The greatest of thy follies is forgiven,
Even for the least of all the tears that shine
On that pale face of thine.
Thou didst kneel down, to him who came from heaven,
Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise,
Holy, and pure, and wise.
--Bryant.
Charles Stevens, his mother and Cora and her wounded father found safety and shelter at the home of Richard Stevens in Boston. Richard Stevens was an uncle to Charles, and a man past middle life, but noted for his practical common sense. Like all others of this noted family, he never rose high in either social or political circles. They were simply farmers or small tradesmen, with more than average intelligence, patriotic and honest as their great progenitor, who came over with Columbus.
Richard Stevens knew that the delusion of witchcraft could not last. In his house, which was among the best in Boston, save those occupied by the governors and officers, the fugitives, save Mr. Waters, remained all during the latter part of 1692. As soon as his wound was healed, George Waters, mysteriously disappeared. He reached Williamsburg, Va., just after his brother was acquitted. He did not meet with Henry, for he had already taken a ship for Boston.
George Waters went to Robert Stevens, where he made himself known and learned of his brother's acquittal.
"The mistake was soon discovered," said Robert Stevens; "even before the case came on to be tried. Hearing that you had been arrested, I went to see you and discovered that they had the wrong man; then I procured his release."
George Waters thanked Mr. Stevens for what he had done.
"What are you going to do now?" asked Robert.
"I shall return to Boston."
"He will never cease to follow you."
"No."
Then Mr. Waters again became thoughtful, and Robert asked:
"Are you going to slay him?"
"No. Did Charles Stevens write to you?"
"Yes."
"Concerning the pardon?"
"He did."
"And have you done everything?"
"Everything that can be done."
"Do you bid me hope?"
"Yes."
That night George Waters set out by land to return to New England. It was a formidable journey in those days, and required many weeks. There were large rivers to be crossed, and he had to go to the headwaters before he could swim them. Many days and nights did the lone traveller spend in the forest.
One afternoon he was suddenly aware of a man pursuing him. Instinctively, he knew it was his enemy Joel Martin. The man was alone, and George Waters, who was an expert marksman, could have waylaid and shot him. Martin came to seek his life, and, ordinarily, one might say that he was fully justified in killing him. George paused on the crest of a high hill, and with the declining sun full on him, watched the determined pursuer.
"Joel Martin is a brave man," thought Mr. Waters. "He is as brave as he is revengeful."
Martin was almost a mile away; but he clearly saw the figure of the horseman and supposed he had halted to challenge him to battle. Martin unslung his rifle and urged his jaded steed forward at a gallop, waving his weapon in the air.
"I might be tempted to do it," George Waters thought, and he took his gun from his back, threw it on the ground and rode away.
Joel Martin, who witnessed the strange proceeding, was puzzled to know what it meant. He came up to the gun of his enemy and saw him riding rapidly across the hills and rocks.
"Now he is at my mercy," cried Martin. "The fool hath thrown away his gun to increase his speed."
George Waters was fully a mile ahead of Joel Martin, when he heard the sharp report of a rifle followed by the crack of two or three muskets, accompanied by an Indian yell. Waters felt his heart almost stand still. He sought shelter in a dense thicket on the banks of a stream to await the shadows of night. He wondered what had become of Martin, and when he heard the yells of savages as he frequently did, he asked himself if they were not torturing the unfortunate prisoner to death.
When night came, he saw a bright fire burning further down the creek, and, leaving his horse tied to a bush, the brave Englishman crept through the woods, crawling most of the way. At last he was near enough to see a score of savages sitting about a camp fire. Near by, tied to a tree was the miserable Virginian. Mr. Waters saw that he had two wounds, and was no doubt suffering greatly.
His horse had been killed and afforded a feast for the savages, who evidently had not yet decided the rider's fate. Having feasted until their stomachs were overgorged, the Indians lay down upon the ground and fell asleep. Their prisoner was severely wounded and tied with stout deer-skin thongs, so that it would be utterly impossible for him to escape, and in the heart of this great wilderness the dusky sons slept in perfect security.
George Waters crept up closer and closer to the prisoner, and had to actually crawl between two sleeping savages, to reach him; then he slowly rose at the feet of Martin, who, unable to sleep for pain, was the only human being in the camp awake. The prisoner saw him approaching, saw him draw his knife, and expected to be killed by his enemy; but he made no outcry. Better be stabbed to the heart by George Waters than tortured by his fiendish captors.
George Waters cut the deer-skin thongs which bound him to the tree and, in a whisper, asked:
"Can you walk?"
"No."
"I will carry you."
He took the wounded man on his own broad shoulders, and carefully bore him from the camp. Not a word was said. Joel Martin's tongue seemed suddenly to have become paralyzed. George Waters walked slowly, carefully, and silently. The Indians slept. When they were some distance from the camp, Martin, entertaining but one idea of Waters' plan, said:
"You have gone far enough with me. Stop right here and have it over with. I shall make no outcry."
"Joel Martin, you are a brave man, I know,----" began Mr. Waters; but Martin again interrupted him with:
"I shall make no outcry. You have a knife in your belt. Stab me, and be done with it."
"I shall not."
"Where are you going to take me?"
"To my horse."
Martin grumbled at the useless delay, but suffered himself to be carried to the horse.
"Can you ride?" Waters asked.
"Yes."
"I will help you to the saddle, and, if you think there is danger of your falling, I can tie you."
He assisted the wounded man into the saddle and took the rein in his hand, saying, "Hold, and I will lead."
"George Waters, where are you going with me?"
"To Virginia."
"Can it be that you intend to spare my life?"
"I have no occasion to take it."
The crestfallen Virginian said no more. All night long they journeyed through the forests and across plains. At dawn of day they were among the mountains. They rested and George Waters kept watch over the wounded man while he slept.
By the middle of the afternoon, they were on the march again. Mr. Martin's wounds were inflamed and sore, and he was in a fever. Next day they reached the village of some friendly Indians, and remained there two weeks, until the wounded man was able to proceed. George Waters went with him until they were in sight of a village on the upper James River.
"I can go no further, Mr. Martin," said George Waters.
"I understand," he returned, dismounting from the saddle.
"Can you make your way to those houses?"
"Yes."
"I will take you nearer, if necessary."
"It is not."
George Waters cut two stout sticks with forks to place under his arms as crutches. Martin watched his acts of kindness, while a softer expression came over his face. He was about to go away, but turned about and, seizing Waters by the hand, cried:
"God bless you! You are a man!"
Not willing to risk himself further he turned away, and George Waters re-entered the forest. He reached Boston early in 1692, just after the acquittal of his brother and others of the charge of witchcraft.
Everybody realizing that the madness had run its course, Charles Stevens and his mother went back to their home at Salem, confident that they need fear no more persecutions from Parris, whose power was gone.
Next day after his arrival, while going down a lonely path near the village Charles suddenly came upon Sarah Williams.
Her eyes were blazing with the fires of hope, fanaticism and disappointed pride.
"Charles! Charles!" she cried. "Nay, do not turn away from me, for, as Heaven is my witness, I did not have your mother cried out upon!"
"Sarah Williams, I am as willing as any to forget the past, or, if remember it I must, only think of it as a hideous nightmare from which, thanks to Providence, we have escaped forever."
"Charles, let us be friends."
"Far be it from me to be your enemy, Sarah Williams."
"Can you not be more, Charles?" said the handsome widow, her dark eyes on the ground, while her cheek became suffused with a blush.
"What mean you, Sarah Williams?"
"You used to love me."
The young man started and said:
"You mistake."
"I do not. You told me you did in the presence of Abigail Williams. At the same time you confessed to killing Samuel Williams in order to wed me."
Charles Stevens was thunderstruck, and could only gaze in amazement on the bold, unscrupulous woman, who had trained under Parris, until she was capable of almost any deception to carry her point.
"Sarah Williams, what you say is a lie!" he declared, in a voice hoarse with amazement and indignation.
"We shall see! We shall see!" she answered, in a hoarse, shrill voice. "I will prove it. See, I will prove it and hang you yet. Beware! I do not charge you with witchcraft, but with murder. Either take the place you made vacant by the death of Samuel Williams, or hang!"
As least of the two evils, Charles Stevens intimated he preferred to hang, and, turning abruptly about, he left her. Next day he was met by Bly and Louder in the village, who interrogated him on his recent trouble with Sarah Williams about the dead husband. Knowing both to be outrageous liars, and unscrupulous as they were bold, he sought to avoid them; but they followed him everywhere and interrogated him, until he was utterly disgusted and finally broke away and went home.
Charles Stevens did not tell his mother of the threat of Sarah Williams, for he considered it too absurd to notice. Three or four days later, when he had almost ceased to think of the matter, he and his mother were startled from their supper, by hearing a loud knock at the front door.
"Sit you still, Charles, and I will go and see who this late visitor is."
She rose and went to the door and opened it.
Three or four dark forms stood without.
"Is Charles Stevens in?" asked one.
"Yes, sir."
"I want to see him."
"Who are you?"
"Don't you know me, Hattie Stevens? I am the sheriff," said the speaker boldly, as he, unbidden, entered the house.
"You the sheriff! What can you want here?"
Turning to the men without, he said in an undertone:
"Guard the doors."
The dumfounded mother repeated:
"You the sheriff! What do you want here?"
"I want to see that precious son of yours, widow Stevens, and I trow he will guess the object of my visit."
"My son! Surely he hath done no wrong. He hath broken no law."
"Where is he?"
The voice of the sheriff was pitched considerably above the ordinary key, and Charles Stevens, hearing it in the kitchen, became alarmed, and hastened into the front apartment, saying:
"I am here. Is it me you want to see?"
"Yes, Charles Stevens, I arrest you in the king's name."
"Arrest me? Marry! what offence have I done that I should be arrested by the king's officers?"
"It is murder!" he answered.
"Murder!" shrieked both the mother and son.
"Verily, it is," answered the sheriff. Then he produced a warrant issued on the complaint of Sarah Williams, charging Charles Stevens with the murder of one Samuel Williams.
Charles could scarcely believe his ears, when he heard the warrant read. He had for a long time known Sarah Williams to be a bold, scheming woman; but that she would proceed to such a bold, desperate measure as this seemed impossible.
"I am innocent!" he declared, while his mother sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands.
"It is ever thus. The most guilty wretch on earth is innocent according to his tell," the sheriff answered.
Charles Stevens besought the man not to confine him in jail, but was told there was no help for it, and he was hurried away to prison, leaving his mother overcome with grief in her chair.
It was some days before the news of Charles Stevens' arrest reached Boston. The prosecution was interested in keeping the matter from the friends of the accused, for the Stevens family were known to have many friends in high places in the colonies, and they might interfere in the coming trial.
Cora Waters lived for weeks in ignorance of the peril of the man she loved. Her father had come home, her uncle was with them again, and she was almost happy. Poor child of misfortune, she had never known real happiness.
Bleak winter was taking his departure and a smiling spring promised to be New England's guest. Hope and peace and newness of life always come with spring. Spring gladdens the heart and rejuvenates the aged.
One morning, while the frosty breath of winter yet lingered on the air, Cora Waters, who was an early riser, saw a large ship entering the harbor. The wind was dead against the vessel; but she was skillfully handled and tacked this way and that and gradually worked her way into the harbor. A wreath of smoke from one of her ports was followed by the heavy report of a cannon, which salute was answered by a shot from the shore.
"The ship will soon be in," the girl declared. "I will go and see it."
In small seaport towns, such as Boston was at that day, the appearance of a ship caused as much excitement as the arrival of a train on a new railroad in a western village does to-day. Many people were hastening down to the beach where the boat would bring in passengers. Some were expecting friends. Others had letters from loved ones across the sea; but Cora had no such excuse. It was simply girlish curiosity which induced her to go with the crowd to the beach.
Boats had been lowered from the vessel, which, having no deck, could not get into shore and was forced to cast anchor some distance off. The boats, filled with passengers, were rowed ashore.
Cora stood with a careless, idle air gazing on the gentlemen and ladies as they disembarked. None specially excited her interest. Many were there greeting relatives and friends; but she had no friend or relative, and what were all those people to her?
She was about to turn away, when a face and pair of dark-blue eyes attracted her attention. She involuntarily started and stared impudently at the stranger, her heart beating, and her breath coming in short quick gasps.
"That face--that face! I have seen in my dreams!" she thought.
It was the pale face of a woman, still beautiful, although her features showed lines of suffering and anxiety. She was dressed in black from head to foot, and a veil of jet black was wound round her head. For a few moments, she stood looking about and then came directly to Cora and asked:
"Young maid, do you live in this town?"
"I do, for the present," Cora answered, though she instinctively trembled, for that voice, too, sounded like a long-forgotten dream. What strange spell was this which possessed her? The woman asked:
"Can you direct me to a house of public entertainment?"
"Come with me."
Cora knew that the lady had suffered with seasickness, and was anxious to reach land. She hastened with her to a public house kept by a widow Stevens, whose husband was a distant relative of Charles. As they walked up the hill toward the house, the woman continued to ply Cora with questions:
"Are you a native of America?" she asked.
"No."
"England is your birth-place?"
"It is."
"Have you been long here?"
"I was quite a child when I came," she answered.
"Have you lived a long while in this town?"
"Only a few months," she answered.
They had nearly reached their destination, when Cora saw her father coming toward them. At sight of his daughter's companion, the face of the father became white as death, and, bounding forward, he pulled her aside, saying:
"No, no! Cora, you shall not go another step with her!"
At sound of his voice, the woman in black seized his arm and cried:
"George! George! George!"
"Away! away!"
"No, no! Now that I have found you, I will not let you go. You may kill me, cut off my hands, and still the fingers will cling to you. Oh, God! I thank thee, that, after so many years, thou hast answered my prayers!"
"Woman, release me!"
"George! George!"
Cora was lost in a maze of bewilderment. She was conscious of the strange woman in black clutching her father's arm and calling him George, while he strove to drive her away.
A great throng of people gathered about them. Mr. Waters became rude in his efforts to break away. At last he flung her off, and she fell, her forehead striking on the sharp corner of a stone, which started the blood trickling down her fair white brow. The woman swooned. Sight of blood touched the heart of George Waters, and, stooping, he raised the inanimate form in his arms, as tenderly as if she had been an infant, and bore her to a public house and a private room.
When the woman in black recovered consciousness, she and George Waters were alone, and he was tenderly dressing the wound he had made.
"George," she said with a smile, "you will let me talk with you now?"
"Yes."
"George, you believed me guilty when you abandoned me at Edinburgh?"
"Yes."
"You do yet?"
"I do."
"George, Joseph Swartz told you a falsehood."
"No, no, woman, do not----"
"Hold, George; let me show you his dying confession. Let me show you the testimony of a priest."
She took up a small, red leather bag, such as was used in those days by ladies, undid the strings and, opening it, drew forth some papers, which she handed to him.
"Do you know the writing?" she asked.
"This is Joseph Swartz, my best and truest friend."
"No, no; read his death-bed confession, and you will see he was your malignant foe."
He read the paper through, and his hands trembled with excitement, astonishment and rage. He was about to say something, when she interrupted him with:
"No, no; don't, don't, George. He is dead--let us forgive. If you want more proof, I have it. See Father Healey's statement. He took Joseph Swartz's confession."
Glancing at the paper, he threw it aside and cried:
"Honore! Honore! Forgive me! I should have believed you, not him. I stole your child and, like a foolish man, ran away, without questioning you."
"I have been sixteen years seeking these proofs. I would not have come without them. You are forgiven, for, now that you have the proof, you believe."
When George Waters went out of the room, he was met by his daughter, Cora, who asked:
