The Voice of Spring.
Before the events mentioned in the last chapter occurred, the winter had passed away, and the reluctant footsteps of our northern spring began to appear. The purple Hepatica opened her soft eye in the woods, and the delicate Sanguinaria spread her snowy bosom to catch the pale sunbeam. Already the maple-trees had hung out their beautiful crimson blossoms, and the thrilling note of the song-sparrow echoed through the forest. Then came the chilling wind from the east, its wings loaded with frost; and the timid spring hid her tender blossoms, and wrapped herself in a watery veil.
The weather and the spring were unnoticed by Dinah, when she sought, soon after sunrise, the pillow of her mistress. The night had brought no rest to her throbbing temples and anxious heart: she was surprised, therefore, to find Edith still sleeping. She had sat up late, arranging her father's and her own papers, and providing, by a distribution of her little property, for the old age of her two faithful servants. They were no longer slaves; Mr. Grafton had given them freedom at his death. She left the little Phoebe under their guardianship. She had also written a letter to Seymore, to ask him to come and aid her by his counsel in this extremity. It was nearly dawn when she sought her pillow; and sleep, which has been called the friend of sorrow—"but it is the happy who have called it so"—had only for a few moments left her with untroubled dreams. Her sleep was not heavy; for the gentle footstep of Dinah awoke her. When she saw her humble friend's troubled expression, she tried to smile; and, stroking her dark cheek as she bent over her, she said, "We must look bright to-day, my poor Dinah, or they will think we are afraid."
They prepared for the arrival of the officers; and, when breakfast was ready, the little Phoebe was not to be found. Although Dinah looked very grave, this occasioned no anxiety in Edith, when she recollected the vagrant habits of the child.
After breakfast, which was indeed not tasted, the same persons who had visited her the night before came to conduct Edith to the meeting-house, the place of examination. The house was nearly full; and among that crowd there was scarcely one to whom Edith had not been a friend and a benefactor, as far as her humble means would allow. As she entered, there was one by whose sick bed she had watched; another whose infant had died in her arms; and children stood looking on with stupid wonder to whom she had given flowers, and primers, and, more than all, her own gentle smile. But now every eye was averted, or turned on her with suspicion and terror,—so hardening is the power of fanaticism.
I believe I have said that my heroine was not beautiful; but the inward harmony must have given a spiritual beauty to features animated with intellect, and softened by tenderness of heart; and a self-relying innocence and purity imparted something more of grace to her person than the most finished art could have given.
Edith became very pale as she entered; and Dinah, who had followed her closely, begged permission to stand near and support her. This was denied, and she was placed between two men, who each held an arm, and in front of those who were to examine her.
The afflicted—that is, the accuser—was now called in. Edith looked eagerly around, and, with grief and astonishment, saw her little Phoebe, the child of her care, when almost close to her, utter a piercing cry, and fall down in violent convulsions. She started forward to assist and raise her, but the men drew her rudely back. And this was her accuser!
At the same time with Edith, a poor old woman, nearly eighty years of age, was brought in. Her accuser was her own grandchild,—a girl about the same age as Phoebe. Together they had concerted this diabolical plot, and had rehearsed and practised beforehand their contortions and convulsions, excited, no doubt, by the notoriety of wicked children they had heard of.