CHAPTER XIV.
GARDE’S SUBTERFUGE.
NEARLY as strong and well as ever, Adam Rust heard Garde’s excited and desperate tale of Goody’s capture with an indignation which far outran her own. He failed to realize, at first, the full import of Goody’s position. Then, as Garde made him understand the almost inevitable execution, staring this old woman-friend in the face, at the end of a trial from which Truth would fly moaning, with her hands to her ears, the rover would have buckled on his sword and gone to batter down the jail to set the old wise woman free, had his sweetheart not restrained him with all her powers of dissuasion.
“Oh, we have got to be far more clever than that,” she said. “We have got to get her out of there quietly—so quietly that we can get her away—a long way off, before the awful crowds shall find it out. Help me to do this. Help me to get her out cunningly, or we shall fail—and to-night it will all be too late.”
“Couldn’t the Governor pardon her out?” said Adam. “Why has he gone away at such a time? Here, couldn’t Mrs. Phipps write a pardon? We could take it to the jailer, and try him. If he then refused to release our friend, we could try with a little gold in his hand. Mrs. Phipps—Mrs. Phipps,” he called to the Captain’s wife.
The plump little woman would have done anything on earth for Adam—her boy—and for Garde, whom she loved no less, but she shook her head at this new proposal. The potentialities of the position in which William’s sudden elevation had placed her still gave her a little fright to contemplate. She knew nothing of the powers of a Governor, still less of those of a Governor’s wife.
“I would be glad to do this thing, dear Adam,” she said, “for your sake, or Garde’s, or even for old Goody herself, but can I? Would I dare? I fear you hardly know the temper of these people on this question of witches. They are mad.”
“Try it,” said Adam. “We can do no less than to give it a trial. The jailer will know of no reason for limiting the Governor’s prerogatives, nor even those of his good wife. Write what I shall dictate, and let us make the attempt. A bit of boldness is often as good as an army.”
Never able to resist when Adam begged or even suggested, Goodwife Phipps wrote, as he directed, one of the most sweeping and imperious pardons ever reduced to cold language. This being duly sanded, and approved, Rust folded it up and placed it safely in his pocket.
“Now then, John Rosella,” he said to Garde, who blushed prettily, in spite of her many conflicting emotions, “even supposing this works its charm, we have only then made a good beginning. I must have a horse on which to convey old Goody out of the reach of harm, when they find she has slipped between their fingers. And the horse must be my own. No more borrowed horses will do for me. Therefore content your mind, sweetheart, while I go forth to make my needed purchases.”
He kissed her, while Goodwife Phipps bustled off importantly about her duties, and reassuring her that all should yet be well for Goody, he went out into the glorious sunlight, and felt his old-time vigor spring forward—from the warmth and the joyousness of Nature—to meet him.
But the matter of finding a horse in Boston was not one to be disposed of lightly. He hunted far and wide, for of those which were offered for sale, many were old, a few were lame and others were vicious. These latter he would have liked, for himself, since they challenged him, their spirit against his, but foregoing the pleasant anticipation of a battle royal, he rejected offers right and left, until he had used up the morning completely, and at length felt obliged to be satisfied with a somewhat undersized bay, who nevertheless seemed strong and otherwise fit for the business in hand.
Garde in the meantime had grown nervous with impatience, afraid as she was, of one of those swift, inhuman trials of Goody which so often were the subterfuges of the fanatics for rushing a person pre-condemned, to the death from which there was no escape.
“I have thought the matter over calmly,” said Adam, who knew nothing of real calmness in a moment of daring, “and I feel certain we shall double our chances of success by waiting till dark, or near it, when the jailer might be persuaded to think we could get her away unnoticed noticed by the rabble, and so might consent to the plan, when otherwise he would think he must refuse.”
There was reason in this, as Garde could see. Making Adam promise to take a rest, before the time should be ripe for their enterprise, she went home to David Donner, to set things to rights, and otherwise to keep abreast of her little housewifely duties. She found the old man excited, by a call which had come for his services, at noon.
One of the seven magistrates who sat in the court of Oyer and Terminer, to try the witches, had fallen ill. David had been requested to assume his place. At this wholly unexpected news, Garde felt her heart leap with a sudden rejoicing. If the worst came, Goody would have at least one friend at the trial, to whose words of wisdom the Council had so frequently listened. She ran to the old man and gave him a kiss.
“Oh, I am so glad, dear Grandther,” she said. “They know how wise you are and just!”
“Thankee, child, thankee,” said the white-haired old man, smiling with the pleasure which the whole transaction had excited in his hungering breast. “They recognize me—a little—at last.”
Yet so eager had the girl become, and so frightened of what the results were almost certain to be, if Goody ever came to her trial, during the absence of Governor Phipps, that she and Adam were hastening off to the jail the moment the twilight began to descend on the town.
“Jailer Weaver owes me some little favor,” she said as they came to the place, “and he really owes a great deal to Goody.” Her voice was shaking, her teeth felt inclined to chatter, so excited was all this business making her feel.
Vivid recollections of those terrible moments in which she had come to see Mrs. Weaver and then had hovered about the prison, to liberate Adam, made her cling to his arm in terror of what they were now about to attempt.
Adam himself, wondering if the jailer would by any chance remember his face, and the break he and the poor old beef-eaters had made, had the boldness and the love of adventure come surging up in his heart, till he petted the hilt of his sword with a clenching fist.
They entered at the door of that portion of the prison building where the Weavers made their residence, as this would excite no suspicion on the part of the few pedestrians in the street. The nature of their business being partially secret, they chose to interview the jailer in the room which answered for his parlor.
Weaver was a man who constantly raised and lowered his eyebrows—a habit he had gained through years of alternately scowling at his guests and then looking puzzled or surprised that, being so innocent as they always were, they should still be brought to such a place. He listened to Adam’s flowery and courtly address, in which he announced the advent of Goody’s pardon, with at least a hundred of these eyebrow contortions.
“But the Governor never pardons before a trial,” he said. “Else, how should he know but what he was pardoning a very guilty person indeed? If he had pardoned her, or if he will pardon her, after the trial, I shall be glad to give her freedom, poor soul. But you see she hasn’t even been tried, and moreover this pardon comes from the Governor’s good lady.”
Garde’s heart sank. The man was so unanswerably logical.
“But, my good man,” said Adam, “I tell you this would be the Governor’s pleasure. And the Governor stands in the shoes of the King, in matters of grave importance. Now call in any one and ask if I am not the Governor’s friend—his secretary, indeed.”
“I know your face,” said Weaver, who remembered Adam well enough, as a former guest of the house, but who chose to say nothing on delicate subjects. “I saw you with Sir William the day he landed. Oh, aye, you are his friend, I know that well. But——”
“Good!” Adam interrupted. “Then, the Governor—who stands, mind you, in the King’s shoes, in this matter, is away. I, being his friend, for the moment take his place. Therefore I stand in the King’s shoes myself, and I desire this woman’s pardon! Bring forth your ink, and I shall add my signature to the document, in the King’s name.”
Weaver was bewildered. This reasoning was as clear as a bell, yet he knew what the angry mobs would soon be demanding from his stronghold.
“But—but there can be no pardon, as I said, till after trial,” he stammered.
“What!” said Rust striding back and forth, while Garde looked on and trembled, “do you refuse to obey your King?”
“Oh, sir, alas, no,” said the jailer. “But what can I do?”
“Do? Do? My friend, do you value your daily bread? Do you wish to retain your office? Or shall the Governor grant your dismissal?”
This was touching the man on a spot where he could endure no pressure. He quailed, for he found himself between the devil—as represented by the fanatical spirit of the mob—and the deep sea into which the loss of his place would plunge him at once.
“Oh, don’t turn me out!” he begged, convinced well enough of Adam’s power with the Governor. “I would do anything to please you, sir, and I have done much already to please the Governor. I am an old man, sir, and we have saved nothing, and we know no other trade, and many people hate us. There would be no place for me and mine. Do not turn us away for this.”
“I don’t wish to turn you away,” said Adam. “I merely ask you to release this woman.”
“She has never done any harm,” put in Garde. “She has been very good to your wife and you. Surely you could spare her this.”
“I would, Miss, I would,” said the wretched man. “I am sick to death of this terrible craze of witches, but what can I do? If I do not release her, I shall lose my place and starve. If I do let her go, I shall have all the mobs down upon me, when they find there is no witch for trial. How can I show them a paper, instead of a prisoner? My life might pay the forfeit.”
“Oh, Adam, this is terrible,” said Garde. “What can we do?”
“After trial, you can surely get her pardoned,” the man insisted. “You have the power. You can save her then.”
“Oh, they will never wait!” cried the girl. “They may try her to-night, and find her guilty and hang her the first thing in the morning!”
Weaver turned pale. He knew that what she said might in all probability be true.
“But I cannot give them a bit of paper instead of a prisoner,” he repeated. “If you will bring me some one else, who will vouch for the mob’s respect of your pardon, as you vouch for the Governor——”
“We’ve got to have her,” interrupted Adam. “You can say she escaped, by her power of witchcraft. Release her, or look your last on these cheerful walls.”
“Oh, but, Adam,” said Garde, “why should we make such misery and trouble for one person—for two persons, indeed with Mrs. Weaver—in trying to save another? I like these good people. They are very kind to their prisoners. They have spent much of their own money to give them little comforts. Can we not think of some other way, as good as this, to get poor Goody out and do no harm to innocent people?”
Weaver was ready to break into tears. He started to repeat, “Bring me some one to——”
“Oh! Oh, I know! I know what to do!” cried Garde, interrupting. “All you need is some one else to blame, when they find she is gone! It would never be your fault if some one took her place. It would be a trick on you, when they found it out. I’ll take her place. I’ll take her place, because when they find out they are starting to try only me, they will have to laugh it off as a joke. And Grandther is one of the magistrates—appointed to-day—so they will have to let me go—and Goody will be far away, by then—and no one will get into trouble!”
“So one could blame me—nor they wouldn’t,” said Weaver, slowly, “but as for you, Miss——”
“Then we can do it!” Garde broke in, a little wildly. “Oh, hurry! we might he too late. You can put me wherever Goody is, and I can change clothes with her, and then, Adam——”
“Yes, but——” started Adam.
“Oh, let me, dear. I shan’t mind it a bit. And in the morning it will all be over, and Goody will be safe, and no one harmed—and there is no other way. And I want to! Oh, Goody has been like a mother to me! I must do it. Please don’t say anything more. Mr. Weaver, take me to Goody now!”
“You brave little woman!” said Adam, his own courage leaping to greet this intrepid spirit in his sweetheart. “I believe you can do it! We shall win!”
“Come back as early as you can,” said Garde, on whom a thought of the lonely part of the business was suddenly impressed. “It won’t seem long. And when it is over, I shall feel so glad I could do a little thing for Goody. We must hurry. Every moment may be precious!”
“But, lassie——” the jailer tried to insist once more, “you——”
“Please don’t talk any more,” said Garde. “Take me to her now. And when somebody looking like me comes back, let her go out by Mrs. Weaver’s door with Mr. Rust.”
“Yes, I, but——”
“In the King’s name, no more talk,” interrupted Adam. Then he turned to Garde. “You won’t be timid, little mate?” he said. “I shall not be gone past midnight at the most.”
“I shall be so glad to think I am leaving Goody in your strong, dear hands,” said Garde, with a smile of love in her eyes. “Good-by, dear,—good night, till the morning.”
She kissed him, and smiling at him bravely, followed the jailer, who saw that his place in the jail depended now on compliance with Adam’s and Garde’s demand. The tremulous pressure of her little hand in his remained with Adam when she had gone. He wondered if he were doing well, thus to let his sweetheart assume poor Goody’s place. Then his own boldness of spirit rebuked him and he laughed at the imaginary scene of the magistrates, when they should finally discover their trial to be nothing but a farce.
Weaver meantime took a candle in his hand and led the way down the corridor of the prison. Garde hesitated when she saw him descending the steps.
“Why—where is she?” she asked, timidly.
“In the dungeon, lass,” said the jailer. “I was over sorry, but it could not be helped. We are full everywhere else. But I shall leave you the light, and anything you like for comfort. Only, if you hear any one coming, blow out the candle straightway, or I shall be in a peck of troubles.”
Quelling her sense of terror, and thinking of Goody, alone in that darkness, with such dreadful fates awaiting her reappearance among the people, she promised herself again it would soon be over, and so followed resolutely down into the hole where Adam had once been locked, in those long-past days of despair.