Crane Pond (40 page)

Mr. Willard resumes: ‘Let us each pray that the Lord will put his finger into our soul's lock, so that our bowels turn and our heart swings open. We will now sing the twenty-third psalm. Mr. Sewall, perhaps you will set the tune.' He looks warmly at Sewall while he makes this request. Even as Sewall obliges—and despite his relief that the apology has been completed, and despite his habitual pleasure in setting the tune—he has another dark thought. Mr. Willard is so overjoyed at this massive reinforcement of his own fast day initiative that he has clearly forgotten all about the business of the stillborn! Yet if Sewall had let himself be swayed by the minister's earlier disapproval, his little boy's soul would still have been lost and wandering, looking for a home.

At last, the service comes to an end. Now he should experience a deep sense of peace. However remiss he was when he first took the covenant here, the comprehensiveness and seriousness of this confession must surely have made up for it. This is his place, his church, his people. Long-dead Goodman Walker, who has no doubt been sleeping in some lavender-scented nook of paradise just as he did for so much of the time during his long stay on earth, must surely bestir himself now to welcome Sewall as a fully-fledged member of the South Church of Boston. But all Sewall can feel is the coldness that has entered his bones during the course of the service.

Despite the snow, people are neighbouring just outside the door of the meeting house. One after the other comes up to shake his hand. Mr. Willard does so with particular vigour. ‘That was remarkable,' he says warmly. Flakes have already settled on his thick black eyebrows, giving each one the appearance of a gable arching above its designated eye. ‘A remarkable act of penitence. And humility. I think it sets the seal on this fast day. I believe we have reached the turning point of the whole crisis. And that can largely be credited to your brave act.'

He is clearly giving word to a general sense of relief that at last the unfinished business of four years previously has been definitively dealt with. But Sewall thinks of young Margaret Jacobs renouncing her own confession and facing the certainty of death as a result (though as it happened the trials were abandoned before her case came up); of Rebecca Nurse, refusing at the very foot of the gallows to lie to save herself; of George Burroughs reciting the Lord's Prayer with the noose around his neck; of Giles Corey accepting the appalling death that was visited upon him. Those were the brave acts, not this one.

Sewall can make out Wait Still and Madam Winthrop on the fringes of the crowd of well-wishers. Despite the depth of snow, Mr. Winthrop is hopping about in a way that resembles a small child with urgent need of the house of office. Madam meanwhile is waiting without any of her usual animation—indeed appears strangely slumped and despondent. As on that memorable occasion of the pirates, her skirts have been damnified by melting snow. This sight reminds Sewall of how cold he is, so he takes his bonnet out of his pocket and positions it carefully on his head.

While he is still tying the strings under his chin, Mr. Winthrop approaches, shaking with rage. ‘That's a fine
thing
you have done,' he says, his voice rising on ‘thing'. ‘You've tarred all your fellow judges with the same brush.'

‘I confessed on behalf of myself alone,' Sewall tells him—a little sullenly as he reflects on the fact that most of the congregation are pleased because his apology relieves them of the responsibility of making one themselves.

‘Rubbish! You might just as well have hanged us in a row like we hanged those witches! You confessed on my behalf when I didn't have anything
to
confess,' he continues in a more muted and more sorrowful tone. ‘I did my duty to the best of my ability. We all did. Including you, though you seem to have forgotten it.' Now he thrusts his head at Sewall and lowers his voice still further into a whisper. Sewall is aware once more of the sourish edge to his breath. ‘Madam Winthrop is not at all happy. She guards my reputation. Guards it jealously.'

Both men look in unison at Madam Winthrop as if they are allies rather than at daggers drawn. Madam Winthrop looks unsmilingly back. Sewall almost blushes to think that in the past he has had inappropriate—no, today is confession day—
lewd
and adulterous thoughts about her. Then Mr. Winthrop turns back to Sewall. ‘And when Mr. Stoughton hears of this, well, you can imagine how
he
'll react.'

Stephen has plodded up to join them. He bows to Mr. Winthrop. ‘Mr. Stoughton, eh?' he asks.

‘He will be enraged,' Mr. Winthrop assures him.

Stephen turns to face Sewall and shakes his head. ‘Brother, brother,' he says. ‘You are a Mount Etna indeed.'

Now Hannah and the children have approached. The latter stand in a little row, peering wide-eyed at their father through the descending flakes as if not quite sure who he has become. Wife Hannah steps close, however, reaches up to his face and under the flap of his bonnet, and gives his left ear a little tug.

 

It's a few weeks later. Sewall has just been to Thursday Lecture at the South Church. Each time he attends a service he hopes that once inside the meeting house he will
truly
be within it, like a tortoise in its shell. Instead he continues to feel as though he is perched ambiguously half in, half out, like those creatures that haven't ascertained whether they live on land or in the water.

He has invited two friends to dine with him—not at the Castle Tavern since Captain Wing has also been attending the service and, Sewall reasons, cannot therefore have been attending to his pies, but at a rival establishment, the Blue Anchor, run by Mr. Monk.

As it happens this is a mistake, since George Monk (with many apologies respecting snow, ice, the buffeting of strong winds and the like) produces very meagre fare indeed, just some roast beef and a mince pie to share between the three of them, and bare-legged punch to drink.

Worse is to come. Several Council members are seated at the next table (eating a rather more substantial meal—Mr. Monk explains that they ordered theirs in advance). One of them, Elisha Cooke, leans across and asks Sewall if he will be there tomorrow.

‘Where?'

‘Why, at Mr. Stoughton's of course. In Dorchester.'

‘I know where Mr. Stoughton lives.'

‘Well, he has invited us there for dinner. The whole Council, as far as I can make out.'

‘Not me.'

‘There must be some mistake.' Mr. Cooke waves his arm vaguely. ‘The snow,' he explains.

Sewall stares down at the few crumbs of mince pie remaining on his plate. ‘Yes,' he agrees gloomily, ‘perhaps it's the snow.'

‘I'm sure it will arrive today. Or even tomorrow.'

Wait Still Winthrop is seated at the far side of Elisha Cooke's table, and now suddenly speaks. ‘And if it does not, you should go there anyhow,' he informs Sewall in almost a growl. ‘You
are
a member of Council after all.'

For a moment Sewall has the unworthy thought that Mr. Winthrop is trying to lure him into a position of even greater awkwardness than he feels already. But no. Mr. Winthrop is feeling indignant on his behalf as a fellow member of Council, just as he felt indignant
at
him in his capacity as a fellow judge.

 

Next day, from noon onwards, Sewall sits in his hall just below his longcase clock, listlessly looking through Calvin on the Psalms while listening to the chimes for the quarters and the hours. Finally the clock strikes three. All hope has now irrevocably gone. No messenger can possibly arrive with a delayed invitation. Even if one did, Sewall would not be able to get to Dorchester until long after the meal was over and would no doubt arrive just as his colleagues were taking their leave.

But he knows in his heart of hearts that no messenger was ever sent. He has not been invited along with his colleagues. It is even possible that Mr. Stoughton arranged this whole event merely in order
not
to invite him to it.

Ever since the episode of the pirates, Sewall has endeavoured to try to follow his own conscience, even if that led to conflict with authority (above all to conflict with Mr. Stoughton). On a number of occasions he has failed in this resolve and on others has felt uneasy or compromised. Now, at last, he has unequivocally succeeded. In his imagination he pictured this moment as one of triumph and vindication: a stalwart, self-confident, heroic Sewall, utterly committed to the defence of the integrity of his spirit, resolutely defying the rest of the world. But now it's finally arrived it doesn't feel in the least like that. Instead he pictures a despised and repudiated Sewall, forever cast out of the favour of the most important man in the whole province and therefore out of the favour
of
the province, doomed to scuttle about forlornly in the lonely places of America.

He had expected his confession to enable him to enter the very heart of his community. But as darkness closes in outside his windows (a darkness strangely whitened by the flakes that have begun falling yet again), he has the bitter thought that this ostracism is after all the inevitable and appropriate outcome.

T
hree months have passed and it's a stormy spring night. For some reason Sewall experiences a sudden, urgent need to visit his childhood home again. He feels a kind of panic about it, and has to pace around his study for an hour before he's calm enough (or tired enough) to go to bed.

‘Hannah,' he says next day at breakfast.

‘
Yes
, dearest,' wife Hannah replies emphatically, as if to say she is all ears.

He immediately feels a pang. It isn't her he's addressing. He loves her dearly but she's part of his grown-up life, not his childhood.

‘No, no, my love, I meant
daughter
Hannah.'

‘Oh,' says wife Hannah, cocking her head a little in surprise.

Daughter Hannah is addressing a rye drop-cake (brought by Sarah hot from the oven), brow furrowed. When she has taken a tiny bite, with a click of her teeth like a rabbit severing a blade of grass, she raises her head and only then does she seem to notice the little interchange that has just taken place. ‘Me?' she asks, blushing.

‘Yes, my dear, you. I am intending to make a little journey up to Newbury in a few days' time, and I wondered if you would like to come with me? Perhaps we can rest overnight with our Dummer cousins with whom you stayed a few years ago.'

Of course she was no more part of Sewall's Newbury childhood than wife Hannah was, but she passed a little of her own childhood not far away, so perhaps the visit will have something of the same significance for her. ‘Oh father,' she says. ‘I would love to come so much.' She casts a quick enquiring glance at her mother, who leans over and strokes her arm to reassure her that she is pleased too.

 

The weather shifts just in time, so Sewall and his daughter arrive at the Dummers' place on a sunshiny day in early April. Their hosts must have seen or heard their carriage approach because they are standing by the gate. They are not demonstrative people and their two small forms look like dumpy statues placed there to guard the entrance to the farmhouse.

Sewall hands his daughter down from the carriage and she walks over to them. For a moment none of the three says a word, and Sewall wonders if this visit might be a mistake. After all, Hannah wrote tearful letters about how oppressive she found it here and how much she resented being required to fetch cows and stitch her cushion under the stern supervision of her mentors. Still, he thinks as he watches the silent triangle, she has nothing to fear from them now. She is eighteen years old, not thirteen as she was then, and at least half a foot taller than each of them.

And then suddenly, as if a command has been given, the three of them
dive
(so to speak) towards each other and embrace. Hannah sinks her head on to the shoulders of the two Dummers, who both have an arm extending over her back while clasping each other at the same time. All three are sobbing joyfully. Sewall stands at a little distance, feeling unexpectedly excluded as if, in the absence of Bastian (now a father and working for Mrs. Thayer at present), he's merely the carriage driver who has enabled this happy reunion to take place. He remembers a similar feeling five years before when, after waiting all afternoon, he came out to see the Dummers and Hannah returning from a visit in the full flush of happy conversation and without any apparent need of him.

Finally cousin Abigail extracts herself from the embrace and steps over to him. She peers up at his face and he bends down to touch his cheek against her tear-stained one. ‘You must remember, dear cousin Sam,' she whispers, ‘that Hannah has been eighteen years a daughter to you, but she was three months a daughter to us, and in the absence of another, that little is all we have.' She smiles at him, which has the effect of making her round face rounder still

Now cousin William steps over. ‘I was just explaining to your girl that today was the first time our cows have been let out of the barn. They'll be skittish, not being used to the new ordering of their day. So I asked her if she would like to come with me after dinner and help fetch them.' He turns towards Hannah who is standing by the gatepost arm in arm with Abigail. ‘As I recall, Hannah, you always loved to bring the cows in when you were here before, didn't you?'

‘Oh yes,' Hannah breathily replies, ‘I always loved to do that.'

 

It's another beautiful spring day. Sewall and his daughter left the Dummers immediately after breakfast and are now close to the township of Newbury, approaching the top of Old Town Hills. The road has dwindled away and they alight from the carriage to take the last stretch to the little summit on foot.

Sewall suddenly notices that Hannah is limping slightly. ‘Have you hurt your leg, my dear?' he asks her.