"Elizabeth!"
She heard and saw him—struggled eagerly with the lower bolts, flung the last leaf of the door open, and sprang toward him. Then recollecting herself, she retreated a step, and covering her face with both hands, burst into a passion of tears that shook her slender form from head to foot.
Then the young man's heart smote him afresh, for he saw by the withered roses in her hair, the fine yellow lace that shaded her arms, and her dress of flowered silk, that the poor girl had not been in bed that night. She had been waiting, watching, praying no doubt for him.
"Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth! will you not look on me? Are you not glad that I am safe?"
She could not speak, but trembled all over like the leaves of a vine when the wind shakes it.
"Elizabeth!"
She took down her hands and turned her eyes on his face—those large deer-like eyes full of tenderness and shame.
"Elizabeth! is this for me—I am safe, and very, very happy, for this terror, these blushes. You would not look this way if you cared nothing about a poor fellow!"
She began to tremble again, and shrunk back with a red glow burning over her neck, and up to her temples beneath the dusky shadows of her hair.
"Elizabeth, darling, speak to me," said the youth, trembling himself beneath the sweet joy of the moment, and approaching her with his face all a-glow.
"Don't, don't! I am sick with shame. I did not know—I did not hope—they told us you had gone down to the water, out in a fishing-boat in the midst of the storm last night, that—that—"
"And you believed it—you grieved a little?"
"I feared every thing!"
"No—not altogether, for you see I am alive. But you have suffered; your eyes are heavy, your cheek white again. Oh, tell me, was it trouble, was it anxiety on my account? Do not fear to say yes—I will not presume—I will not half believe it—only let me have the happiness of thinking so, for one little moment."
She lifted her face, and the dusky shame which blushes usually carry to the eyes, died out, leaving them soft and clear as a mountain spring.
"Was it for you, Norman, for you that I have wept, and prayed, and suffered? Ah me, what agonies of fear! Why ask? you know it," here the little graceful coquetries of her sex would break in, for she began to get ashamed again—"for are you not a fellow-creature out of the church, unregenerated and worshipping——"
"You, and every thing you worship," cried the youth, seizing her hand, which he devoured with his eyes, but dared not touch with his lips. "Never mind whether I am fit to be drowned or not; give me something worth living for; tell me that one day when I am wiser and you a little older, not much, because a good deal can be done in that way after the ceremony; but tell me that you will be my wife."
His face was all a flush of crimson now, but hers grew pale as death; the last word—that holy, beautiful word—made her shiver from heart to limb. He had been too impetuous; Elizabeth Parris had never dared to think of the mystery he brought so broadly before her. Her pure maidenly thoughts had hovered round it timidly, as a shadow haunts a white lily, but she was content with the perfume, without daring to touch the flower.
"Your wife, your wife!" she murmured, and the words fell from her lips with silvery slowness, like drops from a fountain. "Your wife, and I not yet fifteen!"
"But you will think of it. I am a sad fellow to frighten you so; a sad, wicked fellow, but you will forgive it, Elizabeth; you know, out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh."
He saw her sweet lips quivering into a smile, and forgave himself at once.
"There now, you see I can quote Scripture a little, so forgive me this once. I love you till my heart aches with the joy of it. Think of this—promise me that you will."
Promise to think of it! alas, poor child, when would she think of any thing else!
CHAPTER V.
SIR WILLIAM AND HIS WIFE.
Probably Elizabeth Parris would not have sat down in the portico, but the night's watching had made her faint. When Norman Lovel darted off to gather up the roses he had plucked, and so rudely scattered, she sank down, watching him dreamily as he cast them away a second time, and gathered fresh ones, unmindful, poor child, that this might be a type of his character, and those poor flowers of her own fate.
He came back, bringing a rich harvest of blush roses—he never gave any other to Elizabeth—with both hands wet with the dew which rained out of their hearts.
"Come," he said, heaping them on the seat by her side, "let us gather up a bouquet for the breakfast-table. Lady Phipps loves flowers fresh from the thicket."
Elizabeth Parris started up with a look of sudden dismay.
"Lady Phipps! and I have known that you are safe all this time without telling her—how selfish, how cruel! It was almost morning before she went to her room. I am sure she has not slept."
As she spoke, Elizabeth pushed open the door, and in an instant Norman saw her gliding up the broad staircase which led to the second story. He followed her into the vestibule, and began pacing up and down, turning his eyes now on the floor, tessellated with lozenges of black oak and red cedar, now upon the staircase, hoping to see the young girl descend again.
But, instead of this, an imperious knock sounded from the door which he had but partially closed; at the same instant it was pushed open, and a gentleman strode through with a dull, weary step, and walked heavily up-stairs.
Norman was in the lower end of the vestibule, and the surprise of this sudden entrance kept him motionless. Recovering himself, he came forward, but only in time to catch another glimpse of the governor as he entered his wife's chamber.
Elizabeth had found Lady Phipps asleep, and, not daring to wake her, stole off to her own room; but the heavy step of Sir William possessed more power than her fairy tread, and the moment it sounded on the floor Lady Phipps started up and inquired wildly if the young secretary was found.
The governor shook his head. Saddened by his gesture Lady Phipps fell back upon her pillow, and, turning her face to the wall, fell into a leaden silence.
A knock, and a sweet, pleading voice asking entrance.
"It is Elizabeth Parris. Poor child, she has spent a terrible night," said Lady Phipps. "Have you no comfort to give her?"
"None!" said the stern man, with a quiver of the voice. "He was seen going to the shore with another person, directly after a boat was engulfed in the breakers—nothing could have lived."
"And who was that other one?" cried the lady, struck by the hesitation in her husband's voice.
Sir William arose, and came close to the bed, afraid to speak aloud with that young creature at the door.
"It was Samuel Parris."
The lady uttered a low cry, and buried her face in the pillow. Her noble heart was shaken as if it had been her own father who was lost.
Again that knock at the door, and now a low, almost harsh voice, bade the girl come in.
Sir William was hardening himself into composure, that he might tell the young girl of her bereavement, with the firmness that became his manhood.