"'THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES\n\n\nby\n\nNATHANIEL HAWTHORNE\n\n\n\n\nTable of Contents\n\n INTRODUCTORY NOTE\n AUTHOR\'S PREFACE\n I. THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY\n II. THE LITTLE SHOP-WINDOW\n III. THE FIRST CUSTOMER\n IV. A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER\n V. MAY AND NOVEMBER\n VI. MAULE\'S WELL\n VII. THE GUEST\n VIII. THE PYNCHEON OF TO-DAY\n IX. CLIFFORD AND PHOEBE\n X. THE PYNCHEON GARDEN\n XI. THE ARCHED WINDOW\n XII. THE DAGUERREOTYPIST\n XIII. ALICE PYNCHEON\n XIV. PHOEBE\'S GOOD-BYE\n XV. THE SCOWL AND SMILE\n XVI. CLIFFORD\'S CHAMBER\n XVII. THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS\n XVIII. GOVERNOR PYNCHEON\n XIX. ALICE\'S POSIES\n XX. THE FLOWER OF EDEN\n XXI. THE DEPARTURE\n\n\n\n\n INTRODUCTORY NOTE.\n\nTHE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.\n\n\nIN September of the year during the February of which Hawthorne had\ncompleted \"The Scarlet Letter,\" he began \"The House of the Seven\nGables.\" Meanwhile, he had removed from Salem to Lenox, in Berkshire\nCounty, Massachusetts, where he occupied with his family a small red\nwooden house, still standing at the date of this edition, near the\nStockbridge Bowl.\n\n\"I sha\'n\'t have the new story ready by November,\" he explained to his\npublisher, on the 1st of October, \"for I am never good for anything in\nthe literary way till after the first autumnal frost, which has\nsomewhat such an effect on my imagination that it does on the foliage\nhere about me-multiplying and brightening its hues.\" But by vigorous\napplication he was able to complete the new work about the middle of\nthe January following.\n\nSince research has disclosed the manner in which the romance is\ninterwoven with incidents from the history of the Hawthorne family,\n\"The House of the Seven Gables\" has acquired an interest apart from\nthat by which it first appealed to the public. John Hathorne (as the\nname was then spelled), the great-grandfather of Nathaniel Hawthorne,\nwas a magistrate at Salem in the latter part of the seventeenth\ncentury, and officiated at the famous trials for witchcraft held there.\nIt is of record that he used peculiar severity towards a certain woman\nwho was among the accused; and the husband of this woman prophesied\nthat God would take revenge upon his wife\'s persecutors. This\ncircumstance doubtless furnished a hint for that piece of tradition in\nthe book which represents a Pyncheon of a former generation as having\npersecuted one Maule, who declared that God would give his enemy \"blood\nto drink.\" It became a conviction with the Hawthorne family that a\ncurse had been pronounced upon its members, which continued in force in\nthe time of the romancer; a conviction perhaps derived from the\nrecorded prophecy of the injured woman\'s husband, just mentioned; and,\nhere again, we have a correspondence with Maule\'s malediction in the\nstory. Furthermore, there occurs in the \"American Note-Books\" (August\n27, 1837), a reminiscence of the author\'s family, to the following\neffect. Philip English, a character well-known in early Salem annals,\nwas among those who suffered from John Hathorne\'s magisterial\nharshness, and he maintained in consequence a lasting feud with the old\nPuritan official. But at his death English left daughters, one of whom\nis said to have married the son of Justice John Hathorne, whom English\nhad declared he would never forgive. It is scarcely necessary to point\nout how clearly this foreshadows the final union of those hereditary\nfoes, the Pyncheons and Maules, through the marriage of Phoebe and\nHolgrave. The romance, however, describes the Maules as possessing some\nof the traits known to have been characteristic of the Hawthornes: for\nexample, \"so long as any of the race were to be found, they had been\nmarked out from other men--not strikingly, nor as with a sharp line,\nbut with an effect that was felt rather than spoken of--by an\nhereditary characteristic of reserve.\" Thus, while the general\nsuggestion of the Hawthorne line and its fortunes was followed in the\nromance, the Pyncheons taking the place of the author\'s family, certain\ndistinguishing marks of the Hawthornes were assigned to the imaginary\nMaule posterity.\n\nThere are one or two other points which indicate Hawthorne\'s method of\nbasing his compositions, the result in the main of pure invention, on\nthe solid ground of particular facts. Allusion is made, in the first\nchapter of the \"Seven Gables,\" to a grant of lands in Waldo County,\nMaine, owned by the Pyncheon family. In the \"American Note-Books\"\nthere is an entry, dated August 12, 1837, which speaks of the\nRevolutionary general, Knox, and his land-grant in Waldo County, by\nvirtue of which the owner had hoped to establish an estate on the\nEnglish plan, with a tenantry to make it profitable for him. An\nincident of much greater importance in the story is the supposed murder\nof one of the Pyncheons by his nephew, to whom we are introduced as\nClifford Pyncheon. In all probability Hawthorne connected with this,\nin his mind, the murder of Mr. White, a wealthy gentleman of Salem,\nkilled by a man whom his nephew had hired. This took place a few years\nafter Hawthorne\'s graduation from college, and was one of the\ncelebrated cases of the day, Daniel Webster taking part prominently in\nthe trial. But it should be observed here that such resemblances as\nthese between sundry elements in the work of Hawthorne\'s fancy and\ndetails of reality are only fragmentary, and are rearranged to suit the\nauthor\'s purposes.\n\nIn the same way he has made his description of Hepzibah Pyncheon\'s\nseven-gabled mansion conform so nearly to several old dwellings\nformerly or still extant in Salem, that strenuous efforts have been\nmade to fix upon some one of them as the veritable edifice of the\nromance. A paragraph in the opening chapter has perhaps assisted this\ndelusion that there must have been a single original House of the Seven\nGables, framed by flesh-and-blood carpenters; for it runs thus:--\n\n\"Familiar as it stands in the writer\'s recollection--for it has been an\nobject of curiosity with him from boyhood, both as a specimen of the\nbest and stateliest architecture of a long-past epoch, and as the scene\nof events more full of interest perhaps than those of a gray feudal\ncastle--familiar as it stands, in its rusty old age, it is therefore\nonly the more difficult to imagine the bright novelty with which it\nfirst caught the sunshine.\"\n\nHundreds of pilgrims annually visit a house in Salem, belonging to one\nbranch of the Ingersoll family of that place, which is stoutly\nmaintained to have been the model for Hawthorne\'s visionary dwelling.\nOthers have supposed that the now vanished house of the identical\nPhilip English, whose blood, as we have already noticed, became mingled\nwith that of the Hawthornes, supplied the pattern; and still a third\nbuilding, known as the Curwen mansion, has been declared the only\ngenuine establishment. Notwithstanding persistent popular belief, the\nauthenticity of all these must positively be denied; although it is\npossible that isolated reminiscences of all three may have blended with\nthe ideal image in the mind of Hawthorne. He, it will be seen, remarks\nin the Preface, alluding to himself in the third person, that he trusts\nnot to be condemned for \"laying out a street that infringes upon\nnobody\'s private rights... and building a house of materials long in\nuse for constructing castles in the air.\" More than this, he stated to\npersons still living that the house of the romance was not copied from\nany actual edifice, but was simply a general reproduction of a style of\narchitecture belonging to colonial days, examples of which survived\ninto the period of his youth, but have since been radically modified or\ndestroyed. Here, as elsewhere, he exercised the liberty of a creative\nmind to heighten the probability of his pictures without confining\nhimself to a literal description of something he had seen.\n\nWhile Hawthorne remained at Lenox, and during the composition of this\nromance, various other literary personages settled or stayed for a time\nin the vicinity; among them, Herman Melville, whose intercourse\nHawthorne greatly enjoyed, Henry James, Sr., Doctor Holmes, J. T.\nHeadley, James Russell Lowell, Edwin P. Whipple, Frederika Bremer, and\nJ. T. Fields; so that there was no lack of intellectual society in\nthe midst of the beautiful and inspiring mountain scenery of the place.\n\"In the afternoons, nowadays,\" he records, shortly before beginning the\nwork, \"this valley in which I dwell seems like a vast basin filled with\ngolden Sunshine as with wine;\" and, happy in the companionship of his\nwife and their three children, he led a simple, refined, idyllic life,\ndespite the restrictions of a scanty and uncertain income. A letter\nwritten by Mrs. Hawthorne, at this time, to a member of her family,\ngives incidentally a glimpse of the scene, which may properly find a\nplace here. She says: \"I delight to think that you also can look\nforth, as I do now, upon a broad valley and a fine amphitheater of\nhills, and are about to watch the stately ceremony of the sunset from\nyour piazza. But you have not this lovely lake, nor, I suppose, the\ndelicate purple mist which folds these slumbering mountains in airy\nveils. Mr. Hawthorne has been lying down in the sun shine, slightly\nfleckered with the shadows of a tree, and Una and Julian have been\nmaking him look like the mighty Pan, by covering his chin and breast\nwith long grass-blades, that looked like a verdant and venerable\nbeard.\" The pleasantness and peace of his surroundings and of his\nmodest home, in Lenox, may be taken into account as harmonizing with\nthe mellow serenity of the romance then produced. Of the work, when it\nappeared in the early spring of 1851, he wrote to Horatio Bridge these\nwords, now published for the first time:--\n\n\"\'The House of the Seven Gables\' in my opinion, is better than \'The\nScarlet Letter:\' but I should not wonder if I had refined upon the\nprincipal character a little too much for popular appreciation, nor if\nthe romance of the book should be somewhat at odds with the humble and\nfamiliar scenery in which I invest it. But I feel that portions of it\nare as good as anything I can hope to write, and the publisher speaks\nencouragingly of its success.\"\n\nFrom England, especially, came many warm expressions of praise,--a fact\nwhich Mrs. Hawthorne, in a private letter, commented on as the\nfulfillment of a possibility which Hawthorne, writing in boyhood to his\nmother, had looked forward to. He had asked her if she would not like\nhim to become an author and have his books read in England.\n\nG. P. L.\n\n\n\n\n PREFACE.\n\n\nWHEN a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed that\nhe wishes to claim a certain latitude, both as to its fashion and\nmaterial, which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume had\nhe professed to be writing a Novel. The latter form of composition is\npresumed to aim at a very minute fidelity, not merely to the possible,\nbut to the probable and ordinary course of man\'s experience. The\nformer--while, as a work of art, it must rigidly subject itself to\nlaws, and while it sins unpardonably so far as it may swerve aside from\nthe truth of the human heart--has fairly a right to present that truth\nunder circumstances, to a great extent, of the writer\'s own choosing or\ncreation. If he think fit, also, he may so manage his atmospherical\nmedium as to bring out or mellow the lights and deepen and enrich the\nshadows of the picture. He will be wise, no doubt, to make a very\nmoderate use of the privileges here stated, and, especially, to mingle\nthe Marvelous rather as a slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor, than\nas any portion of the actual substance of the dish offered to the\npublic. He can hardly be said, however, to commit a literary crime\neven if he disregard this caution.\n\nIn the present work, the author has proposed to himself--but with what\nsuccess, fortunately, it is not for him to judge--to keep undeviatingly\nwithin his immunities. The point of view in which this tale comes\nunder the Romantic definition lies in the attempt to connect a bygone\ntime with the very present that is flitting away from us. It is a\nlegend prolonging itself, from an epoch now gray in the distance, down\ninto our own broad daylight, and bringing along with it some of its\nlegendary mist, which the reader, according to his pleasure, may either\ndisregard, or allow it to float almost imperceptibly about the\ncharacters and events for the sake of a picturesque effect. The\nnarrative, it may be, is woven of so humble a texture as to require\nthis advantage, and, at the same time, to render it the more difficult\nof attainment.\n\nMany writers lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, at\nwhich they profess to aim their works. Not to be deficient in this\nparticular, the author has provided himself with a moral,--the truth,\nnamely, that the wrong-doing of one generation lives into the\nsuccessive ones, and, divesting itself of every temporary advantage,\nbecomes a pure and uncontrollable mischief; and he would feel it a\nsingular gratification if this romance might effectually convince\nmankind--or, indeed, any one man--of the folly of tumbling down an\navalanche of ill-gotten gold, or real estate, on the heads of an\nunfortunate posterity, thereby to maim and crush them, until the\naccumulated mass shall be scattered abroad in its original atoms. In\ngood faith, however, he is not sufficiently imaginative to flatter\nhimself with the slightest hope of this kind. When romances do really\nteach anything, or produce any effective operation, it is usually\nthrough a far more subtile process than the ostensible one. The author\nhas considered it hardly worth his while, therefore, relentlessly to\nimpale the story with its moral as with an iron rod,--or, rather, as by\nsticking a pin through a butterfly,--thus at once depriving it of life,\nand causing it to stiffen in an ungainly and unnatural attitude. A\nhigh truth, indeed, fairly, finely, and skilfully wrought out,\nbrightening at every step, and crowning the final development of a work\nof fiction, may add an artistic glory, but is never any truer, and\nseldom any more evident, at the last page than at the first.\n\nThe reader may perhaps choose to assign an actual locality to the\nimaginary events of this narrative. If permitted by the historical\nconnection,--which, though slight, was essential to his plan,--the\nauthor would very willingly have avoided anything of this nature. Not\nto speak of other objections, it exposes the romance to an inflexible\nand exceedingly dangerous species of criticism, by bringing his\nfancy-pictures almost into positive contact with the realities of the\nmoment. It has been no part of his object, however, to describe local\nmanners, nor in any way to meddle with the characteristics of a\ncommunity for whom he cherishes a proper respect and a natural regard.\nHe trusts not to be considered as unpardonably offending by laying out\na street that infringes upon nobody\'s private rights, and appropriating\na lot of land which had no visible owner, and building a house of\nmaterials long in use for constructing castles in the air. The\npersonages of the tale--though they give themselves out to be of\nancient stability and considerable prominence--are really of the\nauthor\'s own making, or at all events, of his own mixing; their virtues\ncan shed no lustre, nor their defects redound, in the remotest degree,\nto the discredit of the venerable town of which they profess to be\ninhabitants. He would be glad, therefore, if-especially in the quarter\nto which he alludes-the book may be read strictly as a Romance, having\na great deal more to do with the clouds overhead than with any portion\nof the actual soil of the County of Essex.\n\nLENOX, January 27, 1851.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HOUSE OF SEVEN GABLES\n\n\nby\n\nNathaniel Hawthorne\n\n\n\n\n I The Old Pyncheon Family\n\n\nHALFWAY down a by-street of one of our New England towns stands a rusty\nwooden house, with seven acutely peaked gables, facing towards various\npoints of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the midst. The\nstreet is Pyncheon Street; the house is the old Pyncheon House; and an\nelm-tree, of wide circumference, rooted before the door, is familiar to\nevery town-born child by the title of the Pyncheon Elm. On my\noccasional visits to the town aforesaid, I seldom failed to turn down\nPyncheon Street, for the sake of passing through the shadow of these\ntwo antiquities,--the great elm-tree and the weather-beaten edifice.\n\nThe aspect of the venerable mansion has always affected me like a human\ncountenance, bearing the traces not merely of outward storm and\nsunshine, but expressive also, of the long lapse of mortal life, and\naccompanying vicissitudes that have passed within. Were these to be\nworthily recounted, they would form a narrative of no small interest\nand instruction, and possessing, moreover, a certain remarkable unity,\nwhich might almost seem the result of artistic arrangement. But the\nstory would include a chain of events extending over the better part of\ntwo centuries, and, written out with reasonable amplitude, would fill a\nbigger folio volume, or a longer series of duodecimos, than could\nprudently be appropriated to the annals of all New England during a\nsimilar period. It consequently becomes imperative to make short work\nwith most of the traditionary lore of which the old Pyncheon House,\notherwise known as the House of the Seven Gables, has been the theme.\nWith a brief sketch, therefore, of the circumstances amid which the\nfoundation of the house was laid, and a rapid glimpse at its quaint\nexterior, as it grew black in the prevalent east wind,--pointing, too,\nhere and there, at some spot of more verdant mossiness on its roof and\nwalls,--we shall commence the real action of our tale at an epoch not\nvery remote from the present day. Still, there will be a connection\nwith the long past--a reference to forgotten events and personages, and\nto manners, feelings, and opinions, almost or wholly obsolete--which,\nif adequately translated to the reader, would serve to illustrate how\nmuch of old material goes to make up the freshest novelty of human\nlife. Hence, too, might be drawn a weighty lesson from the\nlittle-regarded truth, that the act of the passing generation is the\ngerm which may and must produce good or evil fruit in a far-distant\ntime; that, together with the seed of the merely temporary crop, which\nmortals term expediency, they inevitably sow the acorns of a more\nenduring growth, which may darkly overshadow their posterity.\n\nThe House of the Seven Gables, antique as it now looks, was not the\nfirst habitation erected by civilized man on precisely the same spot of\nground. Pyncheon Street formerly bore the humbler appellation of\nMaule\'s Lane, from the name of the original occupant of the soil,\nbefore whose cottage-door it was a cow-path. A natural spring of soft\nand pleasant water--a rare treasure on the sea-girt peninsula where the\nPuritan settlement was made--had early induced Matthew Maule to build a\nhut, shaggy with thatch, at this point, although somewhat too remote\nfrom what was then the centre of the village. In the growth of the\ntown, however, after some thirty or forty years, the site covered by\nthis rude hovel had become exceedingly desirable in the eyes of a\nprominent and powerful personage, who asserted plausible claims to the\nproprietorship of this and a large adjacent tract of land, on the\nstrength of a grant from the legislature. Colonel Pyncheon, the\nclaimant, as we gather from whatever traits of him are preserved, was\ncharacterized by an iron energy of purpose. Matthew Maule, on the\nother hand, though an obscure man, was stubborn in the defence of what\nhe considered his right; and, for several years, he succeeded in\nprotecting the acre or two of earth which, with his own toil, he had\nhewn out of the primeval forest, to be his garden ground and homestead.\nNo written record of this dispute is known to be in existence. Our\nacquaintance with the whole subject is derived chiefly from tradition.\nIt would be bold, therefore, and possibly unjust, to venture a decisive\nopinion as to its merits; although it appears to have been at least a\nmatter of doubt, whether Colonel Pyncheon\'s claim were not unduly\nstretched, in order to make it cover the small metes and bounds of\nMatthew Maule. What greatly strengthens such a suspicion is the fact\nthat this controversy between two ill-matched antagonists--at a period,\nmoreover, laud it as we may, when personal influence had far more\nweight than now--remained for years undecided, and came to a close only\nwith the death of the party occupying the disputed soil. The mode of\nhis death, too, affects the mind differently, in our day, from what it\ndid a century and a half ago. It was a death that blasted with strange\nhorror the humble name of the dweller in the cottage, and made it seem\nalmost a religious act to drive the plough over the little area of his\nhabitation, and obliterate his place and memory from among men.\n\nOld Matthew Maule, in a word, was executed for the crime of witchcraft.\nHe was one of the martyrs to that terrible delusion, which should teach\nus, among its other morals, that the influential classes, and those who\ntake upon themselves to be leaders of the people, are fully liable to\nall the passionate error that has ever characterized the maddest mob.\nClergymen, judges, statesmen,--the wisest, calmest, holiest persons of\ntheir day stood in the inner circle round about the gallows, loudest to\napplaud the work of blood, latest to confess themselves miserably\ndeceived. If any one part of their proceedings can be said to deserve\nless blame than another, it was the singular indiscrimination with\nwhich they persecuted, not merely the poor and aged, as in former\njudicial massacres, but people of all ranks; their own equals,\nbrethren, and wives. Amid the disorder of such various ruin, it is not\nstrange that a man of inconsiderable note, like Maule, should have\ntrodden the martyr\'s path to the hill of execution almost unremarked in\nthe throng of his fellow sufferers. But, in after days, when the\nfrenzy of that hideous epoch had subsided, it was remembered how loudly\nColonel Pyncheon had joined in the general cry, to purge the land from\nwitchcraft; nor did it fail to be whispered, that there was an\ninvidious acrimony in the zeal with which he had sought the\ncondemnation of Matthew Maule. It was well known that the victim had\nrecognized the bitterness of personal enmity in his persecutor\'s\nconduct towards him, and that he declared himself hunted to death for\nhis spoil. At the moment of execution--with the halter about his neck,\nand while Colonel Pyncheon sat on horseback, grimly gazing at the scene\nMaule had addressed him from the scaffold, and uttered a prophecy, of\nwhich history, as well as fireside tradition, has preserved the very\nwords. \"God,\" said the dying man, pointing his finger, with a ghastly\nlook, at the undismayed countenance of his enemy,--\"God will give him\nblood to drink!\" After the reputed wizard\'s death, his humble\nhomestead had fallen an easy spoil into Colonel Pyncheon\'s grasp. When\nit was understood, however, that the Colonel intended to erect a family\nmansion-spacious, ponderously framed of oaken timber, and calculated to\nendure for many generations of his posterity over the spot first\ncovered by the log-built hut of Matthew Maule, there was much shaking\nof the head among the village gossips. Without absolutely expressing a\ndoubt whether the stalwart Puritan had acted as a man of conscience and\nintegrity throughout the proceedings which have been sketched, they,\nnevertheless, hinted that he was about to build his house over an\nunquiet grave. His home would include the home of the dead and buried\nwizard, and would thus afford the ghost of the latter a kind of\nprivilege to haunt its new apartments, and the chambers into which\nfuture bridegrooms were to lead their brides, and where children of the\nPyncheon blood were to be born. The terror and ugliness of Maule\'s\ncrime, and the wretchedness of his punishment, would darken the freshly\nplastered walls, and infect them early with the scent of an old and\nmelancholy house. Why, then,--while so much of the soil around him was\nbestrewn with the virgin forest leaves,--why should Colonel Pyncheon\nprefer a site that had already been accurst?\n\nBut the Puritan soldier and magistrate was not a man to be turned aside\nfrom his well-considered scheme, either by dread of the wizard\'s ghost,\nor by flimsy sentimentalities of any kind, however specious. Had he\nbeen told of a bad air, it might have moved him somewhat; but he was\nready to encounter an evil spirit on his own ground. Endowed with\ncommonsense, as massive and hard as blocks of granite, fastened\ntogether by stern rigidity of purpose, as with iron clamps, he followed\nout his original design, probably without so much as imagining an\nobjection to it. On the score of delicacy, or any scrupulousness which\na finer sensibility might have taught him, the Colonel, like most of\nhis breed and generation, was impenetrable. He therefore dug his\ncellar, and laid the deep foundations of his mansion, on the square of\nearth whence Matthew Maule, forty years before, had first swept away\nthe fallen leaves. It was a curious, and, as some people thought, an\nominous fact, that, very soon after the workmen began their operations,\nthe spring of water, above mentioned, entirely lost the deliciousness\nof its pristine quality. Whether its sources were disturbed by the\ndepth of the new cellar, or whatever subtler cause might lurk at the\nbottom, it is certain that the water of Maule\'s Well, as it continued\nto be called, grew hard and brackish. Even such we find it now; and\nany old woman of the neighborhood will certify that it is productive of\nintestinal mischief to those who quench their thirst there.\n\nThe reader may deem it singular that the head carpenter of the new\nedifice was no other than the son of the very man from whose dead gripe\nthe property of the soil had been wrested. Not improbably he was the\nbest workman of his time; or, perhaps, the Colonel thought it\nexpedient, or was impelled by some better feeling, thus openly to cast\naside all animosity against the race of his fallen antagonist. Nor was\nit out of keeping with the general coarseness and matter-of-fact\ncharacter of the age, that the son should be willing to earn an honest\npenny, or, rather, a weighty amount of sterling pounds, from the purse\nof his father\'s deadly enemy. At all events, Thomas Maule became the\narchitect of the House of the Seven Gables, and performed his duty so\nfaithfully that the timber framework fastened by his hands still holds\ntogether.\n\nThus the great house was built. Familiar as it stands in the writer\'s\nrecollection,--for it has been an object of curiosity with him from\nboyhood, both as a specimen of the best and stateliest architecture of\na longpast epoch, and as the scene of events more full of human\ninterest, perhaps, than those of a gray feudal castle,--familiar as it\nstands, in its rusty old age, it is therefore only the more difficult\nto imagine the bright novelty with which it first caught the sunshine.\nThe impression of its actual state, at this distance of a hundred and\nsixty years, darkens inevitably through the picture which we would fain\ngive of its appearance on the morning when the Puritan magnate bade all\nthe town to be his guests. A ceremony of consecration, festive as well\nas religious, was now to be performed. A prayer and discourse from the\nRev. Mr. Higginson, and the outpouring of a psalm from the general\nthroat of the community, was to be made acceptable to the grosser sense\nby ale, cider, wine, and brandy, in copious effusion, and, as some\nauthorities aver, by an ox, roasted whole, or at least, by the weight\nand substance of an ox, in more manageable joints and sirloins. The\ncarcass of a deer, shot within twenty miles, had supplied material for\nthe vast circumference of a pasty. A codfish of sixty pounds, caught\nin the bay, had been dissolved into the rich liquid of a chowder. The\nchimney of the new house, in short, belching forth its kitchen smoke,\nimpregnated the whole air with the scent of meats, fowls, and fishes,\nspicily concocted with odoriferous herbs, and onions in abundance. The\nmere smell of such festivity, making its way to everybody\'s nostrils,\nwas at once an invitation and an appetite.\n\nMaule\'s Lane, or Pyncheon Street, as it were now more decorous to call\nit, was thronged, at the appointed hour, as with a congregation on its\nway to church. All, as they approached, looked upward at the imposing\nedifice, which was henceforth to assume its rank among the habitations\nof mankind. There it rose, a little withdrawn from the line of the\nstreet, but in pride, not modesty. Its whole visible exterior was\nornamented with quaint figures, conceived in the grotesqueness of a\nGothic fancy, and drawn or stamped in the glittering plaster, composed\nof lime, pebbles, and bits of glass, with which the woodwork of the\nwalls was overspread. On every side the seven gables pointed sharply\ntowards the sky, and presented the aspect of a whole sisterhood of\nedifices, breathing through the spiracles of one great chimney. The\nmany lattices, with their small, diamond-shaped panes, admitted the\nsunlight into hall and chamber, while, nevertheless, the second story,\nprojecting far over the base, and itself retiring beneath the third,\nthrew a shadowy and thoughtful gloom into the lower rooms. Carved\nglobes of wood were affixed under the jutting stories. Little spiral\nrods of iron beautified each of the seven peaks. On the triangular\nportion of the gable, that fronted next the street, was a dial, put up\nthat very morning, and on which the sun was still marking the passage\nof the first bright hour in a history that was not destined to be all\nso bright. All around were scattered shavings, chips, shingles, and\nbroken halves of bricks; these, together with the lately turned earth,\non which the grass had not begun to grow, contributed to the impression\nof strangeness and novelty proper to a house that had yet its place to\nmake among men\'s daily interests.\n\nThe principal entrance, which had almost the breadth of a church-door,\nwas in the angle between the two front gables, and was covered by an\nopen porch, with benches beneath its shelter. Under this arched\ndoorway, scraping their feet on the unworn threshold, now trod the\nclergymen, the elders, the magistrates, the deacons, and whatever of\naristocracy there was in town or county. Thither, too, thronged the\nplebeian classes as freely as their betters, and in larger number.\nJust within the entrance, however, stood two serving-men, pointing some\nof the guests to the neighborhood of the kitchen and ushering others\ninto the statelier rooms,--hospitable alike to all, but still with a\nscrutinizing regard to the high or low degree of each. Velvet garments\nsombre but rich, stiffly plaited ruffs and bands, embroidered gloves,\nvenerable beards, the mien and countenance of authority, made it easy\nto distinguish the gentleman of worship, at that period, from the\ntradesman, with his plodding air, or the laborer, in his leathern\njerkin, stealing awe-stricken into the house which he had perhaps\nhelped to build.\n\nOne inauspicious circumstance there was, which awakened a hardly\nconcealed displeasure in the breasts of a few of the more punctilious\nvisitors. The founder of this stately mansion--a gentleman noted for\nthe square and ponderous courtesy of his demeanor, ought surely to have\nstood in his own hall, and to have offered the first welcome to so many\neminent personages as here presented themselves in honor of his solemn\nfestival. He was as yet invisible; the most favored of the guests had\nnot beheld him. This sluggishness on Colonel Pyncheon\'s part became\nstill more unaccountable, when the second dignitary of the province\nmade his appearance, and found no more ceremonious a reception. The\nlieutenant-governor, although his visit was one of the anticipated\nglories of the day, had alighted from his horse, and assisted his lady\nfrom her side-saddle, and crossed the Colonel\'s threshold, without\nother greeting than that of the principal domestic.\n\nThis person--a gray-headed man, of quiet and most respectful\ndeportment--found it necessary to explain that his master still\nremained in his study, or private apartment; on entering which, an hour\nbefore, he had expressed a wish on no account to be disturbed.\n\n\"Do not you see, fellow,\" said the high-sheriff of the county, taking\nthe servant aside, \"that this is no less a man than the\nlieutenant-governor? Summon Colonel Pyncheon at once! I know that he\nreceived letters from England this morning; and, in the perusal and\nconsideration of them, an hour may have passed away without his\nnoticing it. But he will be ill-pleased, I judge, if you suffer him to\nneglect the courtesy due to one of our chief rulers, and who may be\nsaid to represent King William, in the absence of the governor himself.\nCall your master instantly.\"\n\n\"Nay, please your worship,\" answered the man, in much perplexity, but\nwith a backwardness that strikingly indicated the hard and severe\ncharacter of Colonel Pyncheon\'s domestic rule; \"my master\'s orders were\nexceeding strict; and, as your worship knows, he permits of no\ndiscretion in the obedience of those who owe him service. Let who list\nopen yonder door; I dare not, though the governor\'s own voice should\nbid me do it!\"\n\n\"Pooh, pooh, master high sheriff!\" cried the lieutenant-governor, who\nhad overheard the foregoing discussion, and felt himself high enough in\nstation to play a little with his dignity. \"I will take the matter\ninto my own hands. It is time that the good Colonel came forth to\ngreet his friends; else we shall be apt to suspect that he has taken a\nsip too much of his Canary wine, in his extreme deliberation which cask\nit were best to broach in honor of the day! But since he is so much\nbehindhand, I will give him a remembrancer myself!\"\n\nAccordingly, with such a tramp of his ponderous riding-boots as might\nof itself have been audible in the remotest of the seven gables, he\nadvanced to the door, which the servant pointed out, and made its new\npanels reecho with a loud, free knock. Then, looking round, with a\nsmile, to the spectators, he awaited a response. As none came,\nhowever, he knocked again, but with the same unsatisfactory result as\nat first. And now, being a trifle choleric in his temperament, the\nlieutenant-governor uplifted the heavy hilt of his sword, wherewith he\nso beat and banged upon the door, that, as some of the bystanders\nwhispered, the racket might have disturbed the dead. Be that as it\nmight, it seemed to produce no awakening effect on Colonel Pyncheon.\nWhen the sound subsided, the silence through the house was deep,\ndreary, and oppressive, notwithstanding that the tongues of many of the\nguests had already been loosened by a surreptitious cup or two of wine\nor spirits.\n\n\"Strange, forsooth!--very strange!\" cried the lieutenant-governor,\nwhose smile was changed to a frown. \"But seeing that our host sets us\nthe good example of forgetting ceremony, I shall likewise throw it\naside, and make free to intrude on his privacy.\"\n\nHe tried the door, which yielded to his hand, and was flung wide open\nby a sudden gust of wind that passed, as with a loud sigh, from the\noutermost portal through all the passages and apartments of the new\nhouse. It rustled the silken garments of the ladies, and waved the\nlong curls of the gentlemen\'s wigs, and shook the window-hangings and\nthe curtains of the bedchambers; causing everywhere a singular stir,\nwhich yet was more like a hush. A shadow of awe and half-fearful\nanticipation--nobody knew wherefore, nor of what--had all at once\nfallen over the company.\n\nThey thronged, however, to the now open door, pressing the\nlieutenant-governor, in the eagerness of their curiosity, into the room\nin advance of them. At the first glimpse they beheld nothing\nextraordinary: a handsomely furnished room, of moderate size, somewhat\ndarkened by curtains; books arranged on shelves; a large map on the\nwall, and likewise a portrait of Colonel Pyncheon, beneath which sat\nthe original Colonel himself, in an oaken elbow-chair, with a pen in\nhis hand. Letters, parchments, and blank sheets of paper were on the\ntable before him. He appeared to gaze at the curious crowd, in front\nof which stood the lieutenant-governor; and there was a frown on his\ndark and massive countenance, as if sternly resentful of the boldness\nthat had impelled them into his private retirement.\n\nA little boy--the Colonel\'s grandchild, and the only human being that\never dared to be familiar with him--now made his way among the guests,\nand ran towards the seated figure; then pausing halfway, he began to\nshriek with terror. The company, tremulous as the leaves of a tree,\nwhen all are shaking together, drew nearer, and perceived that there\nwas an unnatural distortion in the fixedness of Colonel Pyncheon\'s\nstare; that there was blood on his ruff, and that his hoary beard was\nsaturated with it. It was too late to give assistance. The\niron-hearted Puritan, the relentless persecutor, the grasping and\nstrong-willed man was dead! Dead, in his new house! There is a\ntradition, only worth alluding to as lending a tinge of superstitious\nawe to a scene perhaps gloomy enough without it, that a voice spoke\nloudly among the guests, the tones of which were like those of old\nMatthew Maule, the executed wizard,--\"God hath given him blood to\ndrink!\"\n\nThus early had that one guest,--the only guest who is certain, at one\ntime or another, to find his way into every human dwelling,--thus early\nhad Death stepped across the threshold of the House of the Seven Gables!\n\nColonel Pyncheon\'s sudden and mysterious end made a vast deal of noise\nin its day. There were many rumors, some of which have vaguely drifted\ndown to the present time, how that appearances indicated violence; that\nthere were the marks of fingers on his throat, and the print of a\nbloody hand on his plaited ruff; and that his peaked beard was\ndishevelled, as if it had been fiercely clutched and pulled. It was\naverred, likewise, that the lattice window, near the Colonel\'s chair,\nwas open; and that, only a few minutes before the fatal occurrence, the\nfigure of a man had been seen clambering over the garden fence, in the\nrear of the house. But it were folly to lay any stress on stories of\nthis kind, which are sure to spring up around such an event as that now\nrelated, and which, as in the present case, sometimes prolong\nthemselves for ages afterwards, like the toadstools that indicate where\nthe fallen and buried trunk of a tree has long since mouldered into the\nearth. For our own part, we allow them just as little credence as to\nthat other fable of the skeleton hand which the lieutenant-governor was\nsaid to have seen at the Colonel\'s throat, but which vanished away, as\nhe advanced farther into the room. Certain it is, however, that there\nwas a great consultation and dispute of doctors over the dead body.\nOne,--John Swinnerton by name,--who appears to have been a man of\neminence, upheld it, if we have rightly understood his terms of art, to\nbe a case of apoplexy. His professional brethren, each for himself,\nadopted various hypotheses, more or less plausible, but all dressed out\nin a perplexing mystery of phrase, which, if it do not show a\nbewilderment of mind in these erudite physicians, certainly causes it\nin the unlearned peruser of their opinions. The coroner\'s jury sat\nupon the corpse, and, like sensible men, returned an unassailable\nverdict of \"Sudden Death!\"\n\nIt is indeed difficult to imagine that there could have been a serious\nsuspicion of murder, or the slightest grounds for implicating any\nparticular individual as the perpetrator. The rank, wealth, and\neminent character of the deceased must have insured the strictest\nscrutiny into every ambiguous circumstance. As none such is on record,\nit is safe to assume that none existed. Tradition,--which sometimes\nbrings down truth that history has let slip, but is oftener the wild\nbabble of the time, such as was formerly spoken at the fireside and now\ncongeals in newspapers,--tradition is responsible for all contrary\naverments. In Colonel Pyncheon\'s funeral sermon, which was printed,\nand is still extant, the Rev. Mr. Higginson enumerates, among the many\nfelicities of his distinguished parishioner\'s earthly career, the happy\nseasonableness of his death. His duties all performed,--the highest\nprosperity attained,--his race and future generations fixed on a stable\nbasis, and with a stately roof to shelter them for centuries to\ncome,--what other upward step remained for this good man to take, save\nthe final step from earth to the golden gate of heaven! The pious\nclergyman surely would not have uttered words like these had he in the\nleast suspected that the Colonel had been thrust into the other world\nwith the clutch of violence upon his throat.\n\nThe family of Colonel Pyncheon, at the epoch of his death, seemed\ndestined to as fortunate a permanence as can anywise consist with the\ninherent instability of human affairs. It might fairly be anticipated\nthat the progress of time would rather increase and ripen their\nprosperity, than wear away and destroy it. For, not only had his son\nand heir come into immediate enjoyment of a rich estate, but there was\na claim through an Indian deed, confirmed by a subsequent grant of the\nGeneral Court, to a vast and as yet unexplored and unmeasured tract of\nEastern lands. These possessions--for as such they might almost\ncertainly be reckoned--comprised the greater part of what is now known\nas Waldo County, in the state of Maine, and were more extensive than\nmany a dukedom, or even a reigning prince\'s territory, on European\nsoil. When the pathless forest that still covered this wild\nprincipality should give place--as it inevitably must, though perhaps\nnot till ages hence--to the golden fertility of human culture, it would\nbe the source of incalculable wealth to the Pyncheon blood. Had the\nColonel survived only a few weeks longer, it is probable that his great\npolitical influence, and powerful connections at home and abroad, would\nhave consummated all that was necessary to render the claim available.\nBut, in spite of good Mr. Higginson\'s congratulatory eloquence, this\nappeared to be the one thing which Colonel Pyncheon, provident and\nsagacious as he was, had allowed to go at loose ends. So far as the\nprospective territory was concerned, he unquestionably died too soon.\nHis son lacked not merely the father\'s eminent position, but the talent\nand force of character to achieve it: he could, therefore, effect\nnothing by dint of political interest; and the bare justice or legality\nof the claim was not so apparent, after the Colonel\'s decease, as it\nhad been pronounced in his lifetime. Some connecting link had slipped\nout of the evidence, and could not anywhere be found.\n\nEfforts, it is true, were made by the Pyncheons, not only then, but at\nvarious periods for nearly a hundred years afterwards, to obtain what\nthey stubbornly persisted in deeming their right. But, in course of\ntime, the territory was partly regranted to more favored individuals,\nand partly cleared and occupied by actual settlers. These last, if\nthey ever heard of the Pyncheon title, would have laughed at the idea\nof any man\'s asserting a right--on the strength of mouldy parchments,\nsigned with the faded autographs of governors and legislators long dead\nand forgotten--to the lands which they or their fathers had wrested\nfrom the wild hand of nature by their own sturdy toil. This impalpable\nclaim, therefore, resulted in nothing more solid than to cherish, from\ngeneration to generation, an absurd delusion of family importance,\nwhich all along characterized the Pyncheons. It caused the poorest\nmember of the race to feel as if he inherited a kind of nobility, and\nmight yet come into the possession of princely wealth to support it.\nIn the better specimens of the breed, this peculiarity threw an ideal\ngrace over the hard material of human life, without stealing away any\ntruly valuable quality. In the baser sort, its effect was to increase\nthe liability to sluggishness and dependence, and induce the victim of\na shadowy hope to remit all self-effort, while awaiting the realization\nof his dreams. Years and years after their claim had passed out of the\npublic memory, the Pyncheons were accustomed to consult the Colonel\'s\nancient map, which had been projected while Waldo County was still an\nunbroken wilderness. Where the old land surveyor had put down woods,\nlakes, and rivers, they marked out the cleared spaces, and dotted the\nvillages and towns, and calculated the progressively increasing value\nof the territory, as if there were yet a prospect of its ultimately\nforming a princedom for themselves.\n\nIn almost every generation, nevertheless, there happened to be some one\ndescendant of the family gifted with a portion of the hard, keen sense,\nand practical energy, that had so remarkably distinguished the original\nfounder. His character, indeed, might be traced all the way down, as\ndistinctly as if the Colonel himself, a little diluted, had been gifted\nwith a sort of intermittent immortality on earth. At two or three\nepochs, when the fortunes of the family were low, this representative\nof hereditary qualities had made his appearance, and caused the\ntraditionary gossips of the town to whisper among themselves, \"Here is\nthe old Pyncheon come again! Now the Seven Gables will be\nnew-shingled!\" From father to son, they clung to the ancestral house\nwith singular tenacity of home attachment. For various reasons,\nhowever, and from impressions often too vaguely founded to be put on\npaper, the writer cherishes the belief that many, if not most, of the\nsuccessive proprietors of this estate were troubled with doubts as to\ntheir moral right to hold it. Of their legal tenure there could be no\nquestion; but old Matthew Maule, it is to be feared, trode downward\nfrom his own age to a far later one, planting a heavy footstep, all the\nway, on the conscience of a Pyncheon. If so, we are left to dispose of\nthe awful query, whether each inheritor of the property--conscious of\nwrong, and failing to rectify it--did not commit anew the great guilt\nof his ancestor, and incur all its original responsibilities. And\nsupposing such to be the case, would it not be a far truer mode of\nexpression to say of the Pyncheon family, that they inherited a great\nmisfortune, than the reverse?\n\nWe have already hinted that it is not our purpose to trace down the\nhistory of the Pyncheon family, in its unbroken connection with the\nHouse of the Seven Gables; nor to show, as in a magic picture, how the\nrustiness and infirmity of age gathered over the venerable house\nitself. As regards its interior life, a large, dim looking-glass used\nto hang in one of the rooms, and was fabled to contain within its\ndepths all the shapes that had ever been reflected there,--the old\nColonel himself, and his many descendants, some in the garb of antique\nbabyhood, and others in the bloom of feminine beauty or manly prime, or\nsaddened with the wrinkles of frosty age. Had we the secret of that\nmirror, we would gladly sit down before it, and transfer its\nrevelations to our page. But there was a story, for which it is\ndifficult to conceive any foundation, that the posterity of Matthew\nMaule had some connection with the mystery of the looking-glass, and\nthat, by what appears to have been a sort of mesmeric process, they\ncould make its inner region all alive with the departed Pyncheons; not\nas they had shown themselves to the world, nor in their better and\nhappier hours, but as doing over again some deed of sin, or in the\ncrisis of life\'s bitterest sorrow. The popular imagination, indeed,\nlong kept itself busy with the affair of the old Puritan Pyncheon and\nthe wizard Maule; the curse which the latter flung from his scaffold\nwas remembered, with the very important addition, that it had become a\npart of the Pyncheon inheritance. If one of the family did but gurgle\nin his throat, a bystander would be likely enough to whisper, between\njest and earnest, \"He has Maule\'s blood to drink!\" The sudden death of\na Pyncheon, about a hundred years ago, with circumstances very similar\nto what have been related of the Colonel\'s exit, was held as giving\nadditional probability to the received opinion on this topic. It was\nconsidered, moreover, an ugly and ominous circumstance, that Colonel\nPyncheon\'s picture--in obedience, it was said, to a provision of his\nwill--remained affixed to the wall of the room in which he died. Those\nstern, immitigable features seemed to symbolize an evil influence, and\nso darkly to mingle the shadow of their presence with the sunshine of\nthe passing hour, that no good thoughts or purposes could ever spring\nup and blossom there. To the thoughtful mind there will be no tinge of\nsuperstition in what we figuratively express, by affirming that the\nghost of a dead progenitor--perhaps as a portion of his own\npunishment--is often doomed to become the Evil Genius of his family.\n\nThe Pyncheons, in brief, lived along, for the better part of two\ncenturies, with perhaps less of outward vicissitude than has attended\nmost other New England families during the same period of time.\nPossessing very distinctive traits of their own, they nevertheless took\nthe general characteristics of the little community in which they\ndwelt; a town noted for its frugal, discreet, well-ordered, and\nhome-loving inhabitants, as well as for the somewhat confined scope of\nits sympathies; but in which, be it said, there are odder individuals,\nand, now and then, stranger occurrences, than one meets with almost\nanywhere else. During the Revolution, the Pyncheon of that epoch,\nadopting the royal side, became a refugee; but repented, and made his\nreappearance, just at the point of time to preserve the House of the\nSeven Gables from confiscation. For the last seventy years the most\nnoted event in the Pyncheon annals had been likewise the heaviest\ncalamity that ever befell the race; no less than the violent death--for\nso it was adjudged--of one member of the family by the criminal act of\nanother. Certain circumstances attending this fatal occurrence had\nbrought the deed irresistibly home to a nephew of the deceased\nPyncheon. The young man was tried and convicted of the crime; but\neither the circumstantial nature of the evidence, and possibly some\nlurking doubts in the breast of the executive, or, lastly--an argument\nof greater weight in a republic than it could have been under a\nmonarchy,--the high respectability and political influence of the\ncriminal\'s connections, had availed to mitigate his doom from death to\nperpetual imprisonment. This sad affair had chanced about thirty years\nbefore the action of our story commences. Latterly, there were rumors\n(which few believed, and only one or two felt greatly interested in)\nthat this long-buried man was likely, for some reason or other, to be\nsummoned forth from his living tomb.\n\nIt is essential to say a few words respecting the victim of this now\nalmost forgotten murder. He was an old bachelor, and possessed of\ngreat wealth, in addition to the house and real estate which\nconstituted what remained of the ancient Pyncheon property. Being of\nan eccentric and melancholy turn of mind, and greatly given to\nrummaging old records and hearkening to old traditions, he had brought\nhimself, it is averred, to the conclusion that Matthew Maule, the\nwizard, had been foully wronged out of his homestead, if not out of his\nlife. Such being the case, and he, the old bachelor, in possession of\nthe ill-gotten spoil,--with the black stain of blood sunken deep into\nit, and still to be scented by conscientious nostrils,--the question\noccurred, whether it were not imperative upon him, even at this late\nhour, to make restitution to Maule\'s posterity. To a man living so\nmuch in the past, and so little in the present, as the secluded and\nantiquarian old bachelor, a century and a half seemed not so vast a\nperiod as to obviate the propriety of substituting right for wrong. It\nwas the belief of those who knew him best, that he would positively\nhave taken the very singular step of giving up the House of the Seven\nGables to the representative of Matthew Maule, but for the unspeakable\ntumult which a suspicion of the old gentleman\'s project awakened among\nhis Pyncheon relatives. Their exertions had the effect of suspending\nhis purpose; but it was feared that he would perform, after death, by\nthe operation of his last will, what he had so hardly been prevented\nfrom doing in his proper lifetime. But there is no one thing which men\nso rarely do, whatever the provocation or inducement, as to bequeath\npatrimonial property away from their own blood. They may love other\nindividuals far better than their relatives,--they may even cherish\ndislike, or positive hatred, to the latter; but yet, in view of death,\nthe strong prejudice of propinquity revives, and impels the testator to\nsend down his estate in the line marked out by custom so immemorial\nthat it looks like nature. In all the Pyncheons, this feeling had the\nenergy of disease. It was too powerful for the conscientious scruples\nof the old bachelor; at whose death, accordingly, the mansion-house,\ntogether with most of his other riches, passed into the possession of\nhis next legal representative.\n\nThis was a nephew, the cousin of the miserable young man who had been\nconvicted of the uncle\'s murder. The new heir, up to the period of his\naccession, was reckoned rather a dissipated youth, but had at once\nreformed, and made himself an exceedingly respectable member of\nsociety. In fact, he showed more of the Pyncheon quality, and had won\nhigher eminence in the world, than any of his race since the time of\nthe original Puritan. Applying himself in earlier manhood to the study\nof the law, and having a natural tendency towards office, he had\nattained, many years ago, to a judicial situation in some inferior\ncourt, which gave him for life the very desirable and imposing title of\njudge. Later, he had engaged in politics, and served a part of two\nterms in Congress, besides making a considerable figure in both\nbranches of the State legislature. Judge Pyncheon was unquestionably\nan honor to his race. He had built himself a country-seat within a few\nmiles of his native town, and there spent such portions of his time as\ncould be spared from public service in the display of every grace and\nvirtue--as a newspaper phrased it, on the eve of an election--befitting\nthe Christian, the good citizen, the horticulturist, and the gentleman.\n\nThere were few of the Pyncheons left to sun themselves in the glow of\nthe Judge\'s prosperity. In respect to natural increase, the breed had\nnot thriven; it appeared rather to be dying out. The only members of\nthe family known to be extant were, first, the Judge himself, and a\nsingle surviving son, who was now travelling in Europe; next, the\nthirty years\' prisoner, already alluded to, and a sister of the latter,\nwho occupied, in an extremely retired manner, the House of the Seven\nGables, in which she had a life-estate by the will of the old bachelor.\nShe was understood to be wretchedly poor, and seemed to make it her\nchoice to remain so; inasmuch as her affluent cousin, the Judge, had\nrepeatedly offered her all the comforts of life, either in the old\nmansion or his own modern residence. The last and youngest Pyncheon\nwas a little country-girl of seventeen, the daughter of another of the\nJudge\'s cousins, who had married a young woman of no family or\nproperty, and died early and in poor circumstances. His widow had\nrecently taken another husband.\n\nAs for Matthew Maule\'s posterity, it was supposed now to be extinct.\nFor a very long period after the witchcraft delusion, however, the\nMaules had continued to inhabit the town where their progenitor had\nsuffered so unjust a death. To all appearance, they were a quiet,\nhonest, well-meaning race of people, cherishing no malice against\nindividuals or the public for the wrong which had been done them; or\nif, at their own fireside, they transmitted from father to child any\nhostile recollection of the wizard\'s fate and their lost patrimony, it\nwas never acted upon, nor openly expressed. Nor would it have been\nsingular had they ceased to remember that the House of the Seven Gables\nwas resting its heavy framework on a foundation that was rightfully\ntheir own. There is something so massive, stable, and almost\nirresistibly imposing in the exterior presentment of established rank\nand great possessions, that their very existence seems to give them a\nright to exist; at least, so excellent a counterfeit of right, that few\npoor and humble men have moral force enough to question it, even in\ntheir secret minds. Such is the case now, after so many ancient\nprejudices have been overthrown; and it was far more so in\nante-Revolutionary days, when the aristocracy could venture to be\nproud, and the low were content to be abased. Thus the Maules, at all\nevents, kept their resentments within their own breasts. They were\ngenerally poverty-stricken; always plebeian and obscure; working with\nunsuccessful diligence at handicrafts; laboring on the wharves, or\nfollowing the sea, as sailors before the mast; living here and there\nabout the town, in hired tenements, and coming finally to the almshouse\nas the natural home of their old age. At last, after creeping, as it\nwere, for such a length of time along the utmost verge of the opaque\npuddle of obscurity, they had taken that downright plunge which, sooner\nor later, is the destiny of all families, whether princely or plebeian.\nFor thirty years past, neither town-record, nor gravestone, nor the\ndirectory, nor the knowledge or memory of man, bore any trace of\nMatthew Maule\'s descendants. His blood might possibly exist elsewhere;\nhere, where its lowly current could be traced so far back, it had\nceased to keep an onward course.\n\nSo long as any of the race were to be found, they had been marked out\nfrom other men--not strikingly, nor as with a sharp line, but with an\neffect that was felt rather than spoken of--by an hereditary character\nof reserve. Their companions, or those who endeavored to become such,\ngrew conscious of a circle round about the Maules, within the sanctity\nor the spell of which, in spite of an exterior of sufficient frankness\nand good-fellowship, it was impossible for any man to step. It was\nthis indefinable peculiarity, perhaps, that, by insulating them from\nhuman aid, kept them always so unfortunate in life. It certainly\noperated to prolong in their case, and to confirm to them as their only\ninheritance, those feelings of repugnance and superstitious terror with\nwhich the people of the town, even after awakening from their frenzy,\ncontinued to regard the memory of the reputed witches. The mantle, or\nrather the ragged cloak, of old Matthew Maule had fallen upon his\nchildren. They were half believed to inherit mysterious attributes;\nthe family eye was said to possess strange power. Among other\ngood-for-nothing properties and privileges, one was especially assigned\nthem,--that of exercising an influence over people\'s dreams. The\nPyncheons, if all stories were true, haughtily as they bore themselves\nin the noonday streets of their native town, were no better than\nbond-servants to these plebeian Maules, on entering the topsy-turvy\ncommonwealth of sleep. Modern psychology, it may be, will endeavor to\nreduce these alleged necromancies within a system, instead of rejecting\nthem as altogether fabulous.\n\nA descriptive paragraph or two, treating of the seven-gabled mansion in\nits more recent aspect, will bring this preliminary chapter to a close.\nThe street in which it upreared its venerable peaks has long ceased to\nbe a fashionable quarter of the town; so that, though the old edifice\nwas surrounded by habitations of modern date, they were mostly small,\nbuilt entirely of wood, and typical of the most plodding uniformity of\ncommon life. Doubtless, however, the whole story of human existence\nmay be latent in each of them, but with no picturesqueness, externally,\nthat can attract the imagination or sympathy to seek it there. But as\nfor the old structure of our story, its white-oak frame, and its\nboards, shingles, and crumbling plaster, and even the huge, clustered\nchimney in the midst, seemed to constitute only the least and meanest\npart of its reality. So much of mankind\'s varied experience had passed\nthere,--so much had been suffered, and something, too, enjoyed,--that\nthe very timbers were oozy, as with the moisture of a heart. It was\nitself like a great human heart, with a life of its own, and full of\nrich and sombre reminiscences.\n\nThe deep projection of the second story gave the house such a\nmeditative look, that you could not pass it without the idea that it\nhad secrets to keep, and an eventful history to moralize upon. In\nfront, just on the edge of the unpaved sidewalk, grew the Pyncheon Elm,\nwhich, in reference to such trees as one usually meets with, might well\nbe termed gigantic. It had been planted by a great-grandson of the\nfirst Pyncheon, and, though now four-score years of age, or perhaps\nnearer a hundred, was still in its strong and broad maturity, throwing\nits shadow from side to side of the street, overtopping the seven\ngables, and sweeping the whole black roof with its pendant foliage. It\ngave beauty to the old edifice, and seemed to make it a part of nature.\nThe street having been widened about forty years ago, the front gable\nwas now precisely on a line with it. On either side extended a ruinous\nwooden fence of open lattice-work, through which could be seen a grassy\nyard, and, especially in the angles of the building, an enormous\nfertility of burdocks, with leaves, it is hardly an exaggeration to\nsay, two or three feet long. Behind the house there appeared to be a\ngarden, which undoubtedly had once been extensive, but was now\ninfringed upon by other enclosures, or shut in by habitations and\noutbuildings that stood on another street. It would be an omission,\ntrifling, indeed, but unpardonable, were we to forget the green moss\nthat had long since gathered over the projections of the windows, and\non the slopes of the roof nor must we fail to direct the reader\'s eye\nto a crop, not of weeds, but flower-shrubs, which were growing aloft in\nthe air, not a great way from the chimney, in the nook between two of\nthe gables. They were called Alice\'s Posies. The tradition was, that\na certain Alice Pyncheon had flung up the seeds, in sport, and that the\ndust of the street and the decay of the roof gradually formed a kind of\nsoil for them, out of which they grew, when Alice had long been in her\ngrave. However the flowers might have come there, it was both sad and\nsweet to observe how Nature adopted to herself this desolate, decaying,\ngusty, rusty old house of the Pyncheon family; and how the\never-returning Summer did her best to gladden it with tender beauty,\nand grew melancholy in the effort.\n\nThere is one other feature, very essential to be noticed, but which, we\ngreatly fear, may damage any picturesque and romantic impression which\nwe have been willing to throw over our sketch of this respectable\nedifice. In the front gable, under the impending brow of the second\nstory, and contiguous to the street, was a shop-door, divided\nhorizontally in the midst, and with a window for its upper segment,\nsuch as is often seen in dwellings of a somewhat ancient date. This\nsame shop-door had been a subject of no slight mortification to the\npresent occupant of the august Pyncheon House, as well as to some of\nher predecessors. The matter is disagreeably delicate to handle; but,\nsince the reader must needs be let into the secret, he will please to\nunderstand, that, about a century ago, the head of the Pyncheons found\nhimself involved in serious financial difficulties. The fellow\n(gentleman, as he styled himself) can hardly have been other than a\nspurious interloper; for, instead of seeking office from the king or\nthe royal governor, or urging his hereditary claim to Eastern lands, he\nbethought himself of no better avenue to wealth than by cutting a\nshop-door through the side of his ancestral residence. It was the\ncustom of the time, indeed, for merchants to store their goods and\ntransact business in their own dwellings. But there was something\npitifully small in this old Pyncheon\'s mode of setting about his\ncommercial operations; it was whispered, that, with his own hands, all\nberuffled as they were, he used to give change for a shilling, and\nwould turn a half-penny twice over, to make sure that it was a good\none. Beyond all question, he had the blood of a petty huckster in his\nveins, through whatever channel it may have found its way there.\n\nImmediately on his death, the shop-door had been locked, bolted, and\nbarred, and, down to the period of our story, had probably never once\nbeen opened. The old counter, shelves, and other fixtures of the\nlittle shop remained just as he had left them. It used to be affirmed,\nthat the dead shop-keeper, in a white wig, a faded velvet coat, an\napron at his waist, and his ruffles carefully turned back from his\nwrists, might be seen through the chinks of the shutters, any night of\nthe year, ransacking his till, or poring over the dingy pages of his\nday-book. From the look of unutterable woe upon his face, it appeared\nto be his doom to spend eternity in a vain effort to make his accounts\nbalance.\n\nAnd now--in a very humble way, as will be seen--we proceed to open our\nnarrative.\n\n\n\n\n II The Little Shop-Window\n\n\nIT still lacked half an hour of sunrise, when Miss Hepzibah\nPyncheon--we will not say awoke, it being doubtful whether the poor\nlady had so much as closed her eyes during the brief night of\nmidsummer--but, at all events, arose from her solitary pillow, and\nbegan what it would be mockery to term the adornment of her person.\nFar from us be the indecorum of assisting, even in imagination, at a\nmaiden lady\'s toilet! Our story must therefore await Miss Hepzibah at\nthe threshold of her chamber; only presuming, meanwhile, to note some\nof the heavy sighs that labored from her bosom, with little restraint\nas to their lugubrious depth and volume of sound, inasmuch as they\ncould be audible to nobody save a disembodied listener like ourself.\nThe Old Maid was alone in the old house. Alone, except for a certain\nrespectable and orderly young man, an artist in the daguerreotype line,\nwho, for about three months back, had been a lodger in a remote\ngable,--quite a house by itself, indeed,--with locks, bolts, and oaken\nbars on all the intervening doors. Inaudible, consequently, were poor\nMiss Hepzibah\'s gusty sighs. Inaudible the creaking joints of her\nstiffened knees, as she knelt down by the bedside. And inaudible, too,\nby mortal ear, but heard with all-comprehending love and pity in the\nfarthest heaven, that almost agony of prayer--now whispered, now a\ngroan, now a struggling silence--wherewith she besought the Divine\nassistance through the day! Evidently, this is to be a day of more than\nordinary trial to Miss Hepzibah, who, for above a quarter of a century\ngone by, has dwelt in strict seclusion, taking no part in the business\nof life, and just as little in its intercourse and pleasures. Not with\nsuch fervor prays the torpid recluse, looking forward to the cold,\nsunless, stagnant calm of a day that is to be like innumerable\nyesterdays.\n\nThe maiden lady\'s devotions are concluded. Will she now issue forth\nover the threshold of our story? Not yet, by many moments. First,\nevery drawer in the tall, old-fashioned bureau is to be opened, with\ndifficulty, and with a succession of spasmodic jerks then, all must\nclose again, with the same fidgety reluctance. There is a rustling of\nstiff silks; a tread of backward and forward footsteps to and fro\nacross the chamber. We suspect Miss Hepzibah, moreover, of taking a\nstep upward into a chair, in order to give heedful regard to her\nappearance on all sides, and at full length, in the oval, dingy-framed\ntoilet-glass, that hangs above her table. Truly! well, indeed! who\nwould have thought it! Is all this precious time to be lavished on the\nmatutinal repair and beautifying of an elderly person, who never goes\nabroad, whom nobody ever visits, and from whom, when she shall have\ndone her utmost, it were the best charity to turn one\'s eyes another\nway?\n\nNow she is almost ready. Let us pardon her one other pause; for it is\ngiven to the sole sentiment, or, we might better say,--heightened and\nrendered intense, as it has been, by sorrow and seclusion,--to the\nstrong passion of her life. We heard the turning of a key in a small\nlock; she has opened a secret drawer of an escritoire, and is probably\nlooking at a certain miniature, done in Malbone\'s most perfect style,\nand representing a face worthy of no less delicate a pencil. It was\nonce our good fortune to see this picture. It is a likeness of a young\nman, in a silken dressing-gown of an old fashion, the soft richness of\nwhich is well adapted to the countenance of reverie, with its full,\ntender lips, and beautiful eyes, that seem to indicate not so much\ncapacity of thought, as gentle and voluptuous emotion. Of the\npossessor of such features we shall have a right to ask nothing, except\nthat he would take the rude world easily, and make himself happy in it.\nCan it have been an early lover of Miss Hepzibah? No; she never had a\nlover--poor thing, how could she?--nor ever knew, by her own\nexperience, what love technically means. And yet, her undying faith\nand trust, her fresh remembrance, and continual devotedness towards the\noriginal of that miniature, have been the only substance for her heart\nto feed upon.\n\nShe seems to have put aside the miniature, and is standing again before\nthe toilet-glass. There are tears to be wiped off. A few more\nfootsteps to and fro; and here, at last,--with another pitiful sigh,\nlike a gust of chill, damp wind out of a long-closed vault, the door of\nwhich has accidentally been set, ajar--here comes Miss Hepzibah\nPyncheon! Forth she steps into the dusky, time-darkened passage; a tall\nfigure, clad in black silk, with a long and shrunken waist, feeling her\nway towards the stairs like a near-sighted person, as in truth she is.\n\nThe sun, meanwhile, if not already above the horizon, was ascending\nnearer and nearer to its verge. A few clouds, floating high upward,\ncaught some of the earliest light, and threw down its golden gleam on\nthe windows of all the houses in the street, not forgetting the House\nof the Seven Gables, which--many such sunrises as it had\nwitnessed--looked cheerfully at the present one. The reflected\nradiance served to show, pretty distinctly, the aspect and arrangement\nof the room which Hepzibah entered, after descending the stairs. It\nwas a low-studded room, with a beam across the ceiling, panelled with\ndark wood, and having a large chimney-piece, set round with pictured\ntiles, but now closed by an iron fire-board, through which ran the\nfunnel of a modern stove. There was a carpet on the floor, originally\nof rich texture, but so worn and faded in these latter years that its\nonce brilliant figure had quite vanished into one indistinguishable\nhue. In the way of furniture, there were two tables: one, constructed\nwith perplexing intricacy and exhibiting as many feet as a centipede;\nthe other, most delicately wrought, with four long and slender legs, so\napparently frail that it was almost incredible what a length of time\nthe ancient tea-table had stood upon them. Half a dozen chairs stood\nabout the room, straight and stiff, and so ingeniously contrived for\nthe discomfort of the human person that they were irksome even to\nsight, and conveyed the ugliest possible idea of the state of society\nto which they could have been adapted. One exception there was,\nhowever, in a very antique elbow-chair, with a high back, carved\nelaborately in oak, and a roomy depth within its arms, that made up, by\nits spacious comprehensiveness, for the lack of any of those artistic\ncurves which abound in a modern chair.\n\nAs for ornamental articles of furniture, we recollect but two, if such\nthey may be called. One was a map of the Pyncheon territory at the\neastward, not engraved, but the handiwork of some skilful old\ndraughtsman, and grotesquely illuminated with pictures of Indians and\nwild beasts, among which was seen a lion; the natural history of the\nregion being as little known as its geography, which was put down most\nfantastically awry. The other adornment was the portrait of old\nColonel Pyncheon, at two thirds length, representing the stern features\nof a Puritanic-looking personage, in a skull-cap, with a laced band and\na grizzly beard; holding a Bible with one hand, and in the other\nuplifting an iron sword-hilt. The latter object, being more\nsuccessfully depicted by the artist, stood out in far greater\nprominence than the sacred volume. Face to face with this picture, on\nentering the apartment, Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon came to a pause;\nregarding it with a singular scowl, a strange contortion of the brow,\nwhich, by people who did not know her, would probably have been\ninterpreted as an expression of bitter anger and ill-will. But it was\nno such thing. She, in fact, felt a reverence for the pictured visage,\nof which only a far-descended and time-stricken virgin could be\nsusceptible; and this forbidding scowl was the innocent result of her\nnear-sightedness, and an effort so to concentrate her powers of vision\nas to substitute a firm outline of the object instead of a vague one.\n\nWe must linger a moment on this unfortunate expression of poor\nHepzibah\'s brow. Her scowl,--as the world, or such part of it as\nsometimes caught a transitory glimpse of her at the window, wickedly\npersisted in calling it,--her scowl had done Miss Hepzibah a very ill\noffice, in establishing her character as an ill-tempered old maid; nor\ndoes it appear improbable that, by often gazing at herself in a dim\nlooking-glass, and perpetually encountering her own frown with its\nghostly sphere, she had been led to interpret the expression almost as\nunjustly as the world did. \"How miserably cross I look!\" she must\noften have whispered to herself; and ultimately have fancied herself\nso, by a sense of inevitable doom. But her heart never frowned. It\nwas naturally tender, sensitive, and full of little tremors and\npalpitations; all of which weaknesses it retained, while her visage was\ngrowing so perversely stern, and even fierce. Nor had Hepzibah ever\nany hardihood, except what came from the very warmest nook in her\naffections.\n\nAll this time, however, we are loitering faintheartedly on the\nthreshold of our story. In very truth, we have an invincible\nreluctance to disclose what Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon was about to do.\n\nIt has already been observed, that, in the basement story of the gable\nfronting on the street, an unworthy ancestor, nearly a century ago, had\nfitted up a shop. Ever since the old gentleman retired from trade, and\nfell asleep under his coffin-lid, not only the shop-door, but the inner\narrangements, had been suffered to remain unchanged; while the dust of\nages gathered inch-deep over the shelves and counter, and partly filled\nan old pair of scales, as if it were of value enough to be weighed. It\ntreasured itself up, too, in the half-open till, where there still\nlingered a base sixpence, worth neither more nor less than the\nhereditary pride which had here been put to shame. Such had been the\nstate and condition of the little shop in old Hepzibah\'s childhood,\nwhen she and her brother used to play at hide-and-seek in its forsaken\nprecincts. So it had remained, until within a few days past.\n\nBut now, though the shop-window was still closely curtained from the\npublic gaze, a remarkable change had taken place in its interior. The\nrich and heavy festoons of cobweb, which it had cost a long ancestral\nsuccession of spiders their life\'s labor to spin and weave, had been\ncarefully brushed away from the ceiling. The counter, shelves, and\nfloor had all been scoured, and the latter was overstrewn with fresh\nblue sand. The brown scales, too, had evidently undergone rigid\ndiscipline, in an unavailing effort to rub off the rust, which, alas!\nhad eaten through and through their substance. Neither was the little\nold shop any longer empty of merchantable goods. A curious eye,\nprivileged to take an account of stock and investigate behind the\ncounter, would have discovered a barrel, yea, two or three barrels and\nhalf ditto,--one containing flour, another apples, and a third,\nperhaps, Indian meal. There was likewise a square box of pine-wood,\nfull of soap in bars; also, another of the same size, in which were\ntallow candles, ten to the pound. A small stock of brown sugar, some\nwhite beans and split peas, and a few other commodities of low price,\nand such as are constantly in demand, made up the bulkier portion of\nthe merchandise. It might have been taken for a ghostly or\nphantasmagoric reflection of the old shop-keeper Pyncheon\'s shabbily\nprovided shelves, save that some of the articles were of a description\nand outward form which could hardly have been known in his day. For\ninstance, there was a glass pickle-jar, filled with fragments of\nGibraltar rock; not, indeed, splinters of the veritable stone\nfoundation of the famous fortress, but bits of delectable candy, neatly\ndone up in white paper. Jim Crow, moreover, was seen executing his\nworld-renowned dance, in gingerbread. A party of leaden dragoons were\ngalloping along one of the shelves, in equipments and uniform of modern\ncut; and there were some sugar figures, with no strong resemblance to\nthe humanity of any epoch, but less unsatisfactorily representing our\nown fashions than those of a hundred years ago. Another phenomenon,\nstill more strikingly modern, was a package of lucifer matches, which,\nin old times, would have been thought actually to borrow their\ninstantaneous flame from the nether fires of Tophet.\n\nIn short, to bring the matter at once to a point, it was\nincontrovertibly evident that somebody had taken the shop and fixtures\nof the long-retired and forgotten Mr. Pyncheon, and was about to renew\nthe enterprise of that departed worthy, with a different set of\ncustomers. Who could this bold adventurer be? And, of all places in\nthe world, why had he chosen the House of the Seven Gables as the scene\nof his commercial speculations?\n\nWe return to the elderly maiden. She at length withdrew her eyes from\nthe dark countenance of the Colonel\'s portrait, heaved a sigh,--indeed,\nher breast was a very cave of Aolus that morning,--and stept across the\nroom on tiptoe, as is the customary gait of elderly women. Passing\nthrough an intervening passage, she opened a door that communicated\nwith the shop, just now so elaborately described. Owing to the\nprojection of the upper story--and still more to the thick shadow of\nthe Pyncheon Elm, which stood almost directly in front of the\ngable--the twilight, here, was still as much akin to night as morning.\nAnother heavy sigh from Miss Hepzibah! After a moment\'s pause on the\nthreshold, peering towards the window with her near-sighted scowl, as\nif frowning down some bitter enemy, she suddenly projected herself into\nthe shop. The haste, and, as it were, the galvanic impulse of the\nmovement, were really quite startling.\n\nNervously--in a sort of frenzy, we might almost say--she began to busy\nherself in arranging some children\'s playthings, and other little\nwares, on the shelves and at the shop-window. In the aspect of this\ndark-arrayed, pale-faced, ladylike old figure there was a deeply tragic\ncharacter that contrasted irreconcilably with the ludicrous pettiness\nof her employment. It seemed a queer anomaly, that so gaunt and dismal\na personage should take a toy in hand; a miracle, that the toy did not\nvanish in her grasp; a miserably absurd idea, that she should go on\nperplexing her stiff and sombre intellect with the question how to\ntempt little boys into her premises! Yet such is undoubtedly her\nobject. Now she places a gingerbread elephant against the window, but\nwith so tremulous a touch that it tumbles upon the floor, with the\ndismemberment of three legs and its trunk; it has ceased to be an\nelephant, and has become a few bits of musty gingerbread. There,\nagain, she has upset a tumbler of marbles, all of which roll different\nways, and each individual marble, devil-directed, into the most\ndifficult obscurity that it can find. Heaven help our poor old\nHepzibah, and forgive us for taking a ludicrous view of her position!\nAs her rigid and rusty frame goes down upon its hands and knees, in\nquest of the absconding marbles, we positively feel so much the more\ninclined to shed tears of sympathy, from the very fact that we must\nneeds turn aside and laugh at her. For here,--and if we fail to\nimpress it suitably upon the reader, it is our own fault, not that of\nthe theme, here is one of the truest points of melancholy interest that\noccur in ordinary life. It was the final throe of what called itself\nold gentility. A lady--who had fed herself from childhood with the\nshadowy food of aristocratic reminiscences, and whose religion it was\nthat a lady\'s hand soils itself irremediably by doing aught for\nbread,--this born lady, after sixty years of narrowing means, is fain\nto step down from her pedestal of imaginary rank. Poverty, treading\nclosely at her heels for a lifetime, has come up with her at last. She\nmust earn her own food, or starve! And we have stolen upon Miss\nHepzibah Pyncheon, too irreverently, at the instant of time when the\npatrician lady is to be transformed into the plebeian woman.\n\nIn this republican country, amid the fluctuating waves of our social\nlife, somebody is always at the drowning-point. The tragedy is enacted\nwith as continual a repetition as that of a popular drama on a holiday,\nand, nevertheless, is felt as deeply, perhaps, as when an hereditary\nnoble sinks below his order. More deeply; since, with us, rank is the\ngrosser substance of wealth and a splendid establishment, and has no\nspiritual existence after the death of these, but dies hopelessly along\nwith them. And, therefore, since we have been unfortunate enough to\nintroduce our heroine at so inauspicious a juncture, we would entreat\nfor a mood of due solemnity in the spectators of her fate. Let us\nbehold, in poor Hepzibah, the immemorial, lady--two hundred years old,\non this side of the water, and thrice as many on the other,--with her\nantique portraits, pedigrees, coats of arms, records and traditions,\nand her claim, as joint heiress, to that princely territory at the\neastward, no longer a wilderness, but a populous fertility,--born, too,\nin Pyncheon Street, under the Pyncheon Elm, and in the Pyncheon House,\nwhere she has spent all her days,--reduced. Now, in that very house,\nto be the hucksteress of a cent-shop.\n\nThis business of setting up a petty shop is almost the only resource of\nwomen, in circumstances at all similar to those of our unfortunate\nrecluse. With her near-sightedness, and those tremulous fingers of\nhers, at once inflexible and delicate, she could not be a seamstress;\nalthough her sampler, of fifty years gone by, exhibited some of the\nmost recondite specimens of ornamental needlework. A school for little\nchildren had been often in her thoughts; and, at one time, she had\nbegun a review of her early studies in the New England Primer, with a\nview to prepare herself for the office of instructress. But the love\nof children had never been quickened in Hepzibah\'s heart, and was now\ntorpid, if not extinct; she watched the little people of the\nneighborhood from her chamber-window, and doubted whether she could\ntolerate a more intimate acquaintance with them. Besides, in our day,\nthe very ABC has become a science greatly too abstruse to be any longer\ntaught by pointing a pin from letter to letter. A modern child could\nteach old Hepzibah more than old Hepzibah could teach the child.\nSo--with many a cold, deep heart-quake at the idea of at last coming\ninto sordid contact with the world, from which she had so long kept\naloof, while every added day of seclusion had rolled another stone\nagainst the cavern door of her hermitage--the poor thing bethought\nherself of the ancient shop-window, the rusty scales, and dusty till.\nShe might have held back a little longer; but another circumstance, not\nyet hinted at, had somewhat hastened her decision. Her humble\npreparations, therefore, were duly made, and the enterprise was now to\nbe commenced. Nor was she entitled to complain of any remarkable\nsingularity in her fate; for, in the town of her nativity, we might\npoint to several little shops of a similar description, some of them in\nhouses as ancient as that of the Seven Gables; and one or two, it may\nbe, where a decayed gentlewoman stands behind the counter, as grim an\nimage of family pride as Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon herself.\n\nIt was overpoweringly ridiculous,--we must honestly confess it,--the\ndeportment of the maiden lady while setting her shop in order for the\npublic eye. She stole on tiptoe to the window, as cautiously as if she\nconceived some bloody-minded villain to be watching behind the\nelm-tree, with intent to take her life. Stretching out her long, lank\narm, she put a paper of pearl-buttons, a jew\'s-harp, or whatever the\nsmall article might be, in its destined place, and straightway vanished\nback into the dusk, as if the world need never hope for another glimpse\nof her. It might have been fancied, indeed, that she expected to\nminister to the wants of the community unseen, like a disembodied\ndivinity or enchantress, holding forth her bargains to the reverential\nand awe-stricken purchaser in an invisible hand. But Hepzibah had no\nsuch flattering dream. She was well aware that she must ultimately come\nforward, and stand revealed in her proper individuality; but, like\nother sensitive persons, she could not bear to be observed in the\ngradual process, and chose rather to flash forth on the world\'s\nastonished gaze at once.\n\nThe inevitable moment was not much longer to be delayed. The sunshine\nmight now be seen stealing down the front of the opposite house, from\nthe windows of which came a reflected gleam, struggling through the\nboughs of the elm-tree, and enlightening the interior of the shop more\ndistinctly than heretofore. The town appeared to be waking up. A\nbaker\'s cart had already rattled through the street, chasing away the\nlatest vestige of night\'s sanctity with the jingle-jangle of its\ndissonant bells. A milkman was distributing the contents of his cans\nfrom door to door; and the harsh peal of a fisherman\'s conch shell was\nheard far off, around the corner. None of these tokens escaped\nHepzibah\'s notice. The moment had arrived. To delay longer would be\nonly to lengthen out her misery. Nothing remained, except to take down\nthe bar from the shop-door, leaving the entrance free--more than\nfree--welcome, as if all were household friends--to every passer-by,\nwhose eyes might be attracted by the commodities at the window. This\nlast act Hepzibah now performed, letting the bar fall with what smote\nupon her excited nerves as a most astounding clatter. Then--as if the\nonly barrier betwixt herself and the world had been thrown down, and a\nflood of evil consequences would come tumbling through the gap--she\nfled into the inner parlor, threw herself into the ancestral\nelbow-chair, and wept.\n\nOur miserable old Hepzibah! It is a heavy annoyance to a writer, who\nendeavors to represent nature, its various attitudes and circumstances,\nin a reasonably correct outline and true coloring, that so much of the\nmean and ludicrous should be hopelessly mixed up with the purest pathos\nwhich life anywhere supplies to him. What tragic dignity, for example,\ncan be wrought into a scene like this! How can we elevate our history\nof retribution for the sin of long ago, when, as one of our most\nprominent figures, we are compelled to introduce--not a young and\nlovely woman, nor even the stately remains of beauty, storm-shattered\nby affliction--but a gaunt, sallow, rusty-jointed maiden, in a\nlong-waisted silk gown, and with the strange horror of a turban on her\nhead! Her visage is not even ugly. It is redeemed from insignificance\nonly by the contraction of her eyebrows into a near-sighted scowl.\nAnd, finally, her great life-trial seems to be, that, after sixty years\nof idleness, she finds it convenient to earn comfortable bread by\nsetting up a shop in a small way. Nevertheless, if we look through all\nthe heroic fortunes of mankind, we shall find this same entanglement of\nsomething mean and trivial with whatever is noblest in joy or sorrow.\nLife is made up of marble and mud. And, without all the deeper trust\nin a comprehensive sympathy above us, we might hence be led to suspect\nthe insult of a sneer, as well as an immitigable frown, on the iron\ncountenance of fate. What is called poetic insight is the gift of\ndiscerning, in this sphere of strangely mingled elements, the beauty\nand the majesty which are compelled to assume a garb so sordid.\n\n\n\n\n III The First Customer\n\n\nMISS HEPZIBAH PYNCHEON sat in the oaken elbow-chair, with her hands\nover her face, giving way to that heavy down-sinking of the heart which\nmost persons have experienced, when the image of hope itself seems\nponderously moulded of lead, on the eve of an enterprise at once\ndoubtful and momentous. She was suddenly startled by the tinkling\nalarum--high, sharp, and irregular--of a little bell. The maiden lady\narose upon her feet, as pale as a ghost at cock-crow; for she was an\nenslaved spirit, and this the talisman to which she owed obedience.\nThis little bell,--to speak in plainer terms,--being fastened over the\nshop-door, was so contrived as to vibrate by means of a steel spring,\nand thus convey notice to the inner regions of the house when any\ncustomer should cross the threshold. Its ugly and spiteful little din\n(heard now for the first time, perhaps, since Hepzibah\'s periwigged\npredecessor had retired from trade) at once set every nerve of her body\nin responsive and tumultuous vibration. The crisis was upon her! Her\nfirst customer was at the door!\n\nWithout giving herself time for a second thought, she rushed into the\nshop, pale, wild, desperate in gesture and expression, scowling\nportentously, and looking far better qualified to do fierce battle with\na housebreaker than to stand smiling behind the counter, bartering\nsmall wares for a copper recompense. Any ordinary customer, indeed,\nwould have turned his back and fled. And yet there was nothing fierce\nin Hepzibah\'s poor old heart; nor had she, at the moment, a single\nbitter thought against the world at large, or one individual man or\nwoman. She wished them all well, but wished, too, that she herself\nwere done with them, and in her quiet grave.\n\nThe applicant, by this time, stood within the doorway. Coming freshly,\nas he did, out of the morning light, he appeared to have brought some\nof its cheery influences into the shop along with him. It was a\nslender young man, not more than one or two and twenty years old, with\nrather a grave and thoughtful expression for his years, but likewise a\nspringy alacrity and vigor. These qualities were not only perceptible,\nphysically, in his make and motions, but made themselves felt almost\nimmediately in his character. A brown beard, not too silken in its\ntexture, fringed his chin, but as yet without completely hiding it; he\nwore a short mustache, too, and his dark, high-featured countenance\nlooked all the better for these natural ornaments. As for his dress,\nit was of the simplest kind; a summer sack of cheap and ordinary\nmaterial, thin checkered pantaloons, and a straw hat, by no means of\nthe finest braid. Oak Hall might have supplied his entire equipment.\nHe was chiefly marked as a gentleman--if such, indeed, he made any\nclaim to be--by the rather remarkable whiteness and nicety of his clean\nlinen.\n\nHe met the scowl of old Hepzibah without apparent alarm, as having\nheretofore encountered it and found it harmless.\n\n\"So, my dear Miss Pyncheon,\" said the daguerreotypist,--for it was that\nsole other occupant of the seven-gabled mansion,--\"I am glad to see\nthat you have not shrunk from your good purpose. I merely look in to\noffer my best wishes, and to ask if I can assist you any further in\nyour preparations.\"\n\nPeople in difficulty and distress, or in any manner at odds with the\nworld, can endure a vast amount of harsh treatment, and perhaps be only\nthe stronger for it; whereas they give way at once before the simplest\nexpression of what they perceive to be genuine sympathy. So it proved\nwith poor Hepzibah; for, when she saw the young man\'s smile,--looking\nso much the brighter on a thoughtful face,--and heard his kindly tone,\nshe broke first into a hysteric giggle and then began to sob.\n\n\"Ah, Mr. Holgrave,\" cried she, as soon as she could speak, \"I never can\ngo through with it! Never, never, never! I wish I were dead, and in the\nold family tomb, with all my forefathers! With my father, and my\nmother, and my sister! Yes, and with my brother, who had far better\nfind me there than here! The world is too chill and hard,--and I am too\nold, and too feeble, and too hopeless!\"\n\n\"Oh, believe me, Miss Hepzibah,\" said the young man quietly, \"these\nfeelings will not trouble you any longer, after you are once fairly in\nthe midst of your enterprise. They are unavoidable at this moment,\nstanding, as you do, on the outer verge of your long seclusion, and\npeopling the world with ugly shapes, which you will soon find to be as\nunreal as the giants and ogres of a child\'s story-book. I find nothing\nso singular in life, as that everything appears to lose its substance\nthe instant one actually grapples with it. So it will be with what you\nthink so terrible.\"\n\n\"But I am a woman!\" said Hepzibah piteously. \"I was going to say, a\nlady,--but I consider that as past.\"\n\n\"Well; no matter if it be past!\" answered the artist, a strange gleam\nof half-hidden sarcasm flashing through the kindliness of his manner.\n\"Let it go! You are the better without it. I speak frankly, my dear\nMiss Pyncheon!--for are we not friends? I look upon this as one of the\nfortunate days of your life. It ends an epoch and begins one.\nHitherto, the life-blood has been gradually chilling in your veins as\nyou sat aloof, within your circle of gentility, while the rest of the\nworld was fighting out its battle with one kind of necessity or\nanother. Henceforth, you will at least have the sense of healthy and\nnatural effort for a purpose, and of lending your strength be it great\nor small--to the united struggle of mankind. This is success,--all the\nsuccess that anybody meets with!\"\n\n\"It is natural enough, Mr. Holgrave, that you should have ideas like\nthese,\" rejoined Hepzibah, drawing up her gaunt figure with slightly\noffended dignity. \"You are a man, a young man, and brought up, I\nsuppose, as almost everybody is nowadays, with a view to seeking your\nfortune. But I was born a lady, and have always lived one; no matter\nin what narrowness of means, always a lady.\"\n\n\"But I was not born a gentleman; neither have I lived like one,\" said\nHolgrave, slightly smiling; \"so, my dear madam, you will hardly expect\nme to sympathize with sensibilities of this kind; though, unless I\ndeceive myself, I have some imperfect comprehension of them. These\nnames of gentleman and lady had a meaning, in the past history of the\nworld, and conferred privileges, desirable or otherwise, on those\nentitled to bear them. In the present--and still more in the future\ncondition of society-they imply, not privilege, but restriction!\"\n\n\"These are new notions,\" said the old gentlewoman, shaking her head.\n\"I shall never understand them; neither do I wish it.\"\n\n\"We will cease to speak of them, then,\" replied the artist, with a\nfriendlier smile than his last one, \"and I will leave you to feel\nwhether it is not better to be a true woman than a lady. Do you really\nthink, Miss Hepzibah, that any lady of your family has ever done a more\nheroic thing, since this house was built, than you are performing in it\nto-day? Never; and if the Pyncheons had always acted so nobly, I doubt\nwhether an old wizard Maule\'s anathema, of which you told me once,\nwould have had much weight with Providence against them.\"\n\n\"Ah!--no, no!\" said Hepzibah, not displeased at this allusion to the\nsombre dignity of an inherited curse. \"If old Maule\'s ghost, or a\ndescendant of his, could see me behind the counter to-day, he would\ncall it the fulfillment of his worst wishes. But I thank you for your\nkindness, Mr. Holgrave, and will do my utmost to be a good shop-keeper.\"\n\n\"Pray do\" said Holgrave, \"and let me have the pleasure of being your\nfirst customer. I am about taking a walk to the seashore, before going\nto my rooms, where I misuse Heaven\'s blessed sunshine by tracing out\nhuman features through its agency. A few of those biscuits, dipt in\nsea-water, will be just what I need for breakfast. What is the price\nof half a dozen?\"\n\n\"Let me be a lady a moment longer,\" replied Hepzibah, with a manner of\nantique stateliness to which a melancholy smile lent a kind of grace.\nShe put the biscuits into his hand, but rejected the compensation. \"A\nPyncheon must not, at all events under her forefathers\' roof, receive\nmoney for a morsel of bread from her only friend!\"\n\nHolgrave took his departure, leaving her, for the moment, with spirits\nnot quite so much depressed. Soon, however, they had subsided nearly\nto their former dead level. With a beating heart, she listened to the\nfootsteps of early passengers, which now began to be frequent along the\nstreet. Once or twice they seemed to linger; these strangers, or\nneighbors, as the case might be, were looking at the display of toys\nand petty commodities in Hepzibah\'s shop-window. She was doubly\ntortured; in part, with a sense of overwhelming shame that strange and\nunloving eyes should have the privilege of gazing, and partly because\nthe idea occurred to her, with ridiculous importunity, that the window\nwas not arranged so skilfully, nor nearly to so much advantage, as it\nmight have been. It seemed as if the whole fortune or failure of her\nshop might depend on the display of a different set of articles, or\nsubstituting a fairer apple for one which appeared to be specked. So\nshe made the change, and straightway fancied that everything was\nspoiled by it; not recognizing that it was the nervousness of the\njuncture, and her own native squeamishness as an old maid, that wrought\nall the seeming mischief.\n\nAnon, there was an encounter, just at the door-step, betwixt two\nlaboring men, as their rough voices denoted them to be. After some\nslight talk about their own affairs, one of them chanced to notice the\nshop-window, and directed the other\'s attention to it.\n\n\"See here!\" cried he; \"what do you think of this? Trade seems to be\nlooking up in Pyncheon Street!\"\n\n\"Well, well, this is a sight, to be sure!\" exclaimed the other. \"In\nthe old Pyncheon House, and underneath the Pyncheon Elm! Who would have\nthought it? Old Maid Pyncheon is setting up a cent-shop!\"\n\n\"Will she make it go, think you, Dixey?\" said his friend. \"I don\'t\ncall it a very good stand. There\'s another shop just round the corner.\"\n\n\"Make it go!\" cried Dixey, with a most contemptuous expression, as if\nthe very idea were impossible to be conceived. \"Not a bit of it! Why,\nher face--I\'ve seen it, for I dug her garden for her one year--her face\nis enough to frighten the Old Nick himself, if he had ever so great a\nmind to trade with her. People can\'t stand it, I tell you! She scowls\ndreadfully, reason or none, out of pure ugliness of temper.\"\n\n\"Well, that\'s not so much matter,\" remarked the other man. \"These\nsour-tempered folks are mostly handy at business, and know pretty well\nwhat they are about. But, as you say, I don\'t think she\'ll do much.\nThis business of keeping cent-shops is overdone, like all other kinds\nof trade, handicraft, and bodily labor. I know it, to my cost! My wife\nkept a cent-shop three months, and lost five dollars on her outlay.\"\n\n\"Poor business!\" responded Dixey, in a tone as if he were shaking his\nhead,--\"poor business.\"\n\nFor some reason or other, not very easy to analyze, there had hardly\nbeen so bitter a pang in all her previous misery about the matter as\nwhat thrilled Hepzibah\'s heart on overhearing the above conversation.\nThe testimony in regard to her scowl was frightfully important; it\nseemed to hold up her image wholly relieved from the false light of her\nself-partialities, and so hideous that she dared not look at it. She\nwas absurdly hurt, moreover, by the slight and idle effect that her\nsetting up shop--an event of such breathless interest to\nherself--appeared to have upon the public, of which these two men were\nthe nearest representatives. A glance; a passing word or two; a coarse\nlaugh; and she was doubtless forgotten before they turned the corner.\nThey cared nothing for her dignity, and just as little for her\ndegradation. Then, also, the augury of ill-success, uttered from the\nsure wisdom of experience, fell upon her half-dead hope like a clod\ninto a grave. The man\'s wife had already tried the same experiment,\nand failed! How could the born lady--the recluse of half a lifetime,\nutterly unpractised in the world, at sixty years of age,--how could she\never dream of succeeding, when the hard, vulgar, keen, busy, hackneyed\nNew England woman had lost five dollars on her little outlay! Success\npresented itself as an impossibility, and the hope of it as a wild\nhallucination.\n\nSome malevolent spirit, doing his utmost to drive Hepzibah mad,\nunrolled before her imagination a kind of panorama, representing the\ngreat thoroughfare of a city all astir with customers. So many and so\nmagnificent shops as there were! Groceries, toy-shops, drygoods stores,\nwith their immense panes of plate-glass, their gorgeous fixtures, their\nvast and complete assortments of merchandise, in which fortunes had\nbeen invested; and those noble mirrors at the farther end of each\nestablishment, doubling all this wealth by a brightly burnished vista\nof unrealities! On one side of the street this splendid bazaar, with a\nmultitude of perfumed and glossy salesmen, smirking, smiling, bowing,\nand measuring out the goods. On the other, the dusky old House of the\nSeven Gables, with the antiquated shop-window under its projecting\nstory, and Hepzibah herself, in a gown of rusty black silk, behind the\ncounter, scowling at the world as it went by! This mighty contrast\nthrust itself forward as a fair expression of the odds against which\nshe was to begin her struggle for a subsistence. Success?\nPreposterous! She would never think of it again! The house might just\nas well be buried in an eternal fog while all other houses had the\nsunshine on them; for not a foot would ever cross the threshold, nor a\nhand so much as try the door!\n\nBut, at this instant, the shop-bell, right over her head, tinkled as if\nit were bewitched. The old gentlewoman\'s heart seemed to be attached\nto the same steel spring, for it went through a series of sharp jerks,\nin unison with the sound. The door was thrust open, although no human\nform was perceptible on the other side of the half-window. Hepzibah,\nnevertheless, stood at a gaze, with her hands clasped, looking very\nmuch as if she had summoned up an evil spirit, and were afraid, yet\nresolved, to hazard the encounter.\n\n\"Heaven help me!\" she groaned mentally. \"Now is my hour of need!\"\n\nThe door, which moved with difficulty on its creaking and rusty hinges,\nbeing forced quite open, a square and sturdy little urchin became\napparent, with cheeks as red as an apple. He was clad rather shabbily\n(but, as it seemed, more owing to his mother\'s carelessness than his\nfather\'s poverty), in a blue apron, very wide and short trousers, shoes\nsomewhat out at the toes, and a chip hat, with the frizzles of his\ncurly hair sticking through its crevices. A book and a small slate,\nunder his arm, indicated that he was on his way to school. He stared\nat Hepzibah a moment, as an elder customer than himself would have been\nlikely enough to do, not knowing what to make of the tragic attitude\nand queer scowl wherewith she regarded him.\n\n\"Well, child,\" said she, taking heart at sight of a personage so little\nformidable,--\"well, my child, what did you wish for?\"\n\n\"That Jim Crow there in the window,\" answered the urchin, holding out a\ncent, and pointing to the gingerbread figure that had attracted his\nnotice, as he loitered along to school; \"the one that has not a broken\nfoot.\"\n\nSo Hepzibah put forth her lank arm, and, taking the effigy from the\nshop-window, delivered it to her first customer.\n\n\"No matter for the money,\" said she, giving him a little push towards\nthe door; for her old gentility was contumaciously squeamish at sight\nof the copper coin, and, besides, it seemed such pitiful meanness to\ntake the child\'s pocket-money in exchange for a bit of stale\ngingerbread. \"No matter for the cent. You are welcome to Jim Crow.\"\n\nThe child, staring with round eyes at this instance of liberality,\nwholly unprecedented in his large experience of cent-shops, took the\nman of gingerbread, and quitted the premises. No sooner had he reached\nthe sidewalk (little cannibal that he was!) than Jim Crow\'s head was in\nhis mouth. As he had not been careful to shut the door, Hepzibah was\nat the pains of closing it after him, with a pettish ejaculation or two\nabout the troublesomeness of young people, and particularly of small\nboys. She had just placed another representative of the renowned Jim\nCrow at the window, when again the shop-bell tinkled clamorously, and\nagain the door being thrust open, with its characteristic jerk and jar,\ndisclosed the same sturdy little urchin who, precisely two minutes ago,\nhad made his exit. The crumbs and discoloration of the cannibal feast,\nas yet hardly consummated, were exceedingly visible about his mouth.\n\n\"What is it now, child?\" asked the maiden lady rather impatiently; \"did\nyou come back to shut the door?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered the urchin, pointing to the figure that had just been\nput up; \"I want that other Jim Crow.\"\n\n\"Well, here it is for you,\" said Hepzibah, reaching it down; but\nrecognizing that this pertinacious customer would not quit her on any\nother terms, so long as she had a gingerbread figure in her shop, she\npartly drew back her extended hand, \"Where is the cent?\"\n\nThe little boy had the cent ready, but, like a true-born Yankee, would\nhave preferred the better bargain to the worse. Looking somewhat\nchagrined, he put the coin into Hepzibah\'s hand, and departed, sending\nthe second Jim Crow in quest of the former one. The new shop-keeper\ndropped the first solid result of her commercial enterprise into the\ntill. It was done! The sordid stain of that copper coin could never be\nwashed away from her palm. The little schoolboy, aided by the impish\nfigure of the negro dancer, had wrought an irreparable ruin. The\nstructure of ancient aristocracy had been demolished by him, even as if\nhis childish gripe had torn down the seven-gabled mansion. Now let\nHepzibah turn the old Pyncheon portraits with their faces to the wall,\nand take the map of her Eastern territory to kindle the kitchen fire,\nand blow up the flame with the empty breath of her ancestral\ntraditions! What had she to do with ancestry? Nothing; no more than\nwith posterity! No lady, now, but simply Hepzibah Pyncheon, a forlorn\nold maid, and keeper of a cent-shop!\n\nNevertheless, even while she paraded these ideas somewhat\nostentatiously through her mind, it is altogether surprising what a\ncalmness had come over her. The anxiety and misgivings which had\ntormented her, whether asleep or in melancholy day-dreams, ever since\nher project began to take an aspect of solidity, had now vanished quite\naway. She felt the novelty of her position, indeed, but no longer with\ndisturbance or affright. Now and then, there came a thrill of almost\nyouthful enjoyment. It was the invigorating breath of a fresh outward\natmosphere, after the long torpor and monotonous seclusion of her life.\nSo wholesome is effort! So miraculous the strength that we do not know\nof! The healthiest glow that Hepzibah had known for years had come now\nin the dreaded crisis, when, for the first time, she had put forth her\nhand to help herself. The little circlet of the schoolboy\'s copper\ncoin--dim and lustreless though it was, with the small services which\nit had been doing here and there about the world--had proved a\ntalisman, fragrant with good, and deserving to be set in gold and worn\nnext her heart. It was as potent, and perhaps endowed with the same\nkind of efficacy, as a galvanic ring! Hepzibah, at all events, was\nindebted to its subtile operation both in body and spirit; so much the\nmore, as it inspired her with energy to get some breakfast, at which,\nstill the better to keep up her courage, she allowed herself an extra\nspoonful in her infusion of black tea.\n\nHer introductory day of shop-keeping did not run on, however, without\nmany and serious interruptions of this mood of cheerful vigor. As a\ngeneral rule, Providence seldom vouchsafes to mortals any more than\njust that degree of encouragement which suffices to keep them at a\nreasonably full exertion of their powers. In the case of our old\ngentlewoman, after the excitement of new effort had subsided, the\ndespondency of her whole life threatened, ever and anon, to return. It\nwas like the heavy mass of clouds which we may often see obscuring the\nsky, and making a gray twilight everywhere, until, towards nightfall,\nit yields temporarily to a glimpse of sunshine. But, always, the\nenvious cloud strives to gather again across the streak of celestial\nazure.\n\nCustomers came in, as the forenoon advanced, but rather slowly; in some\ncases, too, it must be owned, with little satisfaction either to\nthemselves or Miss Hepzibah; nor, on the whole, with an aggregate of\nvery rich emolument to the till. A little girl, sent by her mother to\nmatch a skein of cotton thread, of a peculiar hue, took one that the\nnear-sighted old lady pronounced extremely like, but soon came running\nback, with a blunt and cross message, that it would not do, and,\nbesides, was very rotten! Then, there was a pale, care-wrinkled woman,\nnot old but haggard, and already with streaks of gray among her hair,\nlike silver ribbons; one of those women, naturally delicate, whom you\nat once recognize as worn to death by a brute--probably a drunken\nbrute--of a husband, and at least nine children. She wanted a few\npounds of flour, and offered the money, which the decayed gentlewoman\nsilently rejected, and gave the poor soul better measure than if she\nhad taken it. Shortly afterwards, a man in a blue cotton frock, much\nsoiled, came in and bought a pipe, filling the whole shop, meanwhile,\nwith the hot odor of strong drink, not only exhaled in the torrid\natmosphere of his breath, but oozing out of his entire system, like an\ninflammable gas. It was impressed on Hepzibah\'s mind that this was the\nhusband of the care-wrinkled woman. He asked for a paper of tobacco;\nand as she had neglected to provide herself with the article, her\nbrutal customer dashed down his newly-bought pipe and left the shop,\nmuttering some unintelligible words, which had the tone and bitterness\nof a curse. Hereupon Hepzibah threw up her eyes, unintentionally\nscowling in the face of Providence!\n\nNo less than five persons, during the forenoon, inquired for\nginger-beer, or root-beer, or any drink of a similar brewage, and,\nobtaining nothing of the kind, went off in an exceedingly bad humor.\nThree of them left the door open, and the other two pulled it so\nspitefully in going out that the little bell played the very deuce with\nHepzibah\'s nerves. A round, bustling, fire-ruddy housewife of the\nneighborhood burst breathless into the shop, fiercely demanding yeast;\nand when the poor gentlewoman, with her cold shyness of manner, gave\nher hot customer to understand that she did not keep the article, this\nvery capable housewife took upon herself to administer a regular rebuke.\n\n\"A cent-shop, and no yeast!\" quoth she; \"That will never do! Who ever\nheard of such a thing? Your loaf will never rise, no more than mine\nwill to-day. You had better shut up shop at once.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Hepzibah, heaving a deep sigh, \"perhaps I had!\"\n\nSeveral times, moreover, besides the above instance, her lady-like\nsensibilities were seriously infringed upon by the familiar, if not\nrude, tone with which people addressed her. They evidently considered\nthemselves not merely her equals, but her patrons and superiors. Now,\nHepzibah had unconsciously flattered herself with the idea that there\nwould be a gleam or halo, of some kind or other, about her person,\nwhich would insure an obeisance to her sterling gentility, or, at\nleast, a tacit recognition of it. On the other hand, nothing tortured\nher more intolerably than when this recognition was too prominently\nexpressed. To one or two rather officious offers of sympathy, her\nresponses were little short of acrimonious; and, we regret to say,\nHepzibah was thrown into a positively unchristian state of mind by the\nsuspicion that one of her customers was drawn to the shop, not by any\nreal need of the article which she pretended to seek, but by a wicked\nwish to stare at her. The vulgar creature was determined to see for\nherself what sort of a figure a mildewed piece of aristocracy, after\nwasting all the bloom and much of the decline of her life apart from\nthe world, would cut behind a counter. In this particular case,\nhowever mechanical and innocuous it might be at other times, Hepzibah\'s\ncontortion of brow served her in good stead.\n\n\"I never was so frightened in my life!\" said the curious customer, in\ndescribing the incident to one of her acquaintances. \"She\'s a real old\nvixen, take my word of it! She says little, to be sure; but if you\ncould only see the mischief in her eye!\"\n\nOn the whole, therefore, her new experience led our decayed gentlewoman\nto very disagreeable conclusions as to the temper and manners of what\nshe termed the lower classes, whom heretofore she had looked down upon\nwith a gentle and pitying complaisance, as herself occupying a sphere\nof unquestionable superiority. But, unfortunately, she had likewise to\nstruggle against a bitter emotion of a directly opposite kind: a\nsentiment of virulence, we mean, towards the idle aristocracy to which\nit had so recently been her pride to belong. When a lady, in a\ndelicate and costly summer garb, with a floating veil and gracefully\nswaying gown, and, altogether, an ethereal lightness that made you look\nat her beautifully slippered feet, to see whether she trod on the dust\nor floated in the air,--when such a vision happened to pass through\nthis retired street, leaving it tenderly and delusively fragrant with\nher passage, as if a bouquet of tea-roses had been borne along,--then\nagain, it is to be feared, old Hepzibah\'s scowl could no longer\nvindicate itself entirely on the plea of near-sightedness.\n\n\"For what end,\" thought she, giving vent to that feeling of hostility\nwhich is the only real abasement of the poor in presence of the\nrich,--\"for what good end, in the wisdom of Providence, does that woman\nlive? Must the whole world toil, that the palms of her hands may be\nkept white and delicate?\"\n\nThen, ashamed and penitent, she hid her face.\n\n\"May God forgive me!\" said she.\n\nDoubtless, God did forgive her. But, taking the inward and outward\nhistory of the first half-day into consideration, Hepzibah began to\nfear that the shop would prove her ruin in a moral and religious point\nof view, without contributing very essentially towards even her\ntemporal welfare.\n\n\n\n\n IV A Day Behind the Counter\n\n\nTOWARDS noon, Hepzibah saw an elderly gentleman, large and portly, and\nof remarkably dignified demeanor, passing slowly along on the opposite\nside of the white and dusty street. On coming within the shadow of the\nPyncheon Elm, he stopt, and (taking off his hat, meanwhile, to wipe the\nperspiration from his brow) seemed to scrutinize, with especial\ninterest, the dilapidated and rusty-visaged House of the Seven Gables.\nHe himself, in a very different style, was as well worth looking at as\nthe house. No better model need be sought, nor could have been found,\nof a very high order of respectability, which, by some indescribable\nmagic, not merely expressed itself in his looks and gestures, but even\ngoverned the fashion of his garments, and rendered them all proper and\nessential to the man. Without appearing to differ, in any tangible\nway, from other people\'s clothes, there was yet a wide and rich gravity\nabout them that must have been a characteristic of the wearer, since it\ncould not be defined as pertaining either to the cut or material. His\ngold-headed cane, too,--a serviceable staff, of dark polished\nwood,--had similar traits, and, had it chosen to take a walk by itself,\nwould have been recognized anywhere as a tolerably adequate\nrepresentative of its master. This character--which showed itself so\nstrikingly in everything about him, and the effect of which we seek to\nconvey to the reader--went no deeper than his station, habits of life,\nand external circumstances. One perceived him to be a personage of\nmarked influence and authority; and, especially, you could feel just as\ncertain that he was opulent as if he had exhibited his bank account, or\nas if you had seen him touching the twigs of the Pyncheon Elm, and,\nMidas-like, transmuting them to gold.\n\nIn his youth, he had probably been considered a handsome man; at his\npresent age, his brow was too heavy, his temples too bare, his\nremaining hair too gray, his eye too cold, his lips too closely\ncompressed, to bear any relation to mere personal beauty. He would\nhave made a good and massive portrait; better now, perhaps, than at any\nprevious period of his life, although his look might grow positively\nharsh in the process of being fixed upon the canvas. The artist would\nhave found it desirable to study his face, and prove its capacity for\nvaried expression; to darken it with a frown,--to kindle it up with a\nsmile.\n\nWhile the elderly gentleman stood looking at the Pyncheon House, both\nthe frown and the smile passed successively over his countenance. His\neye rested on the shop-window, and putting up a pair of gold-bowed\nspectacles, which he held in his hand, he minutely surveyed Hepzibah\'s\nlittle arrangement of toys and commodities. At first it seemed not to\nplease him,--nay, to cause him exceeding displeasure,--and yet, the\nvery next moment, he smiled. While the latter expression was yet on\nhis lips, he caught a glimpse of Hepzibah, who had involuntarily bent\nforward to the window; and then the smile changed from acrid and\ndisagreeable to the sunniest complacency and benevolence. He bowed,\nwith a happy mixture of dignity and courteous kindliness, and pursued\nhis way.\n\n\"There he is!\" said Hepzibah to herself, gulping down a very bitter\nemotion, and, since she could not rid herself of it, trying to drive it\nback into her heart. \"What does he think of it, I wonder? Does it\nplease him? Ah! he is looking back!\"\n\nThe gentleman had paused in the street, and turned himself half about,\nstill with his eyes fixed on the shop-window. In fact, he wheeled\nwholly round, and commenced a step or two, as if designing to enter the\nshop; but, as it chanced, his purpose was anticipated by Hepzibah\'s\nfirst customer, the little cannibal of Jim Crow, who, staring up at the\nwindow, was irresistibly attracted by an elephant of gingerbread. What\na grand appetite had this small urchin!--Two Jim Crows immediately\nafter breakfast!--and now an elephant, as a preliminary whet before\ndinner. By the time this latter purchase was completed, the elderly\ngentleman had resumed his way, and turned the street corner.\n\n\"Take it as you like, Cousin Jaffrey,\" muttered the maiden lady, as\nshe drew back, after cautiously thrusting out her head, and looking up\nand down the street,--\"Take it as you like! You have seen my little\nshop-window. Well!--what have you to say?--is not the Pyncheon House\nmy own, while I\'m alive?\"\n\nAfter this incident, Hepzibah retreated to the back parlor, where she\nat first caught up a half-finished stocking, and began knitting at it\nwith nervous and irregular jerks; but quickly finding herself at odds\nwith the stitches, she threw it aside, and walked hurriedly about the\nroom. At length she paused before the portrait of the stern old\nPuritan, her ancestor, and the founder of the house. In one sense, this\npicture had almost faded into the canvas, and hidden itself behind the\nduskiness of age; in another, she could not but fancy that it had been\ngrowing more prominent and strikingly expressive, ever since her\nearliest familiarity with it as a child. For, while the physical\noutline and substance were darkening away from the beholder\'s eye, the\nbold, hard, and, at the same time, indirect character of the man seemed\nto be brought out in a kind of spiritual relief. Such an effect may\noccasionally be observed in pictures of antique date. They acquire a\nlook which an artist (if he have anything like the complacency of\nartists nowadays) would never dream of presenting to a patron as his\nown characteristic expression, but which, nevertheless, we at once\nrecognize as reflecting the unlovely truth of a human soul. In such\ncases, the painter\'s deep conception of his subject\'s inward traits has\nwrought itself into the essence of the picture, and is seen after the\nsuperficial coloring has been rubbed off by time.\n\nWhile gazing at the portrait, Hepzibah trembled under its eye. Her\nhereditary reverence made her afraid to judge the character of the\noriginal so harshly as a perception of the truth compelled her to do.\nBut still she gazed, because the face of the picture enabled her--at\nleast, she fancied so--to read more accurately, and to a greater depth,\nthe face which she had just seen in the street.\n\n\"This is the very man!\" murmured she to herself. \"Let Jaffrey Pyncheon\nsmile as he will, there is that look beneath! Put on him a skull-cap,\nand a band, and a black cloak, and a Bible in one hand and a sword in\nthe other,--then let Jaffrey smile as he might,--nobody would doubt\nthat it was the old Pyncheon come again. He has proved himself the\nvery man to build up a new house! Perhaps, too, to draw down a new\ncurse!\"\n\nThus did Hepzibah bewilder herself with these fantasies of the old\ntime. She had dwelt too much alone,--too long in the Pyncheon\nHouse,--until her very brain was impregnated with the dry-rot of its\ntimbers. She needed a walk along the noonday street to keep her sane.\n\nBy the spell of contrast, another portrait rose up before her, painted\nwith more daring flattery than any artist would have ventured upon, but\nyet so delicately touched that the likeness remained perfect.\nMalbone\'s miniature, though from the same original, was far inferior to\nHepzibah\'s air-drawn picture, at which affection and sorrowful\nremembrance wrought together. Soft, mildly, and cheerfully\ncontemplative, with full, red lips, just on the verge of a smile, which\nthe eyes seemed to herald by a gentle kindling-up of their orbs!\nFeminine traits, moulded inseparably with those of the other sex! The\nminiature, likewise, had this last peculiarity; so that you inevitably\nthought of the original as resembling his mother, and she a lovely and\nlovable woman, with perhaps some beautiful infirmity of character, that\nmade it all the pleasanter to know and easier to love her.\n\n\"Yes,\" thought Hepzibah, with grief of which it was only the more\ntolerable portion that welled up from her heart to her eyelids, \"they\npersecuted his mother in him! He never was a Pyncheon!\"\n\nBut here the shop-bell rang; it was like a sound from a remote\ndistance,--so far had Hepzibah descended into the sepulchral depths of\nher reminiscences. On entering the shop, she found an old man there, a\nhumble resident of Pyncheon Street, and whom, for a great many years\npast, she had suffered to be a kind of familiar of the house. He was\nan immemorial personage, who seemed always to have had a white head and\nwrinkles, and never to have possessed but a single tooth, and that a\nhalf-decayed one, in the front of the upper jaw. Well advanced as\nHepzibah was, she could not remember when Uncle Venner, as the\nneighborhood called him, had not gone up and down the street, stooping\na little and drawing his feet heavily over the gravel or pavement. But\nstill there was something tough and vigorous about him, that not only\nkept him in daily breath, but enabled him to fill a place which would\nelse have been vacant in the apparently crowded world. To go of\nerrands with his slow and shuffling gait, which made you doubt how he\never was to arrive anywhere; to saw a small household\'s foot or two of\nfirewood, or knock to pieces an old barrel, or split up a pine board\nfor kindling-stuff; in summer, to dig the few yards of garden ground\nappertaining to a low-rented tenement, and share the produce of his\nlabor at the halves; in winter, to shovel away the snow from the\nsidewalk, or open paths to the woodshed, or along the clothes-line;\nsuch were some of the essential offices which Uncle Venner performed\namong at least a score of families. Within that circle, he claimed the\nsame sort of privilege, and probably felt as much warmth of interest,\nas a clergyman does in the range of his parishioners. Not that he laid\nclaim to the tithe pig; but, as an analogous mode of reverence, he went\nhis rounds, every morning, to gather up the crumbs of the table and\noverflowings of the dinner-pot, as food for a pig of his own.\n\nIn his younger days--for, after all, there was a dim tradition that he\nhad been, not young, but younger--Uncle Venner was commonly regarded as\nrather deficient, than otherwise, in his wits. In truth he had\nvirtually pleaded guilty to the charge, by scarcely aiming at such\nsuccess as other men seek, and by taking only that humble and modest\npart in the intercourse of life which belongs to the alleged\ndeficiency. But now, in his extreme old age,--whether it were that his\nlong and hard experience had actually brightened him, or that his\ndecaying judgment rendered him less capable of fairly measuring\nhimself,--the venerable man made pretensions to no little wisdom, and\nreally enjoyed the credit of it. There was likewise, at times, a vein\nof something like poetry in him; it was the moss or wall-flower of his\nmind in its small dilapidation, and gave a charm to what might have\nbeen vulgar and commonplace in his earlier and middle life. Hepzibah\nhad a regard for him, because his name was ancient in the town and had\nformerly been respectable. It was a still better reason for awarding\nhim a species of familiar reverence that Uncle Venner was himself the\nmost ancient existence, whether of man or thing, in Pyncheon Street,\nexcept the House of the Seven Gables, and perhaps the elm that\novershadowed it.\n\nThis patriarch now presented himself before Hepzibah, clad in an old\nblue coat, which had a fashionable air, and must have accrued to him\nfrom the cast-off wardrobe of some dashing clerk. As for his trousers,\nthey were of tow-cloth, very short in the legs, and bagging down\nstrangely in the rear, but yet having a suitableness to his figure\nwhich his other garment entirely lacked. His hat had relation to no\nother part of his dress, and but very little to the head that wore it.\nThus Uncle Venner was a miscellaneous old gentleman, partly himself,\nbut, in good measure, somebody else; patched together, too, of\ndifferent epochs; an epitome of times and fashions.\n\n\"So, you have really begun trade,\" said he,--\"really begun trade!\nWell, I\'m glad to see it. Young people should never live idle in the\nworld, nor old ones neither, unless when the rheumatize gets hold of\nthem. It has given me warning already; and in two or three years\nlonger, I shall think of putting aside business and retiring to my\nfarm. That\'s yonder,--the great brick house, you know,--the workhouse,\nmost folks call it; but I mean to do my work first, and go there to be\nidle and enjoy myself. And I\'m glad to see you beginning to do your\nwork, Miss Hepzibah!\"\n\n\"Thank you, Uncle Venner\" said Hepzibah, smiling; for she always felt\nkindly towards the simple and talkative old man. Had he been an old\nwoman, she might probably have repelled the freedom, which she now took\nin good part. \"It is time for me to begin work, indeed! Or, to speak\nthe truth, I have just begun when I ought to be giving it up.\"\n\n\"Oh, never say that, Miss Hepzibah!\" answered the old man. \"You are a\nyoung woman yet. Why, I hardly thought myself younger than I am now,\nit seems so little while ago since I used to see you playing about the\ndoor of the old house, quite a small child! Oftener, though, you used\nto be sitting at the threshold, and looking gravely into the street;\nfor you had always a grave kind of way with you,--a grown-up air, when\nyou were only the height of my knee. It seems as if I saw you now; and\nyour grandfather with his red cloak, and his white wig, and his cocked\nhat, and his cane, coming out of the house, and stepping so grandly up\nthe street! Those old gentlemen that grew up before the Revolution used\nto put on grand airs. In my young days, the great man of the town was\ncommonly called King; and his wife, not Queen to be sure, but Lady.\nNowadays, a man would not dare to be called King; and if he feels\nhimself a little above common folks, he only stoops so much the lower\nto them. I met your cousin, the Judge, ten minutes ago; and, in my old\ntow-cloth trousers, as you see, the Judge raised his hat to me, I do\nbelieve! At any rate, the Judge bowed and smiled!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hepzibah, with something bitter stealing unawares into her\ntone; \"my cousin Jaffrey is thought to have a very pleasant smile!\"\n\n\"And so he has\" replied Uncle Venner. \"And that\'s rather remarkable in\na Pyncheon; for, begging your pardon, Miss Hepzibah, they never had the\nname of being an easy and agreeable set of folks. There was no getting\nclose to them. But Now, Miss Hepzibah, if an old man may be bold to\nask, why don\'t Judge Pyncheon, with his great means, step forward, and\ntell his cousin to shut up her little shop at once? It\'s for your\ncredit to be doing something, but it\'s not for the Judge\'s credit to\nlet you!\"\n\n\"We won\'t talk of this, if you please, Uncle Venner,\" said Hepzibah\ncoldly. \"I ought to say, however, that, if I choose to earn bread for\nmyself, it is not Judge Pyncheon\'s fault. Neither will he deserve the\nblame,\" added she more kindly, remembering Uncle Venner\'s privileges of\nage and humble familiarity, \"if I should, by and by, find it convenient\nto retire with you to your farm.\"\n\n\"And it\'s no bad place, either, that farm of mine!\" cried the old man\ncheerily, as if there were something positively delightful in the\nprospect. \"No bad place is the great brick farm-house, especially for\nthem that will find a good many old cronies there, as will be my case.\nI quite long to be among them, sometimes, of the winter evenings; for\nit is but dull business for a lonesome elderly man, like me, to be\nnodding, by the hour together, with no company but his air-tight stove.\nSummer or winter, there\'s a great deal to be said in favor of my farm!\nAnd, take it in the autumn, what can be pleasanter than to spend a\nwhole day on the sunny side of a barn or a wood-pile, chatting with\nsomebody as old as one\'s self; or, perhaps, idling away the time with a\nnatural-born simpleton, who knows how to be idle, because even our busy\nYankees never have found out how to put him to any use? Upon my word,\nMiss Hepzibah, I doubt whether I\'ve ever been so comfortable as I mean\nto be at my farm, which most folks call the workhouse. But\nyou,--you\'re a young woman yet,--you never need go there! Something\nstill better will turn up for you. I\'m sure of it!\"\n\nHepzibah fancied that there was something peculiar in her venerable\nfriend\'s look and tone; insomuch, that she gazed into his face with\nconsiderable earnestness, endeavoring to discover what secret meaning,\nif any, might be lurking there. Individuals whose affairs have reached\nan utterly desperate crisis almost invariably keep themselves alive\nwith hopes, so much the more airily magnificent as they have the less\nof solid matter within their grasp whereof to mould any judicious and\nmoderate expectation of good. Thus, all the while Hepzibah was\nperfecting the scheme of her little shop, she had cherished an\nunacknowledged idea that some harlequin trick of fortune would\nintervene in her favor. For example, an uncle--who had sailed for\nIndia fifty years before, and never been heard of since--might yet\nreturn, and adopt her to be the comfort of his very extreme and\ndecrepit age, and adorn her with pearls, diamonds, and Oriental shawls\nand turbans, and make her the ultimate heiress of his unreckonable\nriches. Or the member of Parliament, now at the head of the English\nbranch of the family,--with which the elder stock, on this side of the\nAtlantic, had held little or no intercourse for the last two\ncenturies,--this eminent gentleman might invite Hepzibah to quit the\nruinous House of the Seven Gables, and come over to dwell with her\nkindred at Pyncheon Hall. But, for reasons the most imperative, she\ncould not yield to his request. It was more probable, therefore, that\nthe descendants of a Pyncheon who had emigrated to Virginia, in some\npast generation, and became a great planter there,--hearing of\nHepzibah\'s destitution, and impelled by the splendid generosity of\ncharacter with which their Virginian mixture must have enriched the New\nEngland blood,--would send her a remittance of a thousand dollars, with\na hint of repeating the favor annually. Or,--and, surely, anything so\nundeniably just could not be beyond the limits of reasonable\nanticipation,--the great claim to the heritage of Waldo County might\nfinally be decided in favor of the Pyncheons; so that, instead of\nkeeping a cent-shop, Hepzibah would build a palace, and look down from\nits highest tower on hill, dale, forest, field, and town, as her own\nshare of the ancestral territory.\n\nThese were some of the fantasies which she had long dreamed about; and,\naided by these, Uncle Venner\'s casual attempt at encouragement kindled\na strange festal glory in the poor, bare, melancholy chambers of her\nbrain, as if that inner world were suddenly lighted up with gas. But\neither he knew nothing of her castles in the air,--as how should\nhe?--or else her earnest scowl disturbed his recollection, as it might\na more courageous man\'s. Instead of pursuing any weightier topic,\nUncle Venner was pleased to favor Hepzibah with some sage counsel in\nher shop-keeping capacity.\n\n\"Give no credit!\"--these were some of his golden maxims,--\"Never take\npaper-money. Look well to your change! Ring the silver on the\nfour-pound weight! Shove back all English half-pence and base copper\ntokens, such as are very plenty about town! At your leisure hours, knit\nchildren\'s woollen socks and mittens! Brew your own yeast, and make\nyour own ginger-beer!\"\n\nAnd while Hepzibah was doing her utmost to digest the hard little\npellets of his already uttered wisdom, he gave vent to his final, and\nwhat he declared to be his all-important advice, as follows:--\n\n\"Put on a bright face for your customers, and smile pleasantly as you\nhand them what they ask for! A stale article, if you dip it in a good,\nwarm, sunny smile, will go off better than a fresh one that you\'ve\nscowled upon.\"\n\nTo this last apothegm poor Hepzibah responded with a sigh so deep and\nheavy that it almost rustled Uncle Venner quite away, like a withered\nleaf,--as he was,--before an autumnal gale. Recovering himself,\nhowever, he bent forward, and, with a good deal of feeling in his\nancient visage, beckoned her nearer to him.\n\n\"When do you expect him home?\" whispered he.\n\n\"Whom do you mean?\" asked Hepzibah, turning pale.\n\n\"Ah!--You don\'t love to talk about it,\" said Uncle Venner. \"Well,\nwell! we\'ll say no more, though there\'s word of it all over town. I\nremember him, Miss Hepzibah, before he could run alone!\"\n\nDuring the remainder of the day, poor Hepzibah acquitted herself even\nless creditably, as a shop-keeper, than in her earlier efforts. She\nappeared to be walking in a dream; or, more truly, the vivid life and\nreality assumed by her emotions made all outward occurrences\nunsubstantial, like the teasing phantasms of a half-conscious slumber.\nShe still responded, mechanically, to the frequent summons of the\nshop-bell, and, at the demand of her customers, went prying with vague\neyes about the shop, proffering them one article after another, and\nthrusting aside--perversely, as most of them supposed--the identical\nthing they asked for. There is sad confusion, indeed, when the spirit\nthus flits away into the past, or into the more awful future, or, in\nany manner, steps across the spaceless boundary betwixt its own region\nand the actual world; where the body remains to guide itself as best it\nmay, with little more than the mechanism of animal life. It is like\ndeath, without death\'s quiet privilege,--its freedom from mortal care.\nWorst of all, when the actual duties are comprised in such petty\ndetails as now vexed the brooding soul of the old gentlewoman. As the\nanimosity of fate would have it, there was a great influx of custom in\nthe course of the afternoon. Hepzibah blundered to and fro about her\nsmall place of business, committing the most unheard-of errors: now\nstringing up twelve, and now seven, tallow-candles, instead of ten to\nthe pound; selling ginger for Scotch snuff, pins for needles, and\nneedles for pins; misreckoning her change, sometimes to the public\ndetriment, and much oftener to her own; and thus she went on, doing her\nutmost to bring chaos back again, until, at the close of the day\'s\nlabor, to her inexplicable astonishment, she found the money-drawer\nalmost destitute of coin. After all her painful traffic, the whole\nproceeds were perhaps half a dozen coppers, and a questionable\nninepence which ultimately proved to be copper likewise.\n\nAt this price, or at whatever price, she rejoiced that the day had\nreached its end. Never before had she had such a sense of the\nintolerable length of time that creeps between dawn and sunset, and of\nthe miserable irksomeness of having aught to do, and of the better\nwisdom that it would be to lie down at once, in sullen resignation, and\nlet life, and its toils and vexations, trample over one\'s prostrate\nbody as they may! Hepzibah\'s final operation was with the little\ndevourer of Jim Crow and the elephant, who now proposed to eat a camel.\nIn her bewilderment, she offered him first a wooden dragoon, and next a\nhandful of marbles; neither of which being adapted to his else\nomnivorous appetite, she hastily held out her whole remaining stock of\nnatural history in gingerbread, and huddled the small customer out of\nthe shop. She then muffled the bell in an unfinished stocking, and put\nup the oaken bar across the door.\n\nDuring the latter process, an omnibus came to a stand-still under the\nbranches of the elm-tree. Hepzibah\'s heart was in her mouth. Remote\nand dusky, and with no sunshine on all the intervening space, was that\nregion of the Past whence her only guest might be expected to arrive!\nWas she to meet him now?\n\nSomebody, at all events, was passing from the farthest interior of the\nomnibus towards its entrance. A gentleman alighted; but it was only\nto offer his hand to a young girl whose slender figure, nowise needing\nsuch assistance, now lightly descended the steps, and made an airy\nlittle jump from the final one to the sidewalk. She rewarded her\ncavalier with a smile, the cheery glow of which was seen reflected on\nhis own face as he reentered the vehicle. The girl then turned towards\nthe House of the Seven Gables, to the door of which, meanwhile,--not\nthe shop-door, but the antique portal,--the omnibus-man had carried a\nlight trunk and a bandbox. First giving a sharp rap of the old iron\nknocker, he left his passenger and her luggage at the door-step, and\ndeparted.\n\n\"Who can it be?\" thought Hepzibah, who had been screwing her visual\norgans into the acutest focus of which they were capable. \"The girl\nmust have mistaken the house.\" She stole softly into the hall, and,\nherself invisible, gazed through the dusty side-lights of the portal at\nthe young, blooming, and very cheerful face which presented itself for\nadmittance into the gloomy old mansion. It was a face to which almost\nany door would have opened of its own accord.\n\nThe young girl, so fresh, so unconventional, and yet so orderly and\nobedient to common rules, as you at once recognized her to be, was\nwidely in contrast, at that moment, with everything about her. The\nsordid and ugly luxuriance of gigantic weeds that grew in the angle of\nthe house, and the heavy projection that overshadowed her, and the\ntime-worn framework of the door,--none of these things belonged to her\nsphere. But, even as a ray of sunshine, fall into what dismal place it\nmay, instantaneously creates for itself a propriety in being there, so\ndid it seem altogether fit that the girl should be standing at the\nthreshold. It was no less evidently proper that the door should swing\nopen to admit her. The maiden lady herself, sternly inhospitable in\nher first purposes, soon began to feel that the door ought to be shoved\nback, and the rusty key be turned in the reluctant lock.\n\n\"Can it be Phoebe?\" questioned she within herself. \"It must be little\nPhoebe; for it can be nobody else,--and there is a look of her father\nabout her, too! But what does she want here? And how like a country\ncousin, to come down upon a poor body in this way, without so much as a\nday\'s notice, or asking whether she would be welcome! Well; she must\nhave a night\'s lodging, I suppose; and to-morrow the child shall go\nback to her mother.\"\n\nPhoebe, it must be understood, was that one little offshoot of the\nPyncheon race to whom we have already referred, as a native of a rural\npart of New England, where the old fashions and feelings of\nrelationship are still partially kept up. In her own circle, it was\nregarded as by no means improper for kinsfolk to visit one another\nwithout invitation, or preliminary and ceremonious warning. Yet, in\nconsideration of Miss Hepzibah\'s recluse way of life, a letter had\nactually been written and despatched, conveying information of Phoebe\'s\nprojected visit. This epistle, for three or four days past, had been\nin the pocket of the penny-postman, who, happening to have no other\nbusiness in Pyncheon Street, had not yet made it convenient to call at\nthe House of the Seven Gables.\n\n\"No--she can stay only one night,\" said Hepzibah, unbolting the door.\n\"If Clifford were to find her here, it might disturb him!\"\n\n\n\n\n V May and November\n\n\nPHOEBE PYNCHEON slept, on the night of her arrival, in a chamber that\nlooked down on the garden of the old house. It fronted towards the\neast, so that at a very seasonable hour a glow of crimson light came\nflooding through the window, and bathed the dingy ceiling and\npaper-hangings in its own hue. There were curtains to Phoebe\'s bed; a\ndark, antique canopy, and ponderous festoons of a stuff which had been\nrich, and even magnificent, in its time; but which now brooded over the\ngirl like a cloud, making a night in that one corner, while elsewhere\nit was beginning to be day. The morning light, however, soon stole\ninto the aperture at the foot of the bed, betwixt those faded curtains.\nFinding the new guest there,--with a bloom on her cheeks like the\nmorning\'s own, and a gentle stir of departing slumber in her limbs, as\nwhen an early breeze moves the foliage,--the dawn kissed her brow. It\nwas the caress which a dewy maiden--such as the Dawn is,\nimmortally--gives to her sleeping sister, partly from the impulse of\nirresistible fondness, and partly as a pretty hint that it is time now\nto unclose her eyes.\n\nAt the touch of those lips of light, Phoebe quietly awoke, and, for a\nmoment, did not recognize where she was, nor how those heavy curtains\nchanced to be festooned around her. Nothing, indeed, was absolutely\nplain to her, except that it was now early morning, and that, whatever\nmight happen next, it was proper, first of all, to get up and say her\nprayers. She was the more inclined to devotion from the grim aspect of\nthe chamber and its furniture, especially the tall, stiff chairs; one\nof which stood close by her bedside, and looked as if some\nold-fashioned personage had been sitting there all night, and had\nvanished only just in season to escape discovery.\n\nWhen Phoebe was quite dressed, she peeped out of the window, and saw a\nrosebush in the garden. Being a very tall one, and of luxuriant\ngrowth, it had been propped up against the side of the house, and was\nliterally covered with a rare and very beautiful species of white rose.\nA large portion of them, as the girl afterwards discovered, had blight\nor mildew at their hearts; but, viewed at a fair distance, the whole\nrosebush looked as if it had been brought from Eden that very summer,\ntogether with the mould in which it grew. The truth was, nevertheless,\nthat it had been planted by Alice Pyncheon,--she was Phoebe\'s\ngreat-great-grand-aunt,--in soil which, reckoning only its cultivation\nas a garden-plat, was now unctuous with nearly two hundred years of\nvegetable decay. Growing as they did, however, out of the old earth,\nthe flowers still sent a fresh and sweet incense up to their Creator;\nnor could it have been the less pure and acceptable because Phoebe\'s\nyoung breath mingled with it, as the fragrance floated past the window.\nHastening down the creaking and carpetless staircase, she found her way\ninto the garden, gathered some of the most perfect of the roses, and\nbrought them to her chamber.\n\nLittle Phoebe was one of those persons who possess, as their exclusive\npatrimony, the gift of practical arrangement. It is a kind of natural\nmagic that enables these favored ones to bring out the hidden\ncapabilities of things around them; and particularly to give a look of\ncomfort and habitableness to any place which, for however brief a\nperiod, may happen to be their home. A wild hut of underbrush, tossed\ntogether by wayfarers through the primitive forest, would acquire the\nhome aspect by one night\'s lodging of such a woman, and would retain it\nlong after her quiet figure had disappeared into the surrounding shade.\nNo less a portion of such homely witchcraft was requisite to reclaim,\nas it were, Phoebe\'s waste, cheerless, and dusky chamber, which had\nbeen untenanted so long--except by spiders, and mice, and rats, and\nghosts--that it was all overgrown with the desolation which watches to\nobliterate every trace of man\'s happier hours. What was precisely\nPhoebe\'s process we find it impossible to say. She appeared to have no\npreliminary design, but gave a touch here and another there; brought\nsome articles of furniture to light and dragged others into the shadow;\nlooped up or let down a window-curtain; and, in the course of half an\nhour, had fully succeeded in throwing a kindly and hospitable smile\nover the apartment. No longer ago than the night before, it had\nresembled nothing so much as the old maid\'s heart; for there was\nneither sunshine nor household fire in one nor the other, and, save for\nghosts and ghostly reminiscences, not a guest, for many years gone by,\nhad entered the heart or the chamber.\n\nThere was still another peculiarity of this inscrutable charm. The\nbedchamber, no doubt, was a chamber of very great and varied\nexperience, as a scene of human life: the joy of bridal nights had\nthrobbed itself away here; new immortals had first drawn earthly breath\nhere; and here old people had died. But--whether it were the white\nroses, or whatever the subtile influence might be--a person of delicate\ninstinct would have known at once that it was now a maiden\'s\nbedchamber, and had been purified of all former evil and sorrow by her\nsweet breath and happy thoughts. Her dreams of the past night, being\nsuch cheerful ones, had exorcised the gloom, and now haunted the\nchamber in its stead.\n\nAfter arranging matters to her satisfaction, Phoebe emerged from her\nchamber, with a purpose to descend again into the garden. Besides the\nrosebush, she had observed several other species of flowers growing\nthere in a wilderness of neglect, and obstructing one another\'s\ndevelopment (as is often the parallel case in human society) by their\nuneducated entanglement and confusion. At the head of the stairs,\nhowever, she met Hepzibah, who, it being still early, invited her into\na room which she would probably have called her boudoir, had her\neducation embraced any such French phrase. It was strewn about with a\nfew old books, and a work-basket, and a dusty writing-desk; and had, on\none side, a large black article of furniture, of very strange\nappearance, which the old gentlewoman told Phoebe was a harpsichord.\nIt looked more like a coffin than anything else; and, indeed,--not\nhaving been played upon, or opened, for years,--there must have been a\nvast deal of dead music in it, stifled for want of air. Human finger\nwas hardly known to have touched its chords since the days of Alice\nPyncheon, who had learned the sweet accomplishment of melody in Europe.\n\nHepzibah bade her young guest sit down, and, herself taking a chair\nnear by, looked as earnestly at Phoebe\'s trim little figure as if she\nexpected to see right into its springs and motive secrets.\n\n\"Cousin Phoebe,\" said she, at last, \"I really can\'t see my way clear to\nkeep you with me.\"\n\nThese words, however, had not the inhospitable bluntness with which\nthey may strike the reader; for the two relatives, in a talk before\nbedtime, had arrived at a certain degree of mutual understanding.\nHepzibah knew enough to enable her to appreciate the circumstances\n(resulting from the second marriage of the girl\'s mother) which made it\ndesirable for Phoebe to establish herself in another home. Nor did she\nmisinterpret Phoebe\'s character, and the genial activity pervading\nit,--one of the most valuable traits of the true New England\nwoman,--which had impelled her forth, as might be said, to seek her\nfortune, but with a self-respecting purpose to confer as much benefit\nas she could anywise receive. As one of her nearest kindred, she had\nnaturally betaken herself to Hepzibah, with no idea of forcing herself\non her cousin\'s protection, but only for a visit of a week or two,\nwhich might be indefinitely extended, should it prove for the happiness\nof both.\n\nTo Hepzibah\'s blunt observation, therefore, Phoebe replied as frankly,\nand more cheerfully.\n\n\"Dear cousin, I cannot tell how it will be,\" said she. \"But I really\nthink we may suit one another much better than you suppose.\"\n\n\"You are a nice girl,--I see it plainly,\" continued Hepzibah; \"and it\nis not any question as to that point which makes me hesitate. But,\nPhoebe, this house of mine is but a melancholy place for a young person\nto be in. It lets in the wind and rain, and the snow, too, in the\ngarret and upper chambers, in winter-time, but it never lets in the\nsunshine. And as for myself, you see what I am,--a dismal and lonesome\nold woman (for I begin to call myself old, Phoebe), whose temper, I am\nafraid, is none of the best, and whose spirits are as bad as can be! I\ncannot make your life pleasant, Cousin Phoebe, neither can I so much as\ngive you bread to eat.\"\n\n\"You will find me a cheerful little body\" answered Phoebe, smiling, and\nyet with a kind of gentle dignity, \"and I mean to earn my bread. You\nknow I have not been brought up a Pyncheon. A girl learns many things\nin a New England village.\"\n\n\"Ah! Phoebe,\" said Hepzibah, sighing, \"your knowledge would do but\nlittle for you here! And then it is a wretched thought that you should\nfling away your young days in a place like this. Those cheeks would\nnot be so rosy after a month or two. Look at my face!\" and, indeed,\nthe contrast was very striking,--\"you see how pale I am! It is my idea\nthat the dust and continual decay of these old houses are unwholesome\nfor the lungs.\"\n\n\"There is the garden,--the flowers to be taken care of,\" observed\nPhoebe. \"I should keep myself healthy with exercise in the open air.\"\n\n\"And, after all, child,\" exclaimed Hepzibah, suddenly rising, as if to\ndismiss the subject, \"it is not for me to say who shall be a guest or\ninhabitant of the old Pyncheon House. Its master is coming.\"\n\n\"Do you mean Judge Pyncheon?\" asked Phoebe in surprise.\n\n\"Judge Pyncheon!\" answered her cousin angrily. \"He will hardly cross\nthe threshold while I live! No, no! But, Phoebe, you shall see the face\nof him I speak of.\"\n\nShe went in quest of the miniature already described, and returned with\nit in her hand. Giving it to Phoebe, she watched her features\nnarrowly, and with a certain jealousy as to the mode in which the girl\nwould show herself affected by the picture.\n\n\"How do you like the face?\" asked Hepzibah.\n\n\"It is handsome!--it is very beautiful!\" said Phoebe admiringly. \"It\nis as sweet a face as a man\'s can be, or ought to be. It has something\nof a child\'s expression,--and yet not childish,--only one feels so very\nkindly towards him! He ought never to suffer anything. One would bear\nmuch for the sake of sparing him toil or sorrow. Who is it, Cousin\nHepzibah?\"\n\n\"Did you never hear,\" whispered her cousin, bending towards her, \"of\nClifford Pyncheon?\"\n\n\"Never. I thought there were no Pyncheons left, except yourself and\nour cousin Jaffrey,\" answered Phoebe. \"And yet I seem to have heard\nthe name of Clifford Pyncheon. Yes!--from my father or my mother; but\nhas he not been a long while dead?\"\n\n\"Well, well, child, perhaps he has!\" said Hepzibah with a sad, hollow\nlaugh; \"but, in old houses like this, you know, dead people are very\napt to come back again! We shall see. And, Cousin Phoebe, since, after\nall that I have said, your courage does not fail you, we will not part\nso soon. You are welcome, my child, for the present, to such a home as\nyour kinswoman can offer you.\"\n\nWith this measured, but not exactly cold assurance of a hospitable\npurpose, Hepzibah kissed her cheek.\n\nThey now went below stairs, where Phoebe--not so much assuming the\noffice as attracting it to herself, by the magnetism of innate\nfitness--took the most active part in preparing breakfast. The\nmistress of the house, meanwhile, as is usual with persons of her stiff\nand unmalleable cast, stood mostly aside; willing to lend her aid, yet\nconscious that her natural inaptitude would be likely to impede the\nbusiness in hand. Phoebe and the fire that boiled the teakettle were\nequally bright, cheerful, and efficient, in their respective offices.\nHepzibah gazed forth from her habitual sluggishness, the necessary\nresult of long solitude, as from another sphere. She could not help\nbeing interested, however, and even amused, at the readiness with which\nher new inmate adapted herself to the circumstances, and brought the\nhouse, moreover, and all its rusty old appliances, into a suitableness\nfor her purposes. Whatever she did, too, was done without conscious\neffort, and with frequent outbreaks of song, which were exceedingly\npleasant to the ear. This natural tunefulness made Phoebe seem like a\nbird in a shadowy tree; or conveyed the idea that the stream of life\nwarbled through her heart as a brook sometimes warbles through a\npleasant little dell. It betokened the cheeriness of an active\ntemperament, finding joy in its activity, and, therefore, rendering it\nbeautiful; it was a New England trait,--the stern old stuff of\nPuritanism with a gold thread in the web.\n\nHepzibah brought out some old silver spoons with the family crest upon\nthem, and a china tea-set painted over with grotesque figures of man,\nbird, and beast, in as grotesque a landscape. These pictured people\nwere odd humorists, in a world of their own,--a world of vivid\nbrilliancy, so far as color went, and still unfaded, although the\nteapot and small cups were as ancient as the custom itself of\ntea-drinking.\n\n\"Your great-great-great-great-grandmother had these cups, when she was\nmarried,\" said Hepzibah to Phoebe. \"She was a Davenport, of a good\nfamily. They were almost the first teacups ever seen in the colony;\nand if one of them were to be broken, my heart would break with it.\nBut it is nonsense to speak so about a brittle teacup, when I remember\nwhat my heart has gone through without breaking.\"\n\nThe cups--not having been used, perhaps, since Hepzibah\'s youth--had\ncontracted no small burden of dust, which Phoebe washed away with so\nmuch care and delicacy as to satisfy even the proprietor of this\ninvaluable china.\n\n\"What a nice little housewife you are!\" exclaimed the latter, smiling,\nand at the same time frowning so prodigiously that the smile was\nsunshine under a thunder-cloud. \"Do you do other things as well? Are\nyou as good at your book as you are at washing teacups?\"\n\n\"Not quite, I am afraid,\" said Phoebe, laughing at the form of\nHepzibah\'s question. \"But I was schoolmistress for the little children\nin our district last summer, and might have been so still.\"\n\n\"Ah! \'tis all very well!\" observed the maiden lady, drawing herself up.\n\"But these things must have come to you with your mother\'s blood. I\nnever knew a Pyncheon that had any turn for them.\"\n\nIt is very queer, but not the less true, that people are generally\nquite as vain, or even more so, of their deficiencies than of their\navailable gifts; as was Hepzibah of this native inapplicability, so to\nspeak, of the Pyncheons to any useful purpose. She regarded it as an\nhereditary trait; and so, perhaps, it was, but unfortunately a morbid\none, such as is often generated in families that remain long above the\nsurface of society.\n\nBefore they left the breakfast-table, the shop-bell rang sharply, and\nHepzibah set down the remnant of her final cup of tea, with a look of\nsallow despair that was truly piteous to behold. In cases of\ndistasteful occupation, the second day is generally worse than the\nfirst. We return to the rack with all the soreness of the preceding\ntorture in our limbs. At all events, Hepzibah had fully satisfied\nherself of the impossibility of ever becoming wonted to this peevishly\nobstreperous little bell. Ring as often as it might, the sound always\nsmote upon her nervous system rudely and suddenly. And especially now,\nwhile, with her crested teaspoons and antique china, she was flattering\nherself with ideas of gentility, she felt an unspeakable disinclination\nto confront a customer.\n\n\"Do not trouble yourself, dear cousin!\" cried Phoebe, starting lightly\nup. \"I am shop-keeper to-day.\"\n\n\"You, child!\" exclaimed Hepzibah. \"What can a little country girl know\nof such matters?\"\n\n\"Oh, I have done all the shopping for the family at our village store,\"\nsaid Phoebe. \"And I have had a table at a fancy fair, and made better\nsales than anybody. These things are not to be learnt; they depend\nupon a knack that comes, I suppose,\" added she, smiling, \"with one\'s\nmother\'s blood. You shall see that I am as nice a little saleswoman as\nI am a housewife!\"\n\nThe old gentlewoman stole behind Phoebe, and peeped from the passageway\ninto the shop, to note how she would manage her undertaking. It was a\ncase of some intricacy. A very ancient woman, in a white short gown\nand a green petticoat, with a string of gold beads about her neck, and\nwhat looked like a nightcap on her head, had brought a quantity of yarn\nto barter for the commodities of the shop. She was probably the very\nlast person in town who still kept the time-honored spinning-wheel in\nconstant revolution. It was worth while to hear the croaking and\nhollow tones of the old lady, and the pleasant voice of Phoebe,\nmingling in one twisted thread of talk; and still better to contrast\ntheir figures,--so light and bloomy,--so decrepit and dusky,--with only\nthe counter betwixt them, in one sense, but more than threescore years,\nin another. As for the bargain, it was wrinkled slyness and craft\npitted against native truth and sagacity.\n\n\"Was not that well done?\" asked Phoebe, laughing, when the customer was\ngone.\n\n\"Nicely done, indeed, child!\" answered Hepzibah. \"I could not have\ngone through with it nearly so well. As you say, it must be a knack\nthat belongs to you on the mother\'s side.\"\n\nIt is a very genuine admiration, that with which persons too shy or too\nawkward to take a due part in the bustling world regard the real actors\nin life\'s stirring scenes; so genuine, in fact, that the former are\nusually fain to make it palatable to their self-love, by assuming that\nthese active and forcible qualities are incompatible with others, which\nthey choose to deem higher and more important. Thus, Hepzibah was well\ncontent to acknowledge Phoebe\'s vastly superior gifts as a\nshop-keeper\'--she listened, with compliant ear, to her suggestion of\nvarious methods whereby the influx of trade might be increased, and\nrendered profitable, without a hazardous outlay of capital. She\nconsented that the village maiden should manufacture yeast, both liquid\nand in cakes; and should brew a certain kind of beer, nectareous to the\npalate, and of rare stomachic virtues; and, moreover, should bake and\nexhibit for sale some little spice-cakes, which whosoever tasted would\nlongingly desire to taste again. All such proofs of a ready mind and\nskilful handiwork were highly acceptable to the aristocratic\nhucksteress, so long as she could murmur to herself with a grim smile,\nand a half-natural sigh, and a sentiment of mixed wonder, pity, and\ngrowing affection:--\n\n\"What a nice little body she is! If she only could be a lady; too--but\nthat\'s impossible! Phoebe is no Pyncheon. She takes everything from\nher mother!\"\n\nAs to Phoebe\'s not being a lady, or whether she were a lady or no, it\nwas a point, perhaps, difficult to decide, but which could hardly have\ncome up for judgment at all in any fair and healthy mind. Out of New\nEngland, it would be impossible to meet with a person combining so many\nladylike attributes with so many others that form no necessary (if\ncompatible) part of the character. She shocked no canon of taste; she\nwas admirably in keeping with herself, and never jarred against\nsurrounding circumstances. Her figure, to be sure,--so small as to be\nalmost childlike, and so elastic that motion seemed as easy or easier\nto it than rest, would hardly have suited one\'s idea of a countess.\nNeither did her face--with the brown ringlets on either side, and the\nslightly piquant nose, and the wholesome bloom, and the clear shade of\ntan, and the half dozen freckles, friendly remembrances of the April\nsun and breeze--precisely give us a right to call her beautiful. But\nthere was both lustre and depth in her eyes. She was very pretty; as\ngraceful as a bird, and graceful much in the same way; as pleasant\nabout the house as a gleam of sunshine falling on the floor through a\nshadow of twinkling leaves, or as a ray of firelight that dances on the\nwall while evening is drawing nigh. Instead of discussing her claim\nto rank among ladies, it would be preferable to regard Phoebe as the\nexample of feminine grace and availability combined, in a state of\nsociety, if there were any such, where ladies did not exist. There it\nshould be woman\'s office to move in the midst of practical affairs, and\nto gild them all, the very homeliest,--were it even the scouring of\npots and kettles,--with an atmosphere of loveliness and joy.\n\nSuch was the sphere of Phoebe. To find the born and educated lady, on\nthe other hand, we need look no farther than Hepzibah, our forlorn old\nmaid, in her rustling and rusty silks, with her deeply cherished and\nridiculous consciousness of long descent, her shadowy claims to\nprincely territory, and, in the way of accomplishment, her\nrecollections, it may be, of having formerly thrummed on a harpsichord,\nand walked a minuet, and worked an antique tapestry-stitch on her\nsampler. It was a fair parallel between new Plebeianism and old\nGentility.\n\nIt really seemed as if the battered visage of the House of the Seven\nGables, black and heavy-browed as it still certainly looked, must have\nshown a kind of cheerfulness glimmering through its dusky windows as\nPhoebe passed to and fro in the interior. Otherwise, it is impossible\nto explain how the people of the neighborhood so soon became aware of\nthe girl\'s presence. There was a great run of custom, setting steadily\nin, from about ten o\' clock until towards noon,--relaxing, somewhat, at\ndinner-time, but recommencing in the afternoon, and, finally, dying\naway a half an hour or so before the long day\'s sunset. One of the\nstanchest patrons was little Ned Higgins, the devourer of Jim Crow and\nthe elephant, who to-day signalized his omnivorous prowess by\nswallowing two dromedaries and a locomotive. Phoebe laughed, as she\nsummed up her aggregate of sales upon the slate; while Hepzibah, first\ndrawing on a pair of silk gloves, reckoned over the sordid accumulation\nof copper coin, not without silver intermixed, that had jingled into\nthe till.\n\n\"We must renew our stock, Cousin Hepzibah!\" cried the little\nsaleswoman. \"The gingerbread figures are all gone, and so are those\nDutch wooden milkmaids, and most of our other playthings. There has\nbeen constant inquiry for cheap raisins, and a great cry for whistles,\nand trumpets, and jew\'s-harps; and at least a dozen little boys have\nasked for molasses-candy. And we must contrive to get a peck of russet\napples, late in the season as it is. But, dear cousin, what an\nenormous heap of copper! Positively a copper mountain!\"\n\n\"Well done! well done! well done!\" quoth Uncle Venner, who had taken\noccasion to shuffle in and out of the shop several times in the course\nof the day. \"Here\'s a girl that will never end her days at my farm!\nBless my eyes, what a brisk little soul!\"\n\n\"Yes, Phoebe is a nice girl!\" said Hepzibah, with a scowl of austere\napprobation. \"But, Uncle Venner, you have known the family a great\nmany years. Can you tell me whether there ever was a Pyncheon whom she\ntakes after?\"\n\n\"I don\'t believe there ever was,\" answered the venerable man. \"At any\nrate, it never was my luck to see her like among them, nor, for that\nmatter, anywhere else. I\'ve seen a great deal of the world, not only\nin people\'s kitchens and back-yards but at the street-corners, and on\nthe wharves, and in other places where my business calls me; and I\'m\nfree to say, Miss Hepzibah, that I never knew a human creature do her\nwork so much like one of God\'s angels as this child Phoebe does!\"\n\nUncle Venner\'s eulogium, if it appear rather too high-strained for the\nperson and occasion, had, nevertheless, a sense in which it was both\nsubtile and true. There was a spiritual quality in Phoebe\'s activity.\nThe life of the long and busy day--spent in occupations that might so\neasily have taken a squalid and ugly aspect--had been made pleasant,\nand even lovely, by the spontaneous grace with which these homely\nduties seemed to bloom out of her character; so that labor, while she\ndealt with it, had the easy and flexible charm of play. Angels do not\ntoil, but let their good works grow out of them; and so did Phoebe.\n\nThe two relatives--the young maid and the old one--found time before\nnightfall, in the intervals of trade, to make rapid advances towards\naffection and confidence. A recluse, like Hepzibah, usually displays\nremarkable frankness, and at least temporary affability, on being\nabsolutely cornered, and brought to the point of personal intercourse;\nlike the angel whom Jacob wrestled with, she is ready to bless you when\nonce overcome.\n\nThe old gentlewoman took a dreary and proud satisfaction in leading\nPhoebe from room to room of the house, and recounting the traditions\nwith which, as we may say, the walls were lugubriously frescoed. She\nshowed the indentations made by the lieutenant-governor\'s sword-hilt in\nthe door-panels of the apartment where old Colonel Pyncheon, a dead\nhost, had received his affrighted visitors with an awful frown. The\ndusky terror of that frown, Hepzibah observed, was thought to be\nlingering ever since in the passageway. She bade Phoebe step into one\nof the tall chairs, and inspect the ancient map of the Pyncheon\nterritory at the eastward. In a tract of land on which she laid her\nfinger, there existed a silver mine, the locality of which was\nprecisely pointed out in some memoranda of Colonel Pyncheon himself,\nbut only to be made known when the family claim should be recognized by\ngovernment. Thus it was for the interest of all New England that the\nPyncheons should have justice done them. She told, too, how that there\nwas undoubtedly an immense treasure of English guineas hidden somewhere\nabout the house, or in the cellar, or possibly in the garden.\n\n\"If you should happen to find it, Phoebe,\" said Hepzibah, glancing\naside at her with a grim yet kindly smile, \"we will tie up the\nshop-bell for good and all!\"\n\n\"Yes, dear cousin,\" answered Phoebe; \"but, in the mean time, I hear\nsomebody ringing it!\"\n\nWhen the customer was gone, Hepzibah talked rather vaguely, and at\ngreat length, about a certain Alice Pyncheon, who had been exceedingly\nbeautiful and accomplished in her lifetime, a hundred years ago. The\nfragrance of her rich and delightful character still lingered about the\nplace where she had lived, as a dried rose-bud scents the drawer where\nit has withered and perished. This lovely Alice had met with some\ngreat and mysterious calamity, and had grown thin and white, and\ngradually faded out of the world. But, even now, she was supposed to\nhaunt the House of the Seven Gables, and, a great many times,--especially\nwhen one of the Pyncheons was to die,--she had been heard playing sadly\nand beautifully on the harpsichord. One of these tunes, just as it had\nsounded from her spiritual touch, had been written down by an amateur of\nmusic; it was so exquisitely mournful that nobody, to this day, could\nbear to hear it played, unless when a great sorrow had made them know\nthe still profounder sweetness of it.\n\n\"Was it the same harpsichord that you showed me?\" inquired Phoebe.\n\n\"The very same,\" said Hepzibah. \"It was Alice Pyncheon\'s harpsichord.\nWhen I was learning music, my father would never let me open it. So,\nas I could only play on my teacher\'s instrument, I have forgotten all\nmy music long ago.\"\n\nLeaving these antique themes, the old lady began to talk about the\ndaguerreotypist, whom, as he seemed to be a well-meaning and orderly\nyoung man, and in narrow circumstances, she had permitted to take up\nhis residence in one of the seven gables. But, on seeing more of Mr.\nHolgrave, she hardly knew what to make of him. He had the strangest\ncompanions imaginable; men with long beards, and dressed in linen\nblouses, and other such new-fangled and ill-fitting garments;\nreformers, temperance lecturers, and all manner of cross-looking\nphilanthropists; community-men, and come-outers, as Hepzibah believed,\nwho acknowledged no law, and ate no solid food, but lived on the scent\nof other people\'s cookery, and turned up their noses at the fare. As\nfor the daguerreotypist, she had read a paragraph in a penny paper, the\nother day, accusing him of making a speech full of wild and\ndisorganizing matter, at a meeting of his banditti-like associates.\nFor her own part, she had reason to believe that he practised animal\nmagnetism, and, if such things were in fashion nowadays, should be apt\nto suspect him of studying the Black Art up there in his lonesome\nchamber.\n\n\"But, dear cousin,\" said Phoebe, \"if the young man is so dangerous, why\ndo you let him stay? If he does nothing worse, he may set the house on\nfire!\"\n\n\"Why, sometimes,\" answered Hepzibah, \"I have seriously made it a\nquestion, whether I ought not to send him away. But, with all his\noddities, he is a quiet kind of a person, and has such a way of taking\nhold of one\'s mind, that, without exactly liking him (for I don\'t know\nenough of the young man), I should be sorry to lose sight of him\nentirely. A woman clings to slight acquaintances when she lives so\nmuch alone as I do.\"\n\n\"But if Mr. Holgrave is a lawless person!\" remonstrated Phoebe, a part\nof whose essence it was to keep within the limits of law.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Hepzibah carelessly,--for, formal as she was, still, in her\nlife\'s experience, she had gnashed her teeth against human law,--\"I\nsuppose he has a law of his own!\"\n\n\n\n\n VI Maule\'s Well\n\n\nAFTER an early tea, the little country-girl strayed into the garden.\nThe enclosure had formerly been very extensive, but was now contracted\nwithin small compass, and hemmed about, partly by high wooden fences,\nand partly by the outbuildings of houses that stood on another street.\nIn its centre was a grass-plat, surrounding a ruinous little structure,\nwhich showed just enough of its original design to indicate that it had\nonce been a summer-house. A hop-vine, springing from last year\'s root,\nwas beginning to clamber over it, but would be long in covering the\nroof with its green mantle. Three of the seven gables either fronted\nor looked sideways, with a dark solemnity of aspect, down into the\ngarden.\n\nThe black, rich soil had fed itself with the decay of a long period of\ntime; such as fallen leaves, the petals of flowers, and the stalks and\nseed--vessels of vagrant and lawless plants, more useful after their\ndeath than ever while flaunting in the sun. The evil of these departed\nyears would naturally have sprung up again, in such rank weeds\n(symbolic of the transmitted vices of society) as are always prone to\nroot themselves about human dwellings. Phoebe saw, however, that their\ngrowth must have been checked by a degree of careful labor, bestowed\ndaily and systematically on the garden. The white double rosebush had\nevidently been propped up anew against the house since the commencement\nof the season; and a pear-tree and three damson-trees, which, except a\nrow of currant-bushes, constituted the only varieties of fruit, bore\nmarks of the recent amputation of several superfluous or defective\nlimbs. There were also a few species of antique and hereditary\nflowers, in no very flourishing condition, but scrupulously weeded; as\nif some person, either out of love or curiosity, had been anxious to\nbring them to such perfection as they were capable of attaining. The\nremainder of the garden presented a well-selected assortment of\nesculent vegetables, in a praiseworthy state of advancement. Summer\nsquashes almost in their golden blossom; cucumbers, now evincing a\ntendency to spread away from the main stock, and ramble far and wide;\ntwo or three rows of string-beans and as many more that were about to\nfestoon themselves on poles; tomatoes, occupying a site so sheltered\nand sunny that the plants were already gigantic, and promised an early\nand abundant harvest.\n\nPhoebe wondered whose care and toil it could have been that had planted\nthese vegetables, and kept the soil so clean and orderly. Not surely\nher cousin Hepzibah\'s, who had no taste nor spirits for the lady-like\nemployment of cultivating flowers, and--with her recluse habits, and\ntendency to shelter herself within the dismal shadow of the\nhouse--would hardly have come forth under the speck of open sky to weed\nand hoe among the fraternity of beans and squashes.\n\nIt being her first day of complete estrangement from rural objects,\nPhoebe found an unexpected charm in this little nook of grass, and\nfoliage, and aristocratic flowers, and plebeian vegetables. The eye of\nHeaven seemed to look down into it pleasantly, and with a peculiar\nsmile, as if glad to perceive that nature, elsewhere overwhelmed, and\ndriven out of the dusty town, had here been able to retain a\nbreathing-place. The spot acquired a somewhat wilder grace, and yet a\nvery gentle one, from the fact that a pair of robins had built their\nnest in the pear-tree, and were making themselves exceedingly busy and\nhappy in the dark intricacy of its boughs. Bees, too,--strange to\nsay,--had thought it worth their while to come hither, possibly from\nthe range of hives beside some farm-house miles away. How many aerial\nvoyages might they have made, in quest of honey, or honey-laden,\nbetwixt dawn and sunset! Yet, late as it now was, there still arose a\npleasant hum out of one or two of the squash-blossoms, in the depths of\nwhich these bees were plying their golden labor. There was one other\nobject in the garden which Nature might fairly claim as her inalienable\nproperty, in spite of whatever man could do to render it his own. This\nwas a fountain, set round with a rim of old mossy stones, and paved, in\nits bed, with what appeared to be a sort of mosaic-work of variously\ncolored pebbles. The play and slight agitation of the water, in its\nupward gush, wrought magically with these variegated pebbles, and made\na continually shifting apparition of quaint figures, vanishing too\nsuddenly to be definable. Thence, swelling over the rim of moss-grown\nstones, the water stole away under the fence, through what we regret to\ncall a gutter, rather than a channel. Nor must we forget to mention a\nhen-coop of very reverend antiquity that stood in the farther corner of\nthe garden, not a great way from the fountain. It now contained only\nChanticleer, his two wives, and a solitary chicken. All of them were\npure specimens of a breed which had been transmitted down as an\nheirloom in the Pyncheon family, and were said, while in their prime,\nto have attained almost the size of turkeys, and, on the score of\ndelicate flesh, to be fit for a prince\'s table. In proof of the\nauthenticity of this legendary renown, Hepzibah could have exhibited\nthe shell of a great egg, which an ostrich need hardly have been\nashamed of. Be that as it might, the hens were now scarcely larger\nthan pigeons, and had a queer, rusty, withered aspect, and a gouty kind\nof movement, and a sleepy and melancholy tone throughout all the\nvariations of their clucking and cackling. It was evident that the\nrace had degenerated, like many a noble race besides, in consequence of\ntoo strict a watchfulness to keep it pure. These feathered people had\nexisted too long in their distinct variety; a fact of which the present\nrepresentatives, judging by their lugubrious deportment, seemed to be\naware. They kept themselves alive, unquestionably, and laid now and\nthen an egg, and hatched a chicken; not for any pleasure of their own,\nbut that the world might not absolutely lose what had once been so\nadmirable a breed of fowls. The distinguishing mark of the hens was a\ncrest of lamentably scanty growth, in these latter days, but so oddly\nand wickedly analogous to Hepzibah\'s turban, that Phoebe--to the\npoignant distress of her conscience, but inevitably--was led to fancy a\ngeneral resemblance betwixt these forlorn bipeds and her respectable\nrelative.\n\nThe girl ran into the house to get some crumbs of bread, cold potatoes,\nand other such scraps as were suitable to the accommodating appetite of\nfowls. Returning, she gave a peculiar call, which they seemed to\nrecognize. The chicken crept through the pales of the coop and ran,\nwith some show of liveliness, to her feet; while Chanticleer and the\nladies of his household regarded her with queer, sidelong glances, and\nthen croaked one to another, as if communicating their sage opinions of\nher character. So wise, as well as antique, was their aspect, as to\ngive color to the idea, not merely that they were the descendants of a\ntime-honored race, but that they had existed, in their individual\ncapacity, ever since the House of the Seven Gables was founded, and\nwere somehow mixed up with its destiny. They were a species of\ntutelary sprite, or Banshee; although winged and feathered differently\nfrom most other guardian angels.\n\n\"Here, you odd little chicken!\" said Phoebe; \"here are some nice crumbs\nfor you!\"\n\nThe chicken, hereupon, though almost as venerable in appearance as its\nmother--possessing, indeed, the whole antiquity of its progenitors in\nminiature,--mustered vivacity enough to flutter upward and alight on\nPhoebe\'s shoulder.\n\n\"That little fowl pays you a high compliment!\" said a voice behind\nPhoebe.\n\nTurning quickly, she was surprised at sight of a young man, who had\nfound access into the garden by a door opening out of another gable\nthan that whence she had emerged. He held a hoe in his hand, and,\nwhile Phoebe was gone in quest of the crumbs, had begun to busy himself\nwith drawing up fresh earth about the roots of the tomatoes.\n\n\"The chicken really treats you like an old acquaintance,\" continued he\nin a quiet way, while a smile made his face pleasanter than Phoebe at\nfirst fancied it. \"Those venerable personages in the coop, too, seem\nvery affably disposed. You are lucky to be in their good graces so\nsoon! They have known me much longer, but never honor me with any\nfamiliarity, though hardly a day passes without my bringing them food.\nMiss Hepzibah, I suppose, will interweave the fact with her other\ntraditions, and set it down that the fowls know you to be a Pyncheon!\"\n\n\"The secret is,\" said Phoebe, smiling, \"that I have learned how to talk\nwith hens and chickens.\"\n\n\"Ah, but these hens,\" answered the young man,--\"these hens of\naristocratic lineage would scorn to understand the vulgar language of a\nbarn-yard fowl. I prefer to think--and so would Miss Hepzibah--that\nthey recognize the family tone. For you are a Pyncheon?\"\n\n\"My name is Phoebe Pyncheon,\" said the girl, with a manner of some\nreserve; for she was aware that her new acquaintance could be no other\nthan the daguerreotypist, of whose lawless propensities the old maid\nhad given her a disagreeable idea. \"I did not know that my cousin\nHepzibah\'s garden was under another person\'s care.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Holgrave, \"I dig, and hoe, and weed, in this black old\nearth, for the sake of refreshing myself with what little nature and\nsimplicity may be left in it, after men have so long sown and reaped\nhere. I turn up the earth by way of pastime. My sober occupation, so\nfar as I have any, is with a lighter material. In short, I make\npictures out of sunshine; and, not to be too much dazzled with my own\ntrade, I have prevailed with Miss Hepzibah to let me lodge in one of\nthese dusky gables. It is like a bandage over one\'s eyes, to come into\nit. But would you like to see a specimen of my productions?\"\n\n\"A daguerreotype likeness, do you mean?\" asked Phoebe with less\nreserve; for, in spite of prejudice, her own youthfulness sprang\nforward to meet his. \"I don\'t much like pictures of that sort,--they\nare so hard and stern; besides dodging away from the eye, and trying to\nescape altogether. They are conscious of looking very unamiable, I\nsuppose, and therefore hate to be seen.\"\n\n\"If you would permit me,\" said the artist, looking at Phoebe, \"I should\nlike to try whether the daguerreotype can bring out disagreeable traits\non a perfectly amiable face. But there certainly is truth in what you\nhave said. Most of my likenesses do look unamiable; but the very\nsufficient reason, I fancy, is, because the originals are so. There is\na wonderful insight in Heaven\'s broad and simple sunshine. While we\ngive it credit only for depicting the merest surface, it actually\nbrings out the secret character with a truth that no painter would ever\nventure upon, even could he detect it. There is, at least, no flattery\nin my humble line of art. Now, here is a likeness which I have taken\nover and over again, and still with no better result. Yet the original\nwears, to common eyes, a very different expression. It would gratify\nme to have your judgment on this character.\"\n\nHe exhibited a daguerreotype miniature in a morocco case. Phoebe\nmerely glanced at it, and gave it back.\n\n\"I know the face,\" she replied; \"for its stern eye has been following\nme about all day. It is my Puritan ancestor, who hangs yonder in the\nparlor. To be sure, you have found some way of copying the portrait\nwithout its black velvet cap and gray beard, and have given him a\nmodern coat and satin cravat, instead of his cloak and band. I don\'t\nthink him improved by your alterations.\"\n\n\"You would have seen other differences had you looked a little longer,\"\nsaid Holgrave, laughing, yet apparently much struck. \"I can assure you\nthat this is a modern face, and one which you will very probably meet.\nNow, the remarkable point is, that the original wears, to the world\'s\neye,--and, for aught I know, to his most intimate friends,--an\nexceedingly pleasant countenance, indicative of benevolence, openness\nof heart, sunny good-humor, and other praiseworthy qualities of that\ncast. The sun, as you see, tells quite another story, and will not be\ncoaxed out of it, after half a dozen patient attempts on my part. Here\nwe have the man, sly, subtle, hard, imperious, and, withal, cold as\nice. Look at that eye! Would you like to be at its mercy? At that\nmouth! Could it ever smile? And yet, if you could only see the benign\nsmile of the original! It is so much the more unfortunate, as he is a\npublic character of some eminence, and the likeness was intended to be\nengraved.\"\n\n\"Well, I don\'t wish to see it any more,\" observed Phoebe, turning away\nher eyes. \"It is certainly very like the old portrait. But my cousin\nHepzibah has another picture,--a miniature. If the original is still\nin the world, I think he might defy the sun to make him look stern and\nhard.\"\n\n\"You have seen that picture, then!\" exclaimed the artist, with an\nexpression of much interest. \"I never did, but have a great curiosity\nto do so. And you judge favorably of the face?\"\n\n\"There never was a sweeter one,\" said Phoebe. \"It is almost too soft\nand gentle for a man\'s.\"\n\n\"Is there nothing wild in the eye?\" continued Holgrave, so earnestly\nthat it embarrassed Phoebe, as did also the quiet freedom with which he\npresumed on their so recent acquaintance. \"Is there nothing dark or\nsinister anywhere? Could you not conceive the original to have been\nguilty of a great crime?\"\n\n\"It is nonsense,\" said Phoebe a little impatiently, \"for us to talk\nabout a picture which you have never seen. You mistake it for some\nother. A crime, indeed! Since you are a friend of my cousin\nHepzibah\'s, you should ask her to show you the picture.\"\n\n\"It will suit my purpose still better to see the original,\" replied the\ndaguerreotypist coolly. \"As to his character, we need not discuss its\npoints; they have already been settled by a competent tribunal, or one\nwhich called itself competent. But, stay! Do not go yet, if you\nplease! I have a proposition to make you.\"\n\nPhoebe was on the point of retreating, but turned back, with some\nhesitation; for she did not exactly comprehend his manner, although, on\nbetter observation, its feature seemed rather to be lack of ceremony\nthan any approach to offensive rudeness. There was an odd kind of\nauthority, too, in what he now proceeded to say, rather as if the\ngarden were his own than a place to which he was admitted merely by\nHepzibah\'s courtesy.\n\n\"If agreeable to you,\" he observed, \"it would give me pleasure to turn\nover these flowers, and those ancient and respectable fowls, to your\ncare. Coming fresh from country air and occupations, you will soon\nfeel the need of some such out-of-door employment. My own sphere does\nnot so much lie among flowers. You can trim and tend them, therefore,\nas you please; and I will ask only the least trifle of a blossom, now\nand then, in exchange for all the good, honest kitchen vegetables with\nwhich I propose to enrich Miss Hepzibah\'s table. So we will be\nfellow-laborers, somewhat on the community system.\"\n\nSilently, and rather surprised at her own compliance, Phoebe\naccordingly betook herself to weeding a flower-bed, but busied herself\nstill more with cogitations respecting this young man, with whom she so\nunexpectedly found herself on terms approaching to familiarity. She\ndid not altogether like him. His character perplexed the little\ncountry-girl, as it might a more practised observer; for, while the\ntone of his conversation had generally been playful, the impression\nleft on her mind was that of gravity, and, except as his youth modified\nit, almost sternness. She rebelled, as it were, against a certain\nmagnetic element in the artist\'s nature, which he exercised towards\nher, possibly without being conscious of it.\n\nAfter a little while, the twilight, deepened by the shadows of the\nfruit-trees and the surrounding buildings, threw an obscurity over the\ngarden.\n\n\"There,\" said Holgrave, \"it is time to give over work! That last stroke\nof the hoe has cut off a beanstalk. Good-night, Miss Phoebe Pyncheon!\nAny bright day, if you will put one of those rosebuds in your hair, and\ncome to my rooms in Central Street, I will seize the purest ray of\nsunshine, and make a picture of the flower and its wearer.\" He retired\ntowards his own solitary gable, but turned his head, on reaching the\ndoor, and called to Phoebe, with a tone which certainly had laughter in\nit, yet which seemed to be more than half in earnest.\n\n\"Be careful not to drink at Maule\'s well!\" said he. \"Neither drink nor\nbathe your face in it!\"\n\n\"Maule\'s well!\" answered Phoebe. \"Is that it with the rim of mossy\nstones? I have no thought of drinking there,--but why not?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" rejoined the daguerreotypist, \"because, like an old lady\'s cup of\ntea, it is water bewitched!\"\n\nHe vanished; and Phoebe, lingering a moment, saw a glimmering light,\nand then the steady beam of a lamp, in a chamber of the gable. On\nreturning into Hepzibah\'s apartment of the house, she found the\nlow-studded parlor so dim and dusky that her eyes could not penetrate\nthe interior. She was indistinctly aware, however, that the gaunt\nfigure of the old gentlewoman was sitting in one of the straight-backed\nchairs, a little withdrawn from the window, the faint gleam of which\nshowed the blanched paleness of her cheek, turned sideways towards a\ncorner.\n\n\"Shall I light a lamp, Cousin Hepzibah?\" she asked.\n\n\"Do, if you please, my dear child,\" answered Hepzibah. \"But put it on\nthe table in the corner of the passage. My eyes are weak; and I can\nseldom bear the lamplight on them.\"\n\nWhat an instrument is the human voice! How wonderfully responsive to\nevery emotion of the human soul! In Hepzibah\'s tone, at that moment,\nthere was a certain rich depth and moisture, as if the words,\ncommonplace as they were, had been steeped in the warmth of her heart.\nAgain, while lighting the lamp in the kitchen, Phoebe fancied that her\ncousin spoke to her.\n\n\"In a moment, cousin!\" answered the girl. \"These matches just glimmer,\nand go out.\"\n\nBut, instead of a response from Hepzibah, she seemed to hear the murmur\nof an unknown voice. It was strangely indistinct, however, and less\nlike articulate words than an unshaped sound, such as would be the\nutterance of feeling and sympathy, rather than of the intellect. So\nvague was it, that its impression or echo in Phoebe\'s mind was that of\nunreality. She concluded that she must have mistaken some other sound\nfor that of the human voice; or else that it was altogether in her\nfancy.\n\nShe set the lighted lamp in the passage, and again entered the parlor.\nHepzibah\'s form, though its sable outline mingled with the dusk, was\nnow less imperfectly visible. In the remoter parts of the room,\nhowever, its walls being so ill adapted to reflect light, there was\nnearly the same obscurity as before.\n\n\"Cousin,\" said Phoebe, \"did you speak to me just now?\"\n\n\"No, child!\" replied Hepzibah.\n\nFewer words than before, but with the same mysterious music in them!\nMellow, melancholy, yet not mournful, the tone seemed to gush up out of\nthe deep well of Hepzibah\'s heart, all steeped in its profoundest\nemotion. There was a tremor in it, too, that--as all strong feeling is\nelectric--partly communicated itself to Phoebe. The girl sat silently\nfor a moment. But soon, her senses being very acute, she became\nconscious of an irregular respiration in an obscure corner of the room.\nHer physical organization, moreover, being at once delicate and\nhealthy, gave her a perception, operating with almost the effect of a\nspiritual medium, that somebody was near at hand.\n\n\"My dear cousin,\" asked she, overcoming an indefinable reluctance, \"is\nthere not some one in the room with us?\"\n\n\"Phoebe, my dear little girl,\" said Hepzibah, after a moment\'s pause,\n\"you were up betimes, and have been busy all day. Pray go to bed; for\nI am sure you must need rest. I will sit in the parlor awhile, and\ncollect my thoughts. It has been my custom for more years, child, than\nyou have lived!\" While thus dismissing her, the maiden lady stept\nforward, kissed Phoebe, and pressed her to her heart, which beat\nagainst the girl\'s bosom with a strong, high, and tumultuous swell.\nHow came there to be so much love in this desolate old heart, that it\ncould afford to well over thus abundantly?\n\n\"Goodnight, cousin,\" said Phoebe, strangely affected by Hepzibah\'s\nmanner. \"If you begin to love me, I am glad!\"\n\nShe retired to her chamber, but did not soon fall asleep, nor then very\nprofoundly. At some uncertain period in the depths of night, and, as\nit were, through the thin veil of a dream, she was conscious of a\nfootstep mounting the stairs heavily, but not with force and decision.\nThe voice of Hepzibah, with a hush through it, was going up along with\nthe footsteps; and, again, responsive to her cousin\'s voice, Phoebe\nheard that strange, vague murmur, which might be likened to an\nindistinct shadow of human utterance.\n\n\n\n\n VII The Guest\n\n\nWHEN Phoebe awoke,--which she did with the early twittering of the\nconjugal couple of robins in the pear-tree,--she heard movements below\nstairs, and, hastening down, found Hepzibah already in the kitchen.\nShe stood by a window, holding a book in close contiguity to her nose,\nas if with the hope of gaining an olfactory acquaintance with its\ncontents, since her imperfect vision made it not very easy to read\nthem. If any volume could have manifested its essential wisdom in the\nmode suggested, it would certainly have been the one now in Hepzibah\'s\nhand; and the kitchen, in such an event, would forthwith have streamed\nwith the fragrance of venison, turkeys, capons, larded partridges,\npuddings, cakes, and Christmas pies, in all manner of elaborate mixture\nand concoction. It was a cookery book, full of innumerable old\nfashions of English dishes, and illustrated with engravings, which\nrepresented the arrangements of the table at such banquets as it might\nhave befitted a nobleman to give in the great hall of his castle. And,\namid these rich and potent devices of the culinary art (not one of\nwhich, probably, had been tested, within the memory of any man\'s\ngrandfather), poor Hepzibah was seeking for some nimble little titbit,\nwhich, with what skill she had, and such materials as were at hand, she\nmight toss up for breakfast.\n\nSoon, with a deep sigh, she put aside the savory volume, and inquired\nof Phoebe whether old Speckle, as she called one of the hens, had laid\nan egg the preceding day. Phoebe ran to see, but returned without the\nexpected treasure in her hand. At that instant, however, the blast of\na fish-dealer\'s conch was heard, announcing his approach along the\nstreet. With energetic raps at the shop-window, Hepzibah summoned the\nman in, and made purchase of what he warranted as the finest mackerel\nin his cart, and as fat a one as ever he felt with his finger so early\nin the season. Requesting Phoebe to roast some coffee,--which she\ncasually observed was the real Mocha, and so long kept that each of the\nsmall berries ought to be worth its weight in gold,--the maiden lady\nheaped fuel into the vast receptacle of the ancient fireplace in such\nquantity as soon to drive the lingering dusk out of the kitchen. The\ncountry-girl, willing to give her utmost assistance, proposed to make\nan Indian cake, after her mother\'s peculiar method, of easy\nmanufacture, and which she could vouch for as possessing a richness,\nand, if rightly prepared, a delicacy, unequalled by any other mode of\nbreakfast-cake. Hepzibah gladly assenting, the kitchen was soon the\nscene of savory preparation. Perchance, amid their proper element of\nsmoke, which eddied forth from the ill-constructed chimney, the ghosts\nof departed cook-maids looked wonderingly on, or peeped down the great\nbreadth of the flue, despising the simplicity of the projected meal,\nyet ineffectually pining to thrust their shadowy hands into each\ninchoate dish. The half-starved rats, at any rate, stole visibly out\nof their hiding-places, and sat on their hind-legs, snuffing the fumy\natmosphere, and wistfully awaiting an opportunity to nibble.\n\nHepzibah had no natural turn for cookery, and, to say the truth, had\nfairly incurred her present meagreness by often choosing to go without\nher dinner rather than be attendant on the rotation of the spit, or\nebullition of the pot. Her zeal over the fire, therefore, was quite an\nheroic test of sentiment. It was touching, and positively worthy of\ntears (if Phoebe, the only spectator, except the rats and ghosts\naforesaid, had not been better employed than in shedding them), to see\nher rake out a bed of fresh and glowing coals, and proceed to broil the\nmackerel. Her usually pale cheeks were all ablaze with heat and hurry.\nShe watched the fish with as much tender care and minuteness of\nattention as if,--we know not how to express it otherwise,--as if her\nown heart were on the gridiron, and her immortal happiness were\ninvolved in its being done precisely to a turn!\n\nLife, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly arranged\nand well-provisioned breakfast-table. We come to it freshly, in the\ndewy youth of the day, and when our spiritual and sensual elements are\nin better accord than at a later period; so that the material delights\nof the morning meal are capable of being fully enjoyed, without any\nvery grievous reproaches, whether gastric or conscientious, for\nyielding even a trifle overmuch to the animal department of our nature.\nThe thoughts, too, that run around the ring of familiar guests have a\npiquancy and mirthfulness, and oftentimes a vivid truth, which more\nrarely find their way into the elaborate intercourse of dinner.\nHepzibah\'s small and ancient table, supported on its slender and\ngraceful legs, and covered with a cloth of the richest damask, looked\nworthy to be the scene and centre of one of the cheerfullest of\nparties. The vapor of the broiled fish arose like incense from the\nshrine of a barbarian idol, while the fragrance of the Mocha might have\ngratified the nostrils of a tutelary Lar, or whatever power has scope\nover a modern breakfast-table. Phoebe\'s Indian cakes were the sweetest\noffering of all,--in their hue befitting the rustic altars of the\ninnocent and golden age,--or, so brightly yellow were they, resembling\nsome of the bread which was changed to glistening gold when Midas tried\nto eat it. The butter must not be forgotten,--butter which Phoebe\nherself had churned, in her own rural home, and brought it to her\ncousin as a propitiatory gift,--smelling of clover-blossoms, and\ndiffusing the charm of pastoral scenery through the dark-panelled\nparlor. All this, with the quaint gorgeousness of the old china cups\nand saucers, and the crested spoons, and a silver cream-jug (Hepzibah\'s\nonly other article of plate, and shaped like the rudest porringer), set\nout a board at which the stateliest of old Colonel Pyncheon\'s guests\nneed not have scorned to take his place. But the Puritan\'s face\nscowled down out of the picture, as if nothing on the table pleased his\nappetite.\n\nBy way of contributing what grace she could, Phoebe gathered some roses\nand a few other flowers, possessing either scent or beauty, and\narranged them in a glass pitcher, which, having long ago lost its\nhandle, was so much the fitter for a flower-vase. The early\nsunshine--as fresh as that which peeped into Eve\'s bower while she and\nAdam sat at breakfast there--came twinkling through the branches of the\npear-tree, and fell quite across the table. All was now ready. There\nwere chairs and plates for three. A chair and plate for Hepzibah,--the\nsame for Phoebe,--but what other guest did her cousin look for?\n\nThroughout this preparation there had been a constant tremor in\nHepzibah\'s frame; an agitation so powerful that Phoebe could see the\nquivering of her gaunt shadow, as thrown by the firelight on the\nkitchen wall, or by the sunshine on the parlor floor. Its\nmanifestations were so various, and agreed so little with one another,\nthat the girl knew not what to make of it. Sometimes it seemed an\necstasy of delight and happiness. At such moments, Hepzibah would\nfling out her arms, and infold Phoebe in them, and kiss her cheek as\ntenderly as ever her mother had; she appeared to do so by an inevitable\nimpulse, and as if her bosom were oppressed with tenderness, of which\nshe must needs pour out a little, in order to gain breathing-room. The\nnext moment, without any visible cause for the change, her unwonted joy\nshrank back, appalled, as it were, and clothed itself in mourning; or\nit ran and hid itself, so to speak, in the dungeon of her heart, where\nit had long lain chained, while a cold, spectral sorrow took the place\nof the imprisoned joy, that was afraid to be enfranchised,--a sorrow as\nblack as that was bright. She often broke into a little, nervous,\nhysteric laugh, more touching than any tears could be; and forthwith,\nas if to try which was the most touching, a gush of tears would follow;\nor perhaps the laughter and tears came both at once, and surrounded our\npoor Hepzibah, in a moral sense, with a kind of pale, dim rainbow.\nTowards Phoebe, as we have said, she was affectionate,--far tenderer\nthan ever before, in their brief acquaintance, except for that one kiss\non the preceding night,--yet with a continually recurring pettishness\nand irritability. She would speak sharply to her; then, throwing aside\nall the starched reserve of her ordinary manner, ask pardon, and the\nnext instant renew the just-forgiven injury.\n\nAt last, when their mutual labor was all finished, she took Phoebe\'s\nhand in her own trembling one.\n\n\"Bear with me, my dear child,\" she cried; \"for truly my heart is full\nto the brim! Bear with me; for I love you, Phoebe, though I speak so\nroughly. Think nothing of it, dearest child! By and by, I shall be\nkind, and only kind!\"\n\n\"My dearest cousin, cannot you tell me what has happened?\" asked\nPhoebe, with a sunny and tearful sympathy. \"What is it that moves you\nso?\"\n\n\"Hush! hush! He is coming!\" whispered Hepzibah, hastily wiping her\neyes. \"Let him see you first, Phoebe; for you are young and rosy, and\ncannot help letting a smile break out whether or no. He always liked\nbright faces! And mine is old now, and the tears are hardly dry on it.\nHe never could abide tears. There; draw the curtain a little, so that\nthe shadow may fall across his side of the table! But let there be a\ngood deal of sunshine, too; for he never was fond of gloom, as some\npeople are. He has had but little sunshine in his life,--poor\nClifford,--and, oh, what a black shadow. Poor, poor Clifford!\"\n\nThus murmuring in an undertone, as if speaking rather to her own heart\nthan to Phoebe, the old gentlewoman stepped on tiptoe about the room,\nmaking such arrangements as suggested themselves at the crisis.\n\nMeanwhile there was a step in the passage-way, above stairs. Phoebe\nrecognized it as the same which had passed upward, as through her\ndream, in the night-time. The approaching guest, whoever it might be,\nappeared to pause at the head of the staircase; he paused twice or\nthrice in the descent; he paused again at the foot. Each time, the\ndelay seemed to be without purpose, but rather from a forgetfulness of\nthe purpose which had set him in motion, or as if the person\'s feet\ncame involuntarily to a stand-still because the motive-power was too\nfeeble to sustain his progress. Finally, he made a long pause at the\nthreshold of the parlor. He took hold of the knob of the door; then\nloosened his grasp without opening it. Hepzibah, her hands\nconvulsively clasped, stood gazing at the entrance.\n\n\"Dear Cousin Hepzibah, pray don\'t look so!\" said Phoebe, trembling; for\nher cousin\'s emotion, and this mysteriously reluctant step, made her\nfeel as if a ghost were coming into the room. \"You really frighten me!\nIs something awful going to happen?\"\n\n\"Hush!\" whispered Hepzibah. \"Be cheerful! whatever may happen, be\nnothing but cheerful!\"\n\nThe final pause at the threshold proved so long, that Hepzibah, unable\nto endure the suspense, rushed forward, threw open the door, and led in\nthe stranger by the hand. At the first glance, Phoebe saw an elderly\npersonage, in an old-fashioned dressing-gown of faded damask, and\nwearing his gray or almost white hair of an unusual length. It quite\novershadowed his forehead, except when he thrust it back, and stared\nvaguely about the room. After a very brief inspection of his face, it\nwas easy to conceive that his footstep must necessarily be such an one\nas that which, slowly and with as indefinite an aim as a child\'s first\njourney across a floor, had just brought him hitherward. Yet there\nwere no tokens that his physical strength might not have sufficed for a\nfree and determined gait. It was the spirit of the man that could not\nwalk. The expression of his countenance--while, notwithstanding it had\nthe light of reason in it--seemed to waver, and glimmer, and nearly to\ndie away, and feebly to recover itself again. It was like a flame\nwhich we see twinkling among half-extinguished embers; we gaze at it\nmore intently than if it were a positive blaze, gushing vividly\nupward,--more intently, but with a certain impatience, as if it ought\neither to kindle itself into satisfactory splendor, or be at once\nextinguished.\n\nFor an instant after entering the room, the guest stood still,\nretaining Hepzibah\'s hand instinctively, as a child does that of the\ngrown person who guides it. He saw Phoebe, however, and caught an\nillumination from her youthful and pleasant aspect, which, indeed,\nthrew a cheerfulness about the parlor, like the circle of reflected\nbrilliancy around the glass vase of flowers that was standing in the\nsunshine. He made a salutation, or, to speak nearer the truth, an\nill-defined, abortive attempt at curtsy. Imperfect as it was, however,\nit conveyed an idea, or, at least, gave a hint, of indescribable grace,\nsuch as no practised art of external manners could have attained. It\nwas too slight to seize upon at the instant; yet, as recollected\nafterwards, seemed to transfigure the whole man.\n\n\"Dear Clifford,\" said Hepzibah, in the tone with which one soothes a\nwayward infant, \"this is our cousin Phoebe,--little Phoebe\nPyncheon,--Arthur\'s only child, you know. She has come from the\ncountry to stay with us awhile; for our old house has grown to be very\nlonely now.\"\n\n\"Phoebe--Phoebe Pyncheon?--Phoebe?\" repeated the guest, with a strange,\nsluggish, ill-defined utterance. \"Arthur\'s child! Ah, I forget! No\nmatter. She is very welcome!\"\n\n\"Come, dear Clifford, take this chair,\" said Hepzibah, leading him to\nhis place. \"Pray, Phoebe, lower the curtain a very little more. Now\nlet us begin breakfast.\"\n\nThe guest seated himself in the place assigned him, and looked\nstrangely around. He was evidently trying to grapple with the present\nscene, and bring it home to his mind with a more satisfactory\ndistinctness. He desired to be certain, at least, that he was here, in\nthe low-studded, cross-beamed, oaken-panelled parlor, and not in some\nother spot, which had stereotyped itself into his senses. But the\neffort was too great to be sustained with more than a fragmentary\nsuccess. Continually, as we may express it, he faded away out of his\nplace; or, in other words, his mind and consciousness took their\ndeparture, leaving his wasted, gray, and melancholy figure--a\nsubstantial emptiness, a material ghost--to occupy his seat at table.\nAgain, after a blank moment, there would be a flickering taper-gleam in\nhis eyeballs. It betokened that his spiritual part had returned, and\nwas doing its best to kindle the heart\'s household fire, and light up\nintellectual lamps in the dark and ruinous mansion, where it was doomed\nto be a forlorn inhabitant.\n\nAt one of these moments of less torpid, yet still imperfect animation,\nPhoebe became convinced of what she had at first rejected as too\nextravagant and startling an idea. She saw that the person before her\nmust have been the original of the beautiful miniature in her cousin\nHepzibah\'s possession. Indeed, with a feminine eye for costume, she\nhad at once identified the damask dressing-gown, which enveloped him,\nas the same in figure, material, and fashion, with that so elaborately\nrepresented in the picture. This old, faded garment, with all its\npristine brilliancy extinct, seemed, in some indescribable way, to\ntranslate the wearer\'s untold misfortune, and make it perceptible to\nthe beholder\'s eye. It was the better to be discerned, by this\nexterior type, how worn and old were the soul\'s more immediate\ngarments; that form and countenance, the beauty and grace of which had\nalmost transcended the skill of the most exquisite of artists. It\ncould the more adequately be known that the soul of the man must have\nsuffered some miserable wrong, from its earthly experience. There he\nseemed to sit, with a dim veil of decay and ruin betwixt him and the\nworld, but through which, at flitting intervals, might be caught the\nsame expression, so refined, so softly imaginative, which\nMalbone--venturing a happy touch, with suspended breath--had imparted\nto the miniature! There had been something so innately characteristic\nin this look, that all the dusky years, and the burden of unfit\ncalamity which had fallen upon him, did not suffice utterly to destroy\nit.\n\nHepzibah had now poured out a cup of deliciously fragrant coffee, and\npresented it to her guest. As his eyes met hers, he seemed bewildered\nand disquieted.\n\n\"Is this you, Hepzibah?\" he murmured sadly; then, more apart, and\nperhaps unconscious that he was overheard, \"How changed! how changed!\nAnd is she angry with me? Why does she bend her brow so?\"\n\nPoor Hepzibah! It was that wretched scowl which time and her\nnear-sightedness, and the fret of inward discomfort, had rendered so\nhabitual that any vehemence of mood invariably evoked it. But at the\nindistinct murmur of his words her whole face grew tender, and even\nlovely, with sorrowful affection; the harshness of her features\ndisappeared, as it were, behind the warm and misty glow.\n\n\"Angry!\" she repeated; \"angry with you, Clifford!\"\n\nHer tone, as she uttered the exclamation, had a plaintive and really\nexquisite melody thrilling through it, yet without subduing a certain\nsomething which an obtuse auditor might still have mistaken for\nasperity. It was as if some transcendent musician should draw a\nsoul-thrilling sweetness out of a cracked instrument, which makes its\nphysical imperfection heard in the midst of ethereal harmony,--so deep\nwas the sensibility that found an organ in Hepzibah\'s voice!\n\n\"There is nothing but love here, Clifford,\" she added,--\"nothing but\nlove! You are at home!\"\n\nThe guest responded to her tone by a smile, which did not half light up\nhis face. Feeble as it was, however, and gone in a moment, it had a\ncharm of wonderful beauty. It was followed by a coarser expression; or\none that had the effect of coarseness on the fine mould and outline of\nhis countenance, because there was nothing intellectual to temper it.\nIt was a look of appetite. He ate food with what might almost be\ntermed voracity; and seemed to forget himself, Hepzibah, the young\ngirl, and everything else around him, in the sensual enjoyment which\nthe bountifully spread table afforded. In his natural system, though\nhigh-wrought and delicately refined, a sensibility to the delights of\nthe palate was probably inherent. It would have been kept in check,\nhowever, and even converted into an accomplishment, and one of the\nthousand modes of intellectual culture, had his more ethereal\ncharacteristics retained their vigor. But as it existed now, the\neffect was painful and made Phoebe droop her eyes.\n\nIn a little while the guest became sensible of the fragrance of the yet\nuntasted coffee. He quaffed it eagerly. The subtle essence acted on\nhim like a charmed draught, and caused the opaque substance of his\nanimal being to grow transparent, or, at least, translucent; so that a\nspiritual gleam was transmitted through it, with a clearer lustre than\nhitherto.\n\n\"More, more!\" he cried, with nervous haste in his utterance, as if\nanxious to retain his grasp of what sought to escape him. \"This is\nwhat I need! Give me more!\"\n\nUnder this delicate and powerful influence he sat more erect, and\nlooked out from his eyes with a glance that took note of what it rested\non. It was not so much that his expression grew more intellectual;\nthis, though it had its share, was not the most peculiar effect.\nNeither was what we call the moral nature so forcibly awakened as to\npresent itself in remarkable prominence. But a certain fine temper of\nbeing was now not brought out in full relief, but changeably and\nimperfectly betrayed, of which it was the function to deal with all\nbeautiful and enjoyable things. In a character where it should exist\nas the chief attribute, it would bestow on its possessor an exquisite\ntaste, and an enviable susceptibility of happiness. Beauty would be\nhis life; his aspirations would all tend toward it; and, allowing his\nframe and physical organs to be in consonance, his own developments\nwould likewise be beautiful. Such a man should have nothing to do with\nsorrow; nothing with strife; nothing with the martyrdom which, in an\ninfinite variety of shapes, awaits those who have the heart, and will,\nand conscience, to fight a battle with the world. To these heroic\ntempers, such martyrdom is the richest meed in the world\'s gift. To\nthe individual before us, it could only be a grief, intense in due\nproportion with the severity of the infliction. He had no right to be\na martyr; and, beholding him so fit to be happy and so feeble for all\nother purposes, a generous, strong, and noble spirit would, methinks,\nhave been ready to sacrifice what little enjoyment it might have\nplanned for itself,--it would have flung down the hopes, so paltry in\nits regard,--if thereby the wintry blasts of our rude sphere might come\ntempered to such a man.\n\nNot to speak it harshly or scornfully, it seemed Clifford\'s nature to\nbe a Sybarite. It was perceptible, even there, in the dark old parlor,\nin the inevitable polarity with which his eyes were attracted towards\nthe quivering play of sunbeams through the shadowy foliage. It was\nseen in his appreciating notice of the vase of flowers, the scent of\nwhich he inhaled with a zest almost peculiar to a physical organization\nso refined that spiritual ingredients are moulded in with it. It was\nbetrayed in the unconscious smile with which he regarded Phoebe, whose\nfresh and maidenly figure was both sunshine and flowers,--their\nessence, in a prettier and more agreeable mode of manifestation. Not\nless evident was this love and necessity for the Beautiful, in the\ninstinctive caution with which, even so soon, his eyes turned away from\nhis hostess, and wandered to any quarter rather than come back. It was\nHepzibah\'s misfortune,--not Clifford\'s fault. How could he,--so yellow\nas she was, so wrinkled, so sad of mien, with that odd uncouthness of a\nturban on her head, and that most perverse of scowls contorting her\nbrow,--how could he love to gaze at her? But, did he owe her no\naffection for so much as she had silently given? He owed her nothing.\nA nature like Clifford\'s can contract no debts of that kind. It is--we\nsay it without censure, nor in diminution of the claim which it\nindefeasibly possesses on beings of another mould--it is always selfish\nin its essence; and we must give it leave to be so, and heap up our\nheroic and disinterested love upon it so much the more, without a\nrecompense. Poor Hepzibah knew this truth, or, at least, acted on the\ninstinct of it. So long estranged from what was lovely as Clifford had\nbeen, she rejoiced--rejoiced, though with a present sigh, and a secret\npurpose to shed tears in her own chamber that he had brighter objects\nnow before his eyes than her aged and uncomely features. They never\npossessed a charm; and if they had, the canker of her grief for him\nwould long since have destroyed it.\n\nThe guest leaned back in his chair. Mingled in his countenance with a\ndreamy delight, there was a troubled look of effort and unrest. He was\nseeking to make himself more fully sensible of the scene around him;\nor, perhaps, dreading it to be a dream, or a play of imagination, was\nvexing the fair moment with a struggle for some added brilliancy and\nmore durable illusion.\n\n\"How pleasant!--How delightful!\" he murmured, but not as if addressing\nany one. \"Will it last? How balmy the atmosphere through that open\nwindow! An open window! How beautiful that play of sunshine! Those\nflowers, how very fragrant! That young girl\'s face, how cheerful, how\nblooming!--a flower with the dew on it, and sunbeams in the dew-drops!\nAh! this must be all a dream! A dream! A dream! But it has quite\nhidden the four stone walls!\"\n\nThen his face darkened, as if the shadow of a cavern or a dungeon had\ncome over it; there was no more light in its expression than might have\ncome through the iron grates of a prison-window--still lessening, too,\nas if he were sinking farther into the depths. Phoebe (being of that\nquickness and activity of temperament that she seldom long refrained\nfrom taking a part, and generally a good one, in what was going\nforward) now felt herself moved to address the stranger.\n\n\"Here is a new kind of rose, which I found this morning in the garden,\"\nsaid she, choosing a small crimson one from among the flowers in the\nvase. \"There will be but five or six on the bush this season. This is\nthe most perfect of them all; not a speck of blight or mildew in it.\nAnd how sweet it is!--sweet like no other rose! One can never forget\nthat scent!\"\n\n\"Ah!--let me see!--let me hold it!\" cried the guest, eagerly seizing\nthe flower, which, by the spell peculiar to remembered odors, brought\ninnumerable associations along with the fragrance that it exhaled.\n\"Thank you! This has done me good. I remember how I used to prize this\nflower,--long ago, I suppose, very long ago!--or was it only yesterday?\nIt makes me feel young again! Am I young? Either this remembrance is\nsingularly distinct, or this consciousness strangely dim! But how kind\nof the fair young girl! Thank you! Thank you!\"\n\nThe favorable excitement derived from this little crimson rose afforded\nClifford the brightest moment which he enjoyed at the breakfast-table.\nIt might have lasted longer, but that his eyes happened, soon\nafterwards, to rest on the face of the old Puritan, who, out of his\ndingy frame and lustreless canvas, was looking down on the scene like a\nghost, and a most ill-tempered and ungenial one. The guest made an\nimpatient gesture of the hand, and addressed Hepzibah with what might\neasily be recognized as the licensed irritability of a petted member of\nthe family.\n\n\"Hepzibah!--Hepzibah!\" cried he with no little force and distinctness,\n\"why do you keep that odious picture on the wall? Yes, yes!--that is\nprecisely your taste! I have told you, a thousand times, that it was\nthe evil genius of the house!--my evil genius particularly! Take it\ndown, at once!\"\n\n\"Dear Clifford,\" said Hepzibah sadly, \"you know it cannot be!\"\n\n\"Then, at all events,\" continued he, still speaking with some energy,\n\"pray cover it with a crimson curtain, broad enough to hang in folds,\nand with a golden border and tassels. I cannot bear it! It must not\nstare me in the face!\"\n\n\"Yes, dear Clifford, the picture shall be covered,\" said Hepzibah\nsoothingly. \"There is a crimson curtain in a trunk above stairs,--a\nlittle faded and moth-eaten, I\'m afraid,--but Phoebe and I will do\nwonders with it.\"\n\n\"This very day, remember\" said he; and then added, in a low,\nself-communing voice, \"Why should we live in this dismal house at all?\nWhy not go to the South of France?--to Italy?--Paris, Naples, Venice,\nRome? Hepzibah will say we have not the means. A droll idea that!\"\n\nHe smiled to himself, and threw a glance of fine sarcastic meaning\ntowards Hepzibah.\n\nBut the several moods of feeling, faintly as they were marked, through\nwhich he had passed, occurring in so brief an interval of time, had\nevidently wearied the stranger. He was probably accustomed to a sad\nmonotony of life, not so much flowing in a stream, however sluggish, as\nstagnating in a pool around his feet. A slumberous veil diffused\nitself over his countenance, and had an effect, morally speaking, on\nits naturally delicate and elegant outline, like that which a brooding\nmist, with no sunshine in it, throws over the features of a landscape.\nHe appeared to become grosser,--almost cloddish. If aught of interest\nor beauty--even ruined beauty--had heretofore been visible in this man,\nthe beholder might now begin to doubt it, and to accuse his own\nimagination of deluding him with whatever grace had flickered over that\nvisage, and whatever exquisite lustre had gleamed in those filmy eyes.\n\nBefore he had quite sunken away, however, the sharp and peevish tinkle\nof the shop-bell made itself audible. Striking most disagreeably on\nClifford\'s auditory organs and the characteristic sensibility of his\nnerves, it caused him to start upright out of his chair.\n\n\"Good heavens, Hepzibah! what horrible disturbance have we now in the\nhouse?\" cried he, wreaking his resentful impatience--as a matter of\ncourse, and a custom of old--on the one person in the world that loved\nhim. \"I have never heard such a hateful clamor! Why do you permit it?\nIn the name of all dissonance, what can it be?\"\n\nIt was very remarkable into what prominent relief--even as if a dim\npicture should leap suddenly from its canvas--Clifford\'s character was\nthrown by this apparently trifling annoyance. The secret was, that an\nindividual of his temper can always be pricked more acutely through his\nsense of the beautiful and harmonious than through his heart. It is\neven possible--for similar cases have often happened--that if Clifford,\nin his foregoing life, had enjoyed the means of cultivating his taste\nto its utmost perfectibility, that subtile attribute might, before this\nperiod, have completely eaten out or filed away his affections. Shall\nwe venture to pronounce, therefore, that his long and black calamity\nmay not have had a redeeming drop of mercy at the bottom?\n\n\"Dear Clifford, I wish I could keep the sound from your ears,\" said\nHepzibah, patiently, but reddening with a painful suffusion of shame.\n\"It is very disagreeable even to me. But, do you know, Clifford, I\nhave something to tell you? This ugly noise,--pray run, Phoebe, and see\nwho is there!--this naughty little tinkle is nothing but our shop-bell!\"\n\n\"Shop-bell!\" repeated Clifford, with a bewildered stare.\n\n\"Yes, our shop-bell,\" said Hepzibah, a certain natural dignity, mingled\nwith deep emotion, now asserting itself in her manner. \"For you must\nknow, dearest Clifford, that we are very poor. And there was no other\nresource, but either to accept assistance from a hand that I would push\naside (and so would you!) were it to offer bread when we were dying for\nit,--no help, save from him, or else to earn our subsistence with my\nown hands! Alone, I might have been content to starve. But you were to\nbe given back to me! Do you think, then, dear Clifford,\" added she,\nwith a wretched smile, \"that I have brought an irretrievable disgrace\non the old house, by opening a little shop in the front gable? Our\ngreat-great-grandfather did the same, when there was far less need! Are\nyou ashamed of me?\"\n\n\"Shame! Disgrace! Do you speak these words to me, Hepzibah?\" said\nClifford,--not angrily, however; for when a man\'s spirit has been\nthoroughly crushed, he may be peevish at small offences, but never\nresentful of great ones. So he spoke with only a grieved emotion. \"It\nwas not kind to say so, Hepzibah! What shame can befall me now?\"\n\nAnd then the unnerved man--he that had been born for enjoyment, but had\nmet a doom so very wretched--burst into a woman\'s passion of tears. It\nwas but of brief continuance, however; soon leaving him in a quiescent,\nand, to judge by his countenance, not an uncomfortable state. From\nthis mood, too, he partially rallied for an instant, and looked at\nHepzibah with a smile, the keen, half-derisory purport of which was a\npuzzle to her.\n\n\"Are we so very poor, Hepzibah?\" said he.\n\nFinally, his chair being deep and softly cushioned, Clifford fell\nasleep. Hearing the more regular rise and fall of his breath (which,\nhowever, even then, instead of being strong and full, had a feeble kind\nof tremor, corresponding with the lack of vigor in his\ncharacter),--hearing these tokens of settled slumber, Hepzibah seized\nthe opportunity to peruse his face more attentively than she had yet\ndared to do. Her heart melted away in tears; her profoundest spirit\nsent forth a moaning voice, low, gentle, but inexpressibly sad. In\nthis depth of grief and pity she felt that there was no irreverence in\ngazing at his altered, aged, faded, ruined face. But no sooner was she\na little relieved than her conscience smote her for gazing curiously at\nhim, now that he was so changed; and, turning hastily away, Hepzibah\nlet down the curtain over the sunny window, and left Clifford to\nslumber there.\n\n\n\n\n VIII The Pyncheon of To-day\n\n\nPHOEBE, on entering the shop, beheld there the already familiar face of\nthe little devourer--if we can reckon his mighty deeds aright--of Jim\nCrow, the elephant, the camel, the dromedaries, and the locomotive.\nHaving expended his private fortune, on the two preceding days, in the\npurchase of the above unheard-of luxuries, the young gentleman\'s\npresent errand was on the part of his mother, in quest of three eggs\nand half a pound of raisins. These articles Phoebe accordingly\nsupplied, and, as a mark of gratitude for his previous patronage, and a\nslight super-added morsel after breakfast, put likewise into his hand a\nwhale! The great fish, reversing his experience with the prophet of\nNineveh, immediately began his progress down the same red pathway of\nfate whither so varied a caravan had preceded him. This remarkable\nurchin, in truth, was the very emblem of old Father Time, both in\nrespect of his all-devouring appetite for men and things, and because\nhe, as well as Time, after ingulfing thus much of creation, looked\nalmost as youthful as if he had been just that moment made.\n\nAfter partly closing the door, the child turned back, and mumbled\nsomething to Phoebe, which, as the whale was but half disposed of, she\ncould not perfectly understand.\n\n\"What did you say, my little fellow?\" asked she.\n\n\"Mother wants to know\" repeated Ned Higgins more distinctly, \"how Old\nMaid Pyncheon\'s brother does? Folks say he has got home.\"\n\n\"My cousin Hepzibah\'s brother?\" exclaimed Phoebe, surprised at this\nsudden explanation of the relationship between Hepzibah and her guest.\n\"Her brother! And where can he have been?\"\n\nThe little boy only put his thumb to his broad snub-nose, with that\nlook of shrewdness which a child, spending much of his time in the\nstreet, so soon learns to throw over his features, however\nunintelligent in themselves. Then as Phoebe continued to gaze at him,\nwithout answering his mother\'s message, he took his departure.\n\nAs the child went down the steps, a gentleman ascended them, and made\nhis entrance into the shop. It was the portly, and, had it possessed\nthe advantage of a little more height, would have been the stately\nfigure of a man considerably in the decline of life, dressed in a black\nsuit of some thin stuff, resembling broadcloth as closely as possible.\nA gold-headed cane, of rare Oriental wood, added materially to the high\nrespectability of his aspect, as did also a neckcloth of the utmost\nsnowy purity, and the conscientious polish of his boots. His dark,\nsquare countenance, with its almost shaggy depth of eyebrows, was\nnaturally impressive, and would, perhaps, have been rather stern, had\nnot the gentleman considerately taken upon himself to mitigate the\nharsh effect by a look of exceeding good-humor and benevolence. Owing,\nhowever, to a somewhat massive accumulation of animal substance about\nthe lower region of his face, the look was, perhaps, unctuous rather\nthan spiritual, and had, so to speak, a kind of fleshly effulgence, not\naltogether so satisfactory as he doubtless intended it to be. A\nsusceptible observer, at any rate, might have regarded it as affording\nvery little evidence of the general benignity of soul whereof it\npurported to be the outward reflection. And if the observer chanced to\nbe ill-natured, as well as acute and susceptible, he would probably\nsuspect that the smile on the gentleman\'s face was a good deal akin to\nthe shine on his boots, and that each must have cost him and his\nboot-black, respectively, a good deal of hard labor to bring out and\npreserve them.\n\nAs the stranger entered the little shop, where the projection of the\nsecond story and the thick foliage of the elm-tree, as well as the\ncommodities at the window, created a sort of gray medium, his smile\ngrew as intense as if he had set his heart on counteracting the whole\ngloom of the atmosphere (besides any moral gloom pertaining to Hepzibah\nand her inmates) by the unassisted light of his countenance. On\nperceiving a young rose-bud of a girl, instead of the gaunt presence of\nthe old maid, a look of surprise was manifest. He at first knit his\nbrows; then smiled with more unctuous benignity than ever.\n\n\"Ah, I see how it is!\" said he in a deep voice,--a voice which, had it\ncome from the throat of an uncultivated man, would have been gruff,\nbut, by dint of careful training, was now sufficiently agreeable,--\"I\nwas not aware that Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon had commenced business under\nsuch favorable auspices. You are her assistant, I suppose?\"\n\n\"I certainly am,\" answered Phoebe, and added, with a little air of\nlady-like assumption (for, civil as the gentleman was, he evidently\ntook her to be a young person serving for wages), \"I am a cousin of\nMiss Hepzibah, on a visit to her.\"\n\n\"Her cousin?--and from the country? Pray pardon me, then,\" said the\ngentleman, bowing and smiling, as Phoebe never had been bowed to nor\nsmiled on before; \"in that case, we must be better acquainted; for,\nunless I am sadly mistaken, you are my own little kinswoman likewise!\nLet me see,--Mary?--Dolly?--Phoebe?--yes, Phoebe is the name! Is it\npossible that you are Phoebe Pyncheon, only child of my dear cousin and\nclassmate, Arthur? Ah, I see your father now, about your mouth! Yes,\nyes! we must be better acquainted! I am your kinsman, my dear. Surely\nyou must have heard of Judge Pyncheon?\"\n\nAs Phoebe curtsied in reply, the Judge bent forward, with the\npardonable and even praiseworthy purpose--considering the nearness of\nblood and the difference of age--of bestowing on his young relative a\nkiss of acknowledged kindred and natural affection. Unfortunately\n(without design, or only with such instinctive design as gives no\naccount of itself to the intellect) Phoebe, just at the critical\nmoment, drew back; so that her highly respectable kinsman, with his\nbody bent over the counter and his lips protruded, was betrayed into\nthe rather absurd predicament of kissing the empty air. It was a\nmodern parallel to the case of Ixion embracing a cloud, and was so much\nthe more ridiculous as the Judge prided himself on eschewing all airy\nmatter, and never mistaking a shadow for a substance. The truth\nwas,--and it is Phoebe\'s only excuse,--that, although Judge Pyncheon\'s\nglowing benignity might not be absolutely unpleasant to the feminine\nbeholder, with the width of a street, or even an ordinary-sized room,\ninterposed between, yet it became quite too intense, when this dark,\nfull-fed physiognomy (so roughly bearded, too, that no razor could ever\nmake it smooth) sought to bring itself into actual contact with the\nobject of its regards. The man, the sex, somehow or other, was\nentirely too prominent in the Judge\'s demonstrations of that sort.\nPhoebe\'s eyes sank, and, without knowing why, she felt herself blushing\ndeeply under his look. Yet she had been kissed before, and without\nany particular squeamishness, by perhaps half a dozen different\ncousins, younger as well as older than this dark-browned,\ngrisly-bearded, white-neck-clothed, and unctuously-benevolent Judge!\nThen, why not by him?\n\nOn raising her eyes, Phoebe was startled by the change in Judge\nPyncheon\'s face. It was quite as striking, allowing for the difference\nof scale, as that betwixt a landscape under a broad sunshine and just\nbefore a thunder-storm; not that it had the passionate intensity of the\nlatter aspect, but was cold, hard, immitigable, like a day-long\nbrooding cloud.\n\n\"Dear me! what is to be done now?\" thought the country-girl to herself.\n\"He looks as if there were nothing softer in him than a rock, nor\nmilder than the east wind! I meant no harm! Since he is really my\ncousin, I would have let him kiss me, if I could!\"\n\nThen, all at once, it struck Phoebe that this very Judge Pyncheon was\nthe original of the miniature which the daguerreotypist had shown her\nin the garden, and that the hard, stern, relentless look, now on his\nface, was the same that the sun had so inflexibly persisted in bringing\nout. Was it, therefore, no momentary mood, but, however skilfully\nconcealed, the settled temper of his life? And not merely so, but was\nit hereditary in him, and transmitted down, as a precious heirloom,\nfrom that bearded ancestor, in whose picture both the expression and,\nto a singular degree, the features of the modern Judge were shown as by\na kind of prophecy? A deeper philosopher than Phoebe might have found\nsomething very terrible in this idea. It implied that the weaknesses\nand defects, the bad passions, the mean tendencies, and the moral\ndiseases which lead to crime are handed down from one generation to\nanother, by a far surer process of transmission than human law has been\nable to establish in respect to the riches and honors which it seeks to\nentail upon posterity.\n\nBut, as it happened, scarcely had Phoebe\'s eyes rested again on the\nJudge\'s countenance than all its ugly sternness vanished; and she found\nherself quite overpowered by the sultry, dog-day heat, as it were, of\nbenevolence, which this excellent man diffused out of his great heart\ninto the surrounding atmosphere,--very much like a serpent, which, as a\npreliminary to fascination, is said to fill the air with his peculiar\nodor.\n\n\"I like that, Cousin Phoebe!\" cried he, with an emphatic nod of\napprobation. \"I like it much, my little cousin! You are a good child,\nand know how to take care of yourself. A young girl--especially if she\nbe a very pretty one--can never be too chary of her lips.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" said Phoebe, trying to laugh the matter off, \"I did not\nmean to be unkind.\"\n\nNevertheless, whether or no it were entirely owing to the inauspicious\ncommencement of their acquaintance, she still acted under a certain\nreserve, which was by no means customary to her frank and genial\nnature. The fantasy would not quit her, that the original Puritan, of\nwhom she had heard so many sombre traditions,--the progenitor of the\nwhole race of New England Pyncheons, the founder of the House of the\nSeven Gables, and who had died so strangely in it,--had now stept into\nthe shop. In these days of off-hand equipment, the matter was easily\nenough arranged. On his arrival from the other world, he had merely\nfound it necessary to spend a quarter of an hour at a barber\'s, who had\ntrimmed down the Puritan\'s full beard into a pair of grizzled whiskers,\nthen, patronizing a ready-made clothing establishment, he had exchanged\nhis velvet doublet and sable cloak, with the richly worked band under\nhis chin, for a white collar and cravat, coat, vest, and pantaloons;\nand lastly, putting aside his steel-hilted broadsword to take up a\ngold-headed cane, the Colonel Pyncheon of two centuries ago steps\nforward as the Judge of the passing moment!\n\nOf course, Phoebe was far too sensible a girl to entertain this idea in\nany other way than as matter for a smile. Possibly, also, could the\ntwo personages have stood together before her eye, many points of\ndifference would have been perceptible, and perhaps only a general\nresemblance. The long lapse of intervening years, in a climate so\nunlike that which had fostered the ancestral Englishman, must\ninevitably have wrought important changes in the physical system of his\ndescendant. The Judge\'s volume of muscle could hardly be the same as\nthe Colonel\'s; there was undoubtedly less beef in him. Though looked\nupon as a weighty man among his contemporaries in respect of animal\nsubstance, and as favored with a remarkable degree of fundamental\ndevelopment, well adapting him for the judicial bench, we conceive that\nthe modern Judge Pyncheon, if weighed in the same balance with his\nancestor, would have required at least an old-fashioned fifty-six to\nkeep the scale in equilibrio. Then the Judge\'s face had lost the ruddy\nEnglish hue that showed its warmth through all the duskiness of the\nColonel\'s weather-beaten cheek, and had taken a sallow shade, the\nestablished complexion of his countrymen. If we mistake not, moreover,\na certain quality of nervousness had become more or less manifest, even\nin so solid a specimen of Puritan descent as the gentleman now under\ndiscussion. As one of its effects, it bestowed on his countenance a\nquicker mobility than the old Englishman\'s had possessed, and keener\nvivacity, but at the expense of a sturdier something, on which these\nacute endowments seemed to act like dissolving acids. This process,\nfor aught we know, may belong to the great system of human progress,\nwhich, with every ascending footstep, as it diminishes the necessity\nfor animal force, may be destined gradually to spiritualize us, by\nrefining away our grosser attributes of body. If so, Judge Pyncheon\ncould endure a century or two more of such refinement as well as most\nother men.\n\nThe similarity, intellectual and moral, between the Judge and his\nancestor appears to have been at least as strong as the resemblance of\nmien and feature would afford reason to anticipate. In old Colonel\nPyncheon\'s funeral discourse the clergyman absolutely canonized his\ndeceased parishioner, and opening, as it were, a vista through the roof\nof the church, and thence through the firmament above, showed him\nseated, harp in hand, among the crowned choristers of the spiritual\nworld. On his tombstone, too, the record is highly eulogistic; nor\ndoes history, so far as he holds a place upon its page, assail the\nconsistency and uprightness of his character. So also, as regards the\nJudge Pyncheon of to-day, neither clergyman, nor legal critic, nor\ninscriber of tombstones, nor historian of general or local politics,\nwould venture a word against this eminent person\'s sincerity as a\nChristian, or respectability as a man, or integrity as a judge, or\ncourage and faithfulness as the often-tried representative of his\npolitical party. But, besides these cold, formal, and empty words of\nthe chisel that inscribes, the voice that speaks, and the pen that\nwrites, for the public eye and for distant time,--and which inevitably\nlose much of their truth and freedom by the fatal consciousness of so\ndoing,--there were traditions about the ancestor, and private diurnal\ngossip about the Judge, remarkably accordant in their testimony. It is\noften instructive to take the woman\'s, the private and domestic, view\nof a public man; nor can anything be more curious than the vast\ndiscrepancy between portraits intended for engraving and the\npencil-sketches that pass from hand to hand behind the original\'s back.\n\nFor example: tradition affirmed that the Puritan had been greedy of\nwealth; the Judge, too, with all the show of liberal expenditure, was\nsaid to be as close-fisted as if his gripe were of iron. The ancestor\nhad clothed himself in a grim assumption of kindliness, a rough\nheartiness of word and manner, which most people took to be the genuine\nwarmth of nature, making its way through the thick and inflexible hide\nof a manly character. His descendant, in compliance with the\nrequirements of a nicer age, had etherealized this rude benevolence\ninto that broad benignity of smile wherewith he shone like a noonday\nsun along the streets, or glowed like a household fire in the\ndrawing-rooms of his private acquaintance. The Puritan--if not belied\nby some singular stories, murmured, even at this day, under the\nnarrator\'s breath--had fallen into certain transgressions to which men\nof his great animal development, whatever their faith or principles,\nmust continue liable, until they put off impurity, along with the gross\nearthly substance that involves it. We must not stain our page with\nany contemporary scandal, to a similar purport, that may have been\nwhispered against the Judge. The Puritan, again, an autocrat in his\nown household, had worn out three wives, and, merely by the remorseless\nweight and hardness of his character in the conjugal relation, had sent\nthem, one after another, broken-hearted, to their graves. Here the\nparallel, in some sort, fails. The Judge had wedded but a single wife,\nand lost her in the third or fourth year of their marriage. There was\na fable, however,--for such we choose to consider it, though, not\nimpossibly, typical of Judge Pyncheon\'s marital deportment,--that the\nlady got her death-blow in the honeymoon, and never smiled again,\nbecause her husband compelled her to serve him with coffee every\nmorning at his bedside, in token of fealty to her liege-lord and master.\n\nBut it is too fruitful a subject, this of hereditary resemblances,--the\nfrequent recurrence of which, in a direct line, is truly unaccountable,\nwhen we consider how large an accumulation of ancestry lies behind\nevery man at the distance of one or two centuries. We shall only add,\ntherefore, that the Puritan--so, at least, says chimney-corner\ntradition, which often preserves traits of character with marvellous\nfidelity--was bold, imperious, relentless, crafty; laying his purposes\ndeep, and following them out with an inveteracy of pursuit that knew\nneither rest nor conscience; trampling on the weak, and, when essential\nto his ends, doing his utmost to beat down the strong. Whether the\nJudge in any degree resembled him, the further progress of our\nnarrative may show.\n\nScarcely any of the items in the above-drawn parallel occurred to\nPhoebe, whose country birth and residence, in truth, had left her\npitifully ignorant of most of the family traditions, which lingered,\nlike cobwebs and incrustations of smoke, about the rooms and\nchimney-corners of the House of the Seven Gables. Yet there was a\ncircumstance, very trifling in itself, which impressed her with an odd\ndegree of horror. She had heard of the anathema flung by Maule, the\nexecuted wizard, against Colonel Pyncheon and his posterity,--that God\nwould give them blood to drink,--and likewise of the popular notion,\nthat this miraculous blood might now and then be heard gurgling in\ntheir throats. The latter scandal--as became a person of sense, and,\nmore especially, a member of the Pyncheon family--Phoebe had set down\nfor the absurdity which it unquestionably was. But ancient\nsuperstitions, after being steeped in human hearts and embodied in\nhuman breath, and passing from lip to ear in manifold repetition,\nthrough a series of generations, become imbued with an effect of homely\ntruth. The smoke of the domestic hearth has scented them through and\nthrough. By long transmission among household facts, they grow to look\nlike them, and have such a familiar way of making themselves at home\nthat their influence is usually greater than we suspect. Thus it\nhappened, that when Phoebe heard a certain noise in Judge Pyncheon\'s\nthroat,--rather habitual with him, not altogether voluntary, yet\nindicative of nothing, unless it were a slight bronchial complaint, or,\nas some people hinted, an apoplectic symptom,--when the girl heard this\nqueer and awkward ingurgitation (which the writer never did hear, and\ntherefore cannot describe), she very foolishly started, and clasped her\nhands.\n\nOf course, it was exceedingly ridiculous in Phoebe to be discomposed by\nsuch a trifle, and still more unpardonable to show her discomposure to\nthe individual most concerned in it. But the incident chimed in so\noddly with her previous fancies about the Colonel and the Judge, that,\nfor the moment, it seemed quite to mingle their identity.\n\n\"What is the matter with you, young woman?\" said Judge Pyncheon, giving\nher one of his harsh looks. \"Are you afraid of anything?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing, sir--nothing in the world!\" answered Phoebe, with a\nlittle laugh of vexation at herself. \"But perhaps you wish to speak\nwith my cousin Hepzibah. Shall I call her?\"\n\n\"Stay a moment, if you please,\" said the Judge, again beaming sunshine\nout of his face. \"You seem to be a little nervous this morning. The\ntown air, Cousin Phoebe, does not agree with your good, wholesome\ncountry habits. Or has anything happened to disturb you?--anything\nremarkable in Cousin Hepzibah\'s family?-- An arrival, eh? I thought\nso! No wonder you are out of sorts, my little cousin. To be an inmate\nwith such a guest may well startle an innocent young girl!\"\n\n\"You quite puzzle me, sir,\" replied Phoebe, gazing inquiringly at the\nJudge. \"There is no frightful guest in the house, but only a poor,\ngentle, childlike man, whom I believe to be Cousin Hepzibah\'s brother.\nI am afraid (but you, sir, will know better than I) that he is not\nquite in his sound senses; but so mild and quiet he seems to be, that a\nmother might trust her baby with him; and I think he would play with\nthe baby as if he were only a few years older than itself. He startle\nme!--Oh, no indeed!\"\n\n\"I rejoice to hear so favorable and so ingenuous an account of my\ncousin Clifford,\" said the benevolent Judge. \"Many years ago, when we\nwere boys and young men together, I had a great affection for him, and\nstill feel a tender interest in all his concerns. You say, Cousin\nPhoebe, he appears to be weak minded. Heaven grant him at least enough\nof intellect to repent of his past sins!\"\n\n\"Nobody, I fancy,\" observed Phoebe, \"can have fewer to repent of.\"\n\n\"And is it possible, my dear,\" rejoined the Judge, with a commiserating\nlook, \"that you have never heard of Clifford Pyncheon?--that you know\nnothing of his history? Well, it is all right; and your mother has\nshown a very proper regard for the good name of the family with which\nshe connected herself. Believe the best you can of this unfortunate\nperson, and hope the best! It is a rule which Christians should always\nfollow, in their judgments of one another; and especially is it right\nand wise among near relatives, whose characters have necessarily a\ndegree of mutual dependence. But is Clifford in the parlor? I will\njust step in and see.\"\n\n\"Perhaps, sir, I had better call my cousin Hepzibah,\" said Phoebe;\nhardly knowing, however, whether she ought to obstruct the entrance of\nso affectionate a kinsman into the private regions of the house. \"Her\nbrother seemed to be just falling asleep after breakfast; and I am sure\nshe would not like him to be disturbed. Pray, sir, let me give her\nnotice!\"\n\nBut the Judge showed a singular determination to enter unannounced; and\nas Phoebe, with the vivacity of a person whose movements unconsciously\nanswer to her thoughts, had stepped towards the door, he used little or\nno ceremony in putting her aside.\n\n\"No, no, Miss Phoebe!\" said Judge Pyncheon in a voice as deep as a\nthunder-growl, and with a frown as black as the cloud whence it issues.\n\"Stay you here! I know the house, and know my cousin Hepzibah, and know\nher brother Clifford likewise.--nor need my little country cousin put\nherself to the trouble of announcing me!\"--in these latter words, by\nthe bye, there were symptoms of a change from his sudden harshness into\nhis previous benignity of manner. \"I am at home here, Phoebe, you must\nrecollect, and you are the stranger. I will just step in, therefore,\nand see for myself how Clifford is, and assure him and Hepzibah of my\nkindly feelings and best wishes. It is right, at this juncture, that\nthey should both hear from my own lips how much I desire to serve them.\nHa! here is Hepzibah herself!\"\n\nSuch was the case. The vibrations of the Judge\'s voice had reached the\nold gentlewoman in the parlor, where she sat, with face averted,\nwaiting on her brother\'s slumber. She now issued forth, as would\nappear, to defend the entrance, looking, we must needs say, amazingly\nlike the dragon which, in fairy tales, is wont to be the guardian over\nan enchanted beauty. The habitual scowl of her brow was undeniably too\nfierce, at this moment, to pass itself off on the innocent score of\nnear-sightedness; and it was bent on Judge Pyncheon in a way that\nseemed to confound, if not alarm him, so inadequately had he estimated\nthe moral force of a deeply grounded antipathy. She made a repelling\ngesture with her hand, and stood a perfect picture of prohibition, at\nfull length, in the dark frame of the doorway. But we must betray\nHepzibah\'s secret, and confess that the native timorousness of her\ncharacter even now developed itself in a quick tremor, which, to her\nown perception, set each of her joints at variance with its fellows.\n\nPossibly, the Judge was aware how little true hardihood lay behind\nHepzibah\'s formidable front. At any rate, being a gentleman of steady\nnerves, he soon recovered himself, and failed not to approach his\ncousin with outstretched hand; adopting the sensible precaution,\nhowever, to cover his advance with a smile, so broad and sultry, that,\nhad it been only half as warm as it looked, a trellis of grapes might\nat once have turned purple under its summer-like exposure. It may have\nbeen his purpose, indeed, to melt poor Hepzibah on the spot, as if she\nwere a figure of yellow wax.\n\n\"Hepzibah, my beloved cousin, I am rejoiced!\" exclaimed the Judge most\nemphatically. \"Now, at length, you have something to live for. Yes,\nand all of us, let me say, your friends and kindred, have more to live\nfor than we had yesterday. I have lost no time in hastening to offer\nany assistance in my power towards making Clifford comfortable. He\nbelongs to us all. I know how much he requires,--how much he used to\nrequire,--with his delicate taste, and his love of the beautiful.\nAnything in my house,--pictures, books, wine, luxuries of the\ntable,--he may command them all! It would afford me most heartfelt\ngratification to see him! Shall I step in, this moment?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Hepzibah, her voice quivering too painfully to allow of\nmany words. \"He cannot see visitors!\"\n\n\"A visitor, my dear cousin!--do you call me so?\" cried the Judge, whose\nsensibility, it seems, was hurt by the coldness of the phrase. \"Nay,\nthen, let me be Clifford\'s host, and your own likewise. Come at once\nto my house. The country air, and all the conveniences,--I may say\nluxuries,--that I have gathered about me, will do wonders for him. And\nyou and I, dear Hepzibah, will consult together, and watch together,\nand labor together, to make our dear Clifford happy. Come! why should\nwe make more words about what is both a duty and a pleasure on my part?\nCome to me at once!\"\n\nOn hearing these so hospitable offers, and such generous recognition of\nthe claims of kindred, Phoebe felt very much in the mood of running up\nto Judge Pyncheon, and giving him, of her own accord, the kiss from\nwhich she had so recently shrunk away. It was quite otherwise with\nHepzibah; the Judge\'s smile seemed to operate on her acerbity of heart\nlike sunshine upon vinegar, making it ten times sourer than ever.\n\n\"Clifford,\" said she,--still too agitated to utter more than an abrupt\nsentence,--\"Clifford has a home here!\"\n\n\"May Heaven forgive you, Hepzibah,\" said Judge Pyncheon,--reverently\nlifting his eyes towards that high court of equity to which he\nappealed,--\"if you suffer any ancient prejudice or animosity to weigh\nwith you in this matter. I stand here with an open heart, willing and\nanxious to receive yourself and Clifford into it. Do not refuse my\ngood offices,--my earnest propositions for your welfare! They are such,\nin all respects, as it behooves your nearest kinsman to make. It will\nbe a heavy responsibility, cousin, if you confine your brother to this\ndismal house and stifled air, when the delightful freedom of my\ncountry-seat is at his command.\"\n\n\"It would never suit Clifford,\" said Hepzibah, as briefly as before.\n\n\"Woman!\" broke forth the Judge, giving way to his resentment, \"what is\nthe meaning of all this? Have you other resources? Nay, I suspected as\nmuch! Take care, Hepzibah, take care! Clifford is on the brink of as\nblack a ruin as ever befell him yet! But why do I talk with you, woman\nas you are? Make way!--I must see Clifford!\"\n\nHepzibah spread out her gaunt figure across the door, and seemed really\nto increase in bulk; looking the more terrible, also, because there was\nso much terror and agitation in her heart. But Judge Pyncheon\'s\nevident purpose of forcing a passage was interrupted by a voice from\nthe inner room; a weak, tremulous, wailing voice, indicating helpless\nalarm, with no more energy for self-defence than belongs to a\nfrightened infant.\n\n\"Hepzibah, Hepzibah!\" cried the voice; \"go down on your knees to him!\nKiss his feet! Entreat him not to come in! Oh, let him have mercy on\nme! Mercy! mercy!\"\n\nFor the instant, it appeared doubtful whether it were not the Judge\'s\nresolute purpose to set Hepzibah aside, and step across the threshold\ninto the parlor, whence issued that broken and miserable murmur of\nentreaty. It was not pity that restrained him, for, at the first sound\nof the enfeebled voice, a red fire kindled in his eyes, and he made a\nquick pace forward, with something inexpressibly fierce and grim\ndarkening forth, as it were, out of the whole man. To know Judge\nPyncheon was to see him at that moment. After such a revelation, let\nhim smile with what sultriness he would, he could much sooner turn\ngrapes purple, or pumpkins yellow, than melt the iron-branded\nimpression out of the beholder\'s memory. And it rendered his aspect\nnot the less, but more frightful, that it seemed not to express wrath\nor hatred, but a certain hot fellness of purpose, which annihilated\neverything but itself.\n\nYet, after all, are we not slandering an excellent and amiable man?\nLook at the Judge now! He is apparently conscious of having erred, in\ntoo energetically pressing his deeds of loving-kindness on persons\nunable to appreciate them. He will await their better mood, and hold\nhimself as ready to assist them then as at this moment. As he draws\nback from the door, an all-comprehensive benignity blazes from his\nvisage, indicating that he gathers Hepzibah, little Phoebe, and the\ninvisible Clifford, all three, together with the whole world besides,\ninto his immense heart, and gives them a warm bath in its flood of\naffection.\n\n\"You do me great wrong, dear Cousin Hepzibah!\" said he, first kindly\noffering her his hand, and then drawing on his glove preparatory to\ndeparture. \"Very great wrong! But I forgive it, and will study to make\nyou think better of me. Of course, our poor Clifford being in so\nunhappy a state of mind, I cannot think of urging an interview at\npresent. But I shall watch over his welfare as if he were my own\nbeloved brother; nor do I at all despair, my dear cousin, of\nconstraining both him and you to acknowledge your injustice. When that\nshall happen, I desire no other revenge than your acceptance of the\nbest offices in my power to do you.\"\n\nWith a bow to Hepzibah, and a degree of paternal benevolence in his\nparting nod to Phoebe, the Judge left the shop, and went smiling along\nthe street. As is customary with the rich, when they aim at the honors\nof a republic, he apologized, as it were, to the people, for his\nwealth, prosperity, and elevated station, by a free and hearty manner\ntowards those who knew him; putting off the more of his dignity in due\nproportion with the humbleness of the man whom he saluted, and thereby\nproving a haughty consciousness of his advantages as irrefragably as if\nhe had marched forth preceded by a troop of lackeys to clear the way.\nOn this particular forenoon, so excessive was the warmth of Judge\nPyncheon\'s kindly aspect, that (such, at least, was the rumor about\ntown) an extra passage of the water-carts was found essential, in order\nto lay the dust occasioned by so much extra sunshine!\n\nNo sooner had he disappeared than Hepzibah grew deadly white, and,\nstaggering towards Phoebe, let her head fall on the young girl\'s\nshoulder.\n\n\"O Phoebe!\" murmured she, \"that man has been the horror of my life!\nShall I never, never have the courage,--will my voice never cease from\ntrembling long enough to let me tell him what he is?\"\n\n\"Is he so very wicked?\" asked Phoebe. \"Yet his offers were surely\nkind!\"\n\n\"Do not speak of them,--he has a heart of iron!\" rejoined Hepzibah.\n\"Go, now, and talk to Clifford! Amuse and keep him quiet! It would\ndisturb him wretchedly to see me so agitated as I am. There, go, dear\nchild, and I will try to look after the shop.\"\n\nPhoebe went accordingly, but perplexed herself, meanwhile, with queries\nas to the purport of the scene which she had just witnessed, and also\nwhether judges, clergymen, and other characters of that eminent stamp\nand respectability, could really, in any single instance, be otherwise\nthan just and upright men. A doubt of this nature has a most\ndisturbing influence, and, if shown to be a fact, comes with fearful\nand startling effect on minds of the trim, orderly, and limit-loving\nclass, in which we find our little country-girl. Dispositions more\nboldly speculative may derive a stern enjoyment from the discovery,\nsince there must be evil in the world, that a high man is as likely to\ngrasp his share of it as a low one. A wider scope of view, and a\ndeeper insight, may see rank, dignity, and station, all proved\nillusory, so far as regards their claim to human reverence, and yet not\nfeel as if the universe were thereby tumbled headlong into chaos. But\nPhoebe, in order to keep the universe in its old place, was fain to\nsmother, in some degree, her own intuitions as to Judge Pyncheon\'s\ncharacter. And as for her cousin\'s testimony in disparagement of it,\nshe concluded that Hepzibah\'s judgment was embittered by one of those\nfamily feuds which render hatred the more deadly by the dead and\ncorrupted love that they intermingle with its native poison.\n\n\n\n\n IX Clifford and Phoebe\n\n\nTRULY was there something high, generous, and noble in the native\ncomposition of our poor old Hepzibah! Or else,--and it was quite as\nprobably the case,--she had been enriched by poverty, developed by\nsorrow, elevated by the strong and solitary affection of her life, and\nthus endowed with heroism, which never could have characterized her in\nwhat are called happier circumstances. Through dreary years Hepzibah\nhad looked forward--for the most part despairingly, never with any\nconfidence of hope, but always with the feeling that it was her\nbrightest possibility--to the very position in which she now found\nherself. In her own behalf, she had asked nothing of Providence but\nthe opportunity of devoting herself to this brother, whom she had so\nloved,--so admired for what he was, or might have been,--and to whom\nshe had kept her faith, alone of all the world, wholly, unfalteringly,\nat every instant, and throughout life. And here, in his late decline,\nthe lost one had come back out of his long and strange misfortune, and\nwas thrown on her sympathy, as it seemed, not merely for the bread of\nhis physical existence, but for everything that should keep him morally\nalive. She had responded to the call. She had come forward,--our\npoor, gaunt Hepzibah, in her rusty silks, with her rigid joints, and\nthe sad perversity of her scowl,--ready to do her utmost; and with\naffection enough, if that were all, to do a hundred times as much!\nThere could be few more tearful sights,--and Heaven forgive us if a\nsmile insist on mingling with our conception of it!--few sights with\ntruer pathos in them, than Hepzibah presented on that first afternoon.\n\nHow patiently did she endeavor to wrap Clifford up in her great, warm\nlove, and make it all the world to him, so that he should retain no\ntorturing sense of the coldness and dreariness without! Her little\nefforts to amuse him! How pitiful, yet magnanimous, they were!\n\nRemembering his early love of poetry and fiction, she unlocked a\nbookcase, and took down several books that had been excellent reading\nin their day. There was a volume of Pope, with the Rape of the Lock in\nit, and another of the Tatler, and an odd one of Dryden\'s Miscellanies,\nall with tarnished gilding on their covers, and thoughts of tarnished\nbrilliancy inside. They had no success with Clifford. These, and all\nsuch writers of society, whose new works glow like the rich texture of\na just-woven carpet, must be content to relinquish their charm, for\nevery reader, after an age or two, and could hardly be supposed to\nretain any portion of it for a mind that had utterly lost its estimate\nof modes and manners. Hepzibah then took up Rasselas, and began to\nread of the Happy Valley, with a vague idea that some secret of a\ncontented life had there been elaborated, which might at least serve\nClifford and herself for this one day. But the Happy Valley had a\ncloud over it. Hepzibah troubled her auditor, moreover, by innumerable\nsins of emphasis, which he seemed to detect, without any reference to\nthe meaning; nor, in fact, did he appear to take much note of the sense\nof what she read, but evidently felt the tedium of the lecture, without\nharvesting its profit. His sister\'s voice, too, naturally harsh, had,\nin the course of her sorrowful lifetime, contracted a kind of croak,\nwhich, when it once gets into the human throat, is as ineradicable as\nsin. In both sexes, occasionally, this lifelong croak, accompanying\neach word of joy or sorrow, is one of the symptoms of a settled\nmelancholy; and wherever it occurs, the whole history of misfortune is\nconveyed in its slightest accent. The effect is as if the voice had\nbeen dyed black; or,--if we must use a more moderate simile,--this\nmiserable croak, running through all the variations of the voice, is\nlike a black silken thread, on which the crystal beads of speech are\nstrung, and whence they take their hue. Such voices have put on\nmourning for dead hopes; and they ought to die and be buried along with\nthem!\n\nDiscerning that Clifford was not gladdened by her efforts, Hepzibah\nsearched about the house for the means of more exhilarating pastime.\nAt one time, her eyes chanced to rest on Alice Pyncheon\'s harpsichord.\nIt was a moment of great peril; for,--despite the traditionary awe that\nhad gathered over this instrument of music, and the dirges which\nspiritual fingers were said to play on it,--the devoted sister had\nsolemn thoughts of thrumming on its chords for Clifford\'s benefit, and\naccompanying the performance with her voice. Poor Clifford! Poor\nHepzibah! Poor harpsichord! All three would have been miserable\ntogether. By some good agency,--possibly, by the unrecognized\ninterposition of the long-buried Alice herself,--the threatening\ncalamity was averted.\n\nBut the worst of all--the hardest stroke of fate for Hepzibah to\nendure, and perhaps for Clifford, too was his invincible distaste for\nher appearance. Her features, never the most agreeable, and now harsh\nwith age and grief, and resentment against the world for his sake; her\ndress, and especially her turban; the queer and quaint manners, which\nhad unconsciously grown upon her in solitude,--such being the poor\ngentlewoman\'s outward characteristics, it is no great marvel, although\nthe mournfullest of pities, that the instinctive lover of the Beautiful\nwas fain to turn away his eyes. There was no help for it. It would be\nthe latest impulse to die within him. In his last extremity, the\nexpiring breath stealing faintly through Clifford\'s lips, he would\ndoubtless press Hepzibah\'s hand, in fervent recognition of all her\nlavished love, and close his eyes,--but not so much to die, as to be\nconstrained to look no longer on her face! Poor Hepzibah! She took\ncounsel with herself what might be done, and thought of putting ribbons\non her turban; but, by the instant rush of several guardian angels, was\nwithheld from an experiment that could hardly have proved less than\nfatal to the beloved object of her anxiety.\n\nTo be brief, besides Hepzibah\'s disadvantages of person, there was an\nuncouthness pervading all her deeds; a clumsy something, that could but\nill adapt itself for use, and not at all for ornament. She was a grief\nto Clifford, and she knew it. In this extremity, the antiquated virgin\nturned to Phoebe. No grovelling jealousy was in her heart. Had it\npleased Heaven to crown the heroic fidelity of her life by making her\npersonally the medium of Clifford\'s happiness, it would have rewarded\nher for all the past, by a joy with no bright tints, indeed, but deep\nand true, and worth a thousand gayer ecstasies. This could not be.\nShe therefore turned to Phoebe, and resigned the task into the young\ngirl\'s hands. The latter took it up cheerfully, as she did everything,\nbut with no sense of a mission to perform, and succeeding all the\nbetter for that same simplicity.\n\nBy the involuntary effect of a genial temperament, Phoebe soon grew to\nbe absolutely essential to the daily comfort, if not the daily life, of\nher two forlorn companions. The grime and sordidness of the House of\nthe Seven Gables seemed to have vanished since her appearance there;\nthe gnawing tooth of the dry-rot was stayed among the old timbers of\nits skeleton frame; the dust had ceased to settle down so densely, from\nthe antique ceilings, upon the floors and furniture of the rooms\nbelow,--or, at any rate, there was a little housewife, as light-footed\nas the breeze that sweeps a garden walk, gliding hither and thither to\nbrush it all away. The shadows of gloomy events that haunted the else\nlonely and desolate apartments; the heavy, breathless scent which death\nhad left in more than one of the bedchambers, ever since his visits of\nlong ago,--these were less powerful than the purifying influence\nscattered throughout the atmosphere of the household by the presence of\none youthful, fresh, and thoroughly wholesome heart. There was no\nmorbidness in Phoebe; if there had been, the old Pyncheon House was the\nvery locality to ripen it into incurable disease. But now her spirit\nresembled, in its potency, a minute quantity of ottar of rose in one of\nHepzibah\'s huge, iron-bound trunks, diffusing its fragrance through the\nvarious articles of linen and wrought-lace, kerchiefs, caps, stockings,\nfolded dresses, gloves, and whatever else was treasured there. As\nevery article in the great trunk was the sweeter for the rose-scent, so\ndid all the thoughts and emotions of Hepzibah and Clifford, sombre as\nthey might seem, acquire a subtle attribute of happiness from Phoebe\'s\nintermixture with them. Her activity of body, intellect, and heart\nimpelled her continually to perform the ordinary little toils that\noffered themselves around her, and to think the thought proper for the\nmoment, and to sympathize,--now with the twittering gayety of the\nrobins in the pear-tree, and now to such a depth as she could with\nHepzibah\'s dark anxiety, or the vague moan of her brother. This facile\nadaptation was at once the symptom of perfect health and its best\npreservative.\n\nA nature like Phoebe\'s has invariably its due influence, but is seldom\nregarded with due honor. Its spiritual force, however, may be\npartially estimated by the fact of her having found a place for\nherself, amid circumstances so stern as those which surrounded the\nmistress of the house; and also by the effect which she produced on a\ncharacter of so much more mass than her own. For the gaunt, bony\nframe and limbs of Hepzibah, as compared with the tiny lightsomeness of\nPhoebe\'s figure, were perhaps in some fit proportion with the moral\nweight and substance, respectively, of the woman and the girl.\n\nTo the guest,--to Hepzibah\'s brother,--or Cousin Clifford, as Phoebe\nnow began to call him,--she was especially necessary. Not that he could\never be said to converse with her, or often manifest, in any other very\ndefinite mode, his sense of a charm in her society. But if she were a\nlong while absent he became pettish and nervously restless, pacing the\nroom to and fro with the uncertainty that characterized all his\nmovements; or else would sit broodingly in his great chair, resting his\nhead on his hands, and evincing life only by an electric sparkle of\nill-humor, whenever Hepzibah endeavored to arouse him. Phoebe\'s\npresence, and the contiguity of her fresh life to his blighted one, was\nusually all that he required. Indeed, such was the native gush and play\nof her spirit, that she was seldom perfectly quiet and undemonstrative,\nany more than a fountain ever ceases to dimple and warble with its\nflow. She possessed the gift of song, and that, too, so naturally, that\nyou would as little think of inquiring whence she had caught it, or\nwhat master had taught her, as of asking the same questions about a\nbird, in whose small strain of music we recognize the voice of the\nCreator as distinctly as in the loudest accents of his thunder. So long\nas Phoebe sang, she might stray at her own will about the house.\nClifford was content, whether the sweet, airy homeliness of her tones\ncame down from the upper chambers, or along the passageway from the\nshop, or was sprinkled through the foliage of the pear-tree, inward\nfrom the garden, with the twinkling sunbeams. He would sit quietly,\nwith a gentle pleasure gleaming over his face, brighter now, and now a\nlittle dimmer, as the song happened to float near him, or was more\nremotely heard. It pleased him best, however, when she sat on a low\nfootstool at his knee.\n\nIt is perhaps remarkable, considering her temperament, that Phoebe\noftener chose a strain of pathos than of gayety. But the young and\nhappy are not ill pleased to temper their life with a transparent\nshadow. The deepest pathos of Phoebe\'s voice and song, moreover, came\nsifted through the golden texture of a cheery spirit, and was somehow\nso interfused with the quality thence acquired, that one\'s heart felt\nall the lighter for having wept at it. Broad mirth, in the sacred\npresence of dark misfortune, would have jarred harshly and irreverently\nwith the solemn symphony that rolled its undertone through Hepzibah\'s\nand her brother\'s life. Therefore, it was well that Phoebe so often\nchose sad themes, and not amiss that they ceased to be so sad while she\nwas singing them.\n\nBecoming habituated to her companionship, Clifford readily showed how\ncapable of imbibing pleasant tints and gleams of cheerful light from\nall quarters his nature must originally have been. He grew youthful\nwhile she sat by him. A beauty,--not precisely real, even in its\nutmost manifestation, and which a painter would have watched long to\nseize and fix upon his canvas, and, after all, in vain,--beauty,\nnevertheless, that was not a mere dream, would sometimes play upon and\nilluminate his face. It did more than to illuminate; it transfigured\nhim with an expression that could only be interpreted as the glow of an\nexquisite and happy spirit. That gray hair, and those furrows,--with\ntheir record of infinite sorrow so deeply written across his brow, and\nso compressed, as with a futile effort to crowd in all the tale, that\nthe whole inscription was made illegible,--these, for the moment,\nvanished. An eye at once tender and acute might have beheld in the man\nsome shadow of what he was meant to be. Anon, as age came stealing,\nlike a sad twilight, back over his figure, you would have felt tempted\nto hold an argument with Destiny, and affirm, that either this being\nshould not have been made mortal, or mortal existence should have been\ntempered to his qualities. There seemed no necessity for his having\ndrawn breath at all; the world never wanted him; but, as he had\nbreathed, it ought always to have been the balmiest of summer air. The\nsame perplexity will invariably haunt us with regard to natures that\ntend to feed exclusively upon the Beautiful, let their earthly fate be\nas lenient as it may.\n\nPhoebe, it is probable, had but a very imperfect comprehension of the\ncharacter over which she had thrown so beneficent a spell. Nor was it\nnecessary. The fire upon the hearth can gladden a whole semicircle of\nfaces round about it, but need not know the individuality of one among\nthem all. Indeed, there was something too fine and delicate in\nClifford\'s traits to be perfectly appreciated by one whose sphere lay\nso much in the Actual as Phoebe\'s did. For Clifford, however, the\nreality, and simplicity, and thorough homeliness of the girl\'s nature\nwere as powerful a charm as any that she possessed. Beauty, it is\ntrue, and beauty almost perfect in its own style, was indispensable.\nHad Phoebe been coarse in feature, shaped clumsily, of a harsh voice,\nand uncouthly mannered, she might have been rich with all good gifts,\nbeneath this unfortunate exterior, and still, so long as she wore the\nguise of woman, she would have shocked Clifford, and depressed him by\nher lack of beauty. But nothing more beautiful--nothing prettier, at\nleast--was ever made than Phoebe. And, therefore, to this man,--whose\nwhole poor and impalpable enjoyment of existence heretofore, and until\nboth his heart and fancy died within him, had been a dream,--whose\nimages of women had more and more lost their warmth and substance, and\nbeen frozen, like the pictures of secluded artists, into the chillest\nideality,--to him, this little figure of the cheeriest household life\nwas just what he required to bring him back into the breathing world.\nPersons who have wandered, or been expelled, out of the common track of\nthings, even were it for a better system, desire nothing so much as to\nbe led back. They shiver in their loneliness, be it on a mountain-top\nor in a dungeon. Now, Phoebe\'s presence made a home about her,--that\nvery sphere which the outcast, the prisoner, the potentate,--the wretch\nbeneath mankind, the wretch aside from it, or the wretch above\nit,--instinctively pines after,--a home! She was real! Holding her\nhand, you felt something; a tender something; a substance, and a warm\none: and so long as you should feel its grasp, soft as it was, you\nmight be certain that your place was good in the whole sympathetic\nchain of human nature. The world was no longer a delusion.\n\nBy looking a little further in this direction, we might suggest an\nexplanation of an often-suggested mystery. Why are poets so apt to\nchoose their mates, not for any similarity of poetic endowment, but for\nqualities which might make the happiness of the rudest handicraftsman\nas well as that of the ideal craftsman of the spirit? Because,\nprobably, at his highest elevation, the poet needs no human\nintercourse; but he finds it dreary to descend, and be a stranger.\n\nThere was something very beautiful in the relation that grew up between\nthis pair, so closely and constantly linked together, yet with such a\nwaste of gloomy and mysterious years from his birthday to hers. On\nClifford\'s part it was the feeling of a man naturally endowed with the\nliveliest sensibility to feminine influence, but who had never quaffed\nthe cup of passionate love, and knew that it was now too late. He knew\nit, with the instinctive delicacy that had survived his intellectual\ndecay. Thus, his sentiment for Phoebe, without being paternal, was not\nless chaste than if she had been his daughter. He was a man, it is\ntrue, and recognized her as a woman. She was his only representative\nof womankind. He took unfailing note of every charm that appertained\nto her sex, and saw the ripeness of her lips, and the virginal\ndevelopment of her bosom. All her little womanly ways, budding out of\nher like blossoms on a young fruit-tree, had their effect on him, and\nsometimes caused his very heart to tingle with the keenest thrills of\npleasure. At such moments,--for the effect was seldom more than\nmomentary,--the half-torpid man would be full of harmonious life, just\nas a long-silent harp is full of sound, when the musician\'s fingers\nsweep across it. But, after all, it seemed rather a perception, or a\nsympathy, than a sentiment belonging to himself as an individual. He\nread Phoebe as he would a sweet and simple story; he listened to her as\nif she were a verse of household poetry, which God, in requital of his\nbleak and dismal lot, had permitted some angel, that most pitied him,\nto warble through the house. She was not an actual fact for him, but\nthe interpretation of all that he lacked on earth brought warmly home\nto his conception; so that this mere symbol, or life-like picture, had\nalmost the comfort of reality.\n\nBut we strive in vain to put the idea into words. No adequate\nexpression of the beauty and profound pathos with which it impresses us\nis attainable. This being, made only for happiness, and heretofore so\nmiserably failing to be happy,--his tendencies so hideously thwarted,\nthat, some unknown time ago, the delicate springs of his character,\nnever morally or intellectually strong, had given way, and he was now\nimbecile,--this poor, forlorn voyager from the Islands of the Blest, in\na frail bark, on a tempestuous sea, had been flung, by the last\nmountain-wave of his shipwreck, into a quiet harbor. There, as he lay\nmore than half lifeless on the strand, the fragrance of an earthly\nrose-bud had come to his nostrils, and, as odors will, had summoned up\nreminiscences or visions of all the living and breathing beauty amid\nwhich he should have had his home. With his native susceptibility of\nhappy influences, he inhales the slight, ethereal rapture into his\nsoul, and expires!\n\nAnd how did Phoebe regard Clifford? The girl\'s was not one of those\nnatures which are most attracted by what is strange and exceptional in\nhuman character. The path which would best have suited her was the\nwell-worn track of ordinary life; the companions in whom she would most\nhave delighted were such as one encounters at every turn. The mystery\nwhich enveloped Clifford, so far as it affected her at all, was an\nannoyance, rather than the piquant charm which many women might have\nfound in it. Still, her native kindliness was brought strongly into\nplay, not by what was darkly picturesque in his situation, nor so much,\neven, by the finer graces of his character, as by the simple appeal of\na heart so forlorn as his to one so full of genuine sympathy as hers.\nShe gave him an affectionate regard, because he needed so much love,\nand seemed to have received so little. With a ready tact, the result\nof ever-active and wholesome sensibility, she discerned what was good\nfor him, and did it. Whatever was morbid in his mind and experience\nshe ignored; and thereby kept their intercourse healthy, by the\nincautious, but, as it were, heaven-directed freedom of her whole\nconduct. The sick in mind, and, perhaps, in body, are rendered more\ndarkly and hopelessly so by the manifold reflection of their disease,\nmirrored back from all quarters in the deportment of those about them;\nthey are compelled to inhale the poison of their own breath, in\ninfinite repetition. But Phoebe afforded her poor patient a supply of\npurer air. She impregnated it, too, not with a wild-flower scent,--for\nwildness was no trait of hers,--but with the perfume of garden-roses,\npinks, and other blossoms of much sweetness, which nature and man have\nconsented together in making grow from summer to summer, and from\ncentury to century. Such a flower was Phoebe in her relation with\nClifford, and such the delight that he inhaled from her.\n\nYet, it must be said, her petals sometimes drooped a little, in\nconsequence of the heavy atmosphere about her. She grew more\nthoughtful than heretofore. Looking aside at Clifford\'s face, and\nseeing the dim, unsatisfactory elegance and the intellect almost\nquenched, she would try to inquire what had been his life. Was he\nalways thus? Had this veil been over him from his birth?--this veil,\nunder which far more of his spirit was hidden than revealed, and\nthrough which he so imperfectly discerned the actual world,--or was its\ngray texture woven of some dark calamity? Phoebe loved no riddles, and\nwould have been glad to escape the perplexity of this one.\nNevertheless, there was so far a good result of her meditations on\nClifford\'s character, that, when her involuntary conjectures, together\nwith the tendency of every strange circumstance to tell its own story,\nhad gradually taught her the fact, it had no terrible effect upon her.\nLet the world have done him what vast wrong it might, she knew Cousin\nClifford too well--or fancied so--ever to shudder at the touch of his\nthin, delicate fingers.\n\nWithin a few days after the appearance of this remarkable inmate, the\nroutine of life had established itself with a good deal of uniformity\nin the old house of our narrative. In the morning, very shortly after\nbreakfast, it was Clifford\'s custom to fall asleep in his chair; nor,\nunless accidentally disturbed, would he emerge from a dense cloud of\nslumber or the thinner mists that flitted to and fro, until well\ntowards noonday. These hours of drowsihead were the season of the old\ngentlewoman\'s attendance on her brother, while Phoebe took charge of\nthe shop; an arrangement which the public speedily understood, and\nevinced their decided preference of the younger shopwoman by the\nmultiplicity of their calls during her administration of affairs.\nDinner over, Hepzibah took her knitting-work,--a long stocking of gray\nyarn, for her brother\'s winter wear,--and with a sigh, and a scowl of\naffectionate farewell to Clifford, and a gesture enjoining watchfulness\non Phoebe, went to take her seat behind the counter. It was now the\nyoung girl\'s turn to be the nurse,--the guardian, the playmate,--or\nwhatever is the fitter phrase,--of the gray-haired man.\n\n\n\n\n X The Pyncheon Garden\n\n\nCLIFFORD, except for Phoebe\'s More active instigation would ordinarily\nhave yielded to the torpor which had crept through all his modes of\nbeing, and which sluggishly counselled him to sit in his morning chair\ntill eventide. But the girl seldom failed to propose a removal to the\ngarden, where Uncle Venner and the daguerreotypist had made such\nrepairs on the roof of the ruinous arbor, or summer-house, that it was\nnow a sufficient shelter from sunshine and casual showers. The\nhop-vine, too, had begun to grow luxuriantly over the sides of the\nlittle edifice, and made an interior of verdant seclusion, with\ninnumerable peeps and glimpses into the wider solitude of the garden.\n\nHere, sometimes, in this green play-place of flickering light, Phoebe\nread to Clifford. Her acquaintance, the artist, who appeared to have a\nliterary turn, had supplied her with works of fiction, in pamphlet\nform,--and a few volumes of poetry, in altogether a different style and\ntaste from those which Hepzibah selected for his amusement. Small\nthanks were due to the books, however, if the girl\'s readings were in\nany degree more successful than her elderly cousin\'s. Phoebe\'s voice\nhad always a pretty music in it, and could either enliven Clifford by\nits sparkle and gayety of tone, or soothe him by a continued flow of\npebbly and brook-like cadences. But the fictions--in which the\ncountry-girl, unused to works of that nature, often became deeply\nabsorbed--interested her strange auditor very little, or not at all.\nPictures of life, scenes of passion or sentiment, wit, humor, and\npathos, were all thrown away, or worse than thrown away, on Clifford;\neither because he lacked an experience by which to test their truth, or\nbecause his own griefs were a touch-stone of reality that few feigned\nemotions could withstand. When Phoebe broke into a peal of merry\nlaughter at what she read, he would now and then laugh for sympathy,\nbut oftener respond with a troubled, questioning look. If a tear--a\nmaiden\'s sunshiny tear over imaginary woe--dropped upon some melancholy\npage, Clifford either took it as a token of actual calamity, or else\ngrew peevish, and angrily motioned her to close the volume. And wisely\ntoo! Is not the world sad enough, in genuine earnest, without making a\npastime of mock sorrows?\n\nWith poetry it was rather better. He delighted in the swell and\nsubsidence of the rhythm, and the happily recurring rhyme. Nor was\nClifford incapable of feeling the sentiment of poetry,--not, perhaps,\nwhere it was highest or deepest, but where it was most flitting and\nethereal. It was impossible to foretell in what exquisite verse the\nawakening spell might lurk; but, on raising her eyes from the page to\nClifford\'s face, Phoebe would be made aware, by the light breaking\nthrough it, that a more delicate intelligence than her own had caught a\nlambent flame from what she read. One glow of this kind, however, was\noften the precursor of gloom for many hours afterward; because, when\nthe glow left him, he seemed conscious of a missing sense and power,\nand groped about for them, as if a blind man should go seeking his lost\neyesight.\n\nIt pleased him more, and was better for his inward welfare, that Phoebe\nshould talk, and make passing occurrences vivid to his mind by her\naccompanying description and remarks. The life of the garden offered\ntopics enough for such discourse as suited Clifford best. He never\nfailed to inquire what flowers had bloomed since yesterday. His\nfeeling for flowers was very exquisite, and seemed not so much a taste\nas an emotion; he was fond of sitting with one in his hand, intently\nobserving it, and looking from its petals into Phoebe\'s face, as if the\ngarden flower were the sister of the household maiden. Not merely was\nthere a delight in the flower\'s perfume, or pleasure in its beautiful\nform, and the delicacy or brightness of its hue; but Clifford\'s\nenjoyment was accompanied with a perception of life, character, and\nindividuality, that made him love these blossoms of the garden, as if\nthey were endowed with sentiment and intelligence. This affection and\nsympathy for flowers is almost exclusively a woman\'s trait. Men, if\nendowed with it by nature, soon lose, forget, and learn to despise it,\nin their contact with coarser things than flowers. Clifford, too, had\nlong forgotten it; but found it again now, as he slowly revived from\nthe chill torpor of his life.\n\nIt is wonderful how many pleasant incidents continually came to pass in\nthat secluded garden-spot when once Phoebe had set herself to look for\nthem. She had seen or heard a bee there, on the first day of her\nacquaintance with the place. And often,--almost continually,\nindeed,--since then, the bees kept coming thither, Heaven knows why, or\nby what pertinacious desire, for far-fetched sweets, when, no doubt,\nthere were broad clover-fields, and all kinds of garden growth, much\nnearer home than this. Thither the bees came, however, and plunged\ninto the squash-blossoms, as if there were no other squash-vines within\na long day\'s flight, or as if the soil of Hepzibah\'s garden gave its\nproductions just the very quality which these laborious little wizards\nwanted, in order to impart the Hymettus odor to their whole hive of New\nEngland honey. When Clifford heard their sunny, buzzing murmur, in the\nheart of the great yellow blossoms, he looked about him with a joyful\nsense of warmth, and blue sky, and green grass, and of God\'s free air\nin the whole height from earth to heaven. After all, there need be no\nquestion why the bees came to that one green nook in the dusty town.\nGod sent them thither to gladden our poor Clifford. They brought the\nrich summer with them, in requital of a little honey.\n\nWhen the bean-vines began to flower on the poles, there was one\nparticular variety which bore a vivid scarlet blossom. The\ndaguerreotypist had found these beans in a garret, over one of the\nseven gables, treasured up in an old chest of drawers by some\nhorticultural Pyncheon of days gone by, who doubtless meant to sow them\nthe next summer, but was himself first sown in Death\'s garden-ground.\nBy way of testing whether there were still a living germ in such\nancient seeds, Holgrave had planted some of them; and the result of his\nexperiment was a splendid row of bean-vines, clambering, early, to the\nfull height of the poles, and arraying them, from top to bottom, in a\nspiral profusion of red blossoms. And, ever since the unfolding of the\nfirst bud, a multitude of humming-birds had been attracted thither. At\ntimes, it seemed as if for every one of the hundred blossoms there was\none of these tiniest fowls of the air,--a thumb\'s bigness of burnished\nplumage, hovering and vibrating about the bean-poles. It was with\nindescribable interest, and even more than childish delight, that\nClifford watched the humming-birds. He used to thrust his head softly\nout of the arbor to see them the better; all the while, too, motioning\nPhoebe to be quiet, and snatching glimpses of the smile upon her face,\nso as to heap his enjoyment up the higher with her sympathy. He had\nnot merely grown young;--he was a child again.\n\nHepzibah, whenever she happened to witness one of these fits of\nminiature enthusiasm, would shake her head, with a strange mingling of\nthe mother and sister, and of pleasure and sadness, in her aspect. She\nsaid that it had always been thus with Clifford when the humming-birds\ncame,--always, from his babyhood,--and that his delight in them had\nbeen one of the earliest tokens by which he showed his love for\nbeautiful things. And it was a wonderful coincidence, the good lady\nthought, that the artist should have planted these scarlet-flowering\nbeans--which the humming-birds sought far and wide, and which had not\ngrown in the Pyncheon garden before for forty years--on the very summer\nof Clifford\'s return.\n\nThen would the tears stand in poor Hepzibah\'s eyes, or overflow them\nwith a too abundant gush, so that she was fain to betake herself into\nsome corner, lest Clifford should espy her agitation. Indeed, all the\nenjoyments of this period were provocative of tears. Coming so late as\nit did, it was a kind of Indian summer, with a mist in its balmiest\nsunshine, and decay and death in its gaudiest delight. The more\nClifford seemed to taste the happiness of a child, the sadder was the\ndifference to be recognized. With a mysterious and terrible Past,\nwhich had annihilated his memory, and a blank Future before him, he had\nonly this visionary and impalpable Now, which, if you once look closely\nat it, is nothing. He himself, as was perceptible by many symptoms,\nlay darkly behind his pleasure, and knew it to be a baby-play, which he\nwas to toy and trifle with, instead of thoroughly believing. Clifford\nsaw, it may be, in the mirror of his deeper consciousness, that he was\nan example and representative of that great class of people whom an\ninexplicable Providence is continually putting at cross-purposes with\nthe world: breaking what seems its own promise in their nature;\nwithholding their proper food, and setting poison before them for a\nbanquet; and thus--when it might so easily, as one would think, have\nbeen adjusted otherwise--making their existence a strangeness, a\nsolitude, and torment. All his life long, he had been learning how to\nbe wretched, as one learns a foreign tongue; and now, with the lesson\nthoroughly by heart, he could with difficulty comprehend his little\nairy happiness. Frequently there was a dim shadow of doubt in his\neyes. \"Take my hand, Phoebe,\" he would say, \"and pinch it hard with\nyour little fingers! Give me a rose, that I may press its thorns, and\nprove myself awake by the sharp touch of pain!\" Evidently, he desired\nthis prick of a trifling anguish, in order to assure himself, by that\nquality which he best knew to be real, that the garden, and the seven\nweather-beaten gables, and Hepzibah\'s scowl, and Phoebe\'s smile, were\nreal likewise. Without this signet in his flesh, he could have\nattributed no more substance to them than to the empty confusion of\nimaginary scenes with which he had fed his spirit, until even that poor\nsustenance was exhausted.\n\nThe author needs great faith in his reader\'s sympathy; else he must\nhesitate to give details so minute, and incidents apparently so\ntrifling, as are essential to make up the idea of this garden-life. It\nwas the Eden of a thunder-smitten Adam, who had fled for refuge thither\nout of the same dreary and perilous wilderness into which the original\nAdam was expelled.\n\nOne of the available means of amusement, of which Phoebe made the most\nin Clifford\'s behalf, was that feathered society, the hens, a breed of\nwhom, as we have already said, was an immemorial heirloom in the\nPyncheon family. In compliance with a whim of Clifford, as it troubled\nhim to see them in confinement, they had been set at liberty, and now\nroamed at will about the garden; doing some little mischief, but\nhindered from escape by buildings on three sides, and the difficult\npeaks of a wooden fence on the other. They spent much of their\nabundant leisure on the margin of Maule\'s well, which was haunted by a\nkind of snail, evidently a titbit to their palates; and the brackish\nwater itself, however nauseous to the rest of the world, was so greatly\nesteemed by these fowls, that they might be seen tasting, turning up\ntheir heads, and smacking their bills, with precisely the air of\nwine-bibbers round a probationary cask. Their generally quiet, yet\noften brisk, and constantly diversified talk, one to another, or\nsometimes in soliloquy,--as they scratched worms out of the rich, black\nsoil, or pecked at such plants as suited their taste,--had such a\ndomestic tone, that it was almost a wonder why you could not establish\na regular interchange of ideas about household matters, human and\ngallinaceous. All hens are well worth studying for the piquancy and\nrich variety of their manners; but by no possibility can there have\nbeen other fowls of such odd appearance and deportment as these\nancestral ones. They probably embodied the traditionary peculiarities\nof their whole line of progenitors, derived through an unbroken\nsuccession of eggs; or else this individual Chanticleer and his two\nwives had grown to be humorists, and a little crack-brained withal, on\naccount of their solitary way of life, and out of sympathy for\nHepzibah, their lady-patroness.\n\nQueer, indeed, they looked! Chanticleer himself, though stalking on two\nstilt-like legs, with the dignity of interminable descent in all his\ngestures, was hardly bigger than an ordinary partridge; his two wives\nwere about the size of quails; and as for the one chicken, it looked\nsmall enough to be still in the egg, and, at the same time,\nsufficiently old, withered, wizened, and experienced, to have been\nfounder of the antiquated race. Instead of being the youngest of the\nfamily, it rather seemed to have aggregated into itself the ages, not\nonly of these living specimens of the breed, but of all its forefathers\nand foremothers, whose united excellences and oddities were squeezed\ninto its little body. Its mother evidently regarded it as the one\nchicken of the world, and as necessary, in fact, to the world\'s\ncontinuance, or, at any rate, to the equilibrium of the present system\nof affairs, whether in church or state. No lesser sense of the infant\nfowl\'s importance could have justified, even in a mother\'s eyes, the\nperseverance with which she watched over its safety, ruffling her small\nperson to twice its proper size, and flying in everybody\'s face that so\nmuch as looked towards her hopeful progeny. No lower estimate could\nhave vindicated the indefatigable zeal with which she scratched, and\nher unscrupulousness in digging up the choicest flower or vegetable,\nfor the sake of the fat earthworm at its root. Her nervous cluck, when\nthe chicken happened to be hidden in the long grass or under the\nsquash-leaves; her gentle croak of satisfaction, while sure of it\nbeneath her wing; her note of ill-concealed fear and obstreperous\ndefiance, when she saw her arch-enemy, a neighbor\'s cat, on the top of\nthe high fence,--one or other of these sounds was to be heard at almost\nevery moment of the day. By degrees, the observer came to feel nearly\nas much interest in this chicken of illustrious race as the mother-hen\ndid.\n\nPhoebe, after getting well acquainted with the old hen, was sometimes\npermitted to take the chicken in her hand, which was quite capable of\ngrasping its cubic inch or two of body. While she curiously examined\nits hereditary marks,--the peculiar speckle of its plumage, the funny\ntuft on its head, and a knob on each of its legs,--the little biped, as\nshe insisted, kept giving her a sagacious wink. The daguerreotypist\nonce whispered her that these marks betokened the oddities of the\nPyncheon family, and that the chicken itself was a symbol of the life\nof the old house, embodying its interpretation, likewise, although an\nunintelligible one, as such clews generally are. It was a feathered\nriddle; a mystery hatched out of an egg, and just as mysterious as if\nthe egg had been addle!\n\nThe second of Chanticleer\'s two wives, ever since Phoebe\'s arrival, had\nbeen in a state of heavy despondency, caused, as it afterwards\nappeared, by her inability to lay an egg. One day, however, by her\nself-important gait, the sideways turn of her head, and the cock of her\neye, as she pried into one and another nook of the garden,--croaking to\nherself, all the while, with inexpressible complacency,--it was made\nevident that this identical hen, much as mankind undervalued her,\ncarried something about her person the worth of which was not to be\nestimated either in gold or precious stones. Shortly after, there was\na prodigious cackling and gratulation of Chanticleer and all his\nfamily, including the wizened chicken, who appeared to understand the\nmatter quite as well as did his sire, his mother, or his aunt. That\nafternoon Phoebe found a diminutive egg,--not in the regular nest, it\nwas far too precious to be trusted there,--but cunningly hidden under\nthe currant-bushes, on some dry stalks of last year\'s grass. Hepzibah,\non learning the fact, took possession of the egg and appropriated it to\nClifford\'s breakfast, on account of a certain delicacy of flavor, for\nwhich, as she affirmed, these eggs had always been famous. Thus\nunscrupulously did the old gentlewoman sacrifice the continuance,\nperhaps, of an ancient feathered race, with no better end than to\nsupply her brother with a dainty that hardly filled the bowl of a\ntea-spoon! It must have been in reference to this outrage that\nChanticleer, the next day, accompanied by the bereaved mother of the\negg, took his post in front of Phoebe and Clifford, and delivered\nhimself of a harangue that might have proved as long as his own\npedigree, but for a fit of merriment on Phoebe\'s part. Hereupon, the\noffended fowl stalked away on his long stilts, and utterly withdrew his\nnotice from Phoebe and the rest of human nature, until she made her\npeace with an offering of spice-cake, which, next to snails, was the\ndelicacy most in favor with his aristocratic taste.\n\nWe linger too long, no doubt, beside this paltry rivulet of life that\nflowed through the garden of the Pyncheon House. But we deem it\npardonable to record these mean incidents and poor delights, because\nthey proved so greatly to Clifford\'s benefit. They had the earth-smell\nin them, and contributed to give him health and substance. Some of his\noccupations wrought less desirably upon him. He had a singular\npropensity, for example, to hang over Maule\'s well, and look at the\nconstantly shifting phantasmagoria of figures produced by the agitation\nof the water over the mosaic-work of colored pebbles at the bottom. He\nsaid that faces looked upward to him there,--beautiful faces, arrayed\nin bewitching smiles,--each momentary face so fair and rosy, and every\nsmile so sunny, that he felt wronged at its departure, until the same\nflitting witchcraft made a new one. But sometimes he would suddenly\ncry out, \"The dark face gazes at me!\" and be miserable the whole day\nafterwards. Phoebe, when she hung over the fountain by Clifford\'s\nside, could see nothing of all this,--neither the beauty nor the\nugliness,--but only the colored pebbles, looking as if the gush of the\nwaters shook and disarranged them. And the dark face, that so troubled\nClifford, was no more than the shadow thrown from a branch of one of\nthe damson-trees, and breaking the inner light of Maule\'s well. The\ntruth was, however, that his fancy--reviving faster than his will and\njudgment, and always stronger than they--created shapes of loveliness\nthat were symbolic of his native character, and now and then a stern\nand dreadful shape that typified his fate.\n\nOn Sundays, after Phoebe had been at church,--for the girl had a\nchurch-going conscience, and would hardly have been at ease had she\nmissed either prayer, singing, sermon, or benediction,--after\nchurch-time, therefore, there was, ordinarily, a sober little festival\nin the garden. In addition to Clifford, Hepzibah, and Phoebe, two\nguests made up the company. One was the artist Holgrave, who, in spite\nof his consociation with reformers, and his other queer and\nquestionable traits, continued to hold an elevated place in Hepzibah\'s\nregard. The other, we are almost ashamed to say, was the venerable\nUncle Venner, in a clean shirt, and a broadcloth coat, more respectable\nthan his ordinary wear, inasmuch as it was neatly patched on each\nelbow, and might be called an entire garment, except for a slight\ninequality in the length of its skirts. Clifford, on several\noccasions, had seemed to enjoy the old man\'s intercourse, for the sake\nof his mellow, cheerful vein, which was like the sweet flavor of a\nfrost-bitten apple, such as one picks up under the tree in December. A\nman at the very lowest point of the social scale was easier and more\nagreeable for the fallen gentleman to encounter than a person at any of\nthe intermediate degrees; and, moreover, as Clifford\'s young manhood\nhad been lost, he was fond of feeling himself comparatively youthful,\nnow, in apposition with the patriarchal age of Uncle Venner. In fact,\nit was sometimes observable that Clifford half wilfully hid from\nhimself the consciousness of being stricken in years, and cherished\nvisions of an earthly future still before him; visions, however, too\nindistinctly drawn to be followed by disappointment--though, doubtless,\nby depression--when any casual incident or recollection made him\nsensible of the withered leaf.\n\nSo this oddly composed little social party used to assemble under the\nruinous arbor. Hepzibah--stately as ever at heart, and yielding not an\ninch of her old gentility, but resting upon it so much the more, as\njustifying a princess-like condescension--exhibited a not ungraceful\nhospitality. She talked kindly to the vagrant artist, and took sage\ncounsel--lady as she was--with the wood-sawyer, the messenger of\neverybody\'s petty errands, the patched philosopher. And Uncle Venner,\nwho had studied the world at street-corners, and other posts equally\nwell adapted for just observation, was as ready to give out his wisdom\nas a town-pump to give water.\n\n\"Miss Hepzibah, ma\'am,\" said he once, after they had all been cheerful\ntogether, \"I really enjoy these quiet little meetings of a Sabbath\nafternoon. They are very much like what I expect to have after I\nretire to my farm!\"\n\n\"Uncle Venner\" observed Clifford in a drowsy, inward tone, \"is always\ntalking about his farm. But I have a better scheme for him, by and by.\nWe shall see!\"\n\n\"Ah, Mr. Clifford Pyncheon!\" said the man of patches, \"you may scheme\nfor me as much as you please; but I\'m not going to give up this one\nscheme of my own, even if I never bring it really to pass. It does\nseem to me that men make a wonderful mistake in trying to heap up\nproperty upon property. If I had done so, I should feel as if\nProvidence was not bound to take care of me; and, at all events, the\ncity wouldn\'t be! I\'m one of those people who think that infinity is\nbig enough for us all--and eternity long enough.\"\n\n\"Why, so they are, Uncle Venner,\" remarked Phoebe after a pause; for\nshe had been trying to fathom the profundity and appositeness of this\nconcluding apothegm. \"But for this short life of ours, one would like\na house and a moderate garden-spot of one\'s own.\"\n\n\"It appears to me,\" said the daguerreotypist, smiling, \"that Uncle\nVenner has the principles of Fourier at the bottom of his wisdom; only\nthey have not quite so much distinctness in his mind as in that of the\nsystematizing Frenchman.\"\n\n\"Come, Phoebe,\" said Hepzibah, \"it is time to bring the currants.\"\n\nAnd then, while the yellow richness of the declining sunshine still\nfell into the open space of the garden, Phoebe brought out a loaf of\nbread and a china bowl of currants, freshly gathered from the bushes,\nand crushed with sugar. These, with water,--but not from the fountain\nof ill omen, close at hand,--constituted all the entertainment.\nMeanwhile, Holgrave took some pains to establish an intercourse with\nClifford, actuated, it might seem, entirely by an impulse of\nkindliness, in order that the present hour might be cheerfuller than\nmost which the poor recluse had spent, or was destined yet to spend.\nNevertheless, in the artist\'s deep, thoughtful, all-observant eyes,\nthere was, now and then, an expression, not sinister, but questionable;\nas if he had some other interest in the scene than a stranger, a\nyouthful and unconnected adventurer, might be supposed to have. With\ngreat mobility of outward mood, however, he applied himself to the task\nof enlivening the party; and with so much success, that even dark-hued\nHepzibah threw off one tint of melancholy, and made what shift she\ncould with the remaining portion. Phoebe said to herself,--\"How\npleasant he can be!\" As for Uncle Venner, as a mark of friendship and\napprobation, he readily consented to afford the young man his\ncountenance in the way of his profession,--not metaphorically, be it\nunderstood, but literally, by allowing a daguerreotype of his face, so\nfamiliar to the town, to be exhibited at the entrance of Holgrave\'s\nstudio.\n\nClifford, as the company partook of their little banquet, grew to be\nthe gayest of them all. Either it was one of those up-quivering\nflashes of the spirit, to which minds in an abnormal state are liable,\nor else the artist had subtly touched some chord that made musical\nvibration. Indeed, what with the pleasant summer evening, and the\nsympathy of this little circle of not unkindly souls, it was perhaps\nnatural that a character so susceptible as Clifford\'s should become\nanimated, and show itself readily responsive to what was said around\nhim. But he gave out his own thoughts, likewise, with an airy and\nfanciful glow; so that they glistened, as it were, through the arbor,\nand made their escape among the interstices of the foliage. He had\nbeen as cheerful, no doubt, while alone with Phoebe, but never with\nsuch tokens of acute, although partial intelligence.\n\nBut, as the sunlight left the peaks of the Seven Gables, so did the\nexcitement fade out of Clifford\'s eyes. He gazed vaguely and\nmournfully about him, as if he missed something precious, and missed it\nthe more drearily for not knowing precisely what it was.\n\n\"I want my happiness!\" at last he murmured hoarsely and indistinctly,\nhardly shaping out the words. \"Many, many years have I waited for it!\nIt is late! It is late! I want my happiness!\"\n\nAlas, poor Clifford! You are old, and worn with troubles that ought\nnever to have befallen you. You are partly crazy and partly imbecile;\na ruin, a failure, as almost everybody is,--though some in less degree,\nor less perceptibly, than their fellows. Fate has no happiness in\nstore for you; unless your quiet home in the old family residence with\nthe faithful Hepzibah, and your long summer afternoons with Phoebe, and\nthese Sabbath festivals with Uncle Venner and the daguerreotypist,\ndeserve to be called happiness! Why not? If not the thing itself, it\nis marvellously like it, and the more so for that ethereal and\nintangible quality which causes it all to vanish at too close an\nintrospection. Take it, therefore, while you may. Murmur\nnot,--question not,--but make the most of it!\n\n\n\n\n XI The Arched Window\n\n\nFROM the inertness, or what we may term the vegetative character, of\nhis ordinary mood, Clifford would perhaps have been content to spend\none day after another, interminably,--or, at least, throughout the\nsummer-time,--in just the kind of life described in the preceding\npages. Fancying, however, that it might be for his benefit\noccasionally to diversify the scene, Phoebe sometimes suggested that he\nshould look out upon the life of the street. For this purpose, they\nused to mount the staircase together, to the second story of the house,\nwhere, at the termination of a wide entry, there was an arched window,\nof uncommonly large dimensions, shaded by a pair of curtains. It\nopened above the porch, where there had formerly been a balcony, the\nbalustrade of which had long since gone to decay, and been removed. At\nthis arched window, throwing it open, but keeping himself in\ncomparative obscurity by means of the curtain, Clifford had an\nopportunity of witnessing such a portion of the great world\'s movement\nas might be supposed to roll through one of the retired streets of a\nnot very populous city. But he and Phoebe made a sight as well worth\nseeing as any that the city could exhibit. The pale, gray, childish,\naged, melancholy, yet often simply cheerful, and sometimes delicately\nintelligent aspect of Clifford, peering from behind the faded crimson\nof the curtain,--watching the monotony of every-day occurrences with a\nkind of inconsequential interest and earnestness, and, at every petty\nthrob of his sensibility, turning for sympathy to the eyes of the\nbright young girl!\n\nIf once he were fairly seated at the window, even Pyncheon Street would\nhardly be so dull and lonely but that, somewhere or other along its\nextent, Clifford might discover matter to occupy his eye, and\ntitillate, if not engross, his observation. Things familiar to the\nyoungest child that had begun its outlook at existence seemed strange\nto him. A cab; an omnibus, with its populous interior, dropping here\nand there a passenger, and picking up another, and thus typifying that\nvast rolling vehicle, the world, the end of whose journey is everywhere\nand nowhere; these objects he followed eagerly with his eyes, but\nforgot them before the dust raised by the horses and wheels had settled\nalong their track. As regarded novelties (among which cabs and\nomnibuses were to be reckoned), his mind appeared to have lost its\nproper gripe and retentiveness. Twice or thrice, for example, during\nthe sunny hours of the day, a water-cart went along by the Pyncheon\nHouse, leaving a broad wake of moistened earth, instead of the white\ndust that had risen at a lady\'s lightest footfall; it was like a summer\nshower, which the city authorities had caught and tamed, and compelled\nit into the commonest routine of their convenience. With the\nwater-cart Clifford could never grow familiar; it always affected him\nwith just the same surprise as at first. His mind took an apparently\nsharp impression from it, but lost the recollection of this\nperambulatory shower, before its next reappearance, as completely as\ndid the street itself, along which the heat so quickly strewed white\ndust again. It was the same with the railroad. Clifford could hear\nthe obstreperous howl of the steam-devil, and, by leaning a little way\nfrom the arched window, could catch a glimpse of the trains of cars,\nflashing a brief transit across the extremity of the street. The idea\nof terrible energy thus forced upon him was new at every recurrence,\nand seemed to affect him as disagreeably, and with almost as much\nsurprise, the hundredth time as the first.\n\nNothing gives a sadder sense of decay than this loss or suspension of\nthe power to deal with unaccustomed things, and to keep up with the\nswiftness of the passing moment. It can merely be a suspended\nanimation; for, were the power actually to perish, there would be\nlittle use of immortality. We are less than ghosts, for the time\nbeing, whenever this calamity befalls us.\n\nClifford was indeed the most inveterate of conservatives. All the\nantique fashions of the street were dear to him; even such as were\ncharacterized by a rudeness that would naturally have annoyed his\nfastidious senses. He loved the old rumbling and jolting carts, the\nformer track of which he still found in his long-buried remembrance, as\nthe observer of to-day finds the wheel-tracks of ancient vehicles in\nHerculaneum. The butcher\'s cart, with its snowy canopy, was an\nacceptable object; so was the fish-cart, heralded by its horn; so,\nlikewise, was the countryman\'s cart of vegetables, plodding from door\nto door, with long pauses of the patient horse, while his owner drove a\ntrade in turnips, carrots, summer-squashes, string-beans, green peas,\nand new potatoes, with half the housewives of the neighborhood. The\nbaker\'s cart, with the harsh music of its bells, had a pleasant effect\non Clifford, because, as few things else did, it jingled the very\ndissonance of yore. One afternoon a scissor-grinder chanced to set his\nwheel a-going under the Pyncheon Elm, and just in front of the arched\nwindow. Children came running with their mothers\' scissors, or the\ncarving-knife, or the paternal razor, or anything else that lacked an\nedge (except, indeed, poor Clifford\'s wits), that the grinder might\napply the article to his magic wheel, and give it back as good as new.\nRound went the busily revolving machinery, kept in motion by the\nscissor-grinder\'s foot, and wore away the hard steel against the hard\nstone, whence issued an intense and spiteful prolongation of a hiss as\nfierce as those emitted by Satan and his compeers in Pandemonium,\nthough squeezed into smaller compass. It was an ugly, little, venomous\nserpent of a noise, as ever did petty violence to human ears. But\nClifford listened with rapturous delight. The sound, however\ndisagreeable, had very brisk life in it, and, together with the circle\nof curious children watching the revolutions of the wheel, appeared to\ngive him a more vivid sense of active, bustling, and sunshiny existence\nthan he had attained in almost any other way. Nevertheless, its charm\nlay chiefly in the past; for the scissor-grinder\'s wheel had hissed in\nhis childish ears.\n\nHe sometimes made doleful complaint that there were no stage-coaches\nnowadays. And he asked in an injured tone what had become of all those\nold square-topped chaises, with wings sticking out on either side, that\nused to be drawn by a plough-horse, and driven by a farmer\'s wife and\ndaughter, peddling whortle-berries and blackberries about the town.\nTheir disappearance made him doubt, he said, whether the berries had\nnot left off growing in the broad pastures and along the shady country\nlanes.\n\nBut anything that appealed to the sense of beauty, in however humble a\nway, did not require to be recommended by these old associations. This\nwas observable when one of those Italian boys (who are rather a modern\nfeature of our streets) came along with his barrel-organ, and stopped\nunder the wide and cool shadows of the elm. With his quick\nprofessional eye he took note of the two faces watching him from the\narched window, and, opening his instrument, began to scatter its\nmelodies abroad. He had a monkey on his shoulder, dressed in a\nHighland plaid; and, to complete the sum of splendid attractions\nwherewith he presented himself to the public, there was a company of\nlittle figures, whose sphere and habitation was in the mahogany case of\nhis organ, and whose principle of life was the music which the Italian\nmade it his business to grind out. In all their variety of\noccupation,--the cobbler, the blacksmith, the soldier, the lady with\nher fan, the toper with his bottle, the milk-maid sitting by her\ncow--this fortunate little society might truly be said to enjoy a\nharmonious existence, and to make life literally a dance. The Italian\nturned a crank; and, behold! every one of these small individuals\nstarted into the most curious vivacity. The cobbler wrought upon a\nshoe; the blacksmith hammered his iron, the soldier waved his\nglittering blade; the lady raised a tiny breeze with her fan; the jolly\ntoper swigged lustily at his bottle; a scholar opened his book with\neager thirst for knowledge, and turned his head to and fro along the\npage; the milkmaid energetically drained her cow; and a miser counted\ngold into his strong-box,--all at the same turning of a crank. Yes;\nand, moved by the self-same impulse, a lover saluted his mistress on\nher lips! Possibly some cynic, at once merry and bitter, had desired to\nsignify, in this pantomimic scene, that we mortals, whatever our\nbusiness or amusement,--however serious, however trifling,--all dance\nto one identical tune, and, in spite of our ridiculous activity, bring\nnothing finally to pass. For the most remarkable aspect of the affair\nwas, that, at the cessation of the music, everybody was petrified at\nonce, from the most extravagant life into a dead torpor. Neither was\nthe cobbler\'s shoe finished, nor the blacksmith\'s iron shaped out; nor\nwas there a drop less of brandy in the toper\'s bottle, nor a drop more\nof milk in the milkmaid\'s pail, nor one additional coin in the miser\'s\nstrong-box, nor was the scholar a page deeper in his book. All were\nprecisely in the same condition as before they made themselves so\nridiculous by their haste to toil, to enjoy, to accumulate gold, and to\nbecome wise. Saddest of all, moreover, the lover was none the happier\nfor the maiden\'s granted kiss! But, rather than swallow this last too\nacrid ingredient, we reject the whole moral of the show.\n\nThe monkey, meanwhile, with a thick tail curling out into preposterous\nprolixity from beneath his tartans, took his station at the Italian\'s\nfeet. He turned a wrinkled and abominable little visage to every\npasser-by, and to the circle of children that soon gathered round, and\nto Hepzibah\'s shop-door, and upward to the arched window, whence Phoebe\nand Clifford were looking down. Every moment, also, he took off his\nHighland bonnet, and performed a bow and scrape. Sometimes, moreover,\nhe made personal application to individuals, holding out his small\nblack palm, and otherwise plainly signifying his excessive desire for\nwhatever filthy lucre might happen to be in anybody\'s pocket. The mean\nand low, yet strangely man-like expression of his wilted countenance;\nthe prying and crafty glance, that showed him ready to gripe at every\nmiserable advantage; his enormous tail (too enormous to be decently\nconcealed under his gabardine), and the deviltry of nature which it\nbetokened,--take this monkey just as he was, in short, and you could\ndesire no better image of the Mammon of copper coin, symbolizing the\ngrossest form of the love of money. Neither was there any possibility\nof satisfying the covetous little devil. Phoebe threw down a whole\nhandful of cents, which he picked up with joyless eagerness, handed\nthem over to the Italian for safekeeping, and immediately recommenced a\nseries of pantomimic petitions for more.\n\nDoubtless, more than one New-Englander--or, let him be of what country\nhe might, it is as likely to be the case--passed by, and threw a look\nat the monkey, and went on, without imagining how nearly his own moral\ncondition was here exemplified. Clifford, however, was a being of\nanother order. He had taken childish delight in the music, and smiled,\ntoo, at the figures which it set in motion. But, after looking awhile\nat the long-tailed imp, he was so shocked by his horrible ugliness,\nspiritual as well as physical, that he actually began to shed tears; a\nweakness which men of merely delicate endowments, and destitute of the\nfiercer, deeper, and more tragic power of laughter, can hardly avoid,\nwhen the worst and meanest aspect of life happens to be presented to\nthem.\n\nPyncheon Street was sometimes enlivened by spectacles of more imposing\npretensions than the above, and which brought the multitude along with\nthem. With a shivering repugnance at the idea of personal contact with\nthe world, a powerful impulse still seized on Clifford, whenever the\nrush and roar of the human tide grew strongly audible to him. This was\nmade evident, one day, when a political procession, with hundreds of\nflaunting banners, and drums, fifes, clarions, and cymbals,\nreverberating between the rows of buildings, marched all through town,\nand trailed its length of trampling footsteps, and most infrequent\nuproar, past the ordinarily quiet House of the Seven Gables. As a mere\nobject of sight, nothing is more deficient in picturesque features than\na procession seen in its passage through narrow streets. The spectator\nfeels it to be fool\'s play, when he can distinguish the tedious\ncommonplace of each man\'s visage, with the perspiration and weary\nself-importance on it, and the very cut of his pantaloons, and the\nstiffness or laxity of his shirt-collar, and the dust on the back of\nhis black coat. In order to become majestic, it should be viewed from\nsome vantage point, as it rolls its slow and long array through the\ncentre of a wide plain, or the stateliest public square of a city; for\nthen, by its remoteness, it melts all the petty personalities, of which\nit is made up, into one broad mass of existence,--one great life,--one\ncollected body of mankind, with a vast, homogeneous spirit animating\nit. But, on the other hand, if an impressible person, standing alone\nover the brink of one of these processions, should behold it, not in\nits atoms, but in its aggregate,--as a mighty river of life, massive in\nits tide, and black with mystery, and, out of its depths, calling to\nthe kindred depth within him,--then the contiguity would add to the\neffect. It might so fascinate him that he would hardly be restrained\nfrom plunging into the surging stream of human sympathies.\n\nSo it proved with Clifford. He shuddered; he grew pale; he threw an\nappealing look at Hepzibah and Phoebe, who were with him at the window.\nThey comprehended nothing of his emotions, and supposed him merely\ndisturbed by the unaccustomed tumult. At last, with tremulous limbs,\nhe started up, set his foot on the window-sill, and in an instant more\nwould have been in the unguarded balcony. As it was, the whole\nprocession might have seen him, a wild, haggard figure, his gray locks\nfloating in the wind that waved their banners; a lonely being,\nestranged from his race, but now feeling himself man again, by virtue\nof the irrepressible instinct that possessed him. Had Clifford\nattained the balcony, he would probably have leaped into the street;\nbut whether impelled by the species of terror that sometimes urges its\nvictim over the very precipice which he shrinks from, or by a natural\nmagnetism, tending towards the great centre of humanity, it were not\neasy to decide. Both impulses might have wrought on him at once.\n\nBut his companions, affrighted by his gesture,--which was that of a man\nhurried away in spite of himself,--seized Clifford\'s garment and held\nhim back. Hepzibah shrieked. Phoebe, to whom all extravagance was a\nhorror, burst into sobs and tears.\n\n\"Clifford, Clifford! are you crazy?\" cried his sister.\n\n\"I hardly know, Hepzibah,\" said Clifford, drawing a long breath. \"Fear\nnothing,--it is over now,--but had I taken that plunge, and survived\nit, methinks it would have made me another man!\"\n\nPossibly, in some sense, Clifford may have been right. He needed a\nshock; or perhaps he required to take a deep, deep plunge into the\nocean of human life, and to sink down and be covered by its\nprofoundness, and then to emerge, sobered, invigorated, restored to the\nworld and to himself. Perhaps again, he required nothing less than the\ngreat final remedy--death!\n\nA similar yearning to renew the broken links of brotherhood with his\nkind sometimes showed itself in a milder form; and once it was made\nbeautiful by the religion that lay even deeper than itself. In the\nincident now to be sketched, there was a touching recognition, on\nClifford\'s part, of God\'s care and love towards him,--towards this\npoor, forsaken man, who, if any mortal could, might have been pardoned\nfor regarding himself as thrown aside, forgotten, and left to be the\nsport of some fiend, whose playfulness was an ecstasy of mischief.\n\nIt was the Sabbath morning; one of those bright, calm Sabbaths, with\nits own hallowed atmosphere, when Heaven seems to diffuse itself over\nthe earth\'s face in a solemn smile, no less sweet than solemn. On such\na Sabbath morn, were we pure enough to be its medium, we should be\nconscious of the earth\'s natural worship ascending through our frames,\non whatever spot of ground we stood. The church-bells, with various\ntones, but all in harmony, were calling out and responding to one\nanother,--\"It is the Sabbath!--The Sabbath!--Yea; the Sabbath!\"--and\nover the whole city the bells scattered the blessed sounds, now slowly,\nnow with livelier joy, now one bell alone, now all the bells together,\ncrying earnestly,--\"It is the Sabbath!\"--and flinging their accents\nafar off, to melt into the air and pervade it with the holy word. The\nair with God\'s sweetest and tenderest sunshine in it, was meet for\nmankind to breathe into their hearts, and send it forth again as the\nutterance of prayer.\n\nClifford sat at the window with Hepzibah, watching the neighbors as\nthey stepped into the street. All of them, however unspiritual on\nother days, were transfigured by the Sabbath influence; so that their\nvery garments--whether it were an old man\'s decent coat well brushed\nfor the thousandth time, or a little boy\'s first sack and trousers\nfinished yesterday by his mother\'s needle--had somewhat of the quality\nof ascension-robes. Forth, likewise, from the portal of the old house\nstepped Phoebe, putting up her small green sunshade, and throwing\nupward a glance and smile of parting kindness to the faces at the\narched window. In her aspect there was a familiar gladness, and a\nholiness that you could play with, and yet reverence it as much as\never. She was like a prayer, offered up in the homeliest beauty of\none\'s mother-tongue. Fresh was Phoebe, moreover, and airy and sweet in\nher apparel; as if nothing that she wore--neither her gown, nor her\nsmall straw bonnet, nor her little kerchief, any more than her snowy\nstockings--had ever been put on before; or, if worn, were all the\nfresher for it, and with a fragrance as if they had lain among the\nrosebuds.\n\nThe girl waved her hand to Hepzibah and Clifford, and went up the\nstreet; a religion in herself, warm, simple, true, with a substance\nthat could walk on earth, and a spirit that was capable of heaven.\n\n\"Hepzibah,\" asked Clifford, after watching Phoebe to the corner, \"do\nyou never go to church?\"\n\n\"No, Clifford!\" she replied,--\"not these many, many years!\"\n\n\"Were I to be there,\" he rejoined, \"it seems to me that I could pray\nonce more, when so many human souls were praying all around me!\"\n\nShe looked into Clifford\'s face, and beheld there a soft natural\neffusion; for his heart gushed out, as it were, and ran over at his\neyes, in delightful reverence for God, and kindly affection for his\nhuman brethren. The emotion communicated itself to Hepzibah. She\nyearned to take him by the hand, and go and kneel down, they two\ntogether,--both so long separate from the world, and, as she now\nrecognized, scarcely friends with Him above,--to kneel down among the\npeople, and be reconciled to God and man at once.\n\n\"Dear brother,\" said she earnestly, \"let us go! We belong nowhere. We\nhave not a foot of space in any church to kneel upon; but let us go to\nsome place of worship, even if we stand in the broad aisle. Poor and\nforsaken as we are, some pew-door will be opened to us!\"\n\nSo Hepzibah and her brother made themselves, ready--as ready as they\ncould in the best of their old-fashioned garments, which had hung on\npegs, or been laid away in trunks, so long that the dampness and mouldy\nsmell of the past was on them,--made themselves ready, in their faded\nbettermost, to go to church. They descended the staircase\ntogether,--gaunt, sallow Hepzibah, and pale, emaciated, age-stricken\nClifford! They pulled open the front door, and stepped across the\nthreshold, and felt, both of them, as if they were standing in the\npresence of the whole world, and with mankind\'s great and terrible eye\non them alone. The eye of their Father seemed to be withdrawn, and\ngave them no encouragement. The warm sunny air of the street made them\nshiver. Their hearts quaked within them at the idea of taking one\nstep farther.\n\n\"It cannot be, Hepzibah!--it is too late,\" said Clifford with deep\nsadness. \"We are ghosts! We have no right among human beings,--no\nright anywhere but in this old house, which has a curse on it, and\nwhich, therefore, we are doomed to haunt! And, besides,\" he continued,\nwith a fastidious sensibility, inalienably characteristic of the man,\n\"it would not be fit nor beautiful to go! It is an ugly thought that I\nshould be frightful to my fellow-beings, and that children would cling\nto their mothers\' gowns at sight of me!\"\n\nThey shrank back into the dusky passage-way, and closed the door. But,\ngoing up the staircase again, they found the whole interior of the\nhouse tenfold more dismal, and the air closer and heavier, for the\nglimpse and breath of freedom which they had just snatched. They could\nnot flee; their jailer had but left the door ajar in mockery, and stood\nbehind it to watch them stealing out. At the threshold, they felt his\npitiless gripe upon them. For, what other dungeon is so dark as one\'s\nown heart! What jailer so inexorable as one\'s self!\n\nBut it would be no fair picture of Clifford\'s state of mind were we to\nrepresent him as continually or prevailingly wretched. On the\ncontrary, there was no other man in the city, we are bold to affirm, of\nso much as half his years, who enjoyed so many lightsome and griefless\nmoments as himself. He had no burden of care upon him; there were none\nof those questions and contingencies with the future to be settled\nwhich wear away all other lives, and render them not worth having by\nthe very process of providing for their support. In this respect he\nwas a child,--a child for the whole term of his existence, be it long\nor short. Indeed, his life seemed to be standing still at a period\nlittle in advance of childhood, and to cluster all his reminiscences\nabout that epoch; just as, after the torpor of a heavy blow, the\nsufferer\'s reviving consciousness goes back to a moment considerably\nbehind the accident that stupefied him. He sometimes told Phoebe and\nHepzibah his dreams, in which he invariably played the part of a child,\nor a very young man. So vivid were they, in his relation of them, that\nhe once held a dispute with his sister as to the particular figure or\nprint of a chintz morning-dress which he had seen their mother wear, in\nthe dream of the preceding night. Hepzibah, piquing herself on a\nwoman\'s accuracy in such matters, held it to be slightly different from\nwhat Clifford described; but, producing the very gown from an old\ntrunk, it proved to be identical with his remembrance of it. Had\nClifford, every time that he emerged out of dreams so lifelike,\nundergone the torture of transformation from a boy into an old and\nbroken man, the daily recurrence of the shock would have been too much\nto bear. It would have caused an acute agony to thrill from the\nmorning twilight, all the day through, until bedtime; and even then\nwould have mingled a dull, inscrutable pain and pallid hue of\nmisfortune with the visionary bloom and adolescence of his slumber.\nBut the nightly moonshine interwove itself with the morning mist, and\nenveloped him as in a robe, which he hugged about his person, and\nseldom let realities pierce through; he was not often quite awake, but\nslept open-eyed, and perhaps fancied himself most dreaming then.\n\nThus, lingering always so near his childhood, he had sympathies with\nchildren, and kept his heart the fresher thereby, like a reservoir into\nwhich rivulets were pouring not far from the fountain-head. Though\nprevented, by a subtile sense of propriety, from desiring to associate\nwith them, he loved few things better than to look out of the arched\nwindow and see a little girl driving her hoop along the sidewalk, or\nschoolboys at a game of ball. Their voices, also, were very pleasant\nto him, heard at a distance, all swarming and intermingling together as\nflies do in a sunny room.\n\nClifford would, doubtless, have been glad to share their sports. One\nafternoon he was seized with an irresistible desire to blow\nsoap-bubbles; an amusement, as Hepzibah told Phoebe apart, that had\nbeen a favorite one with her brother when they were both children.\nBehold him, therefore, at the arched window, with an earthen pipe in\nhis mouth! Behold him, with his gray hair, and a wan, unreal smile over\nhis countenance, where still hovered a beautiful grace, which his worst\nenemy must have acknowledged to be spiritual and immortal, since it had\nsurvived so long! Behold him, scattering airy spheres abroad from the\nwindow into the street! Little impalpable worlds were those\nsoap-bubbles, with the big world depicted, in hues bright as\nimagination, on the nothing of their surface. It was curious to see\nhow the passers-by regarded these brilliant fantasies, as they came\nfloating down, and made the dull atmosphere imaginative about them.\nSome stopped to gaze, and perhaps, carried a pleasant recollection of\nthe bubbles onward as far as the street-corner; some looked angrily\nupward, as if poor Clifford wronged them by setting an image of beauty\nafloat so near their dusty pathway. A great many put out their fingers\nor their walking-sticks to touch, withal; and were perversely\ngratified, no doubt, when the bubble, with all its pictured earth and\nsky scene, vanished as if it had never been.\n\nAt length, just as an elderly gentleman of very dignified presence\nhappened to be passing, a large bubble sailed majestically down, and\nburst right against his nose! He looked up,--at first with a stern,\nkeen glance, which penetrated at once into the obscurity behind the\narched window,--then with a smile which might be conceived as diffusing\na dog-day sultriness for the space of several yards about him.\n\n\"Aha, Cousin Clifford!\" cried Judge Pyncheon. \"What! Still blowing\nsoap-bubbles!\"\n\nThe tone seemed as if meant to be kind and soothing, but yet had a\nbitterness of sarcasm in it. As for Clifford, an absolute palsy of\nfear came over him. Apart from any definite cause of dread which his\npast experience might have given him, he felt that native and original\nhorror of the excellent Judge which is proper to a weak, delicate, and\napprehensive character in the presence of massive strength. Strength\nis incomprehensible by weakness, and, therefore, the more terrible.\nThere is no greater bugbear than a strong-willed relative in the circle\nof his own connections.\n\n\n\n\n XII The Daguerreotypist\n\n\nIT must not be supposed that the life of a personage naturally so\nactive as Phoebe could be wholly confined within the precincts of the\nold Pyncheon House. Clifford\'s demands upon her time were usually\nsatisfied, in those long days, considerably earlier than sunset. Quiet\nas his daily existence seemed, it nevertheless drained all the\nresources by which he lived. It was not physical exercise that\noverwearied him,--for except that he sometimes wrought a little with a\nhoe, or paced the garden-walk, or, in rainy weather, traversed a large\nunoccupied room,--it was his tendency to remain only too quiescent, as\nregarded any toil of the limbs and muscles. But, either there was a\nsmouldering fire within him that consumed his vital energy, or the\nmonotony that would have dragged itself with benumbing effect over a\nmind differently situated was no monotony to Clifford. Possibly, he\nwas in a state of second growth and recovery, and was constantly\nassimilating nutriment for his spirit and intellect from sights,\nsounds, and events which passed as a perfect void to persons more\npractised with the world. As all is activity and vicissitude to the\nnew mind of a child, so might it be, likewise, to a mind that had\nundergone a kind of new creation, after its long-suspended life.\n\nBe the cause what it might, Clifford commonly retired to rest,\nthoroughly exhausted, while the sunbeams were still melting through his\nwindow-curtains, or were thrown with late lustre on the chamber wall.\nAnd while he thus slept early, as other children do, and dreamed of\nchildhood, Phoebe was free to follow her own tastes for the remainder\nof the day and evening.\n\nThis was a freedom essential to the health even of a character so\nlittle susceptible of morbid influences as that of Phoebe. The old\nhouse, as we have already said, had both the dry-rot and the damp-rot\nin its walls; it was not good to breathe no other atmosphere than that.\nHepzibah, though she had her valuable and redeeming traits, had grown\nto be a kind of lunatic by imprisoning herself so long in one place,\nwith no other company than a single series of ideas, and but one\naffection, and one bitter sense of wrong. Clifford, the reader may\nperhaps imagine, was too inert to operate morally on his\nfellow-creatures, however intimate and exclusive their relations with\nhim. But the sympathy or magnetism among human beings is more subtile\nand universal than we think; it exists, indeed, among different classes\nof organized life, and vibrates from one to another. A flower, for\ninstance, as Phoebe herself observed, always began to droop sooner in\nClifford\'s hand, or Hepzibah\'s, than in her own; and by the same law,\nconverting her whole daily life into a flower fragrance for these two\nsickly spirits, the blooming girl must inevitably droop and fade much\nsooner than if worn on a younger and happier breast. Unless she had\nnow and then indulged her brisk impulses, and breathed rural air in a\nsuburban walk, or ocean breezes along the shore,--had occasionally\nobeyed the impulse of Nature, in New England girls, by attending a\nmetaphysical or philosophical lecture, or viewing a seven-mile\npanorama, or listening to a concert,--had gone shopping about the city,\nransacking entire depots of splendid merchandise, and bringing home a\nribbon,--had employed, likewise, a little time to read the Bible in her\nchamber, and had stolen a little more to think of her mother and her\nnative place--unless for such moral medicines as the above, we should\nsoon have beheld our poor Phoebe grow thin and put on a bleached,\nunwholesome aspect, and assume strange, shy ways, prophetic of\nold-maidenhood and a cheerless future.\n\nEven as it was, a change grew visible; a change partly to be regretted,\nalthough whatever charm it infringed upon was repaired by another,\nperhaps more precious. She was not so constantly gay, but had her\nmoods of thought, which Clifford, on the whole, liked better than her\nformer phase of unmingled cheerfulness; because now she understood him\nbetter and more delicately, and sometimes even interpreted him to\nhimself. Her eyes looked larger, and darker, and deeper; so deep, at\nsome silent moments, that they seemed like Artesian wells, down, down,\ninto the infinite. She was less girlish than when we first beheld her\nalighting from the omnibus; less girlish, but more a woman.\n\nThe only youthful mind with which Phoebe had an opportunity of frequent\nintercourse was that of the daguerreotypist. Inevitably, by the\npressure of the seclusion about them, they had been brought into habits\nof some familiarity. Had they met under different circumstances,\nneither of these young persons would have been likely to bestow much\nthought upon the other, unless, indeed, their extreme dissimilarity\nshould have proved a principle of mutual attraction. Both, it is true,\nwere characters proper to New England life, and possessing a common\nground, therefore, in their more external developments; but as unlike,\nin their respective interiors, as if their native climes had been at\nworld-wide distance. During the early part of their acquaintance,\nPhoebe had held back rather more than was customary with her frank and\nsimple manners from Holgrave\'s not very marked advances. Nor was she\nyet satisfied that she knew him well, although they almost daily met\nand talked together, in a kind, friendly, and what seemed to be a\nfamiliar way.\n\nThe artist, in a desultory manner, had imparted to Phoebe something of\nhis history. Young as he was, and had his career terminated at the\npoint already attained, there had been enough of incident to fill, very\ncreditably, an autobiographic volume. A romance on the plan of Gil\nBlas, adapted to American society and manners, would cease to be a\nromance. The experience of many individuals among us, who think it\nhardly worth the telling, would equal the vicissitudes of the\nSpaniard\'s earlier life; while their ultimate success, or the point\nwhither they tend, may be incomparably higher than any that a novelist\nwould imagine for his hero. Holgrave, as he told Phoebe somewhat\nproudly, could not boast of his origin, unless as being exceedingly\nhumble, nor of his education, except that it had been the scantiest\npossible, and obtained by a few winter-months\' attendance at a district\nschool. Left early to his own guidance, he had begun to be\nself-dependent while yet a boy; and it was a condition aptly suited to\nhis natural force of will. Though now but twenty-two years old\n(lacking some months, which are years in such a life), he had already\nbeen, first, a country schoolmaster; next, a salesman in a country\nstore; and, either at the same time or afterwards, the political editor\nof a country newspaper. He had subsequently travelled New England and\nthe Middle States, as a peddler, in the employment of a Connecticut\nmanufactory of cologne-water and other essences. In an episodical way\nhe had studied and practised dentistry, and with very flattering\nsuccess, especially in many of the factory-towns along our inland\nstreams. As a supernumerary official, of some kind or other, aboard a\npacket-ship, he had visited Europe, and found means, before his return,\nto see Italy, and part of France and Germany. At a later period he had\nspent some months in a community of Fourierists. Still more recently\nhe had been a public lecturer on Mesmerism, for which science (as he\nassured Phoebe, and, indeed, satisfactorily proved, by putting\nChanticleer, who happened to be scratching near by, to sleep) he had\nvery remarkable endowments.\n\nHis present phase, as a daguerreotypist, was of no more importance in\nhis own view, nor likely to be more permanent, than any of the\npreceding ones. It had been taken up with the careless alacrity of an\nadventurer, who had his bread to earn. It would be thrown aside as\ncarelessly, whenever he should choose to earn his bread by some other\nequally digressive means. But what was most remarkable, and, perhaps,\nshowed a more than common poise in the young man, was the fact that,\namid all these personal vicissitudes, he had never lost his identity.\nHomeless as he had been,--continually changing his whereabout, and,\ntherefore, responsible neither to public opinion nor to\nindividuals,--putting off one exterior, and snatching up another, to be\nsoon shifted for a third,--he had never violated the innermost man, but\nhad carried his conscience along with him. It was impossible to know\nHolgrave without recognizing this to be the fact. Hepzibah had seen\nit. Phoebe soon saw it likewise, and gave him the sort of confidence\nwhich such a certainty inspires. She was startled, however, and\nsometimes repelled,--not by any doubt of his integrity to whatever law\nhe acknowledged, but by a sense that his law differed from her own. He\nmade her uneasy, and seemed to unsettle everything around her, by his\nlack of reverence for what was fixed, unless, at a moment\'s warning, it\ncould establish its right to hold its ground.\n\nThen, moreover, she scarcely thought him affectionate in his nature.\nHe was too calm and cool an observer. Phoebe felt his eye, often; his\nheart, seldom or never. He took a certain kind of interest in Hepzibah\nand her brother, and Phoebe herself. He studied them attentively, and\nallowed no slightest circumstance of their individualities to escape\nhim. He was ready to do them whatever good he might; but, after all,\nhe never exactly made common cause with them, nor gave any reliable\nevidence that he loved them better in proportion as he knew them more.\nIn his relations with them, he seemed to be in quest of mental food,\nnot heart-sustenance. Phoebe could not conceive what interested him so\nmuch in her friends and herself, intellectually, since he cared nothing\nfor them, or, comparatively, so little, as objects of human affection.\n\nAlways, in his interviews with Phoebe, the artist made especial inquiry\nas to the welfare of Clifford, whom, except at the Sunday festival, he\nseldom saw.\n\n\"Does he still seem happy?\" he asked one day.\n\n\"As happy as a child,\" answered Phoebe; \"but--like a child, too--very\neasily disturbed.\"\n\n\"How disturbed?\" inquired Holgrave. \"By things without, or by thoughts\nwithin?\"\n\n\"I cannot see his thoughts! How should I?\" replied Phoebe with simple\npiquancy. \"Very often his humor changes without any reason that can be\nguessed at, just as a cloud comes over the sun. Latterly, since I have\nbegun to know him better, I feel it to be not quite right to look\nclosely into his moods. He has had such a great sorrow, that his heart\nis made all solemn and sacred by it. When he is cheerful,--when the\nsun shines into his mind,--then I venture to peep in, just as far as\nthe light reaches, but no further. It is holy ground where the shadow\nfalls!\"\n\n\"How prettily you express this sentiment!\" said the artist. \"I can\nunderstand the feeling, without possessing it. Had I your\nopportunities, no scruples would prevent me from fathoming Clifford to\nthe full depth of my plummet-line!\"\n\n\"How strange that you should wish it!\" remarked Phoebe involuntarily.\n\"What is Cousin Clifford to you?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing,--of course, nothing!\" answered Holgrave with a smile.\n\"Only this is such an odd and incomprehensible world! The more I look\nat it, the more it puzzles me, and I begin to suspect that a man\'s\nbewilderment is the measure of his wisdom. Men and women, and\nchildren, too, are such strange creatures, that one never can be\ncertain that he really knows them; nor ever guess what they have been\nfrom what he sees them to be now. Judge Pyncheon! Clifford! What a\ncomplex riddle--a complexity of complexities--do they present! It\nrequires intuitive sympathy, like a young girl\'s, to solve it. A mere\nobserver, like myself (who never have any intuitions, and am, at best,\nonly subtile and acute), is pretty certain to go astray.\"\n\nThe artist now turned the conversation to themes less dark than that\nwhich they had touched upon. Phoebe and he were young together; nor\nhad Holgrave, in his premature experience of life, wasted entirely that\nbeautiful spirit of youth, which, gushing forth from one small heart\nand fancy, may diffuse itself over the universe, making it all as\nbright as on the first day of creation. Man\'s own youth is the world\'s\nyouth; at least, he feels as if it were, and imagines that the earth\'s\ngranite substance is something not yet hardened, and which he can mould\ninto whatever shape he likes. So it was with Holgrave. He could talk\nsagely about the world\'s old age, but never actually believed what he\nsaid; he was a young man still, and therefore looked upon the\nworld--that gray-bearded and wrinkled profligate, decrepit, without\nbeing venerable--as a tender stripling, capable of being improved into\nall that it ought to be, but scarcely yet had shown the remotest\npromise of becoming. He had that sense, or inward prophecy,--which a\nyoung man had better never have been born than not to have, and a\nmature man had better die at once than utterly to relinquish,--that we\nare not doomed to creep on forever in the old bad way, but that, this\nvery now, there are the harbingers abroad of a golden era, to be\naccomplished in his own lifetime. It seemed to Holgrave,--as doubtless\nit has seemed to the hopeful of every century since the epoch of Adam\'s\ngrandchildren,--that in this age, more than ever before, the moss-grown\nand rotten Past is to be torn down, and lifeless institutions to be\nthrust out of the way, and their dead corpses buried, and everything to\nbegin anew.\n\nAs to the main point,--may we never live to doubt it!--as to the better\ncenturies that are coming, the artist was surely right. His error lay\nin supposing that this age, more than any past or future one, is\ndestined to see the tattered garments of Antiquity exchanged for a new\nsuit, instead of gradually renewing themselves by patchwork; in\napplying his own little life-span as the measure of an interminable\nachievement; and, more than all, in fancying that it mattered anything\nto the great end in view whether he himself should contend for it or\nagainst it. Yet it was well for him to think so. This enthusiasm,\ninfusing itself through the calmness of his character, and thus taking\nan aspect of settled thought and wisdom, would serve to keep his youth\npure, and make his aspirations high. And when, with the years settling\ndown more weightily upon him, his early faith should be modified by\ninevitable experience, it would be with no harsh and sudden revolution\nof his sentiments. He would still have faith in man\'s brightening\ndestiny, and perhaps love him all the better, as he should recognize\nhis helplessness in his own behalf; and the haughty faith, with which\nhe began life, would be well bartered for a far humbler one at its\nclose, in discerning that man\'s best directed effort accomplishes a\nkind of dream, while God is the sole worker of realities.\n\nHolgrave had read very little, and that little in passing through the\nthoroughfare of life, where the mystic language of his books was\nnecessarily mixed up with the babble of the multitude, so that both one\nand the other were apt to lose any sense that might have been properly\ntheir own. He considered himself a thinker, and was certainly of a\nthoughtful turn, but, with his own path to discover, had perhaps hardly\nyet reached the point where an educated man begins to think. The true\nvalue of his character lay in that deep consciousness of inward\nstrength, which made all his past vicissitudes seem merely like a\nchange of garments; in that enthusiasm, so quiet that he scarcely knew\nof its existence, but which gave a warmth to everything that he laid\nhis hand on; in that personal ambition, hidden--from his own as well as\nother eyes--among his more generous impulses, but in which lurked a\ncertain efficacy, that might solidify him from a theorist into the\nchampion of some practicable cause. Altogether in his culture and want\nof culture,--in his crude, wild, and misty philosophy, and the\npractical experience that counteracted some of its tendencies; in his\nmagnanimous zeal for man\'s welfare, and his recklessness of whatever\nthe ages had established in man\'s behalf; in his faith, and in his\ninfidelity; in what he had, and in what he lacked,--the artist might\nfitly enough stand forth as the representative of many compeers in his\nnative land.\n\nHis career it would be difficult to prefigure. There appeared to be\nqualities in Holgrave, such as, in a country where everything is free\nto the hand that can grasp it, could hardly fail to put some of the\nworld\'s prizes within his reach. But these matters are delightfully\nuncertain. At almost every step in life, we meet with young men of\njust about Holgrave\'s age, for whom we anticipate wonderful things, but\nof whom, even after much and careful inquiry, we never happen to hear\nanother word. The effervescence of youth and passion, and the fresh\ngloss of the intellect and imagination, endow them with a false\nbrilliancy, which makes fools of themselves and other people. Like\ncertain chintzes, calicoes, and ginghams, they show finely in their\nfirst newness, but cannot stand the sun and rain, and assume a very\nsober aspect after washing-day.\n\nBut our business is with Holgrave as we find him on this particular\nafternoon, and in the arbor of the Pyncheon garden. In that point of\nview, it was a pleasant sight to behold this young man, with so much\nfaith in himself, and so fair an appearance of admirable powers,--so\nlittle harmed, too, by the many tests that had tried his metal,--it was\npleasant to see him in his kindly intercourse with Phoebe. Her thought\nhad scarcely done him justice when it pronounced him cold; or, if so,\nhe had grown warmer now. Without such purpose on her part, and\nunconsciously on his, she made the House of the Seven Gables like a\nhome to him, and the garden a familiar precinct. With the insight on\nwhich he prided himself, he fancied that he could look through Phoebe,\nand all around her, and could read her off like a page of a child\'s\nstory-book. But these transparent natures are often deceptive in their\ndepth; those pebbles at the bottom of the fountain are farther from us\nthan we think. Thus the artist, whatever he might judge of Phoebe\'s\ncapacity, was beguiled, by some silent charm of hers, to talk freely of\nwhat he dreamed of doing in the world. He poured himself out as to\nanother self. Very possibly, he forgot Phoebe while he talked to her,\nand was moved only by the inevitable tendency of thought, when rendered\nsympathetic by enthusiasm and emotion, to flow into the first safe\nreservoir which it finds. But, had you peeped at them through the\nchinks of the garden-fence, the young man\'s earnestness and heightened\ncolor might have led you to suppose that he was making love to the\nyoung girl!\n\nAt length, something was said by Holgrave that made it apposite for\nPhoebe to inquire what had first brought him acquainted with her cousin\nHepzibah, and why he now chose to lodge in the desolate old Pyncheon\nHouse. Without directly answering her, he turned from the Future,\nwhich had heretofore been the theme of his discourse, and began to\nspeak of the influences of the Past. One subject, indeed, is but the\nreverberation of the other.\n\n\"Shall we never, never get rid of this Past?\" cried he, keeping up the\nearnest tone of his preceding conversation. \"It lies upon the Present\nlike a giant\'s dead body In fact, the case is just as if a young giant\nwere compelled to waste all his strength in carrying about the corpse\nof the old giant, his grandfather, who died a long while ago, and only\nneeds to be decently buried. Just think a moment, and it will startle\nyou to see what slaves we are to bygone times,--to Death, if we give\nthe matter the right word!\"\n\n\"But I do not see it,\" observed Phoebe.\n\n\"For example, then,\" continued Holgrave: \"a dead man, if he happens to\nhave made a will, disposes of wealth no longer his own; or, if he die\nintestate, it is distributed in accordance with the notions of men much\nlonger dead than he. A dead man sits on all our judgment-seats; and\nliving judges do but search out and repeat his decisions. We read in\ndead men\'s books! We laugh at dead men\'s jokes, and cry at dead men\'s\npathos! We are sick of dead men\'s diseases, physical and moral, and die\nof the same remedies with which dead doctors killed their patients! We\nworship the living Deity according to dead men\'s forms and creeds.\nWhatever we seek to do, of our own free motion, a dead man\'s icy hand\nobstructs us! Turn our eyes to what point we may, a dead man\'s white,\nimmitigable face encounters them, and freezes our very heart! And we\nmust be dead ourselves before we can begin to have our proper influence\non our own world, which will then be no longer our world, but the world\nof another generation, with which we shall have no shadow of a right to\ninterfere. I ought to have said, too, that we live in dead men\'s\nhouses; as, for instance, in this of the Seven Gables!\"\n\n\"And why not,\" said Phoebe, \"so long as we can be comfortable in them?\"\n\n\"But we shall live to see the day, I trust,\" went on the artist, \"when\nno man shall build his house for posterity. Why should he? He might\njust as reasonably order a durable suit of clothes,--leather, or\nguttapercha, or whatever else lasts longest,--so that his\ngreat-grandchildren should have the benefit of them, and cut precisely\nthe same figure in the world that he himself does. If each generation\nwere allowed and expected to build its own houses, that single change,\ncomparatively unimportant in itself, would imply almost every reform\nwhich society is now suffering for. I doubt whether even our public\nedifices--our capitols, state-houses, court-houses, city-hall, and\nchurches,--ought to be built of such permanent materials as stone or\nbrick. It were better that they should crumble to ruin once in twenty\nyears, or thereabouts, as a hint to the people to examine into and\nreform the institutions which they symbolize.\"\n\n\"How you hate everything old!\" said Phoebe in dismay. \"It makes me\ndizzy to think of such a shifting world!\"\n\n\"I certainly love nothing mouldy,\" answered Holgrave. \"Now, this old\nPyncheon House! Is it a wholesome place to live in, with its black\nshingles, and the green moss that shows how damp they are?--its dark,\nlow-studded rooms--its grime and sordidness, which are the\ncrystallization on its walls of the human breath, that has been drawn\nand exhaled here in discontent and anguish? The house ought to be\npurified with fire,--purified till only its ashes remain!\"\n\n\"Then why do you live in it?\" asked Phoebe, a little piqued.\n\n\"Oh, I am pursuing my studies here; not in books, however,\" replied\nHolgrave. \"The house, in my view, is expressive of that odious and\nabominable Past, with all its bad influences, against which I have just\nbeen declaiming. I dwell in it for a while, that I may know the better\nhow to hate it. By the bye, did you ever hear the story of Maule, the\nwizard, and what happened between him and your immeasurably\ngreat-grandfather?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed!\" said Phoebe; \"I heard it long ago, from my father, and\ntwo or three times from my cousin Hepzibah, in the month that I have\nbeen here. She seems to think that all the calamities of the Pyncheons\nbegan from that quarrel with the wizard, as you call him. And you, Mr.\nHolgrave look as if you thought so too! How singular that you should\nbelieve what is so very absurd, when you reject many things that are a\ngreat deal worthier of credit!\"\n\n\"I do believe it,\" said the artist seriously; \"not as a superstition,\nhowever, but as proved by unquestionable facts, and as exemplifying a\ntheory. Now, see: under those seven gables, at which we now look\nup,--and which old Colonel Pyncheon meant to be the house of his\ndescendants, in prosperity and happiness, down to an epoch far beyond\nthe present,--under that roof, through a portion of three centuries,\nthere has been perpetual remorse of conscience, a constantly defeated\nhope, strife amongst kindred, various misery, a strange form of death,\ndark suspicion, unspeakable disgrace,--all, or most of which calamity I\nhave the means of tracing to the old Puritan\'s inordinate desire to\nplant and endow a family. To plant a family! This idea is at the\nbottom of most of the wrong and mischief which men do. The truth is,\nthat, once in every half-century, at longest, a family should be merged\ninto the great, obscure mass of humanity, and forget all about its\nancestors. Human blood, in order to keep its freshness, should run in\nhidden streams, as the water of an aqueduct is conveyed in subterranean\npipes. In the family existence of these Pyncheons, for\ninstance,--forgive me Phoebe, but I cannot think of you as one of\nthem,--in their brief New England pedigree, there has been time enough\nto infect them all with one kind of lunacy or another.\"\n\n\"You speak very unceremoniously of my kindred,\" said Phoebe, debating\nwith herself whether she ought to take offence.\n\n\"I speak true thoughts to a true mind!\" answered Holgrave, with a\nvehemence which Phoebe had not before witnessed in him. \"The truth is\nas I say! Furthermore, the original perpetrator and father of this\nmischief appears to have perpetuated himself, and still walks the\nstreet,--at least, his very image, in mind and body,--with the fairest\nprospect of transmitting to posterity as rich and as wretched an\ninheritance as he has received! Do you remember the daguerreotype, and\nits resemblance to the old portrait?\"\n\n\"How strangely in earnest you are!\" exclaimed Phoebe, looking at him\nwith surprise and perplexity; half alarmed and partly inclined to\nlaugh. \"You talk of the lunacy of the Pyncheons; is it contagious?\"\n\n\"I understand you!\" said the artist, coloring and laughing. \"I believe\nI am a little mad. This subject has taken hold of my mind with the\nstrangest tenacity of clutch since I have lodged in yonder old gable.\nAs one method of throwing it off, I have put an incident of the\nPyncheon family history, with which I happen to be acquainted, into the\nform of a legend, and mean to publish it in a magazine.\"\n\n\"Do you write for the magazines?\" inquired Phoebe.\n\n\"Is it possible you did not know it?\" cried Holgrave. \"Well, such is\nliterary fame! Yes. Miss Phoebe Pyncheon, among the multitude of my\nmarvellous gifts I have that of writing stories; and my name has\nfigured, I can assure you, on the covers of Graham and Godey, making as\nrespectable an appearance, for aught I could see, as any of the\ncanonized bead-roll with which it was associated. In the humorous\nline, I am thought to have a very pretty way with me; and as for\npathos, I am as provocative of tears as an onion. But shall I read you\nmy story?\"\n\n\"Yes, if it is not very long,\" said Phoebe,--and added\nlaughingly,--\"nor very dull.\"\n\nAs this latter point was one which the daguerreotypist could not decide\nfor himself, he forthwith produced his roll of manuscript, and, while\nthe late sunbeams gilded the seven gables, began to read.\n\n\n\n\n XIII Alice Pyncheon\n\n\nTHERE was a message brought, one day, from the worshipful Gervayse\nPyncheon to young Matthew Maule, the carpenter, desiring his immediate\npresence at the House of the Seven Gables.\n\n\"And what does your master want with me?\" said the carpenter to Mr.\nPyncheon\'s black servant. \"Does the house need any repair? Well it\nmay, by this time; and no blame to my father who built it, neither! I\nwas reading the old Colonel\'s tombstone, no longer ago than last\nSabbath; and, reckoning from that date, the house has stood\nseven-and-thirty years. No wonder if there should be a job to do on\nthe roof.\"\n\n\"Don\'t know what massa wants,\" answered Scipio. \"The house is a berry\ngood house, and old Colonel Pyncheon think so too, I reckon;--else why\nthe old man haunt it so, and frighten a poor nigga, As he does?\"\n\n\"Well, well, friend Scipio; let your master know that I\'m coming,\" said\nthe carpenter with a laugh. \"For a fair, workmanlike job, he\'ll find\nme his man. And so the house is haunted, is it? It will take a tighter\nworkman than I am to keep the spirits out of the Seven Gables. Even if\nthe Colonel would be quiet,\" he added, muttering to himself, \"my old\ngrandfather, the wizard, will be pretty sure to stick to the Pyncheons\nas long as their walls hold together.\"\n\n\"What\'s that you mutter to yourself, Matthew Maule?\" asked Scipio.\n\"And what for do you look so black at me?\"\n\n\"No matter, darky,\" said the carpenter. \"Do you think nobody is to\nlook black but yourself? Go tell your master I\'m coming; and if you\nhappen to see Mistress Alice, his daughter, give Matthew Maule\'s humble\nrespects to her. She has brought a fair face from Italy,--fair, and\ngentle, and proud,--has that same Alice Pyncheon!\"\n\n\"He talk of Mistress Alice!\" cried Scipio, as he returned from his\nerrand. \"The low carpenter-man! He no business so much as to look at\nher a great way off!\"\n\nThis young Matthew Maule, the carpenter, it must be observed, was a\nperson little understood, and not very generally liked, in the town\nwhere he resided; not that anything could be alleged against his\nintegrity, or his skill and diligence in the handicraft which he\nexercised. The aversion (as it might justly be called) with which many\npersons regarded him was partly the result of his own character and\ndeportment, and partly an inheritance.\n\nHe was the grandson of a former Matthew Maule, one of the early\nsettlers of the town, and who had been a famous and terrible wizard in\nhis day. This old reprobate was one of the sufferers when Cotton\nMather, and his brother ministers, and the learned judges, and other\nwise men, and Sir William Phipps, the sagacious governor, made such\nlaudable efforts to weaken the great enemy of souls, by sending a\nmultitude of his adherents up the rocky pathway of Gallows Hill. Since\nthose days, no doubt, it had grown to be suspected that, in consequence\nof an unfortunate overdoing of a work praiseworthy in itself, the\nproceedings against the witches had proved far less acceptable to the\nBeneficent Father than to that very Arch Enemy whom they were intended\nto distress and utterly overwhelm. It is not the less certain,\nhowever, that awe and terror brooded over the memories of those who\ndied for this horrible crime of witchcraft. Their graves, in the\ncrevices of the rocks, were supposed to be incapable of retaining the\noccupants who had been so hastily thrust into them. Old Matthew Maule,\nespecially, was known to have as little hesitation or difficulty in\nrising out of his grave as an ordinary man in getting out of bed, and\nwas as often seen at midnight as living people at noonday. This\npestilent wizard (in whom his just punishment seemed to have wrought no\nmanner of amendment) had an inveterate habit of haunting a certain\nmansion, styled the House of the Seven Gables, against the owner of\nwhich he pretended to hold an unsettled claim for ground-rent. The\nghost, it appears,--with the pertinacity which was one of his\ndistinguishing characteristics while alive,--insisted that he was the\nrightful proprietor of the site upon which the house stood. His terms\nwere, that either the aforesaid ground-rent, from the day when the\ncellar began to be dug, should be paid down, or the mansion itself\ngiven up; else he, the ghostly creditor, would have his finger in all\nthe affairs of the Pyncheons, and make everything go wrong with them,\nthough it should be a thousand years after his death. It was a wild\nstory, perhaps, but seemed not altogether so incredible to those who\ncould remember what an inflexibly obstinate old fellow this wizard\nMaule had been.\n\nNow, the wizard\'s grandson, the young Matthew Maule of our story, was\npopularly supposed to have inherited some of his ancestor\'s\nquestionable traits. It is wonderful how many absurdities were\npromulgated in reference to the young man. He was fabled, for example,\nto have a strange power of getting into people\'s dreams, and regulating\nmatters there according to his own fancy, pretty much like the\nstage-manager of a theatre. There was a great deal of talk among the\nneighbors, particularly the petticoated ones, about what they called\nthe witchcraft of Maule\'s eye. Some said that he could look into\npeople\'s minds; others, that, by the marvellous power of this eye, he\ncould draw people into his own mind, or send them, if he pleased, to do\nerrands to his grandfather, in the spiritual world; others, again, that\nit was what is termed an Evil Eye, and possessed the valuable faculty\nof blighting corn, and drying children into mummies with the heartburn.\nBut, after all, what worked most to the young carpenter\'s disadvantage\nwas, first, the reserve and sternness of his natural disposition, and\nnext, the fact of his not being a church-communicant, and the suspicion\nof his holding heretical tenets in matters of religion and polity.\n\nAfter receiving Mr. Pyncheon\'s message, the carpenter merely tarried to\nfinish a small job, which he happened to have in hand, and then took\nhis way towards the House of the Seven Gables. This noted edifice,\nthough its style might be getting a little out of fashion, was still as\nrespectable a family residence as that of any gentleman in town. The\npresent owner, Gervayse Pyncheon, was said to have contracted a dislike\nto the house, in consequence of a shock to his sensibility, in early\nchildhood, from the sudden death of his grandfather. In the very act\nof running to climb Colonel Pyncheon\'s knee, the boy had discovered the\nold Puritan to be a corpse. On arriving at manhood, Mr. Pyncheon had\nvisited England, where he married a lady of fortune, and had\nsubsequently spent many years, partly in the mother country, and partly\nin various cities on the continent of Europe. During this period, the\nfamily mansion had been consigned to the charge of a kinsman, who was\nallowed to make it his home for the time being, in consideration of\nkeeping the premises in thorough repair. So faithfully had this\ncontract been fulfilled, that now, as the carpenter approached the\nhouse, his practised eye could detect nothing to criticise in its\ncondition. The peaks of the seven gables rose up sharply; the shingled\nroof looked thoroughly water-tight; and the glittering plaster-work\nentirely covered the exterior walls, and sparkled in the October sun,\nas if it had been new only a week ago.\n\nThe house had that pleasant aspect of life which is like the cheery\nexpression of comfortable activity in the human countenance. You could\nsee, at once, that there was the stir of a large family within it. A\nhuge load of oak-wood was passing through the gateway, towards the\noutbuildings in the rear; the fat cook--or probably it might be the\nhousekeeper--stood at the side door, bargaining for some turkeys and\npoultry which a countryman had brought for sale. Now and then a\nmaid-servant, neatly dressed, and now the shining sable face of a\nslave, might be seen bustling across the windows, in the lower part of\nthe house. At an open window of a room in the second story, hanging\nover some pots of beautiful and delicate flowers,--exotics, but which\nhad never known a more genial sunshine than that of the New England\nautumn,--was the figure of a young lady, an exotic, like the flowers,\nand beautiful and delicate as they. Her presence imparted an\nindescribable grace and faint witchery to the whole edifice. In other\nrespects, it was a substantial, jolly-looking mansion, and seemed fit\nto be the residence of a patriarch, who might establish his own\nheadquarters in the front gable and assign one of the remainder to each\nof his six children, while the great chimney in the centre should\nsymbolize the old fellow\'s hospitable heart, which kept them all warm,\nand made a great whole of the seven smaller ones.\n\nThere was a vertical sundial on the front gable; and as the carpenter\npassed beneath it, he looked up and noted the hour.\n\n\"Three o\'clock!\" said he to himself. \"My father told me that dial was\nput up only an hour before the old Colonel\'s death. How truly it has\nkept time these seven-and-thirty years past! The shadow creeps and\ncreeps, and is always looking over the shoulder of the sunshine!\"\n\nIt might have befitted a craftsman, like Matthew Maule, on being sent\nfor to a gentleman\'s house, to go to the back door, where servants and\nwork-people were usually admitted; or at least to the side entrance,\nwhere the better class of tradesmen made application. But the\ncarpenter had a great deal of pride and stiffness in his nature; and,\nat this moment, moreover, his heart was bitter with the sense of\nhereditary wrong, because he considered the great Pyncheon House to be\nstanding on soil which should have been his own. On this very site,\nbeside a spring of delicious water, his grandfather had felled the\npine-trees and built a cottage, in which children had been born to him;\nand it was only from a dead man\'s stiffened fingers that Colonel\nPyncheon had wrested away the title-deeds. So young Maule went\nstraight to the principal entrance, beneath a portal of carved oak, and\ngave such a peal of the iron knocker that you would have imagined the\nstern old wizard himself to be standing at the threshold.\n\nBlack Scipio answered the summons in a prodigious, hurry; but showed\nthe whites of his eyes in amazement on beholding only the carpenter.\n\n\"Lord-a-mercy, what a great man he be, this carpenter fellow!\" mumbled\nScipio, down in his throat. \"Anybody think he beat on the door with\nhis biggest hammer!\"\n\n\"Here I am!\" said Maule sternly. \"Show me the way to your master\'s\nparlor.\"\n\nAs he stept into the house, a note of sweet and melancholy music\nthrilled and vibrated along the passage-way, proceeding from one of the\nrooms above stairs. It was the harpsichord which Alice Pyncheon had\nbrought with her from beyond the sea. The fair Alice bestowed most of\nher maiden leisure between flowers and music, although the former were\napt to droop, and the melodies were often sad. She was of foreign\neducation, and could not take kindly to the New England modes of life,\nin which nothing beautiful had ever been developed.\n\nAs Mr. Pyncheon had been impatiently awaiting Maule\'s arrival, black\nScipio, of course, lost no time in ushering the carpenter into his\nmaster\'s presence. The room in which this gentleman sat was a parlor of\nmoderate size, looking out upon the garden of the house, and having its\nwindows partly shadowed by the foliage of fruit-trees. It was Mr.\nPyncheon\'s peculiar apartment, and was provided with furniture, in an\nelegant and costly style, principally from Paris; the floor (which was\nunusual at that day) being covered with a carpet, so skilfully and\nrichly wrought that it seemed to glow as with living flowers. In one\ncorner stood a marble woman, to whom her own beauty was the sole and\nsufficient garment. Some pictures--that looked old, and had a mellow\ntinge diffused through all their artful splendor--hung on the walls.\nNear the fireplace was a large and very beautiful cabinet of ebony,\ninlaid with ivory; a piece of antique furniture, which Mr. Pyncheon had\nbought in Venice, and which he used as the treasure-place for medals,\nancient coins, and whatever small and valuable curiosities he had\npicked up on his travels. Through all this variety of decoration,\nhowever, the room showed its original characteristics; its low stud,\nits cross-beam, its chimney-piece, with the old-fashioned Dutch tiles;\nso that it was the emblem of a mind industriously stored with foreign\nideas, and elaborated into artificial refinement, but neither larger,\nnor, in its proper self, more elegant than before.\n\nThere were two objects that appeared rather out of place in this very\nhandsomely furnished room. One was a large map, or surveyor\'s plan, of\na tract of land, which looked as if it had been drawn a good many years\nago, and was now dingy with smoke, and soiled, here and there, with the\ntouch of fingers. The other was a portrait of a stern old man, in a\nPuritan garb, painted roughly, but with a bold effect, and a remarkably\nstrong expression of character.\n\nAt a small table, before a fire of English sea-coal, sat Mr. Pyncheon,\nsipping coffee, which had grown to be a very favorite beverage with him\nin France. He was a middle-aged and really handsome man, with a wig\nflowing down upon his shoulders; his coat was of blue velvet, with lace\non the borders and at the button-holes; and the firelight glistened on\nthe spacious breadth of his waistcoat, which was flowered all over with\ngold. On the entrance of Scipio, ushering in the carpenter, Mr.\nPyncheon turned partly round, but resumed his former position, and\nproceeded deliberately to finish his cup of coffee, without immediate\nnotice of the guest whom he had summoned to his presence. It was not\nthat he intended any rudeness or improper neglect,--which, indeed, he\nwould have blushed to be guilty of,--but it never occurred to him that\na person in Maule\'s station had a claim on his courtesy, or would\ntrouble himself about it one way or the other.\n\nThe carpenter, however, stepped at once to the hearth, and turned\nhimself about, so as to look Mr. Pyncheon in the face.\n\n\"You sent for me,\" said he. \"Be pleased to explain your business, that\nI may go back to my own affairs.\"\n\n\"Ah! excuse me,\" said Mr. Pyncheon quietly. \"I did not mean to tax\nyour time without a recompense. Your name, I think, is Maule,--Thomas\nor Matthew Maule,--a son or grandson of the builder of this house?\"\n\n\"Matthew Maule,\" replied the carpenter,--\"son of him who built the\nhouse,--grandson of the rightful proprietor of the soil.\"\n\n\"I know the dispute to which you allude,\" observed Mr. Pyncheon with\nundisturbed equanimity. \"I am well aware that my grandfather was\ncompelled to resort to a suit at law, in order to establish his claim\nto the foundation-site of this edifice. We will not, if you please,\nrenew the discussion. The matter was settled at the time, and by the\ncompetent authorities,--equitably, it is to be presumed,--and, at all\nevents, irrevocably. Yet, singularly enough, there is an incidental\nreference to this very subject in what I am now about to say to you.\nAnd this same inveterate grudge,--excuse me, I mean no offence,--this\nirritability, which you have just shown, is not entirely aside from the\nmatter.\"\n\n\"If you can find anything for your purpose, Mr. Pyncheon,\" said the\ncarpenter, \"in a man\'s natural resentment for the wrongs done to his\nblood, you are welcome to it.\"\n\n\"I take you at your word, Goodman Maule,\" said the owner of the Seven\nGables, with a smile, \"and will proceed to suggest a mode in which your\nhereditary resentments--justifiable or otherwise--may have had a\nbearing on my affairs. You have heard, I suppose, that the Pyncheon\nfamily, ever since my grandfather\'s days, have been prosecuting a still\nunsettled claim to a very large extent of territory at the Eastward?\"\n\n\"Often,\" replied Maule,--and it is said that a smile came over his\nface,--\"very often,--from my father!\"\n\n\"This claim,\" continued Mr. Pyncheon, after pausing a moment, as if to\nconsider what the carpenter\'s smile might mean, \"appeared to be on the\nvery verge of a settlement and full allowance, at the period of my\ngrandfather\'s decease. It was well known, to those in his confidence,\nthat he anticipated neither difficulty nor delay. Now, Colonel\nPyncheon, I need hardly say, was a practical man, well acquainted with\npublic and private business, and not at all the person to cherish\nill-founded hopes, or to attempt the following out of an impracticable\nscheme. It is obvious to conclude, therefore, that he had grounds, not\napparent to his heirs, for his confident anticipation of success in the\nmatter of this Eastern claim. In a word, I believe,--and my legal\nadvisers coincide in the belief, which, moreover, is authorized, to a\ncertain extent, by the family traditions,--that my grandfather was in\npossession of some deed, or other document, essential to this claim,\nbut which has since disappeared.\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" said Matthew Maule,--and again, it is said, there was a\ndark smile on his face,--\"but what can a poor carpenter have to do with\nthe grand affairs of the Pyncheon family?\"\n\n\"Perhaps nothing,\" returned Mr. Pyncheon, \"possibly much!\"\n\nHere ensued a great many words between Matthew Maule and the proprietor\nof the Seven Gables, on the subject which the latter had thus broached.\nIt seems (although Mr. Pyncheon had some hesitation in referring to\nstories so exceedingly absurd in their aspect) that the popular belief\npointed to some mysterious connection and dependence, existing between\nthe family of the Maules and these vast unrealized possessions of the\nPyncheons. It was an ordinary saying that the old wizard, hanged\nthough he was, had obtained the best end of the bargain in his contest\nwith Colonel Pyncheon; inasmuch as he had got possession of the great\nEastern claim, in exchange for an acre or two of garden-ground. A very\naged woman, recently dead, had often used the metaphorical expression,\nin her fireside talk, that miles and miles of the Pyncheon lands had\nbeen shovelled into Maule\'s grave; which, by the bye, was but a very\nshallow nook, between two rocks, near the summit of Gallows Hill.\nAgain, when the lawyers were making inquiry for the missing document,\nit was a by-word that it would never be found, unless in the wizard\'s\nskeleton hand. So much weight had the shrewd lawyers assigned to these\nfables, that (but Mr. Pyncheon did not see fit to inform the carpenter\nof the fact) they had secretly caused the wizard\'s grave to be\nsearched. Nothing was discovered, however, except that, unaccountably,\nthe right hand of the skeleton was gone.\n\nNow, what was unquestionably important, a portion of these popular\nrumors could be traced, though rather doubtfully and indistinctly, to\nchance words and obscure hints of the executed wizard\'s son, and the\nfather of this present Matthew Maule. And here Mr. Pyncheon could\nbring an item of his own personal evidence into play. Though but a\nchild at the time, he either remembered or fancied that Matthew\'s\nfather had had some job to perform on the day before, or possibly the\nvery morning of the Colonel\'s decease, in the private room where he and\nthe carpenter were at this moment talking. Certain papers belonging to\nColonel Pyncheon, as his grandson distinctly recollected, had been\nspread out on the table.\n\nMatthew Maule understood the insinuated suspicion.\n\n\"My father,\" he said,--but still there was that dark smile, making a\nriddle of his countenance,--\"my father was an honester man than the\nbloody old Colonel! Not to get his rights back again would he have\ncarried off one of those papers!\"\n\n\"I shall not bandy words with you,\" observed the foreign-bred Mr.\nPyncheon, with haughty composure. \"Nor will it become me to resent any\nrudeness towards either my grandfather or myself. A gentleman, before\nseeking intercourse with a person of your station and habits, will\nfirst consider whether the urgency of the end may compensate for the\ndisagreeableness of the means. It does so in the present instance.\"\n\nHe then renewed the conversation, and made great pecuniary offers to\nthe carpenter, in case the latter should give information leading to\nthe discovery of the lost document, and the consequent success of the\nEastern claim. For a long time Matthew Maule is said to have turned a\ncold ear to these propositions. At last, however, with a strange kind\nof laugh, he inquired whether Mr. Pyncheon would make over to him the\nold wizard\'s homestead-ground, together with the House of the Seven\nGables, now standing on it, in requital of the documentary evidence so\nurgently required.\n\nThe wild, chimney-corner legend (which, without copying all its\nextravagances, my narrative essentially follows) here gives an account\nof some very strange behavior on the part of Colonel Pyncheon\'s\nportrait. This picture, it must be understood, was supposed to be so\nintimately connected with the fate of the house, and so magically built\ninto its walls, that, if once it should be removed, that very instant\nthe whole edifice would come thundering down in a heap of dusty ruin.\nAll through the foregoing conversation between Mr. Pyncheon and the\ncarpenter, the portrait had been frowning, clenching its fist, and\ngiving many such proofs of excessive discomposure, but without\nattracting the notice of either of the two colloquists. And finally,\nat Matthew Maule\'s audacious suggestion of a transfer of the\nseven-gabled structure, the ghostly portrait is averred to have lost\nall patience, and to have shown itself on the point of descending\nbodily from its frame. But such incredible incidents are merely to be\nmentioned aside.\n\n\"Give up this house!\" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon, in amazement at the\nproposal. \"Were I to do so, my grandfather would not rest quiet in his\ngrave!\"\n\n\"He never has, if all stories are true,\" remarked the carpenter\ncomposedly. \"But that matter concerns his grandson more than it does\nMatthew Maule. I have no other terms to propose.\"\n\nImpossible as he at first thought it to comply with Maule\'s conditions,\nstill, on a second glance, Mr. Pyncheon was of opinion that they might\nat least be made matter of discussion. He himself had no personal\nattachment for the house, nor any pleasant associations connected with\nhis childish residence in it. On the contrary, after seven-and-thirty\nyears, the presence of his dead grandfather seemed still to pervade it,\nas on that morning when the affrighted boy had beheld him, with so\nghastly an aspect, stiffening in his chair. His long abode in foreign\nparts, moreover, and familiarity with many of the castles and ancestral\nhalls of England, and the marble palaces of Italy, had caused him to\nlook contemptuously at the House of the Seven Gables, whether in point\nof splendor or convenience. It was a mansion exceedingly inadequate to\nthe style of living which it would be incumbent on Mr. Pyncheon to\nsupport, after realizing his territorial rights. His steward might\ndeign to occupy it, but never, certainly, the great landed proprietor\nhimself. In the event of success, indeed, it was his purpose to return\nto England; nor, to say the truth, would he recently have quitted that\nmore congenial home, had not his own fortune, as well as his deceased\nwife\'s, begun to give symptoms of exhaustion. The Eastern claim once\nfairly settled, and put upon the firm basis of actual possession, Mr.\nPyncheon\'s property--to be measured by miles, not acres--would be worth\nan earldom, and would reasonably entitle him to solicit, or enable him\nto purchase, that elevated dignity from the British monarch. Lord\nPyncheon!--or the Earl of Waldo!--how could such a magnate be expected\nto contract his grandeur within the pitiful compass of seven shingled\ngables?\n\nIn short, on an enlarged view of the business, the carpenter\'s terms\nappeared so ridiculously easy that Mr. Pyncheon could scarcely forbear\nlaughing in his face. He was quite ashamed, after the foregoing\nreflections, to propose any diminution of so moderate a recompense for\nthe immense service to be rendered.\n\n\"I consent to your proposition, Maule!\" cried he. \"Put me in possession\nof the document essential to establish my rights, and the House of the\nSeven Gables is your own!\"\n\nAccording to some versions of the story, a regular contract to the\nabove effect was drawn up by a lawyer, and signed and sealed in the\npresence of witnesses. Others say that Matthew Maule was contented\nwith a private written agreement, in which Mr. Pyncheon pledged his\nhonor and integrity to the fulfillment of the terms concluded upon.\nThe gentleman then ordered wine, which he and the carpenter drank\ntogether, in confirmation of their bargain. During the whole preceding\ndiscussion and subsequent formalities, the old Puritan\'s portrait seems\nto have persisted in its shadowy gestures of disapproval; but without\neffect, except that, as Mr. Pyncheon set down the emptied glass, he\nthought he beheld his grandfather frown.\n\n\"This sherry is too potent a wine for me; it has affected my brain\nalready,\" he observed, after a somewhat startled look at the picture.\n\"On returning to Europe, I shall confine myself to the more delicate\nvintages of Italy and France, the best of which will not bear\ntransportation.\"\n\n\"My Lord Pyncheon may drink what wine he will, and wherever he\npleases,\" replied the carpenter, as if he had been privy to Mr.\nPyncheon\'s ambitious projects. \"But first, sir, if you desire tidings\nof this lost document, I must crave the favor of a little talk with\nyour fair daughter Alice.\"\n\n\"You are mad, Maule!\" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon haughtily; and now, at\nlast, there was anger mixed up with his pride. \"What can my daughter\nhave to do with a business like this?\"\n\nIndeed, at this new demand on the carpenter\'s part, the proprietor of\nthe Seven Gables was even more thunder-struck than at the cool\nproposition to surrender his house. There was, at least, an assignable\nmotive for the first stipulation; there appeared to be none whatever\nfor the last. Nevertheless, Matthew Maule sturdily insisted on the\nyoung lady being summoned, and even gave her father to understand, in a\nmysterious kind of explanation,--which made the matter considerably\ndarker than it looked before,--that the only chance of acquiring the\nrequisite knowledge was through the clear, crystal medium of a pure and\nvirgin intelligence, like that of the fair Alice. Not to encumber our\nstory with Mr. Pyncheon\'s scruples, whether of conscience, pride, or\nfatherly affection, he at length ordered his daughter to be called. He\nwell knew that she was in her chamber, and engaged in no occupation\nthat could not readily be laid aside; for, as it happened, ever since\nAlice\'s name had been spoken, both her father and the carpenter had\nheard the sad and sweet music of her harpsichord, and the airier\nmelancholy of her accompanying voice.\n\nSo Alice Pyncheon was summoned, and appeared. A portrait of this young\nlady, painted by a Venetian artist, and left by her father in England,\nis said to have fallen into the hands of the present Duke of\nDevonshire, and to be now preserved at Chatsworth; not on account of\nany associations with the original, but for its value as a picture, and\nthe high character of beauty in the countenance. If ever there was a\nlady born, and set apart from the world\'s vulgar mass by a certain\ngentle and cold stateliness, it was this very Alice Pyncheon. Yet\nthere was the womanly mixture in her; the tenderness, or, at least, the\ntender capabilities. For the sake of that redeeming quality, a man of\ngenerous nature would have forgiven all her pride, and have been\ncontent, almost, to lie down in her path, and let Alice set her slender\nfoot upon his heart. All that he would have required was simply the\nacknowledgment that he was indeed a man, and a fellow-being, moulded of\nthe same elements as she.\n\nAs Alice came into the room, her eyes fell upon the carpenter, who was\nstanding near its centre, clad in green woollen jacket, a pair of loose\nbreeches, open at the knees, and with a long pocket for his rule, the\nend of which protruded; it was as proper a mark of the artisan\'s\ncalling as Mr. Pyncheon\'s full-dress sword of that gentleman\'s\naristocratic pretensions. A glow of artistic approval brightened over\nAlice Pyncheon\'s face; she was struck with admiration--which she made\nno attempt to conceal--of the remarkable comeliness, strength, and\nenergy of Maule\'s figure. But that admiring glance (which most other\nmen, perhaps, would have cherished as a sweet recollection all through\nlife) the carpenter never forgave. It must have been the devil himself\nthat made Maule so subtile in his preception.\n\n\"Does the girl look at me as if I were a brute beast?\" thought he,\nsetting his teeth. \"She shall know whether I have a human spirit; and\nthe worse for her, if it prove stronger than her own!\"\n\n\"My father, you sent for me,\" said Alice, in her sweet and harp-like\nvoice. \"But, if you have business with this young man, pray let me go\nagain. You know I do not love this room, in spite of that Claude, with\nwhich you try to bring back sunny recollections.\"\n\n\"Stay a moment, young lady, if you please!\" said Matthew Maule. \"My\nbusiness with your father is over. With yourself, it is now to begin!\"\n\nAlice looked towards her father, in surprise and inquiry.\n\n\"Yes, Alice,\" said Mr. Pyncheon, with some disturbance and confusion.\n\"This young man--his name is Matthew Maule--professes, so far as I can\nunderstand him, to be able to discover, through your means, a certain\npaper or parchment, which was missing long before your birth. The\nimportance of the document in question renders it advisable to neglect\nno possible, even if improbable, method of regaining it. You will\ntherefore oblige me, my dear Alice, by answering this person\'s\ninquiries, and complying with his lawful and reasonable requests, so\nfar as they may appear to have the aforesaid object in view. As I\nshall remain in the room, you need apprehend no rude nor unbecoming\ndeportment, on the young man\'s part; and, at your slightest wish, of\ncourse, the investigation, or whatever we may call it, shall\nimmediately be broken off.\"\n\n\"Mistress Alice Pyncheon,\" remarked Matthew Maule, with the utmost\ndeference, but yet a half-hidden sarcasm in his look and tone, \"will no\ndoubt feel herself quite safe in her father\'s presence, and under his\nall-sufficient protection.\"\n\n\"I certainly shall entertain no manner of apprehension, with my father\nat hand,\" said Alice with maidenly dignity. \"Neither do I conceive\nthat a lady, while true to herself, can have aught to fear from\nwhomsoever, or in any circumstances!\"\n\nPoor Alice! By what unhappy impulse did she thus put herself at once on\nterms of defiance against a strength which she could not estimate?\n\n\"Then, Mistress Alice,\" said Matthew Maule, handing a\nchair,--gracefully enough, for a craftsman, \"will it please you only to\nsit down, and do me the favor (though altogether beyond a poor\ncarpenter\'s deserts) to fix your eyes on mine!\"\n\nAlice complied, She was very proud. Setting aside all advantages of\nrank, this fair girl deemed herself conscious of a power--combined of\nbeauty, high, unsullied purity, and the preservative force of\nwomanhood--that could make her sphere impenetrable, unless betrayed by\ntreachery within. She instinctively knew, it may be, that some\nsinister or evil potency was now striving to pass her barriers; nor\nwould she decline the contest. So Alice put woman\'s might against\nman\'s might; a match not often equal on the part of woman.\n\nHer father meanwhile had turned away, and seemed absorbed in the\ncontemplation of a landscape by Claude, where a shadowy and\nsun-streaked vista penetrated so remotely into an ancient wood, that it\nwould have been no wonder if his fancy had lost itself in the picture\'s\nbewildering depths. But, in truth, the picture was no more to him at\nthat moment than the blank wall against which it hung. His mind was\nhaunted with the many and strange tales which he had heard, attributing\nmysterious if not supernatural endowments to these Maules, as well the\ngrandson here present as his two immediate ancestors. Mr. Pyncheon\'s\nlong residence abroad, and intercourse with men of wit and\nfashion,--courtiers, worldings, and free-thinkers,--had done much\ntowards obliterating the grim Puritan superstitions, which no man of\nNew England birth at that early period could entirely escape. But, on\nthe other hand, had not a whole community believed Maule\'s grandfather\nto be a wizard? Had not the crime been proved? Had not the wizard died\nfor it? Had he not bequeathed a legacy of hatred against the Pyncheons\nto this only grandson, who, as it appeared, was now about to exercise a\nsubtle influence over the daughter of his enemy\'s house? Might not\nthis influence be the same that was called witchcraft?\n\nTurning half around, he caught a glimpse of Maule\'s figure in the\nlooking-glass. At some paces from Alice, with his arms uplifted in the\nair, the carpenter made a gesture as if directing downward a slow,\nponderous, and invisible weight upon the maiden.\n\n\"Stay, Maule!\" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon, stepping forward. \"I forbid\nyour proceeding further!\"\n\n\"Pray, my dear father, do not interrupt the young man,\" said Alice,\nwithout changing her position. \"His efforts, I assure you, will prove\nvery harmless.\"\n\nAgain Mr. Pyncheon turned his eyes towards the Claude. It was then his\ndaughter\'s will, in opposition to his own, that the experiment should\nbe fully tried. Henceforth, therefore, he did but consent, not urge\nit. And was it not for her sake far more than for his own that he\ndesired its success? That lost parchment once restored, the beautiful\nAlice Pyncheon, with the rich dowry which he could then bestow, might\nwed an English duke or a German reigning-prince, instead of some New\nEngland clergyman or lawyer! At the thought, the ambitious father\nalmost consented, in his heart, that, if the devil\'s power were needed\nto the accomplishment of this great object, Maule might evoke him.\nAlice\'s own purity would be her safeguard.\n\nWith his mind full of imaginary magnificence, Mr. Pyncheon heard a\nhalf-uttered exclamation from his daughter. It was very faint and low;\nso indistinct that there seemed but half a will to shape out the words,\nand too undefined a purport to be intelligible. Yet it was a call for\nhelp!--his conscience never doubted it;--and, little more than a\nwhisper to his ear, it was a dismal shriek, and long reechoed so, in\nthe region round his heart! But this time the father did not turn.\n\nAfter a further interval, Maule spoke.\n\n\"Behold your daughter,\" said he.\n\nMr. Pyncheon came hastily forward. The carpenter was standing erect in\nfront of Alice\'s chair, and pointing his finger towards the maiden with\nan expression of triumphant power, the limits of which could not be\ndefined, as, indeed, its scope stretched vaguely towards the unseen and\nthe infinite. Alice sat in an attitude of profound repose, with the\nlong brown lashes drooping over her eyes.\n\n\"There she is!\" said the carpenter. \"Speak to her!\"\n\n\"Alice! My daughter!\" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon. \"My own Alice!\"\n\nShe did not stir.\n\n\"Louder!\" said Maule, smiling.\n\n\"Alice! Awake!\" cried her father. \"It troubles me to see you thus!\nAwake!\"\n\nHe spoke loudly, with terror in his voice, and close to that delicate\near which had always been so sensitive to every discord. But the sound\nevidently reached her not. It is indescribable what a sense of remote,\ndim, unattainable distance betwixt himself and Alice was impressed on\nthe father by this impossibility of reaching her with his voice.\n\n\"Best touch her!\" said Matthew Maule \"Shake the girl, and roughly, too!\nMy hands are hardened with too much use of axe, saw, and plane,--else I\nmight help you!\"\n\nMr. Pyncheon took her hand, and pressed it with the earnestness of\nstartled emotion. He kissed her, with so great a heart-throb in the\nkiss, that he thought she must needs feel it. Then, in a gust of anger\nat her insensibility, he shook her maiden form with a violence which,\nthe next moment, it affrighted him to remember. He withdrew his\nencircling arms, and Alice--whose figure, though flexible, had been\nwholly impassive--relapsed into the same attitude as before these\nattempts to arouse her. Maule having shifted his position, her face\nwas turned towards him slightly, but with what seemed to be a reference\nof her very slumber to his guidance.\n\nThen it was a strange sight to behold how the man of conventionalities\nshook the powder out of his periwig; how the reserved and stately\ngentleman forgot his dignity; how the gold-embroidered waistcoat\nflickered and glistened in the firelight with the convulsion of rage,\nterror, and sorrow in the human heart that was beating under it.\n\n\"Villain!\" cried Mr. Pyncheon, shaking his clenched fist at Maule.\n\"You and the fiend together have robbed me of my daughter. Give her\nback, spawn of the old wizard, or you shall climb Gallows Hill in your\ngrandfather\'s footsteps!\"\n\n\"Softly, Mr. Pyncheon!\" said the carpenter with scornful composure.\n\"Softly, an\' it please your worship, else you will spoil those rich\nlace-ruffles at your wrists! Is it my crime if you have sold your\ndaughter for the mere hope of getting a sheet of yellow parchment into\nyour clutch? There sits Mistress Alice quietly asleep. Now let Matthew\nMaule try whether she be as proud as the carpenter found her awhile\nsince.\"\n\nHe spoke, and Alice responded, with a soft, subdued, inward\nacquiescence, and a bending of her form towards him, like the flame of\na torch when it indicates a gentle draught of air. He beckoned with\nhis hand, and, rising from her chair,--blindly, but undoubtingly, as\ntending to her sure and inevitable centre,--the proud Alice approached\nhim. He waved her back, and, retreating, Alice sank again into her\nseat.\n\n\"She is mine!\" said Matthew Maule. \"Mine, by the right of the\nstrongest spirit!\"\n\nIn the further progress of the legend, there is a long, grotesque, and\noccasionally awe-striking account of the carpenter\'s incantations (if\nso they are to be called), with a view of discovering the lost\ndocument. It appears to have been his object to convert the mind of\nAlice into a kind of telescopic medium, through which Mr. Pyncheon and\nhimself might obtain a glimpse into the spiritual world. He succeeded,\naccordingly, in holding an imperfect sort of intercourse, at one\nremove, with the departed personages in whose custody the so much\nvalued secret had been carried beyond the precincts of earth. During\nher trance, Alice described three figures as being present to her\nspiritualized perception. One was an aged, dignified, stern-looking\ngentleman, clad as for a solemn festival in grave and costly attire,\nbut with a great blood-stain on his richly wrought band; the second, an\naged man, meanly dressed, with a dark and malign countenance, and a\nbroken halter about his neck; the third, a person not so advanced in\nlife as the former two, but beyond the middle age, wearing a coarse\nwoollen tunic and leather breeches, and with a carpenter\'s rule\nsticking out of his side pocket. These three visionary characters\npossessed a mutual knowledge of the missing document. One of them, in\ntruth,--it was he with the blood-stain on his band,--seemed, unless his\ngestures were misunderstood, to hold the parchment in his immediate\nkeeping, but was prevented by his two partners in the mystery from\ndisburdening himself of the trust. Finally, when he showed a purpose\nof shouting forth the secret loudly enough to be heard from his own\nsphere into that of mortals, his companions struggled with him, and\npressed their hands over his mouth; and forthwith--whether that he were\nchoked by it, or that the secret itself was of a crimson hue--there was\na fresh flow of blood upon his band. Upon this, the two meanly dressed\nfigures mocked and jeered at the much-abashed old dignitary, and\npointed their fingers at the stain.\n\nAt this juncture, Maule turned to Mr. Pyncheon.\n\n\"It will never be allowed,\" said he. \"The custody of this secret, that\nwould so enrich his heirs, makes part of your grandfather\'s\nretribution. He must choke with it until it is no longer of any value.\nAnd keep you the House of the Seven Gables! It is too dear bought an\ninheritance, and too heavy with the curse upon it, to be shifted yet\nawhile from the Colonel\'s posterity.\"\n\nMr. Pyncheon tried to speak, but--what with fear and passion--could\nmake only a gurgling murmur in his throat. The carpenter smiled.\n\n\"Aha, worshipful sir!--so you have old Maule\'s blood to drink!\" said he\njeeringly.\n\n\"Fiend in man\'s shape! why dost thou keep dominion over my child?\"\ncried Mr. Pyncheon, when his choked utterance could make way. \"Give me\nback my daughter. Then go thy ways; and may we never meet again!\"\n\n\"Your daughter!\" said Matthew Maule. \"Why, she is fairly mine!\nNevertheless, not to be too hard with fair Mistress Alice, I will leave\nher in your keeping; but I do not warrant you that she shall never have\noccasion to remember Maule, the carpenter.\"\n\nHe waved his hands with an upward motion; and, after a few repetitions\nof similar gestures, the beautiful Alice Pyncheon awoke from her\nstrange trance. She awoke without the slightest recollection of her\nvisionary experience; but as one losing herself in a momentary reverie,\nand returning to the consciousness of actual life, in almost as brief\nan interval as the down-sinking flame of the hearth should quiver again\nup the chimney. On recognizing Matthew Maule, she assumed an air of\nsomewhat cold but gentle dignity, the rather, as there was a certain\npeculiar smile on the carpenter\'s visage that stirred the native pride\nof the fair Alice. So ended, for that time, the quest for the lost\ntitle-deed of the Pyncheon territory at the Eastward; nor, though often\nsubsequently renewed, has it ever yet befallen a Pyncheon to set his\neye upon that parchment.\n\nBut, alas for the beautiful, the gentle, yet too haughty Alice! A\npower that she little dreamed of had laid its grasp upon her maiden\nsoul. A will, most unlike her own, constrained her to do its grotesque\nand fantastic bidding. Her father as it proved, had martyred his poor\nchild to an inordinate desire for measuring his land by miles instead\nof acres. And, therefore, while Alice Pyncheon lived, she was Maule\'s\nslave, in a bondage more humiliating, a thousand-fold, than that which\nbinds its chain around the body. Seated by his humble fireside, Maule\nhad but to wave his hand; and, wherever the proud lady chanced to\nbe,--whether in her chamber, or entertaining her father\'s stately\nguests, or worshipping at church,--whatever her place or occupation,\nher spirit passed from beneath her own control, and bowed itself to\nMaule. \"Alice, laugh!\"--the carpenter, beside his hearth, would say;\nor perhaps intensely will it, without a spoken word. And, even were it\nprayer-time, or at a funeral, Alice must break into wild laughter.\n\"Alice, be sad!\"--and, at the instant, down would come her tears,\nquenching all the mirth of those around her like sudden rain upon a\nbonfire. \"Alice, dance.\"--and dance she would, not in such court-like\nmeasures as she had learned abroad, but some high-paced jig, or\nhop-skip rigadoon, befitting the brisk lasses at a rustic merry-making.\nIt seemed to be Maule\'s impulse, not to ruin Alice, nor to visit her\nwith any black or gigantic mischief, which would have crowned her\nsorrows with the grace of tragedy, but to wreak a low, ungenerous scorn\nupon her. Thus all the dignity of life was lost. She felt herself too\nmuch abased, and longed to change natures with some worm!\n\nOne evening, at a bridal party (but not her own; for, so lost from\nself-control, she would have deemed it sin to marry), poor Alice was\nbeckoned forth by her unseen despot, and constrained, in her gossamer\nwhite dress and satin slippers, to hasten along the street to the mean\ndwelling of a laboring-man. There was laughter and good cheer within;\nfor Matthew Maule, that night, was to wed the laborer\'s daughter, and\nhad summoned proud Alice Pyncheon to wait upon his bride. And so she\ndid; and when the twain were one, Alice awoke out of her enchanted\nsleep. Yet, no longer proud,--humbly, and with a smile all steeped in\nsadness,--she kissed Maule\'s wife, and went her way. It was an\ninclement night; the southeast wind drove the mingled snow and rain\ninto her thinly sheltered bosom; her satin slippers were wet through\nand through, as she trod the muddy sidewalks. The next day a cold;\nsoon, a settled cough; anon, a hectic cheek, a wasted form, that sat\nbeside the harpsichord, and filled the house with music! Music in\nwhich a strain of the heavenly choristers was echoed! Oh; joy! For\nAlice had borne her last humiliation! Oh, greater joy! For Alice was\npenitent of her one earthly sin, and proud no more!\n\nThe Pyncheons made a great funeral for Alice. The kith and kin were\nthere, and the whole respectability of the town besides. But, last in\nthe procession, came Matthew Maule, gnashing his teeth, as if he would\nhave bitten his own heart in twain,--the darkest and wofullest man that\never walked behind a corpse! He meant to humble Alice, not to kill her;\nbut he had taken a woman\'s delicate soul into his rude gripe, to play\nwith--and she was dead!\n\n\n\n\n XIV Phoebe\'s Good-Bye\n\n\nHOLGRAVE, plunging into his tale with the energy and absorption natural\nto a young author, had given a good deal of action to the parts capable\nof being developed and exemplified in that manner. He now observed\nthat a certain remarkable drowsiness (wholly unlike that with which the\nreader possibly feels himself affected) had been flung over the senses\nof his auditress. It was the effect, unquestionably, of the mystic\ngesticulations by which he had sought to bring bodily before Phoebe\'s\nperception the figure of the mesmerizing carpenter. With the lids\ndrooping over her eyes,--now lifted for an instant, and drawn down\nagain as with leaden weights,--she leaned slightly towards him, and\nseemed almost to regulate her breath by his. Holgrave gazed at her, as\nhe rolled up his manuscript, and recognized an incipient stage of that\ncurious psychological condition which, as he had himself told Phoebe,\nhe possessed more than an ordinary faculty of producing. A veil was\nbeginning to be muffled about her, in which she could behold only him,\nand live only in his thoughts and emotions. His glance, as he fastened\nit on the young girl, grew involuntarily more concentrated; in his\nattitude there was the consciousness of power, investing his hardly\nmature figure with a dignity that did not belong to its physical\nmanifestation. It was evident, that, with but one wave of his hand and\na corresponding effort of his will, he could complete his mastery over\nPhoebe\'s yet free and virgin spirit: he could establish an influence\nover this good, pure, and simple child, as dangerous, and perhaps as\ndisastrous, as that which the carpenter of his legend had acquired and\nexercised over the ill-fated Alice.\n\nTo a disposition like Holgrave\'s, at once speculative and active, there\nis no temptation so great as the opportunity of acquiring empire over\nthe human spirit; nor any idea more seductive to a young man than to\nbecome the arbiter of a young girl\'s destiny. Let us,\ntherefore,--whatever his defects of nature and education, and in spite\nof his scorn for creeds and institutions,--concede to the\ndaguerreotypist the rare and high quality of reverence for another\'s\nindividuality. Let us allow him integrity, also, forever after to be\nconfided in; since he forbade himself to twine that one link more which\nmight have rendered his spell over Phoebe indissoluble.\n\nHe made a slight gesture upward with his hand.\n\n\"You really mortify me, my dear Miss Phoebe!\" he exclaimed, smiling\nhalf-sarcastically at her. \"My poor story, it is but too evident, will\nnever do for Godey or Graham! Only think of your falling asleep at what\nI hoped the newspaper critics would pronounce a most brilliant,\npowerful, imaginative, pathetic, and original winding up! Well, the\nmanuscript must serve to light lamps with;--if, indeed, being so imbued\nwith my gentle dulness, it is any longer capable of flame!\"\n\n\"Me asleep! How can you say so?\" answered Phoebe, as unconscious of the\ncrisis through which she had passed as an infant of the precipice to\nthe verge of which it has rolled. \"No, no! I consider myself as having\nbeen very attentive; and, though I don\'t remember the incidents quite\ndistinctly, yet I have an impression of a vast deal of trouble and\ncalamity,--so, no doubt, the story will prove exceedingly attractive.\"\n\nBy this time the sun had gone down, and was tinting the clouds towards\nthe zenith with those bright hues which are not seen there until some\ntime after sunset, and when the horizon has quite lost its richer\nbrilliancy. The moon, too, which had long been climbing overhead, and\nunobtrusively melting its disk into the azure,--like an ambitious\ndemagogue, who hides his aspiring purpose by assuming the prevalent hue\nof popular sentiment,--now began to shine out, broad and oval, in its\nmiddle pathway. These silvery beams were already powerful enough to\nchange the character of the lingering daylight. They softened and\nembellished the aspect of the old house; although the shadows fell\ndeeper into the angles of its many gables, and lay brooding under the\nprojecting story, and within the half-open door. With the lapse of\nevery moment, the garden grew more picturesque; the fruit-trees,\nshrubbery, and flower-bushes had a dark obscurity among them. The\ncommonplace characteristics--which, at noontide, it seemed to have\ntaken a century of sordid life to accumulate--were now transfigured by\na charm of romance. A hundred mysterious years were whispering among\nthe leaves, whenever the slight sea-breeze found its way thither and\nstirred them. Through the foliage that roofed the little summer-house\nthe moonlight flickered to and fro, and fell silvery white on the dark\nfloor, the table, and the circular bench, with a continual shift and\nplay, according as the chinks and wayward crevices among the twigs\nadmitted or shut out the glimmer.\n\nSo sweetly cool was the atmosphere, after all the feverish day, that\nthe summer eve might be fancied as sprinkling dews and liquid\nmoonlight, with a dash of icy temper in them, out of a silver vase.\nHere and there, a few drops of this freshness were scattered on a human\nheart, and gave it youth again, and sympathy with the eternal youth of\nnature. The artist chanced to be one on whom the reviving influence\nfell. It made him feel--what he sometimes almost forgot, thrust so\nearly as he had been into the rude struggle of man with man--how\nyouthful he still was.\n\n\"It seems to me,\" he observed, \"that I never watched the coming of so\nbeautiful an eve, and never felt anything so very much like happiness\nas at this moment. After all, what a good world we live in! How good,\nand beautiful! How young it is, too, with nothing really rotten or\nage-worn in it! This old house, for example, which sometimes has\npositively oppressed my breath with its smell of decaying timber! And\nthis garden, where the black mould always clings to my spade, as if I\nwere a sexton delving in a graveyard! Could I keep the feeling that now\npossesses me, the garden would every day be virgin soil, with the\nearth\'s first freshness in the flavor of its beans and squashes; and\nthe house!--it would be like a bower in Eden, blossoming with the\nearliest roses that God ever made. Moonlight, and the sentiment in\nman\'s heart responsive to it, are the greatest of renovators and\nreformers. And all other reform and renovation, I suppose, will prove\nto be no better than moonshine!\"\n\n\"I have been happier than I am now; at least, much gayer,\" said Phoebe\nthoughtfully. \"Yet I am sensible of a great charm in this brightening\nmoonlight; and I love to watch how the day, tired as it is, lags away\nreluctantly, and hates to be called yesterday so soon. I never cared\nmuch about moonlight before. What is there, I wonder, so beautiful in\nit, to-night?\"\n\n\"And you have never felt it before?\" inquired the artist, looking\nearnestly at the girl through the twilight.\n\n\"Never,\" answered Phoebe; \"and life does not look the same, now that I\nhave felt it so. It seems as if I had looked at everything, hitherto,\nin broad daylight, or else in the ruddy light of a cheerful fire,\nglimmering and dancing through a room. Ah, poor me!\" she added, with a\nhalf-melancholy laugh. \"I shall never be so merry as before I knew\nCousin Hepzibah and poor Cousin Clifford. I have grown a great deal\nolder, in this little time. Older, and, I hope, wiser, and,--not\nexactly sadder,--but, certainly, with not half so much lightness in my\nspirits! I have given them my sunshine, and have been glad to give it;\nbut, of course, I cannot both give and keep it. They are welcome,\nnotwithstanding!\"\n\n\"You have lost nothing, Phoebe, worth keeping, nor which it was\npossible to keep,\" said Holgrave after a pause. \"Our first youth is of\nno value; for we are never conscious of it until after it is gone. But\nsometimes--always, I suspect, unless one is exceedingly\nunfortunate--there comes a sense of second youth, gushing out of the\nheart\'s joy at being in love; or, possibly, it may come to crown some\nother grand festival in life, if any other such there be. This\nbemoaning of one\'s self (as you do now) over the first, careless,\nshallow gayety of youth departed, and this profound happiness at youth\nregained,--so much deeper and richer than that we lost,--are essential\nto the soul\'s development. In some cases, the two states come almost\nsimultaneously, and mingle the sadness and the rapture in one\nmysterious emotion.\"\n\n\"I hardly think I understand you,\" said Phoebe.\n\n\"No wonder,\" replied Holgrave, smiling; \"for I have told you a secret\nwhich I hardly began to know before I found myself giving it utterance.\nRemember it, however; and when the truth becomes clear to you, then\nthink of this moonlight scene!\"\n\n\"It is entirely moonlight now, except only a little flush of faint\ncrimson, upward from the west, between those buildings,\" remarked\nPhoebe. \"I must go in. Cousin Hepzibah is not quick at figures, and\nwill give herself a headache over the day\'s accounts, unless I help\nher.\"\n\nBut Holgrave detained her a little longer.\n\n\"Miss Hepzibah tells me,\" observed he, \"that you return to the country\nin a few days.\"\n\n\"Yes, but only for a little while,\" answered Phoebe; \"for I look upon\nthis as my present home. I go to make a few arrangements, and to take\na more deliberate leave of my mother and friends. It is pleasant to\nlive where one is much desired and very useful; and I think I may have\nthe satisfaction of feeling myself so here.\"\n\n\"You surely may, and more than you imagine,\" said the artist.\n\"Whatever health, comfort, and natural life exists in the house is\nembodied in your person. These blessings came along with you, and will\nvanish when you leave the threshold. Miss Hepzibah, by secluding\nherself from society, has lost all true relation with it, and is, in\nfact, dead; although she galvanizes herself into a semblance of life,\nand stands behind her counter, afflicting the world with a\ngreatly-to-be-deprecated scowl. Your poor cousin Clifford is another\ndead and long-buried person, on whom the governor and council have\nwrought a necromantic miracle. I should not wonder if he were to\ncrumble away, some morning, after you are gone, and nothing be seen of\nhim more, except a heap of dust. Miss Hepzibah, at any rate, will lose\nwhat little flexibility she has. They both exist by you.\"\n\n\"I should be very sorry to think so,\" answered Phoebe gravely. \"But it\nis true that my small abilities were precisely what they needed; and I\nhave a real interest in their welfare,--an odd kind of motherly\nsentiment,--which I wish you would not laugh at! And let me tell you\nfrankly, Mr. Holgrave, I am sometimes puzzled to know whether you wish\nthem well or ill.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly,\" said the daguerreotypist, \"I do feel an interest in this\nantiquated, poverty-stricken old maiden lady, and this degraded and\nshattered gentleman,--this abortive lover of the beautiful. A kindly\ninterest, too, helpless old children that they are! But you have no\nconception what a different kind of heart mine is from your own. It is\nnot my impulse, as regards these two individuals, either to help or\nhinder; but to look on, to analyze, to explain matters to myself, and\nto comprehend the drama which, for almost two hundred years, has been\ndragging its slow length over the ground where you and I now tread. If\npermitted to witness the close, I doubt not to derive a moral\nsatisfaction from it, go matters how they may. There is a conviction\nwithin me that the end draws nigh. But, though Providence sent you\nhither to help, and sends me only as a privileged and meet spectator, I\npledge myself to lend these unfortunate beings whatever aid I can!\"\n\n\"I wish you would speak more plainly,\" cried Phoebe, perplexed and\ndispleased; \"and, above all, that you would feel more like a Christian\nand a human being! How is it possible to see people in distress without\ndesiring, more than anything else, to help and comfort them? You talk\nas if this old house were a theatre; and you seem to look at Hepzibah\'s\nand Clifford\'s misfortunes, and those of generations before them, as a\ntragedy, such as I have seen acted in the hall of a country hotel, only\nthe present one appears to be played exclusively for your amusement. I\ndo not like this. The play costs the performers too much, and the\naudience is too cold-hearted.\"\n\n\"You are severe,\" said Holgrave, compelled to recognize a degree of\ntruth in the piquant sketch of his own mood.\n\n\"And then,\" continued Phoebe, \"what can you mean by your conviction,\nwhich you tell me of, that the end is drawing near? Do you know of any\nnew trouble hanging over my poor relatives? If so, tell me at once, and\nI will not leave them!\"\n\n\"Forgive me, Phoebe!\" said the daguerreotypist, holding out his hand,\nto which the girl was constrained to yield her own. \"I am somewhat of\na mystic, it must be confessed. The tendency is in my blood, together\nwith the faculty of mesmerism, which might have brought me to Gallows\nHill, in the good old times of witchcraft. Believe me, if I were\nreally aware of any secret, the disclosure of which would benefit your\nfriends,--who are my own friends, likewise,--you should learn it before\nwe part. But I have no such knowledge.\"\n\n\"You hold something back!\" said Phoebe.\n\n\"Nothing,--no secrets but my own,\" answered Holgrave. \"I can perceive,\nindeed, that Judge Pyncheon still keeps his eye on Clifford, in whose\nruin he had so large a share. His motives and intentions, however are\na mystery to me. He is a determined and relentless man, with the\ngenuine character of an inquisitor; and had he any object to gain by\nputting Clifford to the rack, I verily believe that he would wrench his\njoints from their sockets, in order to accomplish it. But, so wealthy\nand eminent as he is,--so powerful in his own strength, and in the\nsupport of society on all sides,--what can Judge Pyncheon have to hope\nor fear from the imbecile, branded, half-torpid Clifford?\"\n\n\"Yet,\" urged Phoebe, \"you did speak as if misfortune were impending!\"\n\n\"Oh, that was because I am morbid!\" replied the artist. \"My mind has a\ntwist aside, like almost everybody\'s mind, except your own. Moreover,\nit is so strange to find myself an inmate of this old Pyncheon House,\nand sitting in this old garden--(hark, how Maule\'s well is\nmurmuring!)--that, were it only for this one circumstance, I cannot\nhelp fancying that Destiny is arranging its fifth act for a\ncatastrophe.\"\n\n\"There!\" cried Phoebe with renewed vexation; for she was by nature as\nhostile to mystery as the sunshine to a dark corner. \"You puzzle me\nmore than ever!\"\n\n\"Then let us part friends!\" said Holgrave, pressing her hand. \"Or, if\nnot friends, let us part before you entirely hate me. You, who love\neverybody else in the world!\"\n\n\"Good-by, then,\" said Phoebe frankly. \"I do not mean to be angry a\ngreat while, and should be sorry to have you think so. There has\nCousin Hepzibah been standing in the shadow of the doorway, this\nquarter of an hour past! She thinks I stay too long in the damp garden.\nSo, good-night, and good-by.\"\n\nOn the second morning thereafter, Phoebe might have been seen, in her\nstraw bonnet, with a shawl on one arm and a little carpet-bag on the\nother, bidding adieu to Hepzibah and Cousin Clifford. She was to take\na seat in the next train of cars, which would transport her to within\nhalf a dozen miles of her country village.\n\nThe tears were in Phoebe\'s eyes; a smile, dewy with affectionate\nregret, was glimmering around her pleasant mouth. She wondered how it\ncame to pass, that her life of a few weeks, here in this heavy-hearted\nold mansion, had taken such hold of her, and so melted into her\nassociations, as now to seem a more important centre-point of\nremembrance than all which had gone before. How had Hepzibah--grim,\nsilent, and irresponsive to her overflow of cordial sentiment--contrived\nto win so much love? And Clifford,--in his abortive decay, with the\nmystery of fearful crime upon him, and the close prison-atmosphere yet\nlurking in his breath,--how had he transformed himself into the simplest\nchild, whom Phoebe felt bound to watch over, and be, as it were, the\nprovidence of his unconsidered hours! Everything, at that instant of\nfarewell, stood out prominently to her view. Look where she would, lay\nher hand on what she might, the object responded to her consciousness,\nas if a moist human heart were in it.\n\nShe peeped from the window into the garden, and felt herself more\nregretful at leaving this spot of black earth, vitiated with such an\nage-long growth of weeds, than joyful at the idea of again scenting her\npine forests and fresh clover-fields. She called Chanticleer, his two\nwives, and the venerable chicken, and threw them some crumbs of bread\nfrom the breakfast-table. These being hastily gobbled up, the chicken\nspread its wings, and alighted close by Phoebe on the window-sill,\nwhere it looked gravely into her face and vented its emotions in a\ncroak. Phoebe bade it be a good old chicken during her absence, and\npromised to bring it a little bag of buckwheat.\n\n\"Ah, Phoebe!\" remarked Hepzibah, \"you do not smile so naturally as when\nyou came to us! Then, the smile chose to shine out; now, you choose it\nshould. It is well that you are going back, for a little while, into\nyour native air. There has been too much weight on your spirits. The\nhouse is too gloomy and lonesome; the shop is full of vexations; and as\nfor me, I have no faculty of making things look brighter than they are.\nDear Clifford has been your only comfort!\"\n\n\"Come hither, Phoebe,\" suddenly cried her cousin Clifford, who had said\nvery little all the morning. \"Close!--closer!--and look me in the\nface!\"\n\nPhoebe put one of her small hands on each elbow of his chair, and\nleaned her face towards him, so that he might peruse it as carefully as\nhe would. It is probable that the latent emotions of this parting hour\nhad revived, in some degree, his bedimmed and enfeebled faculties. At\nany rate, Phoebe soon felt that, if not the profound insight of a seer,\nyet a more than feminine delicacy of appreciation, was making her heart\nthe subject of its regard. A moment before, she had known nothing\nwhich she would have sought to hide. Now, as if some secret were\nhinted to her own consciousness through the medium of another\'s\nperception, she was fain to let her eyelids droop beneath Clifford\'s\ngaze. A blush, too,--the redder, because she strove hard to keep it\ndown,--ascended bigger and higher, in a tide of fitful progress, until\neven her brow was all suffused with it.\n\n\"It is enough, Phoebe,\" said Clifford, with a melancholy smile. \"When\nI first saw you, you were the prettiest little maiden in the world; and\nnow you have deepened into beauty. Girlhood has passed into womanhood;\nthe bud is a bloom! Go, now--I feel lonelier than I did.\"\n\nPhoebe took leave of the desolate couple, and passed through the shop,\ntwinkling her eyelids to shake off a dew-drop; for--considering how\nbrief her absence was to be, and therefore the folly of being cast down\nabout it--she would not so far acknowledge her tears as to dry them\nwith her handkerchief. On the doorstep, she met the little urchin\nwhose marvellous feats of gastronomy have been recorded in the earlier\npages of our narrative. She took from the window some specimen or\nother of natural history,--her eyes being too dim with moisture to\ninform her accurately whether it was a rabbit or a hippopotamus,--put\nit into the child\'s hand as a parting gift, and went her way. Old\nUncle Venner was just coming out of his door, with a wood-horse and saw\non his shoulder; and, trudging along the street, he scrupled not to\nkeep company with Phoebe, so far as their paths lay together; nor, in\nspite of his patched coat and rusty beaver, and the curious fashion of\nhis tow-cloth trousers, could she find it in her heart to outwalk him.\n\n\"We shall miss you, next Sabbath afternoon,\" observed the street\nphilosopher. \"It is unaccountable how little while it takes some folks\nto grow just as natural to a man as his own breath; and, begging your\npardon, Miss Phoebe (though there can be no offence in an old man\'s\nsaying it), that\'s just what you\'ve grown to me! My years have been a\ngreat many, and your life is but just beginning; and yet, you are\nsomehow as familiar to me as if I had found you at my mother\'s door,\nand you had blossomed, like a running vine, all along my pathway since.\nCome back soon, or I shall be gone to my farm; for I begin to find\nthese wood-sawing jobs a little too tough for my back-ache.\"\n\n\"Very soon, Uncle Venner,\" replied Phoebe.\n\n\"And let it be all the sooner, Phoebe, for the sake of those poor souls\nyonder,\" continued her companion. \"They can never do without you,\nnow,--never, Phoebe; never--no more than if one of God\'s angels had\nbeen living with them, and making their dismal house pleasant and\ncomfortable! Don\'t it seem to you they\'d be in a sad case, if, some\npleasant summer morning like this, the angel should spread his wings,\nand fly to the place he came from? Well, just so they feel, now that\nyou\'re going home by the railroad! They can\'t bear it, Miss Phoebe; so\nbe sure to come back!\"\n\n\"I am no angel, Uncle Venner,\" said Phoebe, smiling, as she offered him\nher hand at the street-corner. \"But, I suppose, people never feel so\nmuch like angels as when they are doing what little good they may. So\nI shall certainly come back!\"\n\nThus parted the old man and the rosy girl; and Phoebe took the wings of\nthe morning, and was soon flitting almost as rapidly away as if endowed\nwith the aerial locomotion of the angels to whom Uncle Venner had so\ngraciously compared her.\n\n\n\n\n XV The Scowl and Smile\n\n\nSEVERAL days passed over the Seven Gables, heavily and drearily enough.\nIn fact (not to attribute the whole gloom of sky and earth to the one\ninauspicious circumstance of Phoebe\'s departure), an easterly storm had\nset in, and indefatigably apply itself to the task of making the black\nroof and walls of the old house look more cheerless than ever before.\nYet was the outside not half so cheerless as the interior. Poor\nClifford was cut off, at once, from all his scanty resources of\nenjoyment. Phoebe was not there; nor did the sunshine fall upon the\nfloor. The garden, with its muddy walks, and the chill, dripping\nfoliage of its summer-house, was an image to be shuddered at. Nothing\nflourished in the cold, moist, pitiless atmosphere, drifting with the\nbrackish scud of sea-breezes, except the moss along the joints of the\nshingle-roof, and the great bunch of weeds, that had lately been\nsuffering from drought, in the angle between the two front gables.\n\nAs for Hepzibah, she seemed not merely possessed with the east wind,\nbut to be, in her very person, only another phase of this gray and\nsullen spell of weather; the East-Wind itself, grim and disconsolate,\nin a rusty black silk gown, and with a turban of cloud-wreaths on its\nhead. The custom of the shop fell off, because a story got abroad that\nshe soured her small beer and other damageable commodities, by scowling\non them. It is, perhaps, true that the public had something reasonably\nto complain of in her deportment; but towards Clifford she was neither\nill-tempered nor unkind, nor felt less warmth of heart than always, had\nit been possible to make it reach him. The inutility of her best\nefforts, however, palsied the poor old gentlewoman. She could do\nlittle else than sit silently in a corner of the room, when the wet\npear-tree branches, sweeping across the small windows, created a\nnoonday dusk, which Hepzibah unconsciously darkened with her woe-begone\naspect. It was no fault of Hepzibah\'s. Everything--even the old\nchairs and tables, that had known what weather was for three or four\nsuch lifetimes as her own--looked as damp and chill as if the present\nwere their worst experience. The picture of the Puritan Colonel\nshivered on the wall. The house itself shivered, from every attic of\nits seven gables down to the great kitchen fireplace, which served all\nthe better as an emblem of the mansion\'s heart, because, though built\nfor warmth, it was now so comfortless and empty.\n\nHepzibah attempted to enliven matters by a fire in the parlor. But the\nstorm demon kept watch above, and, whenever a flame was kindled, drove\nthe smoke back again, choking the chimney\'s sooty throat with its own\nbreath. Nevertheless, during four days of this miserable storm,\nClifford wrapt himself in an old cloak, and occupied his customary\nchair. On the morning of the fifth, when summoned to breakfast, he\nresponded only by a broken-hearted murmur, expressive of a\ndetermination not to leave his bed. His sister made no attempt to\nchange his purpose. In fact, entirely as she loved him, Hepzibah could\nhardly have borne any longer the wretched duty--so impracticable by her\nfew and rigid faculties--of seeking pastime for a still sensitive, but\nruined mind, critical and fastidious, without force or volition. It\nwas at least something short of positive despair, that to-day she might\nsit shivering alone, and not suffer continually a new grief, and\nunreasonable pang of remorse, at every fitful sigh of her fellow\nsufferer.\n\nBut Clifford, it seemed, though he did not make his appearance below\nstairs, had, after all, bestirred himself in quest of amusement. In\nthe course of the forenoon, Hepzibah heard a note of music, which\n(there being no other tuneful contrivance in the House of the Seven\nGables) she knew must proceed from Alice Pyncheon\'s harpsichord. She\nwas aware that Clifford, in his youth, had possessed a cultivated taste\nfor music, and a considerable degree of skill in its practice. It was\ndifficult, however, to conceive of his retaining an accomplishment to\nwhich daily exercise is so essential, in the measure indicated by the\nsweet, airy, and delicate, though most melancholy strain, that now\nstole upon her ear. Nor was it less marvellous that the long-silent\ninstrument should be capable of so much melody. Hepzibah involuntarily\nthought of the ghostly harmonies, prelusive of death in the family,\nwhich were attributed to the legendary Alice. But it was, perhaps,\nproof of the agency of other than spiritual fingers, that, after a few\ntouches, the chords seemed to snap asunder with their own vibrations,\nand the music ceased.\n\nBut a harsher sound succeeded to the mysterious notes; nor was the\neasterly day fated to pass without an event sufficient in itself to\npoison, for Hepzibah and Clifford, the balmiest air that ever brought\nthe humming-birds along with it. The final echoes of Alice Pyncheon\'s\nperformance (or Clifford\'s, if his we must consider it) were driven\naway by no less vulgar a dissonance than the ringing of the shop-bell.\nA foot was heard scraping itself on the threshold, and thence somewhat\nponderously stepping on the floor. Hepzibah delayed a moment, while\nmuffling herself in a faded shawl, which had been her defensive armor\nin a forty years\' warfare against the east wind. A characteristic\nsound, however,--neither a cough nor a hem, but a kind of rumbling and\nreverberating spasm in somebody\'s capacious depth of chest;--impelled\nher to hurry forward, with that aspect of fierce faint-heartedness so\ncommon to women in cases of perilous emergency. Few of her sex, on\nsuch occasions, have ever looked so terrible as our poor scowling\nHepzibah. But the visitor quietly closed the shop-door behind him,\nstood up his umbrella against the counter, and turned a visage of\ncomposed benignity, to meet the alarm and anger which his appearance\nhad excited.\n\nHepzibah\'s presentiment had not deceived her. It was no other than\nJudge Pyncheon, who, after in vain trying the front door, had now\neffected his entrance into the shop.\n\n\"How do you do, Cousin Hepzibah?--and how does this most inclement\nweather affect our poor Clifford?\" began the Judge; and wonderful it\nseemed, indeed, that the easterly storm was not put to shame, or, at\nany rate, a little mollified, by the genial benevolence of his smile.\n\"I could not rest without calling to ask, once more, whether I can in\nany manner promote his comfort, or your own.\"\n\n\"You can do nothing,\" said Hepzibah, controlling her agitation as well\nas she could. \"I devote myself to Clifford. He has every comfort\nwhich his situation admits of.\"\n\n\"But allow me to suggest, dear cousin,\" rejoined the Judge, \"you\nerr,--in all affection and kindness, no doubt, and with the very best\nintentions,--but you do err, nevertheless, in keeping your brother so\nsecluded. Why insulate him thus from all sympathy and kindness?\nClifford, alas! has had too much of solitude. Now let him try\nsociety,--the society, that is to say, of kindred and old friends. Let\nme, for instance, but see Clifford, and I will answer for the good\neffect of the interview.\"\n\n\"You cannot see him,\" answered Hepzibah. \"Clifford has kept his bed\nsince yesterday.\"\n\n\"What! How! Is he ill?\" exclaimed Judge Pyncheon, starting with what\nseemed to be angry alarm; for the very frown of the old Puritan\ndarkened through the room as he spoke. \"Nay, then, I must and will see\nhim! What if he should die?\"\n\n\"He is in no danger of death,\" said Hepzibah,--and added, with\nbitterness that she could repress no longer, \"none; unless he shall be\npersecuted to death, now, by the same man who long ago attempted it!\"\n\n\"Cousin Hepzibah,\" said the Judge, with an impressive earnestness of\nmanner, which grew even to tearful pathos as he proceeded, \"is it\npossible that you do not perceive how unjust, how unkind, how\nunchristian, is this constant, this long-continued bitterness against\nme, for a part which I was constrained by duty and conscience, by the\nforce of law, and at my own peril, to act? What did I do, in detriment\nto Clifford, which it was possible to leave undone? How could you, his\nsister,--if, for your never-ending sorrow, as it has been for mine, you\nhad known what I did,--have, shown greater tenderness? And do you\nthink, cousin, that it has cost me no pang?--that it has left no\nanguish in my bosom, from that day to this, amidst all the prosperity\nwith which Heaven has blessed me?--or that I do not now rejoice, when\nit is deemed consistent with the dues of public justice and the welfare\nof society that this dear kinsman, this early friend, this nature so\ndelicately and beautifully constituted,--so unfortunate, let us\npronounce him, and forbear to say, so guilty,--that our own Clifford,\nin fine, should be given back to life, and its possibilities of\nenjoyment? Ah, you little know me, Cousin Hepzibah! You little know\nthis heart! It now throbs at the thought of meeting him! There lives\nnot the human being (except yourself,--and you not more than I) who has\nshed so many tears for Clifford\'s calamity. You behold some of them\nnow. There is none who would so delight to promote his happiness! Try\nme, Hepzibah!--try me, Cousin!--try the man whom you have treated as\nyour enemy and Clifford\'s!--try Jaffrey Pyncheon, and you shall find\nhim true, to the heart\'s core!\"\n\n\"In the name of Heaven,\" cried Hepzibah, provoked only to intenser\nindignation by this outgush of the inestimable tenderness of a stern\nnature,--\"in God\'s name, whom you insult, and whose power I could\nalmost question, since he hears you utter so many false words without\npalsying your tongue,--give over, I beseech you, this loathsome\npretence of affection for your victim! You hate him! Say so, like a\nman! You cherish, at this moment, some black purpose against him in\nyour heart! Speak it out, at once!--or, if you hope so to promote it\nbetter, hide it till you can triumph in its success! But never speak\nagain of your love for my poor brother. I cannot bear it! It will\ndrive me beyond a woman\'s decency! It will drive me mad! Forbear! Not\nanother word! It will make me spurn you!\"\n\nFor once, Hepzibah\'s wrath had given her courage. She had spoken.\nBut, after all, was this unconquerable distrust of Judge Pyncheon\'s\nintegrity, and this utter denial, apparently, of his claim to stand in\nthe ring of human sympathies,--were they founded in any just perception\nof his character, or merely the offspring of a woman\'s unreasonable\nprejudice, deduced from nothing?\n\nThe Judge, beyond all question, was a man of eminent respectability.\nThe church acknowledged it; the state acknowledged it. It was denied\nby nobody. In all the very extensive sphere of those who knew him,\nwhether in his public or private capacities, there was not an\nindividual--except Hepzibah, and some lawless mystic, like the\ndaguerreotypist, and, possibly, a few political opponents--who would\nhave dreamed of seriously disputing his claim to a high and honorable\nplace in the world\'s regard. Nor (we must do him the further justice\nto say) did Judge Pyncheon himself, probably, entertain many or very\nfrequent doubts, that his enviable reputation accorded with his\ndeserts. His conscience, therefore, usually considered the surest\nwitness to a man\'s integrity,--his conscience, unless it might be for\nthe little space of five minutes in the twenty-four hours, or, now and\nthen, some black day in the whole year\'s circle,--his conscience bore\nan accordant testimony with the world\'s laudatory voice. And yet,\nstrong as this evidence may seem to be, we should hesitate to peril our\nown conscience on the assertion, that the Judge and the consenting\nworld were right, and that poor Hepzibah with her solitary prejudice\nwas wrong. Hidden from mankind,--forgotten by himself, or buried so\ndeeply under a sculptured and ornamented pile of ostentatious deeds\nthat his daily life could take no note of it,--there may have lurked\nsome evil and unsightly thing. Nay, we could almost venture to say,\nfurther, that a daily guilt might have been acted by him, continually\nrenewed, and reddening forth afresh, like the miraculous blood-stain of\na murder, without his necessarily and at every moment being aware of it.\n\nMen of strong minds, great force of character, and a hard texture of\nthe sensibilities, are very capable of falling into mistakes of this\nkind. They are ordinarily men to whom forms are of paramount\nimportance. Their field of action lies among the external phenomena of\nlife. They possess vast ability in grasping, and arranging, and\nappropriating to themselves, the big, heavy, solid unrealities, such as\ngold, landed estate, offices of trust and emolument, and public honors.\nWith these materials, and with deeds of goodly aspect, done in the\npublic eye, an individual of this class builds up, as it were, a tall\nand stately edifice, which, in the view of other people, and ultimately\nin his own view, is no other than the man\'s character, or the man\nhimself. Behold, therefore, a palace! Its splendid halls and suites of\nspacious apartments are floored with a mosaic-work of costly marbles;\nits windows, the whole height of each room, admit the sunshine through\nthe most transparent of plate-glass; its high cornices are gilded, and\nits ceilings gorgeously painted; and a lofty dome--through which, from\nthe central pavement, you may gaze up to the sky, as with no\nobstructing medium between--surmounts the whole. With what fairer and\nnobler emblem could any man desire to shadow forth his character? Ah!\nbut in some low and obscure nook,--some narrow closet on the\nground-floor, shut, locked and bolted, and the key flung away,--or\nbeneath the marble pavement, in a stagnant water-puddle, with the\nrichest pattern of mosaic-work above,--may lie a corpse, half decayed,\nand still decaying, and diffusing its death-scent all through the\npalace! The inhabitant will not be conscious of it, for it has long\nbeen his daily breath! Neither will the visitors, for they smell only\nthe rich odors which the master sedulously scatters through the palace,\nand the incense which they bring, and delight to burn before him! Now\nand then, perchance, comes in a seer, before whose sadly gifted eye the\nwhole structure melts into thin air, leaving only the hidden nook, the\nbolted closet, with the cobwebs festooned over its forgotten door, or\nthe deadly hole under the pavement, and the decaying corpse within.\nHere, then, we are to seek the true emblem of the man\'s character, and\nof the deed that gives whatever reality it possesses to his life. And,\nbeneath the show of a marble palace, that pool of stagnant water, foul\nwith many impurities, and, perhaps, tinged with blood,--that secret\nabomination, above which, possibly, he may say his prayers, without\nremembering it,--is this man\'s miserable soul!\n\nTo apply this train of remark somewhat more closely to Judge Pyncheon.\nWe might say (without in the least imputing crime to a personage of his\neminent respectability) that there was enough of splendid rubbish in\nhis life to cover up and paralyze a more active and subtile conscience\nthan the Judge was ever troubled with. The purity of his judicial\ncharacter, while on the bench; the faithfulness of his public service\nin subsequent capacities; his devotedness to his party, and the rigid\nconsistency with which he had adhered to its principles, or, at all\nevents, kept pace with its organized movements; his remarkable zeal as\npresident of a Bible society; his unimpeachable integrity as treasurer\nof a widow\'s and orphan\'s fund; his benefits to horticulture, by\nproducing two much esteemed varieties of the pear and to agriculture,\nthrough the agency of the famous Pyncheon bull; the cleanliness of his\nmoral deportment, for a great many years past; the severity with which\nhe had frowned upon, and finally cast off, an expensive and dissipated\nson, delaying forgiveness until within the final quarter of an hour of\nthe young man\'s life; his prayers at morning and eventide, and graces\nat meal-time; his efforts in furtherance of the temperance cause; his\nconfining himself, since the last attack of the gout, to five diurnal\nglasses of old sherry wine; the snowy whiteness of his linen, the\npolish of his boots, the handsomeness of his gold-headed cane, the\nsquare and roomy fashion of his coat, and the fineness of its material,\nand, in general, the studied propriety of his dress and equipment; the\nscrupulousness with which he paid public notice, in the street, by a\nbow, a lifting of the hat, a nod, or a motion of the hand, to all and\nsundry of his acquaintances, rich or poor; the smile of broad\nbenevolence wherewith he made it a point to gladden the whole\nworld,--what room could possibly be found for darker traits in a\nportrait made up of lineaments like these? This proper face was what he\nbeheld in the looking-glass. This admirably arranged life was what he\nwas conscious of in the progress of every day. Then might not he claim\nto be its result and sum, and say to himself and the community, \"Behold\nJudge Pyncheon there\"?\n\nAnd allowing that, many, many years ago, in his early and reckless\nyouth, he had committed some one wrong act,--or that, even now, the\ninevitable force of circumstances should occasionally make him do one\nquestionable deed among a thousand praiseworthy, or, at least,\nblameless ones,--would you characterize the Judge by that one necessary\ndeed, and that half-forgotten act, and let it overshadow the fair\naspect of a lifetime? What is there so ponderous in evil, that a\nthumb\'s bigness of it should outweigh the mass of things not evil which\nwere heaped into the other scale! This scale and balance system is a\nfavorite one with people of Judge Pyncheon\'s brotherhood. A hard, cold\nman, thus unfortunately situated, seldom or never looking inward, and\nresolutely taking his idea of himself from what purports to be his\nimage as reflected in the mirror of public opinion, can scarcely arrive\nat true self-knowledge, except through loss of property and reputation.\nSickness will not always help him do it; not always the death-hour!\n\nBut our affair now is with Judge Pyncheon as he stood confronting the\nfierce outbreak of Hepzibah\'s wrath. Without premeditation, to her own\nsurprise, and indeed terror, she had given vent, for once, to the\ninveteracy of her resentment, cherished against this kinsman for thirty\nyears.\n\nThus far the Judge\'s countenance had expressed mild forbearance,--grave\nand almost gentle deprecation of his cousin\'s unbecoming\nviolence,--free and Christian-like forgiveness of the wrong inflicted\nby her words. But when those words were irrevocably spoken, his look\nassumed sternness, the sense of power, and immitigable resolve; and\nthis with so natural and imperceptible a change, that it seemed as if\nthe iron man had stood there from the first, and the meek man not at\nall. The effect was as when the light, vapory clouds, with their soft\ncoloring, suddenly vanish from the stony brow of a precipitous\nmountain, and leave there the frown which you at once feel to be\neternal. Hepzibah almost adopted the insane belief that it was her old\nPuritan ancestor, and not the modern Judge, on whom she had just been\nwreaking the bitterness of her heart. Never did a man show stronger\nproof of the lineage attributed to him than Judge Pyncheon, at this\ncrisis, by his unmistakable resemblance to the picture in the inner\nroom.\n\n\"Cousin Hepzibah,\" said he very calmly, \"it is time to have done with\nthis.\"\n\n\"With all my heart!\" answered she. \"Then, why do you persecute us any\nlonger? Leave poor Clifford and me in peace. Neither of us desires\nanything better!\"\n\n\"It is my purpose to see Clifford before I leave this house,\" continued\nthe Judge. \"Do not act like a madwoman, Hepzibah! I am his only\nfriend, and an all-powerful one. Has it never occurred to you,--are\nyou so blind as not to have seen,--that, without not merely my consent,\nbut my efforts, my representations, the exertion of my whole influence,\npolitical, official, personal, Clifford would never have been what you\ncall free? Did you think his release a triumph over me? Not so, my good\ncousin; not so, by any means! The furthest possible from that! No; but\nit was the accomplishment of a purpose long entertained on my part. I\nset him free!\"\n\n\"You!\" answered Hepzibah. \"I never will believe it! He owed his\ndungeon to you; his freedom to God\'s providence!\"\n\n\"I set him free!\" reaffirmed Judge Pyncheon, with the calmest\ncomposure. \"And I came hither now to decide whether he shall retain\nhis freedom. It will depend upon himself. For this purpose, I must\nsee him.\"\n\n\"Never!--it would drive him mad!\" exclaimed Hepzibah, but with an\nirresoluteness sufficiently perceptible to the keen eye of the Judge;\nfor, without the slightest faith in his good intentions, she knew not\nwhether there was most to dread in yielding or resistance. \"And why\nshould you wish to see this wretched, broken man, who retains hardly a\nfraction of his intellect, and will hide even that from an eye which\nhas no love in it?\"\n\n\"He shall see love enough in mine, if that be all!\" said the Judge,\nwith well-grounded confidence in the benignity of his aspect. \"But,\nCousin Hepzibah, you confess a great deal, and very much to the\npurpose. Now, listen, and I will frankly explain my reasons for\ninsisting on this interview. At the death, thirty years since, of our\nuncle Jaffrey, it was found,--I know not whether the circumstance ever\nattracted much of your attention, among the sadder interests that\nclustered round that event,--but it was found that his visible estate,\nof every kind, fell far short of any estimate ever made of it. He was\nsupposed to be immensely rich. Nobody doubted that he stood among the\nweightiest men of his day. It was one of his eccentricities,\nhowever,--and not altogether a folly, neither,--to conceal the amount\nof his property by making distant and foreign investments, perhaps\nunder other names than his own, and by various means, familiar enough\nto capitalists, but unnecessary here to be specified. By Uncle\nJaffrey\'s last will and testament, as you are aware, his entire\nproperty was bequeathed to me, with the single exception of a life\ninterest to yourself in this old family mansion, and the strip of\npatrimonial estate remaining attached to it.\"\n\n\"And do you seek to deprive us of that?\" asked Hepzibah, unable to\nrestrain her bitter contempt. \"Is this your price for ceasing to\npersecute poor Clifford?\"\n\n\"Certainly not, my dear cousin!\" answered the Judge, smiling\nbenevolently. \"On the contrary, as you must do me the justice to own,\nI have constantly expressed my readiness to double or treble your\nresources, whenever you should make up your mind to accept any kindness\nof that nature at the hands of your kinsman. No, no! But here lies\nthe gist of the matter. Of my uncle\'s unquestionably great estate, as\nI have said, not the half--no, not one third, as I am fully\nconvinced--was apparent after his death. Now, I have the best possible\nreasons for believing that your brother Clifford can give me a clew to\nthe recovery of the remainder.\"\n\n\"Clifford!--Clifford know of any hidden wealth? Clifford have it in his\npower to make you rich?\" cried the old gentlewoman, affected with a\nsense of something like ridicule at the idea. \"Impossible! You\ndeceive yourself! It is really a thing to laugh at!\"\n\n\"It is as certain as that I stand here!\" said Judge Pyncheon, striking\nhis gold-headed cane on the floor, and at the same time stamping his\nfoot, as if to express his conviction the more forcibly by the whole\nemphasis of his substantial person. \"Clifford told me so himself!\"\n\n\"No, no!\" exclaimed Hepzibah incredulously. \"You are dreaming, Cousin\nJaffrey.\"\n\n\"I do not belong to the dreaming class of men,\" said the Judge quietly.\n\"Some months before my uncle\'s death, Clifford boasted to me of the\npossession of the secret of incalculable wealth. His purpose was to\ntaunt me, and excite my curiosity. I know it well. But, from a pretty\ndistinct recollection of the particulars of our conversation, I am\nthoroughly convinced that there was truth in what he said. Clifford,\nat this moment, if he chooses,--and choose he must!--can inform me\nwhere to find the schedule, the documents, the evidences, in whatever\nshape they exist, of the vast amount of Uncle Jaffrey\'s missing\nproperty. He has the secret. His boast was no idle word. It had a\ndirectness, an emphasis, a particularity, that showed a backbone of\nsolid meaning within the mystery of his expression.\"\n\n\"But what could have been Clifford\'s object,\" asked Hepzibah, \"in\nconcealing it so long?\"\n\n\"It was one of the bad impulses of our fallen nature,\" replied the\nJudge, turning up his eyes. \"He looked upon me as his enemy. He\nconsidered me as the cause of his overwhelming disgrace, his imminent\nperil of death, his irretrievable ruin. There was no great\nprobability, therefore, of his volunteering information, out of his\ndungeon, that should elevate me still higher on the ladder of\nprosperity. But the moment has now come when he must give up his\nsecret.\"\n\n\"And what if he should refuse?\" inquired Hepzibah. \"Or,--as I\nsteadfastly believe,--what if he has no knowledge of this wealth?\"\n\n\"My dear cousin,\" said Judge Pyncheon, with a quietude which he had the\npower of making more formidable than any violence, \"since your\nbrother\'s return, I have taken the precaution (a highly proper one in\nthe near kinsman and natural guardian of an individual so situated) to\nhave his deportment and habits constantly and carefully overlooked.\nYour neighbors have been eye-witnesses to whatever has passed in the\ngarden. The butcher, the baker, the fish-monger, some of the customers\nof your shop, and many a prying old woman, have told me several of the\nsecrets of your interior. A still larger circle--I myself, among the\nrest--can testify to his extravagances at the arched window. Thousands\nbeheld him, a week or two ago, on the point of flinging himself thence\ninto the street. From all this testimony, I am led to\napprehend--reluctantly, and with deep grief--that Clifford\'s\nmisfortunes have so affected his intellect, never very strong, that he\ncannot safely remain at large. The alternative, you must be\naware,--and its adoption will depend entirely on the decision which I\nam now about to make,--the alternative is his confinement, probably for\nthe remainder of his life, in a public asylum for persons in his\nunfortunate state of mind.\"\n\n\"You cannot mean it!\" shrieked Hepzibah.\n\n\"Should my cousin Clifford,\" continued Judge Pyncheon, wholly\nundisturbed, \"from mere malice, and hatred of one whose interests ought\nnaturally to be dear to him,--a mode of passion that, as often as any\nother, indicates mental disease,--should he refuse me the information\nso important to myself, and which he assuredly possesses, I shall\nconsider it the one needed jot of evidence to satisfy my mind of his\ninsanity. And, once sure of the course pointed out by conscience, you\nknow me too well, Cousin Hepzibah, to entertain a doubt that I shall\npursue it.\"\n\n\"O Jaffrey,--Cousin Jaffrey,\" cried Hepzibah mournfully, not\npassionately, \"it is you that are diseased in mind, not Clifford! You\nhave forgotten that a woman was your mother!--that you have had\nsisters, brothers, children of your own!--or that there ever was\naffection between man and man, or pity from one man to another, in this\nmiserable world! Else, how could you have dreamed of this? You are not\nyoung, Cousin Jaffrey!--no, nor middle-aged,--but already an old man!\nThe hair is white upon your head! How many years have you to live? Are\nyou not rich enough for that little time? Shall you be hungry,--shall\nyou lack clothes, or a roof to shelter you,--between this point and the\ngrave? No! but, with the half of what you now possess, you could revel\nin costly food and wines, and build a house twice as splendid as you\nnow inhabit, and make a far greater show to the world,--and yet leave\nriches to your only son, to make him bless the hour of your death!\nThen, why should you do this cruel, cruel thing?--so mad a thing, that\nI know not whether to call it wicked! Alas, Cousin Jaffrey, this hard\nand grasping spirit has run in our blood these two hundred years. You\nare but doing over again, in another shape, what your ancestor before\nyou did, and sending down to your posterity the curse inherited from\nhim!\"\n\n\"Talk sense, Hepzibah, for Heaven\'s sake!\" exclaimed the Judge, with\nthe impatience natural to a reasonable man, on hearing anything so\nutterly absurd as the above, in a discussion about matters of business.\n\"I have told you my determination. I am not apt to change. Clifford\nmust give up his secret, or take the consequences. And let him decide\nquickly; for I have several affairs to attend to this morning, and an\nimportant dinner engagement with some political friends.\"\n\n\"Clifford has no secret!\" answered Hepzibah. \"And God will not let you\ndo the thing you meditate!\"\n\n\"We shall see,\" said the unmoved Judge. \"Meanwhile, choose whether you\nwill summon Clifford, and allow this business to be amicably settled by\nan interview between two kinsmen, or drive me to harsher measures,\nwhich I should be most happy to feel myself justified in avoiding. The\nresponsibility is altogether on your part.\"\n\n\"You are stronger than I,\" said Hepzibah, after a brief consideration;\n\"and you have no pity in your strength! Clifford is not now insane; but\nthe interview which you insist upon may go far to make him so.\nNevertheless, knowing you as I do, I believe it to be my best course to\nallow you to judge for yourself as to the improbability of his\npossessing any valuable secret. I will call Clifford. Be merciful in\nyour dealings with him!--be far more merciful than your heart bids you\nbe!--for God is looking at you, Jaffrey Pyncheon!\"\n\nThe Judge followed his cousin from the shop, where the foregoing\nconversation had passed, into the parlor, and flung himself heavily\ninto the great ancestral chair. Many a former Pyncheon had found\nrepose in its capacious arms: rosy children, after their sports; young\nmen, dreamy with love; grown men, weary with cares; old men, burdened\nwith winters,--they had mused, and slumbered, and departed to a yet\nprofounder sleep. It had been a long tradition, though a doubtful one,\nthat this was the very chair, seated in which the earliest of the\nJudge\'s New England forefathers--he whose picture still hung upon the\nwall--had given a dead man\'s silent and stern reception to the throng\nof distinguished guests. From that hour of evil omen until the\npresent, it may be,--though we know not the secret of his heart,--but\nit may be that no wearier and sadder man had ever sunk into the chair\nthan this same Judge Pyncheon, whom we have just beheld so immitigably\nhard and resolute. Surely, it must have been at no slight cost that he\nhad thus fortified his soul with iron. Such calmness is a mightier\neffort than the violence of weaker men. And there was yet a heavy task\nfor him to do. Was it a little matter--a trifle to be prepared for in\na single moment, and to be rested from in another moment,--that he must\nnow, after thirty years, encounter a kinsman risen from a living tomb,\nand wrench a secret from him, or else consign him to a living tomb\nagain?\n\n\"Did you speak?\" asked Hepzibah, looking in from the threshold of the\nparlor; for she imagined that the Judge had uttered some sound which\nshe was anxious to interpret as a relenting impulse. \"I thought you\ncalled me back.\"\n\n\"No, no\" gruffly answered Judge Pyncheon with a harsh frown, while his\nbrow grew almost a black purple, in the shadow of the room. \"Why\nshould I call you back? Time flies! Bid Clifford come to me!\"\n\nThe Judge had taken his watch from his vest pocket and now held it in\nhis hand, measuring the interval which was to ensue before the\nappearance of Clifford.\n\n\n\n\n XVI Clifford\'s Chamber\n\n\nNEVER had the old house appeared so dismal to poor Hepzibah as when she\ndeparted on that wretched errand. There was a strange aspect in it.\nAs she trode along the foot-worn passages, and opened one crazy door\nafter another, and ascended the creaking staircase, she gazed wistfully\nand fearfully around. It would have been no marvel, to her excited\nmind, if, behind or beside her, there had been the rustle of dead\npeople\'s garments, or pale visages awaiting her on the landing-place\nabove. Her nerves were set all ajar by the scene of passion and terror\nthrough which she had just struggled. Her colloquy with Judge\nPyncheon, who so perfectly represented the person and attributes of the\nfounder of the family, had called back the dreary past. It weighed\nupon her heart. Whatever she had heard, from legendary aunts and\ngrandmothers, concerning the good or evil fortunes of the\nPyncheons,--stories which had heretofore been kept warm in her\nremembrance by the chimney-corner glow that was associated with\nthem,--now recurred to her, sombre, ghastly, cold, like most passages\nof family history, when brooded over in melancholy mood. The whole\nseemed little else but a series of calamity, reproducing itself in\nsuccessive generations, with one general hue, and varying in little,\nsave the outline. But Hepzibah now felt as if the Judge, and Clifford,\nand herself,--they three together,--were on the point of adding another\nincident to the annals of the house, with a bolder relief of wrong and\nsorrow, which would cause it to stand out from all the rest. Thus it\nis that the grief of the passing moment takes upon itself an\nindividuality, and a character of climax, which it is destined to lose\nafter a while, and to fade into the dark gray tissue common to the\ngrave or glad events of many years ago. It is but for a moment,\ncomparatively, that anything looks strange or startling,--a truth that\nhas the bitter and the sweet in it.\n\nBut Hepzibah could not rid herself of the sense of something\nunprecedented at that instant passing and soon to be accomplished. Her\nnerves were in a shake. Instinctively she paused before the arched\nwindow, and looked out upon the street, in order to seize its permanent\nobjects with her mental grasp, and thus to steady herself from the reel\nand vibration which affected her more immediate sphere. It brought her\nup, as we may say, with a kind of shock, when she beheld everything\nunder the same appearance as the day before, and numberless preceding\ndays, except for the difference between sunshine and sullen storm. Her\neyes travelled along the street, from doorstep to doorstep, noting the\nwet sidewalks, with here and there a puddle in hollows that had been\nimperceptible until filled with water. She screwed her dim optics to\ntheir acutest point, in the hope of making out, with greater\ndistinctness, a certain window, where she half saw, half guessed, that\na tailor\'s seamstress was sitting at her work. Hepzibah flung herself\nupon that unknown woman\'s companionship, even thus far off. Then she\nwas attracted by a chaise rapidly passing, and watched its moist and\nglistening top, and its splashing wheels, until it had turned the\ncorner, and refused to carry any further her idly trifling, because\nappalled and overburdened, mind. When the vehicle had disappeared, she\nallowed herself still another loitering moment; for the patched figure\nof good Uncle Venner was now visible, coming slowly from the head of\nthe street downward, with a rheumatic limp, because the east wind had\ngot into his joints. Hepzibah wished that he would pass yet more\nslowly, and befriend her shivering solitude a little longer. Anything\nthat would take her out of the grievous present, and interpose human\nbeings betwixt herself and what was nearest to her,--whatever would\ndefer for an instant the inevitable errand on which she was bound,--all\nsuch impediments were welcome. Next to the lightest heart, the\nheaviest is apt to be most playful.\n\nHepzibah had little hardihood for her own proper pain, and far less for\nwhat she must inflict on Clifford. Of so slight a nature, and so\nshattered by his previous calamities, it could not well be short of\nutter ruin to bring him face to face with the hard, relentless man who\nhad been his evil destiny through life. Even had there been no bitter\nrecollections, nor any hostile interest now at stake between them, the\nmere natural repugnance of the more sensitive system to the massive,\nweighty, and unimpressible one, must, in itself, have been disastrous\nto the former. It would be like flinging a porcelain vase, with\nalready a crack in it, against a granite column. Never before had\nHepzibah so adequately estimated the powerful character of her cousin\nJaffrey,--powerful by intellect, energy of will, the long habit of\nacting among men, and, as she believed, by his unscrupulous pursuit of\nselfish ends through evil means. It did but increase the difficulty\nthat Judge Pyncheon was under a delusion as to the secret which he\nsupposed Clifford to possess. Men of his strength of purpose and\ncustomary sagacity, if they chance to adopt a mistaken opinion in\npractical matters, so wedge it and fasten it among things known to be\ntrue, that to wrench it out of their minds is hardly less difficult\nthan pulling up an oak. Thus, as the Judge required an impossibility\nof Clifford, the latter, as he could not perform it, must needs perish.\nFor what, in the grasp of a man like this, was to become of Clifford\'s\nsoft poetic nature, that never should have had a task more stubborn\nthan to set a life of beautiful enjoyment to the flow and rhythm of\nmusical cadences! Indeed, what had become of it already? Broken!\nBlighted! All but annihilated! Soon to be wholly so!\n\nFor a moment, the thought crossed Hepzibah\'s mind, whether Clifford\nmight not really have such knowledge of their deceased uncle\'s vanished\nestate as the Judge imputed to him. She remembered some vague\nintimations, on her brother\'s part, which--if the supposition were not\nessentially preposterous--might have been so interpreted. There had\nbeen schemes of travel and residence abroad, day-dreams of brilliant\nlife at home, and splendid castles in the air, which it would have\nrequired boundless wealth to build and realize. Had this wealth been\nin her power, how gladly would Hepzibah have bestowed it all upon her\niron-hearted kinsman, to buy for Clifford the freedom and seclusion of\nthe desolate old house! But she believed that her brother\'s schemes\nwere as destitute of actual substance and purpose as a child\'s pictures\nof its future life, while sitting in a little chair by its mother\'s\nknee. Clifford had none but shadowy gold at his command; and it was\nnot the stuff to satisfy Judge Pyncheon!\n\nWas there no help in their extremity? It seemed strange that there\nshould be none, with a city round about her. It would be so easy to\nthrow up the window, and send forth a shriek, at the strange agony of\nwhich everybody would come hastening to the rescue, well understanding\nit to be the cry of a human soul, at some dreadful crisis! But how\nwild, how almost laughable, the fatality,--and yet how continually it\ncomes to pass, thought Hepzibah, in this dull delirium of a\nworld,--that whosoever, and with however kindly a purpose, should come\nto help, they would be sure to help the strongest side! Might and wrong\ncombined, like iron magnetized, are endowed with irresistible\nattraction. There would be Judge Pyncheon,--a person eminent in the\npublic view, of high station and great wealth, a philanthropist, a\nmember of Congress and of the church, and intimately associated with\nwhatever else bestows good name,--so imposing, in these advantageous\nlights, that Hepzibah herself could hardly help shrinking from her own\nconclusions as to his hollow integrity. The Judge, on one side! And\nwho, on the other? The guilty Clifford! Once a byword! Now, an\nindistinctly remembered ignominy!\n\nNevertheless, in spite of this perception that the Judge would draw all\nhuman aid to his own behalf, Hepzibah was so unaccustomed to act for\nherself, that the least word of counsel would have swayed her to any\nmode of action. Little Phoebe Pyncheon would at once have lighted up\nthe whole scene, if not by any available suggestion, yet simply by the\nwarm vivacity of her character. The idea of the artist occurred to\nHepzibah. Young and unknown, mere vagrant adventurer as he was, she had\nbeen conscious of a force in Holgrave which might well adapt him to be\nthe champion of a crisis. With this thought in her mind, she unbolted a\ndoor, cobwebbed and long disused, but which had served as a former\nmedium of communication between her own part of the house and the gable\nwhere the wandering daguerreotypist had now established his temporary\nhome. He was not there. A book, face downward, on the table, a roll of\nmanuscript, a half-written sheet, a newspaper, some tools of his\npresent occupation, and several rejected daguerreotypes, conveyed an\nimpression as if he were close at hand. But, at this period of the day,\nas Hepzibah might have anticipated, the artist was at his public rooms.\nWith an impulse of idle curiosity, that flickered among her heavy\nthoughts, she looked at one of the daguerreotypes, and beheld Judge\nPyncheon frowning at her. Fate stared her in the face. She turned back\nfrom her fruitless quest, with a heartsinking sense of disappointment.\nIn all her years of seclusion, she had never felt, as now, what it was\nto be alone. It seemed as if the house stood in a desert, or, by some\nspell, was made invisible to those who dwelt around, or passed beside\nit; so that any mode of misfortune, miserable accident, or crime might\nhappen in it without the possibility of aid. In her grief and wounded\npride, Hepzibah had spent her life in divesting herself of friends; she\nhad wilfully cast off the support which God has ordained his creatures\nto need from one another; and it was now her punishment, that Clifford\nand herself would fall the easier victims to their kindred enemy.\n\nReturning to the arched window, she lifted her eyes,--scowling, poor,\ndim-sighted Hepzibah, in the face of Heaven!--and strove hard to send\nup a prayer through the dense gray pavement of clouds. Those mists had\ngathered, as if to symbolize a great, brooding mass of human trouble,\ndoubt, confusion, and chill indifference, between earth and the better\nregions. Her faith was too weak; the prayer too heavy to be thus\nuplifted. It fell back, a lump of lead, upon her heart. It smote her\nwith the wretched conviction that Providence intermeddled not in these\npetty wrongs of one individual to his fellow, nor had any balm for\nthese little agonies of a solitary soul; but shed its justice, and its\nmercy, in a broad, sunlike sweep, over half the universe at once. Its\nvastness made it nothing. But Hepzibah did not see that, just as there\ncomes a warm sunbeam into every cottage window, so comes a lovebeam of\nGod\'s care and pity for every separate need.\n\nAt last, finding no other pretext for deferring the torture that she\nwas to inflict on Clifford,--her reluctance to which was the true cause\nof her loitering at the window, her search for the artist, and even her\nabortive prayer,--dreading, also, to hear the stern voice of Judge\nPyncheon from below stairs, chiding her delay,--she crept slowly, a\npale, grief-stricken figure, a dismal shape of woman, with almost\ntorpid limbs, slowly to her brother\'s door, and knocked!\n\nThere was no reply.\n\nAnd how should there have been? Her hand, tremulous with the shrinking\npurpose which directed it, had smitten so feebly against the door that\nthe sound could hardly have gone inward. She knocked again. Still no\nresponse! Nor was it to be wondered at. She had struck with the entire\nforce of her heart\'s vibration, communicating, by some subtile\nmagnetism, her own terror to the summons. Clifford would turn his face\nto the pillow, and cover his head beneath the bedclothes, like a\nstartled child at midnight. She knocked a third time, three regular\nstrokes, gentle, but perfectly distinct, and with meaning in them; for,\nmodulate it with what cautious art we will, the hand cannot help\nplaying some tune of what we feel upon the senseless wood.\n\nClifford returned no answer.\n\n\"Clifford! Dear brother!\" said Hepzibah. \"Shall I come in?\"\n\nA silence.\n\nTwo or three times, and more, Hepzibah repeated his name, without\nresult; till, thinking her brother\'s sleep unwontedly profound, she\nundid the door, and entering, found the chamber vacant. How could he\nhave come forth, and when, without her knowledge? Was it possible\nthat, in spite of the stormy day, and worn out with the irksomeness\nwithin doors he had betaken himself to his customary haunt in the\ngarden, and was now shivering under the cheerless shelter of the\nsummer-house? She hastily threw up a window, thrust forth her turbaned\nhead and the half of her gaunt figure, and searched the whole garden\nthrough, as completely as her dim vision would allow. She could see\nthe interior of the summer-house, and its circular seat, kept moist by\nthe droppings of the roof. It had no occupant. Clifford was not\nthereabouts; unless, indeed, he had crept for concealment (as, for a\nmoment, Hepzibah fancied might be the case) into a great, wet mass of\ntangled and broad-leaved shadow, where the squash-vines were clambering\ntumultuously upon an old wooden framework, set casually aslant against\nthe fence. This could not be, however; he was not there; for, while\nHepzibah was looking, a strange grimalkin stole forth from the very\nspot, and picked his way across the garden. Twice he paused to snuff\nthe air, and then anew directed his course towards the parlor window.\nWhether it was only on account of the stealthy, prying manner common to\nthe race, or that this cat seemed to have more than ordinary mischief\nin his thoughts, the old gentlewoman, in spite of her much perplexity,\nfelt an impulse to drive the animal away, and accordingly flung down a\nwindow stick. The cat stared up at her, like a detected thief or\nmurderer, and, the next instant, took to flight. No other living\ncreature was visible in the garden. Chanticleer and his family had\neither not left their roost, disheartened by the interminable rain, or\nhad done the next wisest thing, by seasonably returning to it.\nHepzibah closed the window.\n\nBut where was Clifford? Could it be that, aware of the presence of his\nEvil Destiny, he had crept silently down the staircase, while the Judge\nand Hepzibah stood talking in the shop, and had softly undone the\nfastenings of the outer door, and made his escape into the street?\nWith that thought, she seemed to behold his gray, wrinkled, yet\nchildlike aspect, in the old-fashioned garments which he wore about the\nhouse; a figure such as one sometimes imagines himself to be, with the\nworld\'s eye upon him, in a troubled dream. This figure of her wretched\nbrother would go wandering through the city, attracting all eyes, and\neverybody\'s wonder and repugnance, like a ghost, the more to be\nshuddered at because visible at noontide. To incur the ridicule of the\nyounger crowd, that knew him not,--the harsher scorn and indignation of\na few old men, who might recall his once familiar features! To be the\nsport of boys, who, when old enough to run about the streets, have no\nmore reverence for what is beautiful and holy, nor pity for what is\nsad,--no more sense of sacred misery, sanctifying the human shape in\nwhich it embodies itself,--than if Satan were the father of them all!\nGoaded by their taunts, their loud, shrill cries, and cruel\nlaughter,--insulted by the filth of the public ways, which they would\nfling upon him,--or, as it might well be, distracted by the mere\nstrangeness of his situation, though nobody should afflict him with so\nmuch as a thoughtless word,--what wonder if Clifford were to break into\nsome wild extravagance which was certain to be interpreted as lunacy?\nThus Judge Pyncheon\'s fiendish scheme would be ready accomplished to\nhis hands!\n\nThen Hepzibah reflected that the town was almost completely\nwater-girdled. The wharves stretched out towards the centre of the\nharbor, and, in this inclement weather, were deserted by the ordinary\nthrong of merchants, laborers, and sea-faring men; each wharf a\nsolitude, with the vessels moored stem and stern, along its misty\nlength. Should her brother\'s aimless footsteps stray thitherward, and\nhe but bend, one moment, over the deep, black tide, would he not\nbethink himself that here was the sure refuge within his reach, and\nthat, with a single step, or the slightest overbalance of his body, he\nmight be forever beyond his kinsman\'s gripe? Oh, the temptation! To\nmake of his ponderous sorrow a security! To sink, with its leaden\nweight upon him, and never rise again!\n\nThe horror of this last conception was too much for Hepzibah. Even\nJaffrey Pyncheon must help her now She hastened down the staircase,\nshrieking as she went.\n\n\"Clifford is gone!\" she cried. \"I cannot find my brother. Help,\nJaffrey Pyncheon! Some harm will happen to him!\"\n\nShe threw open the parlor-door. But, what with the shade of branches\nacross the windows, and the smoke-blackened ceiling, and the dark\noak-panelling of the walls, there was hardly so much daylight in the\nroom that Hepzibah\'s imperfect sight could accurately distinguish the\nJudge\'s figure. She was certain, however, that she saw him sitting in\nthe ancestral arm-chair, near the centre of the floor, with his face\nsomewhat averted, and looking towards a window. So firm and quiet is\nthe nervous system of such men as Judge Pyncheon, that he had perhaps\nstirred not more than once since her departure, but, in the hard\ncomposure of his temperament, retained the position into which accident\nhad thrown him.\n\n\"I tell you, Jaffrey,\" cried Hepzibah impatiently, as she turned from\nthe parlor-door to search other rooms, \"my brother is not in his\nchamber! You must help me seek him!\"\n\nBut Judge Pyncheon was not the man to let himself be startled from an\neasy-chair with haste ill-befitting either the dignity of his character\nor his broad personal basis, by the alarm of an hysteric woman. Yet,\nconsidering his own interest in the matter, he might have bestirred\nhimself with a little more alacrity.\n\n\"Do you hear me, Jaffrey Pyncheon?\" screamed Hepzibah, as she again\napproached the parlor-door, after an ineffectual search elsewhere.\n\"Clifford is gone.\"\n\nAt this instant, on the threshold of the parlor, emerging from within,\nappeared Clifford himself! His face was preternaturally pale; so deadly\nwhite, indeed, that, through all the glimmering indistinctness of the\npassageway, Hepzibah could discern his features, as if a light fell on\nthem alone. Their vivid and wild expression seemed likewise sufficient\nto illuminate them; it was an expression of scorn and mockery,\ncoinciding with the emotions indicated by his gesture. As Clifford\nstood on the threshold, partly turning back, he pointed his finger\nwithin the parlor, and shook it slowly as though he would have\nsummoned, not Hepzibah alone, but the whole world, to gaze at some\nobject inconceivably ridiculous. This action, so ill-timed and\nextravagant,--accompanied, too, with a look that showed more like joy\nthan any other kind of excitement,--compelled Hepzibah to dread that\nher stern kinsman\'s ominous visit had driven her poor brother to\nabsolute insanity. Nor could she otherwise account for the Judge\'s\nquiescent mood than by supposing him craftily on the watch, while\nClifford developed these symptoms of a distracted mind.\n\n\"Be quiet, Clifford!\" whispered his sister, raising her hand to impress\ncaution. \"Oh, for Heaven\'s sake, be quiet!\"\n\n\"Let him be quiet! What can he do better?\" answered Clifford, with a\nstill wilder gesture, pointing into the room which he had just quitted.\n\"As for us, Hepzibah, we can dance now!--we can sing, laugh, play, do\nwhat we will! The weight is gone, Hepzibah! It is gone off this weary\nold world, and we may be as light-hearted as little Phoebe herself.\"\n\nAnd, in accordance with his words, he began to laugh, still pointing\nhis finger at the object, invisible to Hepzibah, within the parlor.\nShe was seized with a sudden intuition of some horrible thing. She\nthrust herself past Clifford, and disappeared into the room; but almost\nimmediately returned, with a cry choking in her throat. Gazing at her\nbrother with an affrighted glance of inquiry, she beheld him all in a\ntremor and a quake, from head to foot, while, amid these commoted\nelements of passion or alarm, still flickered his gusty mirth.\n\n\"My God! what is to become of us?\" gasped Hepzibah.\n\n\"Come!\" said Clifford in a tone of brief decision, most unlike what was\nusual with him. \"We stay here too long! Let us leave the old house to\nour cousin Jaffrey! He will take good care of it!\"\n\nHepzibah now noticed that Clifford had on a cloak,--a garment of long\nago,--in which he had constantly muffled himself during these days of\neasterly storm. He beckoned with his hand, and intimated, so far as\nshe could comprehend him, his purpose that they should go together from\nthe house. There are chaotic, blind, or drunken moments, in the lives\nof persons who lack real force of character,--moments of test, in which\ncourage would most assert itself,--but where these individuals, if left\nto themselves, stagger aimlessly along, or follow implicitly whatever\nguidance may befall them, even if it be a child\'s. No matter how\npreposterous or insane, a purpose is a Godsend to them. Hepzibah had\nreached this point. Unaccustomed to action or responsibility,--full of\nhorror at what she had seen, and afraid to inquire, or almost to\nimagine, how it had come to pass,--affrighted at the fatality which\nseemed to pursue her brother,--stupefied by the dim, thick, stifling\natmosphere of dread which filled the house as with a death-smell, and\nobliterated all definiteness of thought,--she yielded without a\nquestion, and on the instant, to the will which Clifford expressed.\nFor herself, she was like a person in a dream, when the will always\nsleeps. Clifford, ordinarily so destitute of this faculty, had found\nit in the tension of the crisis.\n\n\"Why do you delay so?\" cried he sharply. \"Put on your cloak and hood,\nor whatever it pleases you to wear! No matter what; you cannot look\nbeautiful nor brilliant, my poor Hepzibah! Take your purse, with money\nin it, and come along!\"\n\nHepzibah obeyed these instructions, as if nothing else were to be done\nor thought of. She began to wonder, it is true, why she did not wake\nup, and at what still more intolerable pitch of dizzy trouble her\nspirit would struggle out of the maze, and make her conscious that\nnothing of all this had actually happened. Of course it was not real;\nno such black, easterly day as this had yet begun to be; Judge Pyncheon\nhad not talked with, her. Clifford had not laughed, pointed, beckoned\nher away with him; but she had merely been afflicted--as lonely\nsleepers often are--with a great deal of unreasonable misery, in a\nmorning dream!\n\n\"Now--now--I shall certainly awake!\" thought Hepzibah, as she went to\nand fro, making her little preparations. \"I can bear it no longer I\nmust wake up now!\"\n\nBut it came not, that awakening moment! It came not, even when, just\nbefore they left the house, Clifford stole to the parlor-door, and made\na parting obeisance to the sole occupant of the room.\n\n\"What an absurd figure the old fellow cuts now!\" whispered he to\nHepzibah. \"Just when he fancied he had me completely under his thumb!\nCome, come; make haste! or he will start up, like Giant Despair in\npursuit of Christian and Hopeful, and catch us yet!\"\n\nAs they passed into the street, Clifford directed Hepzibah\'s attention\nto something on one of the posts of the front door. It was merely the\ninitials of his own name, which, with somewhat of his characteristic\ngrace about the forms of the letters, he had cut there when a boy. The\nbrother and sister departed, and left Judge Pyncheon sitting in the old\nhome of his forefathers, all by himself; so heavy and lumpish that we\ncan liken him to nothing better than a defunct nightmare, which had\nperished in the midst of its wickedness, and left its flabby corpse on\nthe breast of the tormented one, to be gotten rid of as it might!\n\n\n\n\n XVII The Flight of Two Owls\n\n\nSUMMER as it was, the east wind set poor Hepzibah\'s few remaining teeth\nchattering in her head, as she and Clifford faced it, on their way up\nPyncheon Street, and towards the centre of the town. Not merely was it\nthe shiver which this pitiless blast brought to her frame (although her\nfeet and hands, especially, had never seemed so death-a-cold as now),\nbut there was a moral sensation, mingling itself with the physical\nchill, and causing her to shake more in spirit than in body. The\nworld\'s broad, bleak atmosphere was all so comfortless! Such, indeed,\nis the impression which it makes on every new adventurer, even if he\nplunge into it while the warmest tide of life is bubbling through his\nveins. What, then, must it have been to Hepzibah and Clifford,--so\ntime-stricken as they were, yet so like children in their\ninexperience,--as they left the doorstep, and passed from beneath the\nwide shelter of the Pyncheon Elm! They were wandering all abroad, on\nprecisely such a pilgrimage as a child often meditates, to the world\'s\nend, with perhaps a sixpence and a biscuit in his pocket. In\nHepzibah\'s mind, there was the wretched consciousness of being adrift.\nShe had lost the faculty of self-guidance; but, in view of the\ndifficulties around her, felt it hardly worth an effort to regain it,\nand was, moreover, incapable of making one.\n\nAs they proceeded on their strange expedition, she now and then cast a\nlook sidelong at Clifford, and could not but observe that he was\npossessed and swayed by a powerful excitement. It was this, indeed,\nthat gave him the control which he had at once, and so irresistibly,\nestablished over his movements. It not a little resembled the\nexhilaration of wine. Or, it might more fancifully be compared to a\njoyous piece of music, played with wild vivacity, but upon a disordered\ninstrument. As the cracked jarring note might always be heard, and as\nit jarred loudest amidst the loftiest exultation of the melody, so was\nthere a continual quake through Clifford, causing him most to quiver\nwhile he wore a triumphant smile, and seemed almost under a necessity\nto skip in his gait.\n\nThey met few people abroad, even on passing from the retired\nneighborhood of the House of the Seven Gables into what was ordinarily\nthe more thronged and busier portion of the town. Glistening\nsidewalks, with little pools of rain, here and there, along their\nunequal surface; umbrellas displayed ostentatiously in the\nshop-windows, as if the life of trade had concentrated itself in that\none article; wet leaves of the horse-chestnut or elm-trees, torn off\nuntimely by the blast and scattered along the public way; an unsightly,\naccumulation of mud in the middle of the street, which perversely grew\nthe more unclean for its long and laborious washing,--these were the\nmore definable points of a very sombre picture. In the way of movement\nand human life, there was the hasty rattle of a cab or coach, its\ndriver protected by a waterproof cap over his head and shoulders; the\nforlorn figure of an old man, who seemed to have crept out of some\nsubterranean sewer, and was stooping along the kennel, and poking the\nwet rubbish with a stick, in quest of rusty nails; a merchant or two,\nat the door of the post-office, together with an editor and a\nmiscellaneous politician, awaiting a dilatory mail; a few visages of\nretired sea-captains at the window of an insurance office, looking out\nvacantly at the vacant street, blaspheming at the weather, and fretting\nat the dearth as well of public news as local gossip. What a\ntreasure-trove to these venerable quidnuncs, could they have guessed\nthe secret which Hepzibah and Clifford were carrying along with them!\nBut their two figures attracted hardly so much notice as that of a\nyoung girl, who passed at the same instant, and happened to raise her\nskirt a trifle too high above her ankles. Had it been a sunny and\ncheerful day, they could hardly have gone through the streets without\nmaking themselves obnoxious to remark. Now, probably, they were felt\nto be in keeping with the dismal and bitter weather, and therefore did\nnot stand out in strong relief, as if the sun were shining on them, but\nmelted into the gray gloom and were forgotten as soon as gone.\n\nPoor Hepzibah! Could she have understood this fact, it would have\nbrought her some little comfort; for, to all her other\ntroubles,--strange to say!--there was added the womanish and\nold-maiden-like misery arising from a sense of unseemliness in her\nattire. Thus, she was fain to shrink deeper into herself, as it were,\nas if in the hope of making people suppose that here was only a cloak\nand hood, threadbare and woefully faded, taking an airing in the midst\nof the storm, without any wearer!\n\nAs they went on, the feeling of indistinctness and unreality kept dimly\nhovering round about her, and so diffusing itself into her system that\none of her hands was hardly palpable to the touch of the other. Any\ncertainty would have been preferable to this. She whispered to\nherself, again and again, \"Am I awake?--Am I awake?\" and sometimes\nexposed her face to the chill spatter of the wind, for the sake of its\nrude assurance that she was. Whether it was Clifford\'s purpose, or\nonly chance, had led them thither, they now found themselves passing\nbeneath the arched entrance of a large structure of gray stone.\nWithin, there was a spacious breadth, and an airy height from floor to\nroof, now partially filled with smoke and steam, which eddied\nvoluminously upward and formed a mimic cloud-region over their heads.\nA train of cars was just ready for a start; the locomotive was fretting\nand fuming, like a steed impatient for a headlong rush; and the bell\nrang out its hasty peal, so well expressing the brief summons which\nlife vouchsafes to us in its hurried career. Without question or\ndelay,--with the irresistible decision, if not rather to be called\nrecklessness, which had so strangely taken possession of him, and\nthrough him of Hepzibah,--Clifford impelled her towards the cars, and\nassisted her to enter. The signal was given; the engine puffed forth\nits short, quick breaths; the train began its movement; and, along with\na hundred other passengers, these two unwonted travellers sped onward\nlike the wind.\n\nAt last, therefore, and after so long estrangement from everything that\nthe world acted or enjoyed, they had been drawn into the great current\nof human life, and were swept away with it, as by the suction of fate\nitself.\n\nStill haunted with the idea that not one of the past incidents,\ninclusive of Judge Pyncheon\'s visit, could be real, the recluse of the\nSeven Gables murmured in her brother\'s ear,--\n\n\"Clifford! Clifford! Is not this a dream?\"\n\n\"A dream, Hepzibah!\" repeated he, almost laughing in her face. \"On the\ncontrary, I have never been awake before!\"\n\nMeanwhile, looking from the window, they could see the world racing\npast them. At one moment, they were rattling through a solitude; the\nnext, a village had grown up around them; a few breaths more, and it\nhad vanished, as if swallowed by an earthquake. The spires of\nmeeting-houses seemed set adrift from their foundations; the\nbroad-based hills glided away. Everything was unfixed from its\nage-long rest, and moving at whirlwind speed in a direction opposite to\ntheir own.\n\nWithin the car there was the usual interior life of the railroad,\noffering little to the observation of other passengers, but full of\nnovelty for this pair of strangely enfranchised prisoners. It was\nnovelty enough, indeed, that there were fifty human beings in close\nrelation with them, under one long and narrow roof, and drawn onward by\nthe same mighty influence that had taken their two selves into its\ngrasp. It seemed marvellous how all these people could remain so\nquietly in their seats, while so much noisy strength was at work in\ntheir behalf. Some, with tickets in their hats (long travellers these,\nbefore whom lay a hundred miles of railroad), had plunged into the\nEnglish scenery and adventures of pamphlet novels, and were keeping\ncompany with dukes and earls. Others, whose briefer span forbade their\ndevoting themselves to studies so abstruse, beguiled the little tedium\nof the way with penny-papers. A party of girls, and one young man, on\nopposite sides of the car, found huge amusement in a game of ball.\nThey tossed it to and fro, with peals of laughter that might be\nmeasured by mile-lengths; for, faster than the nimble ball could fly,\nthe merry players fled unconsciously along, leaving the trail of their\nmirth afar behind, and ending their game under another sky than had\nwitnessed its commencement. Boys, with apples, cakes, candy, and rolls\nof variously tinctured lozenges,--merchandise that reminded Hepzibah of\nher deserted shop,--appeared at each momentary stopping-place, doing up\ntheir business in a hurry, or breaking it short off, lest the market\nshould ravish them away with it. New people continually entered. Old\nacquaintances--for such they soon grew to be, in this rapid current of\naffairs--continually departed. Here and there, amid the rumble and the\ntumult, sat one asleep. Sleep; sport; business; graver or lighter\nstudy; and the common and inevitable movement onward! It was life\nitself!\n\nClifford\'s naturally poignant sympathies were all aroused. He caught\nthe color of what was passing about him, and threw it back more vividly\nthan he received it, but mixed, nevertheless, with a lurid and\nportentous hue. Hepzibah, on the other hand, felt herself more apart\nfrom human kind than even in the seclusion which she had just quitted.\n\n\"You are not happy, Hepzibah!\" said Clifford apart, in a tone of\napproach. \"You are thinking of that dismal old house, and of Cousin\nJaffrey\"--here came the quake through him,--\"and of Cousin Jaffrey\nsitting there, all by himself! Take my advice,--follow my example,--and\nlet such things slip aside. Here we are, in the world, Hepzibah!--in\nthe midst of life!--in the throng of our fellow beings! Let you and I\nbe happy! As happy as that youth and those pretty girls, at their game\nof ball!\"\n\n\"Happy--\" thought Hepzibah, bitterly conscious, at the word, of her\ndull and heavy heart, with the frozen pain in it,--\"happy. He is mad\nalready; and, if I could once feel myself broad awake, I should go mad\ntoo!\"\n\nIf a fixed idea be madness, she was perhaps not remote from it. Fast\nand far as they had rattled and clattered along the iron track, they\nmight just as well, as regarded Hepzibah\'s mental images, have been\npassing up and down Pyncheon Street. With miles and miles of varied\nscenery between, there was no scene for her save the seven old\ngable-peaks, with their moss, and the tuft of weeds in one of the\nangles, and the shop-window, and a customer shaking the door, and\ncompelling the little bell to jingle fiercely, but without disturbing\nJudge Pyncheon! This one old house was everywhere! It transported its\ngreat, lumbering bulk with more than railroad speed, and set itself\nphlegmatically down on whatever spot she glanced at. The quality of\nHepzibah\'s mind was too unmalleable to take new impressions so readily\nas Clifford\'s. He had a winged nature; she was rather of the vegetable\nkind, and could hardly be kept long alive, if drawn up by the roots.\nThus it happened that the relation heretofore existing between her\nbrother and herself was changed. At home, she was his guardian; here,\nClifford had become hers, and seemed to comprehend whatever belonged to\ntheir new position with a singular rapidity of intelligence. He had\nbeen startled into manhood and intellectual vigor; or, at least, into a\ncondition that resembled them, though it might be both diseased and\ntransitory.\n\nThe conductor now applied for their tickets; and Clifford, who had made\nhimself the purse-bearer, put a bank-note into his hand, as he had\nobserved others do.\n\n\"For the lady and yourself?\" asked the conductor. \"And how far?\"\n\n\"As far as that will carry us,\" said Clifford. \"It is no great matter.\nWe are riding for pleasure merely.\"\n\n\"You choose a strange day for it, sir!\" remarked a gimlet-eyed old\ngentleman on the other side of the car, looking at Clifford and his\ncompanion, as if curious to make them out. \"The best chance of\npleasure, in an easterly rain, I take it, is in a man\'s own house, with\na nice little fire in the chimney.\"\n\n\"I cannot precisely agree with you,\" said Clifford, courteously bowing\nto the old gentleman, and at once taking up the clew of conversation\nwhich the latter had proffered. \"It had just occurred to me, on the\ncontrary, that this admirable invention of the railroad--with the vast\nand inevitable improvements to be looked for, both as to speed and\nconvenience--is destined to do away with those stale ideas of home and\nfireside, and substitute something better.\"\n\n\"In the name of common-sense,\" asked the old gentleman rather testily,\n\"what can be better for a man than his own parlor and chimney-corner?\"\n\n\"These things have not the merit which many good people attribute to\nthem,\" replied Clifford. \"They may be said, in few and pithy words, to\nhave ill served a poor purpose. My impression is, that our wonderfully\nincreased and still increasing facilities of locomotion are destined to\nbring us around again to the nomadic state. You are aware, my dear\nsir,--you must have observed it in your own experience,--that all human\nprogress is in a circle; or, to use a more accurate and beautiful\nfigure, in an ascending spiral curve. While we fancy ourselves going\nstraight forward, and attaining, at every step, an entirely new\nposition of affairs, we do actually return to something long ago tried\nand abandoned, but which we now find etherealized, refined, and\nperfected to its ideal. The past is but a coarse and sensual prophecy\nof the present and the future. To apply this truth to the topic now\nunder discussion. In the early epochs of our race, men dwelt in\ntemporary huts, of bowers of branches, as easily constructed as a\nbird\'s-nest, and which they built,--if it should be called building,\nwhen such sweet homes of a summer solstice rather grew than were made\nwith hands,--which Nature, we will say, assisted them to rear where\nfruit abounded, where fish and game were plentiful, or, most\nespecially, where the sense of beauty was to be gratified by a lovelier\nshade than elsewhere, and a more exquisite arrangement of lake, wood,\nand hill. This life possessed a charm which, ever since man quitted\nit, has vanished from existence. And it typified something better than\nitself. It had its drawbacks; such as hunger and thirst, inclement\nweather, hot sunshine, and weary and foot-blistering marches over\nbarren and ugly tracts, that lay between the sites desirable for their\nfertility and beauty. But in our ascending spiral, we escape all this.\nThese railroads--could but the whistle be made musical, and the rumble\nand the jar got rid of--are positively the greatest blessing that the\nages have wrought out for us. They give us wings; they annihilate the\ntoil and dust of pilgrimage; they spiritualize travel! Transition being\nso facile, what can be any man\'s inducement to tarry in one spot? Why,\ntherefore, should he build a more cumbrous habitation than can readily\nbe carried off with him? Why should he make himself a prisoner for life\nin brick, and stone, and old worm-eaten timber, when he may just as\neasily dwell, in one sense, nowhere,--in a better sense, wherever the\nfit and beautiful shall offer him a home?\"\n\nClifford\'s countenance glowed, as he divulged this theory; a youthful\ncharacter shone out from within, converting the wrinkles and pallid\nduskiness of age into an almost transparent mask. The merry girls let\ntheir ball drop upon the floor, and gazed at him. They said to\nthemselves, perhaps, that, before his hair was gray and the crow\'s-feet\ntracked his temples, this now decaying man must have stamped the\nimpress of his features on many a woman\'s heart. But, alas! no woman\'s\neye had seen his face while it was beautiful.\n\n\"I should scarcely call it an improved state of things,\" observed\nClifford\'s new acquaintance, \"to live everywhere and nowhere!\"\n\n\"Would you not?\" exclaimed Clifford, with singular energy. \"It is as\nclear to me as sunshine,--were there any in the sky,--that the greatest\npossible stumbling-blocks in the path of human happiness and\nimprovement are these heaps of bricks and stones, consolidated with\nmortar, or hewn timber, fastened together with spike-nails, which men\npainfully contrive for their own torment, and call them house and home!\nThe soul needs air; a wide sweep and frequent change of it. Morbid\ninfluences, in a thousand-fold variety, gather about hearths, and\npollute the life of households. There is no such unwholesome\natmosphere as that of an old home, rendered poisonous by one\'s defunct\nforefathers and relatives. I speak of what I know. There is a certain\nhouse within my familiar recollection,--one of those peaked-gable\n(there are seven of them), projecting-storied edifices, such as you\noccasionally see in our older towns,--a rusty, crazy, creaky,\ndry-rotted, dingy, dark, and miserable old dungeon, with an arched\nwindow over the porch, and a little shop-door on one side, and a great,\nmelancholy elm before it! Now, sir, whenever my thoughts recur to this\nseven-gabled mansion (the fact is so very curious that I must needs\nmention it), immediately I have a vision or image of an elderly man, of\nremarkably stern countenance, sitting in an oaken elbow-chair, dead,\nstone-dead, with an ugly flow of blood upon his shirt-bosom! Dead, but\nwith open eyes! He taints the whole house, as I remember it. I could\nnever flourish there, nor be happy, nor do nor enjoy what God meant me\nto do and enjoy.\"\n\nHis face darkened, and seemed to contract, and shrivel itself up, and\nwither into age.\n\n\"Never, sir!\" he repeated. \"I could never draw cheerful breath there!\"\n\n\"I should think not,\" said the old gentleman, eyeing Clifford\nearnestly, and rather apprehensively. \"I should conceive not, sir,\nwith that notion in your head!\"\n\n\"Surely not,\" continued Clifford; \"and it were a relief to me if that\nhouse could be torn down, or burnt up, and so the earth be rid of it,\nand grass be sown abundantly over its foundation. Not that I should\never visit its site again! for, sir, the farther I get away from it,\nthe more does the joy, the lightsome freshness, the heart-leap, the\nintellectual dance, the youth, in short,--yes, my youth, my youth!--the\nmore does it come back to me. No longer ago than this morning, I was\nold. I remember looking in the glass, and wondering at my own gray\nhair, and the wrinkles, many and deep, right across my brow, and the\nfurrows down my cheeks, and the prodigious trampling of crow\'s-feet\nabout my temples! It was too soon! I could not bear it! Age had no\nright to come! I had not lived! But now do I look old? If so, my\naspect belies me strangely; for--a great weight being off my mind--I\nfeel in the very heyday of my youth, with the world and my best days\nbefore me!\"\n\n\"I trust you may find it so,\" said the old gentleman, who seemed rather\nembarrassed, and desirous of avoiding the observation which Clifford\'s\nwild talk drew on them both. \"You have my best wishes for it.\"\n\n\"For Heaven\'s sake, dear Clifford, be quiet!\" whispered his sister.\n\"They think you mad.\"\n\n\"Be quiet yourself, Hepzibah!\" returned her brother. \"No matter what\nthey think! I am not mad. For the first time in thirty years my\nthoughts gush up and find words ready for them. I must talk, and I\nwill!\"\n\nHe turned again towards the old gentleman, and renewed the conversation.\n\n\"Yes, my dear sir,\" said he, \"it is my firm belief and hope that these\nterms of roof and hearth-stone, which have so long been held to embody\nsomething sacred, are soon to pass out of men\'s daily use, and be\nforgotten. Just imagine, for a moment, how much of human evil will\ncrumble away, with this one change! What we call real estate--the solid\nground to build a house on--is the broad foundation on which nearly all\nthe guilt of this world rests. A man will commit almost any wrong,--he\nwill heap up an immense pile of wickedness, as hard as granite, and\nwhich will weigh as heavily upon his soul, to eternal ages,--only to\nbuild a great, gloomy, dark-chambered mansion, for himself to die in,\nand for his posterity to be miserable in. He lays his own dead corpse\nbeneath the underpinning, as one may say, and hangs his frowning\npicture on the wall, and, after thus converting himself into an evil\ndestiny, expects his remotest great-grandchildren to be happy there. I\ndo not speak wildly. I have just such a house in my mind\'s eye!\"\n\n\"Then, sir,\" said the old gentleman, getting anxious to drop the\nsubject, \"you are not to blame for leaving it.\"\n\n\"Within the lifetime of the child already born,\" Clifford went on, \"all\nthis will be done away. The world is growing too ethereal and\nspiritual to bear these enormities a great while longer. To me,\nthough, for a considerable period of time, I have lived chiefly in\nretirement, and know less of such things than most men,--even to me,\nthe harbingers of a better era are unmistakable. Mesmerism, now! Will\nthat effect nothing, think you, towards purging away the grossness out\nof human life?\"\n\n\"All a humbug!\" growled the old gentleman.\n\n\"These rapping spirits, that little Phoebe told us of, the other day,\"\nsaid Clifford,--\"what are these but the messengers of the spiritual\nworld, knocking at the door of substance? And it shall be flung wide\nopen!\"\n\n\"A humbug, again!\" cried the old gentleman, growing more and more testy\nat these glimpses of Clifford\'s metaphysics. \"I should like to rap\nwith a good stick on the empty pates of the dolts who circulate such\nnonsense!\"\n\n\"Then there is electricity,--the demon, the angel, the mighty physical\npower, the all-pervading intelligence!\" exclaimed Clifford. \"Is that a\nhumbug, too? Is it a fact--or have I dreamt it--that, by means of\nelectricity, the world of matter has become a great nerve, vibrating\nthousands of miles in a breathless point of time? Rather, the round\nglobe is a vast head, a brain, instinct with intelligence! Or, shall\nwe say, it is itself a thought, nothing but thought, and no longer the\nsubstance which we deemed it!\"\n\n\"If you mean the telegraph,\" said the old gentleman, glancing his eye\ntoward its wire, alongside the rail-track, \"it is an excellent\nthing,--that is, of course, if the speculators in cotton and politics\ndon\'t get possession of it. A great thing, indeed, sir, particularly\nas regards the detection of bank-robbers and murderers.\"\n\n\"I don\'t quite like it, in that point of view,\" replied Clifford. \"A\nbank-robber, and what you call a murderer, likewise, has his rights,\nwhich men of enlightened humanity and conscience should regard in so\nmuch the more liberal spirit, because the bulk of society is prone to\ncontrovert their existence. An almost spiritual medium, like the\nelectric telegraph, should be consecrated to high, deep, joyful, and\nholy missions. Lovers, day by, day--hour by hour, if so often moved to\ndo it,--might send their heart-throbs from Maine to Florida, with some\nsuch words as these \'I love you forever!\'--\'My heart runs over with\nlove!\'--\'I love you more than I can!\' and, again, at the next message\n\'I have lived an hour longer, and love you twice as much!\' Or, when a\ngood man has departed, his distant friend should be conscious of an\nelectric thrill, as from the world of happy spirits, telling him \'Your\ndear friend is in bliss!\' Or, to an absent husband, should come tidings\nthus \'An immortal being, of whom you are the father, has this moment\ncome from God!\' and immediately its little voice would seem to have\nreached so far, and to be echoing in his heart. But for these poor\nrogues, the bank-robbers,--who, after all, are about as honest as nine\npeople in ten, except that they disregard certain formalities, and\nprefer to transact business at midnight rather than \'Change-hours,--and\nfor these murderers, as you phrase it, who are often excusable in the\nmotives of their deed, and deserve to be ranked among public\nbenefactors, if we consider only its result,--for unfortunate\nindividuals like these, I really cannot applaud the enlistment of an\nimmaterial and miraculous power in the universal world-hunt at their\nheels!\"\n\n\"You can\'t, hey?\" cried the old gentleman, with a hard look.\n\n\"Positively, no!\" answered Clifford. \"It puts them too miserably at\ndisadvantage. For example, sir, in a dark, low, cross-beamed, panelled\nroom of an old house, let us suppose a dead man, sitting in an\narm-chair, with a blood-stain on his shirt-bosom,--and let us add to\nour hypothesis another man, issuing from the house, which he feels to\nbe over-filled with the dead man\'s presence,--and let us lastly imagine\nhim fleeing, Heaven knows whither, at the speed of a hurricane, by\nrailroad! Now, sir, if the fugitive alight in some distant town, and\nfind all the people babbling about that self-same dead man, whom he has\nfled so far to avoid the sight and thought of, will you not allow that\nhis natural rights have been infringed? He has been deprived of his\ncity of refuge, and, in my humble opinion, has suffered infinite wrong!\"\n\n\"You are a strange man; Sir!\" said the old gentleman, bringing his\ngimlet-eye to a point on Clifford, as if determined to bore right into\nhim. \"I can\'t see through you!\"\n\n\"No, I\'ll be bound you can\'t!\" cried Clifford, laughing. \"And yet, my\ndear sir, I am as transparent as the water of Maule\'s well! But come,\nHepzibah! We have flown far enough for once. Let us alight, as the\nbirds do, and perch ourselves on the nearest twig, and consult wither\nwe shall fly next!\"\n\nJust then, as it happened, the train reached a solitary way-station.\nTaking advantage of the brief pause, Clifford left the car, and drew\nHepzibah along with him. A moment afterwards, the train--with all the\nlife of its interior, amid which Clifford had made himself so\nconspicuous an object--was gliding away in the distance, and rapidly\nlessening to a point which, in another moment, vanished. The world had\nfled away from these two wanderers. They gazed drearily about them.\nAt a little distance stood a wooden church, black with age, and in a\ndismal state of ruin and decay, with broken windows, a great rift\nthrough the main body of the edifice, and a rafter dangling from the\ntop of the square tower. Farther off was a farm-house, in the old\nstyle, as venerably black as the church, with a roof sloping downward\nfrom the three-story peak, to within a man\'s height of the ground. It\nseemed uninhabited. There were the relics of a wood-pile, indeed, near\nthe door, but with grass sprouting up among the chips and scattered\nlogs. The small rain-drops came down aslant; the wind was not\nturbulent, but sullen, and full of chilly moisture.\n\nClifford shivered from head to foot. The wild effervescence of his\nmood--which had so readily supplied thoughts, fantasies, and a strange\naptitude of words, and impelled him to talk from the mere necessity of\ngiving vent to this bubbling-up gush of ideas had entirely subsided. A\npowerful excitement had given him energy and vivacity. Its operation\nover, he forthwith began to sink.\n\n\"You must take the lead now, Hepzibah!\" murmured he, with a torpid and\nreluctant utterance. \"Do with me as you will!\" She knelt down upon the\nplatform where they were standing and lifted her clasped hands to the\nsky. The dull, gray weight of clouds made it invisible; but it was no\nhour for disbelief,--no juncture this to question that there was a sky\nabove, and an Almighty Father looking from it!\n\n\"O God!\"--ejaculated poor, gaunt Hepzibah,--then paused a moment, to\nconsider what her prayer should be,--\"O God,--our Father,--are we not\nthy children? Have mercy on us!\"\n\n\n\n\n XVIII Governor Pyncheon\n\n\nJUDGE PYNCHEON, while his two relatives have fled away with such\nill-considered haste, still sits in the old parlor, keeping house, as\nthe familiar phrase is, in the absence of its ordinary occupants. To\nhim, and to the venerable House of the Seven Gables, does our story now\nbetake itself, like an owl, bewildered in the daylight, and hastening\nback to his hollow tree.\n\nThe Judge has not shifted his position for a long while now. He has\nnot stirred hand or foot, nor withdrawn his eyes so much as a\nhair\'s-breadth from their fixed gaze towards the corner of the room,\nsince the footsteps of Hepzibah and Clifford creaked along the passage,\nand the outer door was closed cautiously behind their exit. He holds\nhis watch in his left hand, but clutched in such a manner that you\ncannot see the dial-plate. How profound a fit of meditation! Or,\nsupposing him asleep, how infantile a quietude of conscience, and what\nwholesome order in the gastric region, are betokened by slumber so\nentirely undisturbed with starts, cramp, twitches, muttered dreamtalk,\ntrumpet-blasts through the nasal organ, or any slightest irregularity\nof breath! You must hold your own breath, to satisfy yourself whether\nhe breathes at all. It is quite inaudible. You hear the ticking of\nhis watch; his breath you do not hear. A most refreshing slumber,\ndoubtless! And yet, the Judge cannot be asleep. His eyes are open! A\nveteran politician, such as he, would never fall asleep with wide-open\neyes, lest some enemy or mischief-maker, taking him thus at unawares,\nshould peep through these windows into his consciousness, and make\nstrange discoveries among the reminiscences, projects, hopes,\napprehensions, weaknesses, and strong points, which he has heretofore\nshared with nobody. A cautious man is proverbially said to sleep with\none eye open. That may be wisdom. But not with both; for this were\nheedlessness! No, no! Judge Pyncheon cannot be asleep.\n\nIt is odd, however, that a gentleman so burdened with engagements,--and\nnoted, too, for punctuality,--should linger thus in an old lonely\nmansion, which he has never seemed very fond of visiting. The oaken\nchair, to be sure, may tempt him with its roominess. It is, indeed, a\nspacious, and, allowing for the rude age that fashioned it, a\nmoderately easy seat, with capacity enough, at all events, and offering\nno restraint to the Judge\'s breadth of beam. A bigger man might find\nample accommodation in it. His ancestor, now pictured upon the wall,\nwith all his English beef about him, used hardly to present a front\nextending from elbow to elbow of this chair, or a base that would cover\nits whole cushion. But there are better chairs than this,--mahogany,\nblack walnut, rosewood, spring-seated and damask-cushioned, with varied\nslopes, and innumerable artifices to make them easy, and obviate the\nirksomeness of too tame an ease,--a score of such might be at Judge\nPyncheon\'s service. Yes! in a score of drawing-rooms he would be more\nthan welcome. Mamma would advance to meet him, with outstretched hand;\nthe virgin daughter, elderly as he has now got to be,--an old widower,\nas he smilingly describes himself,--would shake up the cushion for the\nJudge, and do her pretty utmost to make him comfortable. For the Judge\nis a prosperous man. He cherishes his schemes, moreover, like other\npeople, and reasonably brighter than most others; or did so, at least,\nas he lay abed this morning, in an agreeable half-drowse, planning the\nbusiness of the day, and speculating on the probabilities of the next\nfifteen years. With his firm health, and the little inroad that age\nhas made upon him, fifteen years or twenty--yes, or perhaps\nfive-and-twenty!--are no more than he may fairly call his own.\nFive-and-twenty years for the enjoyment of his real estate in town and\ncountry, his railroad, bank, and insurance shares, his United States\nstock,--his wealth, in short, however invested, now in possession, or\nsoon to be acquired; together with the public honors that have fallen\nupon him, and the weightier ones that are yet to fall! It is good! It\nis excellent! It is enough!\n\nStill lingering in the old chair! If the Judge has a little time to\nthrow away, why does not he visit the insurance office, as is his\nfrequent custom, and sit awhile in one of their leathern-cushioned\narm-chairs, listening to the gossip of the day, and dropping some\ndeeply designed chance-word, which will be certain to become the gossip\nof to-morrow. And have not the bank directors a meeting at which it\nwas the Judge\'s purpose to be present, and his office to preside?\nIndeed they have; and the hour is noted on a card, which is, or ought\nto be, in Judge Pyncheon\'s right vest-pocket. Let him go thither, and\nloll at ease upon his moneybags! He has lounged long enough in the old\nchair!\n\nThis was to have been such a busy day. In the first place, the\ninterview with Clifford. Half an hour, by the Judge\'s reckoning, was\nto suffice for that; it would probably be less, but--taking into\nconsideration that Hepzibah was first to be dealt with, and that these\nwomen are apt to make many words where a few would do much better--it\nmight be safest to allow half an hour. Half an hour? Why, Judge, it is\nalready two hours, by your own undeviatingly accurate chronometer.\nGlance your eye down at it and see! Ah; he will not give himself the\ntrouble either to bend his head, or elevate his hand, so as to bring\nthe faithful time-keeper within his range of vision! Time, all at once,\nappears to have become a matter of no moment with the Judge!\n\nAnd has he forgotten all the other items of his memoranda? Clifford\'s\naffair arranged, he was to meet a State Street broker, who has\nundertaken to procure a heavy percentage, and the best of paper, for a\nfew loose thousands which the Judge happens to have by him, uninvested.\nThe wrinkled note-shaver will have taken his railroad trip in vain.\nHalf an hour later, in the street next to this, there was to be an\nauction of real estate, including a portion of the old Pyncheon\nproperty, originally belonging to Maule\'s garden ground. It has been\nalienated from the Pyncheons these four-score years; but the Judge had\nkept it in his eye, and had set his heart on reannexing it to the small\ndemesne still left around the Seven Gables; and now, during this odd\nfit of oblivion, the fatal hammer must have fallen, and transferred our\nancient patrimony to some alien possessor. Possibly, indeed, the sale\nmay have been postponed till fairer weather. If so, will the Judge\nmake it convenient to be present, and favor the auctioneer with his\nbid, On the proximate occasion?\n\nThe next affair was to buy a horse for his own driving. The one\nheretofore his favorite stumbled, this very morning, on the road to\ntown, and must be at once discarded. Judge Pyncheon\'s neck is too\nprecious to be risked on such a contingency as a stumbling steed.\nShould all the above business be seasonably got through with, he might\nattend the meeting of a charitable society; the very name of which,\nhowever, in the multiplicity of his benevolence, is quite forgotten; so\nthat this engagement may pass unfulfilled, and no great harm done. And\nif he have time, amid the press of more urgent matters, he must take\nmeasures for the renewal of Mrs. Pyncheon\'s tombstone, which, the\nsexton tells him, has fallen on its marble face, and is cracked quite\nin twain. She was a praiseworthy woman enough, thinks the Judge, in\nspite of her nervousness, and the tears that she was so oozy with, and\nher foolish behavior about the coffee; and as she took her departure so\nseasonably, he will not grudge the second tombstone. It is better, at\nleast, than if she had never needed any! The next item on his list was\nto give orders for some fruit-trees, of a rare variety, to be\ndeliverable at his country-seat in the ensuing autumn. Yes, buy them,\nby all means; and may the peaches be luscious in your mouth, Judge\nPyncheon! After this comes something more important. A committee of\nhis political party has besought him for a hundred or two of dollars,\nin addition to his previous disbursements, towards carrying on the fall\ncampaign. The Judge is a patriot; the fate of the country is staked on\nthe November election; and besides, as will be shadowed forth in\nanother paragraph, he has no trifling stake of his own in the same\ngreat game. He will do what the committee asks; nay, he will be\nliberal beyond their expectations; they shall have a check for five\nhundred dollars, and more anon, if it be needed. What next? A decayed\nwidow, whose husband was Judge Pyncheon\'s early friend, has laid her\ncase of destitution before him, in a very moving letter. She and her\nfair daughter have scarcely bread to eat. He partly intends to call on\nher to-day,--perhaps so--perhaps not,--accordingly as he may happen to\nhave leisure, and a small bank-note.\n\nAnother business, which, however, he puts no great weight on (it is\nwell, you know, to be heedful, but not over-anxious, as respects one\'s\npersonal health),--another business, then, was to consult his family\nphysician. About what, for Heaven\'s sake? Why, it is rather difficult\nto describe the symptoms. A mere dimness of sight and dizziness of\nbrain, was it?--or disagreeable choking, or stifling, or gurgling, or\nbubbling, in the region of the thorax, as the anatomists say?--or was\nit a pretty severe throbbing and kicking of the heart, rather\ncreditable to him than otherwise, as showing that the organ had not\nbeen left out of the Judge\'s physical contrivance? No matter what it\nwas. The doctor probably would smile at the statement of such trifles\nto his professional ear; the Judge would smile in his turn; and meeting\none another\'s eyes, they would enjoy a hearty laugh together! But a fig\nfor medical advice. The Judge will never need it.\n\nPray, pray, Judge Pyncheon, look at your watch, Now! What--not a\nglance! It is within ten minutes of the dinner hour! It surely cannot\nhave slipped your memory that the dinner of to-day is to be the most\nimportant, in its consequences, of all the dinners you ever ate. Yes,\nprecisely the most important; although, in the course of your somewhat\neminent career, you have been placed high towards the head of the\ntable, at splendid banquets, and have poured out your festive eloquence\nto ears yet echoing with Webster\'s mighty organ-tones. No public\ndinner this, however. It is merely a gathering of some dozen or so of\nfriends from several districts of the State; men of distinguished\ncharacter and influence, assembling, almost casually, at the house of a\ncommon friend, likewise distinguished, who will make them welcome to a\nlittle better than his ordinary fare. Nothing in the way of French\ncookery, but an excellent dinner, nevertheless. Real turtle, we\nunderstand, and salmon, tautog, canvas-backs, pig, English mutton, good\nroast beef, or dainties of that serious kind, fit for substantial\ncountry gentlemen, as these honorable persons mostly are. The\ndelicacies of the season, in short, and flavored by a brand of old\nMadeira which has been the pride of many seasons. It is the Juno\nbrand; a glorious wine, fragrant, and full of gentle might; a\nbottled-up happiness, put by for use; a golden liquid, worth more than\nliquid gold; so rare and admirable, that veteran wine-bibbers count it\namong their epochs to have tasted it! It drives away the heart-ache,\nand substitutes no head-ache! Could the Judge but quaff a glass, it\nmight enable him to shake off the unaccountable lethargy which (for the\nten intervening minutes, and five to boot, are already past) has made\nhim such a laggard at this momentous dinner. It would all but revive a\ndead man! Would you like to sip it now, Judge Pyncheon?\n\nAlas, this dinner. Have you really forgotten its true object? Then\nlet us whisper it, that you may start at once out of the oaken chair,\nwhich really seems to be enchanted, like the one in Comus, or that in\nwhich Moll Pitcher imprisoned your own grandfather. But ambition is a\ntalisman more powerful than witchcraft. Start up, then, and, hurrying\nthrough the streets, burst in upon the company, that they may begin\nbefore the fish is spoiled! They wait for you; and it is little for\nyour interest that they should wait. These gentlemen--need you be told\nit?--have assembled, not without purpose, from every quarter of the\nState. They are practised politicians, every man of them, and skilled\nto adjust those preliminary measures which steal from the people,\nwithout its knowledge, the power of choosing its own rulers. The\npopular voice, at the next gubernatorial election, though loud as\nthunder, will be really but an echo of what these gentlemen shall\nspeak, under their breath, at your friend\'s festive board. They meet\nto decide upon their candidate. This little knot of subtle schemers\nwill control the convention, and, through it, dictate to the party.\nAnd what worthier candidate,--more wise and learned, more noted for\nphilanthropic liberality, truer to safe principles, tried oftener by\npublic trusts, more spotless in private character, with a larger stake\nin the common welfare, and deeper grounded, by hereditary descent, in\nthe faith and practice of the Puritans,--what man can be presented for\nthe suffrage of the people, so eminently combining all these claims to\nthe chief-rulership as Judge Pyncheon here before us?\n\nMake haste, then! Do your part! The meed for which you have toiled, and\nfought, and climbed, and crept, is ready for your grasp! Be present at\nthis dinner!--drink a glass or two of that noble wine!--make your\npledges in as low a whisper as you will!--and you rise up from table\nvirtually governor of the glorious old State! Governor Pyncheon of\nMassachusetts!\n\nAnd is there no potent and exhilarating cordial in a certainty like\nthis? It has been the grand purpose of half your lifetime to obtain it.\nNow, when there needs little more than to signify your acceptance, why\ndo you sit so lumpishly in your great-great-grandfather\'s oaken chair,\nas if preferring it to the gubernatorial one? We have all heard of King\nLog; but, in these jostling times, one of that royal kindred will\nhardly win the race for an elective chief-magistracy.\n\nWell; it is absolutely too late for dinner! Turtle, salmon, tautog,\nwoodcock, boiled turkey, South-Down mutton, pig, roast-beef, have\nvanished, or exist only in fragments, with lukewarm potatoes, and\ngravies crusted over with cold fat. The Judge, had he done nothing\nelse, would have achieved wonders with his knife and fork. It was he,\nyou know, of whom it used to be said, in reference to his ogre-like\nappetite, that his Creator made him a great animal, but that the\ndinner-hour made him a great beast. Persons of his large sensual\nendowments must claim indulgence, at their feeding-time. But, for\nonce, the Judge is entirely too late for dinner! Too late, we fear,\neven to join the party at their wine! The guests are warm and merry;\nthey have given up the Judge; and, concluding that the Free-Soilers\nhave him, they will fix upon another candidate. Were our friend now to\nstalk in among them, with that wide-open stare, at once wild and\nstolid, his ungenial presence would be apt to change their cheer.\nNeither would it be seemly in Judge Pyncheon, generally so scrupulous\nin his attire, to show himself at a dinner-table with that crimson\nstain upon his shirt-bosom. By the bye, how came it there? It is an\nugly sight, at any rate; and the wisest way for the Judge is to button\nhis coat closely over his breast, and, taking his horse and chaise from\nthe livery stable, to make all speed to his own house. There, after a\nglass of brandy and water, and a mutton-chop, a beefsteak, a broiled\nfowl, or some such hasty little dinner and supper all in one, he had\nbetter spend the evening by the fireside. He must toast his slippers a\nlong while, in order to get rid of the chilliness which the air of this\nvile old house has sent curdling through his veins.\n\nUp, therefore, Judge Pyncheon, up! You have lost a day. But to-morrow\nwill be here anon. Will you rise, betimes, and make the most of it?\nTo-morrow. To-morrow! To-morrow. We, that are alive, may rise betimes\nto-morrow. As for him that has died to-day, his morrow will be the\nresurrection morn.\n\nMeanwhile the twilight is glooming upward out of the corners of the\nroom. The shadows of the tall furniture grow deeper, and at first\nbecome more definite; then, spreading wider, they lose their\ndistinctness of outline in the dark gray tide of oblivion, as it were,\nthat creeps slowly over the various objects, and the one human figure\nsitting in the midst of them. The gloom has not entered from without;\nit has brooded here all day, and now, taking its own inevitable time,\nwill possess itself of everything. The Judge\'s face, indeed, rigid and\nsingularly white, refuses to melt into this universal solvent. Fainter\nand fainter grows the light. It is as if another double-handful of\ndarkness had been scattered through the air. Now it is no longer gray,\nbut sable. There is still a faint appearance at the window; neither a\nglow, nor a gleam, nor a glimmer,--any phrase of light would express\nsomething far brighter than this doubtful perception, or sense, rather,\nthat there is a window there. Has it yet vanished? No!--yes!--not\nquite! And there is still the swarthy whiteness,--we shall venture to\nmarry these ill-agreeing words,--the swarthy whiteness of Judge\nPyncheon\'s face. The features are all gone: there is only the paleness\nof them left. And how looks it now? There is no window! There is no\nface! An infinite, inscrutable blackness has annihilated sight! Where\nis our universe? All crumbled away from us; and we, adrift in chaos,\nmay hearken to the gusts of homeless wind, that go sighing and\nmurmuring about in quest of what was once a world!\n\nIs there no other sound? One other, and a fearful one. It is the\nticking of the Judge\'s watch, which, ever since Hepzibah left the room\nin search of Clifford, he has been holding in his hand. Be the cause\nwhat it may, this little, quiet, never-ceasing throb of Time\'s pulse,\nrepeating its small strokes with such busy regularity, in Judge\nPyncheon\'s motionless hand, has an effect of terror, which we do not\nfind in any other accompaniment of the scene.\n\nBut, listen! That puff of the breeze was louder. It had a tone unlike\nthe dreary and sullen one which has bemoaned itself, and afflicted all\nmankind with miserable sympathy, for five days past. The wind has\nveered about! It now comes boisterously from the northwest, and, taking\nhold of the aged framework of the Seven Gables, gives it a shake, like\na wrestler that would try strength with his antagonist. Another and\nanother sturdy tussle with the blast! The old house creaks again, and\nmakes a vociferous but somewhat unintelligible bellowing in its sooty\nthroat (the big flue, we mean, of its wide chimney), partly in\ncomplaint at the rude wind, but rather, as befits their century and a\nhalf of hostile intimacy, in tough defiance. A rumbling kind of a\nbluster roars behind the fire-board. A door has slammed above stairs.\nA window, perhaps, has been left open, or else is driven in by an\nunruly gust. It is not to be conceived, before-hand, what wonderful\nwind-instruments are these old timber mansions, and how haunted with\nthe strangest noises, which immediately begin to sing, and sigh, and\nsob, and shriek,--and to smite with sledge-hammers, airy but ponderous,\nin some distant chamber,--and to tread along the entries as with\nstately footsteps, and rustle up and down the staircase, as with silks\nmiraculously stiff,--whenever the gale catches the house with a window\nopen, and gets fairly into it. Would that we were not an attendant\nspirit here! It is too awful! This clamor of the wind through the\nlonely house; the Judge\'s quietude, as he sits invisible; and that\npertinacious ticking of his watch!\n\nAs regards Judge Pyncheon\'s invisibility, however, that matter will\nsoon be remedied. The northwest wind has swept the sky clear. The\nwindow is distinctly seen. Through its panes, moreover, we dimly catch\nthe sweep of the dark, clustering foliage outside, fluttering with a\nconstant irregularity of movement, and letting in a peep of starlight,\nnow here, now there. Oftener than any other object, these glimpses\nilluminate the Judge\'s face. But here comes more effectual light.\nObserve that silvery dance upon the upper branches of the pear-tree,\nand now a little lower, and now on the whole mass of boughs, while,\nthrough their shifting intricacies, the moonbeams fall aslant into the\nroom. They play over the Judge\'s figure and show that he has not\nstirred throughout the hours of darkness. They follow the shadows, in\nchangeful sport, across his unchanging features. They gleam upon his\nwatch. His grasp conceals the dial-plate,--but we know that the\nfaithful hands have met; for one of the city clocks tells midnight.\n\nA man of sturdy understanding, like Judge Pyncheon, cares no more for\ntwelve o\'clock at night than for the corresponding hour of noon.\nHowever just the parallel drawn, in some of the preceding pages,\nbetween his Puritan ancestor and himself, it fails in this point. The\nPyncheon of two centuries ago, in common with most of his\ncontemporaries, professed his full belief in spiritual ministrations,\nalthough reckoning them chiefly of a malignant character. The Pyncheon\nof to-night, who sits in yonder arm-chair, believes in no such\nnonsense. Such, at least, was his creed, some few hours since. His\nhair will not bristle, therefore, at the stories which--in times when\nchimney-corners had benches in them, where old people sat poking into\nthe ashes of the past, and raking out traditions like live coals--used\nto be told about this very room of his ancestral house. In fact, these\ntales are too absurd to bristle even childhood\'s hair. What sense,\nmeaning, or moral, for example, such as even ghost-stories should be\nsusceptible of, can be traced in the ridiculous legend, that, at\nmidnight, all the dead Pyncheons are bound to assemble in this parlor?\nAnd, pray, for what? Why, to see whether the portrait of their ancestor\nstill keeps its place upon the wall, in compliance with his\ntestamentary directions! Is it worth while to come out of their graves\nfor that?\n\nWe are tempted to make a little sport with the idea. Ghost-stories are\nhardly to be treated seriously any longer. The family-party of the\ndefunct Pyncheons, we presume, goes off in this wise.\n\nFirst comes the ancestor himself, in his black cloak, steeple-hat, and\ntrunk-breeches, girt about the waist with a leathern belt, in which\nhangs his steel-hilted sword; he has a long staff in his hand, such as\ngentlemen in advanced life used to carry, as much for the dignity of\nthe thing as for the support to be derived from it. He looks up at the\nportrait; a thing of no substance, gazing at its own painted image! All\nis safe. The picture is still there. The purpose of his brain has\nbeen kept sacred thus long after the man himself has sprouted up in\ngraveyard grass. See! he lifts his ineffectual hand, and tries the\nframe. All safe! But is that a smile?--is it not, rather a frown of\ndeadly import, that darkens over the shadow of his features? The stout\nColonel is dissatisfied! So decided is his look of discontent as to\nimpart additional distinctness to his features; through which,\nnevertheless, the moonlight passes, and flickers on the wall beyond.\nSomething has strangely vexed the ancestor! With a grim shake of the\nhead, he turns away. Here come other Pyncheons, the whole tribe, in\ntheir half a dozen generations, jostling and elbowing one another, to\nreach the picture. We behold aged men and grandames, a clergyman with\nthe Puritanic stiffness still in his garb and mien, and a red-coated\nofficer of the old French war; and there comes the shop-keeping\nPyncheon of a century ago, with the ruffles turned back from his\nwrists; and there the periwigged and brocaded gentleman of the artist\'s\nlegend, with the beautiful and pensive Alice, who brings no pride out\nof her virgin grave. All try the picture-frame. What do these ghostly\npeople seek? A mother lifts her child, that his little hands may touch\nit! There is evidently a mystery about the picture, that perplexes\nthese poor Pyncheons when they ought to be at rest. In a corner,\nmeanwhile, stands the figure of an elderly man, in a leathern jerkin\nand breeches, with a carpenter\'s rule sticking out of his side pocket;\nhe points his finger at the bearded Colonel and his descendants,\nnodding, jeering, mocking, and finally bursting into obstreperous,\nthough inaudible laughter.\n\nIndulging our fancy in this freak, we have partly lost the power of\nrestraint and guidance. We distinguish an unlooked-for figure in our\nvisionary scene. Among those ancestral people there is a young man,\ndressed in the very fashion of to-day: he wears a dark frock-coat,\nalmost destitute of skirts, gray pantaloons, gaiter boots of patent\nleather, and has a finely wrought gold chain across his breast, and a\nlittle silver-headed whalebone stick in his hand. Were we to meet this\nfigure at noonday, we should greet him as young Jaffrey Pyncheon, the\nJudge\'s only surviving child, who has been spending the last two years\nin foreign travel. If still in life, how comes his shadow hither? If\ndead, what a misfortune! The old Pyncheon property, together with the\ngreat estate acquired by the young man\'s father, would devolve on whom?\nOn poor, foolish Clifford, gaunt Hepzibah, and rustic little Phoebe!\nBut another and a greater marvel greets us! Can we believe our eyes? A\nstout, elderly gentleman has made his appearance; he has an aspect of\neminent respectability, wears a black coat and pantaloons, of roomy\nwidth, and might be pronounced scrupulously neat in his attire, but for\na broad crimson stain across his snowy neckcloth and down his\nshirt-bosom. Is it the Judge, or no? How can it be Judge Pyncheon? We\ndiscern his figure, as plainly as the flickering moonbeams can show us\nanything, still seated in the oaken chair! Be the apparition whose it\nmay, it advances to the picture, seems to seize the frame, tries to\npeep behind it, and turns away, with a frown as black as the ancestral\none.\n\nThe fantastic scene just hinted at must by no means be considered as\nforming an actual portion of our story. We were betrayed into this\nbrief extravagance by the quiver of the moonbeams; they dance\nhand-in-hand with shadows, and are reflected in the looking-glass,\nwhich, you are aware, is always a kind of window or doorway into the\nspiritual world. We needed relief, moreover, from our too long and\nexclusive contemplation of that figure in the chair. This wild wind,\ntoo, has tossed our thoughts into strange confusion, but without\ntearing them away from their one determined centre. Yonder leaden\nJudge sits immovably upon our soul. Will he never stir again? We shall\ngo mad unless he stirs! You may the better estimate his quietude by the\nfearlessness of a little mouse, which sits on its hind legs, in a\nstreak of moonlight, close by Judge Pyncheon\'s foot, and seems to\nmeditate a journey of exploration over this great black bulk. Ha! what\nhas startled the nimble little mouse? It is the visage of grimalkin,\noutside of the window, where he appears to have posted himself for a\ndeliberate watch. This grimalkin has a very ugly look. Is it a cat\nwatching for a mouse, or the devil for a human soul? Would we could\nscare him from the window!\n\nThank Heaven, the night is well-nigh past! The moonbeams have no longer\nso silvery a gleam, nor contrast so strongly with the blackness of the\nshadows among which they fall. They are paler now; the shadows look\ngray, not black. The boisterous wind is hushed. What is the hour? Ah!\nthe watch has at last ceased to tick; for the Judge\'s forgetful fingers\nneglected to wind it up, as usual, at ten o\'clock, being half an hour\nor so before his ordinary bedtime,--and it has run down, for the first\ntime in five years. But the great world-clock of Time still keeps its\nbeat. The dreary night--for, oh, how dreary seems its haunted waste,\nbehind us!--gives place to a fresh, transparent, cloudless morn.\nBlessed, blessed radiance! The daybeam--even what little of it finds\nits way into this always dusky parlor--seems part of the universal\nbenediction, annulling evil, and rendering all goodness possible, and\nhappiness attainable. Will Judge Pyncheon now rise up from his chair?\nWill he go forth, and receive the early sunbeams on his brow? Will he\nbegin this new day,--which God has smiled upon, and blessed, and given\nto mankind,--will he begin it with better purposes than the many that\nhave been spent amiss? Or are all the deep-laid schemes of yesterday as\nstubborn in his heart, and as busy in his brain, as ever?\n\nIn this latter case, there is much to do. Will the Judge still insist\nwith Hepzibah on the interview with Clifford? Will he buy a safe,\nelderly gentleman\'s horse? Will he persuade the purchaser of the old\nPyncheon property to relinquish the bargain in his favor? Will he see\nhis family physician, and obtain a medicine that shall preserve him, to\nbe an honor and blessing to his race, until the utmost term of\npatriarchal longevity? Will Judge Pyncheon, above all, make due\napologies to that company of honorable friends, and satisfy them that\nhis absence from the festive board was unavoidable, and so fully\nretrieve himself in their good opinion that he shall yet be Governor of\nMassachusetts? And all these great purposes accomplished, will he walk\nthe streets again, with that dog-day smile of elaborate benevolence,\nsultry enough to tempt flies to come and buzz in it? Or will he, after\nthe tomb-like seclusion of the past day and night, go forth a humbled\nand repentant man, sorrowful, gentle, seeking no profit, shrinking from\nworldly honor, hardly daring to love God, but bold to love his fellow\nman, and to do him what good he may? Will he bear about with him,--no\nodious grin of feigned benignity, insolent in its pretence, and\nloathsome in its falsehood,--but the tender sadness of a contrite\nheart, broken, at last, beneath its own weight of sin? For it is our\nbelief, whatever show of honor he may have piled upon it, that there\nwas heavy sin at the base of this man\'s being.\n\nRise up, Judge Pyncheon! The morning sunshine glimmers through the\nfoliage, and, beautiful and holy as it is, shuns not to kindle up your\nface. Rise up, thou subtle, worldly, selfish, iron-hearted hypocrite,\nand make thy choice whether still to be subtle, worldly, selfish,\niron-hearted, and hypocritical, or to tear these sins out of thy\nnature, though they bring the lifeblood with them! The Avenger is upon\nthee! Rise up, before it be too late!\n\nWhat! Thou art not stirred by this last appeal? No, not a jot! And\nthere we see a fly,--one of your common house-flies, such as are always\nbuzzing on the window-pane,--which has smelt out Governor Pyncheon, and\nalights, now on his forehead, now on his chin, and now, Heaven help us!\nis creeping over the bridge of his nose, towards the would-be\nchief-magistrate\'s wide-open eyes! Canst thou not brush the fly away?\nArt thou too sluggish? Thou man, that hadst so many busy projects\nyesterday! Art thou too weak, that wast so powerful? Not brush away a\nfly? Nay, then, we give thee up!\n\nAnd hark! the shop-bell rings. After hours like these latter ones,\nthrough which we have borne our heavy tale, it is good to be made\nsensible that there is a living world, and that even this old, lonely\nmansion retains some manner of connection with it. We breathe more\nfreely, emerging from Judge Pyncheon\'s presence into the street before\nthe Seven Gables.\n\n\n\n\n XIX Alice\'s Posies\n\n\nUNCLE VENNER, trundling a wheelbarrow, was the earliest person stirring\nin the neighborhood the day after the storm.\n\nPyncheon Street, in front of the House of the Seven Gables, was a far\npleasanter scene than a by-lane, confined by shabby fences, and\nbordered with wooden dwellings of the meaner class, could reasonably be\nexpected to present. Nature made sweet amends, that morning, for the\nfive unkindly days which had preceded it. It would have been enough to\nlive for, merely to look up at the wide benediction of the sky, or as\nmuch of it as was visible between the houses, genial once more with\nsunshine. Every object was agreeable, whether to be gazed at in the\nbreadth, or examined more minutely. Such, for example, were the\nwell-washed pebbles and gravel of the sidewalk; even the sky-reflecting\npools in the centre of the street; and the grass, now freshly verdant,\nthat crept along the base of the fences, on the other side of which, if\none peeped over, was seen the multifarious growth of gardens.\nVegetable productions, of whatever kind, seemed more than negatively\nhappy, in the juicy warmth and abundance of their life. The Pyncheon\nElm, throughout its great circumference, was all alive, and full of the\nmorning sun and a sweet-tempered little breeze, which lingered within\nthis verdant sphere, and set a thousand leafy tongues a-whispering all\nat once. This aged tree appeared to have suffered nothing from the\ngale. It had kept its boughs unshattered, and its full complement of\nleaves; and the whole in perfect verdure, except a single branch, that,\nby the earlier change with which the elm-tree sometimes prophesies the\nautumn, had been transmuted to bright gold. It was like the golden\nbranch that gained Aeneas and the Sibyl admittance into Hades.\n\nThis one mystic branch hung down before the main entrance of the Seven\nGables, so nigh the ground that any passer-by might have stood on\ntiptoe and plucked it off. Presented at the door, it would have been a\nsymbol of his right to enter, and be made acquainted with all the\nsecrets of the house. So little faith is due to external appearance,\nthat there was really an inviting aspect over the venerable edifice,\nconveying an idea that its history must be a decorous and happy one,\nand such as would be delightful for a fireside tale. Its windows\ngleamed cheerfully in the slanting sunlight. The lines and tufts of\ngreen moss, here and there, seemed pledges of familiarity and\nsisterhood with Nature; as if this human dwelling-place, being of such\nold date, had established its prescriptive title among primeval oaks\nand whatever other objects, by virtue of their long continuance, have\nacquired a gracious right to be. A person of imaginative temperament,\nwhile passing by the house, would turn, once and again, and peruse it\nwell: its many peaks, consenting together in the clustered chimney;\nthe deep projection over its basement-story; the arched window,\nimparting a look, if not of grandeur, yet of antique gentility, to the\nbroken portal over which it opened; the luxuriance of gigantic\nburdocks, near the threshold; he would note all these characteristics,\nand be conscious of something deeper than he saw. He would conceive\nthe mansion to have been the residence of the stubborn old Puritan,\nIntegrity, who, dying in some forgotten generation, had left a blessing\nin all its rooms and chambers, the efficacy of which was to be seen in\nthe religion, honesty, moderate competence, or upright poverty and\nsolid happiness, of his descendants, to this day.\n\nOne object, above all others, would take root in the imaginative\nobserver\'s memory. It was the great tuft of flowers,--weeds, you would\nhave called them, only a week ago,--the tuft of crimson-spotted\nflowers, in the angle between the two front gables. The old people used\nto give them the name of Alice\'s Posies, in remembrance of fair Alice\nPyncheon, who was believed to have brought their seeds from Italy.\nThey were flaunting in rich beauty and full bloom to-day, and seemed,\nas it were, a mystic expression that something within the house was\nconsummated.\n\nIt was but little after sunrise, when Uncle Venner made his appearance,\nas aforesaid, impelling a wheelbarrow along the street. He was going\nhis matutinal rounds to collect cabbage-leaves, turnip-tops,\npotato-skins, and the miscellaneous refuse of the dinner-pot, which the\nthrifty housewives of the neighborhood were accustomed to put aside, as\nfit only to feed a pig. Uncle Venner\'s pig was fed entirely, and kept\nin prime order, on these eleemosynary contributions; insomuch that the\npatched philosopher used to promise that, before retiring to his farm,\nhe would make a feast of the portly grunter, and invite all his\nneighbors to partake of the joints and spare-ribs which they had helped\nto fatten. Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon\'s housekeeping had so greatly\nimproved, since Clifford became a member of the family, that her share\nof the banquet would have been no lean one; and Uncle Venner,\naccordingly, was a good deal disappointed not to find the large earthen\npan, full of fragmentary eatables, that ordinarily awaited his coming\nat the back doorstep of the Seven Gables.\n\n\"I never knew Miss Hepzibah so forgetful before,\" said the patriarch to\nhimself. \"She must have had a dinner yesterday,--no question of that!\nShe always has one, nowadays. So where\'s the pot-liquor and\npotato-skins, I ask? Shall I knock, and see if she\'s stirring yet? No,\nno,--\'t won\'t do! If little Phoebe was about the house, I should not\nmind knocking; but Miss Hepzibah, likely as not, would scowl down at me\nout of the window, and look cross, even if she felt pleasantly. So,\nI\'ll come back at noon.\"\n\nWith these reflections, the old man was shutting the gate of the little\nback-yard. Creaking on its hinges, however, like every other gate and\ndoor about the premises, the sound reached the ears of the occupant of\nthe northern gable, one of the windows of which had a side-view towards\nthe gate.\n\n\"Good-morning, Uncle Venner!\" said the daguerreotypist, leaning out of\nthe window. \"Do you hear nobody stirring?\"\n\n\"Not a soul,\" said the man of patches. \"But that\'s no wonder. \'Tis\nbarely half an hour past sunrise, yet. But I\'m really glad to see you,\nMr. Holgrave! There\'s a strange, lonesome look about this side of the\nhouse; so that my heart misgave me, somehow or other, and I felt as if\nthere was nobody alive in it. The front of the house looks a good deal\ncheerier; and Alice\'s Posies are blooming there beautifully; and if I\nwere a young man, Mr. Holgrave, my sweetheart should have one of those\nflowers in her bosom, though I risked my neck climbing for it! Well,\nand did the wind keep you awake last night?\"\n\n\"It did, indeed!\" answered the artist, smiling. \"If I were a believer\nin ghosts,--and I don\'t quite know whether I am or not,--I should have\nconcluded that all the old Pyncheons were running riot in the lower\nrooms, especially in Miss Hepzibah\'s part of the house. But it is very\nquiet now.\"\n\n\"Yes, Miss Hepzibah will be apt to over-sleep herself, after being\ndisturbed, all night, with the racket,\" said Uncle Venner. \"But it\nwould be odd, now, wouldn\'t it, if the Judge had taken both his cousins\ninto the country along with him? I saw him go into the shop yesterday.\"\n\n\"At what hour?\" inquired Holgrave.\n\n\"Oh, along in the forenoon,\" said the old man. \"Well, well! I must go\nmy rounds, and so must my wheelbarrow. But I\'ll be back here at\ndinner-time; for my pig likes a dinner as well as a breakfast. No\nmeal-time, and no sort of victuals, ever seems to come amiss to my pig.\nGood morning to you! And, Mr. Holgrave, if I were a young man, like\nyou, I\'d get one of Alice\'s Posies, and keep it in water till Phoebe\ncomes back.\"\n\n\"I have heard,\" said the daguerreotypist, as he drew in his head, \"that\nthe water of Maule\'s well suits those flowers best.\"\n\nHere the conversation ceased, and Uncle Venner went on his way. For\nhalf an hour longer, nothing disturbed the repose of the Seven Gables;\nnor was there any visitor, except a carrier-boy, who, as he passed the\nfront doorstep, threw down one of his newspapers; for Hepzibah, of\nlate, had regularly taken it in. After a while, there came a fat\nwoman, making prodigious speed, and stumbling as she ran up the steps\nof the shop-door. Her face glowed with fire-heat, and, it being a\npretty warm morning, she bubbled and hissed, as it were, as if all\na-fry with chimney-warmth, and summer-warmth, and the warmth of her own\ncorpulent velocity. She tried the shop-door; it was fast. She tried\nit again, with so angry a jar that the bell tinkled angrily back at her.\n\n\"The deuce take Old Maid Pyncheon!\" muttered the irascible housewife.\n\"Think of her pretending to set up a cent-shop, and then lying abed\ntill noon! These are what she calls gentlefolk\'s airs, I suppose! But\nI\'ll either start her ladyship, or break the door down!\"\n\nShe shook it accordingly, and the bell, having a spiteful little temper\nof its own, rang obstreperously, making its remonstrances heard,--not,\nindeed, by the ears for which they were intended,--but by a good lady\non the opposite side of the street. She opened the window, and\naddressed the impatient applicant.\n\n\"You\'ll find nobody there, Mrs. Gubbins.\"\n\n\"But I must and will find somebody here!\" cried Mrs. Gubbins,\ninflicting another outrage on the bell. \"I want a half-pound of pork,\nto fry some first-rate flounders for Mr. Gubbins\'s breakfast; and, lady\nor not, Old Maid Pyncheon shall get up and serve me with it!\"\n\n\"But do hear reason, Mrs. Gubbins!\" responded the lady opposite. \"She,\nand her brother too, have both gone to their cousin\'s, Judge Pyncheon\'s\nat his country-seat. There\'s not a soul in the house, but that young\ndaguerreotype-man that sleeps in the north gable. I saw old Hepzibah\nand Clifford go away yesterday; and a queer couple of ducks they were,\npaddling through the mud-puddles! They\'re gone, I\'ll assure you.\"\n\n\"And how do you know they\'re gone to the Judge\'s?\" asked Mrs. Gubbins.\n\"He\'s a rich man; and there\'s been a quarrel between him and Hepzibah\nthis many a day, because he won\'t give her a living. That\'s the main\nreason of her setting up a cent-shop.\"\n\n\"I know that well enough,\" said the neighbor. \"But they\'re\ngone,--that\'s one thing certain. And who but a blood relation, that\ncouldn\'t help himself, I ask you, would take in that awful-tempered old\nmaid, and that dreadful Clifford? That\'s it, you may be sure.\"\n\nMrs. Gubbins took her departure, still brimming over with hot wrath\nagainst the absent Hepzibah. For another half-hour, or, perhaps,\nconsiderably more, there was almost as much quiet on the outside of the\nhouse as within. The elm, however, made a pleasant, cheerful, sunny\nsigh, responsive to the breeze that was elsewhere imperceptible; a\nswarm of insects buzzed merrily under its drooping shadow, and became\nspecks of light whenever they darted into the sunshine; a locust sang,\nonce or twice, in some inscrutable seclusion of the tree; and a\nsolitary little bird, with plumage of pale gold, came and hovered about\nAlice\'s Posies.\n\nAt last our small acquaintance, Ned Higgins, trudged up the street, on\nhis way to school; and happening, for the first time in a fortnight, to\nbe the possessor of a cent, he could by no means get past the shop-door\nof the Seven Gables. But it would not open. Again and again, however,\nand half a dozen other agains, with the inexorable pertinacity of a\nchild intent upon some object important to itself, did he renew his\nefforts for admittance. He had, doubtless, set his heart upon an\nelephant; or, possibly, with Hamlet, he meant to eat a crocodile. In\nresponse to his more violent attacks, the bell gave, now and then, a\nmoderate tinkle, but could not be stirred into clamor by any exertion\nof the little fellow\'s childish and tiptoe strength. Holding by the\ndoor-handle, he peeped through a crevice of the curtain, and saw that\nthe inner door, communicating with the passage towards the parlor, was\nclosed.\n\n\"Miss Pyncheon!\" screamed the child, rapping on the window-pane, \"I\nwant an elephant!\"\n\nThere being no answer to several repetitions of the summons, Ned began\nto grow impatient; and his little pot of passion quickly boiling over,\nhe picked up a stone, with a naughty purpose to fling it through the\nwindow; at the same time blubbering and sputtering with wrath. A\nman--one of two who happened to be passing by--caught the urchin\'s arm.\n\n\"What\'s the trouble, old gentleman?\" he asked.\n\n\"I want old Hepzibah, or Phoebe, or any of them!\" answered Ned,\nsobbing. \"They won\'t open the door; and I can\'t get my elephant!\"\n\n\"Go to school, you little scamp!\" said the man. \"There\'s another\ncent-shop round the corner. \'T is very strange, Dixey,\" added he to\nhis companion, \"what\'s become of all these Pyncheon\'s! Smith, the\nlivery-stable keeper, tells me Judge Pyncheon put his horse up\nyesterday, to stand till after dinner, and has not taken him away yet.\nAnd one of the Judge\'s hired men has been in, this morning, to make\ninquiry about him. He\'s a kind of person, they say, that seldom breaks\nhis habits, or stays out o\' nights.\"\n\n\"Oh, he\'ll turn up safe enough!\" said Dixey. \"And as for Old Maid\nPyncheon, take my word for it, she has run in debt, and gone off from\nher creditors. I foretold, you remember, the first morning she set up\nshop, that her devilish scowl would frighten away customers. They\ncouldn\'t stand it!\"\n\n\"I never thought she\'d make it go,\" remarked his friend. \"This\nbusiness of cent-shops is overdone among the women-folks. My wife\ntried it, and lost five dollars on her outlay!\"\n\n\"Poor business!\" said Dixey, shaking his head. \"Poor business!\"\n\nIn the course of the morning, there were various other attempts to open\na communication with the supposed inhabitants of this silent and\nimpenetrable mansion. The man of root-beer came, in his neatly painted\nwagon, with a couple of dozen full bottles, to be exchanged for empty\nones; the baker, with a lot of crackers which Hepzibah had ordered for\nher retail custom; the butcher, with a nice titbit which he fancied she\nwould be eager to secure for Clifford. Had any observer of these\nproceedings been aware of the fearful secret hidden within the house,\nit would have affected him with a singular shape and modification of\nhorror, to see the current of human life making this small eddy\nhereabouts,--whirling sticks, straws and all such trifles, round and\nround, right over the black depth where a dead corpse lay unseen!\n\nThe butcher was so much in earnest with his sweetbread of lamb, or\nwhatever the dainty might be, that he tried every accessible door of\nthe Seven Gables, and at length came round again to the shop, where he\nordinarily found admittance.\n\n\"It\'s a nice article, and I know the old lady would jump at it,\" said\nhe to himself. \"She can\'t be gone away! In fifteen years that I have\ndriven my cart through Pyncheon Street, I\'ve never known her to be away\nfrom home; though often enough, to be sure, a man might knock all day\nwithout bringing her to the door. But that was when she\'d only herself\nto provide for.\"\n\nPeeping through the same crevice of the curtain where, only a little\nwhile before, the urchin of elephantine appetite had peeped, the\nbutcher beheld the inner door, not closed, as the child had seen it,\nbut ajar, and almost wide open. However it might have happened, it was\nthe fact. Through the passage-way there was a dark vista into the\nlighter but still obscure interior of the parlor. It appeared to the\nbutcher that he could pretty clearly discern what seemed to be the\nstalwart legs, clad in black pantaloons, of a man sitting in a large\noaken chair, the back of which concealed all the remainder of his\nfigure. This contemptuous tranquillity on the part of an occupant of\nthe house, in response to the butcher\'s indefatigable efforts to\nattract notice, so piqued the man of flesh that he determined to\nwithdraw.\n\n\"So,\" thought he, \"there sits Old Maid Pyncheon\'s bloody brother, while\nI\'ve been giving myself all this trouble! Why, if a hog hadn\'t more\nmanners, I\'d stick him! I call it demeaning a man\'s business to trade\nwith such people; and from this time forth, if they want a sausage or\nan ounce of liver, they shall run after the cart for it!\"\n\nHe tossed the titbit angrily into his cart, and drove off in a pet.\n\nNot a great while afterwards there was a sound of music turning the\ncorner and approaching down the street, with several intervals of\nsilence, and then a renewed and nearer outbreak of brisk melody. A mob\nof children was seen moving onward, or stopping, in unison with the\nsound, which appeared to proceed from the centre of the throng; so that\nthey were loosely bound together by slender strains of harmony, and\ndrawn along captive; with ever and anon an accession of some little\nfellow in an apron and straw-hat, capering forth from door or gateway.\nArriving under the shadow of the Pyncheon Elm, it proved to be the\nItalian boy, who, with his monkey and show of puppets, had once before\nplayed his hurdy-gurdy beneath the arched window. The pleasant face of\nPhoebe--and doubtless, too, the liberal recompense which she had flung\nhim--still dwelt in his remembrance. His expressive features kindled\nup, as he recognized the spot where this trifling incident of his\nerratic life had chanced. He entered the neglected yard (now wilder\nthan ever, with its growth of hog-weed and burdock), stationed himself\non the doorstep of the main entrance, and, opening his show-box, began\nto play. Each individual of the automatic community forthwith set to\nwork, according to his or her proper vocation: the monkey, taking off\nhis Highland bonnet, bowed and scraped to the by-standers most\nobsequiously, with ever an observant eye to pick up a stray cent; and\nthe young foreigner himself, as he turned the crank of his machine,\nglanced upward to the arched window, expectant of a presence that would\nmake his music the livelier and sweeter. The throng of children stood\nnear; some on the sidewalk; some within the yard; two or three\nestablishing themselves on the very door-step; and one squatting on the\nthreshold. Meanwhile, the locust kept singing in the great old\nPyncheon Elm.\n\n\"I don\'t hear anybody in the house,\" said one of the children to\nanother. \"The monkey won\'t pick up anything here.\"\n\n\"There is somebody at home,\" affirmed the urchin on the threshold. \"I\nheard a step!\"\n\nStill the young Italian\'s eye turned sidelong upward; and it really\nseemed as if the touch of genuine, though slight and almost playful,\nemotion communicated a juicier sweetness to the dry, mechanical process\nof his minstrelsy. These wanderers are readily responsive to any\nnatural kindness--be it no more than a smile, or a word itself not\nunderstood, but only a warmth in it--which befalls them on the roadside\nof life. They remember these things, because they are the little\nenchantments which, for the instant,--for the space that reflects a\nlandscape in a soap-bubble,--build up a home about them. Therefore,\nthe Italian boy would not be discouraged by the heavy silence with\nwhich the old house seemed resolute to clog the vivacity of his\ninstrument. He persisted in his melodious appeals; he still looked\nupward, trusting that his dark, alien countenance would soon be\nbrightened by Phoebe\'s sunny aspect. Neither could he be willing to\ndepart without again beholding Clifford, whose sensibility, like\nPhoebe\'s smile, had talked a kind of heart\'s language to the foreigner.\nHe repeated all his music over and over again, until his auditors were\ngetting weary. So were the little wooden people in his show-box, and\nthe monkey most of all. There was no response, save the singing of the\nlocust.\n\n\"No children live in this house,\" said a schoolboy, at last. \"Nobody\nlives here but an old maid and an old man. You\'ll get nothing here!\nWhy don\'t you go along?\"\n\n\"You fool, you, why do you tell him?\" whispered a shrewd little Yankee,\ncaring nothing for the music, but a good deal for the cheap rate at\nwhich it was had. \"Let him play as he likes! If there\'s nobody to pay\nhim, that\'s his own lookout!\"\n\nOnce more, however, the Italian ran over his round of melodies. To the\ncommon observer--who could understand nothing of the case, except the\nmusic and the sunshine on the hither side of the door--it might have\nbeen amusing to watch the pertinacity of the street-performer. Will he\nsucceed at last? Will that stubborn door be suddenly flung open? Will a\ngroup of joyous children, the young ones of the house, come dancing,\nshouting, laughing, into the open air, and cluster round the show-box,\nlooking with eager merriment at the puppets, and tossing each a copper\nfor long-tailed Mammon, the monkey, to pick up?\n\nBut to us, who know the inner heart of the Seven Gables as well as its\nexterior face, there is a ghastly effect in this repetition of light\npopular tunes at its door-step. It would be an ugly business, indeed,\nif Judge Pyncheon (who would not have cared a fig for Paganini\'s fiddle\nin his most harmonious mood) should make his appearance at the door,\nwith a bloody shirt-bosom, and a grim frown on his swarthily white\nvisage, and motion the foreign vagabond away! Was ever before such a\ngrinding out of jigs and waltzes, where nobody was in the cue to dance?\nYes, very often. This contrast, or intermingling of tragedy with mirth,\nhappens daily, hourly, momently. The gloomy and desolate old house,\ndeserted of life, and with awful Death sitting sternly in its solitude,\nwas the emblem of many a human heart, which, nevertheless, is compelled\nto hear the thrill and echo of the world\'s gayety around it.\n\nBefore the conclusion of the Italian\'s performance, a couple of men\nhappened to be passing, On their way to dinner. \"I say, you young\nFrench fellow!\" called out one of them,--\"come away from that doorstep,\nand go somewhere else with your nonsense! The Pyncheon family live\nthere; and they are in great trouble, just about this time. They don\'t\nfeel musical to-day. It is reported all over town that Judge Pyncheon,\nwho owns the house, has been murdered; and the city marshal is going to\nlook into the matter. So be off with you, at once!\"\n\nAs the Italian shouldered his hurdy-gurdy, he saw on the doorstep a\ncard, which had been covered, all the morning, by the newspaper that\nthe carrier had flung upon it, but was now shuffled into sight. He\npicked it up, and perceiving something written in pencil, gave it to\nthe man to read. In fact, it was an engraved card of Judge Pyncheon\'s\nwith certain pencilled memoranda on the back, referring to various\nbusinesses which it had been his purpose to transact during the\npreceding day. It formed a prospective epitome of the day\'s history;\nonly that affairs had not turned out altogether in accordance with the\nprogramme. The card must have been lost from the Judge\'s vest-pocket\nin his preliminary attempt to gain access by the main entrance of the\nhouse. Though well soaked with rain, it was still partially legible.\n\n\"Look here; Dixey!\" cried the man. \"This has something to do with\nJudge Pyncheon. See!--here\'s his name printed on it; and here, I\nsuppose, is some of his handwriting.\"\n\n\"Let\'s go to the city marshal with it!\" said Dixey. \"It may give him\njust the clew he wants. After all,\" whispered he in his companion\'s\near, \"it would be no wonder if the Judge has gone into that door and\nnever come out again! A certain cousin of his may have been at his old\ntricks. And Old Maid Pyncheon having got herself in debt by the\ncent-shop,--and the Judge\'s pocket-book being well filled,--and bad\nblood amongst them already! Put all these things together and see what\nthey make!\"\n\n\"Hush, hush!\" whispered the other. \"It seems like a sin to be the\nfirst to speak of such a thing. But I think, with you, that we had\nbetter go to the city marshal.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes!\" said Dixey. \"Well!--I always said there was something\ndevilish in that woman\'s scowl!\"\n\nThe men wheeled about, accordingly, and retraced their steps up the\nstreet. The Italian, also, made the best of his way off, with a\nparting glance up at the arched window. As for the children, they took\nto their heels, with one accord, and scampered as if some giant or ogre\nwere in pursuit, until, at a good distance from the house, they stopped\nas suddenly and simultaneously as they had set out. Their susceptible\nnerves took an indefinite alarm from what they had overheard. Looking\nback at the grotesque peaks and shadowy angles of the old mansion, they\nfancied a gloom diffused about it which no brightness of the sunshine\ncould dispel. An imaginary Hepzibah scowled and shook her finger at\nthem, from several windows at the same moment. An imaginary\nClifford--for (and it would have deeply wounded him to know it) he had\nalways been a horror to these small people--stood behind the unreal\nHepzibah, making awful gestures, in a faded dressing-gown. Children\nare even more apt, if possible, than grown people, to catch the\ncontagion of a panic terror. For the rest of the day, the more timid\nwent whole streets about, for the sake of avoiding the Seven Gables;\nwhile the bolder signalized their hardihood by challenging their\ncomrades to race past the mansion at full speed.\n\nIt could not have been more than half an hour after the disappearance\nof the Italian boy, with his unseasonable melodies, when a cab drove\ndown the street. It stopped beneath the Pyncheon Elm; the cabman took\na trunk, a canvas bag, and a bandbox, from the top of his vehicle, and\ndeposited them on the doorstep of the old house; a straw bonnet, and\nthen the pretty figure of a young girl, came into view from the\ninterior of the cab. It was Phoebe! Though not altogether so blooming\nas when she first tripped into our story,--for, in the few intervening\nweeks, her experiences had made her graver, more womanly, and\ndeeper-eyed, in token of a heart that had begun to suspect its\ndepths,--still there was the quiet glow of natural sunshine over her.\nNeither had she forfeited her proper gift of making things look real,\nrather than fantastic, within her sphere. Yet we feel it to be a\nquestionable venture, even for Phoebe, at this juncture, to cross the\nthreshold of the Seven Gables. Is her healthful presence potent enough\nto chase away the crowd of pale, hideous, and sinful phantoms, that\nhave gained admittance there since her departure? Or will she,\nlikewise, fade, sicken, sadden, and grow into deformity, and be only\nanother pallid phantom, to glide noiselessly up and down the stairs,\nand affright children as she pauses at the window?\n\nAt least, we would gladly forewarn the unsuspecting girl that there is\nnothing in human shape or substance to receive her, unless it be the\nfigure of Judge Pyncheon, who--wretched spectacle that he is, and\nfrightful in our remembrance, since our night-long vigil with\nhim!--still keeps his place in the oaken chair.\n\nPhoebe first tried the shop-door. It did not yield to her hand; and\nthe white curtain, drawn across the window which formed the upper\nsection of the door, struck her quick perceptive faculty as something\nunusual. Without making another effort to enter here, she betook\nherself to the great portal, under the arched window. Finding it\nfastened, she knocked. A reverberation came from the emptiness within.\nShe knocked again, and a third time; and, listening intently, fancied\nthat the floor creaked, as if Hepzibah were coming, with her ordinary\ntiptoe movement, to admit her. But so dead a silence ensued upon this\nimaginary sound, that she began to question whether she might not have\nmistaken the house, familiar as she thought herself with its exterior.\n\nHer notice was now attracted by a child\'s voice, at some distance. It\nappeared to call her name. Looking in the direction whence it\nproceeded, Phoebe saw little Ned Higgins, a good way down the street,\nstamping, shaking his head violently, making deprecatory gestures with\nboth hands, and shouting to her at mouth-wide screech.\n\n\"No, no, Phoebe!\" he screamed. \"Don\'t you go in! There\'s something\nwicked there! Don\'t--don\'t--don\'t go in!\"\n\nBut, as the little personage could not be induced to approach near\nenough to explain himself, Phoebe concluded that he had been\nfrightened, on some of his visits to the shop, by her cousin Hepzibah;\nfor the good lady\'s manifestations, in truth, ran about an equal chance\nof scaring children out of their wits, or compelling them to unseemly\nlaughter. Still, she felt the more, for this incident, how\nunaccountably silent and impenetrable the house had become. As her\nnext resort, Phoebe made her way into the garden, where on so warm and\nbright a day as the present, she had little doubt of finding Clifford,\nand perhaps Hepzibah also, idling away the noontide in the shadow of\nthe arbor. Immediately on her entering the garden gate, the family of\nhens half ran, half flew to meet her; while a strange grimalkin, which\nwas prowling under the parlor window, took to his heels, clambered\nhastily over the fence, and vanished. The arbor was vacant, and its\nfloor, table, and circular bench were still damp, and bestrewn with\ntwigs and the disarray of the past storm. The growth of the garden\nseemed to have got quite out of bounds; the weeds had taken advantage\nof Phoebe\'s absence, and the long-continued rain, to run rampant over\nthe flowers and kitchen-vegetables. Maule\'s well had overflowed its\nstone border, and made a pool of formidable breadth in that corner of\nthe garden.\n\nThe impression of the whole scene was that of a spot where no human\nfoot had left its print for many preceding days,--probably not since\nPhoebe\'s departure,--for she saw a side-comb of her own under the table\nof the arbor, where it must have fallen on the last afternoon when she\nand Clifford sat there.\n\nThe girl knew that her two relatives were capable of far greater\noddities than that of shutting themselves up in their old house, as\nthey appeared now to have done. Nevertheless, with indistinct\nmisgivings of something amiss, and apprehensions to which she could not\ngive shape, she approached the door that formed the customary\ncommunication between the house and garden. It was secured within,\nlike the two which she had already tried. She knocked, however; and\nimmediately, as if the application had been expected, the door was\ndrawn open, by a considerable exertion of some unseen person\'s\nstrength, not wide, but far enough to afford her a sidelong entrance.\nAs Hepzibah, in order not to expose herself to inspection from without,\ninvariably opened a door in this manner, Phoebe necessarily concluded\nthat it was her cousin who now admitted her.\n\nWithout hesitation, therefore, she stepped across the threshold, and\nhad no sooner entered than the door closed behind her.\n\n\n\n\n XX The Flower of Eden\n\n\nPHOEBE, coming so suddenly from the sunny daylight, was altogether\nbedimmed in such density of shadow as lurked in most of the passages of\nthe old house. She was not at first aware by whom she had been\nadmitted. Before her eyes had adapted themselves to the obscurity, a\nhand grasped her own with a firm but gentle and warm pressure, thus\nimparting a welcome which caused her heart to leap and thrill with an\nindefinable shiver of enjoyment. She felt herself drawn along, not\ntowards the parlor, but into a large and unoccupied apartment, which\nhad formerly been the grand reception-room of the Seven Gables. The\nsunshine came freely into all the uncurtained windows of this room, and\nfell upon the dusty floor; so that Phoebe now clearly saw--what,\nindeed, had been no secret, after the encounter of a warm hand with\nhers--that it was not Hepzibah nor Clifford, but Holgrave, to whom she\nowed her reception. The subtile, intuitive communication, or, rather,\nthe vague and formless impression of something to be told, had made her\nyield unresistingly to his impulse. Without taking away her hand, she\nlooked eagerly in his face, not quick to forebode evil, but unavoidably\nconscious that the state of the family had changed since her departure,\nand therefore anxious for an explanation.\n\nThe artist looked paler than ordinary; there was a thoughtful and\nsevere contraction of his forehead, tracing a deep, vertical line\nbetween the eyebrows. His smile, however, was full of genuine warmth,\nand had in it a joy, by far the most vivid expression that Phoebe had\never witnessed, shining out of the New England reserve with which\nHolgrave habitually masked whatever lay near his heart. It was the\nlook wherewith a man, brooding alone over some fearful object, in a\ndreary forest or illimitable desert, would recognize the familiar\naspect of his dearest friend, bringing up all the peaceful ideas that\nbelong to home, and the gentle current of every-day affairs. And yet,\nas he felt the necessity of responding to her look of inquiry, the\nsmile disappeared.\n\n\"I ought not to rejoice that you have come, Phoebe,\" said he. \"We meet\nat a strange moment!\"\n\n\"What has happened!\" she exclaimed. \"Why is the house so deserted?\nWhere are Hepzibah and Clifford?\"\n\n\"Gone! I cannot imagine where they are!\" answered Holgrave. \"We are\nalone in the house!\"\n\n\"Hepzibah and Clifford gone?\" cried Phoebe. \"It is not possible! And\nwhy have you brought me into this room, instead of the parlor? Ah,\nsomething terrible has happened! I must run and see!\"\n\n\"No, no, Phoebe!\" said Holgrave holding her back. \"It is as I have\ntold you. They are gone, and I know not whither. A terrible event\nhas, indeed happened, but not to them, nor, as I undoubtingly believe,\nthrough any agency of theirs. If I read your character rightly,\nPhoebe,\" he continued, fixing his eyes on hers with stern anxiety,\nintermixed with tenderness, \"gentle as you are, and seeming to have\nyour sphere among common things, you yet possess remarkable strength.\nYou have wonderful poise, and a faculty which, when tested, will prove\nitself capable of dealing with matters that fall far out of the\nordinary rule.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, I am very weak!\" replied Phoebe, trembling. \"But tell me what\nhas happened!\"\n\n\"You are strong!\" persisted Holgrave. \"You must be both strong and\nwise; for I am all astray, and need your counsel. It may be you can\nsuggest the one right thing to do!\"\n\n\"Tell me!--tell me!\" said Phoebe, all in a tremble. \"It oppresses,--it\nterrifies me,--this mystery! Anything else I can bear!\"\n\nThe artist hesitated. Notwithstanding what he had just said, and most\nsincerely, in regard to the self-balancing power with which Phoebe\nimpressed him, it still seemed almost wicked to bring the awful secret\nof yesterday to her knowledge. It was like dragging a hideous shape of\ndeath into the cleanly and cheerful space before a household fire,\nwhere it would present all the uglier aspect, amid the decorousness of\neverything about it. Yet it could not be concealed from her; she must\nneeds know it.\n\n\"Phoebe,\" said he, \"do you remember this?\" He put into her hand a\ndaguerreotype; the same that he had shown her at their first interview\nin the garden, and which so strikingly brought out the hard and\nrelentless traits of the original.\n\n\"What has this to do with Hepzibah and Clifford?\" asked Phoebe, with\nimpatient surprise that Holgrave should so trifle with her at such a\nmoment. \"It is Judge Pyncheon! You have shown it to me before!\"\n\n\"But here is the same face, taken within this half-hour\" said the\nartist, presenting her with another miniature. \"I had just finished it\nwhen I heard you at the door.\"\n\n\"This is death!\" shuddered Phoebe, turning very pale. \"Judge Pyncheon\ndead!\"\n\n\"Such as there represented,\" said Holgrave, \"he sits in the next room.\nThe Judge is dead, and Clifford and Hepzibah have vanished! I know no\nmore. All beyond is conjecture. On returning to my solitary chamber,\nlast evening, I noticed no light, either in the parlor, or Hepzibah\'s\nroom, or Clifford\'s; no stir nor footstep about the house. This\nmorning, there was the same death-like quiet. From my window, I\noverheard the testimony of a neighbor, that your relatives were seen\nleaving the house in the midst of yesterday\'s storm. A rumor reached\nme, too, of Judge Pyncheon being missed. A feeling which I cannot\ndescribe--an indefinite sense of some catastrophe, or\nconsummation--impelled me to make my way into this part of the house,\nwhere I discovered what you see. As a point of evidence that may be\nuseful to Clifford, and also as a memorial valuable to myself,--for,\nPhoebe, there are hereditary reasons that connect me strangely with\nthat man\'s fate,--I used the means at my disposal to preserve this\npictorial record of Judge Pyncheon\'s death.\"\n\nEven in her agitation, Phoebe could not help remarking the calmness of\nHolgrave\'s demeanor. He appeared, it is true, to feel the whole\nawfulness of the Judge\'s death, yet had received the fact into his mind\nwithout any mixture of surprise, but as an event preordained, happening\ninevitably, and so fitting itself into past occurrences that it could\nalmost have been prophesied.\n\n\"Why have you not thrown open the doors, and called in witnesses?\"\ninquired she with a painful shudder. \"It is terrible to be here alone!\"\n\n\"But Clifford!\" suggested the artist. \"Clifford and Hepzibah! We must\nconsider what is best to be done in their behalf. It is a wretched\nfatality that they should have disappeared! Their flight will throw the\nworst coloring over this event of which it is susceptible. Yet how\neasy is the explanation, to those who know them! Bewildered and\nterror-stricken by the similarity of this death to a former one, which\nwas attended with such disastrous consequences to Clifford, they have\nhad no idea but of removing themselves from the scene. How miserably\nunfortunate! Had Hepzibah but shrieked aloud,--had Clifford flung wide\nthe door, and proclaimed Judge Pyncheon\'s death,--it would have been,\nhowever awful in itself, an event fruitful of good consequences to\nthem. As I view it, it would have gone far towards obliterating the\nblack stain on Clifford\'s character.\"\n\n\"And how,\" asked Phoebe, \"could any good come from what is so very\ndreadful?\"\n\n\"Because,\" said the artist, \"if the matter can be fairly considered and\ncandidly interpreted, it must be evident that Judge Pyncheon could not\nhave come unfairly to his end. This mode of death had been an\nidiosyncrasy with his family, for generations past; not often\noccurring, indeed, but, when it does occur, usually attacking\nindividuals about the Judge\'s time of life, and generally in the\ntension of some mental crisis, or, perhaps, in an access of wrath. Old\nMaule\'s prophecy was probably founded on a knowledge of this physical\npredisposition in the Pyncheon race. Now, there is a minute and almost\nexact similarity in the appearances connected with the death that\noccurred yesterday and those recorded of the death of Clifford\'s uncle\nthirty years ago. It is true, there was a certain arrangement of\ncircumstances, unnecessary to be recounted, which made it possible nay,\nas men look at these things, probable, or even certain--that old\nJaffrey Pyncheon came to a violent death, and by Clifford\'s hands.\"\n\n\"Whence came those circumstances?\" exclaimed Phoebe. \"He being\ninnocent, as we know him to be!\"\n\n\"They were arranged,\" said Holgrave,--\"at least such has long been my\nconviction,--they were arranged after the uncle\'s death, and before it\nwas made public, by the man who sits in yonder parlor. His own death,\nso like that former one, yet attended by none of those suspicious\ncircumstances, seems the stroke of God upon him, at once a punishment\nfor his wickedness, and making plain the innocence of Clifford. But\nthis flight,--it distorts everything! He may be in concealment, near at\nhand. Could we but bring him back before the discovery of the Judge\'s\ndeath, the evil might be rectified.\"\n\n\"We must not hide this thing a moment longer!\" said Phoebe. \"It is\ndreadful to keep it so closely in our hearts. Clifford is innocent.\nGod will make it manifest! Let us throw open the doors, and call all\nthe neighborhood to see the truth!\"\n\n\"You are right, Phoebe,\" rejoined Holgrave. \"Doubtless you are right.\"\n\nYet the artist did not feel the horror, which was proper to Phoebe\'s\nsweet and order-loving character, at thus finding herself at issue with\nsociety, and brought in contact with an event that transcended ordinary\nrules. Neither was he in haste, like her, to betake himself within the\nprecincts of common life. On the contrary, he gathered a wild\nenjoyment,--as it were, a flower of strange beauty, growing in a\ndesolate spot, and blossoming in the wind,--such a flower of momentary\nhappiness he gathered from his present position. It separated Phoebe\nand himself from the world, and bound them to each other, by their\nexclusive knowledge of Judge Pyncheon\'s mysterious death, and the\ncounsel which they were forced to hold respecting it. The secret, so\nlong as it should continue such, kept them within the circle of a\nspell, a solitude in the midst of men, a remoteness as entire as that\nof an island in mid-ocean; once divulged, the ocean would flow betwixt\nthem, standing on its widely sundered shores. Meanwhile, all the\ncircumstances of their situation seemed to draw them together; they\nwere like two children who go hand in hand, pressing closely to one\nanother\'s side, through a shadow-haunted passage. The image of awful\nDeath, which filled the house, held them united by his stiffened grasp.\n\nThese influences hastened the development of emotions that might not\notherwise have flowered so. Possibly, indeed, it had been Holgrave\'s\npurpose to let them die in their undeveloped germs. \"Why do we delay\nso?\" asked Phoebe. \"This secret takes away my breath! Let us throw\nopen the doors!\"\n\n\"In all our lives there can never come another moment like this!\" said\nHolgrave. \"Phoebe, is it all terror?--nothing but terror? Are you\nconscious of no joy, as I am, that has made this the only point of life\nworth living for?\"\n\n\"It seems a sin,\" replied Phoebe, trembling, \"to think of joy at such a\ntime!\"\n\n\"Could you but know, Phoebe, how it was with me the hour before you\ncame!\" exclaimed the artist. \"A dark, cold, miserable hour! The\npresence of yonder dead man threw a great black shadow over everything;\nhe made the universe, so far as my perception could reach, a scene of\nguilt and of retribution more dreadful than the guilt. The sense of it\ntook away my youth. I never hoped to feel young again! The world\nlooked strange, wild, evil, hostile; my past life, so lonesome and\ndreary; my future, a shapeless gloom, which I must mould into gloomy\nshapes! But, Phoebe, you crossed the threshold; and hope, warmth, and\njoy came in with you! The black moment became at once a blissful one.\nIt must not pass without the spoken word. I love you!\"\n\n\"How can you love a simple girl like me?\" asked Phoebe, compelled by\nhis earnestness to speak. \"You have many, many thoughts, with which I\nshould try in vain to sympathize. And I,--I, too,--I have tendencies\nwith which you would sympathize as little. That is less matter. But I\nhave not scope enough to make you happy.\"\n\n\"You are my only possibility of happiness!\" answered Holgrave. \"I have\nno faith in it, except as you bestow it on me!\"\n\n\"And then--I am afraid!\" continued Phoebe, shrinking towards Holgrave,\neven while she told him so frankly the doubts with which he affected\nher. \"You will lead me out of my own quiet path. You will make me\nstrive to follow you where it is pathless. I cannot do so. It is not\nmy nature. I shall sink down and perish!\"\n\n\"Ah, Phoebe!\" exclaimed Holgrave, with almost a sigh, and a smile that\nwas burdened with thought.\n\n\"It will be far otherwise than as you forebode. The world owes all its\nonward impulses to men ill at ease. The happy man inevitably confines\nhimself within ancient limits. I have a presentiment that, hereafter,\nit will be my lot to set out trees, to make fences,--perhaps, even, in\ndue time, to build a house for another generation,--in a word, to\nconform myself to laws and the peaceful practice of society. Your\npoise will be more powerful than any oscillating tendency of mine.\"\n\n\"I would not have it so!\" said Phoebe earnestly.\n\n\"Do you love me?\" asked Holgrave. \"If we love one another, the moment\nhas room for nothing more. Let us pause upon it, and be satisfied. Do\nyou love me, Phoebe?\"\n\n\"You look into my heart,\" said she, letting her eyes drop. \"You know I\nlove you!\"\n\nAnd it was in this hour, so full of doubt and awe, that the one miracle\nwas wrought, without which every human existence is a blank. The bliss\nwhich makes all things true, beautiful, and holy shone around this\nyouth and maiden. They were conscious of nothing sad nor old. They\ntransfigured the earth, and made it Eden again, and themselves the two\nfirst dwellers in it. The dead man, so close beside them, was\nforgotten. At such a crisis, there is no death; for immortality is\nrevealed anew, and embraces everything in its hallowed atmosphere.\n\nBut how soon the heavy earth-dream settled down again!\n\n\"Hark!\" whispered Phoebe. \"Somebody is at the street door!\"\n\n\"Now let us meet the world!\" said Holgrave. \"No doubt, the rumor of\nJudge Pyncheon\'s visit to this house, and the flight of Hepzibah and\nClifford, is about to lead to the investigation of the premises. We\nhave no way but to meet it. Let us open the door at once.\"\n\nBut, to their surprise, before they could reach the street door,--even\nbefore they quitted the room in which the foregoing interview had\npassed,--they heard footsteps in the farther passage. The door,\ntherefore, which they supposed to be securely locked,--which Holgrave,\nindeed, had seen to be so, and at which Phoebe had vainly tried to\nenter,--must have been opened from without. The sound of footsteps was\nnot harsh, bold, decided, and intrusive, as the gait of strangers would\nnaturally be, making authoritative entrance into a dwelling where they\nknew themselves unwelcome. It was feeble, as of persons either weak or\nweary; there was the mingled murmur of two voices, familiar to both the\nlisteners.\n\n\"Can it be?\" whispered Holgrave.\n\n\"It is they!\" answered Phoebe. \"Thank God!--thank God!\"\n\nAnd then, as if in sympathy with Phoebe\'s whispered ejaculation, they\nheard Hepzibah\'s voice more distinctly.\n\n\"Thank God, my brother, we are at home!\"\n\n\"Well!--Yes!--thank God!\" responded Clifford. \"A dreary home,\nHepzibah! But you have done well to bring me hither! Stay! That parlor\ndoor is open. I cannot pass by it! Let me go and rest me in the arbor,\nwhere I used,--oh, very long ago, it seems to me, after what has\nbefallen us,--where I used to be so happy with little Phoebe!\"\n\nBut the house was not altogether so dreary as Clifford imagined it.\nThey had not made many steps,--in truth, they were lingering in the\nentry, with the listlessness of an accomplished purpose, uncertain what\nto do next,--when Phoebe ran to meet them. On beholding her, Hepzibah\nburst into tears. With all her might, she had staggered onward beneath\nthe burden of grief and responsibility, until now that it was safe to\nfling it down. Indeed, she had not energy to fling it down, but had\nceased to uphold it, and suffered it to press her to the earth.\nClifford appeared the stronger of the two.\n\n\"It is our own little Phoebe!--Ah! and Holgrave with, her\" exclaimed\nhe, with a glance of keen and delicate insight, and a smile, beautiful,\nkind, but melancholy. \"I thought of you both, as we came down the\nstreet, and beheld Alice\'s Posies in full bloom. And so the flower of\nEden has bloomed, likewise, in this old, darksome house to-day.\"\n\n\n\n\n XXI The Departure\n\n\nTHE sudden death of so prominent a member of the social world as the\nHonorable Judge Jaffrey Pyncheon created a sensation (at least, in the\ncircles more immediately connected with the deceased) which had hardly\nquite subsided in a fortnight.\n\nIt may be remarked, however, that, of all the events which constitute a\nperson\'s biography, there is scarcely one--none, certainly, of anything\nlike a similar importance--to which the world so easily reconciles\nitself as to his death. In most other cases and contingencies, the\nindividual is present among us, mixed up with the daily revolution of\naffairs, and affording a definite point for observation. At his\ndecease, there is only a vacancy, and a momentary eddy,--very small, as\ncompared with the apparent magnitude of the ingurgitated object,--and a\nbubble or two, ascending out of the black depth and bursting at the\nsurface. As regarded Judge Pyncheon, it seemed probable, at first\nblush, that the mode of his final departure might give him a larger and\nlonger posthumous vogue than ordinarily attends the memory of a\ndistinguished man. But when it came to be understood, on the highest\nprofessional authority, that the event was a natural, and--except for\nsome unimportant particulars, denoting a slight idiosyncrasy--by no\nmeans an unusual form of death, the public, with its customary\nalacrity, proceeded to forget that he had ever lived. In short, the\nhonorable Judge was beginning to be a stale subject before half the\ncountry newspapers had found time to put their columns in mourning, and\npublish his exceedingly eulogistic obituary.\n\nNevertheless, creeping darkly through the places which this excellent\nperson had haunted in his lifetime, there was a hidden stream of\nprivate talk, such as it would have shocked all decency to speak loudly\nat the street-corners. It is very singular, how the fact of a man\'s\ndeath often seems to give people a truer idea of his character, whether\nfor good or evil, than they have ever possessed while he was living and\nacting among them. Death is so genuine a fact that it excludes\nfalsehood, or betrays its emptiness; it is a touchstone that proves the\ngold, and dishonors the baser metal. Could the departed, whoever he\nmay be, return in a week after his decease, he would almost invariably\nfind himself at a higher or lower point than he had formerly occupied,\non the scale of public appreciation. But the talk, or scandal, to\nwhich we now allude, had reference to matters of no less old a date\nthan the supposed murder, thirty or forty years ago, of the late Judge\nPyncheon\'s uncle. The medical opinion with regard to his own recent\nand regretted decease had almost entirely obviated the idea that a\nmurder was committed in the former case. Yet, as the record showed,\nthere were circumstances irrefragably indicating that some person had\ngained access to old Jaffrey Pyncheon\'s private apartments, at or near\nthe moment of his death. His desk and private drawers, in a room\ncontiguous to his bedchamber, had been ransacked; money and valuable\narticles were missing; there was a bloody hand-print on the old man\'s\nlinen; and, by a powerfully welded chain of deductive evidence, the\nguilt of the robbery and apparent murder had been fixed on Clifford,\nthen residing with his uncle in the House of the Seven Gables.\n\nWhencesoever originating, there now arose a theory that undertook so to\naccount for these circumstances as to exclude the idea of Clifford\'s\nagency. Many persons affirmed that the history and elucidation of the\nfacts, long so mysterious, had been obtained by the daguerreotypist\nfrom one of those mesmerical seers who, nowadays, so strangely perplex\nthe aspect of human affairs, and put everybody\'s natural vision to the\nblush, by the marvels which they see with their eyes shut.\n\nAccording to this version of the story, Judge Pyncheon, exemplary as we\nhave portrayed him in our narrative, was, in his youth, an apparently\nirreclaimable scapegrace. The brutish, the animal instincts, as is\noften the case, had been developed earlier than the intellectual\nqualities, and the force of character, for which he was afterwards\nremarkable. He had shown himself wild, dissipated, addicted to low\npleasures, little short of ruffianly in his propensities, and\nrecklessly expensive, with no other resources than the bounty of his\nuncle. This course of conduct had alienated the old bachelor\'s\naffection, once strongly fixed upon him. Now it is averred,--but\nwhether on authority available in a court of justice, we do not pretend\nto have investigated,--that the young man was tempted by the devil, one\nnight, to search his uncle\'s private drawers, to which he had\nunsuspected means of access. While thus criminally occupied, he was\nstartled by the opening of the chamber-door. There stood old Jaffrey\nPyncheon, in his nightclothes! The surprise of such a discovery, his\nagitation, alarm, and horror, brought on the crisis of a disorder to\nwhich the old bachelor had an hereditary liability; he seemed to choke\nwith blood, and fell upon the floor, striking his temple a heavy blow\nagainst the corner of a table. What was to be done? The old man was\nsurely dead! Assistance would come too late! What a misfortune, indeed,\nshould it come too soon, since his reviving consciousness would bring\nthe recollection of the ignominious offence which he had beheld his\nnephew in the very act of committing!\n\nBut he never did revive. With the cool hardihood that always pertained\nto him, the young man continued his search of the drawers, and found a\nwill, of recent date, in favor of Clifford,--which he destroyed,--and\nan older one, in his own favor, which he suffered to remain. But\nbefore retiring, Jaffrey bethought himself of the evidence, in these\nransacked drawers, that some one had visited the chamber with sinister\npurposes. Suspicion, unless averted, might fix upon the real offender.\nIn the very presence of the dead man, therefore, he laid a scheme that\nshould free himself at the expense of Clifford, his rival, for whose\ncharacter he had at once a contempt and a repugnance. It is not\nprobable, be it said, that he acted with any set purpose of involving\nClifford in a charge of murder. Knowing that his uncle did not die by\nviolence, it may not have occurred to him, in the hurry of the crisis,\nthat such an inference might be drawn. But, when the affair took this\ndarker aspect, Jaffrey\'s previous steps had already pledged him to\nthose which remained. So craftily had he arranged the circumstances,\nthat, at Clifford\'s trial, his cousin hardly found it necessary to\nswear to anything false, but only to withhold the one decisive\nexplanation, by refraining to state what he had himself done and\nwitnessed.\n\nThus Jaffrey Pyncheon\'s inward criminality, as regarded Clifford, was,\nindeed, black and damnable; while its mere outward show and positive\ncommission was the smallest that could possibly consist with so great a\nsin. This is just the sort of guilt that a man of eminent\nrespectability finds it easiest to dispose of. It was suffered to fade\nout of sight or be reckoned a venial matter, in the Honorable Judge\nPyncheon\'s long subsequent survey of his own life. He shuffled it\naside, among the forgotten and forgiven frailties of his youth, and\nseldom thought of it again.\n\nWe leave the Judge to his repose. He could not be styled fortunate at\nthe hour of death. Unknowingly, he was a childless man, while striving\nto add more wealth to his only child\'s inheritance. Hardly a week\nafter his decease, one of the Cunard steamers brought intelligence of\nthe death, by cholera, of Judge Pyncheon\'s son, just at the point of\nembarkation for his native land. By this misfortune Clifford became\nrich; so did Hepzibah; so did our little village maiden, and, through\nher, that sworn foe of wealth and all manner of conservatism,--the wild\nreformer,--Holgrave!\n\nIt was now far too late in Clifford\'s life for the good opinion of\nsociety to be worth the trouble and anguish of a formal vindication.\nWhat he needed was the love of a very few; not the admiration, or even\nthe respect, of the unknown many. The latter might probably have been\nwon for him, had those on whom the guardianship of his welfare had\nfallen deemed it advisable to expose Clifford to a miserable\nresuscitation of past ideas, when the condition of whatever comfort he\nmight expect lay in the calm of forgetfulness. After such wrong as he\nhad suffered, there is no reparation. The pitiable mockery of it,\nwhich the world might have been ready enough to offer, coming so long\nafter the agony had done its utmost work, would have been fit only to\nprovoke bitterer laughter than poor Clifford was ever capable of. It\nis a truth (and it would be a very sad one but for the higher hopes\nwhich it suggests) that no great mistake, whether acted or endured, in\nour mortal sphere, is ever really set right. Time, the continual\nvicissitude of circumstances, and the invariable inopportunity of\ndeath, render it impossible. If, after long lapse of years, the right\nseems to be in our power, we find no niche to set it in. The better\nremedy is for the sufferer to pass on, and leave what he once thought\nhis irreparable ruin far behind him.\n\nThe shock of Judge Pyncheon\'s death had a permanently invigorating and\nultimately beneficial effect on Clifford. That strong and ponderous\nman had been Clifford\'s nightmare. There was no free breath to be\ndrawn, within the sphere of so malevolent an influence. The first\neffect of freedom, as we have witnessed in Clifford\'s aimless flight,\nwas a tremulous exhilaration. Subsiding from it, he did not sink into\nhis former intellectual apathy. He never, it is true, attained to\nnearly the full measure of what might have been his faculties. But he\nrecovered enough of them partially to light up his character, to\ndisplay some outline of the marvellous grace that was abortive in it,\nand to make him the object of no less deep, although less melancholy\ninterest than heretofore. He was evidently happy. Could we pause to\ngive another picture of his daily life, with all the appliances now at\ncommand to gratify his instinct for the Beautiful, the garden scenes,\nthat seemed so sweet to him, would look mean and trivial in comparison.\n\nVery soon after their change of fortune, Clifford, Hepzibah, and little\nPhoebe, with the approval of the artist, concluded to remove from the\ndismal old House of the Seven Gables, and take up their abode, for the\npresent, at the elegant country-seat of the late Judge Pyncheon.\nChanticleer and his family had already been transported thither, where\nthe two hens had forthwith begun an indefatigable process of\negg-laying, with an evident design, as a matter of duty and conscience,\nto continue their illustrious breed under better auspices than for a\ncentury past. On the day set for their departure, the principal\npersonages of our story, including good Uncle Venner, were assembled in\nthe parlor.\n\n\"The country-house is certainly a very fine one, so far as the plan\ngoes,\" observed Holgrave, as the party were discussing their future\narrangements. \"But I wonder that the late Judge--being so opulent, and\nwith a reasonable prospect of transmitting his wealth to descendants of\nhis own--should not have felt the propriety of embodying so excellent a\npiece of domestic architecture in stone, rather than in wood. Then,\nevery generation of the family might have altered the interior, to suit\nits own taste and convenience; while the exterior, through the lapse of\nyears, might have been adding venerableness to its original beauty, and\nthus giving that impression of permanence which I consider essential to\nthe happiness of any one moment.\"\n\n\"Why,\" cried Phoebe, gazing into the artist\'s face with infinite\namazement, \"how wonderfully your ideas are changed! A house of stone,\nindeed! It is but two or three weeks ago that you seemed to wish people\nto live in something as fragile and temporary as a bird\'s-nest!\"\n\n\"Ah, Phoebe, I told you how it would be!\" said the artist, with a\nhalf-melancholy laugh. \"You find me a conservative already! Little\ndid I think ever to become one. It is especially unpardonable in this\ndwelling of so much hereditary misfortune, and under the eye of yonder\nportrait of a model conservative, who, in that very character, rendered\nhimself so long the evil destiny of his race.\"\n\n\"That picture!\" said Clifford, seeming to shrink from its stern glance.\n\"Whenever I look at it, there is an old dreamy recollection haunting\nme, but keeping just beyond the grasp of my mind. Wealth, it seems to\nsay!--boundless wealth!--unimaginable wealth! I could fancy that, when\nI was a child, or a youth, that portrait had spoken, and told me a rich\nsecret, or had held forth its hand, with the written record of hidden\nopulence. But those old matters are so dim with me, nowadays! What\ncould this dream have been?\"\n\n\"Perhaps I can recall it,\" answered Holgrave. \"See! There are a\nhundred chances to one that no person, unacquainted with the secret,\nwould ever touch this spring.\"\n\n\"A secret spring!\" cried Clifford. \"Ah, I remember now! I did discover\nit, one summer afternoon, when I was idling and dreaming about the\nhouse, long, long ago. But the mystery escapes me.\"\n\nThe artist put his finger on the contrivance to which he had referred.\nIn former days, the effect would probably have been to cause the\npicture to start forward. But, in so long a period of concealment, the\nmachinery had been eaten through with rust; so that at Holgrave\'s\npressure, the portrait, frame and all, tumbled suddenly from its\nposition, and lay face downward on the floor. A recess in the wall was\nthus brought to light, in which lay an object so covered with a\ncentury\'s dust that it could not immediately be recognized as a folded\nsheet of parchment. Holgrave opened it, and displayed an ancient deed,\nsigned with the hieroglyphics of several Indian sagamores, and\nconveying to Colonel Pyncheon and his heirs, forever, a vast extent of\nterritory at the Eastward.\n\n\"This is the very parchment, the attempt to recover which cost the\nbeautiful Alice Pyncheon her happiness and life,\" said the artist,\nalluding to his legend. \"It is what the Pyncheons sought in vain,\nwhile it was valuable; and now that they find the treasure, it has long\nbeen worthless.\"\n\n\"Poor Cousin Jaffrey! This is what deceived him,\" exclaimed Hepzibah.\n\"When they were young together, Clifford probably made a kind of\nfairy-tale of this discovery. He was always dreaming hither and\nthither about the house, and lighting up its dark corners with\nbeautiful stories. And poor Jaffrey, who took hold of everything as if\nit were real, thought my brother had found out his uncle\'s wealth. He\ndied with this delusion in his mind!\"\n\n\"But,\" said Phoebe, apart to Holgrave, \"how came you to know the\nsecret?\"\n\n\"My dearest Phoebe,\" said Holgrave, \"how will it please you to assume\nthe name of Maule? As for the secret, it is the only inheritance that\nhas come down to me from my ancestors. You should have known sooner\n(only that I was afraid of frightening you away) that, in this long\ndrama of wrong and retribution, I represent the old wizard, and am\nprobably as much a wizard as ever he was. The son of the executed\nMatthew Maule, while building this house, took the opportunity to\nconstruct that recess, and hide away the Indian deed, on which depended\nthe immense land-claim of the Pyncheons. Thus they bartered their\neastern territory for Maule\'s garden-ground.\"\n\n\"And now\" said Uncle Venner \"I suppose their whole claim is not worth\none man\'s share in my farm yonder!\"\n\n\"Uncle Venner,\" cried Phoebe, taking the patched philosopher\'s hand,\n\"you must never talk any more about your farm! You shall never go\nthere, as long as you live! There is a cottage in our new garden,--the\nprettiest little yellowish-brown cottage you ever saw; and the\nsweetest-looking place, for it looks just as if it were made of\ngingerbread,--and we are going to fit it up and furnish it, on purpose\nfor you. And you shall do nothing but what you choose, and shall be as\nhappy as the day is long, and shall keep Cousin Clifford in spirits\nwith the wisdom and pleasantness which is always dropping from your\nlips!\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear child,\" quoth good Uncle Venner, quite overcome, \"if you\nwere to speak to a young man as you do to an old one, his chance of\nkeeping his heart another minute would not be worth one of the buttons\non my waistcoat! And--soul alive!--that great sigh, which you made me\nheave, has burst off the very last of them! But, never mind! It was the\nhappiest sigh I ever did heave; and it seems as if I must have drawn in\na gulp of heavenly breath, to make it with. Well, well, Miss Phoebe!\nThey\'ll miss me in the gardens hereabouts, and round by the back doors;\nand Pyncheon Street, I\'m afraid, will hardly look the same without old\nUncle Venner, who remembers it with a mowing field on one side, and the\ngarden of the Seven Gables on the other. But either I must go to your\ncountry-seat, or you must come to my farm,--that\'s one of two things\ncertain; and I leave you to choose which!\"\n\n\"Oh, come with us, by all means, Uncle Venner!\" said Clifford, who had\na remarkable enjoyment of the old man\'s mellow, quiet, and simple\nspirit. \"I want you always to be within five minutes, saunter of my\nchair. You are the only philosopher I ever knew of whose wisdom has\nnot a drop of bitter essence at the bottom!\"\n\n\"Dear me!\" cried Uncle Venner, beginning partly to realize what manner\nof man he was. \"And yet folks used to set me down among the simple\nones, in my younger days! But I suppose I am like a Roxbury russet,--a\ngreat deal the better, the longer I can be kept. Yes; and my words of\nwisdom, that you and Phoebe tell me of, are like the golden dandelions,\nwhich never grow in the hot months, but may be seen glistening among\nthe withered grass, and under the dry leaves, sometimes as late as\nDecember. And you are welcome, friends, to my mess of dandelions, if\nthere were twice as many!\"\n\nA plain, but handsome, dark-green barouche had now drawn up in front of\nthe ruinous portal of the old mansion-house. The party came forth, and\n(with the exception of good Uncle Venner, who was to follow in a few\ndays) proceeded to take their places. They were chatting and laughing\nvery pleasantly together; and--as proves to be often the case, at\nmoments when we ought to palpitate with sensibility--Clifford and\nHepzibah bade a final farewell to the abode of their forefathers, with\nhardly more emotion than if they had made it their arrangement to\nreturn thither at tea-time. Several children were drawn to the spot by\nso unusual a spectacle as the barouche and pair of gray horses.\nRecognizing little Ned Higgins among them, Hepzibah put her hand into\nher pocket, and presented the urchin, her earliest and staunchest\ncustomer, with silver enough to people the Domdaniel cavern of his\ninterior with as various a procession of quadrupeds as passed into the\nark.\n\nTwo men were passing, just as the barouche drove off.\n\n\"Well, Dixey,\" said one of them, \"what do you think of this? My wife\nkept a cent-shop three months, and lost five dollars on her outlay.\nOld Maid Pyncheon has been in trade just about as long, and rides off\nin her carriage with a couple of hundred thousand,--reckoning her\nshare, and Clifford\'s, and Phoebe\'s,--and some say twice as much! If\nyou choose to call it luck, it is all very well; but if we are to take\nit as the will of Providence, why, I can\'t exactly fathom it!\"\n\n\"Pretty good business!\" quoth the sagacious Dixey,--\"pretty good\nbusiness!\"\n\nMaule\'s well, all this time, though left in solitude, was throwing up a\nsuccession of kaleidoscopic pictures, in which a gifted eye might have\nseen foreshadowed the coming fortunes of Hepzibah and Clifford, and the\ndescendant of the legendary wizard, and the village maiden, over whom\nhe had thrown love\'s web of sorcery. The Pyncheon Elm, moreover, with\nwhat foliage the September gale had spared to it, whispered\nunintelligible prophecies. And wise Uncle Venner, passing slowly from\nthe ruinous porch, seemed to hear a strain of music, and fancied that\nsweet Alice Pyncheon--after witnessing these deeds, this bygone woe and\nthis present happiness, of her kindred mortals--had given one farewell\ntouch of a spirit\'s joy upon her harpsichord, as she floated heavenward\nfrom the HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES!'"