suffered them to drive me away like a sinner and a slave; I suffered them to tear thee from my bosom, and went into the wilderness alone, never attempting to come back lest thee too might suffer, and perchance perish of want. It was like tearing my life away when thee was given up."
"Alas, alas! that I should have known so little of this!"
"It was a merciful forgetfulness; thy pure life has been all the happier for it, but I was not unmindful; many a week"s journey have I taken through the woods to hear of thy welfare."
"But yourself?"
"I have been even as G.o.d wills it. Look up, Rachael: do not weep or droop thine eyes to the earth: thee has no cause. Even as thee, I have been the wife of one husband."
"I did not think otherwise; it is for myself that I am troubled. Surely this heart should have told me that you lived."
"Once more, my sister, it was a merciful forgetfulness; not till I knew by sure signs that my last moment was at hand, would I claim even this hour of thy life. Now I have come a long way alone and on foot, to give up my child, that she may dwell with the people of her mother."
"But her father?"
"He was a brave man--my benefactor and lord. His son, the first-born, was torn from me as I fled from the white fiends that murdered his father. They will make him a slave--he a king"s son! The chief of his tribe a slave! a slave!"
The woman reeled on her feet as she stood, and fell into the chair again, panting for breath. With an effort she spoke on.
"Thee shall be mother to this little one, sister Rachael."
"Even as my husband shall be its father," said Mrs. Parris, laying her hand upon the child"s head.
"That husband--presently--when I have more breath, thee shall tell me about him, for I know nothing. It is long, very long, since I have been able to gain tidings from the settlements. Even now I came upon this house at the last moment, and feeling about to fall to the earth, looked in, seeking for help, and saw thee."
"Thank G.o.d that it was my house. Alas, how haggard and worn you look, my sister! I read years of suffering in your face, and I so happy, so unconscious all the time. But no one ever talked of my childhood."
"They would not thus accuse themselves; they who lashed thy sister with stripes, and drove her into the woods like a dog. How could such men look into thy pure face, and tell this unholy truth?"
"But my husband; surely he must have heard of this cruelty, for he was minister here before I was born. Yet when I question him of my childhood, he always puts the subject aside."
A wild light came into the woman"s eye. She sat upright in the chair, and looked down into the face of her sister.
"A minister, Rachael! what is thy husband"s name?"
The name faltered on the young wife"s lips, not as usual from reverence, but fear.
"Parris--his name is Parris."
The woman gathered herself slowly up.
"Samuel Parris?"
"Yes," replied the wife, in a timid whisper.
"An old man now?"
"Yes."
The woman stood upright, struggling to walk, but without the power to move. Her chest heaved, her throat swelled, she groped about blindly with her hand, searching for her child.
"Sister, sister, what troubles you?" cried Mrs. Parris, trembling violently.