Joseph bent low in the saddle and lashed the horse, which sprang forward with a mighty bound; the green branches rushed in their faces. Joseph prayed in a loud voice. Ann clung to him convulsively, panting for breath. Suddenly they came out of the woods into a cleared space.
“The Proctor house! the Proctor house!” Ann shrieked. “Mercy Lewis said ’twas full of devils. What shall we do?” She hid her face on her husband’s shoulder, sobbing and praying.
The Proctor house stood at the left of the road; there were some peach-trees in front of it, and their blossoms showed in a pink spray against the gray unpainted walls. On one side of the house was the great barn, with its doors wide open; on the other, a deep ploughed field, with the plough sticking in a furrow. John Proctor had been arrested and thrown into jail for witchcraft in April, before his spring planting was done.
Joseph Bayley reined in his horse opposite the Proctor house. “Ann,” he whispered, and his whisper was full of horror.
“What is it?” she returned, wildly.
“Ann, Goodman Proctor looks forth from the chamber window, and Goody Proctor stands outside by the well, and they are both in jail in Boston.” Joseph’s whole frame shook in a strange rigid fashion, as if his joints were locked. “Look, Ann!” he whispered.
“I cannot.”
“Look!”
Ann turned her head. “Why,” she said, and her voice was quite natural and sweet, it had even a tone of glad relief in it, “I see naught but a little maid in the door.”
“See you not Goodman Proctor in the window?”
“Nay,” said Ann, smiling; “I see naught but the little maid in the door. She is in a blue petticoat, and she has a yellow head, but her little cheeks are pale, I trow.”
“See you not Goodwife Proctor in the yard by the well?” asked Joseph.
“Nay, goodman; I see naught but the little maid in the door. She has a fair face, but now she falls a-weeping. Oh, I fear lest she be all alone in the house.”
“I tell you, Goodman Proctor and Goodwife Proctor are both there,” returned Joseph. “Think you I see not with my own eyes? Goodman Proctor has on a red cap, and Goodwife Proctor holds a spindle.” He urged on the horse with a sudden cry. “Now the prayers do stick in my throat,” he groaned. “I would we were out of this devil’s nest!”
“Joseph,” implored Ann, “prithee wait a minute! The little maid is calling ‘mother’ after me. Saw you not how she favored our little Susanna who died? Hear her! There was naught there but the little maid. Joseph, I pray you, stop.”
“Nay; I’ll ride till the nag drops,” said Joseph Bayley, with a lash. “This last be too much. I tell ye they are there, and they are also in jail. ’tis hellish work.”
Ann said no more for a little space; a curve in the road hid the Proctor house from sight. Suddenly she raised a great cry. “Oh! oh!” she screamed, “’tis gone; ’tis gone from my foot.” Joseph stopped. “What is gone?”
“My shoe; but now I missed it from my foot. I must alight, and go back for it.”
Joseph started the horse again.
Ann caught at the reins. “Stop, goodman,” she cried, imperatively. “I tell you I must have my shoe.”
“And I tell you I’ll stop for no shoe in this place, were it made of gold.”
“Goodman, you know not what shoe ’tis. ’tis one of my fine shoes, in which I have never taken steps. They have the crimson silk lacings. I have even carried them in my hand to the meeting-house on a Sabbath, wearing my old ones, and only put them on at the door. Think you I will lose that shoe? Stop the nag.”
But Joseph kept on grimly.
“Think you I will go barefoot or with one shoe into Boston?” said Ann. “Know you that these shoes, which were a present from my mother, cost bravely? I trow you will needs loosen your purse strings well before we pass the first shop in Boston. Well, go on, an’ you will, when ’tis but a matter of my slipping down from the pillion and running back a few yards.”
Joseph Bayley turned his horse about; but Ann remonstrated.
“Nay,” said she; “I want not to go thus. I am tired of the saddle. I would like to feel my feet for a space.”
Her husband looked around at her with wonder and suspicion. Dark thoughts came into his mind.
She laughed. “Nay,” said she, “make no such face at me. I go not back to meet any black man nor sign any book. I go for my fine shoe with the crimson lacing.”
“’Tis but a moment since you were afraid,” said Joseph. “Have you no fear now?” His blue eyes looked sharply into hers.
She looked back at him soberly and innocently. “In truth, I feel no such fear as I did,” she answered. “If I mistake not, your bold front and your prayers drove away the evil ones. I will say a psalm as I go, and I trow naught will harm me.”
Ann slipped lightly down from the pillion, and pulled off her one remaining shoe and her stockings; they were her fine worked silk ones, and she could not walk in them over the rough road. Then she set forth very slowly, peering here and there in the undergrowth beside the road, until she passed the curve and the reach of her husband’s eyes. Then she gathered up her crimson taffeta petticoat and ran like a deer, with long, graceful leaps, looking neither to right nor left, straight back to the Proctor house.
In the door of the house stood a tiny girl with a soft shock of yellow hair. She wore a little straight blue gown, and her baby feet were bare, curling over the sunny door-step. When she saw Ann coming she started as if to run; then she stood still, her soft eyes wary, her mouth quivering.
Ann Bayley ran up quickly, and threw her arms around her, kneeling down on the step.
What is your name, little maid?” said she, in a loving, agitated voice.
“Abigail Proctor,” replied the little maid, shyly, in her sweet childish treble. Then she tried to free herself, but Ann held her fast.
“Nay, be not afraid, sweet,” said she. “I love you. I once had a little maid like you for my own. Tell me, dear heart, are you all alone in the house?”
Then the child fell to crying again, and clung around Ann’s neck.
“Is there anybody in the house, sweet?” Ann whispered, fondling her, and pressing the wet baby cheek to her own. “The constables came and took them,” sobbed the little maid. “They put my poppet down the well, and they pulled mother and Sarah down the road. They took father before that, and Mary Warren did gibe and point. The constables pulled Benjamin away too. I want my mother.”
“Your mother shall come again,” said Ann. “Take comfort, dear little heart, they cannot have the will to keep her long away. There, there, I tell you she shall come. You watch in the door, and you will see her come down the road.”
She smoothed back the little maid’s yellow hair, and wiped the tears from her little face with a corner of
