"I awoke in sight of the spot where we had first met, in hearing of the waves that had borne us, twenty-two years before, a happy pair, across the ocean. All the dear, old memories came back to me then—the night when we rode through the forest to your dwelling, and were sacredly wedded under its roof—the secrecy, the doubt, the happiness, and the love unutterable which bound me, the daughter of a proud earldom, to the fate of a being rendered greater still by the energies and strength which make the nobility of manhood.

"Full of these thoughts, rich in the holy love that runs like a golden thread from time into eternity, I waited in that old farm-house, to which exhaustion confined me, for the hour when I could tell my husband all that I had suffered—all that I had hoped, since the pride of my father forced us asunder. But while I was resting in the sweet hush of a new hope, with the sound of the far-off waters reaching me like a perpetual promise, content with the dear certainty that he was close at hand, a cruel blow was preparing for me. I was resting in peace, with a new life before me, and sweet hopes singing at my heart, when a lady came to my presence, a fair woman, whose smiles made my heart ache under their sweet welcome. She came with offers of hospitality and cordial good-will—came in the plenitude of her rich happiness to invite the storm-tossed stranger to share the luxuries of her home—to share the society and protection of her husband, Sir William Phipps, Governor of Massachusetts!

"I fainted at the lady's feet, but kept my secret safe. She left me smitten to the soul with a great blow, for which I was utterly unprepared. Old man, you would pity me could you guess at the anguish, the terrible, terrible desolation that followed this interview with my husband's second wife!"

"Oh, me!" said Samuel Parris, dropping the hands that had covered his face—"oh, me! I do pity you. And it was I that married you both—he, so noble, so grand of character—you, so bright and good. God have mercy upon us!"

"At last," continued Barbara, "my decision was made. I could not force myself to wrest happiness from others, or build my home on the ruins of an honorable household. I would return to my native land, and tread the ashen desert of life which must yet be mine, for I was strong, and could not die. Utterly, utterly wretched, for his sake and hers I would take up this penance of life, and endure its loneliness silently to the end. But I could not bring myself to this all at once. There came moments when my soul rose up in arms for its rights, and the love of my youth grew mighty in its own behalf: but it is easier to suffer than inflict suffering, better to endure than avenge. I resolved to see my husband, and after that decide.

"I went to the North Church, where he stood by its altar in the pride of his state and the humility of his faith, and was baptized for another life. Then it was, Samuel Parris, that a resolve of perfect self-abnegation possessed me—then it was that I almost wrested the consecrated wine from your hands, and made a vow which I have kept even unto death—a vow to remain dead to the man who had been my husband, to leave him forever, and go away into utter loneliness.

"But I could not remain dumb within reach of his presence—I could not see him in domestic converse with another without such anguish as makes the breath we draw a torture. For one instant he—mistaking me for her—held me to his heart. Oh, my God, I had need of thy help then! My resolve grew faint; but that insensibility came, I should have betrayed myself. Stung with agony, wounded to the soul, I fled from him—fled through the wilderness to your dwelling; and there—oh! my God! help to do away the evil—there the mystery spread from my own heart through your household. You had seen without recognizing me, and I supposed myself safe till a ship should come. But the instincts of memory filled you with unrest, and you mistook them for supernatural influences; your child grew wild with wounded love. So my suffering bore poisonous fruits, and were tortured into proofs of witchcraft, and for that I am to die!

"My friend, is it a subject of wonder now that my presence thrilled both him and you with a mysterious influence? Is it strange that shadowy memories haunted my footsteps wherever they turned? Can you guess how I suffered, how terribly I was tempted? And for all this I must die!"

Samuel Parris started to his feet; his eyes were wild, his face haggard.

"Die! die! And is self-sacrifice like this rewarded by murder? Unhappy lady, sweet martyr, no. I will follow the governor; he must learn the truth; you shall not die! In this case magnanimity is suicide."

Barbara Stafford laid her hand on his arm. "I should have kept all this a secret, and died unknown and unregretted, but for the strange intelligence that reached me from England in the package Norman Lovel just brought to my prison. Samuel Parris, I am a mother! My son did not perish, as they made me believe. They took him from me, in my delirium, and put him out to nurse near London under a false name. Afterwards he was placed at school, and in his youth sent to America. For three years he has been under the roof of his own father. Not two hours ago he knelt here at my feet and bemoaned my fate. After the cruel work of to-morrow he will be Earl of Sefton—before that, if you will yield to the wish of a woman standing close to her grave, he shall become the husband of your child. It was for this I summoned you—for this I laid bare a heart that meant to carry its secret to the grave. Look up, my good friend, and smile. What matters it that a few years are taken from either of our lives so long as our children are made the happier by it? Our children—our children! Oh, my friend, my friend! it is of no use deceiving you. I should so like to live, that he might know that I am his mother. Pity me! pity me! You have been a parent for years, and I so little time. Husband and son both left behind, and I must die to-morrow! Oh, it is hard to bear!"

Samuel Parris covered his face with both hands, and tears streamed over his withered fingers. "Oh, God! teach me how to act," he prayed; "help me to save this wronged woman, or permit thy servant to depart with her!"

Barbara drew the withered hands from his face, and held them firmly. "Nay, do not weep, old friend; pray earnestly, however, that I may be prepared for death—life is impossible! I was weak a moment since. Forget it. I but ask strength to endure."

"But thou shalt not die. He can save thee—and shall."

"But how?"

"I will tell him the truth!"

"Against that solemn promise?"

"It was ignorantly given."

"Nay," she said, "I forbid you to interfere in this. I am content to suffer the penalty awarded by the court. Others, innocent as I, have suffered death, and to me sleep will be sweet, even in the grave."

But Samuel Parris would not be persuaded: he put her hands away. Now Barbara Stafford stood up with a gesture of command.

"Old man, you are a minister of the Most High: tell me if a vow, taken with the sacred wine and strengthened by the breaking of holy bread, can be put aside because death stands in the way? This vow I have taken—never to reveal myself to William Phipps, never to claim him or recognize him, and to its sanctity you, with your own hands, administered. In the name of the Most High God, who heard us both, I charge silence upon you now and forever!"

The old man groaned aloud.

"Be comforted! be comforted, my friend! to-morrow terminates the poor tragedy of a life which has had but little of happiness in it. When I am gone my husband will feel the shadow, which he could not comprehend, lifted from his path. It must no longer darken the noble aims of his existence. What is the life of one person compared with the happiness of so many? Until you are assured that I am no more, William Phipps must never guess that his wife lived to perish for his well-being."

Parris lifted his head, and gazed upon her in silent wonder. To his imaginative nature there was a grandeur in this resolve which bordered on the marvellous.

"Woman," he said, at last, "art thou tempting me to falsehood? If thou diest on the morrow, while there is a possibility of salvation, I—even Samuel Parris—am thy murderer."

"Not so, old man. The law has convicted me of a heinous crime—sentenced me to a death from which there is no escape, save by the betrayal of a secret which will heap dishonor and misery on an innocent woman, and a man whose happiness is a thousand times more precious than the life I am willing to give. Were it otherwise, what would existence be to one who has lost all hope, save that which seems to have dawned on my last moments, only to mock them? But that justice might be secured to my son, I had gone to the doom which awaits me with sealed lips. Remember that I voluntarily bound myself to secrecy by an oath taken before Almighty God, who can alone absolve me from it. Do not, therefore, attempt to decide between me and my Maker. I will not be pardoned at the cost you would have me pay for life. Think you I could hurl him from the profound respect with which men hold him—or her, that gentle, happy woman, from her place in his home, to shame and undeserved reproach? No, no, old man. Death is a thousand times sweeter to me than life at the price of misery like that. Once more I charge you keep sacred the promise you have given."

"I will, I will," cried the old man, subdued and saddened by the solemn eloquence of her look and words. "Deal with me as thou wilt, woman, or angel—I know not which to call thee—that which thou hast entrusted to me I will surely keep to the last."

"Nay, it must be kept always; and revealed only to William Phipps and my—own son. In this package is full evidence of Norman's birth and parentage. All other heirs are dead, and none are left to dispute his rights: simple proofs of my death will be sufficient. No one will ever know how his mother perished, or connect the Countess of Sefton with Barbara Stafford."

Samuel Parris took the package which Barbara held out, and thrust it into his bosom, bowing his head low for answer to her solemn injunctions.

"Now," continued Barbara, "I will task your kindness once more, and have done. My friend, while there is yet time, bring your daughter hither, with my son—the young man they call Norman Lovel. Before I go they must be wedded, else some new trouble may arise to separate them."

"Even as thou wishest it shall be done," answered the old man, taking his hat and staff. "I who have wrought so much evil would fain make atonement—so far as a weak mortal can."

Parris went to the door, but came back again, struck with a sudden objection.

"But Sir William Phipps—the young man being his son—might hereafter blame me as ambitious for my child," he said.

"Have no fear," answered the lady. "When I am dead, he will thank you for giving me this one gleam of happiness. Norman, when he knows that it was his mother who blessed him—and he must learn this hereafter—will look on his young wife with double tenderness."

"And must it now be kept secret from him?"

"Even so, or to-morrow would break his heart."

The old man went out. He had not far to go, for Elizabeth had accompanied him to the jail, afraid to be separated from him for a moment, and hoping, poor child, to obtain forgiveness for the honest evidence she had borne against the unhappy prisoner before the death hour. She that moment sat shivering in the jailor's room, waiting to be summoned into Barbara's dungeon. Norman Lovel was by her side, but she refused to be comforted even by the voice of her lover, who would not leave her till the minister came. Thus, hand in hand, they were found together when the old man entered the room, where they sat; and solemnly, as if he had been summoning them to a funeral, bade them follow him.