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BLINDLY, BUT UNDOUBTINGLY, ... THE PROUD ALICE
APPROACHED HIM (page 246)
Wy RIVERSIDE BOOKSHELF U ml
Ze
THE HOUSE OF THE
SEVEN GABLES
A Romance
BY
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HELEN MASON GROSE
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riversive Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE - MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
y 7 sf
Ch, 4 Je te Le
Ah tPA
Se@ ’ 47
PUBLISHERS’ NOTE
“THE House of the Seven Gables” was published a
year later than “ The Scarlet Letter,” and was praised
as warmly as the earlier book. The “ North American
Review” said of it, ‘¢ The successive scenes of this bold
and startling fiction are portrayed with a vividness
and power unsurpassed and rarely equalled’’; and the
“International Magazine” called it “the purest piece
of imagination in our prose literature.”
For almost three quarters of a century it has held
its place, and it is interesting to note that in recent
years it has been included in some of the best lists of
required or recommended reading for young people.
Certainly the young reader who comes to it now for
the first time will find in it many of the most enthrall-
ing elements of romance, — family feud, mysterious
death, false imprisonment, valuable documents hidden
in a secret recess, and a charming heroine who removes
the curse. Being wise in the popular knowledge of our
present-day scientific wonders, he will perhaps smile
at the part that mesmerism plays in the story, and at
the uncertain feeling about the telegraph, — which was
a recent marvel when “The House of the Seven
Gables” was written.
The distinctive feature of this new edition is the
series of thirty-six full-page illustrations by Mrs. Grose.
These have grown out of the artist’s admiration for the
story and her perception of the many points in it which
il PUBLISHERS’ NOTE
lend themselves so well to effective illustration. Her
work has been in the best sense a labor of love.
The publishers, on their part, have endeavored to
produce a volume which in format serves as an appro-
priate setting.
Boston, July, 1924
CONTENTS.
eee
Intropuctory Nore ’ : ; , X
PREFACE
1.
Il.
II.
LY.
Y;
Vit
VII.
VU
IX.
XI.
XIl.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
a dd
XVIII.
XIX.
XXI.
Tue Otp PyNCHEON FAMILY . ‘
Tue Littte SHoprp-WinDow . 4
Tue First CustoMER : :
A Day BEHIND THE COUNTER
May anp NOVEMBER .
Mavute’s WELL ;
Tue GUEST . : ; ?
THe PYNCHEON OF TO-DAY .
CLIFFORD AND PH@BE
. THe PyncHEON GARDEN 3 :
THe ARCHED WINDOW J 4
THE DAGUERREOTYPIST
ALICE PYNCHEON ; “fy
PH@BE’S GOOD-BY . “ x ;
THE ScowL AND SMILE. i :
CLIFFORD’S CHAMBER
Tue Fuicut oF Two Ow.Ls
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON . : .
ALICE’s PosIEs . : ; ‘ 4
. THe FLOWER oF EDEN . 3 :
THE DEPARTURE : M : ;
e
PAGE
13
17
46
60
76
92
110
123
142
162
176
192
208
224
252
266
285
300
317
336
355
366
ILLUSTRATIONS
Blindly, but. undoubtingly, ...the proud Alice ap-
proached him Colored frontispiece
Poring over the dingy pages of his day-book 44
She stole on tiptoe to the window, as cautiously as if she
conceived some bloody-minded villain to be watching
behind the elm-tree, with intent to take her life 56
“Heaven help me!” she groaned, mentally. “Now is
my hour of need!” (zn color) 68
“Where is the cent?” 712
It was a face to which almost any door would have
opened of its own accord 90
As for the bargain, it was wrinkled slyness and craft
pitted against native truth and sagacity 102
“Yes, dear cousin,’ answered Phcebe; “but, in the
mean time, I hear somebody ringing it!” 106
The chicken... mustered vivacity enough to flutter
upward and alight on Phcebe’s shoulder (zn color) 112
“Be careful not to drink at Maule’s Well!” said he 116
“In a moment, cousin!” answered the girl. “These
matches just glimmer, and go out” 120
Phoebe could see the quivering of her gaunt shadow, as
thrown by the firelight on the kitchen wall 128
**Ah! — let me see! — let me hold it!” cried the guest 136
**Good Heavens, Hepzibah! what horrible disturbances
have we now in the house?”’ 140
ILLUSTRATIONS Vv
**Her brother! And where can he have been?”’ 144
Pheebe, just at the critical moment, drew back (in color) 148
She unlocked a bookcase, and took down several books
that had been excellent reading in their day 162
It pleased him best, however, when she sat on a low
footstool at his knee (in color) 168
It was with indescribable interest, and even more than
childish delight, that Clifford watched the humming-
birds 180
Chanticleer, the next day, accompanied by the be-
reaved mother of the egg, took his post in front of
Phoebe and Clifford, and delivered himself of a ha-
rangue 186
A china bowl of currants, freshly gathered from the
bushes 190
With his quick professional eye he took note of the two
faces watching him from the arched window (in color) 196
Fresh was Phcebe, moreover, and airy and sweet in her
apparel 202
“Yes, if it is not very long,” said Phoebe 229
**My father, you sent for me,” said Alice, in her sweet
and harp-like voice 240
“Tt is unaccountable how little while it takes some folks
to grow just as natural to a man as his own breath” 264
“You cherish, at this moment, some black purpose
against him in your heart” 272
Instinctively she paused before the arched window 286
**As for us, Hepzibah, we can dance now!” _— (zn color) 296
**For Heaven’s sake, dear Clifford, be quiet!” whis-
pered his sister. “They think you mad” $12
vi ILLUSTRATIONS
The Judge has not shifted his position for a long while
now 318
A straw bonnet, and then the pretty figure of a young
girl 350
“Tell me! — tell me!” said Phoebe, all in a tremble 356
“You look into my heart,” said she, letting her eyes
drop. “You know I love you!” 360
“Hark!”? whispered Phoebe. ‘Somebody is at the
street-door”’ . (an color) 364
Holgrave opened it, and displayed an ancient deed 374
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
In September of the year during the February of
which Hawthorne had completed “The Scarlet Leé-
ter,” he began “The House of the Seven Gables.”
Meanwhile, he had removed from Salem to Lenox, in
Berkshire County, Massachusetts, where he occupied
with his family a small red wooden house, still stand-
ing at the date of this edition, near the Stockbridge
Bowl.
* J sha’n’t have the new story ready by November,”
fie explained to his publisher, on the 1st of October,
“for 1 am never good for anything in the literary
way till after the first autumnal frost, which has
somewhat such an effect on my imagination that it
does on the foliage here about me — multiplying and
brightening its hues.” But by vigorous application
he was able to complete the new work about the mid-
dle of the January following.
Since research has disclosed the manner in which
the romance is interwoven with incidents from the
history of the Hawthorne family, “The House of the
Seven Gables” has acquired an interest apart from
that by which it first appealed to the public. John
Hathorne (as the name was then spelled), the great-
grandfather of Nathaniel Hawthorne, was a magis-
8 INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
trate at Salem in the latter part of the seventeenth
century, and officiated at the famous trials for witch-
craft held there. It is of record that he used peculiar
severity towards a certain woman who was among the
accused ;. and the husband of this woman prophesied
that God would take revenge upon his wife’s perse-
eutors. This circumstance doubtless furnished a hint
for that piece of tradition in the book which repre-
sents a Pyncheon of a former generation as having
persecuted one Maule, who declared’ that God would
give his enemy “blood to drink.” It became a con-
viction with the Hawthorne family that a curse had
been pronounced upon its members, which continued
in force in the time of the romancer; a conviction
perhaps derived from the recorded prophecy of the in-
jured woman’s husband, just mentioned; and, here
again, we have a correspondence with Maule’s male-
diction in the story. Furthermore, there occurs in the
*¢ American Note-Books” (August 27, 1837), a remi-
niscence of the author’s family, to the following effect.
Philip English, a character well-known in early Salem
annals, was among those who suffered from John
Hathorne’s magisterial harshness, and he maintained
in consequence a lasting feud with the old Puritan
official. But at his death English left daughters, one
of whom is said to have married the son of Justice
John Hathorne, whom English had declared he would
never forgive. It is scarcely necessary to point out
how clearly this foreshadows the final union of those
hereditary foes, the Pyncheons and Maules, through
the marriage of Phebe and Holgrave. The romance,
however, describes the Maules as possessing some of
the traits known to have been characteristic of the
Hawthornes: for example, “so long as any of the race
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 2
were to be found, they had been marked out from
other men —not strikingly, nor as with a sharp line,
but with an effect that was felt rather than spoken of
— by an hereditary characteristic of reserve.” Thus,
while the general suggestion of the Hawthorne line
and its fortunes was followed in the romance, the
Pyncheons taking the place of the author’s family,
certain distinguishing marks of the Hawthornes were
assigned to the imaginary Maule posterity.
There are one or two other points tvhich indicate
Hawthorne’s method of basing his compositions, the
result in the main of pure invention, on the solid
ground of particular facts. Allusion is made, in the
first chapter of the “Seven Gables,” to a grant of
lands in Waldo County, Maine, owned by the Pyn-
cheon family. In the “ American Note-Books ” there
is an entry, dated August 12, 1837, which speaks of
the Revolutionary general, Knox, and his land-grant
in Waldo County, by virtue of which the owner had
hoped to establish an estate on the English plan, with
a tenantry to make it profitable for him. An incident
of much greater importance in the story is the sup-
posed murder of one of the Pyncheons by his nephew,
to whom we are introduced as Clifford Pyncheon. In
all probability Hawthorne connected with this, in his
mind, the murder of Mr. White, a wealthy gentleman
of Salem, killed by a man whom his nephew had hired.
This took place a few years after Hawthorne’s grad-
uation from college, and was one of the celebrated
eases of the day, Daniel Webster taking part prom-
inently in the trial. But it should be observed here
that such resemblances as these between sundry ele-
ments in the work of Hawthorne’s fancy and details
of reality are only fragmentary, and are rearranged
to suit the author’s purposes.
10 INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
In the same way he has made his description of
Hepzibah Pyncheon’s seven-gabled mansion conform
so nearly to several old dwellings formerly or still ex-
tant in Salem, that strenuous efforts have been made
to fix upon some one of them as the veritable edifice
of the romance. A paragraph in the opening chapter
has perhaps assisted this delusion that there must
have been a single original House of the Seven
Gables, framed by flesh-and-blood carpenters; for it
runs thus :—
‘* Familiar as it stands in the writer’s recollection
—for it has been an object of curiosity with him
from boyhood, both as a specimen of the best and
stateliest architecture of a long-past epoch, and as the
scene of events more full of interest perhaps than
those of a gray feudal castle — familiar as it stands,
in its rusty old age, it is therefore only the more diffi-
cult to imagine the bright novelty with which it first
zaught the sunshine.”
Hundreds of pilgrims annually visit a house in
Salem, belonging to one branch of the Ingersoll
family of that place, which is stoutly maintained to
have been the model for Hawthorne’s visionary dwell-
ing. Others have supposed that the now vanished
house of the identical Philip English, whose blood, as
we have already noticed, became mingled with that
of the Hawthornes, supplied the pattern; and still
a third building, known as the Curwen mansion, has
been declared the only genuine establishment. Not-
withstanding persistent popular belief, the authenticity
of all these must positively be denied; although it is
possible that isolated reminiscences of all three may
have blended with the ideal image in the mind of
Hawthorne. He, it will be seen, remarks in the Pref-
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. ii
ace, alluding to himself in the third person, that he
trusts not to be condemned for “laying out a street
that infringes upon nobody’s private rights . . . and
building a house of materials long in use for con-
structing castles in the air.” More than this, he
stated to persons still living that the house of the ro-
mance was not copied from any actual edifice, but
was simply a general reproduction of a style of archi-
tecture belonging to colonial days, examples of which
survived into the period of his youth, but have since
been radically modified or destroyed. Here, as else-
where, he exercised the liberty of a creative mind to
heighten the probability of his pictures without con-
fining himself to a literal description of something
he had seen.
While Hawthorne remained at Lenox, and during
the composition of this romance, various other literary
personages settled or stayed for a time in the vicinity;
among them, Herman Melville, whose intercourse
Hawthorne greatly enjoyed, Henry James, Sr., Doctor
Holmes, J.T. Headley, James Russell Lowell, Edwin
P. Whipple, Frederika Bremer, and J. T. Fields; so
that there was no lack of intellectual society in the
midst of the beautiful and inspiring mountain scenery
of the place. “In the afternoons, nowadays,” he re-
cords, shortly before beginning the work, “this valley
in which I dwell seems like a vast basin filled with
golden sunshine as with wine;” and, happy in the
companionship of his wife and their three children,
he led a simple, refined, idyllic life, despite the restric-
tions of a scanty and uncertain income. A letter writ.
ten by Mrs. Hawthorne, at this time, to a member of
ber famiiy, gives incidentally a glimpse of the scene,
which may properly find a place here. She says: “3
12 INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
delight to think that you also can look forth, as I do
now, upon a broad valley and a fine amphitheatre of
hills, and are about to watch the stately ceremony of
the sunset from your piazza. But you have not this
lovely lake, nor, I suppose, the delicate purple mist
which folds these slumbering mountains in airy veils,
Mr. Hawthorne has been lying down in the sunshine,
slightly fleckered with the shadows of a tree, and Una
and Julian have been making him look like the mighty
Pan, by covering his chin and breast with long grass-
blades, that looked like a verdant and venerable
beard.” The pleasantness and peace of his surround-
ings and of his modest home, in Lenox, may be taken
into account as harmonizing with the mellow serenity
of the romance then produced. Of the work, when it
appeared in the early spring of 1851, he wrote to Ho-
ratio Bridge these words, now published for the first
time : —
“*'The House of the Seven Gables,’ in my opinion,
is better than ‘The Scarlet Letter;’ but I should not
wonder if I had refined upon the principal character a
little too much for popular appreciation, nor if the ro-
mance of the book should be somewhat at odds with
the humble and familiar scenery in which I invest it.
But I feel that portions of it are as good as anything
I can hope to write, and the publisher speaks encour-
agingly of its success.”
From England, especially, came many warm ex-
pressions of praise, —a fact which Mrs. Hawthorne,
in a private letter, commented on as the fulfilment of
a possibility which Hawthorne, writing in boyhood to
his mother, had looked forward to. He had asked
her if she would not like him to become an author and
have his books read in England.
G. Rae
PREFACE.
—e——
WHEN a writer calls his work a Romance, it need
kardly be observed that he wishes to claim a certain
latitude, both as to its fashion and material, which
he would not have felt himself entitled to assume had
he professed to be writing a Novel. The latter form
of composition is presumed to aim at a very minute
fidelity, not merely to the possible, but to the prob-
able and ordinary course of man’s experience. The
former — while, as a work of art, it must rigidly sub-
ject itself to laws, and while it sins unpardonably so
far as it may swerve aside from the truth of the hu-
man heart —has fairly a right to present that truth
under circumstances, to a great extent, of the writer’s
own choosing or creation. If he think fit, also, he
may so manage his atmospherical medium as to bring
out or mellow the lights and deepen and enrich the
shadows of the picture. He will be wise, no doubt, to
make a very moderate use of the privileges here stat-
ed, and, especially, to mingle the Marvellous rather as a
slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor, than as any por-
tion of the actual substance of the dish offered to the
public. He can hardly be said, however, to commit a
literary crime even if he disregard this caution.
In the present work, the author has proposed te
himself — but with what success, fortunately, it is not
for him to judge—to keep undeviatingly within his
14 PREFACE.
immunities. The point of view in which this tale
comes under the Romantic definition lies in the at-
tempt to connect a bygone time with the very present
that is flitting away from us. It is a legend prolong-
ing itself, from an epoch now gray in the distance,
down into our own broad daylight, and bringing along
with it some of its legendary mist, which the reader, ac-
cording to his pleasure, may either disregard, or allow
it to float almost imperceptibly about the characters
and events for the sake of a picturesque effect. The
narrative, it may be, is woven of so humble a texture
as to require this advantage, and, at the same time, to
render it the more difficult of attainment.
Many writers lay very great stress upon some defi-
nite moral purpose, at which they profess to aim their
works. Not to be deficient in this particular, the au-
thor has provided himself with a moral, —the truth,
namely, that the wrong-doing of one generation lives
. into the successive ones, and, divesting itself of every
temporary advantage, becomes a pure and uncontrol-
lable mischief; and he would feel it a singular grat-
ification if this romance might effectually convince
mankind — or, indeed, any one man — of the folly of
tumbling down an avalanche of ill-gotten gold, or real
estate, on the heads of an unfortunate posterity, there-
by to maim and crush them, until the accumulated
mass shall be scattered abroad in its original atoms.
In good faith, however, he is not sufficiently imagina-
tive to flatter himself with the slightest hope of this
kind. When romances do really teach anything, or
produce any effective operation, it is usually through
a far more subtile process than the ostensible one.
The author has considered it hardly worth his while,
therefore, relentlessly to impale the story with its
PREFACE. 15
moral as with an iron rod,— or, rather, as by sticking
a pin through a butterfly, — thus at once depriving it
of life, and causing it to stiffen in an ungainly and un-
aatural attitude. A high truth, indeed, fairly, finely,
and skilfully wrought out, brightening at every step,
and crowning the final development of a work of fic-
tion, may add an artistic glory, but is never any truer,
and seldom any more evident, at the last page than at
the first.
The reader may perhaps choose to assign an actual
locality to the imaginary events of this narrative. If
permitted by the historical connection, — which, though
slight, was essential to his plan, — the author would
very willingly have avoided anything of this nature.
Not to speak of other objections, it exposes the ro-
mance to an inflexible and exceedingly dangerous spe-
cies of criticism, by bringing his fancy-pictures almost
into positive contact with the realities of the moment.
It has been no part of his object, however, to describe
local manners, nor in any way to meddle witb the
characteristics of a community for whom he cherishes
@ proper respect and a natural regard. He trusts not
to be considered as unpardonably offending by laying
out a street that infringes upon nobody’s private rights,
and appropriating a lot of land which had no visible
swner, and building a house of materials long in use
for constructing castles in the air. The personages of
the tale— though they give themselves out to be of
ancient stability and considerable prominence — are
really of the author’s own making, or, at all events, of
his own mixing ; their virtues can shed no lustre, nor
their defects redound, in the remotest degree, to the
discredit of the venerable town of which they protess
to be inhabitants. He would be glad, therefore, if
16 PREFACE.
especially in the quarter to which he alludes —ths
book may be read strictly as a Romance, having a
great deal more to do with she clouds overhead than
with any portion of the actual soil ot the County of
Essex.
Lenox, January 27, 188i,
THE
HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES
—_——~———
I.
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY.
Hatr-way down a by-street of one of our New
England towns stands a rusty wooden house, with
seven acutely peaked gables, facing towards various
points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney
in the midst. The street is Pyncheon Street; the
house is the old Pyncheon House; and an elm-tree,
of wide circumference, rooted before the door, is famil-
iar to every town-born child by the title of the Pyn-
cheon Elm. On my occasional visits to the town
aforesaid, I seldom failed to turn down Pyncheon
Street, for the sake of passing through the shadow
of these two antiquities, — the great elm-tree and the
weather-beaten edifice.
The aspect of the venerable mansion has always
affected me like a human countenance, bearing the
traces not merely of outward storm and sunshine, but
expressive, also, of the long lapse of mortal life, and
accompanying vicissitudes that have passed within.
- Were these to be worthily recounted, they would
form a narrative of no small interest and instruction,
and possessing, moreover, a certain remarkable unity,
VOL. III. 2
18 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
which might almost seem the result of artistic arrange
ment. But the story would include a chain of events
extending over the better part of two centuries, and,
written out with reasonable amplitude, would fill a
bigger folio volume, or a longer series of duodecimos,
than could prudently be appropriated to the annals of
all New England during a similar period. It conse.
quently becomes imperative to make short work with
most of the traditionary lore of which the old Pyn-
cheon House, otherwise known as the House of the
Seven Gables, has been the theme. With a brief
sketch, therefore, of the circumstances amid which the
foundation of the house was laid, and a rapid glimpse
at its quaint exterior, as it grew black in the prevalent
east wind, — pointing, too, here and there, at some
spot of more verdant mossiness on its roof and walls,
— we shall commence the real action of our tale at an
epoch not very remote from the present day. Still,
there will be a connection with the long past —a ref
erence to forgotten events and personages, ard to
manners, feelings, and opinions, almost_or wholly ob-
solete — which, if adequately translated to the reader,
would serve to illustrate how much of old material
goes to make up the freshest novelty of human life.
Hence, too, might be drawn a weighty lesson from the
little-regarded truth, that the act of the passing gener-
ation is the germ which may and must produce good.
or evil fruit in a far-distant time; that, together with
che seed of the merely temporary crop, which mortals
serm expediency, they inevitably sow the acorns of a
more enduring growth, which may darkly overshadow
their posterity.
The House of the Seven Gables, antique as it now
iooks, was not the first habitation erected by civilized
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 19
man on precisely the same spot of ground. Pyncheon
Street formerly bore the humbler appellation of Maule’s
Lane, from the name of the original occupant of the
soil, before whose cottage-door it was a cow-path. A
natural spring of soft and pleasant water —a rare
treasure on the sea-girt peninsula, where the Puritan
settlement was made —had early induced Matthew
Maule to build a hut, shaggy with thatch, at this
point, although somewhat too remote from what was
then the centre of the village. In the growth of the
town, however, after some thirty or forty years, the
site covered by this rude hovel had become exceed-
ingly desirable in the eyes of a prominent and power-
ful personage, who asserted plausible claims to the
proprietorship of this, and a large adjacent tract of
land, on the strength of a grant from the legislature.
Colonel Pyncheon, the claimant, as we gather from
whatever traits of him are preserved, was character-
ized by an iron energy of purpose. Matthew Maule,
on the other hand, though an obscure man, was stub-
born in the defence of what he considered his right ;
and, for several years, he succeeded in protecting the
acre or two of earth, which, with his own toil, he had
hewn out of the primeval forest, to be his garden-
ground and homestead. No written record of this
dispute is known to be in existence. Our acquaint
ance with the whole subject is derived chiefly from
tradition. It would be bold, therefore, and possibly
unjust, to venture a decisive opinion as to its merits;
although it appears to have been at least a matter of
doubt, whether Colonel Pyncheon’s claim were not
unduly stretched, in order to make it cover the small
metes and bounds of Matthew Maule. What greatly
strengthens such a suspicion is the fact that this com
20 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
troversy between two ill-matched antagonists—at a
period, moreover, laud it as we may, when personal
influence had far more weight than now — remained
for years undecided, and came to a close only with the
death of the party occupying the disputed soil. The
mode of his death, too, affects the mind differently,
in our day, from what it did a century and a half ago.
It was a death that blasted with strange horror the
humble name of the dweller in the cottage, and made
*t seem almost a religious act to drive the plough over
the little area of his habitation, and obliterate his place
and memory from among men.
Old Matthew Maule, in a word, was executed for
the crime of witchcraft. He was one of the martyrs
to that terrible delusion, which should teach us, among
its other morals, that the influential classes, and_those
who take upon themsétvesto be leaders of the people,
are fully liable to all the passionate error that has
ever characterized the maddest mob. lergymen,
judges, statesmen, —the wisest, calmést, holiest per-
sons of their day,— stood in the inner circle round
about the gallows, loudest to applaud the work of
blood, latest to confess themselves miserably deceived.
If any one part of their proceedings can be said to de-
serve less blame than another, it was the singular in-
discrimination with which they persecuted, not merely
the-poor and aged, as in former judicial massacres, but
people of all ranks; their own equals, brethren, and
wives. Amid the disorder of such various ruin, it is
not strange that a man of inconsiderable note, like
Maule, should have trodden the martyr’s path to the
hill of execution almost unremarked in the throng of
his fellow-sufferers. But, in after days, when the
frenzy of that hideous epoch had subsided, it was re
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. pA
membered how loudly Colonel Pyncheon had joined
in the general cry, to purge the land from witchcraft ;
nor did it fail to be whispered, that there was an in-
vidious acrimony in the zeal with which he had sought
the condemnation of Matthew Maule. It was well
known that the victim had recognized the bitterness
of personal enmity in his persecutor’s conduct towards
him, and that he declared himself hunted to death for
his spoil. At the moment of execution —with the
halter about his neck, and while Colonel Pyncheon
sat on horseback, grimly gazing at the scene — Maule
had addressed him from the scaffold, and uttered a
prophecy, of which history, as well as fireside tradi-
tion, has preserved the very words. “God,” said the
dying man, pointing his finger, with a ghastly look,
at the undismayed countenance of his enemy, — “ God
will give him blood to drink!”
\ After the reputed wizard’s death, his humble home-
stead had fallen an easy spoil into Colonel Pyncheon’s
grasp. When it was understood, however, that the
Colonel intended to erect a family mansion — spacious,
ponderously framed of oaken timber, and calculated to
endure for many generations of his posterity — over
the spot first covered by the log-built hut of Matthew
Maule, there was much shaking of the head among
the village gossips. Without absolutely expressing a
doubt whether the stalwart Puritan had acted asa man
of conscience and integrity throughout the proceedings
which have been sketched, they, nevertheless, hinted’
that he was about to build his house over an unquiet
grave. His home would include the home of the dead
and buried wizard, and would thus afford the ghost of
the latter a kind of privilege to haunt its new apart-
ments, and the chambers into which future bridegrooms
22 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
were to lead their brides, and where children of the
Pyncheon blood were to be born. The terror and ugli-
ness of Maule’s crime, and the wretchedness of his
punishment, would darken the freshly plastered walls,
and infect them early with the scent of an old and mel-
ancholy house. Why, then, —while so much of the
soil around him was bestrewn with the virgin forest-
leaves, —why should Colonel Pyncheon prefer a site
that had already been accurst?
But the_Puritan_ soldier and magistrate was not a
man to be turned aside from his well-considered
scheme, either by dread of the wizard’s ghost, or by
flimsy sentimentalities of any kind, however specious.
Had he been told of a bad air, it might have moved
him somewhat ; but he was ready to encounter an evil
spirit on his own ground. Endowed with common-
sense, as massive and hard as blocks of granite, fas-
tened together by stern rigidity of purpose, as with
iron clamps, he followed out his original design, prob-
ably without so much as imagining an objection to it.
On the score of delicacy, or any scrupulousness which
a finer sensibility might have taught him, the Colonel,
like most of his breed and generation, was impenetra-
ble. He, therefore, dug his cellar, and laid the deep
foundations of his mansion, on the square of earth
whence Matthew Maule, forty years before, had first
swept away the fallen leaves. It was acurious, and, as
some people thought, an ominous fact, that, very soon
after the workmen began their operations, the spring
of water, above mentioned, entirely lost the delicious-
ness of its pristine quality. Whether its sources were
disturbed by the depth of the new cellar, or whatever
subtler cause might lurk at the bottom, it is certain
that the water of Maule’s Well, as it continued to be
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 23
ealled, grew hard and brackish. Even such we find it
now ; and any old woman of the neighborhood will cer.
afy that it is productive of intestinal mischief to those
who quench their thirst there.
The reader may deem it singular that the head car.
penter of the new edifice was no other than the son of
the very man from whose dead gripe the property of
the soil had been wrested. Not improbably he was the
best workman of his time; or, perhaps, the Colonel
thought it expedient, or was impelled by some better
feeling, thus openly to cast aside all animosity against
the race of his fallen antagonist. Nor was it out of
keeping with the general coarseness and matter-of-fact
character of the age, that the son should be willing to
earn an honest penny, or, rather, a weighty amount of
sterling pounds, from the purse of his father’s deadly
enemy. At all events, Thomas Maule became the ar.
chitect of the House of the Seven Gables, and per-
formed his duty so faithfully that the timber frame-
work fastened by his hands still holds together.
Thus the great house was built. Familiar as it
stands in the writer’s recollection, — for it has been an
object of curiosity with him from boyhood, both as a
specimen of the best and stateliest architecture of a
long-past epoch, and as the scene of events more full
of human interest, perhaps, than those of a gray feu-
dal castle, — familiar as it stands, in its rusty old age,
it is therefore only the more difficult to imagine the
bright novelty with which it first caught the sunshine.
The impression of its actual state, at this distance of
a hundred and sixty years, darkens inevitably through
the picture which we would fain give of its appearance
on the morning when the Puritan magnate bade all the
town to be his guests. A ceremony of consecration,
94 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
festive as well as religious, was now to be performed.
A prayer and discourse from the Rev. Mr. Higginson,
and the outpouring of a psalm from the general throat
of the community, was to be made acceptable to the
erosser sense by ale, cider, wine, and brandy, in copi-
ous effusion, and, as some authorities aver, by an ox,
roasted whole, or at least, by the weight and substance
of an ox, in more manageable joints and sirloins. The
carcass of a deer, shot within twenty miles, had sup-
plied material for the vast circumference of a pasty.
A codfish of sixty pounds, caught in the bay, had
been dissolved into the rich liquid of a chowder. The
chimney of the new house, in short, belching forth
its kitchen-smoke, impregnated the whole air with the
scent of meats, fowls, and fishes, spicily concocted with
odoriferous herbs, and onions in abundance. The
mere smell of such festivity, making its way to every-
body’s nostrils, was at once an invitation and an appe-
tite.
Maule’s Lane, or Pyncheon Street, as it were now
more decorous to call it, was thronged, at the appointed
hour, as with a congregation on its way to church.
All, as they approached, looked upward at the impos-
ing edifice, which was henceforth to assume its rank
among the habitations of mankind. There it rose, a
little withdrawn from the line of the street, but ir
pride, not modesty. Its whole visible exterior was or-
namented with quaint figures, conceived in the gro-
tesqueness of a Gothic fancy, and drawn or stamped
in the glittering plaster, composed of lime, pebbles,
and bits of glass, with which the woodwork of the
walls was overspread. On every side the seven gables
pointed sharply towards the sky, and presented the
aspect of a whole sisterhood of edifices, breathing
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 25
through the spiracles of one great chimney. The
many lattices, with their small, diamond-shaped panes,
admitted the sunlight into hall and chamber, while, —
nevertheless, the second story, projecting far over the
ase, and itself retiring beneath the third, threw a
shadowy and thoughtful gloom into the lower rooms,
Carved globes of wood were affixed under the jutting
stories. Little spiral rods of iron beautified each of
the seven peaks. On the triangular pcrtion of the
gable, that fronted next the street, was a dial, put up
that very morning, and on which the sun was still
marking the passage of the first bright hour in a his-
tory that was not destined to be all so bright. All
around were scattered shavings, chips, shingles, and
broken halves of bricks; these, together with the
lately turned earth, on which the grass had not begun
to grow, contributed to the impression of strangeness
and novelty proper to a house that had yet its place
to make among men’s daily interests.
The principal entrance, which had almost the breadth
of a church-door, was in the angle between the two
front gables, and was covered by an open porch, with
benches beneath its shelter. Under this arched door-
way, scraping their feet on the unworn threshold, now
trod the clergymen, the elders, the magistrates, the
deacons, and whatever of aristocracy there was in
town or county. Thither, too, thronged the plebeian
elasses as freely as their betters, and in larger num-
ber. Just within the entrance, however, stood two
serving-men, pointing some of the guests to the neigh
borhood of the kitchen, and ushering others into the
statelier rooms, — hospitable alike to all, but still with
® scrutinizing regard to the high or low degree of
gach. Velvet garments, sombre but rich, stiffly plaitea
26 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
ruffs and bands, embroidered gloves, venerable beards,
the mien and countenance of authority, made it easy
to distinguish the gentleman of worship, at that period,
from the tradesman, with his plodding air, or the
laborer, in his leathern jerkin, stealing awe-stricken
into the house which he had perhaps helped to build.
One inauspicious circumstance there was, which
awakened a hardly concealed displeasure in the breasts
xf a few of the more punctilious visitors. The founder
of this stately mansion—a gentleman noted for the
square and ponderous courtesy of his demeanor —
ought surely to have stood in his own hall, and te
have offered the first welcome to so many eminent
personages as here presented themselves in honor of
his solemn festival. He was as yet invisible; the
most favored of the guests had not beheld him. This
sluggishness on Colonel Pyncheon’s part became still
more unaccountable, when the second dignitary of the
yrovince made his appearance, and found no more
- ceremonious a reception. The leutenant- governor,
although his visit was one of the anticipated glories
of the day, had alighted from his horse, and assisted
his lady from her side-saddle, and crossed the Colonel’s
threshold, without other greeting than that of the prin-
cipal domestic.
This person —a gray-headed man, of quiet and
most respectful deportment— found it necessary to
explain that his master still remained in his study,
or private apartment; on entering which, an hour be-
fore, he had expressed a wish on no account to be dis-
turbed. }
“Do not you see, fellow,” said the high-sheriff of
the county, taking the servant aside, “that this is no
less a man than the lieutenant-governor? Summoy
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 97
Colonel Pyncheon at once! I know that he received
letters from England this morning; and, in the pe
rusal and consideration of them, an hour may have
passed away without his noticing it. But he will be
ill-pleased, I judge, if you suffer him to neglect the
courtesy due to one of our chief rulers, and who may
be said to represent King William, in the absence of
the governor himself. Call your master instantly!”
*“‘ Nay, please your worship,” answered the man, in
much perplexity, but with a backwardness that strik-
ingly indicated the hard and severe character of Col-
onel Pyncheon’s domestic rule; ‘my master’s orders
were exceeding strict; and, as your worship knows,
he permits of no discretion in the obedience of those
who owe him service. Let who list open yonder door ;
I dare not, though the governor’s own voice should
bid me do it!”
*¢ Pooh, pooh, master high-sheriff!”’ cried the lieu-
tenant-governor, who had overheard the foregoing dis-
cussion, and felt himself high enough in station to
play a little with his dignity. “I will take the matter
into my own hands. It is time that the good Colonel
came forth to greet his friends; else we shall be apt
to suspect that he has taken a sip too much of his
Canary wine, in his extreme deliberation which cask
it were best to broach in honor of the day! But since
he is so much behindhand, I will give him a remem-
brancer myself!”
Accordingly, with such a tramp of his ponderous
riding-boots as might of itself have been audible in
the remotest of the seven gables, he advanced to the
door, which the servant pointed out, and made its new
panels reécho with a loud, free knock. Then, looking
round, with a smile, to the spectators, he awaited a
28 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
response. As none came, however, he knocked again
but with the same unsatisfactory result as at first.
And now, being a trifle choleric in his temperament,
the lieutenant-governor uplifted the heavy hilt of his
sword, wherewith he so beat and banged upon the
door, that, as some of the by-standers whispered, the
racket might have disturbed the dead. Be that as it
might, it seemed to produce no awakening effect on
Colonel Pyncheon. When the sound subsided, the
silence through the house was deep, dreary, and op-
pressive, notwithstanding that the tongues of many of
the guests had already been loosened by a surrepti-
tious cup or two of wine or spirits.
“ Strange, forsooth ! — very strange!” cried the lieu-
tenant-governor, whose smile was changed to a frown.
“ But seeing that our host sets us the good example ot
forgetting ceremony, I shall likewise throw it aside,
and make free to intrude on his privacy ! ”
He tried the door, which yielded to his hand, and
~ was flung wide open by a sudden gust of wind that
passed, as with a loud sigh, from the outermost portal
through all the passages and apartments of the new
house. I¢ rustled the silken garments of the ladies,
and waved the long curls of the gentlemen’s wigs,
and shook the window-hangings and the curtains of
the bedchambers; causing everywhere a singular stir,
which yet was more like ahush. A shadow of awe and
half-fearful anticipation — nobody knew wherefore,
nor of what— had all at once fallen over the company.
They thronged, however, to the now open door,
pressing the lieutenant-governor, in the eagerness of
their curiosity, into the room in advance of them. At
the first glimpse they beheld nothing extraordinary:
a handsomely furnished room, of moderate size, some
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 29
what darkened by curtains; books arranged on shelves ;
a large map on the wall, and likewise a portrait of
Colonel Pyncheon, beneath which sat the original Col-
onel himself, in an oaken elbow-chair, with a pen in
his hand. Letters, parchments, and blank sheets of
paper were on the table before him. He appeared to
gaze at the curious crowd, in front of which stood the
lieutenant-governor; and there was a frown on his
dark and massive countenance, as if sternly resentful
of the boldness that had impelled them into his pri-
vate retirement.
A little boy — the Colonel’s grandchild, and the
only human being that ever dared to be familiar with
him — now made his way among the guests, and ran
towards the seated figure; then pausing half-way, he
began to shriek with terror. The company, tremulous
as the leaves of a tree, when all are shaking together,
drew nearer, and perceived that there was an unnat-
ural distortion in the fixedness of Colonel Pyncheon’s
stare; that there was blood on his ruff, and that his
hoary beard was saturated with it. It was too late to
give assistance. The iron-hearted Puritan, the relent-
less persecutor, the grasping and strong-willed man, was
dead! Dead, in his new house! There is a tradition,
only worth alluding to as lending a tinge of supersti-
tious awe to a scene perhaps gloomy enough without
it, that a voice spoke loudly among the guests, the
tones of which were like those of old Matthew Maule,
the executed wizard, — “‘ God hath given him blood to
drink!”
Thus early had that one guest, —the only guest who
is certain, at one time or another, 1 to find” his way | into
_ every. human dwelling, —thus early had Death stepped
across the threshold of the House of the Seven Ga
bles!
_ 30 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
Colonel Pyncheon’s sudden and mysterious end
made a vast deal of noise in its day. There were
many rumors, some of which have vaguely drifted
down to the present time, how that appearances indi-
cated violence ; that there were the marks of fingers
on his throat, and the print of a bloody hand on his
plaited ruff; and that his peaked beard was dishev-
elled, as if it had been fiercely clutched and pulled.
It was averred, likewise, that the lattice window, near
the Colonel’s chair, was open; and that, only a few
minutes before the fatal occurrence, the figure of a
man had been seen clambering over the yarden-fence,
in tiie rear of the house. But it were folly to lay any
stress on stories of this kind, which are sure to spring
up around such an event as that now related, and
which, as in the present case, sometimes prolung them-
selves for ages afterwards, like the toadstools that in-
dicate where the fallen and buried trunk of a tree has
long since mouldered into the earth. For our own
part, we allow them just as little credence as to that
other fable of the skeleton hand which the lieutenant-
governor was said to have seen at the Colonel’s throat,
but which vanished away, as he advanced farther into
the room. Certain it is, however, that there was a
great consultation and dispute of doctors over the dead
body. One—John Swinnerton by name —who ap-
pears to have been a man of eminence, upheld it, if we
have rightly understood his terms of art, to be a case
of apoplexy. His professional brethren, each for him.
self, adopted various hypotheses, more or less plausible,
but all dressed out in a perplexing mystery of phrase,
which, if it do not show a bewilderment of mind ir
these erudite physicians, certainly causes it in the un.
learned peruser of their opinions. The coroner’s jury
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 31
sat upon the corpse, and, like sensible men, returned
an unassailable verdict of “ Sudden Death! ”
It is indeed difficult to imagine that there could have
been a serious suspicion of murder, or the slightest
grounds for implicating any particular individual as
the perpetrator. The rank, wealth, and eminent char-
acter of the deceased must have insured the strictest
scrutiny into every ambiguous circumstance. As none
such is on record, it is safe to assume that none exe
isted. Tradition, — which sometimes brings down
truth that history has let slip, but is oftener the wild
babble of the time, such as was formerly spoken at
the fireside and now congeals in newspapers, — tradi-
tion is responsible for all contrary averments. In
Colonel Pyncheon’s funeral sermon, which was printed,
and is still extant, the Rev. Mr. Higginson enumer-
ates, among the many felicities of his distinguished
parishioner’s earthly career, the happy seasonableness
of his death. His duties all performed, — the highest
prosperity attained, — his race and future generations
fixed on a stable basis, and with a stately roof to
shelter them, for centuries to come, — what other up-
ward step remained for this good man to take, save the
final step from earth to the golden gate of heaven!
The pious clergyman surely would not have uttered
words like these had he in the least suspected that
the Colonel had been thrust into the other world with
the clutch of violence upon his throat.
The family of Colonel Pyncheon, at the epoch of hia
death, seemed destined to as fortunate a permanence
as can anywise consist with the inherent instability of
human affairs. It might fairly be anticipated that the
progress of time would rather increase and ripen their
prosperity, than wear away and destroy it. For, not
82 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
only had his son and heir come into immediate enjoy-
ment of a rich estate, but there was a claim through
an Indian deed, confirmed by a subsequent grant of
the General Court, to a vast and as yet unexplored
and unmeasured tract of Eastern lands. ‘These pos-
sessions — for as such they might almost certainly be
reckoned — comprised the greater part of what is now
known as Waldo County, in the State of Maine, and
were more extensive than many a dukedom, or even a
reigning prince’s territory, on European soil. When
the pathless forest that still covered this wild princi-
pality should give place —as it inevitably must, though
perhaps not till ages hence — to the golden fertility of
human culture, it would be the source of incalculable
wealth to the Pyncheon blood. Had the Colonel sur-
vived only a few weeks longer, it is probable that his
great political influence, and powerful connections at
home and abroad, would have consummated all that
was necessary to render the claim available. But, in
spite of good Mr. Higginson’s congratulatory elo-
quence, this appeared to be the one thing which Colo-
nel Pyncheon, provident and sagacious as he was, had
allowed to go at loose ends. So far as the prospective
territory was concerned, he unquestionably died too
soon. His son lacked not merely the father’s eminent
position, but the talent and force of character to
achieve it: he could, therefore, effect nothing by dint
of political interest; and the bare justice or legality
of the claim was not so apparent, after the Colonel’s
decease, as it had been pronounced in his lifetime.
Some connecting link had slipped out of the evidence,
and could not anywhere be found.
Efforts, it is true, were made by the Pyncheons,
not only then, but at various periods for nearly a hun
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 33
dred years afterwards, to obtain what they stubbornly
persisted in deeming their right. But, in course of
time, the territory was partly re-granted to more fa-
vored individuals, and partly cleared and occupied by
actual settlers. These last, if they ever heard of the
Pyncheon title, would have laughed at the idea of any
man’s asserting a right— on the strength of mouldy
parchments, signed with the faded autographs of gov-
ernors and legislators long dead and forgotten — to
the lands which they or their fathers had wrested from
the wild hand of nature by their own sturdy toil.
This impalpable claim, therefore, resulted in nothing
more solid than to cherish, from generation to genera-
tion, an absurd delusion of family importance, which
all along characterized the Pyncheons. It caused the
poorest member of the race to feel as if he inherited a
kind of nobility, and might yet come into the posses-
sion of princely wealth to support it. In the better
specimens of the breed, this peculiarity threw an ideal
grace over the hard material of human life, without
stealing away any truly valuable quality. In the
baser sort, its effect was to increase the liability to
sluggishness and dependence, and induce the victim of
a shadowy hope to remit all self-effort, while await-
ing the realization of his dreams. Years and years
after their claim had passed out of the public memory,
the Pyncheons were accustomed to consult the Colo-
nel’s ancient map, which had been projected while
Waldo County was still an unbroken wilderness.
Where the old land-surveyor had put down woods,
lakes, and rivers, they marked out the cleared spaces,
and dotted the villages and towns, and calculated the
progressively increasing value of the territory, as if
VOL. II. 3
84 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
there were yet.a prospect of its ultimately forming a
princedom for themselves.
In almost every generation, nevertheless, there hap-
pened to be some one descendant of the family gifted
with a portion of the hard, keen sense, and practica)
energy, that had so remarkably distinguished the orig
inal founder. His character, indeed, might be traced
all the way down, as distinctly as if the Colonel him.
self, a little diluted, had been gifted with a sort of
intermittent immortality on earth. At two or three
epochs, when the fortunes of the family were low, this
representative of hereditary qualities had made his ap-
pearance, and caused the traditionary gossips of the
town to whisper among themselves, ‘“ Here is the old
Pyncheon come again! Now the Seven Gables will
be new-shingled!”’ From father to son, they clung to
the ancestral house with singular tenacity of home at-
tachment. For various reasons, however, and from
impressions often too vaguely founded to be put on
paper, the writer cherishes the belief that many, if not
most, of the successive proprietors of this estate were
sroubled with doubts as to their moral right to hold it.
Of their legal tenure there could be no question ; but
old Matthew Maule, it is to be feared, trode downward
from his own age to a far later one, planting a heavy
footstep, all the way, on the conscience of a Pyncheon.
If so, we are left to dispose of the awful query, whether
each inheritor of the property — conscious of wrong,
and failing to rectify it—-did not commit anew the
great guilt of his ancestor, and incur all its original
responsibilities. And supposing such to be the ease,
would it not be a far truer mode of expression to say
of the Pyncheon family, that they inherited a great
misfortune, than the reverse ?
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 73)
We have already hinted that it is not our purpose
to trace down the history of the Pyncheon family, in
its unbroken connection with the House of the Seven
Gables ; nor to show, as in a magic picture, how the
rustiness and infirmity of age gathered over the vener-
able house itself. As regards its interior life, a large,
dim looking-glass used to hang in one of the rooms,
and was fabled to contain within its depths all the
shapes that had ever been reflected there, — the old
Colonel himself, and his many descendants, some in
the garb of antique babyhood, and others in the bloom
of feminine beauty or manly prime, or saddened with
the wrinkles of frosty age. Had we the secret of
that mirror, we would gladly sit down before it, and
transfer its revelations to our page. But there was a
story, for which it is difficult to conceive any founda-
tion, that the posterity of Matthew Maule had some
connection with the mystery of the looking-glass, and
that, by what appears to have been a sort of mesmeric
process, they could make its inner region all alive with
the departed Pyncheons ; not as they had shown them-
selves to the world nor in their better and happier
hours, but as doing over again some deed of sin, or in
the crisis of life’s bitterest sorrow. The popular imagi-
nation, indeed, long kept itself busy with the affair of
the old Puritan Pyncheon and the wizard Maule; the
curse, which the latter flung from his scaffold, was re-
membered, with the very important addition, that it
had become a part of the Pyncheon inheritance. If
one of the family did but gurgle in his throat, a by-
stander would be likely enough to whisper, between
jest and earnest, ‘“‘ He has Maule’s blood to drink!”
The sudden death of a Pyncheon, about a hundred
years ago, with circumstances very similar to what
86 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
have been related of the Colonel’s exit, was held as
giving additional probability to the received opinion
on this topic. It was considered, moreover, an ugly
and ominous circumstance, that Colonel Pyncheon’s
picture — in obedience, it was said, to a provision of
his will — remained affixed to the wall of the room
in which he died. Those stern, immitigable features
seemed to symbolize an evil influence, and so darkly
to mingle the shadow of their presence with the sun-
shine of the passing hour, that no good thoughts or
purposes could ever spring up and blossom there. To
the thoughtful mind there will be no tinge of supersti-
tion in what we figuratively express, by affirming that
the ghost of a dead progenitor — perhaps as a portior
of his own punishment — is often doomed to become
the Evil Genius of his family.
The Pyncheons, in brief, lived along, for the better
part of two centuries, with perhaps less of outward
vicissitude than has attended most other New England
families during the same period of time. Possessing
very distinctive traits of their own, they nevertheless
took the general characteristics of the little community
in which they dwelt ; a town noted for its frugal, dis-
creet, well-ordered, and home-loving inhabitants, as
well as for the somewhat confined scope of its sym-
pathies; but in which, be it said, there are odder in-
dividuals, and, now and then, stranger occurrences,
than one meets with almost anywhere else. During
the Revolution, the Pyncheon of that epoch, adopting
the royal side, became a refugee; but repented, and
made his reappearance, just at the point of time to
preserve the House of the Seven Gables from confisca-
tion. For the last seventy years the most noted event
in the Pyncheon annals had been likewise the heaviest
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 83
calamity that ever befell the race; no less than the
violent death — for so it was adjudged — of one mem.
ber of the family by the criminal act of another. Cer
tain circumstances attending this fatal occurrence had
brought the deed irresistibly home to a nephew of the
leceased Pyncheon. The young man was tried and
zonvicted of the crime; but either the circumstantial
nature of the evidence, and possibly some lurking
doubt in the breast of the executive, or, lastly, — an
argument of greater weight in a republic than it could
have been under a monarchy, — the high respectability
and political influence of the criminal’s connections,
had availed to mitigate his doom from death to per-
petual imprisonment. This sad affair had chanced
about thirty years before the action of our story com-
mences. Latterly, there were rumors (which few be-
lieved, and only one or two felt greatly interested in)
that this long-buried man was likely, for some reason
or other, to be summoned forth from his living tomb.
It is essential to say a few words respecting the
victim of this now almost forgotten murder. He was
an old bachelor, and possessed of great wealth, in ad-
dition to the house and real estate which constituted
what remained of the ancient Pyncheon property. Be-
ing of an eccentric and melancholy turn of mind, and
greatly given to rummaging old records and hearken-
ing to old traditions, he had brought himself, it is
averred, to the conclusion that Matthew Maule, the
wizard, had been foully wronged out of his home-
stead, if not out of his life. Such being the case, and
he, the old bachelor, in possession of the ill-gotten
spoil,— with the black stain of blood sunken deep
into it, and still to be scented by conscientious nos-
trils,—the question oceurred, whether it were not ime
388 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
perative upon him, even at this late nour, to make
restitution to Maule’s posterity. Toa man living so
much in the past, and so little in the present, as the
secluded and antiquarian old bachelor, a century and
a half seemed not so vast a period as to obviate the
vropriety of substituting right for wrong. It was the
belief of those who knew him best, that he would
positively have taken the very singular step of giving
up the House of the Seven Gables to the representa-
tive of Matthew Maule, but for the unspeakable tu-
mult which a suspicion of the old gentleman’s project
awakened among his Pyncheon relatives. Their exer-
tions had the effect of suspending his purpose ; but it
was feared that he would perform, after death, by the
operation of his last will, what he had so hardly been
prevented from doing in his proper lifetime. But
there is no one thing which men so rarely do, what-
ever the provocation or inducement, as to bequeath
patrimonial property away from their own blood. They
may love other individuals far better than their rela-
tives, — they may even cherish dislike, or positive
hatred, to the latter; but yet, in view of death, the
strong prejudice of propinquity revives, and impels the
testator to send down his estate in the line marked
out by custom so immemorial that it looks like nature.
‘Tn all the Pyncheons, this feeling had-the energy of
disease. It was too powerful for the conscientious
scruples of the old bachelor; at whose death, accord-
ingly, the mansion-house, together with most of his
other riches, passed into the possession of his next
legal representative.
This was a nephew, the cousin of the miserable
young man who had been convicted of the uncle’s
murder. The new heir, up to the period of his acces-
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 89
sion, was reckoned rather a dissipated youth, but had
at once reformed, and made himself an exceedingly
respectable member of society. In fact, he showed
more of the Pyncheon quality, and had won higher
eminence in the world than any of his race since the
time of the original Puritan. Applying himself in
earlier manhood to the study of the law, and having
a natural tendency towards office, he had attained,
many years ago, to a judicial situation in some inferior
court, which gave him for life the very desirable and
imposing title of judge. Later, he had engaged in
politics, and served a part of two terms in Congress,
besides making a considerable figure in both branches
of the State legislature. Judge Pyncheon was un-
questionably an honor to his race. He had built
himself a country-seat within a few miles of his native
town, and there spent such portions of his time as
could be spared from public service in the display
of every grace and virtue — as a newspaper phrased
it, on the eve of an election — befitting the Christian,
the good citizen, the horticulturist, and the gentleman.
There were few of the Pyncheons left to sun them-
selves in the glow of the Judge’s prosperity. In re-
spect to natural increase, the breed had not thriven ;
it appeared rather to be dying out. The only mem-
bers of the family known to be extant were, first, the
Judge himself, and a single surviving son, who was
now travelling in Europe; next, the thirty years’ pris-
oner, already alluded to, and a sister of the latter,
who occupied, in an extremely retired manner, the
House of the Seven Gables, in which she had a life-
estate by the will of the old bachelor. She was un-
derstood to be wretchedly poor, and seerned to make
it her choice to remain so; inasmuch as her affluent
40 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
cousin, the Judge, had repeatedly offered her all the
comforts of life, either in the old mansion or his own
modern residence. The last and youngest Pyncheon
was a little country-girl of seventeen, the daughter of
another of the Judge’s cousins, who had married a
young woman of no family or property, and died early
and in poor circumstances. His widow had recently
taken another husband.
As for Matthew Maule’s posterity, it was supposed
now to be extinct. Fora very long period after the
witchcraft delusion, however, the Maules had con-
tinued to inhabit the town where their progenitor had
suffered so unjust a death. To all appearance, they
were a quiet, honest, well-meaning race of people,
cherishing no malice against individuals or the public
for the wrong which had been done them; or if, at
their own fireside, they transmitted, from father to
child, any hostile recollection of the wizard’s fate and
their lost patrimony, it was never acted upon, nor
openly expressed. Nor would it have been singular
had they ceased to remember that the House of the
Seven Gables was resting its heavy framework on a
foundation that was rightfully their own. There is
something so massive, stable, and almost irresistibly
imposing in the exterior presentment of established
rank and great possessions, that their very existence
seems to give them a right to exist; at least, so excel-
lent a counterfeit of right, that few poor and humble
men have moral force enough to question it, even in
their secret minds. Such is the case now, after so
many ancient prejudices have been overthrown ; and
it was far more so in ante-Revolutionary days, when
the aristocracy could venture to be proud, and the low
were content to be abased. Thus the Maules, at all
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. A}
events, kept their resentments within their own breasts.
They were generally poverty-stricken ; always plebeian
and obscure; working with unsuccessful diligence at
handicrafts ; laboring on the wharves, or following the
sea, as sailors before the mast; living here and there
about the town, in hired tenements, and coming finally
to the almshouse as the natural home of their old age.
At last, after creeping as it were, for such a length of
time, along the utmost verge of the opaque puddle
of obscurity, they had taken that downright plunge,
which, sooner or later, is the destiny of all families,
whether princely or plebeian. or thirty years past,
neither town-record, nor gravestone, nor the directory,
nor the knowledge or memory of man, bore any trace
of Matthew Maule’s descendants. His blood might
possibly exist elsewhere ; here, where its lowly current
could be traced so far back, it had ceased to keep an
onward course.
So long as any of the race were to be found, they
had been marked out from other men — not strikingly,
nor as with a sharp line, but with an effect that was
felt rather than spoken of — by an hereditary charac-
ter of reserve. Their companions, or those who en-
deavored to become such, grew conscious of a circle
round about the Maules, within the sanctity or the
spell of which, in spite of an exterior of sufficient
frankness and good-fellowship, it was impossible for
any man to step. It was this indefinable peculiarity,
perhaps, that, by insulating them from human aid,
kept them always so unfortunate. in life. It certainly
operated to prolong in their case, and to confirm to
them as their only inheritance, those feelings of repug-
nance and superstitious terror with which the people
ot the town, even after awakening from their frenzy,
42 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES
continued to regard the memory of the reputed witches
The mantle, or rather the ragged cloak, of old Mat
thew Maule, had fallen upon his children. They were
half believed to inherit mysterious attributes ; the fam-
ily eye was said to possess strange power. Among
other good-for-nothing properties and privileges, one
was especially assigned them, — that of exercising an
influence over people’s dreams. The Pyncheons, if ali
stories were true, haughtily as they bore themselves in
the noonday streets of their native town, were no bet
ter than bond-servants to these plebeian Maules, on
entering the topsy-turvy commonwealth of sleep. Mod-
ern psychology, it may be, will endeavor to reduce
these alleged necromancies within a system, instead
of rejecting them as altogether fabulous.
A descriptive paragraph or two, treating of the
seven-gabled mansion in its more recent aspect, will
bring this preliminary chapter to a close. The street
in which it upreared its venerable peaks has long
ceased to be a fashionable quarter of the town; so
that, though the old edifice was surrounded by habita-
tions of modern date, they were mostly small, built
entirely of wood, and typical of the most plodding
uniformity of common life. Doubtless, however, the
whole story of human existence may be latent in each
of them, but with no picturesqueness, externally, that
can attract the imagination or sympathy to seek it
there. But as for the old structure of our story, its
white-oak frame, and its boards, shingles, and crum-
bling plaster, and even the huge, clustered chimney
in the midst, seemed to constitute only the least and
meanest part of its reality. Se much of mankind’
varied experience had passed there, —so much has:
been suffered, and something, too, enjoyed, — tht.
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 43
the very timbers were oozy, as with the moisture of
u heart. It was itself like a great human heart, with
a life of its own, and full of rich and sombre reminis-
cences.
The deep projection of the second story gave the
house such a meditative look, that you could not pass
it without the idea that it had secrets to keep, and an
eventful history to moralize upon. In front, just on
the edge of the unpaved sidewalk, grew the Pyncheon
“lm, which, in reference to such trees as one usually
meets with, might well be termed gigantic. It had
been planted by a great-grandson of the first Pyn-
cheon, and, though now fourscore years of age, or
perhaps nearer a hundred, was still in its strong and
broad maturity, throwing its shadow from side to side
of the street, overtopping the seven gables, and sweep-
ing the whole black roof with its pendent foliage. It
grve beauty to the old edifice, and seemed to make
it a part of nature. The street having been widened
about forty years ago, the front gable was now pre
cisely on a line with it. On either side extended a
ruinous wooden fence of open lattice-work, through
which could be seen a grassy yard, and, especially in
the angles of the building, an enormous fertility of
burdocks, with leaves, it is hardly an exaggeration to
say, two or three feet long. Behind the house there
appeared to be a garden, which undoubtedly had once
been extensive, but was now infringed upon by other
enclosures, or shut in by habitations and outbuildings
that stood on another street. It would be an omission,
trifling, indeed, but unpardonable, were we to forget
the green moss that had long since gathered over the
projections of the windows, and on the slopes of the
roof; ner must we fail to direct the reader’s eye te
£4 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES,
a crop, not of weeds, but flower-shrubs, which were
growing aloft in the air, not a great way from the
chimney, in the nook between two of the gables. They
were called Alice’s Posies. The tradition was, that
a certain Alice Pyncheon had flung up the seeds, in
sport, and that the dust of the street and the decay
of the roof gradually formed a kind of soil for them-
out of which they grew, when Alice had long been in
her grave. However the flowers might have come
there, it was both sad and sweet to observe how Na-
ture adopted to herself this desolate, decaying, gusty,
rusty old house of the Pyncheon family; and how the
ever-returning summer did her best to gladden it with
tender beauty, and grew melancholy in the effort.
There is one other feature, very essential to be
noticed, but which, we greatly fear, may damage any
picturesque and romantic impression which we have
been willing to throw over our sketch of this respect-
able edifice. In the front gable, under the impending
brow of the second story, and contiguous to the street,
was a shop-door, divided horizontally in the midst, and
with a window for its upper segment, such as is often
seen in dwellings of a somewhat ancient date. This
same shop-door had been a subject of no slight morti-
fication to the present occupant of the august Pyn-
cheon House, as well as to some of her predecessors.
The matter is disagreeably delicate to handle; but,
since the reader must needs be let into the secret, lie
will please to understand, that, about a century ago,
the head of the Pyncheons found himself involved in
serious financial difficulties. The fellow (gentleman,
as he styled himself) can hardly have been other than
8 spurious interloper; for, instead of seeking office
from the king or the royal governor, or urging hie
PORING OVER THE DINGY PAGES OF HIS DAY-BOOK
THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY. 45
hereditary claim to Eastern lands, he bethought him.
self of no better avenue to wealth than by cutting a
shop-door through the side of his ancestral residence,
It was the custom of the time, indeed, for merchants
to store their goods and transact business in their own
dwellings. But there was something pitifully smal
in this old Pyncheon’s mode of setting about his com.
mercial operations ; it was whispered, that, with his
own hands, all beruffled as they were, he used to give
change for a shilling, and would turn a half-penny
twice over, to make sure that it was a good one. Be-
yond all question, he had the blood of a petty huckster
in his veins, through whatever channel it may have
found its way there.
Immediately on his death, the shop-door had been
locked, bolted, and barred, and, down to the period of
our story, had probably never once been opened. The
old counter, shelves, and other ‘fixtures of the little
shop remained just as he had left them. It used to
be affirmed, that the dead shop-keeper, in a white wig,
a faded velvet coat, an apron at his waist, and his
ruffles carefully turned back from his wrists, might
be seen through the chinks of the shutters, any night
of the year, ransacking his till, or poring over the
dingy pages of his day-book. From the look of un-
utterable woe upon his face, it appeared to be his
doom to spend eternity in a vain effort to make hi
accounts balance.
And now— in avery humble way, as will be seen—
we proceed to open our narrative.
id.
{THE LITTLE SHOP—WINDOW.
{7 still lacked half an hour of sunrise, when Misa
Hepzibah Pyncheon — we will not say awoke, it be-
ing doubtful whether the poor lady had so much as
closed her eyes during the brief night of midsummer
— but, at all events, arose from her solitary pillow,
and began what it would be mockery to term the
adornment of her person. Far from us be the in-
decorum of assisting, even in imagination, at a maiden
lady’s toilet! Our story must therefore await Miss
Hepzibah at the threshold of her chamber; only pre-
suming, meanwhile, to note some of the heavy sighs
that labored from her bosom, with little restraint as
to their lugubrious depth and volume of sound, inas-
much as they could be audible to nobody save a dis-
embodied listener like ourself. The Old Maid was
alone in the old house. Alone, except for a certain
respectable and orderly young man, an artist in the
_daguerreotype line, who, for about three months back,
had been a lodger in a remote gable, — quite a house
by itself, indeed, — with locks, bolts, and oaken bars
on all the intervening doors. Inaudible, consequently,
were poor Miss Hepzibah’s gusty sighs. Inaudible
the creaking joints of her stiffened knees, as she knelt
down by the bedside. And inaudible, too, by mortal
ear, but heard with all-comprehending love and pity in
the farthest heaven, that almost agony of prayer—- now
THE LITTLE SHOP-WINDOW. 47
whispered, now a groan, now a struggling silence —
wherewith she besought the Divine assistance through
the day! Evidently, this is to be a day of more than
ordinary trial to Miss Hepzibah, who, for above a
quarter of a century gone by, has dwelt in strict seclu-
sion, taking no part in the business of life, and just as
little in its intercourse and pleasures. Not with such
fervor prays the torpid recluse, looking forward to the
eold, sunless, stagnant calm of a day that is to be like
innumerable yesterdays !
The maiden lady’s devotions are concluded. Will
she now issue forth over the threshold of our story ?
Not yet, by many moments. First, every drawer in
the tall, old-fashioned bureau is to be opened, with
difficulty, and with a succession of spasmodic jerks ;
then, all must close again, with the same fidgety re-
luctance. There is a rustling of stiff silks; a tread of
backward and forward footsteps to and fro across the
chamber. We suspect Miss Hepzibah, moreover, of
taking a step upward into a chair, in order to give
heedful regard to her appearance on all sides, and at
full length, in the oval, dingy-framed toilet-glass, that
hangs above her table. Truly! well, indeed! who
would have thought it! Is all this precious time to
be lavished on the matutinal repair and beautifying of
an elderly person, who never goes abroad, whom no.
body ever visits, and from whom, when she shall have
done her utmost, it were the best charity to turn one’s
ayes another way ?
Now she is almost ready. Let us pardon her one
other pause; for it is given to the sole sentiment, or,
we might better say, — heightened and rendered in-
tense, as it has been, by sorrow and seclusion, — to the
strong passion of her life. We heard the turning of
48 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
a key in a small lock; she has opened a secret drawer
of an escritoire, and is probably looking at a certain
miniature, done in Malbone’s most perfect style, anc
representing a face worthy of no less delicate a pencil.
Jt was once our good fortune to see this picture. It is
a likeness of a young man, in a silken dressing-gown
of an old fashion, the soft richness of which is wel!
adapted to the countenance of reverie, with its full,
tender lips, and beautiful eyes, that seem to indicate
not so much capacity of thought, as gentle and volupt-
uous emotion. Of the possessor of such features we
shall have a right to ask nothing, except that he would
take the rude world easily, and make himself happy in
it. Can it have been an early lover of Miss Hepzibah?
No; she never had a lover — poor thing, how coula.
she ?—nor ever knew, by her own experience, what
love technically means. And yet, her undying faith
and trust, her fresh remembrance, and continual de-
votedness towards the original of that miniature, have
been the only substance for her heart to feed upon.
She seems to have put aside the miniature, and is
standing again before the toilet-glass. There are tears
to be wiped off. A few more footsteps to and fro;
and here, at last, — with another pitiful sigh, like a
gust of chill, damp wind out of a long-closed vault, the
door of which has accidentally been set ajar, — here
comes Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon! Forth she steps
into the dusky, time-darkened passage; a tall figure,
clad in black silk, with a long and shrunken waist,
feeling her way towards the stairs like a near-sighted
person, as in truth she is.
The sun, meanwhile, if not already above the hort
zon, was ascending nearer and nearer to its verge. A
few clouds, floating high upward, caught some of the
THE LITTLE SHOP-WINDOW. 49
earliest light, and threw down its golden gleam on the
windows of all the houses in the street, not forgetting
the House of the Seven Gables, which — many such
sunrises as it had witnessed — looked cheerfully at the
present one. The reflected radiance served to show,
pretty distinctly, the aspect and arrangement of the
room which Hepzibah entered, after descending the
stairs. It was a low-studded room, with a beam across
the ceiling, panelled with dark wood, and having a
large chimney-piece, set round with pictured tiles, but
now closed by an iron fire-board, through which ran
the funnel of a modern stove. There was a carpet on
the floor, originally of rich texture, but so worn and
faded in these latter years that its once brilliant figure
had quite vanished into one indistinguishable hue. In
the way of furniture, there were two tables: one, con-
structed with perplexing intricacy and exhibiting ar
many feet as a centipede ; the other, most delicately
wrought, with four long and slender legs, so apparently
frail that it was almost incredible what a length of
time the ancient tea-table had stood upon them. Half
a dozen chairs stood about the room, straight and stiff,
and so ingeniously contrived for the discomfort of the
human person that they were irksome even to sight,
and conveyed the ugliest possible idea of the state of
society to which they could have been adapted. One
exception there was, however, in a very antique elbow:
chair, with a high back, carved elaborately in oak,
and a roomy depth within its arms, that made up, by
its spacious comprehensiveness, for the lack of any of
those artistic curves which abound in a modern chair.
As for ornamental articles of furniture, we recollect
but two, if such they may be called. One was a map
of the Pyncheon territory at the eastward, not en
50 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
graved, but the handiwork of some skilful old draughts.
man, and grotesquely illuminated with pictures of In-
dians and wild beasts, among which was seen a lion ;
the natural history of the region being as little known
as its geography, which was put down most fantastic-
ally awry. The other adornment was the portrait of
ald Colonel Pyncheon, at two thirds length, represent-
ing the stern features of a Puritanic-looking personage,
in a skull-cap, with a laced band and a grizzly beard ;
holding a Bible with one hand, and in the other up-
lifting an iron sword-hilt. The latter object, being
more successfully depicted by the artist, stood out in
far greater prominence than the sacred volume. Face
to face with this picture, on entering the apartment,
Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon came to a pause ; regarding
it with a singular scowl, a strange contortion of the
brow, which, by people who did not know her, would
probably have been interpreted as an expression of
bitter anger and ill-will. But it was no such thing.
She, in fact, felt a reverence for the pictured visage,
of which only a far-descended and time-stricken virgin
could be susceptible ; and this forbidding scowl was
the innocent result of her near-sightedness, and an
effort so to concentrate her powers of vision as to sub-
stitute a firm outline of the object instead of a vague
one. |
We must linger a moment on this unfortunate ex-
pression of poor Hepzibah’s brow. Her scowl, —as
the world, or such part of it as sometimes caught a
transitory glimpse of her at the window, wickedly per-
sisted in calling it, — her scowl had done Miss Hepzi-
bah a very ill office, in establishing her character as
an ill-tempered old maid; nor does it appear improba-
ble that, by often gazing at herself in a dim looking-
THE LITTLE SHOP-WINDOW. 51
glass, and perpetually encountering her own frown
within its ghostly sphere, she had been led to interpret
the expression almost as unjustly as the world did
“‘ How miserably cross I look!” she must often havi
whispered to herself; and ultimately have fancied her-
self so, by a sense of inevitable doom. But her hear
mever frowned. It was naturally tender, sensitive.
and full of little tremors and palpitations; all ot
which weaknesses it retained, while her visage was
growing so perversely stern, and even fierce. Nor
had Hepzibah ever any hardihood, except what came
from the very warmest nook in her affections.
All this time, however, we are loitering faint-heart-
edly on the threshold of our story. In very truth, we
have an invincible reluctance to disclose what Miss
Hepzibah Pyncheon was about to do.
It has already been observed, that, in the basement
story of the gable fronting on the street, an unworthy
ancestor, nearly a century ago, had fitted up a shop.
Ever since the old gentleman retired from trade, and
fell asleep under his coffin-lid, not only the shop-door,
but the inner arrangements, had been suffered to re-
main unchanged; while the dust of ages gathered
inch-deep over the shelves and counter, and partly
filled an old pair of scales, as if it were of valuc
enough to be weighed. It treasured itself up, too, in
the half-open till, where there still lingered a base six-
pence, worth neither more nor less than the hereditary
pride which had here been put to shame. Such had
been the state and condition of the little shop in old
Hepzibah’s childhood, when she and her brother used
to play at hide-and-seek in its forsaken precincts. Soe
it had remained, until within a few days past.
But now, though the shop-window was still closely
62 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
curtained from the public gaze, a remarkable changes
had taken place in its interior. The rich and heavy
festoons of cobweb, which it had cost a long ancestral
succession of spiders their life’s labor to spin and
weave, had been carefully brushed away from the ceil-
ing. The counter, shelves, and floor had all been
scoured, and the latter was overstrewn with fresh blue
sand. The brown scales, too, had evidently undergone
rigid discipline, in an unavailing effort to rub off the
rust, which, alas! had eaten through and through
their substance. Neither was the little old shop any
longer empty of merchantable goods. A curious eye,
privileged to take an account of stock, and investi-
gate behind the counter, would have discovered a bar-
rel, — yea, two or three barrels and half ditto, — one
containing flour, another apples, and a third, perhaps,
Indian meal. There was likewise a square box of
pine-wood, full of soap in bars; also, another of the
same size, in which were tallow-candles, ten to the
yvound. A small stock of brown sugar, some white
beans and split peas, and a few other commodities of
low price, and such as are constantly in demand, made
up the bulkier portion of the merchandise. It might
have been taken for a ghostly or phantasmagoric re-
dection of the old shop-keeper Pyncheon’s shabbily
provided shelves, save that some of the articles were
of a description and outward form which could hardly
have been known in his day. For instance, there was
a glass pickle-jar, filled with fragments of Gibraltar
rock; not, indeed, splinters of the veritable stone
foundation of the famous fortress, but bits of delectable
candy, neatly done up in white paper. Jim Crow,
moreover, was seen executing his world-renowned
dance, in gingerbread. A party of leaden dragoons
THE LITTLE SHOP-WINDOW. 53
were galloping along one of the shelves, in equip-
ments and uniform of modern cut; and there were
some sugar figures, with no strong resemblance to the
humanity of any epoch, but less unsatisfactorily repre-
senting our own fashions than those of a hundred
years ago. Another phenomenon, still more strikingly
modern, was a package of lucifer matches, which, in
old times, would have been thought actually to borrow
their instantaneous flame from the nether fires of
Tophet.
In short, to bring the matter at once to a point, it
was incontrovertibly evident that somebody had taken
the shop and fixtures of the long-retired and forgotten
Mr. Pyncheon, and was about to renew the enterprise
of that departed worthy, with a different set of cus-
tomers. Who could this bold adventurer be? And,
of all places in the world, why had he chosen the
House of the Seven Gables as the scene of his com-
mercial speculations ?
We return to the elderly maiden. She at length
withdrew her eyes from the dark countenance of the
Colonel’s portrait, heaved a sigh, — indeed, her breast
was a very cave of Alolus that morning, — and stept
across the room on tiptoe, as is the customary gait of
elderly women. Passing through an intervening pas-
sage, she opened a door that communicated with the
shop, just now so elaborately described. Owing to
the projection of the upper story —and still more to
the thick shadow of the Pyncheon Elm, which stood
almost directly in front of the gable—the twilight,
here, was still as much akin to night as morning.
Another heavy sigh from Miss Hepzibah! After a
moment’s pause on the threshold, peering towards the
window with her near-sighted scowl, as if frowning
54 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
down some bitter enemy, she suddenly projected her
self into the shop. The haste, and, as it were, the
galvanic impulse of the movement, were really quite
startling.
Nervously —in a sort of frenzy, we might almost
say —she began to busy herself in arranging some
children’s playthings, and other little wares, on the
shelves and at the shop-window. In the aspect of this
dark-arrayed, pale-faced, lady-like old figure there was
a deeply tragic character that contrasted irreconcilably
with the ludicrous pettiness of her employment. It
seemed a queer anomaly, that so gaunt and dismal a
personage should take a toy in hand; a miracle, that
the toy did not vanish in her grasp; a miserably ab-
surd idea, that she should go on perplexing her stiff
and sombre intellect with the question how to tempt
little boys into her premises! Yet such is undoubt-
edly her object. Now she places a gingerbread ele-
phant against the window, but with so tremulous a
touch that it tumbles upon the floor, with the dismem-
berment of three legs and its trunk; it has ceased to
be an elephant, and has become a few bits of musty
gingerbread. There, again, she has upset a tumbler
of marbles, all of which roll different ways, and each
individual marble, devil-directed, into the most diffis
cult obscurity that it can find. Heaven help our poo
old Hepzibah, and forgive us for taking a ludicrou
view of her position! As her rigid and rusty fram..
goes down upon its hands and knees, in quest of the
absconding marbles, we positively feel so much the
more inclined to shed tears of sympathy, from the
very fact that we must needs turn aside and laugh at
her. For here, —and if we fail to impress it suitably
upon the reader, it is our own fault, not that of the
THE LITTLE SHOP-WINDOW. 55
theme, — here is one of the truest points of melan:
choly interest that occur in ordinary life. It was the
final throe of what called itself old gentility. A lady
— who had fed herself from childhood with the shad-
owy food of aristocratic reminiscences, and whose re-
ligion it was that a lady’s hand soils itself irremedi-
ably by doing aught for bread — this born lady, after
sixty years of narrowing means, is fain to step down
from her pedestal of imaginary rank. Poverty, tread-
ing closely at her heels for a lifetime, has come up
with her at last. She must earn her own food, or
starve! And we have stolen upon Miss Hepzibah
Pyncheon, too irreverently, at the instant of time
when the patrician lady is to be transformed into the
plebeian woman.
In this republican country, amid the fluctuating
waver of our social life, somebody is always at the
drowning-point. The tragedy is enacted with as con-
tinual a repetition as that of a popular drama on a
holiday ; and, nevertheless, is felt as deeply, per-
haps, as when an hereditary noble sinks below his or-
der. More deeply ; since, with us, rank is the grosser
substance of wealth and a splendid establishment, and
has no spiritual existence after the death of these, but
dies hopelessly along with them. And, therefore,
since we have been unfortunate enough to introduce
our heroine at so inauspicious a juncture, we would
entreat for a mood of due solemnity in the spectators
of her fate. Let us behold, in poor Hepzibah, the im-
memorial lady, — two hundred years old, on this side
of the water, and thrice as many on the other, — with
her antique portraits, pedigrees, coats of arms, records
and traditions, and her claim, as joint heiress, to that
princely territory at the eastward, no longer a wilder
56 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
ness, but a populous fertility, — born, too, in Pyncheon
Street, under the Pyncheon Elm, and in the Pyncheon
House, where she has spent all her days, — reduced
now, in that very house, to be the hucksteress of a
cent-shop.
This business of setting up a petty shop is almost
the only resource of women, in circumstances at all
similar to those of our unfortunate recluse. With her
near-sightedness, and those tremulous fingers of hers,
at once inflexible and delicate, she could not be 4
seamstress; although her sampler, of fifty years gone
by, exhibited some of the most recondite specimens of
ornamental needlework. A school for little children
had been often in her thoughts ; and, at one time, she
had begun a review of her early studies in the New
England Primer, with a view to prepare herself for
the office of instructress. But the love of children had
never been quickened in Hepzibah’s heart, and was now
torpid, if not extinct; she watched the little people
of the neighborhood from her chamber-window, and
doubted whether she could tolerate a more intimate
acquaintance with them. Besides, in our day, the
very A BC has become a science greatly too abstruse
to be any longer taught by pointing a pin from letter
to letter. A modern child could teach old Hepzibah
more than old Hepzibah could teach the child. So—
with many a cold, deep heart-quake at the idea of at
last coming into sordid contact with the world, from
which she had so long kept aloof, while every added
day of seclusion had rolled another stone against the
eavern-door of her hermitage —the poor thing be-
thought herself of the ancient shop-window, the rusty
scales, and dusty till. She might have held back a
little longer; but another circumstance, not yet hinted
SHE STOLE ON TIPTOE TO THE WINDOW, AS GAUTIOUSLY
AS IF SHE CONCEIVED SOME BLOODY-MINDED VILLAIN
TO BE WATCHING BEHIND THE ELM-TREE, WITH INTENT
TO TAKE HER LIFE
Jian
J L
j vate
Ny ?
i
THE LITTLE SHOP-WINDOW. 5t
at, had somewhat hastened her decision. Her humble
preparations, therefore, were duly made, and the enter-
prise was now to be commenced. Nor was she entitled
to complain of any remarkable singularity in her fate ;
for, in the town of her nativity, we might point to sev-
eral little shops of a similar description, some of them
in houses as ancient as that of the Seven Gables; and
one or two, it may be, where a decayed gentlewoman
stands behind the counter, as grim an image of family
pride as Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon herself.
It was overpoweringly ridiculous — we must hon-
estly confess it — the deportment of the maiden lady
while setting her shop in order for the public eye.
She stole on tiptoe to the window, as cautiously as if
she conceived some bloody-minded viliain to be watch-
ing behind the elm-tree, with intent to take her life.
Stretching out her long, lank arm, she put a paper of
pearl buttons, a jew’s-harp, or whatever the small ar-
ticle might be, in its destined place, and straightway
vanished back into the dusk, as if the world need
never hope for another glimpse of her. It might have
been fancied, indeed, that she expected to minister to
the wants of the community unseen, like a disem-
bodied divinity or enchantress, holding forth her bar-
gains to the reverential and awe-stricken purchaser in
an invisible hand. But Hepzibah had no such flatter-
ing dream. She was well aware that she must ul-
timately come forward, and stand revealed in her
proper individuality; but, like other sensitive persons,
she could not bear to be observed in the gradual pro-
cess, and chose rather to flash forth on the world’s as
tonished gaze at once.
The inevitable moment was not much longer to be
delayed. The sunshine might now be seen stealing
58 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
down the front of the opposite house, from the win
dows of which came a reflected gleam, struggling
through the boughs of the elm-tree, and enlightening
the interior of the shop more distinctly than hereto-
fore. The town appeared to be waking up. A baker’s
eart had already rattled through the street, chasing
away the latest vestige of night’s sanctity with the
jingle-jangle of its dissonant bells. A milkman was
distributing the contents of his cans from door to
door; and the harsh peal of a fisherman’s conch shell
was heard far off, around the corner. None of these
tokens escaped Hepzibah’s notice. The moment had
arrived. To delay longer would be only to lengthen
out her misery. Nothing remained, except to take
down the bar from the shop-door, leaving the entrance
free — more than free — welcome, as if all were
household friends —to every passer-by, whose eyes
might be attracted by the commodities at the window.
This last act Hepzibah now performed, letting the bar
fall with what smote upon her excited nerves as a
most astounding clatter. Then —as if the only bar-
rier betwixt herself and the world had been thrown
down, and a flood of evil consequences would come
tumbling through the gap—she fled into the inner
parlor, threw herself into the ancestral elbow-chair,
and wept.
Our miserable old Hepzibah! It is a heavy annoy-
ance to a writer, who endeavors to represent nature,
its various attitudes and circumstances, in a reasona-
bly correct outline and true coloring, that so much of
the mean and ludicrous should be hopelessly mixed up
with the purest pathos which life anywhere supplies
to him. What tragic dignity, for example, can be
wrought into a scene like this! How can we elevate
THE LITTLE SHOP-WINDOW. 59
eur history of retribution for the sin of long ago, when,
as one of our most prominent figures, we are compelled
to introduce — not a young and lovely woman, nor even
the stately remains of beauty, storm-shattered by af-
fliction —but a gaunt, sallow, rusty-jointed maiden, iv
a long-waisted silk gown, and with the strange horro1
of a turban on her head! Her visage is not even
ugly. It is redeemed from insignificance only by the
contraction of her eyebrows into a near-sighted scowl.
And, finally, her great life-trial seems to be, that,
after sixty years of idleness, she finds it convenient
to earn comfortable bread by setting up a shop ina
small way. Nevertheless, if we look through all the
heroic fortunes of mankind, we shall find this same
entanglement of something mean and trivial with
whatever is noblest in joy or sorrow. Life is made
up of marble and mud. And, without all the deeper
trust in a comprehensive sympathy above us, we might
hence be led to suspect the insult of a sneer, as well
as an immitigable frown, on the iron countenance of
fate. What is called poetic insight is the gift of dis-
cerning, in this sphere of strangely mingled elements,
the beauty and the majesty which are compelled to as
sume a garb so sordid.
IIT.
THE FIRST CUSTOMER.
Miss Hepzipau PyNcHEON sat in the oaken elbow
chair, with her hands over her face, giving way to
that heavy down-sinking of the heart which most per-
sons have experienced, when the image of hope itself
seems ponderously moulded of lead, on the eve of an
enterprise at once doubtful and momentous. She
was suddenly startled by the tinkling alarum — high,
sharp, and irregular —of a little bell. The maiden lady
arose upon her feet, as pale as a ghost at cock-crow ;
for she was an enslaved spirit, and this the talisman
to which she owed obedience. ‘This little bell, — to
speak in plainer terms, —being fastened over the shop-
door, was so contrived as to vibrate by means of a steel
spring, and thus convey notice to the inner regions of
the house when any customer should cross the thresh-
old. Its ugly and spiteful little din (heard now for
the first time, perhaps, since Hepzibah’s periwigged
predecessor had retired from trade) at once set every
nerve of her body in responsive and tumultuous vibra-
tion. The crisis was upon her! Her first customer
was at the door !
Without giving herself time for a second thought,
she rushed into the shop, pale, wild, desperate in ges-
ture and expression, scowling portentously, and look-
ing far better qualified to do fierce battle with a house<
breaker than to stand smiling behind the counter,
THE FIRST CUSTOMER. 61
bartering small wares for a copper recompense. Any
ordinary customer, indeed, would have turned his
back and fled. And yet there was nothing fierce in
Hepzibah’s poor old heart; nor had she, at the mo-
ment, a single bitter thought against the world at
large, or one individual man or woman. She wished
them all well, but wished, too, that she herself were
done with them, and in her quiet grave.
The applicant, by this time, stood within the door.
way. Coming freshly, as he did, out of the morning
light, he appeared to have brought some of its cheery
influences into the shop along with him. It was a
slender young man, not more than one or two and
twenty years old, with rather a grave and thoughtful
expression for his years, but likewise a springy alac-
rity and vigor. These qualities were not only per-
ceptible, physically, in his make and motions, but
made themselves felt almost immediately in his char-
acter. A brown beard, not too silken in its texture,
fringed his chin, but as yet without completely hiding
it; he wore a short mustache, too, and his dark, high-
featured countenance looked all the better for these
natural ornaments. As for his dress, it was of the
simplest kind ; a summer sack of cheap and ordinary
material, thin checkered pantaloons, and a straw hat
by no means of the finest braid. Oak Hall might
have supplied his entire equipment. He was chiefly
marked as a gentleman—if such, indeed, he made
any claim to be — by the rather remarkable whiteness
and nicety of his clean linen.
He met the scowl of old Hepzibah without apparent
alarm, as having heretofore encountered it and found
it harmless.
“¢So, my dear Miss Pyncheon,” said the daguerreo
62 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
typist, — for it was that sole other occupant ot tha
seven-gabled mansion, — ‘I am glad to see that. you
have not shrunk from your good purpose. I merely
look in to offer my best wishes, and to ask if I can ase
sist you any further in your preparations.”
People in difficulty and distress, or in any manner
at odds with the world, can endure a vast amount of
harsh treatment, and perhaps be only the stronger for
it; whereas they give way at once before the simplest
expression of what they perceive to be genuine sym-
pathy. So it proved with poor Hepzibah; for, when
she saw the young man’s smile, —looking so much
the brighter on a thoughtful face, —and heard his
kindly tone, she broke first into a hysteric giggle and
then began to sob.
“ Ah, Mr. Holgrave,” cried she, as soon as she could
speak, “I never can go through with it! Never,
never, never! JI wish I were dead, and in the old
family-tomb, with all my forefathers! With my
father, and my mother, and my sister! Yes, and with
ny brother, who had far better find me there than
here! The world is too chill and hard,—and I am
too old, and too feeble, and too hopeless!”
“Oh, believe me, Miss Hepzibah,” said the young
man, quietly, “these feelings will not trouble you any
longer, after you are once fairly in the midst of your
enterprise. They are unavoidable at this moment,
standing, as you do, on the outer verge of your long
seclusion, and peopling the world with ugly shapes,
which you will soon find to be as unreal as the giants
and ogres of a child’s story-book. I find nothing so
singular in life, as that everything appears to lose its
substance the instant one actually grapples with it. So
it will be with what you think so terrible.”
THE FIRST CUSVUOMER. 63
“But I am a woman!” said Hepzibah, piteously.
« T was going to say, a lady, — but I consider that as
past.”
“Well; no matter if it be past!” answered the
artist, a strange gleam of half-hidden sarcasm flashing
through the kindliness of his manner. ‘ Let it go!
You are the better without it. I speak frankly, my
dear Miss Pyncheon! for are we not friends? I look
upon this as one of the fortunate days of your life.
It ends an epoch and begins one. Hitherto, the life-
blood has been gradually chilling in your veins as you
sat aloof, within your circle of gentility, while the rest
of the world was fighting out its battle with one kind
of necessity or another. Henceforth, you will at least
have the sense of healthy and natural effort for a pur-
pose, and of lending your strength — be it great or
small—to the united struggle of mankind. This is
success, — all the success that anybody meets with!”
“It is natural enough, Mr. Holgrave, that you
should have ideas like these,” rejoined Hepzibah,
drawing up her gaunt figure, with slightly offended
dignity. ‘You are a man, a young man, and brought
up, I suppose, as almost everybody is nowadays, with
a view to seeking your fortune. But I was born a
lady, and have always lived one; no matter in what
narrowness of means, always a lady!”
“ But I was not born a gentleman; neither have I
lived like one,” said Holgrave, slightly smiling ; “so,
my dear madam, you will hardly expect me to sym
pathize with sensibilities of this kind; though, unless
I deceive myself, | have some imperfect comprehen-
sion of them. These names of gentleman and lady
had a meaning, in the past history of the world, and
conferred privileges, desirable or otherwise, on those
64 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
entitled to bear them. In the present— and still
more in the future condition of society — they imply,
not privilege, but restriction ! ”
‘These are new notions,” said the old gentlewoman,
shaking her head. ‘I shall never understand them;
neither do I wish it.”
“We will cease to speak of them, then,’ replied
the artist, with a friendlier smile than his last one,
“and I will leave you to feel whether it is not better
to be a true woman than a lady. Do you really think,
Miss Hepzibah, that any lady of your family has ever
done a more heroic thing, since this house was built,
than you are performing in it to-day? Never; and if
the Pyncheons had always acted so nobly, I doubt
whether an old wizard Maule’s anathema, of which
you told me once, would have had much weight with
Providence against them.”
* Ah!—no, no!” said Hepzibah, not displeased at
this allusion to the sombre dignity of an inherited curse.
“Tf old Maule’s ghost, or a descendant of his, could
see me behind the counter to-day, he would call it the
fulfilment of his worst wishes. But I thank you for
your kindness, Mr. Holgrave, and will do my utmost
to be a good shop-keeper.”
*“‘ Pray do,” said Holgrave, “and let me have the
pleasure of being your first customer. I am about
taking a walk to the sea-shore, before going to my
rooms, where I misuse Heaven’s blessed sunshine by
tracing out human features through its agency. A
few of those biscuits dipt in sea-water, will be just
what I need for breakfast. What is the price of half
a dozen ?”’
“Let me be a lady a moment longer,” replied Hep-
zibah, with a manner of antique stateliness to which
THE FIRST CUSTOMER. 65
a melancholy smile lent a kind of grace. She put the
biscuits into his hand, but rejected the compensation.
* A Pyncheon must not, at all events under her fore-
fathers’ roof, receive money for a morsel of bread
from her only friend!”
Holgrave took his departure, leaving her, for the
moment, with spirits not quite so much depressed.
Soon, however, they had subsided nearly to then
former dead level. With a beating heart, she listened
to the footsteps of early passengers, which now began
to be frequent along the street. Once or twice they
seemed to linger; these strangers, or neighbors, as
the case might be, were looking at the display of toys
and petty commodities in Hepzibah’s shop - window.
She was doubly tortured; in part, with a sense ot
overwhelming shame that strange and unloving eye;
should have the privilege of gazing, and partly because
the idea occurred to her, with ridiculous importunity,
that the window was not arranged so skilfully, nor
nearly to so much advantage, as it might have been.
It seemed asif the whole fortune or failure of her shop
might depend on the display of a different set of arti-
cles, or substituting a fairer apple for one which ap-
peared to be specked. So she made the change, and
straightway fancied that everything was spoiled by
it; not recognizing that it was the nervousness of the
juncture, and her own native squeamishness as an old
maid, that wrought all the seeming mischief.
Anon, there was an encounter, just at the door-step,
betwixt two laboring men, as their rough voices denote¢.
them to be. After some slight talk about their own
affairs, one of them chanced to notice the shop-window,
and directed the other’s attention to it.
“See here!” cried he; “ what do you think of
VOL. IIL 5
66 THE HOUSE OF FHE SEVEN GABLES.
this? Trade seems to be looking up in Pyncheon
Street !””
“Well, well, this is a sight, to be sure!” exclaimed
the other. ‘In the old Pyncheon House, and under.
neath the Pyncheon Elm! Who would have thought
it? Old Maid Pyncheon is setting up a cent-shop!”
“ Will she make it go, think you, Dixey?” said his
friend. “I don’t call it a very good stand. There’s
another shop just round the corner.”
“Make it go!” cried Dixey, with a most cone
temptuous expression, as if the very idea were impos.
sible to be conceived. “Not a bit of it! Why, her
face — I’ve seen it, for I dug her garden for her one
year — her face is enough to frighten the Old Nick
himself, if he had ever so great a mind to trade with
her. People can’t stand it, I tell you! She scowls
dreadfully, reason or none, out of pure ugliness of
temper ! ”
“ Well, that’s not so much matter,” remarked the
other man. ‘These sour-tempered folks are mostly
handy at business, and know pretty well what they are
about. But, as you say, I don’t think she ’I1 do much.
This business of keeping cent-shops is overdone, like
all other kinds of trade, handicraft, and bodily labor.
I know it, to my cost! My wife kept a cent-shop
three months, and lost five dollars on her outlay!”
“Poor business!” responded Dixey, in a tone as if
he were shaking his head, — “ poor business !”
For some reason or other, not very easy to analyze
there had hardly been so bitter a pang in all her pre
vious misery about the matter as what thrilled Hepzi
bah’s heart, on overhearing the above conversation.
The testimony in regard to her scowl was frightfully
unportant; it seemed to hold up her image wholly re
THE FIRST CUSTOMER. 67
lieved from the false light of her self-partialities, and
so hideous that she dared not look at it. She was ab.
surdly hurt, moreover, by the slight and idle effect
that her setting up shop — an event of such breathless
interest to herself — appeared to have upon the pub-
lic, of which these two men were the nearest repre
sentatives. A glance; a passing word or two; 4
coarse laugh; and she was doubtless forgotten before
they turned the corner! They cared nothing for her
dignity, and just as little for her degradation. Then,
also, the augury of ill-success, uttered from the sure
wisdom of experience, fell upon her half-dead hope
like a clod into a grave. The man’s wife had already
tried the same experiment, and failed! How could
the born lady, — the recluse of half a lifetime, utterly
unpractised in the world, at sixty years of age, — how
could she ever dream of succeeding, when the hard,
vulgar, keen, busy, hackneyed New England womap
had lost five dollars on her little outlay! Success pre
sented itself as an impossibility, and the hope of it ax
a wild hallucination.
Some malevolent spirit, doing his utmost to drive
Hepzibah mad, unrolled before her imagination a kind
of panorama, representing the great thoroughfare of a
city all astir with customers. So many and so magnif:
icent shops as there were! Groceries, toy-shops, dry
goods stores, with their immense panes of plate-glass:
their gorgeous fixtures, their vast and complete assorr
ments of merchandise, in which fortunes had been in
vested; and those noble mirrors at the farther end
of each establishment, doubling all this wealth by a
brightly burnished vista of unrealities! On one side
of the street this splendid bazaar, with a multitude of
perfumed and glossy salesmen, smirking, smiling, bow:
68 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
ing, and measuring out the goods. On the other, the
dusky eld House of the Seven Gables, with the anti-
quated shop-window under its projecting story, and
Hepzibah herself, in a gown of rusty black silk, behind
the counter, scowling at the world as it went by! This
mighty contrast thrust itself forward as a fair expres-
sion of the odds against which she was to begin her
struggle for a subsistence. Success? Preposterous!
She would never think of it again! The house might
just as well be buried in an eternal fog while all other
houses had the sunshine on them ; for not a foot would
ever cross the threshold, nor a hand so much as try
the door !
But, at this instant, the shop-bell, right over her
head, tinkled as if it were bewitched. The old gentle-
woman’s heart seemed to be attached to the same steel
spring, for it went through a series of sharp jerks, in
unison with the sound. The door was thrust open,
although no human form was perceptible on the other
side of the half-window. Hepzibah, nevertheless,
stood at a gaze, with her hands clasped, looking very
much as if she had summoned up an evil spirit, and
were afraid, yet resolved, to hazard the encounter.
‘“‘ Heaven help me!” she groaned, mentally. ‘ Now
is my hour of need!”
The door, which moved with difficulty on its creake
ing and rusty hinges, being forced quite open, a
square and sturdy little urchin became apparent, with
cheeks as red as an apple. He was clad rather shab-
bily (but, as it seemed, more owing to his mother’s
carelessness than his father’s poverty), in a blue apron,
very wide and short trousers, shoes somewhat out at
the toes, and a chip-hat, with the frizzles of his curly
hair sticking through its crevices. A book and a
1 fal! ye
W
“no
MENTALLY
1»?
)
SHE GROANED
HOUR OF NEED
{»
‘HEAVEN HELP ME
/
\
.
THE FIRST CUSTOMER. 68
gmall slate, under his arm, indicated that he was on
his way to school. He stared at Hepzibah a moment,
as an elder customer than himself would have been
likely enough to do, not knowing what to make of the
tragic attitude and queer scowl wherewith she re
garded him.
“ Well, child,” said she, taking heart at sight of ¢
personage so little formidable, —“‘ well, my child, what
did you wish for ?”
‘That Jim Crow there in the window,” answered
the urchin, holding out a cent, and pointing to the
gingerbread figure that had attracted his notice, as he
loitered along to school; “the one that has not a
broken foot.”
So Hepzibah put forth her lank arm, and, taking
the effigy from the shop-window, delivered it to her
first customer.
‘No matter for the money,” said she, giving him a
little push towards the door; for her old gentility was
contumaciously squeamish at sight of the copper coin,
and, besides, it seemed such pitiful meanness to take
the child’s pocket-money in exchange for a bit of stale
gingerbread. ‘No matter for the cent. You are
welcome to Jim Crow.”
The child, staring with round eyes at this instance
of liberality, wholly unprecedented in his large ex-
perience of cent-shops, took the man of gingerbread,
and quitted the premises. No sooner had he reached
the sidewalk (little cannibal that he was!) than Jim
Crow’s head was in his mouth. As he had not been
eareful to shut the door, Hepzibah was at the pains of
closing it after him, with a pettish ejaculation or two
about the troublesomeness of young people, and pare
ticularly of small boys. She had just placed anothet
70 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
representative of the renowned Jim Crow at the win
dow, when again the shop-bell tinkled clamorously,
and again the door being thrust open, with its charac-
teristic jerk and jar, disclosed the same sturdy little
urchin who, precisely two minutes ago, had made his
exit. The crumbs and discoloration of the cannibal
feast, as yet hardly consummated, were exceedingly
visible about his mouth.
“ What is it now, child?” asked the maiden lady,
rather impatiently ; “did you come back to shut the
door ?”
“No,” answered the urchin, pointing to the figure
that had just been put up; “I want that other Jim
Vrow.”’
“Well, here it is for you,” said Hepzibah, reach-
mg it down; but recognizing that this pertinacious
gustomer would not quit her on any other terms, so
long as she had a gingerbread figure in her shop, she
partly be back her extended hand, ‘‘ Where is the
vent ?’
The little boy had the cent ready, but, like : a true-
born Yankee, would have preferred th the better bargain
to the worse.” Looking somewhat chagrined, napa put
the coin into Hepzibah’s hand, and departed, sending
the second Jim Crow in quest of the former one. The
new shopkeeper dropped the first solid result of her
commercial enterprise into the till. It was done!
The sordid stain of that copper coin could never be
washed away from her palm. The little school-boy,
aided by the impish figure of the negro dancer, had
wrought an irreparable ruin. The structure of an-
cient aristocracy had been demolished by-him,even_as _
if his childish gripe had torn down the seven-gabled
mansion. Now let Hepzibah turn the old Pyncheor
THE FIRST CUSTOMER. 71
portraits with their faces to the wall, and take the map
of her Eastern territory to kindle the kitchen fire, and
blow up the flame with the empty breath of her ances-
tral traditions! What had she to do with ancestry?
Nothing; no more than with posterity! No lady,
now, but simply Hepzibah Pyncheon, a forlorn old
maid, and keeper of a cent-shop!
Nevertheless, even while she paraded these ideas
somewhat ostentatiously through her mind, it is alto-
gether surprising what a calmness had come over her.
The anxiety and misgivings which had tormented her,
whether asleep or in melancholy day-dreams, ever
since her project began to take an aspect of solidity,
had now vanished quite away. She felt the novelty
of her position, indeed, but no longer with disturbance
or affright. Now and then, there came a thrill of al-
most youthful enjoyment. It was the invigorating
breath of a fresh outward atmosphere, after the long
torpor and monotonous seclusion of her life. So
wholesome is effort! So miraculous the strength that
we do not know of! The healthiest glow that Hepzi-
bah had known for years had come now in the dreaded
crisis, when, for the first time, she had put forth her
hand to help herself. The little circlet of the school-
boy’s copper coin —dim and lustreless though it was,
with the small services which it had been doing here
and there about the world —had proved a talisman,
fragrant with good, and deserving to be set in gold
and worn next her heart. It was as potent, and per.
haps endowed with the same kind of efficacy, as a gal-
vanic ring! Hepzibah, at all events, was indebted to
its subtile operation both in body and spirit ; so much
the more, as it inspired her with energy to get some
breakfast, at which, still the better to keep up her
72 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
courage, she allowed herself an extra spoonful in het
infusion of black tea.
Her introductory day of shop-keeping did not run
on, however, without many and serious interruptions
of this mood of cheerful vigor. As a general rule,
Providence-seldom_vouchsafes to mortals any more
than just that degree of encouragement, which suffices
to keep them at a reasonably full—exertion—of-thei___
powers. In the case of our old gentlewoman, after
the éxcitement of new effort had subsided, the de-
spondency of her whole life threatened, ever and anon,
to return. It was like the heavy mass of clouds which
we may often see obscuring the sky, and making a
gray twilight everywhere, until, towards nightfall, it
yields temporarily to a glimpse of sunshine. But, al-
ways, the envious cloud strives to gather again across
the streak of celestial azure.
Customers came in, as the forenoon advanced, but
rather slowly ; in some cases, too, it must be owned,
with little satisfaction either to themselves or Miss
Hepzibah ; nor, on the whole, with an aggregate of
very rich emolument to the till. A little girl, sent by
her mother to match a skein of cotton thread, of a pe-
culiar hue, took one that the near-sighted old lady pro-
nounced extremely like, but soon came running back,
with a blunt and cross message, that it would not do,
and, besides, was very rotten! Then, there was a pale,
care- wrinkled woman, not old but haggard, and al-
ready with streaks of gray among her hair, like sil-
ver ribbons; one of those women, naturally delicate,
whom you at once recognize as worn to death by a
brute — probably a drunken brute — of a husband,
and at least nine children. She wanted a few pounds
of flour, and offered the money, which the decayed
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74 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
“Well,” said Hepzibah, heaving a deep sigh, “ per
haps I had! ”
Several times, moreover, besides the above instance
her lady-like sensibilities were seriously infringed upon
by the familiar, if not rude, tone with which people
addressed her. They evidently considered themselves
not merely her equals, but her patrons and superiors.
Now, Hepzibah had unconsciously flattered herself
with the idea that there would be a gleam or halo, of
some kind or other, about her person, which would in-
sure an obeisance to her sterling gentility, or, at least,
a tacit recognition of it. On the other hand, nothing
tortured her more intolerably than when this recogni-
tion was too prominently expressed. To one or two
rather officious offers of sympathy, her responses were
little short of acrimonious; and, we regret to say,
Hepzibah was thrown into a positively unchristian
state of mind by the suspicion that one of her cus:
tomers was drawn to the shop, not by any real need
of the article which she pretended to seek, but by
a wicked wish to stare at her. The vulgar creature
was determined to see for herself what sort of a figure
a mildewed piece of aristocracy, after wasting all the
bloom and much of the decline of her life apart from
the world, would cut behind a counter. In this par.
ticular case, however mechanical and innocuous it
might be at other times, Hepzibah’s contortion of brow
served her in good stead.
“‘T never was so frightened in my life!” said the
curious customer, in describing the incident to one of
her acquaintances. ‘She’s a real old vixen, take my
word of it! She says little, to be sure; but if you
could only see the mischief in her eye!”
On the whole, therefore, her new experience led our
THE FIRST CUSTOMER. 75
decayed gentlewoman to very disagreeable conclusions
as to the temper and manners of what she termed the
lower classes, whom heretofore she had looked down
upon with a gentle and pitying complaisance, as her-
self occupying a sphere of unquestionable superiority.
But, unfortunately, she had likewise to struggle
against a bitter emotion of a directly opposite kind: a
sentiment of virulence, we mean, towards the idle aris-
tocracy to which it had so recently been her pride to
belong. When a lady, in a delicate and costly sum
mer garb, with a floating veil and gracefully sway-
ing gown, and, altogether, an etherial lightness that
made you look at her beautifully slippered feet, to
see whether she trod on the dust or floated in the air,
—— when such a vision happened to pass through this
retired street, leaving it tenderly and delusively fra-
grant with her passage, as if a bouquet of tea-roses
had been borne along, — then again, it is to be feared,
old Hepzibah’s scowl could no longer vindicate itself
entirely on the plea of near-sightedness.
“For what end,” thought she, giving vent to that
feeling of hostility which is the only real abasement
of the poor in presence of the rich, —‘“‘ for what good
end, in the wisdom of Providence, does that woman
live? Must the whole world toil, that the palms of
her hands may be kept white and delicate ?”
Then, ashamed and penitent, she hid her face.
“May God forgive me!” said she.
Doubtless, God did forgive her. But, taking the
inward and outward history of the first half-day into
consideration, Hepzibah began to fear that the shop
would prove her ruin in a moral and religious point
of view, without contributing very essentially towards
ven her temporal welfare.
IV.
A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER.
TowaRpDs noon, Hepzibah saw an elderly gentle
man, large and portly, and of remarkably dignified
demeanor, passing slowly along on the opposite side
of the white and dusty street. On coming within the
shadow of the Pyncheon Elm, he stopt, and (taking
off his hat, meanwhile, to wipe the perspiration from
his brow) seemed to scrutinize, with especial interest,
the dilapidated and rusty-visaged House of the Seven
Gables. He himself, in a very different style, was as
well worth looking at as the house. No better model
need be sought, nor could have been found, of a very
high order of respectability, which, by some indescrib-
able magic, not merely expressed itself in his looks
and gestures, but even governed the fashion of his
garments, and rendered them all proper and essential
to the man. Without appearing to differ, in any
tangible way, from other people’s clothes, there was
yet a wide and rich gravity about them that must
have been a characteristic of the wearer, since it could
not be defined as pertaining either to the cut or ma-
terial. His gold-headed cane, too, —a serviceable
staff, of dark polished wood, — had similar traits, ana,
had it chosen to take a walk by itself, would have
been recognized anywhere as a tolerably adequate rep-
resentative of its master. This character — which
showed itself so strikingly in everything about him
A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER. 1?
and the effect of which we seek to convey to the reader
— went no deeper than his station, habits of life, and
external circumstances. One perceived him to be a
personage of marked influence and authority; and,
especially, you could feel just as certain that he was
opulent as if he had exhibited his bank account, or
as if you had seen him touching the twigs of the Pyn
cheon Elm, and, Midas-like, transmuting them to gold.
In his youth, he had probably been considered a
handsome man; at his present age, his brow was too
heavy, his temples too bare, his remaining hair too
gray, his eye too cold, his lips too closely compressed,
to bear any relation to mere personal beauty. He
would have made a good and massive portrait ; better
now, perhaps, than at any previous period of his life,
although his look might grow positively harsh in the
process of being fixed upon the canvas. . The artist
would have found it desirable to study his face, and
prove its capacity for varied expression; to darken it
with a frown, — to kindle it up with a smile.
While the elderly gentleman stood looking at the
Pyncheon House, both the frown and the smile passed
successively over his countenance. His eye rested on
the shop-window, and putting up a pair of gold-bowed
spectacles, which he held in his hand, he minutely sur.
veyed Hepzibah’s little arrangement of toys and com-
modities. At first it seemed not to please him, — nay,
to cause him exceeding displeasure,— and yet, the
very next moment, he smiled. While the latter ex.
pression was yet on his lips, he caught a glimpse of
Hepzibah, who had involuntarily bent forward to the
window; and then the smile changed from acrid and
disagreeable to the sunniest complacency and benevo-
lence. He bowed, with a happy mixture of dignity
and courteous kindliness, and pursued his way.
78 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
“There he is!” said Hepzibah io herself, gulping
down a very bitter emotion, and, since she could not
rid herself of it, trying to drive it back into her heart.
“ What does he think of it, I wonder? Does it please
him? Ah! he is looking back!”
The gentleman had paused in the street, and turned.
himself half about, still with his eyes fixed on the
shop-window. In fact, he wheeled wholly round, and
commenced a step or two, as if designing to enter the
shop; but, as it chanced, his purpose was anticipated
by Hepzibah’s first customer, the little cannibal of Jim
Crow, who, staring up at the window, was irresistibly
attracted by an elephant of gingerbread. What a
grand appetite had this small urchin!—Two Jim
Crows immediately after breakfast!—and now an
elephant, as a preliminary whet before dinner! By
the time this latter purchase was completed, the el-
derly gentleman had resumed his way, and turned the
street corner.
“Take it as you like, Cousin Jaffrey!” muttered
the maiden lady, as she drew back, after cautiously
thrusting out her head, and looking up and down the
street, — “take it as you like! You have seen my
little shop-window! Well! —what have you to say?
—is not the Pyncheon House my own, while 1’m
alive?”
After this incident, Hepzibah retreated to the back
varlor, where she at first caught up a half-finished
stocking, and began knitting at it with nervous and
irregular jerks; but quickly finding herself at odds
with the stitches, she threw it aside, and walked hur-
riedly about the room. At length, she paused before
the portrait of the stern old Puritan, her ancestor, and
fhe founder of the house. In one sense, this picture
A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER. 79
had almost faded into the canvas, and hidden itself
behind the duskiness of age; in another, she could
not but fancy that it had been growing more promi
nent, and strikingly expressive, ever since her earliest
familiarity with it asa child. For, while the physica)
outline and substance were darkening away from the
beholder’s eye, the bold, hard, and, at the same time,
indirect character of the man seemed to be brought
out in a kind of spiritual relief. Such an effect may
occasionally be observed in pictures of antique date.
They acquire a look which an artist (if he have
anything like the complacency of artists nowadays)
would never dream of presenting to a patron as his
own characteristic expression, but which, nevertheless,
we at once recognize as reflecting the unlovely truth
of a human soul. In such cases, the painter’s deep
conception of his subject’s inward traits has wrought
itself into the essence of the picture, and is seen after
the superficial coloring has been rubbed off by time.
While gazing at the portrait, Hepzibah trembled
under its eye. Her hereditary reverence made her
afraia to judge the character of the original so harshly
as a perception of the truth compelled her to do. But
still she gazed, because the face of the picture enabled
her — at least, she fancied so-—to read more accu-
rately, and to a greater depth, the face which she had
lust seen in the street.
“This is the very man!” murmured she to herself,
* Let Jaffrey Pyncheon smile as he will, there is that
look beneath! Put on him a skull-cap, and a band,
and a black cloak, and a Bible in one hand and a
sword in the other,—then let Jaffrey smile as he
might, — nobody would doubt that it was the old Pyn-
theon come again! He has proved himself the very
80 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
«\
man to build up a new house ! Perhaps, too, to draw
down a new curse!” |
Thus did Hepzibah bewilder herself with these
fantasies of the old time. She had dwelt too much
alone, — too long in the Pyncheon House, — until her
very brain was impregnated with the dry-rot of its
timbers. She needed a walk along the noonday street
to keep her sane.
By the spell of contrast, another portrait rose up
before her, painted with more daring flattery than any
artist would have ventured upon, but yet so delicate.
ly touched that the likeness remained perfect. Mal-
bone’s miniature, though from the same original, was
far inferior to Hepzibah’s air-drawn picture, at which
affection and sorrowful remembrance wrought together.
Soft, mildly, and cheerfully contemplative, with full,
red lips, just on the verge of a smile, which the eyes
seemed to herald by a gentle kindling-up of their orbs!
Feminine traits, moulded inseparably with those of the
other sex! The miniature, likewise, had this last pe-
culiarity; so that you inevitably thought of the orig-
inal as resembling his mother, and she a lovely and
lovable woman, with perhaps some beautiful infirmity
of character, that made it all the pleasanter to know
and easier to love her.
“Yes,” thought Hepzibah, with grief of which it
was only the more tolerable portion that welled up
from her heart to her eyelids, “they persecuted his
mother in him! He never was a Pyncheon !”
But here the shop-bell rang; it was like a sound
from a remote distance,— so far had Hepzibah de-
scended into the sepulchral depths of her reminis-
cences. On entering the shop, she found an old man
there, a humble resident of Pyncheon Street, and
A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER. 81
whom, for a great many years past, she had suffered
to be a kind of familiar of the house. He was an ime
memorial personage, who seemed always to have had
a white head and wrinkles, and never to have pos-
sessed but a single tooth, and that a half-decayed one,
in the front of the upper jaw. Well advanced as
Hepzibah was, she could not remember when Uncle
Venner, as the neighborhood called him, had not gone
up and down the street, stooping a little and drawing
his feet heavily over the gravel or pavement. But
still there was something tough and vigorous about
him, that not only kept him in daily breath, but en-
abled him to fill a place which would else have been
vacant in the apparently crowded world. To go of
errands with his slow and shuffling gait, which made
you doubt how he ever was to arrive anywhere; to
saw a small household’s foot or two of firewood, or
knock to pieces an old barrel, or split up a pine board
for kindling-stuff ; in summer, to dig the few yards of
garden ground appertaining to a low-rented tenement,
and share the produce of his labor at the halves; in win-
ter, to shovel away the snow from the sidewalk, or open
paths to the woodshed, or along the clothes-line; such
were some of the essential offices which Uncle Venner
performed among at least a score of families. Within
that circle, he claimed the same sort of privilege, and
probably felt as much warmth of interest, as a clergy
- man does in the range of his parishioners. Not that
he laid claim to the tithe pig; but, as an analogous
mode of reverence, he went his rounds, every morning.
to gather up the crumbs of the table and overflowings
of the dinner-pot, as food for a pig of his own.
In his younger days — for, after all, there was a
dim tradition that he had been, not young, but
VOL. III. 6
82 tHE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
younger — Uncle Venner was commonly regarded ag
rather deficient, than otherwise, in his wits. In truth
he had virtually pleaded guilty to the charge, by
scarcely aiming at such success as other men seek, and
by taking only that humble and modest part in the
intercourse of life which belongs to the alleged defi-
ciency. But now, in his extreme old age, — whether
it were that his long and hard experience had actually
brightened him, or that his decaying judgment ren-
dered him less capable of fairly measuring himself, —~
the venerable man made pretensions to no little wis-
dom, and really enjoyed the credit of it. There was
likewise, at times, a vein of something like poetry in
him ; it was the moss or wall-flower of his mind in its
small dilapidation, and gave a charm to what might
have been vulgar and commonplace in his earlier and
middle life. Hepzibah had a regard for him, because
his name was ancient in the town and had formerly
been respectable. It was a still better reason for
awarding him a species of familiar reverence that Un-
cle Venner was himself the most ancient existence,
whether of man or thing, in Pyncheon Street, except
the House of the Seven Gables, and perhaps the elm
that overshadowed it.
This patriarch now presented himself before Hepzi-
bah, clad in an old blue coat, which had a fashionable
air, and must have accrued to him from the cast-off
wardrobe of some dashing clerk. As for his trousers,
they were of tow-cloth, very short in the legs, and bag
ging down strangely in the rear, but yet having a suit.
ableness to his figure which his other garment entirely
lacked. His hat had relation to no other part of his
dress, and but very little to the head that wore it.
Yous Uncle Venner was a miscellaneous old gentle
A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER. 83
man, partly himself, but, in good measure, somebody
else; patched together, too, of different epochs; an
epitome of times and fashions.
‘*So, you have really begun trade,” said he, —
“really begun trade! Well, I’m glad to see it.
Young people should never live idle in the world, nor
old ones neither, unless when the rheumatize gets hold
of them. It has given me warning already; and in
two or three years longer, I shall think of putting
aside business and retiring to my farm. That’s yon-
der, — the great brick house, you know, — the work-
house, most folks call it; but I mean to do my work
first, and go there to be idle and enjoy myself. And
I’m glad to see you beginning to do your work, Miss
Hepzibah ! ”
“Thank you, Uncle Venner,” said Hepzibah, smil-
ing ; for she always felt kindly towards the simple
and talkative old man. Had he been an old woman,
she might probably have repelled the freedom, which
she now took in good part. “It is time for me to
begin work, indeed! Or, to speak the truth, I have
just begun when I ought to be giving it up.”
* Oh, never say that, Miss Hepzibah!” answered
the old man. ‘“ You are a young woman yet. Why,
I hardly thought myself younger than I am now, it
seems so little while ago since I used to see you play-
ing about the door of the old house, quite a small
child! Oftener, though, you used to be sitting at the
threshold, and looking gravely into the street; for you
had always a grave kind of way with you, — a grown-
up air, when you were only the height of my knee.
It seems as if I saw you now; and your grandfather
with his red cloak, and his white wig, and his cocked
hat, and his cane, coming out of the house, and step-
84 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
ping so grandly up the street! Those old gentlemes
that grew up before the Revolution used to put on
grand airs. In my young days, the great man of the
town was commonly called King; and his wife, not
Queen to be sure, but Lady. Nowadays, a man would
not dare to be called King; and if he feels himself a
little above common folks, he only stoops so much the
lower to them. I met your cousin, the Judge, ten
minutes ago; and, in my old tow-cloth trousers, as
you see, the Judge raised his hat to me, I do believe!
At any rate, the Judge bowed and smiled!”
“Yes,” said Hepzibah, with something bitter steal-
ing unawares into her tone; “my cousin Jaffrey is
thought to have a very pleasant smile !”
“And so he has!” replied Uncle Venner. ‘“ And
that ’s rather remarkable in a Pyncheon ; for, begging
your pardon, Miss Hepzibah, they never had the name
of being an easy and agreeable set of folks. There
was no getting close to them. But now, Miss Hepzi-
bah, if an old man may be bold to ask, why don’t
Judge Pyncheon, with his great means, step forward,
and tell his cousin to shut up her little shop at once?
It’s for your credit to be doing something, but it’s
not for the Judge’s credit to let you!”
“We won’t talk of this, if you please, Uncle Ven-
ner,” said Hepzibah, coldly. “I ought to say, how-
ever, that, if I choose to earn bread for myself, it is
not Judge Pyncheon’s fault. Neither will he deserve
the blame,”’ added she, more kindly, remembering Un-
ele Venner’s privileges of age and humble familiarity,
“if I should, by and by, find it convenient to retire
with you to your farm.”
‘“‘ And it’s no bad place, either, that farm of mine!”
sried the old man, cheerily, as if there were something
A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER. 85
positively delightful in the prospect. ‘No bad place
is the great brick farm-house, especially for them that
will find a good many old cronies there, as will be my
ease. I quite long to be among them, sometimes, of
the winter evenings; for it is but dull business for a
lonesome elderly man, like me, to be nodding, by the
hour together, with no company but his air-tight stove.
Summer or winter, there’s a great deal to be said in
favor of my farm! And, take it in the autumn, what
can be pleasanter than to spend a whole day on the
sunny side of a barn or a wood-pile, chatting with
somebody as old as one’s self; or, perhaps, idling
away the time with a natural-born simpleton, who
knows how to be idle, because even our busy Yankees
never have found out how to put him to any use?
Upon my word, Miss Hepzibah, I doubt whether I ’ve
ever been so comfortable as I mean to be at my farm,
which most folks call the workhouse. But you, —
you ’re a young woman yet, — you never need go
there! Something still better will turn up for you.
I’m sure of it!”
Hepzibah fancied that there was something peculiar
in her venerable friend’s look and tone; insomuch,
that she gazed into his face with considerable earnest-
ness, endeavoring to discover what secret meaning, if
any, might be lurking there. Individuals whose af-
fairs have reached an utterly desperate crisis almost
invariably keep themselves alive with hopes, so much
the more airily magnificent as they have the less of
solid matter within their grasp whereof to mould any
judicious and moderate expectation of good. Thus,
all the while Hepzibah was perfecting the scheme of
her little shop, she had cherished an unacknowledged
‘dea that some harlequin trick of fortune would im
86 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES,
tervene in her favor. For example, an uncle — whe
had sailed for India fifty years before, and never
been heard of since — might yet return, and adopt
her to be the comfort of his very extreme and decrepit
age, and adorn her with pearls, diamonds, and Orien-
tal shawls and turbans, and make her the ultimate
heiress of his unreckonable riches. Or the member
of Parliament, now at the head of the English branch
of the family,— with which the elder stock, on this
side of the Atlantic, had held little or no intercourse
for the last two centuries, —this eminent gentleman
might invite Hepzibah to quit the ruinous House of
the Seven Gables, and come over to dwell with her
kindred at Pyncheon Hall. But, for reasons the most
imperative, she could not yield to his request. It was
more probable, therefore, that the descendants of a
Pyncheon who had emigrated to Virginia, in some
past generation, and became a great planter there, —
hearing of Hepzibah’s destitution, and impelled by the
splendid generosity of character with which their Vir-
ginian mixture must have enriched the New England
blood, — would send her a remittance of a thousand
dollars, with a hint of repeating the favor annually.
Or, — and, surely, anything so undeniably just could
not be beyond the limits of reasonable anticipation,
—the great claim to the heritage of Waldo County
might finally be decided in favor of the Pyncheons ;
so that, instead of keeping a cent-shop, Hepzibah
would build a palace, and look down from its highest
tower on hill, dale, forest, field, and town, as her own
share of the ancestral territory.
These were some of the fantasies which she had long
dreamed about; and, aided by these, Uncle Venner’s
casual attempt at encouragement kindled a strange
A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER. 87
festal glory in the poor, bare, melancholy chambers of
her brain, as if that inner world were suddenly lighted
up with gas. But either he knew nothing of her cas-
tles in the air —as how should he? — or else her
earnest scowl disturbed his recollection, as it might
@ more courageous man’s. Instead of pursuing any
weightier topic, Uncle Venner was pleased to favor
flepzibah with some sage counsel in her shop-keeping
eapacity.
‘Give no credit! ’”” — these were some of his golden
maxims, — “‘ Never take paper-money! Look well to
your change! Ring the silver on the four-pound
weight! Shove back all English half-pence and base
copper tokens, such as are very plenty about town!
At your leisure hours, knit children’s woollen socks
and mittens! Brew your own yeast, and make your
own ginger-beer !”
And while Hepzibah was doing her utmost to digest
the hard little pellets of his already uttered wisdom,
he gave vent to his final, and what he declared to be
his all-important advice, as follows : —
*¢ Put on a bright face for your customers, and smile
pleasantly as you hand them what they ask for! A
stale article, if you dip it in a good, warm, sunny smile,
will go off better than a fresh one that you ’ve scowled
upon.”
To this last apothegm poor Hepzibah responded with
a sigh so deep and heavy that it almost rustled Uncle
Venner quite away, like a withered leaf, — as he was,
--- before an autumnal gale. Recovering himself, how-
ever, he bent forward, and, with a good deal of feeling
in his ancient visage, beckoned her nearer to him.
_ * When do you expect him home ?” whispered he.
“Whom do you mean?” asked Hepzibah, turning
pale.
88 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
“ Ah? you don’t love to talk about it,” said Uncle
Venner. ‘ Well, well! we ll say no more, though
there ’s word of it all over town. I remember him,
Miss Hepzibah, before he could run alone!”
During the remainder of the day poor Hepzibah ac.
yuitted herself even less creditably, as a shop-keeper,
than in her earlier efforts. She appeared to be walk-
ing in a dream; or, more truly, the vivid life and real-
ity assumed by her emotions made all outward occur.
rences unsubstantial, like the teasing phantasms of a
half-conscious slumber. She still responded, mechan-
ically, to the frequent summons of the shop-bell, and,
at the demand of her customers, went prying with
vague eyes about the shop, proffering them one article
after another, and thrusting aside — perversely, as
most of them supposed — the identical thing they
asked for. ‘There is sad confusion, indeed, when the
spirit thus flits away into the past, or into the more
awful future, or, in any manner, steps across the space-
less boundary betwixt its own region and the actual
world ; where the body remains to guide itself as best
it may, with little more than the mechanism of animal
iife. It is like death, without death’s quiet privilege,
—its freedom from mortal care. Worst of all, when
the actual duties are comprised in such petty details
as now vexed the brooding soul of the old gentle-
woman. As the animosity of fate would have it, there
was a great influx of custom in the course of the after-
noon. Hepzibah blundered to and fro about her
small place of business, committing the most unheard-
of errors: now stringing up twelve, and now seven,
tallow-candles, instead of ten to the pound; selling
ginger for Scotch snuff, pins for needles, and needles
for pins; misreckoning her change, sometimes to the
A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER. 89
public detriment, and much oftener to her own; and
thus she went on, doing her utmost to bring chaos back
again, until, at the close of the day’s labor, to her in-
explicable astonishment, she found the money-drawer
almost destitute of coin. After all her painful traffic,
the whole proceeds were perhaps half a dozen coppers,
and a questionable ninepence which ultimately proved
to be copper likewise.
At this price, or at whatever price, she rejoiced that
the day had reached its end. Never before had she
had such a sense of the intolerable length of time that
creeps between dawn and sunset, and of the miserable
irksomeness of having aught to do, and of the better
wisdom that it would be to lie down at once, in sullen
resignation, and let life, and its toils and vexations.
trample over one’s prostrate body as they may! Hep-
zibah’s final operation was with the little devourer of
Jim Crow and the elephant, who now proposed to eat
a camel. In her bewilderment, she offered him first
a wooden dragoon, and next a handful of marbles;
neither of which being adapted to his else omnivorous
appetite, she hastily held out her whole remaining
stock of natural history in gingerbread, and huddled
the small customer out of the shop. She then muffled
the bell in an unfinished stocking, and put up the
oaken bar across the door.
During the latter process, an omnibus came to a
stand-still under the branches of the elm-tree. Hep-
zibah’s heart was in her mouth. Remote and dusky,
and with no sunshine on all the intervening space, was
that region of the Past whence her only guest might
be expected to arrive! Was she to meet him now?
Somebody, at all events, was passing from the
farthest interior of the omnibus towards its entrance.
90 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
A gentleman alighted; but it was only to offer his
hand to a young girl whose slender figure, nowise
needing such assistance, now lightly descended the
steps, and made an airy little jump from the final one
to the sidewalk. She rewarded her cavalier with a
smile, the cheery glow of which was seen reflected on
his own face as he reéntered the wehicle. The girl
then turned towards the House of the Seven Gables,
to the door of which, meanwhile, — not the shop-door,
but the antique portal, — the omnibus-man had car-
ried a light trunk and a bandbox. First giving a
sharp rap of the old iron knocker, he /eft his pas-
senger and her luggage at the door-step, and departed.
“Who can it be?” thought Hepzibah, who had
been screwing her visual organs into the acutest focus
of which they were capable. “The girl must have
mistaken the house !”’
She stole softly into the hall, and, herself invisible,
gazed through the dusty side-lights of the portal at
the young, blooming, and very cheerful face, which
presented itself for admittance into the gloomy old
mansion. It was a face to which almost any door
would have opened of its own accord.
The young girl, so fresh, so unconventional, and yet
so orderly and obedient to common rules, as you at
once recognized her to be, was widely in contrast, at
that moment, with everything about her. The sordid
and ugly luxuriance of gigantic weeds that grew in the
angle of the house, and the heavy projection that over-
shadowed her, and the time-worn framework of the
door, — none of these things belonged to her sphere.
But, even as a ray of sunshine, fall into what dismal
place it may, instantaneously creates for itself a pro-
priety in being there, so did it seem altogether fit that
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A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER. o1
the girl should be standing at the threshold. It was
no less evidently proper that the door should swing
open to admit her. The maiden lady, herself, sternly
inhospitable in her first purposes, soon began to feel
that the door ought to be shoved back, and the rusty
key be turned in the reluctant lock.
“Can it be Phebe?” questioned she within herself.
‘6 Tt must be little Phcebe; for it can be nobody else,
—and there is a look of her father about her, too!
But what does she want here? And how like a coun-
try cousin, to come down upon a poor body in this
way, without so much as a day’s notice, or asking
whether she would be welcome! Well; she must
have a night’s lodging, I suppose ; and to-morrow the
child shall go back to her mother! ”
Pheebe, it must be understood, was that one little
offshoot of the Pyncheon race to whom we have al-
ready referred, as a native of a rural part of New
England, where the old fashions and feelings of rela-
tionship are still partially kept up. In her own circle,
it was regarded as by no means improper for kinsfolk
to visit one another without invitation, or preliminary
and ceremonious warning. Yet, in consideration of
Miss Hepzibah’s recluse way of life, a letter had actu-
ally been written and despatched, conveying informa-
tion of Phebe’s projected visit. This epistle, for three
or four days past, had been in the pocket of the penny-
postman, who, happening to have no other business in
Pyncheon Street, had not yet made it convenient te
zall at the House of the Seven Gables.
“« No! — she can stay only one night,” said Hepzi-
bah, unbolting the door. “If Clifford were to fir’
her here, it might disturb him!”
V.
MAY AND NOVEMBER.
Puase PyncHeon slept, on the night of hei az.
cival, in a chamber that looked down on the garden of
the old house. It fronted towards the east, so that at
a very seasonable hour a glow of crimson light came
flooding through the window, and bathed the dingy
ceiling and paper-hangings in its own hue. There
were curtains to Phcebe’s bed; a dark, antique can-
opy, and ponderous festoons of a stuff which had been
rich, and even magnificent, in its time; but which now
brooded over the girl like a cloud, making a night in
that one corner, while elsewhere it was beginning to
be day. The morning light, however, soon stole into
the aperture at the foot of the bed, betwixt those faded
curtains. Finding the new guest there, — with a bloom
on her cheeks like the morning’s own, and a gentle
stir of departing slumber in her limbs, as when an
early breeze moves the foliage, — the dawn kissed her
brow. It was the caress which a dewy maiden — such
as the Dawn is, immortally — gives to her sleeping
sister, partly from the impulse of irresistible fond-
ness, and partly as a pretty hint that it is time now
to unclose her eyes.
At the touch of those lips of light, Pheebe quietly
awoke, and, for a moment, did not recognize where
she was, nor how those heavy curtains chanced to be
festooned around her. Nothing, indeed, was abso«
MAY AND NOVEMBER. 93
lutely plain to her, except that it was now early morn-
ing, and that, whatever might happen next, it was
proper, first of all, to get up and say her prayers. She
was the more inclined to devotion from the grim as-
pect of the chamber and its furniture, especially the
tall, stiff chairs; one of which stood close by her bed-
aide, and looked as if some old-fashioned personage
had been sitting there all night, and had vanished only
just in season to escape discovery.
When Phebe was quite dressed, she peeped out of
the window, and saw a rose-bush in the garden. Be-
ing a very tall one, and of luxuriant growth, it had
been propped up against the side of the house, and
was literally covered with a rare and very beautiful
species of white rose. A large portion of them, as the
girl afterwards discovered, had blight or mildew at
their hearts ; but, viewed at a fair distance, the whole
rose-bush looked as if it had been brought from Eden
that very summer, together with the mould in which it
grew. The truth was, nevertheless, that it had been
planted by Alice Pyncheon, — she was Pheebe’s great-
great-grand-aunt, — in soil which, reckoning only its
cultivation as a garden-plat, was now unctuous with
nearly two hundred years of vegetable decay. Grow-
ing as they did, however, out of the old earth, the
flowers still sent a fresh and sweet incense up to their
Creator; nor could it have been the less pure and ac-
ceptable, because Phcebe’s young breath mingled with
it, as the fragrance floated past the window. Hasten-
ing down the creaking and carpetless staircase, she
found her way into the garden, gathered some of the
most perfect of the roses, and brought them to her
chamber.
Little Phoebe was one of those persons who possess,
94 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
as their exclusive patrimony, the gift of practical an
rangement. It is a kind of natural magic that enablea
these ‘favored ones to bring out the hidden capabilities
of things around them; and particularly to give a
look of comfort and habitableness to any place which,
for however brief a period, may happen to be thei
home. A wild hut of underbrush, tossed together by
wayfarers through the primitive forest, would acquire
the home aspect by one night’s lodging of such a
woman, and would retain it long after her quiet fig-
ure had disappeared into the surrounding shade. No
less a portion of such homely witchcraft was requisite
to reclaim, as it were, Phoebe’s waste, cheerless, and
dusky chamber, which had been untenanted so long —
except by spiders, and mice, and rats, and ghosts —
that it was all overgrown with the desolation which
watches to obliterate every trace of man’s happier
hours. What was precisely Phoebe’s process we find
it impossible to say. She appeared to have no pre-
liminary design, but gave a touch here and another
there; brought some articles of furniture to light and
dragged others into the shadow; looped up or let
down a window-curtain ; and, in the course of half an
hour, had fully succeeded in throwing a kindly and
hospitable smile over the apartment. No longer ago
than the night before, it had resembled nothing so
much as the old maid’s heart; for there was neither
sunshine nor household fire in one nor the other, and,
save for ghosts and ghostly reminiscences, not a guest,
for many years gone by, had entered the heart or the
chamber.
There was still another peculiarity of this inscrut
able charm. The bedchamber, no doubt, was a cham-
ber of very great and varied experience, as a scene of
MAY AND NOVEMBER. 94
human life: the joy of bridal nights had throbbed it.
self away here; new immortals had first drawn earthly
breath here; and here old people had died. But —
whether it were the white roses, or whatever the sub-
tile influence might be —a person of delicate instinct
would have known at once that it was now a maiden’s
bedchamber, and had been purified of all former evil
and sorrow by her sweet breath and happy thoughts,
Her dreams of the past night, being such cheerful
ones, had exorcised the gloom, and now haunted the
chamber in its stead. :
After arranging matters to her satisfaction, Phoebe
emerged from her chamber, with a purpose to descend
again into the garden. Besides the rose-bush, she had
observed several other species of flowers growing there
in a wilderness of neglect, and obstructing one an-
other’s development (as is often the pacael case in
human society) by their uneducated entanglement
and confusion. At the head of the stairs, however,
she met Hepzibah, who, it being still early, invited her
into a room which she would probably have called her
boudoir, had her education embraced any such French
phrase. It was strewn about with a few old books,
and a work-basket, and a dusty writing-desk ; and had,
on one side, a large, black article of furniture, of very
strange appearance, which the old gentlewoman told
Phoebe was a harpsichord. It looked more like a
coffin than anything else; and, indeed, — net having
been played upon, or opened, for years, — there must
have been a vast deal of dead music in it, stifled for
want of air. Human finger was hardly known to have
touched its chords since the days of Alice Pyncheon,
who had learned the sweet accomplishment of melody
in Europe.
96 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
Hepzibah bade her young guest sit down, and, her-
self taking a chair near by, looked as earnestly at
Phebe’s trim little figure as if she expected to see
right into its springs and motive secrets.
“Cousin Phebe,” said she, at last, “I really can't
jee my way clear to keep you with me.”
_ These words, however, had not the inhospitable
bluntness with which they may strike the reader; fox
the two relatives, in a talk before bedtime, had arrived
at a certain degree of mutual understanding. Hepzi-
bah knew enough to enable her to appreciate the cir-
cumstances (resulting from the second marriage of the
girl’s mother) which made it desirable for Phebe to
establish herself in another home. Nor did she misin-
terpret Phoebe’s character, and the genial activity per-
vading it, — one of the most valuable traits of the
true New England woman, — which had impelled her
forth, as might be said, to seek her fortune, but with
a self-respecting purpose to confer as much benefit as
she could anywise receive. As one of her nearest
kindred, she had naturally betaken herself to Hepzi-
bah, with no idea of forcing herself on her cousin’s
protection, but only for a visit of a week or two, which
might be indefinitely extended, shculd it prove for the
happiness of both. |
To Hepzibah’s blunt observation, therefore, Phoebe
replied, as frankly, and more cheerfully.
‘Dear cousin, I cannot tell how it will be,” said
she. ‘ But I really think we may suit one another
much better than you suppose.”
“You are a nice girl, — I see it plainly,” continued
Hepzibah; “and it is not any question as to that
point which makes me hesitate. But, Phebe, this
house of mine is but a melancholy place for a young
MAY AND NOVEMBER. 97
person to be in. It lets in the wind and rain, and the
snow, too, in the garret and upper chambers, in winter-
time, but it never lets in the sunshine! And as for
myself, you see what I am, —a dismal and lonesome
old woman (for I begin to call myself old, Phebe),
whose temper, I am afraid, is none of the best, and
whose spirits are as bad as can be. I cannot make
your life pleasant, Cousin Phebe, neither can I so
much as give you bread to eat.”
* You will find me a cheerful little body,” answered
Phebe, smiling, and yet with a kind of gentle dig-
nity; “and I mean to earn my bread. You know I
have not been brought up a Pyncheon. A girl learns
many things in a New England village.”
* Ah! Phebe,” said Hepzibah, sighing, “ your
knowledge would do but little for you here! And then
it is a wretched thought that you should fling away
your young days in a place like this. Those cheeks
would not be so rosy after a month or two. Look at
ny face!” —and, indeed, the contrast was very strik-
ing, — “you see how pale lam! It is my idea that
the dust and continual decay of these old houses are
unwholesome for the lungs.”
‘There is the garden, — the flowers to be taken care
of,” observed Phebe. “I should keep myself healthy
with exercise in the open air.”
‘And, after all, child,” exclaimed Hepzibah, sud-
denly rising, as if to dismiss the subject, “it is not
for me to say who shall be a guest or inhabitant of
the old Pyncheon House. Its master is coming.”
“Do you mean Judge Pyncheon?” asked Pheebe,
in surprise.
“Judge Pyncheon!” answered her cousin, angrily.
* He will hardly cross the threshold while I live! Na,
VOL. III. 7
88 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
no! But, Phebe, you shall see the face of him I speak
of.”
She went in quest of the miniature already de-
scribed, and returned with it in her hand. Giving it
to Phebe, she watched her features narrowly, and
with a certain jealousy as to the mode in which the
girl would show herself affected by the picture.
“‘ How do you like the face?”’ asked Hepzibah.
“Tt is handsome ! —- it is very beautiful!” said
Phebe, admiringly. “It is as sweet a face as a man’s
can be, or ought to be. It has something of a child’s
expression, — and yet not childish,— only one feels
so very kindly towards him! He ought never to suf-
fer anything. One would bear much for the sake of
sparing him toil or sorrow. Who is it, Cousin Hep-
zibah ?”’
“Did you never hear,’ whispered her cousin, bend-
ing towards her, “ of Clifford Pyncheon ?”
“Never! I thought there were no Pyncheons left,
except yourself and our cousin Jaffrey,” answered
Phebe. “And yet I seem to have heard the name
of Clifford Pyncheon. Yes!—from my father or my
mother ; but has he not been a long while dead?”
“¢ Well, well, child, perhaps he has!” said Hepzibah,
with a sad, hollow laugh ; “ but, in old houses like this,
you know, dead people are very apt to come back
again! We shall see. And, Cousin Phebe, since,
after all that I have said, your courage does not fail
you, we will not part so soon. You are welcome, my
child, for the present, to such a home as your kins-
woman can offer you.”
With this measured, but not exactly cold assurance
4f a hospitable purpose, Hepzibah kissed her cheek.
They now went below stairs, where Phoeebe— not se
MAY AND NOVEMBER. 99
much assuming the office as attracting it to herself, by
the magnetism of innate fitness —took the most ac-
tive part in preparing breakfast. The mistress of the
house, meanwhile, as is usual with persons of her
stiff and unmalleable cast, stood mostly aside; willing
to lend her aid, yet conscious that her natural inapti-
tude would be likely to impede the business in hand.
Pheebe, and the fire that boiled the teakettle, were
equally bright, cheerful, and efficient, in their respect-
ive offices. Hepzibah gazed forth from her habitual
sluggishness, the necessary result of long solitude, as
from another sphere. She could not help being in-
terested, however, and even amused, at the readiness
with which her new inmate adapted herself to the cir-
cumstances, and brought the house, moreover, and all
its rusty old appliances, into a suitableness for her
purposes. Whatever she did, too, was done without
conscious effort, and with frequent outbreaks of song,
which were exceedingly pleasant to the ear. This
natural tunefulness made Phebe seem like a bird in a
shadowy tree; or conveyed the idea that the stream of
life warbled through her heart as a brook sometimes
warbles through a pleasant little dell. It betokened
the cheeriness of an active temperament, finding joy
in its activity, and, therefore, rendering it beautiful ;
it was a New England trait, —the stern old stuff of
Puritanism with a gold thread in the web.
Hepzibah brought out some old silver spoons with
the family crest upon them, and a china tea-set painted
over with grotesque figures of man, bird, and beast,
in as grotesque a landscape. These pictured people
were odd humorists, in a world of their own, —a
world of vivid brilliancy, so far as color went, and
still unfaded, although the teapot and small cups were
gs aneient as the custom itself of tea-drinking.
100 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
“Your great-great-great-great-grandmother had these
cups, when she was married,” said Hepzibah to Phebe.
“‘She was a Davenport, of a good family. They were
almost the first teacups ever seen in the colony; and if
one of them were to be broken, my heart would break
with it. But it is nonsense to speak so about a brittle
teacup, when I remember what my heart has gone
through without breaking.”
The cups— not having been used, perhaps, since
Hepzibah’s youth —had contracted no small burden
of dust, which Phcebe washed away with so much care
and delicacy as to satisfy even the proprietor of this
invaluable china.
“‘ What a nice little housewife you are!” exclaimed
the latter, smiling, and, at the same time, frowning so
prodigiously that the smile was sunshine under a thun-
der-cloud. ‘Do you do other things as well? Are
you as good at your book as you are at washing tea
cups?”
“ Not quite, I am afraid,” said Pheebe, laughing at
the form of Hepzibah’s question. ‘ But I was school-
mistress for the little children in our district last sum-
mer, and might have been so still.”
“Ah! ’t is all very well!” observed the maiden
lady, drawing herself up. ‘“ But these things must
have come to you with your mother’s blood. . aever
knew a Pyncheon that had any turn for them.”
It is very queer, but not the less true, that people
are generally quite as vain, or even more so, of their
deficiencies than of their available gifts; as was Hep.
zibah of this native inapplicability, so to speak, of the
Pyncheons to any useful purpose. She regarded it as
an hereditary trait; and so, perhaps, it was, but, un-
fortunately, a morbid one, such as is often generated
MAY AND NOVEMBER. 102
in families that remain long above the surface of so
ciety.
Before they left the breakfast-table, the shop-bell
rang sharply, and Hepzibah set down the remnant of
her final cup of tea, with a look of sallow despair that
was truly piteous to behold. In cases of distasteful
occupation, the second day is generally worse than the
first; we return to the rack with all the soreness of
the preceding torture in our limbs. At all events,
Hepzibah had fully satisfied herself of the impossibil.
ity of ever becoming wonted to this peevishly obstrep-
erous little bell. Ring as often as it might, the
sound always smote upon her nervous system rudely
and suddenly. And especially now, while, with her
crested teaspoons and antique china, she was flattering
herself with ideas of gentility, she felt an unspeakable
disinclination to confront a eustomer.
* Do not trouble yourself, dear cousin!” cried Phebe,
starting lightly up. ‘ I am shop-keeper to-day.”
* You, child!” exclaimed Hepzibah. ‘“ What can
a little country-girl know of such matters? ”
“Oh, I have done all the shopping for the family
at our village store,” said Phebe. ‘ And I have had
a table at a fancy fair, and made better sales than
anybody. ‘These things are not to be learnt; they
depend upon a knack that comes, I suppose,” added
she, smiling, “ with one’s mother’s blood. You shall
see that I am as nice a little saleswoman as I am a
housewife ! ”
The old gentlewoman stole behind Phebe, and peeped
from the passage-way into the shop, to note how she
would manage her undertaking. It was a case of
some intricacy. A very ancient woman, in a white
short gown and a green petticoat, with a string of gold
102 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
beads about her neck, and what looked like a nighteap
on her head, had brought a quantity of yarn to barter
for the commodities of the shop. She was probably
the very last person in town who still kept the time-
honored spinning- wheel in constant revolution. It
was worth while to hear the croaking and hollow tones
of the old lady, and the pleasant voice of Phebe,
mingling in one twisted thread of talk; and still bet-
ter to contrast their figures, —so light and bloomy,
—so decrepit and dusky, — with only the counter
betwixt them, in one sense, but more than threescore
years, in another. As for the bargain, it was wrinkled
slyness and craft pitted against native truth and sa-
gacity.
“Was not that well done?” asked Pheebe, iaugh-
ing, when the customer was gone.
‘Nicely done, indeed, child!” answered Hepzibah.
“T could not have gone through with it nearly so well.
As you say, it must be a knack that belongs to you on
the mother’s side.”
It is a very genuine admiration, that with which ©
persons too shy or too awkward to take a due part in
the bustling world regard the real actors in life’s stir-
ring scenes ; so genuine, in fact, that the former are
usually fain to make it palatable to their self-love, by
assuming that these active and forcible qualities are
incompatible with others, which they choose to deem
higher and more important. Thus, Hepzibah was well
content to acknowledge Phcebe’s vastly superior gifts
as a shop-keeper; she listened, with compliant ear, to
her suggestion of various methods whereby the influx
of trade might be increased, and rendered profitable,
without a hazardous outlay of capital. She consented
that the village maiden should manufacture yeast, both
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MAY AND NOVEMBER. 103
fiquid and in cakes; and should brew a certain kind
of beer, nectareous to the palate, and of rare stomachic
virtues ; and, moreover, should bake and exhibit fox
sale some little spice-cakes, which whosoever tasted
would longingly desire to taste again. All such proofs
of a ready mind and skilful handiwork were highly
acceptable to the aristocratic hucksteress, so long as
she could murmur to herself with a grim smile, and a
half-natural sigh, and a sentiment of mixed wonder,
pity, and growing affection, —
“‘ What a nice little body she is! If she could only
be a lady, too! —but that’s impossible! Phebe is
no Pyncheon. She takes everything from her mother.”
As to Pheebe’s not being a lady, or whether she
were a lady or no, it was a point, perhaps, difficult to
decide, but which could hardly have come up for judg-
ment at all in any fair and healthy mind. Out of New
England, it would be impossible to meet with a person
combining so many lady-like attributes with so many
others that form no necessary (if compatible) part of
the character. She shocked no canon of taste; she
was admirably in keeping with herself, and never
jarred against surrounding circumstances. Her figure,
to be sure, — so small as to be almost childlike, and
so elastic that motion seemed as easy or easier to it
than rest, — would hardly have suited one’s idea of a
countess. Neither did her face — with the brown
ringlets on either side, and the slightly piquant nose,
and the wholesome bloom, and the clear shade of tan,
and the half a dozen freckles, friendly remembrancers
of the April sun and breeze —precisely give us a
right to call her beautiful. But there was both lustre
and depth in her eyes. She was very pretty; as grace-
ful as a bird, and graceful much in the same way ; ag
104 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
pleasant about the house as a gleam of sunshine falk
ing on the floor through a shadow of twinkling leaves,
or as aray of firelight that dances on the wall while
evening is drawing nigh. Instead of discussing her
claim to rank among ladies, it would be preferable to
regard Phoebe as the example of feminine grace and
availability combined, in a state of society, if there
were any such, where ladies did not exist. There it
should be woman’s office to move in the midst of prac-
tical affairs, and to gild them all, the very homeliest,
—were it even the scouring of pots and kettles,—
with an atmosphere of loveliness and joy.
Such was the sphere of Phcebe. To find the born
and educated lady, on the other hand, we need look
no farther than Hepzibah, our forlorn old maid, in her
rustling and rusty silks, with her deeply cherished and
ridiculous_consciousness of long descent, her shadowy
“dlaims to princely territory, and, in the way of accom:
plishment, her recollections, it may be, of having for-
merly thrummed on a harpsichord, and walked a min-
uet, and worked an antique tapestry-stitch on her sam-
pler. It was a fair parallel between new Plebeianism_
It really seemed as if the battered visage of the
House of the Seven Gables, black and heavy-browed
as it still certainly looked, must have shown a kind of
cheerfulness glimmering through its dusky windows
as Phebe passed to and fro in the interior. Other.
wise, it is impossible to explain how the people of the
neighborhood so soon became aware of the girl’s pres-
ence. There was a great run of custom, setting stead-
ily in, from about ten o’clock until towards noon, —
relaxing, somewhat, at dinner-time, but recommencing
in the afternoon, and, finally, dying away a half am
MAY AND NOVEMBER. 105
hour or so before the long day’s sunset. One of the
stanchest patrons was little Ned Higgins, the devourer
of Jim Crow and the elephant, who to-day had signal.
ized his omnivorous prowess by swallowing two drom-
edaries and a locomotive. Phoebe laughed, as she
summed up her aggregate of sales upon the slate;
while Hepzibah, first drawing on a pair of silk gloves,
reckoned over the sordid accumulation of copper coin,
not without silver intermixed, that had jingled into
the till.
“We must renew our stock, Cousin Hepzibah!”
cried the little saleswoman. ‘The gingerbread figures
are all gone, and so are those Dutch wooden milk-
maids, and most of our other playthings. There has
been constant inquiry for cheap raisins, and a great
ery for whistles, and trumpets, and jew’s-harps; and
at least a dozen little boys have asked for molasses-
candy. And we must contrive to get a peck of russet
apples, late in the season as it is. But, dear cousin,
what an enormous heap of copper! Positively a cop.
per mountain!”
“Well done! well done! well done!” quoth Uncle
Venner, who had taken occasion to shuffle in and out
of the shop several times in the course of the day,
“ Here’s a girl that will never end her days at my
farm! Bless my eyes, what a brisk little soul!”
“* Yes, Phebe is a nice girl!” said Hepzibah, with a
scowl of austere approbation. ‘ But, Uncle Venner,
you have known the family a great many years. Can
you tell me whether there ever was a Pyncheon whom
she takes after?”
“I don’t believe there ever was,” answered the ven-
erable man. ‘“ At any rate, it never was my luck
to see her like among them, nor, for that matter, any-
106 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
where else. I’ve seen a great deal of the world, not
only in people’s kitchens and back-yards, but at the
street-corners, and on the wharves, and in other places
where my business calls me; and I’m free to say,
Miss Hepzibah, that I never knew a human creature
do her work so much like one of God’s angels as this
child Phoebe does!”
Uncle Venner’s eulogium, if it appear rather toc
high-strained for the person and occasion, had, never.
theless, a sense in which it was both subtile and true.
There was a spiritual quality in Phebe’s activity.
The life of the long and busy day — spent in occupa-
tions that might so easily have taken a squalid and
ugly aspect — had been made pleasant, and even love-
ly, by the spontaneous grace with which these homely
duties seemed to bloom out of her character; so that
labor, while she dealt with it, had the easy and flexible
charm of play. Angels do not toil, but let their good
works grow out of them; and so did Phebe.
The two relatives —the young maid and the old one
—found time before nightfall, in the intervals of trade,
to make rapid advances towards affection and confi-
dence. A recluse, like Hepzibah, usually displays re-
markable frankness, and at least temporary affability,
on being absolutely cornered, and brought to the point
of personal intercourse; like the angel whom Jacob
wrestled with, she is ready to bless you when once
overcome.
The old gentlewoman took a dreary and proud satis-
faction in leading Phebe from room to room of the
house, and recounting the traditions with which, as we
may say, the walls were lugubriously frescoed. She
showed the indentations made by the lieutenant-gov-
emor’s sword-hilt in the door-panels of the apartment
WMG:
“YES, DEAR COUSIN,” ANSWERED PH@BE; “BUT, IN
, | HEAR SOMEBODY RINGING IT”
THE MEAN TIME
3
ee
or ‘f
var i F
‘
MAY AND NOVEMBER. 107
where old Colonel Pyncheon, a dead host, had received
his affrighted visitors with an awful frown. The dusky
terror of that frown, Hepzibah observed, was thought
to be lingering ever since in the passage-way. She
bade Phebe step into one of the tall chairs, and in-
spect the ancient map of the Pyncheon territory at the
eastward. In a tract of land on which she laid her
finger, there existed a silver-mine, the locality of which
was precisely pointed out in some memoranda of Col-
dnel Pyncheon himself, but only to be made known
when the family claim should be recognized by govern-
ment. Thus it was for the interest of all New Eng-
land that the Pyncheons should have justice done
them. She told, too, how that there was undoubt-
edly an immense treasure of English guineas hidden
somewhere about the house, or in the cellar, or pos-
sibly in the garden.
*“‘ If you should happen to find it, Phebe,” said Hep-
zibah, glancing aside at her with a grim yet kindly
smile, ‘¢ we will tie up the shop-bell for good and all!”
* Yes, dear cousin,” answered Phebe; “ but, in the
mean time, I hear somebody ringing it! ”
When the customer was gone, Hepzibah talked
rather vaguely, and at great length, about a certain
Alice Pyncheon, who had been exceedingly beautiful
and accomplished in her lifetime, a hundred years ago.
The fragrance of her rich and delightful character still
lingered about the place where she had lived, as a
dried rosebud scents the drawer where it has withered
and perished. This lovely Alice had met with some
great and mysterious calamity, and had grown thin
and white, and gradually faded out of the world. But,
even now, she was supposed to haunt the House of the
Seven Gables, and, a great many times, — especially
108 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
when one of the Pyncheons was to die, — she had been
heard playing sadly and beautifully on the harpsichord.
One of these tunes, just as it had sounded from her
spiritual touch, had been written down by an amateur
of music; it was so exquisitely mournful that nobody,
to this day, could bear to hear it played, unless when a
great sorrow had made them know the still profounder
sweetness of it.
“Was it the same harpsichord that you showed
me?” inquired Phebe.
“The very same,” said Hepzibah. “It was Alice
Pyncheon’s harpsichord. When I was learning music,
my father would never let me open it. So, as I could
only play on my teacher’s instrument, I have forgotten
all my music long ago.”
Leaving these antique themes, the old lady began
to talk about the daguerreotypist, whom, as he seemed
to be a well-meaning and orderly young man, and in
narrow circumstances, she had permitted to take up his
residence in one of the seven gables. But, on seeing
more of Mr. Holgrave, she hardly knew what to make
of him. He had the strangest companions imaginable ;
men with long beards, and dressed in linen blouses,
and other such new-fangled and ill-fitting garments ;
reformers, temperance lecturers, and all manner of
cross-looking philanthropists; community-men, and
come-outers, as Hepzibah believed, who acknowledged
no law, and ate no solid food, but lived on the scent
of other people’s cookery, and turned up their noses
at the fare. As for the daguerreotypist, she had read
a paragraph in a penny paper, the other day, accusing
him of making a speech full of wild and disorganiz-
ing matter, at a meeting of his banditti-like associates.
For her own part, she had reason to believe that he
MAY AND NOVEMBER. 109
practised animal magnetism, and, if such things were
in fashion nowadays, should be apt to suspect him
of studying the Black Art up there in his lonesome
chamber.
“ But, dear cousin,” said Phebe, “ if the young man
js so dangerous, why do you let him stay? If he does
nothing worse, he may set the house on fire! ”
*¢ Why, sometimes,” answered Hepzibah, “I have
seriously made it a question, whether I ought not to
send him away. But, with all his oddities, he is a
quiet kind of a person, and has such a way of taking
hold of one’s mind, that, without exactly liking him
(for 1 don’t know enough of the young man), I should
be sorry to lose sight of him entirely. A woman
clings to slight acquaintances when she lives so much
alone as I do.”
“ But if Mr. Holgrave is a lawless person!” remon-
strated Phebe, a part of whose essence it was to keep
within the limits of law.
“Oh!” said Hepzibah, carelessly, — for, formal as
she was, still, in her life’s experience, she had gnashed
her teeth against human law, — “I suppose he has a
law of his own!”
Vi.
MAULE’S WELL.
AFTER an early tea, the little country-girl strayed
nto the garden. The enclosure had formerly been
very extensive, but was now contracted within small
compass, and hemmed about, partly by high wooden
fences, and partly by the outbuildings of houses that
stood on another street. In its centre was a grass-plat.
surrounding a ruinous little structure, which showed
just enough of its original design to indicate that it
had once been a summer-house. A hop-vine, spring-
ing from last year’s root, was beginning to clamber
over it, but would be long in covering the roof with its
green mantle. Three of the seven gables either fronted
or looked sideways, with a dark solemnity of aspect,
down into the garden.
The black, rich soil had fed itself with the decay of
a long period of time; such as fallen leaves, the petals
of flowers, and the stalks and seed-vessels of vagrant
and lawless plants, more useful after their death than
ever while flaunting in the sun. The evil of these de-
parted years would naturally have sprung up again, in
such rank weeds (symbolic of the transmitted vices of
society) as are always prone to root themselves about
human dwellings. Phcebe saw, however, that their
growth must have been checked by a degree of careful
labor, bestowed daily and systematically on the garden.
The white double rose-bush had evidently been propped
MAULE’S WELL. inh
up anew against the house since the commencement of
the season; and a pear-tree and three damson-trees,
which, except a row of currant-bushes, constituted the
only varieties of fruit, bore marks of the recent am-
putation of several superfluous or defective limbs,
There were also a few species of antique and hereditary
Howers, in no very flourishing condition, but scrupu-
lously weeded ; as if some person, either out of love or
curiosity, had been anxious to bring them to such per-
fection as they were capable of attaining. The re-
mainder of the garden presented a well-selected assort-
ment of esculent vegetables, in a praiseworthy state
of advancement. Summer squashes, almost in their
golden blossom; cucumbers, now evincing a tendency
to spread away from the main stock, and ramble far
and wide; two or three rows of string-beans, and as
many more that were about to festoon themselves on
poles; tomatoes, occupying a site so sheltered and
sunny that the plants were already gigantic, and prom-
ised an early and abundant harvest.
Phoebe wondered whose care and toil it could have
been that had planted these vegetables, and kept the
soil so clean and orderly. Not surely her cousin Hep-
zibah’s, who had no taste nor spirits for the lady-like
employment of cultivating flowers, and — with her re-
cluse habits, and tendency to shelter herself within the
dismal shadow of the house — would hardly have come
forth under the speck of open sky to weed and hoe
among the fraternity of beans and squashes.
It being her first day of complete estrangement from
rural objects, Pheebe found an unexpected charm in
this little nook of grass, and foliage, and aristocratic
flowers, and plebeian vegetables. The eye of Heaven
seemed to look down into it pleasantly, and with a pe
112 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
culiar smile, as if glad to perceive that nature, else
where overwhelmed, and driven out of the dusty town,
had here been able to retain a breathing-place. The
spot acquired a somewhat wilder grace, and yet a very
gentle one, from the fact that a pair of robins had built
their nest in the pear-tree, and were making themselves
exceedingly busy and happy in the dark intricacy of its
boughs. Bees, too, — strange, to say, — had thought i/
worth their while to come hither, possibly from thi
ranye of hives beside some farm-house miles away.
How many erial voyages might they have made, in
quest of honey, or honey-laden, betwixt dawn and sun-
set! Yet, late as it now was, there still arose a pleas-
ant hum out of one or two of the squash-blossoms, in
the depths of which these bees were plying their golden
labor. There was one other object in the garden which
Nature might fairly claim as her inalienable property,
in spite of whatever man could do to render it his own.
This was a fountain, set round with a rim of old mossy
stones, and paved, in its bed, with what appeared to
be a sort of mosaic-work of variously colored pebbles.
The play and slight agitation of the water, in its up-
ward gush, wrought magically with these variegated
pebbles, and made a continually shifting apparition of
quaint figures, vanishing too suddenly to be definable.
Thence, swelling over the rim of moss-grown stones,
the water stole away under the fence, through what we
regret to call a gutter, rather than a channel.
Nor must we forget to mention a hen-coop of very
reverend antiquity that stood in the farther corner of
the garden, not a great way from the fountain. It now
contained only Chanticleer, his two wives, and a soli.
tary chicken. All of them were pure specimens of a
breed which had been transmitted down as an heirloom
siotasierdbesit:
caida)
MUSTERED VIVACITY ENOUGH TO FLUTTER
THE CHICKEN
S SHOULDER
)
UPWARD AND ALIGHT ON PHBE
—s
~—
MAULE’S WELL. 118
fn the Pyncheon family, and were said, while in their
prime, to have attained almost the size of turkeys, and,
on the score of delicate flesh, to be fit for a prince’s
table. In proof of the authenticity of this legendary
renown, Hepzibah could have exhibited the shell of a
great egg, which an ostrich need hardly have beer
ashamed of. Be that as it might, the hens were nov
scarcely larger than pigeons, and had a queer, rusty
withered aspect, and a gouty kind of movement, and ¢
sleepy and melancholy tone throughout all the varia-
tions of their clucking and cackling. It was evident
that the race had degenerated, like many a noble race
besides, in consequence of too strict a watchfulness to
keep it pure. These feathered people had existed too
long in their distinct variety ; a fact of which the pres-
ent representatives, judging by their lugubrious deport-
ment, seemed to be aware. ‘They kept themselves
alive, unquestionably, and laid now and then an egg,
and hatched a chicken; not for any pleasure of their
own, but that the world might not absolutely lose what
had once been so admirable a breed of fowls. The dis-
tinguishing mark of the hens was a crest of lamenta-
bly scanty growth, in these latter days, but so oddly
and wickedly analogous to Hepzibah’s turban, that
Phebe — to the poignant distress of her conscience,
but inevitably— was led to fancy a general resem-
blance betwixt these forlorn bipeds and her respecta-
ble relative.
The girl ran into the house to get some crumbs of
bread, cold potatoes, and other such scraps as were
suitable to the accommodating appetite of fowls. Re-
turning, she gave a peculiar call, which they seemed to
recognize. The chicken crept through the pales of the
coop and ran, with some show of liveliness, to her feet;
' VOL. IL 8
114 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
while Chanticleer and the ladies of his household re.
garded her with queer, sidelong glances, and then
croaked one to another, as if communicating their sage
opinions of her character. So wise, as well as antique,
was their aspect, as to give color to the idea, not merely
that they were the descendants of a time-honored race
but that they had existed, in their individual capacity,
ever since the House of the Seven Gables was founded,
and were somehow mixed up with its destiny. They
were a species of tutelary sprite, or Banshee; although
winged and feathered differently from most other
zuardian angels.
“‘ Here, you odd little chicken!”’ said Phebe; “ here
are some nice crumbs for you!”
The chicken, hereupon, though almost as venerable
in appearance as its mother, — possessing, indeed, the
whole antiquity of its progenitors in miniature, — mus-
tered vivacity enough to flutter upward and alight on
Phebe’s shoulder.
“That little fowl pays you a high compliment!”
said a voice behind Phebe.
Turning quickly, she was surprised at sight of a
young man, who had found access into the garden by
a door opening out of another gable than that whence
she had emerged. He held a hoe in his hand, and,
while Phcebe was gone in quest of the crumbs, had be-
gun to busy himself with drawing up fresh earth about
the roots of the tomatoes.
“The chicken really treats you like an old acquaint
ance,” continued he, in a quiet way, while a smile
made his face pleasanter than Phebe at first fancied
it. ‘*'Those venerable personages in the coop, too,
seem very affably disposed. You are lucky to be in
their good graces so soon! They have known me
MAULE’S WELL. 115
much longer, but never honor me with any familiarity,
though hardly a day passes without my bringing them
food. Miss Hepzibah, I suppose, will interweave the
fact with her other traditions, and set it down that the
fowls know you to be a Pyncheon !”’
“The secret is,” said Phoebe, smiling, “ that I have
learned how to talk with hens and chickens.”
“¢ Ah, but these hens,” answered the young man, —
“these hens of aristocratic lineage would scorn to un-
derstand the vulgar language of a barn-yard fowl. I
prefer to think —and so would Miss Hepzibah — that
they recognize the family tone. For you are a Pyn-
cheon ?”
“¢ My name is Phoebe Pyncheon,” said the girl, with
@ manner of some reserve; for she was aware that her
new acquaintance could be no other than the daguerre-
otypist, of whose lawless propensities the old maid had
given her a disagreeable idea. “I did not know that
my cousin Hepzibah’s garden was under another per-
son’s care.”
“ Yes,” said Holgrave, “I dig, and hoe, and weed,
in this black old earth, for the sake of refreshing my-
self with what little nature and simplicity may be left
in it, after men have so long sown and reaped here.
I turn up the earth by way of pastime. My sober oc.
cupation, so far as I have any, is with a lighter ma-
terial. In short, I make pictures out of sunshine;
and, not to be too much dazzled with my own trade, I
have prevailed with Miss Hepzibah to let me lodge in
one of these dusky gables. It is like a bandage over
one’s eyes, to come into it. But would you like to see
a specimen of my productions ?”’
“A daguerreotype likeness, do you mean?” asked
Pheebe, with less reserve; for, in spite of prejudice,
116 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
her own youthfulness sprang forward to meet his, ‘]}
don’t much like pictures of that sort, — they are so
hard and stern; besides dodging away from the eye,
and trying to escape altogether. ‘They are conscious
of looking very unamiable, I suppose, and therefore
hate to be seen.”
“Tf you would permit me,” said the artist, looking
at Phebe, “ I should like to try whether the daguerre-
otype can bring out disagreeable traits on a perfectly
amiable face. But there certainly is truth in what
you have said. Most of my likenesses do look un-
amiable; but the very sufficient reason, I fancy, is,
decause the originals are so. There is a wonderful
insight in Heaven’s broad and simple sunshine.
While we give it credit only for depicting the merest
surface, it actually brings out the secret character with
a truth that no painter would ever venture upon, even
could he detect it. There is, at least, no flattery in
my humble line of art. Now, here is a likeness which
I have taken over and over again, and still with no
better result. Yet the original wears, to common
eyes, a very different expression. It would gratify
me to have your judgment on this character.”
He exhibited a daguerreotype miniature in a mo-
rocco case. Phebe merely glanced at it, and gave it
back.
‘“‘ T know the face,” she replied ; “for its stern eye
has been following me about all day. Itis_ my Puri-
tan auoesicn arlio, Manes yondaedn Theale To be
sure, you havé found some way of copying the portrait
without its black velvet cap and gray beard, and have
given him a modern coat and satin cravat, instead of
his cloak and band. I don’t think him improved by
wour alterations.”
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‘(BR CAREFUL NOT TO DRINK AT MAULE’S WELL!”’
SAID HE
MAULE’S WELL. 117
“You would have seen other differences had you
ooked a little longer,” said Holgrave, laughing, yet
apparently much struck. ‘I can assure you that this
is a modern face, and one which you will very prob-
ably meet. Now, the remarkable point is, that the
original wears, to the world’s eye, —and, for aught I
know, to his most intimate friends, —an exceedingly
pleasant countenance, indicative of benevolence, open-
ness of heart, sunny good-humor, and other praise-
worthy qualities of that cast. The sun, as you see,
tells quite another story, and will not be coaxed out
of it, after half a dozen patient attempts on my part.
Here we have the man, sly, subtle, hard, imperious,
and, withal, cold as ice. Look at that eye! Would
you like to be at its mercy? At that mouth! Could
it ever smile? And yet, if you could only see the
benign smile of the original! It is so much the more
unfortunate, as he is a public character of some emi-
nence, and the likeness was intended to be engraved.”
“Well, I don’t wish to see it any more,” observed
Phebe, turning away her eyes. “It is certainly very
like the old portrait. But my cousin Hepzibah has
another picture, —a miniature. If the original is still
in the world, I think he might defy the sun to make
him look stern and hard.”
“You have seen that picture, then!” exclaimed the
artist, with an expression of much interest. ‘I never
did, but have a great curiosity to do so. And you
judge favorably of the face ?”
‘“‘There never was a sweeter one,” said Phebe. “It
is almost too soft and gentle for a man’s.”
“Ts there nothing wild in the eye?” continued Hol-
grave, so earnestly that it embarrassed Pheebe, as did
also the quiet freedom with which he presumed on
118 HE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
their so recent acquaintance. ‘Is there nothing dark
or sinister anywhere? Could you not conceive the
original to have been guilty of a great crime?”
“Tt is nonsense,” said Phcebe, a little impatiently,
“for us to talk about a picture which you have never
seen. You mistake it for some other. A crime, in-
deed! Since you are a friend of my cousin Hepzi
bah’s, you should ask her to show you the picture.”
“Tt will suit my purpose still better to see the orig-
inal,” replied the daguerreotypist coolly. “As to his
character, we need not discuss its points; they have
already been settled by a competent tribunal, or one
which called itself competent. But, stay! Do not go
yet, if you please! I have a proposition to make
you aa
Phebe was on the point of retreating, but turned
back, with some hesitation; for she did not exactly
comprehend his manner, although, on better observa-
tion, its feature seemed rather to be lack of ceremony
than any approach to offensive rudeness. There was
an odd kind of authority, too, in what he now pro-
ceeded to say, rather as if the garden were his own
than a place to which he was admitted merely by
Hepzibah’s courtesy,
“Tf agreeable to you,” he observed, ‘it would give
me pleasure to turn over these flowers, and those an-
cient and respectable fowls, to your care. Coming
fresh from country air and occupations, you will soon
feel the need of some such out-of-door employment.
My own sphere does not so much lie among flowers.
You can trim and tend them, therefore, as you please;
and I will ask only the least trifle of a blossom, now
and then, in exchange for all the good, honest kitchen.
vegetables with which I propose to enrich Miss Hep
MAULE’S WELL. 119
gibah’s table. So we will be fellow-laborers, somewhat
on the community system.” |
Silently, and rather surprised at her own compli-
ance, Phoebe accordingly betook herself to weeding a
flower-bed, but busied herself still more with cogita-
tions respecting this young man, with whom she so
unexpectedly found herself on terms approaching to
familiarity. She did not altogether like him. His
character perplexed the little country-girl, as it might
a more practised observer; for, while the tone of his
zonversation had generally been playful, the impres-
sion left on her mind was that of gravity, and, except
as his youth modified it, almost sternness. She re-
belled, as it were, against a certain magnetic element
in the artist’s nature, which he exercised towards her,
possibly without being conscious of it.
After a little while, the twilight, deepened by the
shadows of the fruit-trees and the surrounding build-
ings, threw an obscurity over the garden.
“There,” said Holgrave, “it is time to give over
work! That last stroke of the hoe has cut off a bean-
stalk. Good-night, Miss Phebe Pyncheon! Any
bright day, if you will put one of those rosebuds in
your hair, and come to my rooms in Central Street, I
will seize the purest ray of sunshine, and make a pice
ture of the flower and its wearer.”
He retired towards his own solitary gable, but turned
his head, on reaching the door, and called to Phebe,
with a tone which certainly had laughter in it, yet
which seemed to be more than half in earnest.
“ Be careful not to drink at Maule’s well!” said
he. ‘ Neither drink nor bathe your face in it!”
‘“‘Maule’s well!’ answered Phebe. “Is that it
with the rim of mossy stones? I have no thought of
drinking there, — but why not?”
120 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
“ Oh,” rejoined the daguerreotypist, ‘because, like
an old lady’s eup of tea, it is water bewitched ! ”
He vanished ; and Phebe, lingering a moment, saw
a glimmering light, and then the steady beam of a
lamp, in a chamber of the gable. On returning inte
Hepzibah’s apartment of the house, she found the low-
studded parlor so dim and dusky that her eyes could
not penetrate the interior. She was indistinctly aware,
however, that the gaunt figure of the old gentlewoman
was sitting in one of the straight-backed chairs, a little
withdrawn from the window, the faint gleam of which
showed the blanched paleness of her cheek, turned side-
way towards a corner.
“Shall I light a lamp, Cousin Hepzibah?” she
asked.
“Do, if you please, my dear child,’’ answered Hep-
zibah. ‘ But put it on the table in the corner of the
passage. My eyes are weak; and I can seldom bear
the lamplight on them.”
What an instrument is the human voice! How won-
derfully responsive to every emotion of the human
soul! In Hepzibah’s tone, at that moment, there was
a certain rich depth and moisture, as if the words,
commonplace as they were, had been steeped in the
warmth of her heart. Again, while lighting the lamp
in the kitchen, Phoebe fancied that her cousin spoke to
her.
“In a moment, cousin !”’ answered the girl. “These
matches just glimmer, and go out.”
But, instead of a response from Hepzibah, she seemed
to hear the murmur of an unknown voice. It was
strangely indistinct, however, and less like articulate
words than an unshaped sound, such as would be the
atterance of feeling and sympathy, rather than of the
a |
SN
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——*
(JSS
6 ST
cf
“IN A MOMENT, COUSIN!’’ ANSWERED THE GIRL.
““THESE MATCHES JUST GLIMMER, AND GO OUT”’
Ve A y ou
hat NOwW Ue a saa
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MAULE’S WELL. 121
intellect. So vague was it, that its impression or echo
in Pheebe’s mind was that of unreality. She con-
cluded that she must have mistaken some other sound
for that of the human voice; or else that it was al-
together in her fancy.
She set the lighted lamp in the passage, and again
entered the parlor. Hepzibah’s form, though its sable
outline mingled with the dusk, was now less imper-
fectly visible. In the remoter parts of the room, how-
ever, its walls being so ill adapted to reflect light, there
was nearly the same obscurity as before.
“Cousin,” said Phcebe, “did you speak to me just
now ?”’
“No, child!” replied Hepzibah.
Fewer words than before, but with the same mys-
terious music in them! Mellow, melancholy, yet not
mournful, the tone seemed to gush up out of the deep
well of Hepzibah’s heart, all steeped in its profoundest
emotion. There was a tremor in it, too, that — as all
strong feeling is electric — partly communicated itself
to Phebe. The girl sat silently fora moment. But
soon, her senses being very acute, she became conscious
of an irregular respiration in an obscure corner of
the room. Her physical organization, moreover, being
at once delicate and healthy, gave her a perception,
operating with almost the effect of a spiritual medium,
that somebody was near at hand.
“My dear cousin,” asked she, overcoming an indee
finable reluctance, “is there not some one in the room
with us ?”
“ Phoebe, my dear little girl,” said Hepzibah, after
a moment’s pause, “ you were up betimes, and have
been busy all day. Pray go to bed; for I am sure
you must need rest. I will sit in the parlor awhile,
122 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
and collect my thoughts. It has been my custom for
more years, child, than you have lived!”
While thus dismissing her, the maiden lady stept
forward, kissed Phoebe, and pressed her to her heart,
which beat against the girl’s bosom with a strong,
high, and tumultuous swell. How came there to be sc
much love in this desolate old heart, that it could
afford to well over thus abundantly ?
“Good night, cousin,” said Phebe, strangely af- —
fected by Hepzibah’s manner. “If you begin to love
me, I am glad!”
She retired to her chamber, but did not soon fall
asleep, nor then very profoundly. At some uncertain
period in the depths of night, and, as it were, through
the thin veil of a dream, she was conscious of a foot-
step mounting the stairs heavily, but not with force
and decision. The voice of Hepzibah, with a hush
through it, was going up along with the footsteps;
and, again, responsive to her cousin’s voice, Phebe
heard that strange, vague murmur, which might be
likened to an indistinct shadow of human utterance.
VIL.
THE GUEST.
Wuen Phebe awoke, — which she did with the
yarly twittering of the conjugal couple of robins in
whe pear-tree,— she heard movements below stairs,
and, hastening down, found Hepzibah already in the
kitchen. She stood by a window, holding a book in
slose contiguity to her nose, as if with the hope of
gaining an olfactory acquaintance with its contents,
since her imperfect vision made it not very easy to
read them. If any volume could have manifested its
essential wisdom in the mode suggested, it would cer-
tainly have been the one now in Hepzibah’s hand ;
and the kitchen, in such an event, would forthwith
have steamed with the fragrance of venison, turkeys,
zapons, larded partridges, puddings, cakes, and Christ-
mas pies, in all manner of elaborate mixture and con-
yoction. It was a cookery book, full of innumerable
gld fashions of English dishes, and illustrated with
angravings, which represented the arrangements of
the table at such banquets as it might have befitted
a nobleman to give in the great hall of his castle.
And, amid these rich and potent devices of the culi-
nary art (not one of which, probably, had been tested,
within the memory of any man’s grandfather), poor
Hepzibah was seeking for some nimble little titbit,
which, with what skill she had, and such materials as
were at hand, she might toss up for breakfast.
124 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
Soon, with a deep sigh, she put aside the savory vol.
ume, and inquired of Phoebe whether old Speckle, as
she called one of the hens, had laid an egg the preced-
ing day. Phebe ran to see, but returned without
the expected treasure in her hand. At that instant,
however, the blast of a fish-dealer’s conch was heard,
announcing his approach along the street. With
energetic raps at the shop- window, Hepzibah sum-
moned the man in, and made purchase of what he
warranted as the finest mackerel in his cart, and as
fat a one as ever he felt with his finger so early in the
season. Requesting Phebe to roast some coffee, —
which she casually observed was the real Mocha, and
so long kept that each of the small berries ought to be
worth its weight in gold, — the maiden lady heaped
fuel into the vast receptacle of the ancient fireplace
in such quantity as soon to drive the lingering dusk
out of the kitchen. The country-gizl, willing to give
her utmost assistance, proposed to make an Indian
cake, after her mother’s peculiar method, of easy
manufacture, and which she could vouch for as posses-
sing a richness, and, if rightly prepared, a delicacy,
unequalled by any other mode of breakfast-cake. Hep-
zibah gladly assenting, the kitchen was soon the scene
of savory preparation. Perchance, amid their proper
element of smoke, which eddied forth from the ill-
constructed chimney, the ghosts of departed cook-
maids looked wonderingly on, or peeped down the
great breadth of the flue, despising the simplicity of
the projected meal, yet ineffectually pining to thrust
their shadowy hands into each inchoate dish. The
half-starved rats, at any rate, stole visibly out of their
hiding-places, and sat on their hind-legs, snuffing the
fumy atmosphere, and wistfully awaiting an opportu-
nity to nibble.
THE GUEST. 125
Hepzibah had no natural turn for cookery, and, to
say the truth, had fairly incurred her present mea-
greness by often choosing to go without her dinner
rather than be attendant on the rotation of the spit,
or ebullition of the pot. Her zeal over the fire, there-
fore, was quite an heroic test of sentiment. It was
touching, and positively worthy of tears Gf Phebe,
the only spectator, except the rats and ghosts afore<
said, had not been better employed than in shedding
them), to see her rake out a bed of fresh and glowing
coals, and proceed to broil the mackerel. Her usually
pale cheeks were all ablaze with heat and hurry. She
watched the fish with as much tender care and minute-
ness of attention as if, — we know not how to express
it otherwise, —as if her own heart were on the grid-
iron, and her immortal happiness were involved in its
being done precisely to a turn !
Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than
a neatly arranged and well-provisioned breakfast-table.
We come to it freshly, in the dewy youth of the day,
and when our spiritual and sensual elements are in
better accord than at a later period; so that the ma-
terial delights of the morning meal are capable of
being fully enjoyed, without any very grievous re:
proaches, whether gastric or conscientious, for yield.
ing even a trifle overmuch to the animal department
of our nature. The thoughts, too, that run around
the ring of familiar guests have a piquancy and mirth-
fulness, and oftentimes a vivid truth, which more
rarely find their way into the elaborate intercourse
of dinner. Hepzibah’s small and ancient table, sup-
ported on its slender and graceful legs, and covered
with a cloth of the richest damask, looked worthy to
be the scene and centre of one of the cheerfullest of
126 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
parties. ‘The vapor of the broiled fish arose like ix
cense from the shrine of a barbarian idol, while the
fragrance of the Mocha might have gratified the nos-
trils of a tutelary Lar, or whatever power has scope
over a modern breakfast-table. Phcebe’s Indian cakes
were the sweetest offering of all,— in their hue befit
ting the rustic altars of the innocent and golden age.
—or, so brightly yellow were they, resembling some
of the bread which was changed to glistening gold
when Midas tried to eat it. The butter must not be
forgotten, — butter which Pheebe herself had churned,
in her own rural home, and brought it to her cousin
as a propitiatory gift,— smelling of clover-blossoms,
and diffusing the charm of pastoral scenery through
the dark-panellied parlor. All this, with the quaint
gorgeousness of the old china cups and saucers, and
the crested spoons, and a silver cream-jug (Hepzibah’s
only other article of plate, and shaped like the rudest
porringer), set out a board at which the stateliest of
old Colonel Pyncheon’s guests need not have scorned
to take his place. But the Puritan’s face scowled
down out of the picture, as if nothing on the table
pleased his appetite.
By way of contributing what grace she could, Phebe
gathered some roses and a few other flowers, posses-
sing either scent or beauty, and arranged them in a
glass pitcher, which, having long ago lost its handle,
was so much the fitter for a flower-vase. The early
sunshine — as fresh as that which peeped into Eve’s
bower while she and Adam sat at breakfast there—
came twinkling through the branches of the pear-tree,
and fell quite across the table. All was now ready.
There were chairs and plates for three. A chair and
plate for Hepzibah,— the same for Phebe, — but
what other guest did her cousin look for?
THE GUEST. 127
Throughout this preparation there had been a com
stant tremor in Hepzibah’s frame; an agitation so
powerful that Phcebe could see the quivering of her
gaunt shadow, as thrown by the firelight on the
kitchen wall, or by the sunshine on the parlor floor.
Its manifestations were so various, and agreed so little
with one another, that the girl knew not what to make
of it. Sometimes it seemed an ecstasy of delight and
happiness. At such moments, Hepzibah would fling
out her arms, and infold Pheebe in them, and kiss her
cheek as tenderly as ever her mother had; she ap-
peared to do so by an inevitable impulse, and as if her
bosom were oppressed with tenderness, of which she
must needs pour out a little, in order to gain breath-
ing-room. The next moment, without any visible
cause for the change, her unwonted joy shrank back,
appalled, as it were, and clothed itself in mourning ;
or it ran and hid itself, so to speak, in the dungeon of
her heart, where it had long lain chained, while a cold,
spectral sorrow took the place of the imprisoned joy,
that was afraid to be enfranchised,—a sorrow as
black as that was bright. She often broke into a lit-
tle, nervous, hysteric laugh, more touching than any
tears could be; and forthwith, as if to try which was
the most touching, a gush of tears would follow; or
perhaps the laughter and tears came both at once, and
surrounded our poor Hepzibah, in a moral sense, with
a kind of pale, dim rainbow. Towards Phebe, as
we have said, she was affectionate, — far tenderer
than ever before, in their brief acquaintance, except
for that one kiss on the preceding night, — yet with
a continually recurring pettishness and _ irritability.
She would speak sharply to her; then, throwing aside
all the starched reserve of her ordinary manner, ask
128 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
pardon, and the next instant renew the just-forgiven
injury.
At last, when their mutual labor was all finished,
she took Pheebe’s hand in her own trembling one.
“Bear with me, my dear child,” she cried; “ for
truly my heart is full to the brim! Bear with me; for
I love you, Phebe, though I speak so roughly! Think
nothing of it, dearest child! By and by, I shall be
kind, and only kind! ”
“‘ My dearest cousin, cannot you tell me what has
happened?” asked Pheebe, with a sunny and tearful
sympathy. ‘“ What is it that moves you so?”
“Hush! hush! He is coming!” whispered Hep-
zibah, hastily wiping her eyes. ‘Let him see you
first, Phoebe; for you are young and rosy, and cannot
help letting a smile break out whether or no. He al-
ways liked bright faces! And mine is old now, and
the tears are hardly dry on it. He never could abide
tears. There; draw the curtain a little, so that the
shadow may fall across his side of the table! But let
there be a good deal of sunshine, too; for he never
was fond of gloom, as some people are. He has had
but little sunshine in his life, — poor Clifford, — and,
oh, what a black shadow! Poor, poor Clifford !”
Thus murmuring in an undertone, as if speaking
rather to her own heart than to Phebe, the old gentle-
woman stepped on tiptoe about the room, making such
arrangements as suggested themselves at the crisis.
Meanwhile there was a step in the passage-way,
above stairs. Phoebe recognized it as the same which
had passed upward, as through her dream, in the
night-time. The approaching guest, whoever it might
be, appeared to pause at the head of the staircase ; he
paused twice or thrice in the descent; he paused again
fy / LI f . ff’
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PHCEBE COULD SEE THE QUIVERING OF HER GAUNT
SHADOW, AS THROWN BY THE FIRELIGHT ON THE
KITCHEN WALL
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THE GUEST. 129
at the foot. Each time, the delay seemed to be with-
out purpose, but rather from a forgetfulness of the
purpose which had set him in motion, or as if the per-
son’s feet came involuntarily to a stand-still because
the motive-power was too feeble to sustain his pro-
gress. Finally, he made a long pause at the threshold
of the parlor. He took hold of the knob of the door;
then loosened his grasp without opening it. Hepzi.
bah, her hands convulsively clasped, stood gazing at
the entrance.
** Dear Cousin Hepzibah, pray don’t look so!” said
Phebe, trembling; for her cousin’s emotion, and
this mysteriously reluctant step, made her feel as if a
ghost were coming into the room. “You really
frighten me! Is something awful going to happen?”
“*Hush!” whispered Hepzibah. “Be cheerful!
whatever may happen, be nothing but cheerful! ”
The final pause at the threshold proved so long,
that Hepzibah, unable to endure the suspense, rushed
forward, threw open the door, and led in the stranger
by the hand. At the first glance, Phoebe saw an el-
derly personage, in an old-fashioned dressing-gown of
faded damask, and wearing his gray or almost white
hair of an unusual length. It quite overshadowed his
forehead, except when he thrust it back, and stared
vaguely about the room. After a very brief inspection
of his face, it was easy to conceive that his footstep
must necessarily be such an one as that which, slowly,
and with as indefinite an aim as a child’s first journey
across a floor, had just brought him hitherward. Yet
there were no tokens that his physical strength might
not have sufficed for a free and determined gait. It
was the spirit of the man that could not walk. The
expression of his countenance — while, notwithstand-
VOL. ly 9
180 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
ing, it had the light of reason in it — seemed to waver,
and glimmer, and nearly to die away, and feebly to
recover itself again. It was like a flame which we see
twinkling among half-extinguished embers; we gaze
at it more intently than if it were a positive blaze,
gushing vividly upward,— more intently, but with a
certain impatience, as if it ought either to kindle it.
self into satisfactory splendor, or be at once extin-
guished.
For an instant after entering the room, the guest
stood still, retaining Hepzibah’s hand, instinctively, as
a child does that of the grown person who guides it.
He saw Phebe, however, and caught an illumination
from her youthful and pleasant aspect, which, indeed,
threw a cheerfulness about the parlor, like the cizcle
of reflected brilliancy around the glass vase of flowers
that was standing in the sunshine. He made a saluta-
tion, or, to speak nearer the truth, an ill-defined, abor-
tive attempt at courtesy. Imperfect as it was, how-
ever, it conveyed an idea, or, at least, gave a hint, of
indescribable grace, such as no practised art of exter-
nal manners could have attained. It was too slight to
seize upon at the instant; yet, as recollected after-
wards, seemed to transfigure the whole man.
“ Dear Clifford,” said Hepzibah, in the tone with
which one soothes a wayward infant, “this is our
cousin Phebe, — little Phoebe Pyncheon, — Arthur’s
only child, you know. She has come from the country
to stay with us awhile; for our old house has grows
to be very lonely now.”
* Phoebe? — Phebe Pyncheon? — Phebe?” ree
peated the guest, with a strange, sluggish, ill-defined
utterance. ‘ Arthur’s child! Ah, I forget! No mat
{2
ter! She is very welcome!
THE GUEST. 131
*“ Come, dear Clifford, take this chair,” said Hepzi-
bah, leading him to his place. “ Pray, Phebe, lower
the curtain a very little more. Now let us begin
breakfast.”
The guest seated himself in the place assigned him,
and looked strangely around. He was evidently trying
to grapple with the present scene, and bring it home
to his mind with a more satisfactory distinctness. He
desired to be certain, at least, that he was here, in the
low-studded, cross-beamed, oaken-panelled parlor, and
not in some other spot, which had stereotyped itself
into his senses. But the effort was too great to be
sustained with more than a fragmentary success, Con-
tinually, as we may express it, he faded away out of
his place ; or, in other words, his mind and conscious-
ness took their departure, leaving his wasted, gray,
and melancholy figure —a substantial emptiness, a
material ghost —to occupy his seat at table. Again,
after a blank moment, there would be a flickering
taper-gleam in his eyeballs. It betokened that his
spiritual part had returned, and was doing its best to
kindle the heart’s household fire, and light up intel-
lectual lamps in the dark and ruinous mansion, where
it was doomed to be a forlorn inhabitant.
At one of these moments of less torpid, yet still im-
perfect animation, Phoebe became convinced of what
she had at first rejected as too extravagant and start-
ling an idea. She saw that the person before her
must have been the original of the beautiful miniature
in her cousin Hepzibah’s possession. Indeed, with a
feminine eye for costume, she had at once identified
the damask dressing-gown, which enveloped him, as
the same in figure, material, and fashion, with that
$0 elaborately represented in the picture. This old,
132 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
faded garment, with all its pristine brilliancy extinct,
seemed, in some indescribable way, to translate the
wearer's untold misfortune, and make it perceptible
to the beholder’s eye. It was the better to be dis-
cerned, by this exterior type, how worn and old were
the soul’s more immediate garments; that form and
countenance, the beauty and grace of which had al-
most transcended the skill of the most exquisite of
artists. It could the more adequately be known that
the soul of the man must have suffered some miserable
wrong, from its earthly experience. There he seemed
to sit, with a dim veil of decay and ruin betwixt him
and the world, but through which, at flitting intervals,
might be caught the same expression, so refined, so
softly imaginative, which Malbone — venturing a happy ~
touch, with suspended breath — had imparted to the
miniature! There had been something so innately
characteristic in this look, that all the dusky years,
and the burden of unfit calamity which had fallen
upon him, did not suffice utterly to destroy it.
Hepzibah had now poured out a cup of deliciously
fragrant coffee, and presented it to her guest. As-his
eyes met hers, he seemed bewildered and disquieted.
“Ts this you, Hepzibah ?”’ he murmured, sadly;
then, more apart, and perhaps unconscious that he
was overheard, ‘“ How changed! how changed! And
is she angry with me? Why does she bend her brow
so?”
Poor Hepzibah! It was that wretched scowl which
time and her near-sightedness, and the fret of inward
discomfort, had rendered so habitual that any vehe
mence of mood invariably evoked it. But at the indis
tinct murmur of his words her whole face grew tender,
and even lovely, with sorrowful affection ; the harsh
THE GUEST. 133
ness of her features disappeared, as it were, behind
the warm and misty glow.
“ Angry!” she repeated ; “ angry with you, Clif
ford!”
Her tone, as she uttered the exclamation, had a
plaintive and really exquisite melody thrilling through
— it, yet without subduing a certain something which an
obtuse auditor might still have mistaken for asperity.
It was as if some transcendent musician should draw
@ soul-thrilling sweetness out of a cracked instrument,
which makes its physical imperfection heard in the
midst of ethereal harmony, — so deep was the sensi-
bility that found an organ in Hepzibah’s voice !
“There is nothing but love, here, Clifford,” she
added, — “nothing but love! You are at home! ”
The guest responded to her tone by a smile, which
did not half light up his face. Feeble as it was, how-
ever, and gone in a moment, it had a charm of won-
derful beauty. It was followed by a coarser expres-
sion ; or one that had the effect of coarseness on the
fine mould and outline of his countenance, because
there was nothing intellectual to temper it. It was
a look of appetite. He ate food with what might
almost be termed voracity ; and seemed to forget him-
self, Hepzibah, the young girl, and everything else
around him, in the sensual enjoyment which the boun-
tifully spread table afforded. In his natural system,
though high-wrought and delicately refined, a sensibil-
ity to the delights of the palate was probably inherent.
It would have been kept in check, however, and even
converted into an accomplishment, and one of the
thousand modes of intellectual culture, had his more
ethereal characteristics retained their vigor. But as
it existed now, the effect was painful and made Phebe
droop her eyes.
13834 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
In a little while the guest became sensible of the frar
grance of the yet untasted coffee. He quaffed it ea-
gerly. The subtle essence acted on him like a charmed
draught, and caused the opaque substance of his animal
being to grow transparent, or, at least, translucent; se
that a spiritual gleam was transmitted through it, with
a clearer lustre than hitherto.
‘More, more!” he cried, with nervous haste in his
utterance, as if anxious to retain his grasp of what
sought toescape him. ‘This is what I need! Give
me more!”
Under this delicate and powerful influence he sat
more erect, and looked out from his eyes with a glance
that took note of what it rested on. It was not sa
much that his expression grew more intellectual ; this,
though it had its share, was not the most peculiar ef-
fect. Neither was what we call the moral nature so
forcibly awakened as to present itself in remarkable
prominence. But a certain fine temper of being was
now not brought out in full relief, but changeably
and imperfectly betrayed, of which it was the func-
tion to deal with all beautiful and enjoyable things.
In a character where it should exist as the chief at-
tribute, it would bestow on its possessor an exquisite
taste, and an enviable susceptibility of happiness.
Beauty would be his life; his aspirations would all
tend toward it; and, allowing his frame and physical
organs to be in consonance, his own developments
would likewise be beautiful. Such a man should have
nothing to do with sorrow ; nothing with strife; noth.
ing with the martyrdom which, in an infinite variety
of shapes, awaits those who have the heart, and will,
and conscience, to fight a battle with the world. Te
these heroic tempers, such martyrdom is the richest
THE GUEST. 135
meed in the world’s gift. To the individual before
us, it could only be a grief, intense in due proportion
with the severity of the infliction. (He had no right
to be a martyr ;\and, beholding him so fit to be happy
and so feeble for all other purposes, a generous, strong,
and noble spirit would, methinks, have been ready to
sacrifice what little enjoyment it might have planned
for itself, —— it would have flung down the hopes, so
paltry in its regard, — if thereby the wintry blasts of
our rude sphere might come tempered to such a man.
Not to speak it harshly or scornfully, it seemed. Clif
ford’s nature to be a Sybarite. It was perceptible,
even there, in the dark old parlor, in the inevitable
polarity with which his eyes were attracted towards
the quivering play of sunbeams through the shadowy
foliage. It was seen in his appreciating notice of the
vase of flowers, the scent of which he inhaled with a
zest almost peculiar to a physical organization so re-
fined that spiritual ingredients are moulded in with it.
It was betrayed in the unconscious smile with which
he regarded Phebe, whose fresh and maidenly figure
was both sunshine and flowers, — their essence, in a
prettier and more agreeable mode of manifestation.
Not less evident was this love and necessity for the
Beautiful, in the instinctive caution with which, even’
so soon, his eyes turned away from his hostess, and
wandered to any quarter rather than come back. It
was Hepzibah’s misfortune, — not Clifford’s fault.
How could he,— so yellow as she was, so wrinkled,
so sad of mien, with that odd uncouthness of a turban
on her head, and that most perverse of scowls contort-
ing her brow, — how could he love to gaze at her?
But, did he owe her no affection for so much as she
had silently given? He owed her nothing. A nature
136 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
like Clifford’s can contract no debts of that kind. It
is —— we say it without censure, nor in diminution of
the claim which it indefeasibly possesses on beings of
another mould — it is always selfish in its essence ; and
we must give it leave to be so, and heap up our heroic
and disinterested love upon it so much the more, with-
out arecompense. Poor Hepzibah knew this truth, or,
at least, acted on the instinct of it. So long estranged
from what was lovely as Clifford had been, she re-
joiced — rejoiced, though with a present sigh, and a
secret purpose to shed tears in her own chamber —
that he had brighter objects now before his eyes than
her aged and uncomely features. They never pos-
sessed a charm; and if they had, the canker of her
grief for him would long since have destroyed it.
The guest leaned back in his chair. Mingled in
his countenance with a dreamy delight, there was a
troubled look of effort and unrest. He was seeking to
make himself more fully sensible of the scene around
him ; or, perhaps, dreading it to be a dream, or a play
of imagination, was vexing the fair moment with a
struggle for some added brilliancy and more durable
illusion.
“¢ How pleasant !— How delightful ! ” he murmured,
but not as if addressing any one. “ Will it last? How
balmy the atmosphere through that open window! An
open window! How beautiful that play of sunshine!
Those flowers, how very fragrant! That young girl’s
face, how cheerful, how blooming ! —a flower with the
dew on it, and sunbeams in the dew-drops! Ah! this
must be alla dream! A dream! i
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THE ARCHED WINDOW. 197
erank. Yes; and, moved by the self-same impulse,
a lover saluted his mistress on her lips! Possibly
some cynic, at once merry and bitter, had desired te
signify, in this pantomimic scene, that we mortals,
whatever our business or amusement, — however seri-
ous, however trifling,— all dance to one identical
tune, and, in spite of our ridiculous activity, bring
nothing finally to pass. For the most remarkable
aspect of the affair was, that, at the. cessation of the
music, everybody was petrified, at once, from the most
extravagant life into a dead torpor. Neither was the
cobbler’s shoe finished, nor the blacksmith’s iron
shaped out; nor was there a drop less of brandy in
the toper’s bottle, nor a drop more of milk in the
milkmaid’s pail, nor one additional coin in the miser’s
strong-box, nor was the scholar a page deeper in his
book. All were precisely in the same condition as
before they made themselves so ridiculous by their
haste to toil, to enjoy, to accumulate gold, and to be-
come wise. Saddest of all, moreover, the lover was
none the happier for the maiden’s granted kiss! But,
rather than swallow this last too acrid ingredient, we
reject the whole moral of the show.
The monkey, meanwhile, with a thick tail curling
out into preposterous prolixity from beneath his tar-
tans, took his station at the Italian’s feet. He turned
a wrinkled and abominable little visage to every pass-
er-by, and to the circle of children that soon gathered
round, and to Hepzibah’s shop-door, and upward to
the arched window, whence Phebe and Clifford were
looking down. Every moment, also, he took off his
Highland bonnet, and performed a bow and scrape.
Sometimes, moreover, he made personal application to
individuals, holding out his small black palm, and
198 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
otherwise plainly signifying his excessive desire fo1
whatever filthy lucre might happen to be in anybody’s
pocket. The mean and low, yet strangely man-like
expression of his wilted countenance; the prying and
crafty glance, that showed him ready to gripe at every
miserable advantage; his enormous tail (too enormous
to be decently concealed under his gabardine), and
the deviltry of nature which it betokened, — take this
monkey just as he was, in short, and you could desire
no better image of the Mammon of copper coin, sym.
bolizing the grossest form of the love of money.
Neither was there any possibility of satisfying the
covetous little devil. Phoebe threw down a whole
handful of cents, which he picked up with joyless
eagerness, handed them over to the Italian for safe-
keeping, and immediately recommenced a series of
pantomimic petitions for more.
Doubtless, more than one New-Englander — or, let
him be of what country he might, it is as likely to be
the case — passed by, and threw a look at the monkey,
and went on, without imagining how nearly his own
moral condition was here exemplified. Clifford, how-
ever, was a being of another order. He had taken
childish delight in the music, and smiled, too, at the
figures which it set in motion. But, after looking a
while at the long-tailed imp, he was so shocked by his
horrible ugliness, spiritual as well as physical, that he
actually began to shed tears; a weakness which men
of merely delicate endowments, and destitute of the
fiercer, deeper, and more tragic power of laughter, can
hardly avoid, when the worst and meanest aspect of
life happens to be presented to them.
Pyncheon Street was sometimes enlivened by spec
facles of more imposing pretensions than the above,
THE ARCHED WINDOW. 199
and which brought the multitude along with them.
With a shivering repugnance at the idea of personal
contact with the world, a powerful impulse still seized
on Clifford, whenever the rush and roar of the human
tide grew strongly audible to him. This was made
evident, one day, when a political procession, with
hundreds of flaunting banners, and drums, fifes, clari-
ons, and cymbals, reverberating between the rows of
buildings, marched all through town, and trailed its
length of trampling footsteps, and most infrequent
uproar, past the ordinarily quiet House of the Seven
Gables. Asa mere object of sight, nothing is more
deficient in picturesque features than a procession seen
in its passage through narrow streets. The spectator
feels it to be fool’s play, when he can distinguish the
tedious commonplace of each man’s visage, with the
perspiration and weary self-importance on it, and the
very cut of his pantaloons, and the stiffness or laxity
of his shirt-collar, and the dust on the back of his
black coat. In order to become majestic, it should be
viewed from some vantage point, as it rolls its slow
and long array through the centre of a wide plain, or
the stateliest public square of a city; for then, by its
remoteness, it melts all the petty personalities, of
which it is made up, into one broad mass of existence,
—one great life, —one collected body of mankind,
with a vast, homogeneous spirit animating it. But,
on the other hand, if an impressible person, standing
alone over the brink of one of these processions, should
behold it, not in its atoms, but in its aggregate, —as
a mighty river of life, massive in its tide, and black
with mystery, and, out of its depths, calling to the kin-
dred depth within him,—then the contiguity would
add to the effect. It might so fascinate him that he
906 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
would hardly be restrained from plunging into the
surging stream of human sympathies.
So it proved with Clifford. He shuddered; he grew
pale; he threw an appealing look at Hepzibah and
Phoebe, who were with him at the window. They
comprehended nothing of his emotions, and supposed
him merely disturbed by the unaccustomed tumult.
At last, with tremulous limbs, he started up, set his
foot on the window-sill, and in an instant more would
have been in the unguarded balcony. As it was, the
whole procession might have seen him, a wild, haggard
figure, his gray locks floating in the wind that waved
their banners; a lonely being, estranged from his
race, but now feeling himself man again, by virtue of
the irrepressible instinct that possessed him. Had
Clifford attained the balcony, he would probably have
leaped into the street; but whether impelled by the
species of terror that sometimes urges its victim over
the very precipice which he shrinks from, or by a
natural magnetism, tending towards the great centre
of humanity, it were not easy to decide. Both im-
pulses might have wrought on him at once.
But his companions, affrighted by his gesture, —
which was that of a man hurried away in spite of
himself, — seized Clifford’s garment and held him
back. Hepzibah shrieked. Phoebe, to whom all ex-
travagance was a horror, burst into sobs and tears.
“Clifford, Clifford! are you crazy?” cried his
sister.
“‘T hardly know, Hepzibah,” said Clifford, drawing
a long breath. “ Fear nothing, —it is over now, —
but had I taken that plunge, and survived it, methinks
it would have made me another man! ”
Possibly, in some sense, Clifford may have beer
THE ARCHED WINDOW. 201
right. He needed a shock; or perhaps he required ta
take a deep, deep plunge into the ocean of human life,
and to sink down and be covered by its profoundness,
and then to emerge, sobered, invigorated, restored te
the world and to himself. Perhaps, again, he required
nothing less than the great final remedy — death!
A similar yearning to renew the broken links of
brotherhood with his kind sometimes showed itself in
a milder form; and once it was made beautiful by the
religion that lay even deeper than itself. In the inci-
dent now to be sketched, there was a touching recogni-
tion, on Clifford’s part, of God’s care and love towards
him, — towards this poor, forsaken man, who, if any
mortal could, might have been pardoned for regarding
himself as thrown aside, forgotten, and left to be the
sport of some fiend, whose playfulness was an ecstasy
of mischief.
It was the Sabbath morning; one of those bright,
calm Sabbaths, with its own hallowed atmosphere,
when Heaven seems to diffuse itself over the earth’s
face in a solemn smile, no less sweet than solemn. On
such a Sabbath morn, were we pure enough to be its
medium, we should be conscious of the earth’s natural
worship ascending through our frames, on whatever
spot of ground we stood. The church-bells, with va-
rious tones, but all in harmony, were calling out, and
responding to one another, —“ It is the Sabbath ! —
The Sabbath! — Yea; the Sabbath!’ — and over
the whole city the bells scattered the blessed sounds,
now slowly, now with livelier joy, now one bell alone,
now all the bells together, crying earnestly, — “ It is
the Sabbath!” and flinging their accents afar off, to
melt into the air, and pervade it with the holy word.
The air, with God’s sweetest and tenderest sunshine
202 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
in it, was meet for mankind to breathe inte their
hearts, and send it forth again as the utterance of
prayer.
Clifford sat at the window with Hepzibah, watching
the neighbors as they stepped into the street. All of
them, however unspiritual on other days, were transfig-
ured by the Sabbath influence ; so that their very gar.
ments — whether it were an old man’s decent coat well
brushed for the thousandth time, or a little boy’s first
sack and trousers finished yesterday by his mother’s
needle — had somewhat of the quality of ascension-
robes. Forth, likewise, from the portal of the old
house, stepped Pheebe, putting up her small green sun-
shade, and throwing upward a glance and smile of
parting kindness to the faces at the arched window.
In her aspect there was a familiar gladness, and a ho-
liness that you could play with, and yet reverence it
as much as ever. She was like a prayer, offered up in
the homeliest beauty of one’s mother-tongue. Fresh
was Phoebe, moreover, and airy and sweet in her ap
parel; as if nothing that she wore — neither her
gown, nor her small straw bonnet, nor her little ker-
chief, any more than her snowy stockings — had ever
been put on before ; or, if worn, were all the fresher
for it, and with a fragrance as if they had lain among
the rose-buds.
The girl waved her hand to Hepzibah and Clifford,
and went up the street; a religion in herself, warm,
simple, true, with a substance that could walk on earth,
and a spirit that was capable of heaven.
“‘ Hepzibah,” asked Clifford, after watching Pheebe
to the corner, “do you never go to church?”
‘No, Clifford!” she replied, — “ not these many.
many years!”
FRESH WAS PH@BE, MOREOVER, AND AIRY AND
SWEET IN HER APPAREL
THE ARCHED WINDOW. 203
“Were I to be there,” he rejoined, “it seems to me
that I could pray once more, when so many human
souls were praying all around me!”
She looked into Clifford’s face, and beheld there a
soft natural effusion; for his heart gushed out, as it
were, and ran over at his eyes, in delightful reverence
for God, and kindly affection for his human brethren.
The emotion communicated itself to Hepzibah. She
yearned to take him by the hand, and go and kneel
down, they two together, — both so long separate from
the world, and, as she now recognized, scarcely friends
with Him above, — to kneel down among the people,
and be reconciled to God and man at once.
“Dear brother,” said she, earnestly, “let us go!
We belong nowhere. We have not a foot of space in
any church to kneel upon ; but let us go to some place
of worship, even if we stand in the broad aisle. Poor
and forsaken as we are, some pew-door will be opened
to us!”
So Hepzibah and her brother made themselves
ready, — as ready as they could in the best of their
old-fashioned garments, which had hung on pegs, or
been laid away in trunks, so long that the dampness
and mouldy smell of the past was on them, — made
themselves ready, in their faded bettermost, to go to
church. They descended the staircase together, —
gaunt, sallow Hepzibah, and pale, emaciated, age-
stricken Clifford! They pulled open the front door,
and stepped across the threshold, and felt, both of
them, as if they were standing in the presence of the
whole world, and with mankind’s great and terrible
eye on them alone. The eye of their Father seemed
to be withdrawn, and gave them no encouragement,
Che warm sunny air of the street made them shiver
904. THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
Their hearts quaked within them at the idea of taking
one step farther.
“Tt cannot be, Hepzibah!—it is too late,” said
Clifford, with deep sadness. ‘ We are ghosts! We
have no right among human beings, — no right any-
where but in this old house, which has a curse on it,
and which, therefore, we are doomed to haunt! And,
besides,” he continued, with a fastidious sensibility,
inalienably characteristic of the man, “it would not
be fit nor beautiful to go! It is an ugly thought that
I should be frightful to my fellow-beings, and that
children would cling to their mothers’ gowns at sight
of me!”
They shrank back into the dusky passage-way, and
closed the door. But, going up the staircase again,
they found the whole interior of the house tenfold
more dismal, and the air closer and heavier, for the
glimpse and breath of freedom which they had just
snatched. They could not flee; their jailer had but
left the door ajar in mockery, and stood behind it to
watch them stealing out. At the threshold, they felt
his pitiless gripe upon them. For, what other dungeon
is so dark as one’s own heart! What jailer so inexor-
able as one’s self!
But it would be no fair picture of Clifford’s state of
mind were we to represent him as continually or pre-
vailingly wretched. On the contrary, there was no
other man in the city, we are bold to affirm, of so much
as half his years, who enjoyed so many lightsome and
griefless moments as himself. He had no burden of
care upon him; there were none of those questions and
contingencies with the future to be settled which wear
away all other lives, and render them not worth having
by the very process of providing for their support. In
THE ARCHED WINDOW. 205
this respect he was a child, —a child for the whole
term of his existence, be it long or short. Indeed, his
life seemed to be standing still at a period little in ad.
vance of childhood, and to cluster all his reminiscences
about that epoch ; just as, after the torpor of a heavy
blow, the sufferer’s reviving consciousness goes back to
a moment considerably behind the accident that stupe-
fied him. He sometimes told Phebe and Hepzibah
his dreams, in which he invariably played the part of
a child, or a very young man. So vivid were they, in
his relation of them, that he once held a dispute with
his sister as to the particular figure or print of a chintz
morning-dress, which he had seen their mother wear,
in the dream of the preceding night. Hepzibah, piqu-
ing herself on a woman’s accuracy in such matters,
held it to be slightly different from what Clifford de-
scribed; but, producing the very gown from an old
trunk, it proved to be identical with his remembrance
of it. Had Clifford, every time that he emerged out
of dreams so lifelike, undergone the torture of trans-
formation from a boy into an old and broken man, the
daily recurrence of the shock would have been too
much to bear. It would have caused an acute agony
to thrill from the morning twilight, all the day through,
until bedtime ; and even then would have mingled a
dull, inscrutable pain, and pallid hue of misfortune,
with the visionary bloom and adolescence of his slum-
ber. But the nightly moonshine interwove itself with
the morning mist, and enveloped him as in a robe,
which he hugged about his person, and seldom let re-
alities pierce through; he was not often quite awake,
but slept open-eyed, and perhaps fancied himself most
dreaming then.
Thus, lingering always so near his childhood, he
206 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
had sympathies with children, and kept his heart the
fresher thereby, like a reservoir into which rivulets
were pouring not far from the fountain-head. Though
prevented, by a subtile sense of propriety, from desir-
ing to associate with them, he loved. few things better
than to look out of the arched window, and see a little
girl driving her hoop along the sidewalk, or school
boys at a game of ball. Their voices, also, were very
pleasant to him, heard at a distance, all swarming and
intermingling together as flies do in a sunny room.
Clifford would, doubtless, have been glad to share
their sports. One afternoon he was seized with an ir-
resistible desire to blow soap-bubbles ; an amusement,
as Hepzibah told Phebe apart, that had been a favor-
ite one with her brother when they were both children.
Behold him, therefore, at the arched window, with an
earthen pipe in his mouth! Behold him, with his gray
hair, and a wan, unreal smile over his countenance,
where still hovered a beautiful grace, which his worst
enemy must have acknowledged to be spiritual and im-
mortal, since it had survived so long! Behold him,
scattering airy spheres abroad, from the window into
the street ! Little impalpable worlds were those soap-
bubbles, with the big world depicted, in hues bright as
imagination, on the nothing of their surface. It was
curious to see how the passers-by regarded these brill-
jant fantasies, as they came floating down, and made
the dull atmosphere imaginative about them. Some
stopped to gaze, and, perhaps, carried a pleasant recol-
lection of the bubbles onward as far as the street-cor-
ner; some looked angrily upward, as if poor Clifford
wronged them by setting an image of beauty afloat so
near their dusty pathway. A great many put out
their fingers or their walking-sticks to touch, withal:
THE ARCHEL WINDOW. 207
and were perversely gratified, no doubt, when the bub-
ble, with all its pictured earth and sky scene, vanished
as if it had never been.
At length, just as an elderly gentleman of very dig-
nified presence happened to be passing, a large bubble
sailed majestically down, and burst right against his
nose! He looked up,—at first with a stern, keen
glance, which penetrated at once into the obscurity be-
hind the arched window, —then with a smile which
might be conceived as diffusing a dog-day sultriness
for the space of several yards about him.
“ Aha, Cousin Clifford!” cried Judge Pyncheon.
* What! still blowing soap-bubbles! ”
The tone seemed as if meant to be kind and sooth-
ing, but yet had a bitterness of sarcasm in it. As for
Clifford, an absolute palsy of fear came over him.
Apart from any definite cause of dread which his past
experience might have given him, he felt that native
and original horror of the excellent Judge which is
proper to a weak, delicate, and apprehensive character
in the presence of massive strength. Strength is in-
comprehensible by weakness, and, therefore, the more
terrible. There is no greater bugbear than a strong-
willed relative in the circle of his own connections.
XI
THE DAGUERREOTYPIST.
Tr must not be supposed that the life of a person
age naturally so active as Phcebe could be wholly con-
fined within the precincts of the old Pyncheon House.
Clifford’s demands upon her time were usually sat-
isfied, in those long days, considerably earlier than
sunset. Quiet as his daily existence seemed, it never-
theless drained all the resources by which he lived.
It was not physical exercise that overwearied him, —
for except that he sometimes wrought a little with a
hoe, or paced the garden-walk, or, in rainy weather,
traversed a large unoccupied room, —it was his ten-
dency to remain only too quiescent, as regarded any
toil of the limbs and muscles. But, either there was
a smouldering fire within him that consumed his vi-
tal energy, or the monotony that would have dragged
itself with benumbing effect over a mind differently
situated was no monotony to Clifford. Possibly, he
was in a state of second growth and recovery, and war
constantly assimilating nutriment for his spirit and in-
tellect from sights, sounds, and events, which passed
as a perfect void to persons more practised with the
world. As all is activity and vicissitude to the new
mind of a child, so might it be, likewise, to a mind
that had undergone a kind of new creation, after its
long-suspended life.
Be the cause what it might, Clifford commonly re
THE DAGUERREOTYPIST. 209
tired to rest, thoroughly exhausted, while the sunbeams
were still melting through his window-curtains, or were
thrown with late lustre on the chamber wall. And
while he thus slept early, as other children do, and
dreamed of childhood, Phcebe was free to follow her
own tastes for the remainder of the day and evening.
This was a freedom essential to the health even of a
character so little susceptible of morbid influences as
that of Phebe. The old house, as we have already
said, had both the dry-rot and the damp-rot in its walls ;
it was not good to breathe no other atmosphere than
that. Hepzibah, though she had her valuable and re-
deeming traits, had grown to be a kind of lunatic, by
imprisoning herself so long in one place, with no other
company than a single series of ideas, and but one af-
fection, and one bitter sense of wrong. Clifford, the
reader may perhaps imagine, was too inert to operate
morally on his fellow-creatures, however intimate and
exclusive their relations with him. But the sympathy
or magnetism among human beings is more subtile and
universal than we think; it exists, indeed, among dif-
ferent classes of organized life, and vibrates from one
to another. A flower, for instance, as Pheebe herself
observed, always began to droop sooner in Clifford’s
hand, or Hepzibah’s, than in her own; and by the
same law, converting her whole daily life into a flower-
fragrance for these two sickly spirits, the blooming
girl must inevitably droop and fade much sooner than
if worn on a younger and happier breast. Unless she
had now and then indulged her brisk impulses, and
breathed rural air in a suburban walk, or ocean breezes
along the shore, — had occasionally obeyed the impulse
of Nature, in New England girls, by attending a met-
aphysical or philosophical lecture, or viewing a seven:
VOL. I1I- 14
210 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
mile panorama, or listening to a concert, — had gone
shopping about the city, ransacking entire depots of
splendid merchandise, and bringing home a ribbon, —
had employed, likewise, a little time to read the Bible
in her chamber, and had stolen a little more to think
of her mother and her native place, — unless for such
moral medicines as the above, we should soon have be-
held our poor Phebe grow thin and put on a bleached
unwholesome aspect, and assume strange, shy ways,
prophetic of old-maidenhood and a cheerless future.
Even as it was, a change grew visible; a change
partly to be regretted, although whatever charm it in-
fringed upon was repaired by another, perhaps more
precious. She was not so constantly gay, but had her
moods of thought, which Clifford, on the whole, liked
better than her former phase of unmingled cheerful-
ness; because now she understood him better and
more delicately, and sometimes even interpreted him
to himself. Her eyes looked larger, and darker, and
deeper; so deep, at some silent moments, that they
seemed like Artesian wells, down, down, into the in-
finite. She was less girlish than when we first beheld
her alighting from the omnibus; less girlish, but more
@ woman.
The only youthful mind with which Phebe had an
opportunity of frequent intercourse was that of the
daguerreotypist. Inevitably, by the pressure of the
seclusion about them, they had been brought into hab-
its of some familiarity. Had they met under different
circumstances, neither of these young persons would
have been likely to bestow much thought upon the
other, unless, indeed, their extreme dissimilarity should
have proved a principle of mutual attraction. Both, it
is true, were characters proper to New England life
THE DAGUERREOTYPIST. 213
and possessing a common ground, therefore, in their
more external developments; but as unlike, in their
respective interiors, as if their native climes had been
at world-wide distance. During the early part of their
acquaintance, Phcebe had held back rather more than
was customary with her frank and simple manners
from Holgrave’s not very marked advances. Nor was
she yet satisfied that she knew him well, although
they almost daily met and talked together, in a kind,
friendly, and what seemed to be a familiar way.
The artist, in a desultory manner, had imparted to
Pheebe something of his history. Young as he was,
and had his career terminated at the point already at-
tained, there had been enough of incident to fill, very
creditably, an autobiographic volume. A romance on |
the plan of Gil Blas, adapted to American society and
manners, would cease to be a romance. The experience
of many individuals among us, who think it hardly
worth the telling, would equal the vicissitudes of the
Spaniard’s earlier life; while their ultimate success, or
the point whither they tend, may be incomparably
higher than any that a novelist would imagine for his
hero. Holgrave, as he told Phoebe, somewhat proudly,
could not boast of his origin, unless as being exceed-
ingly humble, nor of his education, except that it had
been the scantiest possible, and obtained by a few win-
ter-months’ attendance at a district school. Left early
to his own guidance, he had begun to be self-depend.-
ent while yet a boy; and it was a condition aptly
suited to his natural force of will. Though now but
twenty-two years old (lacking some months, which are
years in such a life), he had already been, first, a
country schoolmaster; next, a salesman in a country
store; and, either at the same time or afterwards, the
912 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
political editor of a country newspaper. He had sub
sequently travelled New England and the Middle
States, as a pedlar, in the employment of a Connecti.
cut manufactory of cologne-water and other essences.
In an episodical way he had studied and practised
dentistry, and with very flattering success, especially
in many of the factory-towns along our inland streams,
As a supernumerary official, of some kind or other,
aboard a packet-ship, he had visited Europe, and
found means, before his return, to see Italy, and part
of France and Germany. At a later period he had
spent some months in a community of Fourierists.
Still more recently he had been a public lecturer on
Mesmerism, for which science (as he assured Phebe,
and, indeed, satisfactorily proved, by putting Chanti-
cleer, who happened to be scratching near by, to
sleep) he had very remarkable endowments.
His present phase, as a daguerreotypist, was of no
more importance in his own view, nor likely to be
more permanent, than any of the preceding ones. It
had been taken up with the careless alacrity of an ad-
venturer, who had his bread to earn. It would be
thrown aside as carelessly, whenever he should choose
to earn his bread by some other equally digressive
means. But what was most remarkable, and, per-
haps, showed a more than common poise in the young
man, was the fact that, amid all these personal vicis-
situdes, he had never lost his identity. Homeless as
he had been, — continually changing his whereabout,
and, therefore, responsible neither to public opinion
nor to individuals, — putting off one exterior, and
snatching up another, to be soon shifted for a third,—~
he had never violated the innermost man, but had car.
tied his conscience along with him. It was impossibie
THE DAGUERREOTYPIST. 218
to know Holgrave without recognizing this to be the
fact. Hepzibah had seen it. Phoebe soon saw it,
likewise, and gave him the sort of confidence whick
such a certainty inspires. She was startled, however,
and sometimes repelled, — not by any doubt of his
integrity to whatever law he acknowledged, but by a
sense that his law differed from her own. He made
her uneasy, and seemed to unsettle everything around
her, by his lack of reverence for what was fixed, un-
less, at a moment’s warning, it could establish its right
to hold its ground.
Then, moreover, she scarcely thought him affection-
ate in his nature. He was too calm and cool an ob-
server. Phebe felt his eye, often; his heart, seldom
or never. He took a certain kind of interest in Hep-
zibah and her brother, and Phebe herself. He
studied them attentively, and allowed no slightest cir-
cumstance of their individualities to escape him. He
was ready to do them whatever good he might; but,
after all, he never exactly made common cause with
them, nor gave any reliable evidence that he loved
them better in proportion as he knew them more. In
his relations with them, he seemed to be in quest of
mental food, not heart-sustenance. Phcebe could not
conceive what interested him so much in her friends
and herself, intellectually, since he cared nothing fo1
them, or, comparatively, so little, as objects of human
affection.
Always, in his interviews with Phebe, the artist
made especial inquiry as to the welfare of Clifford,
whom, except at the Sunday festival, he seldom saw.
“‘ Does he still seem happy ?”’ he asked one day.
*¢ As happy as a child,” answered Phebe ; “ but- -
like a child, too— very easily disturbed.”
214 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
“ How disturbed ?” inquired Holgrave. “ By things
without, or by thoughts within ? ”
“TI cannot see his thoughts! How should 1?” re.
plied Pheebe, with simple piquancy. “ Very often
his humor changes without any reason that can be
guessed at, just as a cloud comes over the sun. Lat:
terly, since I have begun to know him better, I feel ii
to be not quite right to look closely into his moods,
He has had such a great sorrow, that his heart is
made all solemn and sacred by it. When he is cheer-
ful, — when the sun shines into his mind, — then ]
venture to peep in, just as far as the light reaches,
but no further. It is holy ground where the shadow
falls!”
‘How prettily you express this sentiment!” said
the artist. ‘1 can understand the feeling, without
possessing it. Had I your opportunities, no scruples
would prevent me from fathoming Clifford to the full
depth of my plummet-line !”
‘“‘ How strange that you should wish it!” remarked
Pheebe, involuntarily. “ What is Cousin Clifford te
you?”
“Oh, nothing, — of course, nothing!” answered
Holgrave, with a smile. ‘Only this is such an odd
and incomprehensible world! The more I look at it
the more it puzzles me, and I begin to suspect that
a man’s bewilderment is the measure of his wisdom.
Men and women, and children, too, are such strange
creatures, that one never can be certain that he really
knows them; nor ever guess what they have been,
from what he sees them to be now. Judge Pyncheon!
Clifford! What a complex riddle —a complexity of
complexities— do they present! It requires intuitive
sympathy, like a young girl’s, to solve it, A mere
THE DAGUERREOTYPIST. 215
observer, like myself (who never have any intuitions
and am, at best, only subtile and acute), is pretty cer.
tain to go astray.”
The artist now turned the conversation to themes
less dark than that which they had touched upon.
Phebe and he were young together; nor had Hol
grave, in his premature experience of life, wasted en-
tirely that beautiful spirit of youth, which, gushing
forth from one small heart and fancy, may diffuse it-
self over the universe, making it all as bright as on
the first day of creation. Man’s own youth is the
world’s youth; at least, he feels as if it were, and
imagines that the earth’s granite substance is some-
thing not yet hardened, and which he can mould into
whatever shape he likes. So it was with Holgrave.
He could talk sagely about the world’s old age, but
never actually believed what he said; he was a young
man still, and therefore looked upon the world — that
gray-bearded and wrinkled profligate, decrepit, with-
out being venerable —as a tender stripling, capable
of being improved into all that it ought to be, but
scarcely yet had shown the remotest promise of be-
coming. He had that sense, or inward prophecy, —
which a young man had better never have been born
than not to have, and a mature man had better die at
once than utterly to relinquish, — that we are not
doomed to creep on forever in the old bad way, but
that, this very now, there are the harbingers abroad
of a golden era, to be accomplished in his own life-
time. It seemed to Holgrave —as doubtless it has
seemed to the hopeful of every century since the
epoch of Adam’s grandchildren — that in this age,
more than ever before, the moss-grown and rotten
Past is to be torn down, and lifeless institutions to be
210 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
thrust out of the way, and their dead corpses buried,
and everything to begin anew.
As to the main point, — may we never live to doubt
it!—as to the better centuries that are coming, the
artist was surely right. His error lay in supposing
that this age, more than any past or future one, is des.
tined to see the tattered garments of Antiquity ex-
changed for a new suit, instead of gradually renewing
themselves by patchwork ; in applying his own little
life-span as the measure of an interminable achieve-
ment ; and, more than all, in fancying that it mattered
anything to the great end in view whether he himself
should contend for it or against it. Yet it was well
for him to think so. This enthusiasm, infusing itself
through the calmness of his character, and thus taking
an aspect of settled thought and wisdom, would serve
to keep his youth pure, and make his aspirations high.
And when, with the years settling down more weight-
ily upon him, his early faith should be modified by in-
evitable experience, it would be with no harsh and
sudden revolution of his sentiments. He would still
have faith in man’s brightening destiny, and perhaps
love him all the better, as he should recognize his
helplessness in his own behalf; and the haughty faith,
with which he began life, would be well bartered for a
far humbler one at its close, in discerning that man’s
best directed effort accomplishes a kind of dream, while
God is the sole worker of realities.
Holgrave had read very little, and that little in
passing through the thoroughfare of life, where the
mystic language of his books was necessarily mixed
up with the babble of the multitude, so that both one
and the other were apt to lose any sense that might
have been properly their own. He considered him-
THE DAGUERREOTYPIST. 21%
self a thinker, and was certainly of a thoughtful turn,
but, with his own path to discover, had perhaps hardly
yet reached the point where an educated man begins
to think. The true value of his character lay in that
deep consciousness of inward strength, which made all
his past vicissitudes seem merely like a change of gar-
ments ; in that enthusiasm, so quiet that he scarcely
knew of its existence, but which gave a warmth to
averything that he laid his hand on; in that personal
ambition, hidden — from his own as well as other eyes
— among his more generous impulses, but in which
lurked a certain efficacy, that might solidify him from
a theorist into the champion of some practicable cause.
Altogether in his culture and want of culture, — in
his crude, wild, and misty philosophy, and the prac.
tical experience that counteracted some of its tenden-
cies; in his magnanimous zeal for man’s welfare, and
his recklessness of whatever the ages had established
in man’s behalf; in his faith, and in his infidelity; in
what he had, and in what he lacked, — the artist might
fitly enough stand forth as the representative of many
compeers in his native land.
His career it would be difficult to prefigure. There
appeared to be qualities in Holgrave, such as, in a
country where everything is free to the hand that can
grasp it, could hardly fail to put some of the world’s
prizes within his reach. But these matters are de-
lightfully uncertain. At almost every step in life, we
meet with young men of just about Holgrave’s age,
for whom we anticipate wonderful things, but of whom,
even after much and careful inquiry, we never happen
to hear another word. ‘The effervescence of youth
and passion, and the fresh gloss of the intellect and
unagination, endow them with a false brilliancy, which
218 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
makes fools of themselves and other people. Like
certain chintzes, calicoes, and ginghams, they show
finely in their first newness, but cannot stand the sun
and rain, and assume a very sober aspect after wash
ing-day. )
But our business is with Holgrave as we find him
on this particular afternoon, and in the arbor of the
Pyncheon garden. In that point of view, it was a
pleasant sight to behold this young man, with so much
faith in himself, and so fair an appearance of admira-
ble powers, —so little harmed, too, by the many tests
that had tried his metal,—it was pleasant to see him —
in his kindly intercourse with Phebe. Her thought
had scarcely done him justice when it pronounced him
cold; or, if so, he had grown warmer now. With.
out such purpose on her part, and unconsciously on
his, she made the House of the Seven Gables like a
home to him, and the garden a familiar precinct.
With the insight on which he prided himself, he fan-
cied that he could look through Phebe, and all around
her, and could read her off like a page of a child’s
story-book. But these transparent natures are often
deceptive in their depth ; those pebbles at the bottom
of the fountain are farther from us than we think.
Thus the artist, whatever he might judge of Pheebe’s
capacity, was beguiled, by some silent charm of hers,
to talk freely of what he dreamed of doing in the
world. He poured himself out as to another self,
Very possibly, he forgot Phebe while he talked to
her, and was moved only by the inevitable tendency
of thought, when rendered sympathetic by enthusiasm
and emotion, to flow into the first safe reservoir which
it finds. But, had you peeped at them through the
chinks of the garden-fence, the young man’s earnest
THE DAGUERREOTYPIST. 219
ness and heightened color might have led you to supe.
pose that he was making love to the young girl!
At length, something was said by Holgrave that
made it apposite for Pheebe to inquire what had first
brought him acquainted with her cousin Hepzibah,
and why he now chose to lodge in the desolate old
Pyncheon House. Without directly answering her,
he turned from the Future, which had heretofore
been the theme of his discourse, and began to speak
of the influences of the Past. One subject, indeed, is
but the reverberation of the other.
“ Shall we never, never get rid of this Past?” cried
he, keeping up the earnest tone of his preceding con-
versation. ‘It lies upon the Present like a giant’s
dead body! In fact, the case is just as if a young
giant were compelled to waste all his strength in
carrying about the corpse of the old giant, his grand-
father, who died a long while ago, and only needs to
be decently buried. Just think a moment, and it will
startle you to see what slaves we are to bygone times,
— to Death, if we give the matter the right word ! ”
“¢ But I do not see it,” observed Phoebe.
** Wor example, then,” continued Holgrave : “a dead
man, if he happen to have made a will, disposes of
wealth no longer his own; or, if he die intestate, it
is distributed in accordance with the notions of men
much longer dead than he. A dead man sits on all
our judgment-seats ; and living judges do but search
out and repeat his decisions. We read in dead men’s
books! We laugh at dead men’s jokes, and cry at
dead men’s pathos! We are sick of dead men’s dis-
eases, physical and moral, and die of the same rem-
edies with which dead doctors killed their patients!
We worship the living Deity according to dead men’s
220 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
forms and creeds. Whatever we seek to do, of our
own free motion, a dead man’s icy hand obstructs us!
Turn our eyes to what point we may, a dead man’s
white, immitigable face encounters them, and freezes
our very heart! And we must be dead ourselves be-
fore we can begin to have our proper influence on our
own world, which will then be no longer our world,
but the world of another generation, with which we
shall have no shadow of a right to interfere. I ought
to have said, too, that we live in dead men’s houses ;
as, for instance, in this of the Seven Gables!”
‘* And why not,” said Phebe, ‘so long as we can
be comfortable in them ?”
‘“‘ But we shall live to see the day, I trust,” went on
the artist, “when no man shall build his house for
posterity. Why should he? He might just as rea-
sonably order a durable suit of clothes, — leather, or
gutta-percha, or whatever else lasts longest, — so that
his great-grandchildren should have the benefit of
them, and cut precisely the same figure in the world
that he himself does. If each generation were allowed
and expected to build its own houses, that single
change, comparatively unimportant in itself, would
imply almost every reform which society is now suf-
fering for. I doubt whether even our public edifices
— our capitols, state-houses, court-houses, city-hall, and
churches — ought to be built of such permanent mate-
rials as stone or brick. It were better that they should
crumble to ruin once in twenty years, or thereabouts,
as a hint to the people to examine into and reform the
institutions which they symbolize.”
“How you hate everything old!” said Phcebe, in
dismay. ‘It makes me dizzy to think of such a shift
ing world! ”
THE DAGUERREOTYPIST. 291
*T certainly love nothing mouldy,” answered Hok
grave. ‘* Now, this old Pyncheon House! Is it a
wholesome place to live in, with its black shingles,
and the green moss that shows how damp they are?
— its dark, low-studded rooms ? — its grime and sor.
didness, which are the crystallization on its walls ol
the human breath, that has been drawn and exhaled
here in discontent and anguish? The house ought
to be purified with fire, — purified till only its asher
remain !”
“Then why do you live in it?” asked Phebe, a
little piqued.
“Oh, I am pursuing my studies here; not in books,
however,” replied Holgrave. ‘*‘ The house, in my view,
is expressive of that odious and abominable Past, with
all its bad influences, against which I have just been
declaiming. I dwell in it for a while, that I may
know the better how to hate it. By the by, did you
ever hear the story of Maule, the wizard, and what
happened between him and your immeasurably great.
grandfather ? ”
“ Yes, indeed! ” said Phebe ; “I heard it long ago,
from my father, and two or three times from my cousin
Hepzibah, in the month that I have been here. She
seems to think that all the calamities of the Pyncheons
began from that quarrel with the wizard, as you call
him. And you, Mr. Holgrave, look as if you thought
so too! How singular, that you should believe what
is so very absurd, when you reject many things that
are a great deal worthier of credit!”
“T do believe it,” said the artist, seriously ; “‘ not ag
a superstition, however, but as proved by unquestion-
able facts, and as exemplifying a theory. Now, see:
under those seven gables, at which we now look up,
222 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
—and which old Colonel Pyncheon meant to be the
house of his descendants, in prosperity and happiness,
down to an epoch far beyond the present, — under
that roof, through a portion of three centuries, there
has been perpetual remorse of conscience, a constantly
defeated hope, strife amongst kindred, various misery,
a strange form of death, dark suspicion, unspeakable
disgrace, — all, or most of which calamity I have the
means of tracing to the old Puritan’s inordinate de-
sire to plant and endow a family. To plant a family!
This idea is at the bottom of most of the wrong and
mischief which men do. The truth is, that, once in
every half-century, at longest, a family should be
merged into the great, obscure mass of humanity, and
forget all about its ancestors. Human blood, in order
to keep its freshness, should run in hidden streams, as
the water of an aqueduct is conveyed in subterranean
pipes. In the family existence of these Pyncheons,
for instance, — forgive me, Phcebe; but I cannot think
of you as one of them, — in their brief New England
pedigree, there has been time enough to infect them
all with one kind of Innacy or another!”
“You speak very unceremoniously of my kindred,”
said Phoebe, debating with herself whether she ought
to take offence.
“ T speak true thoughts to a true mind! ” answered
Holgrave, with a vehemence which Phebe had not
before witnessed in him. “The truth is as I say!
Furthermore, the original perpetrator and father of
this mischief appears to have perpetuated himself, and
still walks the street, — at least, his very image, in
mind and body, — with the fairest prospect of trans.
mitting to posterity as rich and as wretched an inhen
itance as he has received! Do you remember the daw
guerreotype, and its resemblance to the old portrait ?*
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THE DAGUERREOTYPIST. 223
“How strangely in earnest you are!” exclaimed
Phoebe, looking at him with surprise and perplexity ;
half alarmed and partly inclined to laugh. ‘“ You
talk of the lunacy of the Pyncheons; is it conta,
gious?”
“T understand you!” said the artist, coloring and
laughing. ‘I believe I am a little mad. This sub-
ject has taken hold of my mind with the strangest
tenacity of clutch since I have lodged in yonder old
gable. As one method of throwing it off, I have put
an incident of the Pyncheon family history, with which
I happen to be acquainted, into the form of a legend,
and mean to publish it in a magazine.”
“Do you write for the magazines?” inquired
Phebe.
“Is it possible you did not know it?” cried Hol-
grave. ‘“ Well, such is literary fame! Yes, Miss
Phcebe Pyncheon, among the multitude of my marvel-
lous gifts I have that of writing stories; and my name
has figured, I can assure you, on the covers of Graham
and Godey, making as respectable an appearance, for
aught I could see, as any of the canonized bead-roll
with which it was associated. In the humorous line,
I am thought to have a very pretty way with me; and
as for pathos, I am as provocative of tears as an onion.
But shall I read you my story?”
“ Yes, if it is not very long,” said Phoebe, — and
added laughingly, — “nor very dull.”
As this latter point was one which the daguerreotyp-
ist could not decide for himself, he forthwith produced
his roll of manuscript, and, while the late sunbeams
gilded the seven gables, began to read.
XIII.
ALICE PYNCHEON.
THERE was a message brought, one day, from the
worshipful Gervayse Pyncheon to young Matthew
Maule, the carpenter, desiring his immediate presence
at the House of the Seven Gables.
*¢ And what does your master want with me?” said
the carpenter to Mr. Pyncheon’s black servant. ‘* Does
the house need any repair? Well it may, by this
time; and no blame to my father who built it, neither!
I was reading the old Colonel’s tombstone, no longer
ago than last Sabbath; and, reckoning from that date,
the house has stood seven-and-thirty years. No wonder
if there should be a job to do on the roof.”
“ Don’t know what massa wants,” answered Scipio.
“The house is a berry good house, and old Colonel
Pyncheon think so too, I reckon ; — else why the old
man haunt it so, and frighten a poor nigga, as he
does ?”
“ Well, well, friend Scipio; let your master know
that I’m coming,” said the carpenter, with a laugh.
“ For a fair, workmanlike job, he “ll find me his man.
And so the house is haunted, is it? It will take a
tighter workman than | am to keep the spirits out of
the Seven Gables. Even if the Colonel would be
- quiet,” he added, muttering to himself, “ my old grand-
father, the wizard, will be pretty sure to stick to the
Pyncheons as long as their walls hold together.”
ALICE PYNCHEON. 225
“What ’s that you mutter to yourself, Matthew
Maule?” asked Scipio. “ And what for do you look
so black at me?”
‘““No matter, darky!” said the carpenter. “Do
you think nobody is to look black but yourself? Go
tell your master I’m coming; and if you happen te
see Mistress Alice, his daughter, give Matthew Maule‘s
humble respects to her. She has brought a fair face
from Italy, — fair, and gentle, and proud, — has that
same Alice Pyncheon !”
“He talk of Mistress Alice!” cried Scipio, as he
returned from his errand. ‘ The low carpenter-man !
He no business so much as to look at her a great wa7
off!” é
This young Matthew Maule, the carpenter, it must
be observed, was a person little understood, and not
very generally liked, in the town where he resided ;
not that anything could be alleged against his in-
tegrity, or his skill and diligence in the handicraft
which he exercised. The aversion (as it might justly
be called) with which many persons regarded him.
was partly the result of his own character and deport
ment, and partly an inheritance.
He was the grandson of a former Matthew Maule,
one of the early settlers of the town, and who had been
a famous and terrible wizard in his day. This old re-
probate was one of the sufferers when Cotton Mather,
and his brother ministers, and the learned judges, and
other wise men, and Sir William Phipps, the sagacious
governor, made such laudable efforts to weaken the
great enemy of souls, by sending a multitude of his
adherents up the rocky pathway of Gallows Hill.
Since those days, no doubt, it had grown to be sus-
pected that, in consequence of an unfortunate overdo-
VOL. IIL 15
226 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
ing of a work praiseworthy in itself, the proceedings
against the witches had proved far less acceptable tc
the Beneficent Father than to that very Arch Enemy
whom they were intended to distress and utterly over-
whelm. It is not the less certain, however, that awe
and terror brooded over the memories of those who
died for this horrible crime of witchcraft. Their
graves, in the crevices of the rocks, were supposed to
be incapable of retaining the occupants who had been
so hastily thrust into them. Old Matthew Maule, es-
pecially, was known to have as little hesitation or dif-
ficulty in rising out of his grave as an ordinary man
in getting out of bed, and was as often seen at mid-
night as living people at noonday. This pestilent
wizard (in whom his just punishment seemed to have
wrought no manner of amendment) had an inveterate
habit of haunting a certain mansion, styled the House
of the Seven Gables, against the owner of which
he pretended to hold an unsettled claim for ground-
rent. The ghost, it appears, — with the pertinacity
which was one of his distinguishing characteristics
while alive, — insisted that he was the rightful pro-
prietor of the site upon which the house stood. His
terms were, that either the aforesaid ground-rent, from
the day when the cellar began to be dug, should be
paid down, or the mansion itself given up; else he,
the ghostly creditor, would have his finger in all the
affairs of the Pyncheons, and make everything go
wrong with them, though it should be a thousand years
after his death. It was a wild story, perhaps, but
seemed not altogether so incredible to those who could
remember what an inflexibly obstinate old fellow this
wizard Maule had been.
Now, the wizard’s grandson, the young Matthew
ALICE PYNCHEON. ay Ati
Maule of our story, was popularly supposed to have
inherited some of his ancestor’s questionable traits. It
is wonderful how many absurdities were promulgated
in reference to the young man. He was fabled, for
example, to have a strange power of getting into peo-
ple’s dreams, and regulating matters there according
to his own fancy, pretty much like the stage-manager
of atheatre. There was a great deal of talk among
the neighbors, particularly the petticoated ones, about
what they called the witchcraft of Maule’s eye. Some
said that he could look into people’s minds ; others,
that, by the marvellous power of this eye, he could
draw people into his own mind, or send them, if he
pleased, to do errands to his grandfather, in the spir-
itual world ; others, again, that it was what is termed
an Evil Eye, and possessed the valuable faculty of
blighting corn, and drying children into mummies with
the heartburn. But, after all, what worked most to
the young carpenter’s disadvantage was, first, the re-
serve and sternness of his natural disposition, and
next, the fact of his not being a church-communicant,
and the suspicion of his holding heretical tenets in
matters of religion and polity.
After receiving Mr. Pyncheon’s message, the car-
penter merely tarried to finish a small job, which he
happened to have in hand, and then took his way tow-
ards the House of the Seven Gables. This noted edi-
fice, though its style might be getting a little out of
fashion, was still as respectable a family residence as
that of any gentleman in town. The present owner,
Gervayse Pyncheon, was said to have contracted a dis-
like to the house, in consequence of a shock to his sen-
sibility, in early childhood, from the sudden death of
his grandfather. In the very act of running to climb
228 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
Colonel Pyncheon’s knee, the boy had discovered the
old Puritan to be a corpse! On arriving at manhood,
Mr. Pyncheon had visited England, where he married
a lady of fortune, and had subsequently spent many
years, partly in the mother country, and partly in va-
rious cities on the continent of Europe. During this
period, the family mansion had been consigned to the
charge of a kinsman, who was allowed to make it his
home for the time being, in consideration of keeping
the premises in thorough repair. So faithfully had
this contract been fulfilled, that now, as the carpenter
approached the house, his practised eye could detect
nothing to criticise in its condition. ‘The peaks of the
seven gables rose up sharply; the shingled roof
looked thoroughly water-tight; and the glittering
plaster-work entirely covered the exterior walls, and
sparkled in the October sun, as if it had been new
only a week ago.
The house had that pleasant aspect of life which is
like the cheery expression of comfortable activity in
the human countenance. You could see, at once, that
there was the stir of a large family within it. A huge
load of oak-wood was passing through the gateway,
towards the outbuildings in the rear; the fat cook —
or probably it might be the housekeeper — stood at
the side door, bargaining for some turkeys and poul-
try, which a countryman had brought for sale. Now
and then a maid-servant, neatly dressed, and now the
shining sable face of a slave, might be seen bustling
across the windows, in the lower part of the house.
At an open window of a room in the second story,
hanging over some pots of beautiful and delicate flow-
ers, — exotics, but which had never known a more
genial sunshine than that of the New England autumn,
ALICE PYNCHEON. ys ag
~— was the figure of a young lady, an exotic, like the
fiowers, and beautiful and delicate as they. Her pres-
ence imparted an indescribable grace and faint witch-
ery to the whole edifice. In other respects, it was a
substantial, jolly-looking mansion, and seemed fit to
be the residence of a patriarch, who might establish
his own headquarters in the front gable and assign
one of the remainder to each of his six children, while
the great chimney in the centre should symbolize the
old fellow’s hospitable heart, which kept them all
warm, and made a great whole of the seven smaller
ones.
There was a vertical sundial on the front gable ; and
as the carpenter passed beneath it, he looked up and
noted the hour.
“Three o’clock!” said he to himself. ‘ My father
told me that dial was put up only an hour before the
old Colonel’s death. How truly it has kept time
these seven-and-thirty years past! The shadow creeps
and creeps, and is always looking over the shoulder of
the sunshine! ”
It might have befitted a craftsman, like Matthew
Maule, on being sent for to a gentleman’s house, to go
to the back door, where servants and work-people were
usually admitted; or at least to the side entrance,
where the better class of tradesmen made application.
But the carpenter had a great deal of pride and stiff-
ness in his nature; and, at this moment, moreover,
his heart was bitter with the sense of hereditary
wrong, because he considered the great Pyncheon
House to be standing on soil which should have been
his own. On this very site, beside a spring of deli-
cious water, his grandfather had felled the pine-trees
and built a cottage, in which children had been born
230 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
to him; and it was only from a dead man’s stiffened
fingers that Colonel Pyncheon had wrested away the
title-deeds. So young Maule went straight to the
principal entrance, beneath a portal of carved oak, and
gave such a peal of the iron knocker that you would
have imagined the stern old wizard himself to be
standing at the threshold.
Black Scipio answered the summons in a prodigious
hurry ; but showed the whites of his eyes, in amaze~
ment on beholding only the carpenter.
‘“‘ Jord-a-mercy ! what a great man he be, this car-
penter fellow!” mumbled Scipio, down in his throat.
“ Anybody think he beat on the door with his biggest
hammer! ”
“Here I am!” said Maule, sternly. “Show me
the way to your master’s parlor! ”
As he stept into the house, a note of sweet and
melancholy music thrilled and vibrated along the pas-
sage-way, proceeding from one of the rooms above
stairs. It was the harpsichord which Alice Pyncheon
had brought with her from beyond the sea. The fair
Alice bestowed most of her maiden leisure between
flowers and music, although the former were apt tc
droop, and the melodies were often sad. She was of
foreign education, and could not take kindly to the
New England modes of life, in which nothing beauti-
ful had ever been developed.
As Mr. Pyncheon had been impatiently awaiting
Maule’s arrival, black Scipio, of course, lost no time in
ushering the carpenter into his master’s presence. The
room in which this gentleman sat was a parlor of mod-
erate size, looking out upon the garden of the house,
and having its windows partly shadowed by the foliage
of fruit-trees. It was Mr. Pyncheon’s peculiar apart
ALICE PYNCHEON. 231
ment, and was provided with furniture, in au elegant
and costly style, principally from Paris; the floor
(which was unusual at that day) being covered with a
carpet, so skilfully and richly wrought that it seemed
to glow as with living flowers. In one corner stood a
marble woman, to whom her own beauty was the sole
and sufficient garment. Some pictures — that looked
old, and had a mellow tinge diffused through all their
artful splendor — hung on the walls. Near the fire-
place was a large and very beautiful cabinet of ebony,
inlaid with ivory; a piece of antique furniture, which
Mr. Pyncheon had bought in Venice, and which he
used as the treasure-place for medals, ancient coins,
and whatever small and valuable curiosities he had
picked up on his travels. Through all this variety of
decoration, however, the room showed its original char-
acteristics ; its low stud, its cross-beam, its chimney-
piece, with the old-fashioned Dutch tiles; so that it
was the emblem of a mind industriously stored with
foreign ideas, and elaborated into artificial refine-
ment, but neither larger, nor, in its proper self, more
elegant than before.
There were two objects that appeared rather out of
place in this very handsomely furnished room. One
was a large map, or surveyor’s plan, of a tract of land,
which looked as if it had been drawn a good many
years ago, and was now dingy with smoke, and soiled,
here and there, with the touch of fingers. The other
was a portrait of a stern old man, in a Puritan garb,
painted roughly, but with a bold effect, and a remark-
ably strong expression of character.
At asmall table, before a fire of English sea-coal,
sat Mr. Pyncheon, sipping coffee, which had grown to
be a very favorite beverage with him in France. He
232 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
was a middle-aged and really handsome man, with a
wig flowing down upon his shoulders ; his coat was of
blue velvet, with lace on the borders and at the button-
holes; and the firelight glistened on the spacious
breadth of his waistcoat, which was flowered all over
with gold. On the entrance of Scipio, ushering in the
carpenter, Mr. Pyncheon turned partly round, but re-
sumed his former position, and proceeded deliberately
to finish his cup of coffee, without immediate notice of
the guest whom he had summoned to his presence.
It was not that he intended any rudeness or improper
neglect, — which, indeed, he would have blushed to be
guilty of, — but it never occurred to him that a person
in Maule’s station had a claim on his courtesy, or
would trouble himself about it one way or the other.
The carpenter, however, stepped at once to the
hearth, and turned himself about, so as to look Mr.
Pyncheon in the face.
“You sent for me,” said he. ‘ Be pleased to ex-
plain your business, that I may go back to my own af-
fairs.”
“ Ah! excuse me,” said Mr. Pyncheon, quietly. “I
did not mean to tax your time without a recompense.
Your name, I think, is Maule, — Thomas or Matthew
Maule, —a son or grandson of the builder of this
house ?”’
“Matthew Maule,” replied the carpenter, — “son
of him who built the house, — grandson of the right
ful proprietor of the soil.”
“I know the dispute to which you allude,” observed
Mr. Pyncheon with undisturbed equanimity. “Iam
well aware that my grandfather was compelled to re-
sort to a suit at law, in order to establish his claim to
the foundation-site of this edifice. We will not, if you
ALICE PYNCHEON. 233
please, renew the discussion. The matter was settled
at the time, and by the competent authorities, — equi-
tably, it is to be presumed, — and, at all events, irrevo-
cably. Yet, singularly enough, there is an incidental
reference to this very subject in what I am now about
to say to you. And this same inveterate grudge, —
excuse me, 1 mean no offence, — this irritability,
which you have just shown, is not entirely aside from
the matter.”
“Tf you can find anything for your purpose, Mr.
Pyncheon,” said the carpenter, “in a man’s natural
resentment for the wrongs done to his blood, you are
welcome to it!”
“1 take you at your word, Goodman Maule,” said
the owner of the Seven Gables, with a smile, “ and
will proceed to suggest a mode in which your heredi-
tary resentments — justifiable, or otherwise — may
have had a bearing on my affairs. You have heard,
I suppose, that the Pyncheon family, ever since my
grandfather’s days, have been prosecuting a still un-
settled claim to a very large extent of territory at the
Eastward ? ”
“ Often,” replied Maule, —and it is said that a
smile came over his face, —‘“ very often, — from my
father!”
‘This claim,’ continued Mr. Pyncheon, after paus-
ing a moment, as if to consider what the carpenter’s
smile might mean, “‘ appeared to be on the very verge
of a settlement and full allowance, at the period of my
grandfather’s decease. It was well known, to those in
his confidence, that he anticipated neither difficulty
nor delay. Now, Colonel Pyncheon, I need hardly
say, was a practical man, well acquainted with public
and private business, and not at all the person to chen
234 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
ish ill-founded hopes, or to attempt the following out
of an impracticable scheme. It is obvious to conclude,
therefore, that he had grounds, not apparent to his
heirs, for his confident anticipation of success in the
matter of this Eastern claim. In a word, I believe, —
and my legal advisers coincide in the belief, which,
moreover, is authorized, to a certain extent, by the
family traditions, —that my grandfather was in pos-
session of some deed, or other document, essential te
this claim, but which has since disappeared.”
“‘ Very likely,” said Matthew Maule, — and again,
it is said, there was a dark smile on his face, — “ but
what can a poor carpenter have to do with the grand
affairs of the Pyncheon family ?”
“Perhaps nothing,” returned Mr. Pyncheon, —
‘possibly, much! ”
Here ensued a great many words between Matthew
Maule and the proprietor of the Seven Gables, on the
subject which the latter had thus broached. It seems
(although Mr. Pyncheon had some hesitation in re-
ferring to stories so exceedingly absurd in their as-
pect) that the popular belief pointed to some mysteri-
ous connection and dependence, existing between the
family of the Maules and these vast unrealized pos-
sessions of the Pyncheons. It was an ordinary saying
that the old wizard, hanged though he was, had ob-
tained the best end of the bargain in his contest with
Colonel Pyncheon ; inasmuch as he had got possession
of the great Eastern claim, in exchange for an acre or
two of garden-ground. A very aged woman, recently
dead, had often used the metaphorical expression, in
her fireside talk, that miles and miles of the Pyncheon
lands had been shovelled into Maule’s grave; which,
by the by, was but a very shallow nook, between twa
ALICE PYNCHEON. 235
rocks, near the summit of Gallows Hill. Again, when
the lawyers were making inquiry for the missing docu:
ment, it was a by-word that it would never be found,
unless in the wizard’s skeleton hand. So much weight
had the shrewd lawyers assigned to these fables, that
(but Mr. Pyncheon did not see fit to inform the car.
penter of the fact) they had secretly caused the wiz
ard’s grave to be searched. Nothing was discovered,
however, except that, unaccountably, the right hand
of the skeleton was gone.
Now, what was unquestionably important, a portion
of these popular rumors could be traced, though rather
doubtfully and indistinctly, to chance words and ob-
scure hints of the executed wizard’s son, and the father
of this present Matthew Maule. And here Mr. Pyn.
cheon could bring an item of his own personal evi
dence into play. Though but a child at the time, he
either remembered or fancied that Matthew’s father
had had some job to perform, on the day before, or
possibly the very morning of the Colonel’s decease, in
the private room where he and the carpenter were at
this moment talking. Certain papers belonging to
Colonel Pyncheon, as his grandson distinctly recol-
lected, had been spread out on the table.
Matthew Maule understood the insinuated suspicion.
“My father,’ he said,—but still there was that
dark smile, making a riddle of his countenanee, —
‘my father was an honester man than the bloody old
Colonel! Not to get his rights back again would he
have carried off one of those papers!”
“T shall not bandy words with you,” observed the
foreign-bred Mr. Pyncheon, with haughty composure.
“ Nor will it become me to resent any rudeness tow:
ards either my grandfather or myself. A gentleman
236 THE HOUSE QF THE SEVEN GABLES.
before seeking intercourse with a person of your sta
tion and habits, will first consider whether the urgency
of the end may compensate for the disagreeableness of
the means. It does so in the present instance.”
He then renewed the conversation, and made great
pecuniary offers to the carpenter, in case the latter
should give information leading to the discovery of the
lost document, and the consequent success of the
Eastern claim. For a long time Matthew Maule is
said to have turned a cold ear to these propositions.
At last, however, with a strange kind of laugh, he in.
quired whether Mr. Pyncheon would make over to him
the old wizard’s homestead-ground, together with the
House of the Seven Gables, now standing on it, in
requital of the documentary evidence so urgently re-
quired.
The wild, chimney-corner legend (which, without
copying all its extravagances, my narrative essentially
follows) here gives an account of some very strange
behavior on the part of Colonel Pyncheon’s portrait.
This picture, it must be understood, was supposed to
be so intimately connected with the fate of the house,
and so magically built into its walls, that, if once it
should be removed, that very instant the whole edifice
would come thundering down in a heap of dusty ruin.
All through the foregoing conversation between Mr.
Pyncheon and the carpenter, the portrait had been
frowning, clenching its fist, and giving many such
proofs of excessive discomposure, but without attract-
ing the notice of either of the two colloquists. And
finally, at Matthew Maule’s audacious suggestion of a
transfer of the seven-gabled structure, the ghostly por-
trait is averred to have lost all patience, and to have
shown itself on the point of descending bodily from
ALICE PYNCHEON. 037
tts frame. But such incredible incidents are merely
to be mentioned aside.
‘Give up this house!” exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon, in
amazement at the proposal. ‘“ Were I todo so, my
grandfather would not rest quiet in his grave!”
“ He never has, if all stories are true,” remarked
the carpenter, composedly. ‘ But that matter concerns
his grandson more than it does Matthew Maule. I
have no other terms to propose.”
Impossible as he at first thought it to comply with
Maule’s conditions, still, on a second glance, Mr. Pyn-
cheon was of opinion that they might at least be made
matter of discussion. He himself had no personal at-
tachment for the house, nor any pleasant associations
connected with his childish residence in it. On the
contrary, after seven-and-thirty years, the presence of
his dead grandfather seemed still to pervade it, as on
that morning when the affrighted boy had beheld him,
with so ghastly an aspect, stiffening in his chair. His
long abode in foreign parts, moreover, and familiarity
with many of the castles and ancestral halls of Eng-
land, and the marble palaces of Italy, had caused him
to look contemptuously at the House of the Seven
Gables, whether in point of splendor or convenience.
It was a mansion exceedingly inadequate to the style
of living which it would be incumbent on Mr. Pyn-
cheon to support, after realizing his territorial rights.
His steward might deign to occupy it, but never, cer-
tainly, the great landed proprietor himself. In the
event of success, indeed, it was his purpose to return
to England; nor, to say the truth, would he recently
Lave quitted that more congenial home, had not his
own fortune, as well as his deceased wife’s, begun to
give symptoms of exhaustion. The Eastern claim
238 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
once fairly settled, and put upon the firm basis of
actual possession, Mr. Pyncheon’s property —to be
measured by miles, not acres— would be worth an
earldom, and would reasonably entitle him to solicit,
or enable him to purchase, that elevated dignity from
the British monarch. Lord Pyncheon! — or the Ear]
of Waldo! — how could such a magnate be expected
to contract his grandeur within the pitiful compass of
seven shingled gables ?
In short, on an enlarged view of the business, the
carpenter’s terms appeared so ridiculously easy that
Mr. Pyncheon could scarcely forbear laughing in hi_
face. He was quite ashamed, after the foregoing re-
flections, to propose any diminution of so moderate a
recompense for the immense service to be rendered.
“TI consent to your proposition, Maule,” cried he.
“Put me in possession of the document essential to
establish my rights, and the House of the Seven
Gables is your own!”
According to some versions of the story, a regular
contract to the above effect was drawn up by a lawyer,
and signed and sealed in the presence of witnesses.
Others say that Matthew Maule was contented with
a private written agreement, in which Mr. Pyncheon
pledged his honor and integrity to the fulfilment of
the terms concluded upon. The gentleman then or-
dered wine, which he and the carpenter drank to-
gether, in confirmation of their bargain. During the
whole preceding discussion and subsequent formalities,
the old Puritan’s portrait seems to have persisted in its
shadowy gestures of disapproval; but without effect,
except that, as Mr. Pyncheon set down the emptied
glass, he thought he beheld his grandfather frown.
“ This sherry is too potent a wine for me; it has af
ALICE PYNCHEON. 239
fected my brain already,” he observed, after a some:
what startled look at the picture. ‘On returning to
Europe, I shall confine myself to the more delicate vin-
tages of Italy and France, the best of which will not
bear transportation.”
“¢ My Lord Pyncheon may drink what wine he will,
and wherever he pleases,” replied the carpenter, as if
he had been privy to Mr. Pyncheon’s ambitious pro-
jects. ‘“* But first, sir, if you desire tidings of this lost
document, I must crave the favor of a little talk with
your fair daughter Alice.”
“You are mad, Maule!” exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon,
haughtily ; and now, at last, there was anger mixed
up with his pride. ‘ What can my daughter have to
do with a business like this?”
Indeed, at this new demand on the carpenter’s part,
the proprietor of the Seven Gables was even more
thunder-struck than at the cool proposition to surren-
der his house. There was, at least, an assignable
motive for the first stipulation; there appeared to be
none whatever for the last. Nevertheless, Matthew
Maule sturdily insisted on the young lady being sum-
moned, and even gave her father to understand, in a
mysterious kind of explanation, — which made the
matter considerably darker than it looked before, —
that the only chance of acquiring the requisite knowl-
edge was through the clear, crystal medium of a pure
and virgin intelligence, like that of the fair Alice.
Not to encumber our story with Mr. Pyncheon’s scru-
ples, whether of conscience, pride, or fatherly affec-
tion, he at length ordered his daughter to be called.
He well knew that she was in her chamber, and en-
gaged in no occupation that could not readily be laid
aside; for, as it happened, ever since Alice’s name
240 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
had been spoken, both her father and the carpenter
had heard the sad and sweet music of her harpsi
chord, and the airier melancholy of her accompanying
voice.
So Alice Pyncheon was summoned and appeared,
A portrait of this young lady, painted by a Venetian
artist, and left by her father in England, is said to
have fallen into the hands of the present Duke of
Devonshire, and to be now preserved at Chatsworth ;
not on account of any associations with the original,
but for its value as a picture, and the high character
of beauty in the countenance. If ever there was a
lady born, and set apart from the world’s vulgar mass
by a certain gentle and cold stateliness, it was this
very Alice Pyncheon. Yet there was the womanly
mixture in her; the tenderness, or, at least, the tender
capabilities. For the sake of that redeeming quality,
aman of generous nature would have forgiven all her
pride, and have been content, almost, to lie down 1”
her path, and let Alice set her slender foot upon his
heart. All that he would have required was simply
the acknowledgment that he was indeed a man, and a
fellow-being, moulded of the same elements as she.
As Alice came into the room, her eyes fell upon the
carpenter, who was standing near its centre, clad in a
green woollen jacket, a pair of loose breeches, open at
the knees, and with a long pocket for his rule, the end
of which protruded ; it was as proper a mark of the.
artisan’s calling, as Mr. Pyncheon’s full-dress sword
of that gentleman’s aristocratic pretensions. A glow
of artistic approval brightened over Alice Pyncheon’s
face; she was struck with admiration — which she
made no attempt to conceal — of the remarkable come-
iness, strength, and energy of Maule’s figure. Bué
““MY FATHER, YOU SENT FOR ME,”’ SAID ALICE, IN
HER SWEET AND HARP-LIKE VOICE
ALICE PYNCHEON. 241
that admiring glance (which most other men, per-
haps, would have cherished as a sweet recollection,
all through life) the carpenter never forgave. It
must have been the devil himself that made Maule
so subtile in his perception.
“Does the girl look at me as if I were a brute
beast?” thought he, setting his teeth. ‘She shall
know whether I have a human spirit; and the worse
for her, if it prove stronger than her own!”
** My father, you sent for me,” said Alice, in her
sweet and harp-like voice. “ But, if you have busi-
ness with this young man, pray let me go again. You
know I do not love this room, in spite of that Claude,
with which you try to bring back sunny recollections.”
“Stay a moment, young lady, if you please!” said
Matthew Maule. ‘“ My business with your father is
over. With yourself, it is now to begin! ”
Alice looked towards her father, in surprise and in-
quiry.
“Yes, Alice,” said Mr. Pyncheon, with some dis-
turbance and confusion. “This young man — his
name is Matthew Maule — professes, so far as I can
understand him, to be able to discover, through your
means, a certain paper or parchment, which was miss-
ing long before your birth. The importance of the
document in question renders it advisable to neglect
no possible, even if improbable, method of regaining
it. You will therefore oblige me, my dear Alice, by
answering this person’s inquiries, and complying with
his lawful and reasonable requests, so far as they may
appear to have the aforesaid object in view. As I
shall remain in the room, you need apprehend no rude
nor unbecoming deportment, on the young man’s part;
and, at your slightest wish, of course, the investiga-
VOL, IL. 16
242 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES,
tion, or whatever we may call it, shall immediately be
broken off.
“Mistress Alice Pyncheon,”’ remarked Matthew
Maule, with the utmost deference, but yet a half-hid-
den sarcasm in his look and tone, ‘** will no doubt feel
herself quite safe in her father’s presence, and under
his all-sufficient protection.”
“T certainly shall entertain no manner of apprehen-
sion, with my father at hand,” said Alice, with maid-
enly dignity. ‘Neither do I conceive that a lady,
while true to herself, can have aught to fear from
whomsoever, or in any circumstances ! ”
Poor Alice! By what unhappy impulse did she
thus put herself at once on terms of defiance against
a strength which she could not estimate ?
“Then, Mistress Alice,” said Matthew Maule, hand-
ing a chair, — gracefully enough, for a craftsman, —
‘“‘ will it please you only to sit down, and do me the
favor (though altogether beyond a poor carpenter’s
deserts) to fix your eyes on mine!”
Alice complied. She was very proud. Setting
aside all advantages of rank, this fair girl deemed
herself conscious of a power —combined of beauty,
high, unsullied purity, and the preservative force of
womanhood —that could make her sphere impenetra-
ble, unless betrayed by treachery within. She in-
stinctively knew, it may be, that some sinister or evil
potency was now striving to pass her barriers; nor
would she decline the contest. So Alice put woman’s
might against man’s might; a match not often equal
on the part of woman.
Her father meanwhile had turned away, and seemed
absorbed in the contemplation of a landscape by Claude,
where a shadowy and sun-streaked vista penetrated so
ALICE PYNCHEON. 243
cemotely into an ancient wood, that it would have been
no wonder if his fancy had lost itself in the picture’s
bewildering depths. But, in truth, the picture was no
more to him at that moment than the blank wall
against which it hung. His mind was haunted with
the many and strange tales which he had heard, at
tributing mysterious if not supernatural endowments
to these Maules, as well the grandson here present as
his two immediate ancestors. Mr. Pyncheon’s long
residence abroad, and intercourse with men of wit and
fashion, — courtiers, worldlings, and free-thinkers, —
had done much towards obliterating the grim Puritan
superstitions, which no man of New England birth at
that early period could entirely escape. But, on the
other hand, had not a whole community believed
Maule’s grandfather to be a wizard? Had not the
crime been proved? Had not the wizard died for it ?
Had he not bequeathed a legacy of hatred against the
Pyncheons to this only grandson, who, as it appeared,
was now about to exercise a subtle influence over the
daughter of his enemy’s house? Might not this in-
fluence be the same that was called witchcraft ?
Turning half around, he caught a glimpse of Maule’s
figure in the looking-glass. At some paces from Alice,
with his arms uplifted in the air, the carpenter made a
gesture as if directing downward a slow, ponderous,
and invisible weight upon the maiden.
“Stay, Maule!” exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon, stepping
forward. “I forbid your proceeding further !”
“‘ Pray, my dear father, do not interrupt the young
man,” said Alice, without changing her position. “ His
efforts, I assure you, will prove very harmless.”
Again Mr. Pyncheon turned his eyes towards the
Claude. It was then his daughter’s will, in opposition
244 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
to his own, that the experiment should be fully tried
Henceforth, therefore, he did but consent, not urge it
And was it not for her sake far more than for his
own that he desired its success? That lost parch-
ment once restored, the beautiful Alice Pyncheon, with
the rich dowry which he could then bestow, might wed
an English duke or a German reigning-prince, instead.
of some New England clergyman or lawyer! At the
thought, the ambitious father almost consented, in his
heart, that, if the devil’s power were needed to the ac-
complishment of this great object, Maule might evoke
him. Alice’s own purity would be her safeguard.
With his mind full of imaginary magnificence, Mr.
Pyncheon heard a half-uttered exclamation from his
daughter. It was very faint and low; so indistinct
that there seemed but half a will to shape out the
words, and too undefined a purport to be intelligible.
Yet it was a call for help! — his conscience never
doubted it ;— and, little more than a whisper to his
ear, it was a dismal shriek, and long reéchoed’ so, in
the region round his heart! But this time the father
did not turn.
After a further interval, Maule spoke.
“ Behold your daughter!” said he.
Mr. Pyncheon came hastily forward. The carpenter
was atanding erect in front of Alice’s chair, and point.
ing his finger towards the maiden with an expression ~
of triumphant power the limits of which could not bi
defined, as, indeed, its scope stretched vaguely towards
the unseen and the infinite. Alice sat in an attitude
of profound repose, with the long brown lashes droop-
ing over her eyes.
‘There she is!” said the carpenter. “Speak tc
jer!”
ALICE PYNCHEON. 245
“ Alice! My daughter!” exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon.
My own Alice!”
She did not stir.
“Louder!” said Maule, smiling.
“ Alice! Awake!” cried her father. “It troubles
me to see you thus! Awake!”
He spoke loudly, with terror in his voice, and close
to that delicate ear which had always been so sensitive
to every discord. But the sound evidently reached
her not. It is indescribable what a sense of remote,
dim, unattainable distance, betwixt himself and Alice,
was impressed on the father by this impossibility of
reaching her with his voice.
‘“‘ Best touch her!” said Matthew Maule. “ Shake
the girl, and roughly too! My hands are hardened
with too much use of axe, saw, and plane, — else I
might help you!”
Mr. Pyncheon took her hand, and pressed it with
the earnestness of startled emotion. He kissed her,
with so great a heart-throb in the kiss, that he thought
she must needs feel it. Then, in a gust of anger at
her insensibility, he shook her maiden form with a
violence which, the next moment, it affrighted him to
remember. He withdrew his encircling arms, and
Alice — whose figure, though flexible, had been wholly
impassive — relapsed into the same attitude as before
these attempts to arouse her. Maule having shifted
his position, her face was turned towards him slightly,
but with what seemed to be a reference of her very
slumber to his guidance.
Then it was a strange sight to behold how the man
of conventionalities shook the powder out of his pert
wig; how the reserved and stately gentleman forgot
his dignity ; how the gold-embroidered waistcoat flick
246 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABZES.
ered and glistened in the firelight with the convulsion
of rage, terror, and sorrow in the human heart that
was beating under it.
“ Villain!” cried Mr. Pyncheon, shaking his
clenched fist at Maule. ‘You and the fiend together
have robbed me of my daughter! Give her back,
spawn of the old wizard, or you shall climb Gallows
Hill in your grandfather’s footsteps !”
“ Softly, Mr. Pyncheon!” said the carpenter, with
scornful composure. ‘Softly, an it please your wor-
ship, else you will spoil those rich lace ruffles at your
wrists! Is it my crime if you have sold your daughter
for the mere hope of getting a sheet of yellow parch-
ment into your clutch? There sits Mistress Alice
quietly asleep! Now let Matthew Maule try whether
she be as proud as the carpenter found her awhile
since.”
He spoke, and Alice responded, with a soft, sub-
dued, inward acquiescence, and a bending of her form
towards him, like the flame of a torch when it indi
cates a gentle draught of air. He beckoned with his
hand, and, rising from her chair, — blindly, but un-
doubtingly, as tending to her sure and inevitable cen-
tre,— the proud Alice approached him. He waved
her back, and, retreating, Alice sank again into her
seat.
“She is mine!”’ said Matthew. Maule. ‘ Mine, by
the right of the strongest spirit!”
In the further progress of the legend, there is a
long, grotesque, and occasionally awe-striking account
of the carpenter’s incantations (if so they are to be
called), with a view of discovering the lost document.
It appears to have been his object to convert the mind
of Alice into a kind of telescopic medium, through
ALICE PYNCHEON. 2AT
which Mr. Pyncheon and himself might obtain a
glimpse into the spiritual world. He succeeded, ac.
cordingly, in holding an imperfect sort of intercourse,
at one remove, with the departed personages, in whose
custody the so much valued secret had been carried
beyond the precincts of earth. During her trance,
Alice described three figures as being present to her
spiritualized perception. One was an aged, dignified,
stern-looking gentleman, clad as for a solemn festival
in grave and costly attire, but with a great bloodstain
on his richly wrought band ; the second, an aged man,
meanly dressed, with a dark and malign countenance,
and a broken halter about his neck; the third, a per-
son not so advanced in life as the former two, but be-
yond the middle age, wearing a coarse woollen tunic
and leather breeches, and with a carpenter’s rule stick-
ing out of his side pocket. These three visionary
characters possessed a mutual knowledge of the miss-
ing document. One of them, in truth, —it was he
with the blood-stain on his band, — seemed, unless his
gestures were misunderstood, to hold the parchment
in his immediate keeping, but was prevented, by his
two partners in the mystery, from disburdening him-
self of the trust. Finally, when he showed a purpose
of shouting forth the secret, loudly enough to be heard
from his own sphere into that of mortals, his compan-
ions struggled with him, and pressed their hands over
his mouth; and forthwith — whether that he were
choked by it, or that the secret itself was of a crim-
son hue — there was a fresh flow of blood upon his
band. Upon this, the two meanly dressed figures
mocked and jeered at the much-abashed old dignitary,
and pointed their fingers at the stain.
At this juncture, Maule turned to Mr. Pyncheon.
248 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
“Tt will never be allowed,” said he. ‘The custody
of this secret, that would so enrich his heirs, makes
part of your grandfather’s retribution. He must choke
with it until it is no longer of any value. And keep
you the House of the Seven Gables! It is too dear
bought an inheritance, and too heavy with the curse
upon it, to be shifted yet awhile from the Colonel’s
posterity ! ”
Mr. Pyncheon tried to speak, but — what with fear
and passion — could make only a gurgling murmur in
his throat. The carpenter smiled.
‘“¢ Aha, worshipful sir! — so, you have old Maule’s
blood to drink!” said he, jeeringly.
‘Fiend in man’s shape! why dost thou keep do-
minion over my child?” cried Mr. Pyncheon, when
his choked utterance could make way. “Give me
back my daughter! Then go thy ways; and may we
never meet again!”
“Your daughter!” said Matthew Maule. ‘ Why,
she is fairly mine! Nevertheless, not to be too hard
with fair Mistress Alice, I will leave her in your keep-
ing; but I do not warrant you that she shall never
have occasion to remember Maule, the carpenter.”
He waved his hands with an upward motion; and,
after a few repetitions of similar gestures, the beauti-
ful Alice Pyncheon awoke from: her strange trance.
She awoke, without the slightest recollection of her
visionary experience ; but as one losing herself in a
momentary reverie, and returning to the consciousness
of actual life, in almost as brief an interval as the
down-sinking flame of the hearth should quiver again
up the chimney. On recognizing Matthew Maule, she
assumed an air of somewhat cold but gentle dignity,
‘he rather, as there was a certain peculiar smile on the
ALICE PYNCHEON. 249
earpenter’s visage that stirred the native pride of the
fair Alice. So ended, for that time, the quest for the
lost title-deed of the Pyncheon territory at the East-
ward; nor, though often subsequently renewed, has it
ever yet befallen a Pyncheon to set his eye upox that
parchment.
But, alas for the beautiful, the gentle, yet too
haughty Alice! A power that she little dreamed of
had laid its grasp upon her maiden soul. A will, most
unlike her own, constrained her to do its grotesque
and fantastic bidding. Her father, as it proved, had
martyred his poor child to an inordinate desire for
measuring his land by miles instead of acres. And,
therefore, while Alice Pyncheon lived, she was Maule’s
slave, in a bondage more humiliating, a thousand-fold,
than that which binds its chain around the body.
Seated by his humble fireside, Maule had but to wave
his hand ; and, wherever the proud lady chanced to
be, — whether in her chamber, or entertaining her
father’s stately guests, or worshipping at church, —
whatever her place or occupation, her spirit passed
from beneath her own control, and bowed itself to
Maule. “ Alice, laugh!’ — the carpenter, beside his
hearth, would say ; or perhaps intensely will it, with-
out a spoken word. And, even were it prayer-time,
or at a funeral, Alice must break into wild laughter.
“ Alice, be sad!”? —and, at the instant, down would
come her tears, quenching all the mirth of those
around her like sudden rain upon a bonfire. “ Alice,
dance!” — and dance she would, not in such court-
like measures as she had learned abroad, but some
high-paced jig, or hop-skip rigadoon, befitting the
brisk lasses at a rustic merry-making. It seemed to
Ye Maule’s impulse, not to ruin Alice, nor to visit her
250 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
with any black or gigantic mischief, which would have
crowned her sorrows with the grace of tragedy, but to
wreak a low, ungenerous scorn upon her. Thus all
the dignity of life was lost. She felt herself too much
abased, and longed to change natures with some
worm !
One evening, at a bridal-party (but not her own;
for, so lost from self-control, she wouid have deemed
it sin to marry), poor Alice was beckoned forth by her
unseen despot, and constrained, in her gossamer white
dress and satin slippers, to hasten along the street
to the mean dwelling of a laboring-man. There was
laughter and good cheer within ; for Matthew Maule,
that night, was to wed the laborer’s daughter, and had
summoned proud Alice Pyncheon to wait upon his
bride. And so she did; and when the twain were
one, Alice awoke out of her enchanted sleep. Yet, no
longer proud, — humbly, and with a smile all steeped
in sadness, — she kissed Maule’s wife, and went her
way. It was an inclement night; the southeast wind
drove the mingled snow and rain into her thinly shel-
tered bosom ; her satin slippers were wet through and
through, as she trod the muddy sidewalks. The next
day a cold; soon, a settled cough; anon, a hectic
cheek, a wasted form, that sat beside the harpsichord,
and filled the house with music! Music, in which a
strain of the heavenly choristers was echoed! Oh, joy!
For Alice had borne her last humiliation! Oh, greater
joy! For Alice was penitent of her one earthly sim
and proud no more!
The Pyncheons made a great funeral for Alice.
The kith and kin were there, and the whole respecta-
bility of the town besides. But, last in the procession,
came Matthew Maule, gnashing his teeth, as if he
ALICE PYNCHEON. 251
would have bitten his own heart in twain, — the dark.
est and wofullest man that ever walked behind a
corpse! He meant to humble Alice, not to kill her;
but he had taken a woman’s delicate soul into his rude
gripe, to play with — and she was dead !
XIV.
PHEBE’S GOOD-BY.
HO.eRAVE, plunging into his tale with the energy
and absorption natural to a young author, had given a
good deal of action to the parts capable of being de-
veloped and exemplified in that manner. He now ob-
served that a certain remarkable drowsiness (wholly
unlike that with which the reader possibly feels him-
self affected) had been flung over the senses of his
auditress. It was the effect, unquestionably, of the
mystic gesticulations by which he had sought to bring
bodily before Phcebe’s perception the figure of the
mesmerizing carpenter. With the lids drooping over
her eyes, — now lifted for an instant, and drawn down
again as with leaden weights, — she leaned slightly to-
wards him, and seemed almost to regulate her breath
by his. Holgrave gazed at her, as he rolled up his
manuscript, and recognized an incipient stage of that
curious psychological condition, which, as he had him-
self told Phcebe, he possessed more than an ordinary
faculty of producing. A veil was beginning to be
muffled about her, in which she could behold only
him, and live only in his thoughts and emotions. His
glance, as he fastened it on the young girl, grew invol-
untarily more concentrated ; in his attitude there was
the consciousness of power, investing his hardly ma-
ture figure with a dignity that did not belong to its
physical manifestation. It was evident, that, with but
PHGBE’S GOOD-BY. 253
one wave of his hand and ‘a corresponding effort of
his will, he could complete his mastery over Phcebe’s
yet free and virgin spirit: he could establish an influ-
ence over this good, pure, and simple child, as danger-
ous, and perhaps as disastrous, as that which the car-
penter of his legend had acquired and exercised over
the ill-fated Alice.
To a disposition like Holgrave’s, at once speculative
and active, there is no temptation so great as the op-
portunity of acquiring empire over the human spirit;
nor any idea more seductive to a young man than to
become the arbiter of a young girl’s destiny. Let us,
therefore,— whatever his defects of nature and edu-
cation, and in spite of his scorn for creeds and insti-
tutions, — concede to the daguerreotypist the rare and
high quality of reverence for another’s individuality.
Let us allow him integrity, also, forever after to be
confided in; since he forbade himself to twine that
one link more which might have rendered his spell
over Pheebe indissoluble.
He made a slight gesture upward with his hand.
“ You really mortify me, my dear Miss Phebe!”
he exclaimed, smiling half-sarcastically at her. ‘ My
poor story, it is but too evident, will never do fcr
Godey or Graham! Only think of your falling asleep
at what I hoped the newspaper critics would pronounce
a most brilliant, powerful, imaginative, pathetic, and
original winding up! Well, the manuscript must serve
to light lamps with; — if, indeed, being so imbued
with my gentle dulness, it is any longer capable of
flame!”
“Me asleep! How can you say so?” answered
Pheebe, as unconscious of the crisis through which she
bad passed as an infant of the precipice to the verge
254 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
of which it has rolled. “No, no! I consider myself
as having been very attentive ; and, though I don’t re-
member the incidents quite distinctly, yet I have an
impression of a vast deal of trouble and calamity, —
so, no doubt, the story will prove exceedingly attrac
tive.”
By this time the sun had gone down, and was tint-
ing the clouds towards the zenith with those bright
hues which are not seen there until some time after
sunset, and when the horizon has quite lost its richer
brilliancy. The moon, too, which had long been climb-
ing overhead, and unobtrusively melting its disk into
the azure, — like an ambitious demagogue, who hides
his aspiring purpose by assuming the prevalent hue of
popular sentiment, — now began to shine out, broad
and oval, in its middle pathway. These silvery beams
were already powerful enough to change the character
of the lingering daylight. They softened and embel-
lished the aspect of the old house ; although the shad-
ows fell deeper into the angles of its many gables, and
lay brooding under the projecting story, and within
the half-open door. With the lapse of every moment,
the garden grew more picturesque ; the fruit-trees,
shrubbery, and flower-bushes had a dark obscurity
among them. The commonplace characteristics —
which, at noontide, it seemed to have taken a century
of sordid life to accumulate — were now transfigured
by a charm of romance. A hundred mysterious years
were whispering among the leaves, whenever the slight
sea-breeze found its way thither and stirred them.
Through the foliage that roofed the little summer-
house the moonlight flickered to and fro, and fell
silvery white on the dark floor, the table, and the
eircular bench, with a continual shift and play, ac.
PHQGBE’S GOOD-BY. 255
cording as the chinks and wayward crevices among
the twigs admitted or shut out the glimmer.
So sweetly cool was the atmosphere, after all the
feverish day, that the summer eve might be fancied as
sprinkling dews and liquid moonlight, with a dash of
icy temper in them, out of a silver vase. Here and
there, a few drops of this freshness were scattered on
a human heart, and gave it youth again, and sympathy
with the eternal youth of nature. The artist chanced
to be one on whom the reviving influence fell. It
made him feel — what he sometimes almost forgot,
thrust so early as he had been into the rude struggle
of man with man — how youthful he still was.
“It seems to me,” he observed, “that I never
watched the coming of so beautiful an eve, and never
felt anything so very much like happiness as at this
moment. After all, what a good world we live in!
How good, and beautiful! How young it is, too, with
nothing really rotten or age-worn in it! This old
house, for example, which sometimes has positively op-
pressed my breath with its smell of decaying timber!
And this garden, where the black mould always clings
to my spade, as if I were a sexton delving in a grave-
yard! Could I keep the feeling that now possesses
me, the garden would every day be virgin soil, with
the earth’s first freshness in the flavor of its beans and
squashes ; and the house! —it would be like a bower
in Eden, blossoming with the earliest roses that God
ever made. Moonlight, and the sentiment in man’s
heart responsive to it, are the greatest of renovators
and reformers. And all other reform and renovation,
I suppose, will prove to be no better than moon-
shine! ”
“JT have been happier than I am now; at least,
2956 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
much gayer,” said Phebe, thoughtfully. “ Yet I am
sensible of a great charm in this brightening moon-
light; and I love to watch how the day, tired as it is,
lags away reluctantly, and hates to be called yester.
day so soon. I never cared much about moonlight
before. What is there, I wonder, so beautiful in it,
to-night ?”’
«¢ And you have never felt it before?” inquired the
artist, looking earnestly at the girl through the twi-
light.
‘“‘ Never,” answered Phoebe; “and life does not look
the same, now that I have felt it so. It seems as if I
had looked at everything, hitherto, in broad daylight,
or else in the ruddy light of a cheerful fire, glimmer-
ing and dancing through a room. Ah, poor me!” she
added, with a half-melancholy laugh. “I shall never
be so merry as before I knew Cousin Hepzibah and
poor Cousin Clifford. I have grown a great deal
older, in this little time. Older, and, I hope, wiser,
and, —not exactly sadder, — but, certainly, with not
half so much lightness in my spirits! I have given
them my sunshine, and have been glad to give it; but,
of course, I cannot both give and keep it. They are
welcome, notwithstanding !”
“You have lost nothing, Phcebe, worth keeping, nor
which it was possible to keep,” said Holgrave, after a
pause. ‘Our first youth is of no value; for we are
never conscious of it until after it is gone. But
sometimes — always, I suspect, unless one is exceed.
ingly unfortunate —there comes a sense of second
youth, gushing out of the heart’s joy at being in love;
or, possibly, it may come to crown some other grand
festival in life, if any other such there be. This be
moaning of one’s self (as you do now) over the first
PHG@BE’S GOOD-BY. 25%
zareless, shallow gayety of youth departed, and this
profound happiness at youth regained,—so mucl
deeper and richer than that we lost, — are essential tc
the soul’s development. In some cases, the two states
come almost simultaneously, and mingle the sadness
and the rapture in one mysterious emotion.”
*‘ hardly think I understand you,” said Pheebe.
“No wonder,” replied Holgrave, smiling; “for ¥
have told you a secret which I hardly began to know
before I found myself giving it utterance. Remember
it, however ; and when the truth becomes clear to you,
then think of this moonlight scene!”
“Tt is entirely moonlight now, except only a little
flush of faint crimson, upward from the west, between
those buildings,” remarked Phebe. “I must go in.
Cousin Hepzibah is not quick at figures, and will give
herself a headache over the day’s accounts, unless I
help her.”
But Holgrave detained her a little longer.
“Miss Hepzibah tells me,” observed he, “that you.
return to the country in a few days.”
“ Yes, but only for a little while,” answered Phebe;
“for I look upon this as my present home. I go to
make a few arrangements, and to take a more deliber-
ate leave of my mother and friends. It is pleasant to
live where one is much desired and very useful; and
I think I may have the satisfaction of feeling myself
so here.”
“You surely may, and more than you imagine,”
said the artist. ‘ Whatever health, comfort, and
natural life exists in the house, is embodied in your
person. These blessings came along with you, and
will vanish when you leave the threshold. Miss Hep-
zibah, by secluding herself from society, has lost all
VOL. Ii. Nee
2958 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
true relation with it, and is, in fact, dead; although
she galvanizes herself into a semblance of life, and
stands behind her counter, afflicting the world with a
greatly -to-be-deprecated scowl. Your poor cousin
Clifford is another dead and long-buried person, on
whom the governor and council have wrought a necro-
mantic miracle. I should not wonder if he were tc
crumble away, some morning, after you are gone, and
nothing be seen of him more, except a heap of dust.
Miss Hepzibah, at any rate, will lose what little flex-
ibility she has. They both exist by you.”
“TI should be very sorry to think so,” answered
Pheebe, gravely. ‘But it is true that my small abil-
ities were precisely what they needed ; and I have a
real interest in their welfare, — an odd kind of moth-
erly sentiment, — which I wish you would not laugh
at! And let me tell you frankly, Mr. Holgrave, I
am sometimes puzzled to know whether you wish them
well or ill.”
‘‘Undoubtedly,” said the daguerreotypist, “I do
feel an interest in this antiquated, poverty-stricken old
maiden lady, and this degraded and shattered gentle-
man, — this abortive lover of the beautiful. A kindly
interest, too, helpless old children that they are! But
you have no conception what a different kind of heart
mine is from your own. It is not my impulse, as re-
gards these two individuals, either to help or hinder;
but to look on, to analyze, to explain matters to my-
self, and to comprehend the drama which, for almost
two hundred years, has been dragging its slow length
over the ground where you and I now tread. If per-
mitted to witness the close, I doubt not to derive a
moral satisfaction from it, go matters how they may.
There is a conviction within me that the end draws
PH@BE’S GOOD-BY. 259
nigh. But, though Providence sent you hither to help,
and sends me only as a privileged and meet spectator,
I pledge myself to lend these unfortunate beings what-
ever aid I can!”
“T wish you would speak more plainly,” cried
Phebe, perplexed and displeased; “and, above all,
that you would feel more like a Christian and a
human being! How is it possible to see people in
distress, without desiring, more than anything else, to
help and comfort them? You talk as if this old house
were a theatre; and you seem to look at Hepzibah’s
and Clifford’s misfortunes, and those of generations
before them, as a tragedy, such as I have seen acted
in the hall of a country hotel, only the present one
appears to be played exclusively for your amusement.
I do not like this. The play costs the performers too
much, and the audience is too cold-hearted.”’
“You are severe,” said Holgrave, compelled to
recognize a degree of truth in this piquant sketch of
his own mood.
“And then,” continued Phebe, “what can you
mean by your conviction, which you tell me of, that
the end is drawing near? Do you know of any new
trouble hanging over my poor relatives? If so, tell
me at once, and I will not leave them!”
“Forgive me, Phebe!” said the daguerreotypist,
holding out his hand, to which the girl was constrained
to yield her own. ‘I am somewhat of a mystic, it
must be confessed. The tendency is in my blood,
together with the faculty of mesmerism, which might
have brought me to Gallows Hill, in the good old
times of witchcraft. Believe me, if I were really
aware of any secret, the disclosure of which would
benefit your friends, who are my own friends, like
260 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
wise,— you should learn it before we part. But }
have no such knowledge.” )
“You hold something back!” said Phebe.
“‘ Nothing, —no secrets but my own,” answered
Holgrave. ‘I can perceive, indeed, that Judge Pyn-
cheon still keeps his eye on Clifford, in whose ruin
he had so large a share. His motives and intentions,
however, are a mystery to me. He is a determined
and relentless man, with the genuine character of an
inquisitor; and had he any object to gain by putting
Clifford to the rack, I verily believe that he would
wrench his joints from their sockets, in order to ac.
complish it. But, so wealthy and eminent as he is, —
so powerful in his own strength, and in the support of
society on all sides, — what can Judge Pyncheon have
to hope or fear from the imbecile, branded, half-torpid
Clifford?”
“ Yet,” urged Phebe, “ you did speak as if misfor-
tune were impending!”
“Oh, that was because I am morbid! ” replied the
artist. ‘My mind has a twist aside, like almost
everybody’s mind, except your own. Moreover, it is
so strange to find myself an inmate of this old Pyn-
cheon House, and sitting in this old garden — (hark,
how Maule’s well is murmuring!) — that, were it
only for this one circumstance, I cannot help fancy-
ing that Destiny is arranging its fifth act for a catas-
trophe.”’
“There!” cried Phcebe with renewed vexation ; for
she was by nature as hostile to mystery as the sun-
shine toa dark corner. ‘* You puzzle me more than
ever!”
“Then let us part friends!” said Holgrave, pressing
ber hand. ‘Or, if not friends, let us part before you
PHEBE’S GOOD-BY. 261
entirely hate me. You, who love everybody else in
the world!”
“‘ Good-by, then,” said Phoebe, frankly. “I do not
mean to be angry a great while, and should be sorry
to have you think so. There has Cousin Hepzibah
been standing in the shadow of the doorway, this
quarter of an hour past! She thinks I stay too long
in the damp garden. So, good-night, and good
by ! 9?
On the second morning thereafter, Phebe might
have been seen, in her straw bonnet, with a shawl on
one arm and a little carpet-bag on the other, bidding
adieu to Hepzibah and Cousin Clifford. She was to
take a seat in the next train of cars, which would
transport her to within half a dozen miles of her
country village.
The tears were in Pheebe’s eyes ; a smile, dewy with
affectionate regret, was glimmering around her pleas-
ant mouth. She wondered how it came to pass, that
her life of a few weeks, here in this heavy-hearted old
mansion, had taken such hold of her, and so melted
into her associations, as now to seem a more important
centre-point of remembrance than all which had gone
before. How had Hepzibah — grin, silent, and irre-
sponsive to her overflow of cordial sentiment — con-
trived to win so much love? And Clifford, —in his
abortive decay, with the mystery of fearful crime upon
him, and the close prison-atmosphere yet lurking in
his breath,— how had he transformed himself inte
the simplest child, whom Pheebe felt bound to watch
over, and be, as it were, the providence of his uncon-
sidered hours! Everything, at that instant of fare-
well, stood out prominently to her view. Look where
she would, lay her hand on what she might, the ob
262 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
ject responded to her consciousness, as if a moist hu
man heart were in it.
She peeped from the window into the garden, and
felt herself more regretful at leaving this spot of black
earth, vitiated with such an age-long growth of weeds,
than joyful at the idea of again scenting her pine
forests and fresh clover-fields. She called Chanticleer
his two wives, and the venerable chicken, and threw
them some crumbs of bread from the breakfast-table.
These being hastily gobbled up, the chicken spread its
wings, and alighted close by Phebe on the window-
sill, where it looked gravely into her face and vented
its emotions in a croak. Phebe bade it be a good old
chicken during her absence, and promised to bring it
a little bag of buckwheat.
“ Ah, Phoebe!” remarked Hepzibah, “you do not
smile so naturally as when you came to us! Then, the
smile chose to shine out; now, you choose it should.
It is well that you are going back, for a little while,
into your native air. There has been too much weight
on your spirits. The house is too gloomy and lone-
some; the shop is full of vexations; and as for me, I
have no faculty of making things look brighter than
they are. Dear Clifford has been your only comfort!”
‘Come hither, Phebe,” suddenly cried her cousin
Clifford, who had said very little all the morning.
* Close ! — closer ! — and look me in the face!”
Phebe put one of her small hands on each elbow of
his chair, and leaned her face towards him, so that he
might peruse it as carefully as he would. It is prob.
able that the latent emotions of this parting hour had
revived, in some degree, his bedimmed and enfeebled
faculties. At any rate, Phoebe soon felt that, if not
the profound insight of a seer, yet a more than fem
PHGBE’S GOOD-BY. 263
inine delicacy of appreciation, was making her heart
the subject of its regard. A moment before, she had
known nothing which she would have sought to hide.
Now, as if some secret were hinted to her own con-
sciousness through the medium of another’s perception,
she was fain to let her eyelids droop beneath Clifford’s
gaze. A blush, too, —the redder, because she strove
hard to keep it down, — ascended higher and higher,
in a tide of fitful progress, until even her brow was all
suffused with it.
“Tt is enough, Phebe,” said Clifford, with a melam
choly smile. ‘“‘ When I first saw you, you were the
prettiest little maiden in the world ; and now you have
deepened into beauty! Girlhood has passed into
womanhood ; the bud is a bloom! Go, now! —I feel
lonelier than I did.”
Pheebe took leave of the desolate couple, and passed
through the shop, twinkling her eyelids to shake off a
dew-drop ; for— considering how brief her absence
was to be, and therefore the folly of being cast down
about it — she would not so far acknowledge her tears
as to dry them with her handkerchief. On the door-
step, she met the little urchin whose marvellous feats
of gastronomy have been recorded in the earlier pages
of our narrative. She took from the window some
specimen or other of natural history, — her eyes be-
ing too dim with moisture to inform her accurately
whether it was a rabbit or a hippopotamus, — put it
into the child’s hand, as a parting gift, and went her
way. Old Uncle Venner was just coming out of his
door, with a wood-horse and saw on his shoulder; and,
trudging along the street, he scrupled not to keep
company with Phebe, so far as their paths lay to-
gether ; nor, in spite of his patched coat and rusty
964 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
beaver, and the curious fashion of his tow-cloth trous
ers, could she find it in her heart to outwalk him.
“We shall miss you, next Sabbath afternoon,” ob.
served the street philosopher. ‘ It is unaccountable
how little while it takes some folks to grow just as
natural to a man as his own breath; and, begging
your pardon, Miss Phceebe (though there can be no
offence in an old man’s saying it), that’s just what
you’ve grown tome! My years have been a great
many, and your life is but just beginning; and yet,
you are somehow as familiar to me as if I had found
you at my mother’s door, and you had blossomed, like
a running vine, all along my pathway since. Come
back soon, or I shall be gone to my farm; for I begin
to find these wood-sawing jobs a little too tough for
my back-ache.”
“Very soon, Uncle Venner,” replied Phebe.
** And let it be all the sooner, Phebe, for the sake
of those poor souls yonder,” continued her compan-
ion. ‘They can never do without you, now,—never,
Pheebe, never !— no more than if one of God’s angels
had been living with them, and making their dismal
house pleasant and comfortable! Don’t it seem to
you they ’d be in a sad case, if, some pleasant summer
morning like this, the angel should spread his wings,
and fly to the place he came from? Well, just so they
feel, now that you’re going home by the railroad!
They can’t bear it, Miss Phebe; so be sure to come
back!”
“ T am no angel, Uncle Venner,” said Phebe, smik
ing, as she offered him her hand at the street-corner,
** But, I suppose, people never feel so much like am
gels as when they are doing what little good they may
So I shall certainly come back!”
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PHG@BE’S GOOD-BY. 265
Thus parted the old man and the rosy girl; and
Pheebe took the wings of the morning, and was soon
flitting almost as rapidly away as if endowed with the
aerial locomotion of the angels to whom Uncle Venner
had so graciously compared her.
XV.
THE SCOWL AND SMILE.
SEVERAL days passed over the Seven Gables, heav-
ily and drearily enough. In fact (not to attribute the
whole gloom of sky and earth to the one inauspicious
circumstance of Phcebe’s departure), an easterly storm
had set in, and indefatigably applied itself to the task
of making the black roof and walls of the old house
look more cheerless than ever before. Yet was the
outside not half so cheerless as the interior. Poor
Clifford was cut off, at once, from all his scanty re-
sources of enjoyment. Phcebe was not there; nor did
the sunshine fall upon the floor. The garden, with its
muddy walks, and the chill, dripping foliage of its
summer-house, was an image to be shuddered at.
Nothing flourished in the cold, moist, pitiless atmos-
phere, drifting with the brackish scud of sea-breezes,
except the moss along the joints of the shingle-roof,
and the great bunch of weeds, that had lately been
suffering from drought, in the angle between the twe
front gables.
As for Hepzibah, she seemed not merely possessed
with the east wind, but to be, in her very person, only
another phase of this gray and sullen spell of weather;
the east wind itself, grim and disconsolate, in a rusty
black silk gown, and with a turban of cloud-wreaths
on its head. The custom of the shop fell off, because
a story got abroad that she soured her small beer and
THE SCOWL AND SMILE 26%
ether damageable commodities, by scowling on them.
It is, perhaps, true that the public had something
reasonably to complain of in her deportment; but to-
wards Clifford she was neither i}-tempered nor un-
kind, nor felt less warmth of heart than always, had it
been possible to make it reach him. The inutility of
her best efforts, however, palsied the poor old gentle-
woman. She could do little else than sit silently in a
corner of the room, when the wet pear-tree branches,
sweeping across the small windows, created a noon-day
dusk, which Hepzibah unconsciously darkened with
her woe-begone aspect. It was no fault of Hepzibah’s.
Everything — even the old chairs and tables, that had
known what weather was for three or four such life-
times as her own — looked as damp and chill as if the
present were their worst experience. The picture of
the Puritan Colonel shivered on the wall. The house
itself shivered, from every attic of its seven gables,
down to the great kitchen fireplace, which served all
the better as an emblem of the mansion’s heart, be-
cause, though built for warmth, it was now so com-
fortless and empty.
Hepzibah attempted to enliven matters by a fire in
the parlor. But the storm-demon kept watch above,
and, whenever a flame was kindled, drove the smoke
back again, choking the chimney’s sooty throat with
its own breath. Nevertheless, during four days of
this miserable storm, Clifford wrapt himself in an old
cloak, and occupied his customary chair. On the
morning of the fifth, when summoned to breakfast, he
responded only by a broken-hearted murmur, expres-
sive of a determination not to leave his bed. His sis-
ter made no attempt to change his purpose. In fact,
entirely as she loved him, Hepzibah could hardly have
268 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
borne any longer the wretched duty — so impractica
ble by her few and rigid faculties — of seeking pax
time for a still sensitive, but ruined mind, critical and
fastidious, without force or volition. It was, at least,
something short. of positive despair, that, to-day, she
might sit shivering alone, and not suffer continually 4
new grief, and unreasonable pang of remorse, at every
fitful sigh of her fellow-sufferer.
But Clifford, it seemed, though he did not make his
appearance below stairs, had, after all, bestirred him-
self in quest of amusement. In the course of the fore-
noon, Hepzibah heard a note of music, which (there
being no other tuneful contrivance in the House of
the Seven Gables) she knew must proceed from Alice
Pyncheon’s harpsichord. She was aware that Clit-
ford, in his youth, had possessed a cultivated taste for
music, and a considerable degree of skill in its prac-
tice. It was difficult, however, to conceive of his re.
taining an accomplishment to which daily exercise is
so essential, in the measure indicated by the sweet,
airy, and delicate, though most melancholy strain,
that now stole upon her ear. Nor was it less maryel-
lous that the long-silent instrument should be capable
of so much melody. Hepzibah involuntarily thought
of the ghostly harmonies, prelusive of death in the
family, which were attributed to the legendary Alice.
But it was, perhaps, proof of the agency of other than
spiritual fingers, that, after a few touches, the chords
seemed to snap asunder with their own vibrations, and
the music ceased.
But a harsher sound succeeded to the mysterious
notes 3; nor was the easterly day fated to pass without
an event sufficient in itself to poison, for Hepzibah
and Clifford, the balmiest air that ever brought the
THE SCOWL AND SMILE. 269
humming-birds along with it. The final echoes of
AJice Pyncheon’s performance (or Clifford’s, if his
we must consider it) were driven away by no less vul-
gar a dissonance than the ringing of the shop-bell. A
foot was heard scraping itself on the threshold, and
thence somewhat ponderously stepping on the floor,
Hepzibah delayed a moment, while muffling herself in
a faded shawl, which had been her defensive armor in
a forty years’ warfare against the east wind. A char-
acteristic sound, however, — neither a cough nor a
hem, but a kind of rumbling and reverberating spasm
in somebody’s capacious depth of chest, — impelled
her to hurry forward, with that aspect of fierce faint-
heartedness so common to women in cases of perilous
emergency. Few of her sex, on such occasions, have
ever looked so terrible as our poor scowling Hepzibah.
But the visitor quietly closed the shop-door behind
him, stood up his umbrella against the counter, and
turned a visage of composed benignity, to meet the
alarm and anger which his appearance had excited.
Hepzibah’s presentiment had not deceived her. It
was no other than Judge Pyncheon, who, after in vain
trying the front door, had now effected his entrance
into the shop.
“How do you do, Cousin Hepzibah ?— and how
does this most inclement weather affect our poor Clif-
ford ?” began the Judge; and wonderful it seemed,
indeed, that the easterly storm was not put to shame,
or, at any rate, a little mollified, by the genial benev-
olence of his smile. “I could not rest without calling
to ask, once more, whether [ can in any manner pro-
mote his comfort, or your own.”
“You can do nothing,” said Hepzibah, controlling
her agitation as well as she could. “I devote myself
970 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
to Clifford. He has every comfort which his situatior
admits of.”
“But allow me to suggest, dear cousin,” rejoined
the Judge, * you err, —in all affection and kindness,
no doubt, and with the very best intentions, — but you
do err, nevertheless, in keeping your brother so se-
cluded. Why insulate him thus from all sympathy
and kindness? Clifford, alas! has had too much of
solitude. Now let him try society, — the society, that
is to say, of kindred and old friends. Let me, for in-
stance, but see Clifford, and I will answer for the good
etfect of the interview.”
‘You cannot see him,” answered Hepzibah. “ Clif-
ford has kept his bed since yesterday.”
“What! How! Is he il?” exclaimed Judge Pyn-
cheon, starting with what seemed to be angry alarm;
for the very frown of the old Puritan darkened through
the room as he spoke. “Nay, then, I must and will
see him! What if he should die?”
“He is in no danger of death,” said Hepzibah, —
and added, with bitterness that she could repress
no longer, “none; unless he shall be perseeuted to
death, now, by the same man who long ago attempted
it 1”
“Cousin Hepzibah,” said the Judge, with an im-
pressive earnestness of manner, which grew even te
tearful pathos as he proceeded, “‘is it possible that you
do not perceive how unjust, how unkind, how unchris-
tian, is this constant, this long -continued bitterness
against me, for a part which I was constrained by duty
and conscience, by the force of law, and at my own
peril, toact? What did I do, in detriment to Clifford,
which it was possible to leave undone? How could
you, his sister, —if, for your never-ending sorrow, ag
?
THE SCOWL AND SMILE. 271
it has been for mine, you had known what I did, —
have shown greater tenderness? And do you think,
cousin, that it has cost me no pang ? —that it has left
no anguish in my bosom, from that day to this, amidst
ill the prosperity with which Heaven has blessed me?
—or that I do not now rejoice, when it is deemed con-
sistent with the dues of public justice and the welfare
of society that this dear kinsman, this early friend,
this nature so delicately and beautifully constituted, —
so unfortunate, let us pronounce him, and forbear to
say, so guilty, — that our own Clifford, in fine, should
be given back to life, and its possibilities of enjoyment?
Ah, you little know me, Cousin Hepzibah! You little
know this heart! It now throbs at the thought of
meeting him! There lives not the human being (ex-
cept yourself,— and you not more than I) who has
shed so many tears for Clifford’s calamity! You be-
hold some of them now. There is none who would so
delight to promote his happiness! Try me, Hepzi-
bah ! — try me, cousin ! — try the man whom you have
treated as your enemy and Clifford’s! —try Jaffrey
Pyncheon, and you shall find him true, to the heart’s
core | ”’
“Tn the name of Heaven,” cried Hepzibah, provoked
only to intenser indignation by this outgush of the in-
estimable tenderness of a stern nature, — “in God’s
name, whom you insult, and whose power | could al-
most question, since he hears you utter so many false
words without palsying your tongue, — give over, I
beseech you, this loathsome pretence of affection for
your victim! You hate him! Say so, like a man!
You cherish, at this moment, some black purpose
against him in your heart! Speak it out, at once! —
or, if you hope so to promote it better, hide it till you
272 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
ean triumph in its success! But never speak again of
your love for my poor brother! I cannot bear it!
It will drive me beyond a woman’s decency! It will
drive me mad! Forbear! Not another word! It
will make me spurn you! ”
For once, Hepzibah’s wrath had given her courage.
She had spoken. But, after all, was this unconquer-
able distrust of Judge Pyncheon’s integrity, and thi
utter denial, apparently, of his claim to stand in th
ring of human sympathies, — were they founded i
any just perception of his character, or merely the off
spring of a woman’s unreasonable prejudice, deduced
from nothing ?
The Judge, beyond all question, was a man of emi-
nent respectability. The church acknowledged it;
the state acknowledged it. It was denied by nobody.
In all the very extensive sphere of those who knew
him, whether in his public or private capacities, there
was not an individual— except Hepzibah, and some
lawless mystic, like the daguerreotypist, and, possibly,
a few political opponents — who would have dreamed
of seriously disputing his claim to a high and honor-
able place in the world’s regard. Nor (we must do
him the further justice to say) did Judge Pyncheon
himself, probably, entertain many or very frequent
doubts, that his enviable reputation accorded with his
deserts. His conscience, therefore, usually considered
the surest witness to a man’s integrity, —his con-
science, unless it might be for the little space of five
minutes in the twenty-four hours, or, now and then,
some black day in the whole year’s circle, — his con
science bore an accordant testimony with the world’s
laudatory voice. And yet, strong as this evidence may
seem to be, we should hesitate to peril our own con
“YOU CHERISH, AT THIS MOMENT, SOME BLACK
PURPOSE AGAINST HIM IN YOUR HEART!”
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THE SCOWL AND SMILE. 273
science on the assertion, that the Judge and the con:
senting world were right, and that poor Hepzibah,
with her solitary prejudice was wrong. Hidden fror
mankind, — forgotten by himself, or buried so deeply
under a sculptured and ornamented pile of ostenta-
tious deeds that his daily life could take no note of it,
—there may have lurked some evil and unsightly
thing. Nay, we could almost venture to say, further,
that a daily guilt might have been acted by him, ccn-
tinually renewed, and reddening forth afresh, like
the miraculous blood-stain of a murder, without his
nccessarily and at every moment being aware of it.
Men of strong minds, great force of character, and
a hard texture of the sensibilities, are very capable of
falling into mistakes of this kind. They are ordinarily
men to whom forms are of paramount importance.
Their field of action lies among the external phenom-
ena of life. They possess vast ability in grasping,
and arranging, and appropriating to themselves, the
big, heavy, solid unrealities, such as gold, landed es-
tate, offices of trust and emolument, and public honors.
With these materials, and with deeds of goodly as-
pect, done in the public eye, an individual of this
class builds up, as it were, a tall and stately edifice,
which, in the view of other people, and ultimately in
his own view, is no other than the man’s character, or
the man himself. Behold, therefore, a palace! Its
splendid halls, and suites of spacious apartments, are
floored with a mosaic-work of costly marbles; its
windows, the whole height of each room, admit the
sunshine through the most transparent of plate-glass ;
its high cornices are gilded, and its ceilings gorgeously
painted ; and a lofty dome — through which, from the
central pavement, you may gaze up to the sky, as with
VOL. ML 18
274 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
no obstructing medium between — surmounts the
whole. With what fairer and nobler emblem could
any man desire to shadow forth his character? Ah!
but in some low and obscure nook, — some narrow
closet on the ground-floor, shut, locked and bolted,
and the key flung away, — or beneath the marble
pavement, in a stagnant water-puddle, with the richest
pattern of mosaic-work above, — may lie a corpse,
half decayed, and still decaying, and diffusing its
death-scent all through the palace! The inhabitant
will not be conscious of it, for it has long been his
daily breath! Neither will the visitors, for they smell
only the rich odors which the master sedulously scat-
ters through the palace, and the incense which they
bring, and delight to burn before him! Now and then,
perchance, comes in a seer, before whose sadly gifted
eye the whole structure melts into thin air, leaving
only the hidden nook, the bolted closet, with the cob-
webs festooned over its forgotten door, or the deadly
hole under the pavement, and the decaying corpse
within. Here, then, we are to seek the true emblem
of the man’s character, and of the deed that gives
whatever reality it possesses to his life. And, beneath
the show of a marble palace, that pool of stagnant
water, foul with many impurities, and, perhaps, tinged
with blood, — that secret abomination, above which,
possibly, he may say his prayers, without remember-
ing it, —— is this man’s miserable soul !
To apply this train of remark somewhat more closely
to Judge Pyncheon. We might say (without in the
least imputing crime to a personage of his eminent
cespectability) that there was enough of splendid rub-
bish in his life to cover up and paralyze a more active
and subtile conscience than the Judge was ever troubled
THE SCOWL AND SMILE. 278
with. The purity of his judicial character, while on
the bench; the faithfulness of his public service in
subsequent capacities ; his devotedness to his party,
and the rigid consistency with which he had adhered
to its principles, or, at all events, kept pace with its
organized movements ; his remarkable zeal as pres-
ident of a Bible society ; his unimpeachable integrity
as treasurer of a widow’s and orphan’s fund; his
benefits to horticulture, by producing two much -es-
teemed varieties of the pear, and to agriculture, through
the agency of the famous Pyncheon bull ; the cleanli-
ness of his moral deportment, for a great many years
past ; the severity with which he had frowned upon,
and finally cast off, an expensive and dissipated son,
delaying forgiveness until within the final quarter
of an hour of the young man’s life; his prayers at
morning and eventide, and graces at meal-time ; his
efforts in furtherance of the temperance cause ; his
confining himself, since the last attack of the gout, to
five diurnal glasses of old sherry wine; the snowy
whiteness of his linen, the polish of his boots, the hand-
someness of his gold-headed cane, the square and roomy
fashion of his coat, and the fineness of its material,
and, in general, the studied propriety of his dress and
equipment ; the scrupulousness with which he paid
public notice, in the street, by a bow, a lifting of the
hat, a nod, or a motion of the hand, to all and sundry
of his acquaintances, rich or poor; the smile of broad
benevolence wherewith he made it a point to gladden
the whole world, — what room could possibly be found
for darker traits in a portrait made up of lineaments
like these? This proper face was what he beheld in
the looking-glass. This admirably arranged lfe was
what he was conscious of in the progress of every day.
276 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
Then, might not he claim to be its result and sum, and
say to himself and the community, “ Behold Judge
Pyncheon there” ?
And allowing that, many, many years ago, in his
early and reckless youth, he had committed some one
wrong act, — or that, even now, the inevitable force
of circumstances should occasionally make him do one
questionable deed among a thousand praiseworthy, or,
at least, blameless ones, — would you characterize the
Judge by that one necessary deed, and that half-for-
gotten act, and let it overshadow the fair aspect of a
lifetime? What is there so ponderous in evil, that a
thumb’s bigness of it should outweigh the mass of
things not evil which were heaped into the other scale!
This scale and balance system is a favorite one with
people of Judge Pyncheon’s brotherhood. A hard,
cold man, thus unfortunately situated, seldom or never
looking inward, and resolutely taking his idea of
himself from what purports to be his image as re-
flected in the mirror of public opinion, can scarcely
arrive at true self-knowledge, except through loss of
property and reputation. Sickness will not always
help him do it ; not always the death-hour!
But our affair now is with Judge Pyncheon as he
stood confronting the fierce outbreak of Hepzibah’s
wrath. Without premeditation, to her own surprise,
and indeed terror, she had given vent, for once, to
the inveteracy of her resentment, cherished against
this kinsman for thirty years.
Thus far the Judge’s countenance had expressed
mild forbearance, — grave and almost gentle depreca<
tion of his cousin’s unbecoming violence, — free and
Christian-like forgiveness of the wrong inflicted by
ber words. But when those words were irrevocably
THE SCOWL AND SMILE. 27%
spoken his look assumed sternness, the sense of power,
and immitigable resolve ; and this with so natural and
imperceptible a change, that it seemed as if the iron
man had stood there from the first, and the meek man
not at all. The effect was as when the light, vapory
clouds, with their soft coloring, suddenly vanish from
the stony brow of a precipitous mountain, and leave
there the frown which you at once feel to be eternal.
Hepzibah almost adopted the insane belief that it was
her old Puritan ancestor, and not the modern Judge,
on whom she had just been wreaking the bitterness of
her heart. Never did a man show stronger proof of
the lineage attributed to him than Judge Pyncheon, at
this crisis, by his unmistakable resemblance to the pic-
fure in the inner room.
“¢ Cousin Hepzibah,” said he, very calmly, “it is time
to have done with this.”
“‘ With all my heart!” answered she. ‘Then, why
do you persecute us any longer? Leave poor Clifford
and me in peace. Neither of us desires anything
better!”
“‘ It is my purpose to see Clifford before I leave this
house,” continued the Judge. ‘* Do not act like a mad-
woman, Hepzibah! I am his only friend, and an all-
powerful one. Has it never occurred to you, —are
you so blind as not to have seen, — that, without not
nerely my consent, but my efforts, my representations,
‘ae exertion of my whole influence, political, official,
personal, Clifford would never have been what you
vall free? Did you think his release a triumph over
me? Not so, my good cousin ; not so, by any means!
The furthest possible from that! No; but it was the
accomplishment of a purpose long entertained on my
part. I set him free!”
2:8 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
“You!” answered Hepzibah. “I never will be
lieve it! He owed his dungeon to you; his freedom
to God’s providence! ” |
“‘T set him free!” reaffirmed Judge Pyncheon, with
the calmest composure. ‘And I came hither now to
decide whether he shall retain his freedom. It will
depend upon himself. For this purpose, 1 must see
him.”
“‘Never !—it would drive him mad!” exclaimed
Hepzibah, but with an irresoluteness sufficiently per-
ceptible to the keen eye of the Judge; for, without
the slightest faith in his good intentions, she knew not
whether there was most to dread in yielding or re-
sistance. ‘And why should you wish to see this
wretched, broken man, who retains hardly a fraction
of his intellect, and will hide even that from an eye
which has no love in it?”
*¢ He shall see love enough in mine, if that be all!”
said the Judge, with well-grounded confidence in the
benignity of his aspect. ‘“ But, Cousin Hepzibah, you
confess a great deal, and very much to the purpose.
Now, listen, and I will frankly explain my reasons for
insisting on this interview. At the death, thirty years
since, of our uncle Jaffrey, it was found, —I know
not whether the circumstance ever attracted much of
your attention, among the sadder interests that clus-
tered round that event, — but it was found that his
visible estate, of every kind, fell far short of any es-
timate ever made of it. He was supposed to be im-
mensely rich. Nobody doubted that he stood among
the weightiest men of his day. It was one of his eccen-
tricities, however, — and not altogether a folly, neither,
to conceal the amount of his property by making
distant and foreign investments, perhaps under other
THE SCOWL AND SMILE. 279
names than his own, and by various means, familiar
enough to capitalists, but unnecessary here to be speci-
fied. By Uncle Jaffrey’s last will and testament, as
you are aware, his entire property was bequeathed to
me, with the single exception of a life interest to your-
self in this old family mansion, and the strip of patri-
nonial estate remaining attached to it.”
“ And do you seek to deprive us of that?” asked
Hepzibah, unable to restrain her bitter contempt. “Is
this your price for ceasing to persecute poor Clif-
ford ?”’
“Certainly not, my dear cousin!” answered the
Judge, smiling benevolently. ‘On the contrary, as
you must do me the justice to own, I have constantly
expressed my readiness to double or treble your re-
sources, whenever you should make up your mind to
accept any kindness of that nature at the hands of
your kinsman. No,no! But here lies the gist of the
matter. Of my uncle’s unquestionably great estate, as
I have said, not the half — no, not one third, as I am
fully convinced — was apparent after his death. Now,
I have the best possible reasons for believing that your
brother Clifford can give me a clew to the recovery of
the remainder.”
* Clifford ! — Clifford know of any hidden wealth?
— Clifford have it in his power to make you rich?”
eried the old gentlewoman, affected with a sense of
something like ridicule, at the idea. ‘ Impossible!
You deceive yourself! It is really a thing to laugh
at!”
“Tt is as certain as that I stand here!” said Judge
Pyncheon, striking his gold-headed cane on the floor,
and at the same time stamping his foot, as if to ex-
press his conviction the more forcibly by the whole
280 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
emphasis of his substantial person. ‘Clifford told
me so himself!”
“No, no!” exclaimed Hepzibah, incredulously.
«You are dreaming, Cousin Jaffrey! ”
“T do not belong to the dreaming class of men,”
said the Judge, quietly. ‘ Some months before my
uncle’s death, Clifford boasted to me of the possession
of the secret of incalculable wealth. His purpose was
to taunt me, and excite my curiosity. I know it well.
But, from a pretty distinct recollection of the particu-
lars of our conversation, I am thoroughly convinced
that there was truth in what he said. Clifford, at this
moment, if he chooses, — and choose he must ! — can
inform me where to find the schedule, the documents,
the evidences, in whatever shape they exist, of the vast
amount of Uncle Jaffrey’s missing property. He has
the secret. His boast was no idle word. It had a di-
rectness, an emphasis, a particularity, that showed a
backbone of solid meaning within the mystery of his
expression.”
“ But what could have been Clifford’s object,” asked
Hepzibah, “in concealing it so long?”
‘“¢ Tt was one of the bad impulses of our fallen na-
ture,” replied the Judge, turning up his eyes. ‘“ He
looked upon me as his enemy. He considered me as
the cause of his overwhelming disgrace, his immi-
nent peril of death, his irretrievable ruin. There was
no great probability, therefore, of his volunteering in-
formation, out of his dungeon, that should elevate
me still higher on the ladder of prosperity. But
the moment has now come when he must give up
his secret.”
“And what if he should refuse?” inquired Hepzi.
bah. ‘‘Or,—as I steadfastly believe, — what if he
has vo knowledge of this wealth ?”
THE SCOWL AND SMILE. Ass |
*My dear cousin,” said Judge Pyncheon, with a
quietude which he had the power of making more for-
midable than any violence, “since your brother’s re-
turn, I have taken the precaution (a highly proper
one in the near kinsman and natural guardian of an
individual so situated) to have his deportment and
habits constantly and carefully overlooked. Your
neighbors have been eye-witnesses to whatever has
passed in the garden. ‘The butcher, the baker, the
fish-monger, some of the customers of your shop, and
many a prying old woman, have told me several of the
secrets of your interior. A still larger circle — I my-
self, among the rest — can testify to his extravagances
at the arched window. Thousands beheld him, a week
or two ago, on the point of flinging himself thence into
the street. From all this testimony, I am led to ap-
prehend — reluctantly, and with deep grief — that
Clifford’s misfortunes have so affected his intellect,
never very strong, that he cannot safely remain at
large. The alternative, you must be aware, — and its
adoption will depend entirely on the decision which I
am now about to make, —the alternative is his con-
finement, probably for the remainder of his life,in a
public asylum for persons in his unfortunate state of
mind.”
“ You cannot mean it!” shrieked Hepzibah.
“Should my cousin Clifford,” continued Judge Pyn-
cheon, wholly undisturbed, “from mere malice, and
hatred of one whose interests ought naturally to be
dear to him, — a mode of passion that, as often as
any other, indicates mental disease,— should he re-
fuse me the information so important to myself, and
which he assuredly possesses, I shall consider it the
pne needed jot of evidence to satisfy my mind of his
282 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
insanity. And, once sure of the course pointed out
by conscience, you know me too well, Cousin Hepzi-
bah, to entertain a doubt that I shall pursue it.”
“QO, Jaffrey, — Cousin Jaffrey!” cried Hepzibah,
mournfully, not passionately, “it is you that are dis-
eased in mind, not Clifford! You have forgotten thai
@ woman was your mother !— that you have had sis
ters, brothers, children of your own! — or that there
ever was affection between man and man, or pity from
one man to another, in this miserable world! Else,
how could you have dreamed of this? You are not
young, Cousin Jaffrey !— no, nor middle-aged, — but
already an old man! The hair is white upon your
head! How many years have you to live? Are you
not rich enough for that little time? Shall you be
hungry, —shall you lack clothes, or a roof to shelter
you, — between this point and the grave? No! but,
with the half of what you now possess, you could
revel in costly food and wines, and build a house twice
as splendid as you now inhabit, and make a far greater
show to the world, — and yet leave riches to your
only son, to make him bless the hour of your death!
Then, why should you do this cruel, cruel thing? —
so mad a thing, that I know not whether to call it
wicked! Alas, Cousin Jaffrey, this hard and grasp-
ing spirit has run in our blood these two hundred
years. You are but doing over again, in another
shape, what your ancestor before you did, and send-
ing down to your posterity the curse inherited from
him !”
“Talk sense, Hepzibah, for Heaven’s sake!” ex-
claimed the Judge, with the impatience natural to a
reasonable man, on hearing anything so utterly ab-
wird as the above, in a discussion about matters of
THE SCOWL AND SMILE. 288
business. ‘I have told you my determination. I am
not apt to change. Clifford must give up his secret
or take the consequences. And let him decide quickly ;
for I have several affairs to attend to this morning,
and an important dinner engagement with some polit.
ical friends.”
“ Clifford has no secret!” answered Hepzibah,
* And God will not let you do the thing you medi-
tate!”
“We shall see,” said the unmoved Judge. ‘ Mean-
while, choose whether you will summon Clifford, and
allow this business to be amicably settled by an inter-
view between two kinsmen, or drive me to harsher
measures, which I should be most happy to feel my-
self justified in avoiding. The responsibility is alto-
gether on your part.”
“You are stronger than I,” said Hepzibah, after a
brief consideration ; “and you have no pity in your
strength! Clifford is not now insane; but the inter-
view which you insist upon may go far to make him
so. Nevertheless, knowing you as I do, I believe it
to be my best course to allow you to judge for your-
self as to the improbability of his possessing any valu-
able secret. I will call Clifford. Be merciful in your
dealings with him!—be far more merciful than your
heart bids you be! — for God is looking at you, Jaf-
frey Pyncheon !”
The Judge followed his cousin from the shop, where
the foregoing conversation had passed, into the par-
lor, and flung himself heavily into the great ances-
tral chair. Many a former Pyncheon had found re-
pose in its capacious arms: rosy children, after their
sports; young men, dreamy with love; grown men,
Weary with cares; old men, burdened with winters,
284 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
— they had mused, and slumbered, and departed to
a yet profounder sleep. It had been a long tradition.
though a doubtful one, that this was the very chair
seated in which, the earliest of the Judge’s New Eng:
land forefathers —he whose picture still hung upon
the wall— had given a dead man’s silent and stern
reception to the throng of distinguished guests. From
that hour of evil omen until the present, it may be,
— though we know not the secret of his heart, — but
it may be that no wearier and sadder man had ever
sunk into the chair than this same Judge Pyncheon,
whom we have just beheld so immitigably hard and
vesolute. Surely, it must have been at no slight cost
that he had thus fortified his soul with iron. Such
calmness is a mightier effort than the violence of
weaker men. And there was yet a heavy task for
him to do. Was it a little matter, —a trifle to be
prepared for in a single moment, and to be rested
from in another moment, — that he must now, after
thirty years, encounter a kinsman risen from a living
tomb, and wrench a secret from him, or else consign
him to a living tomb again ?
“Did you speak?” asked Hepzibah, looking in from
the threshold of the parlor; for she imagined that the
Judge had uttered some sound which she was anxious
to interpret as a relenting impulse. “I thought you
called me back.”
“No, no!” gruffly answered Judge Pyncheon, with
a harsh frown, while his brow grew almost a black
purple, in the shadow of the room. ‘ Why should J
zall you back? Time flies! Bid Clifford come ta
me!”
The Judge had taken his watch from his vest-pocket
and now held it in his hand, measuring the interval
which was to ensue before the appearance of Clifford.
XVI.
CLIFFORD’S CHAMBER.
NEvER had the old house appeared so dismal t¢
poor Hepzibah as when she departed on that wretched
errand. There was a strange aspect in it. As she
trode along the foot-worn passages, and opened one
crazy door after another, and ascended the creaking
staircase, she gazed wistfully and fearfully around. It
would have been no marvel, to her excited mind, if,
behind or beside her, there had been the rustle of dead
people’s garments, or pale visages awaiting her on the
landing-place above. Her nerves were set all ajar by
the scene of passion and terror through which she had
just struggled. Her colloquy with Judge Pyncheon,
who so perfectly represented the person and attributes
of the founder of the family, had called back the dreary
past. It weighed upon her heart. Whatever she had
heard, from legendary aunts and grandmothers, con-
cerning the good or evil fortunes of the Pyncheons, —
stories which had heretofore been kept warm in hei
remembrance by the chimney-corner glow that was as-
3ociated with them,-——now recurred to her, sombre,
ghastly, cold, like most passages of family history,
when brooded over in melancholy mood. The whole
seemed little else but a series of calamity, reproducing
itself in successive generations, with one general hue,
and varying in little, save the outline. But Hepzibah
now felt as if the Judge, and Clifford, and herself, —
236 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
they three together, — were on the point of adding am
other incident to the annals of the house, with a bolder
relief of wrong and sorrow, which would cause it to
stand out from all the rest. Thus it is that the grief
of the passing moment takes upon itself an mdividual.
ity, and a character of climax, which it is destined ta
lose after a while, and to fade into the dark gray tissue
common to the grave or glad events of many years
ago. It is but for a moment, comparatively, that any-
thing looks strange or startling, —a truth that has
the bitter and the sweet in it.
But Hepzibah could not rid herself of the sense of
something unprecedented at that instant passing and
soon to be accomplished. Her nerves were in a shake.
Instinctively she paused before the arched window, and
looked out upon the street, in order to seize its perma-
nent objects with her mental grasp, and thus to steady
herself from the reel and vibration which affected her
more immediate sphere. It brought her up, as we may
say, with a kind of shock, when she beheld everything
under the same appearance as the day before, and
numberless preceding days, except for the difference
between sunshine and sullen storm. Her eyes trav-
elled along the street, from doorstep to doorstep, not-
ing the wet sidewalks, with here and there a puddle in
hollows that had been imperceptible until filled with
water. She screwed her dim optics to their acutest
point, in the hope of making out, with greater distinct-
ness, a certain window, where she half saw, halt
guessed, that a tailor’s seamstress was sitting at her
work. Hepzibah flung herself upon that unknown
woman’s companionship, even thus far off. Then she
was attracted by a chaise rapidly passing, and watched
its moist and glistening top, and its splashing wheels,
INSTINCTIVELY SHE PAUSED BEFORE THE ARCHED
WINDOW
VW
o
CLIFFORD’S CHAMBER. 287
ontil it had turned the corner, and refused to carry
any further her idly trifling, because appalled and
overburdened, mind. When the vehicle had disap-
peared, she allowed herself still another loitering mo-
ment; for the patched figure of good Uncle Venner
was now visible, coming slowly from the head of the
street downward, with a rheumatic limp, because the
east wind had got into his joints. Hepzibah wished
that he would pass yet more slowly, and befriend her
shivering solitude a little longer. Anything that would
take her out of the grievous present, and interpose
human beings betwixt herself and what was nearest to
her, — whatever would defer for an instant, the inevi-
table errand on which she was bound, —all such im-
pediments were welcome. Next to the lightest heart,
the heaviest is apt to be most playful.
Hepzibah had little hardihood for her own proper
pain and far less for what she must inflict on Clifford.
Of so slight a nature, and so shattered by his previous
calamities, it could not well be short of utter ruin to
bring him face to face with the hard, relentless man,
who had been his evil destiny through life. Even had
there been no bitter recollections, nor any hostile in-
terest now at stake between them, the mere natural re-
pugnance of the more sensitive system to the massive,
weighty, and unimpressible one, must, in itself, have
been disastrous to the former. It would he like fling-
ing a porcelain vase, with already a crack in it, against
a granite column. Never before had Hepzibah so
adequately estimated the powerful character of her
cousin Jaffrey, — powerful by intellect, energy of will,
the long habit of acting among men, and, as she be-
lieved, by his unscrupulous pursuit of selfish ends
through evil means. It did but increase the difficulty
288 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
that Judge Pyncheon was under a delusion as to the
secret which he supposed Clifford to possess. Men of
his strength of purpose, and customary sagacity, if
they chance to adopt a mistaken opinion in practical
matters, so wedge it and fasten it among things known
to be true, that to wrench it out of their minds is
hardly less difficult than pulling up an oak. Thus, as
the Judge required an impossibility of Clifford, the
latter, as he could not perform it, must needs perish,
For what, in the grasp of a man like this, was to be-
come of Clifford’s soft poetic nature, that never should
have had a task more stubborn than to set a life of
beautiful enjoyment to the flow and rhythm of musical
cadences! Indeed, what had become of it already?
Broken! Blighted! All but annihilated! Soon to
be wholly so!
For a moment, the thought crossed Hepzibah’s
mind, whether Clifford might not really have such
knowledge of their deceased uncle’s vanished estate as
the Judge imputed to him. She remembered some
vague intimations, on her brother’s part, which — if
the supposition were not essentially preposterous —
might have been so interpreted. There had been
schemes of travel and residence abroad, day-dreams of
brilliant life at home, and splendid castles in the air,
which it would have required boundless wealth to build
and realize. Had this wealth been in her power, how
vladly would Hepzibah have bestowed it all upon her
iron-hearted kinsman, to buy for Clifford the-freedom
and seclusion of the desolate old house! But she be-
lieved that her brother’s schemes were as destitute of
actual substance and purpose as a child’s pictures of
fts future life, while sitting in a little chair by its
mother’s knee. Clifford had none but shadowy gold
CLIFFORD’S CHAMBER. 289
at his command ; and it was not the stuff to satisfy
Judge Pyncheon !
Was there no help, in their extremity? It seemet
strange that there should be none, with a city round
about her. It would be so easy to throw up the win-
dow, and send forth a shriek, at the strange agony of
which everybody would come hastening to the rescue,
well understanding it to be the cry of a human soul.
at some dreadful crisis! But how wild, how almos;
laughable, the fatality, — and yet how continually it
comes to pass, thought Hepzibah, in this dull delirium
of a world, — that whosoever, and with however kindly
a purpose, should come to help, they would be sure to
help the strongest side! Might and wrong combined,
like iron magnetized, are endowed with irresistible at-
traction. There would be Judge Pyncheon, —a per-
son eminent in the public view, of high station and
great wealth, a philanthropist, a member of Congress
and of the church, and intimately associated with
whatever else bestows good name,— so imposing, in
these advantageous lights, that Hepzibah herself could
hardly help shrinking from her own conclusions as to
his hollow integrity. The Judge, on one side! And
who, on the other? The guilty Clifford! Once a by-
word! Now, an indistinctly remembered ignominy!
Nevertheless, in spite of this perception that the
Judge would draw all human aid to his own behalf,
Hepzibah was so unaccustomed to act for herself, that
the least word of counsel would have swayed her to
any mode of action. Little Phebe Pyncheon would
at once have lighted up the whole scene, if not by any
available suggestion, yet simply by the warm vivacity
of her character. The idea of the artist occurred to
Hepzibah. Young and unknown, mere vagrant ad
WOL. Iu. 19
290 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
venturer as he was, she had been conscious of a force
in Holgrave which might well adapt him to be the
champion of a crisis. With this thought in her mind,
she unbolted a door, cobwebbed and long disused, but
which had served as a former medium of communica-
tion between her own part of the house and the gable
where the wandering daguerreotypist had now estab-
lished his temporary home. He was not there. A
book, face downward, on the table, a roll of manu-
script, a half-written sheet, a newspaper, some tools of
his present occupation, and several rejected daguerre-
otypes, conveyed an impression as if he were close at
hand. But, at this period of the day, as Hepzibah
might have anticipated, the artist was at his public
rooms. With an impulse of idle curiosity, that flick-
ered among her heavy thoughts, she looked at one
of the daguerreotypes, and beheld Judge Pyncheon
frowning at her. Fate stared her in the face. She
turned back from her fruitless quest, with a heart-
sinking sense of disappointment. In all her years of
seclusion, she had never felt, as now, what it was to
be alone. It seemed as if the house stood in a desert,
or, by some spell, was made invisible to those who
dwelt around, or passed beside it; so that any mode
of misfortune, miserable accident, or crime might hap-
pen in it without the possibility of aid. In her grief
and wounded pride, Hepzibah had spent her life in
divesting herself of friends; she had wilfully cast off
the support which God has ordained his creatures te
need from one another; and it was now her punish-
ment, that Clifford and herself would fall the easier
victims to their kindred enemy.
Returning to the arched window, she lifted her eyes,
~« scowling, poor, dim-sighted Hepzibah, in the face
CLIFFORD’S CHAMBER. 291
of Heaven!—and strove hard to send up a prayer
through the dense gray pavement of clouds. Those
mists had gathered, as if to symbolize a great, brood-
ing mass of human trouble, doubt, confusion, and chill
indifference, between earth and the better regions,
Her faith was too weak; the prayer too heavy to be
thus uplifted. It fell back, a lump of lead, upon her
heart. It smote her with the wretched conviction that
Providence intermeddled not in these petty wrongs of
pne individual to his fellow, nor had any balm for these
little agonies of a solitary soul; but shed its justice,
and its mercy, in a broad, sunlike sweep, over half the
universe at once. Its vastness made it nothing. But
Hepzibah did not see that, just as there comes a warm
sunbeam into every cottage window, so comes a love-
beam of God’s care and pity for every separate need.
At last, finding no other pretext for deferring the
torture that she was to inflict on Clifford, — her re-
luctance to which was the true cause of her loitering
at the window, her search for the artist, and even her
abortive prayer, — dreading, also, to hear the stern
voice of Judge Pyncheon from below stairs, chiding
her delay,—she crept slowly, a pale, grief-stricken
figure, a dismal shape of woman, with almost torpid
limbs, slowly to her brother’s door, and knocked !
There was no reply!
And how should there have been? Her hand,
tremulous with the shrinking purpose which directed
it, had smitten so feebly against the door that the
sound could hardly have gone inward. She knocked
again. Still, no response! Nor was it to be won-
dered at. She had struck with the entire force of
her heart’s vibration, communicating, by some subtile
magnetism, her own terror to the summons. Cliffor¢
292 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
would turn his face to the pillow, and cover his hea@
beneath the bedclothes, like a startled child at mid-
night. She knocked a third time, three regular
strokes, gentle, but perfectly distinct, and with mean-
ing in them; for, modulate it with what cautious art
we will, the hand cannot help playing some tune of
what we feel, upon the senseless wood.
Clifford returned no answer.
“Clifford! dear brother!” said Hepzibah. ‘ Shal}
T come in?”
A silence.
Two or three times, and more, Hepzibah repeated
ais name, without result; till, thinking her brother’s
sleep unwontedly profound, she undid the door, and
entering, found the chamber vacant. How could he
have come forth, and when, without her knowledge?
Was it possible that, in spite of the stormy day, and
worn out with the irksomeness within doors, he had
betaken himself to his customary haunt in the garden,
and was now shivering under the cheerless shelter of
the summer-house? She hastily threw up a window,
thrust forth her turbaned head and the half of her
gaunt figure, and searched the whole garden through,
as completely as her dim vision would allow. She
could see the interior of the summer-house, and its cir-
cular seat, kept moist by the droppings of the roof,
It had no occupant. Clifford was not thereabouts ;
unless, indeed, he had crept for concealment (as, for a
moment, Hepzibah fancied might be the case) into a
great, wet mass of tangled and broad-leaved shadow,
where the squash-vines were clambering tumultuously
upon an old wooden framework, set casually aslant
acninst the fence. This could not be, however; he
was not there; for, while Hepzibah was looking, a
CLIFFORD’S CHAMBER. 293
strange grimalkin stole forth from the very spot, and
picked his way across the garden. Twice he paused
to snuff the air, and then anew directed his course
towards the parlor window. Whether it was only on
account of the stealthy, prying manner common to the
race, or that this cat seemed to have more than or.
dinary mischief in his thoughts, the old gentlewoman,
in spite of her much perplexity, felt an impulse to
drive the animal away, and accordingly flung down a
window-stick. The cat stared up at her, like a de-
tected thief or murderer, and, the next instant, took to
flight. No other living creature was visible in the
garden. Chanticleer and his family had either not
left their roost, disheartened by the interminable rain,
or had done the next wisest thing, by seasonably re-
turning to it. Hepzibah closed the window.
But where was Clifford? Could it be that, aware
of the presence of his Evil Destiny, he had crept si-
lently down the staircase, while the Judge and Hepzi-
bah stood talking in the shop, and had softly undone
the fastenings of the outer door, and made his escape
into the street? With that thought, she seemed to
behold his gray, wrinkled, yet childlike aspect, in the
old-fashioned garments which he wore about the house;
a figure such as one sometimes imagines himself to
be, with the world’s eye upon him, in a troubled dream.
This figure of her wretched brother would go wander-
ing through the city, attracting all eyes, and every:
body’s wonder and repugnance, like a ghost, the more
to be shuddered at because visible at noontide. To
incur the ridicule of the younger crowd, that knew
bim not, —the harsher scorn and indignation of a few
old men, who might recall his once familiar features!
To be the sport of boys, who, when old enough to run
294 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
about the streets, have no more reverence for what is
beautiful and holy, nor pity for what is sad, —no
more sense of sacred misery, sanctifying the human
shape in which it embodies itself,—than if Satan
were the father of them all! Goaded by their taunts,
their loud, shrill cries, and cruel laughter, — insulted
by the filth of the public ways, which they would fling
apon him,— or, as it might well be, distracted by
the mere strangeness of his situation, though nobody
should afflict him with so much as a thoughtless word,
— what wonder if Clifford were to break into some
wild extravagance which was certain to be interpreted
as lunacy? Thus Judge Pyncheon’s fiendish scheme
would be ready accomplished to his hands!
Then Hepzibah reflected that the town was almost
completely water-girdled. The wharves stretched out
towards the centre of the harbor, and, in this inclem-
ent weather, were deserted by the ordinary throng of
merchants, laborers, and sea-faring men ; each wharf
a solitude, with the vessels moored stem and stern,
along its misty length. Should her brother’s aimless
footsteps stray thitherward, and he but bend, one mo-
ment, over the deep, black tide, would he not bethink
himself that here was the sure refuge within his reach,
and that, with a single step, or the slightest overbal-
ance of his body, he might be forever beyond his kins-
man’s gripe? Oh, the temptation! To make of his
ponderous sorrow a security! To sink, with its leaden
weight upon him, and never rise again !
The horror of this last conception was too much for
Hepzibah. Even Jaffrey Pyncheon must help her
now! She hastened down the staircase, shrieking as
she went.
“Clifford is gone!” she cried. ‘I cannot find my
CLIFFORD’S CHAMBER. 295
brother! Help, Jaffrey Pyncheon! Some harm wil.
happen to him! ”
She threw open the parlor-door. But, what with
the shade of branches across the windows, and the
smoke-blackened ceiling, and the dark oak-panelling
of the walls, there was hardly so much daylight in the
room that Hepzibah’s imperfect sight could accurately
flistinguish the Judge’s figure. She was certain, how-
ever, that she saw him sitting in the ancestral arm-
chair, near the centre of the floor, with his face some-
what averted, and looking towards a window. So
firm and quiet is the nervous system of such men as
Judge Pyncheon, that he had perhaps stirred not more
than once since her departure, but, in the hard com
posure of his temperament, retained the position into
which accident had thrown him.
“T tell you, Jaffrey,’ cried Hepzibah, impatiently,
as she turned from the parlor-door to search other
rooms, ‘my brother is not in his chamber! You must
help me seek him ! ”
But Judge Pyncheon was not the man to let him.
self be startled from an easy-chair with haste ill-befit-
ting either the dignity of his character or his broad
personal basis, by the alarm of an hysteric woman.
Yet, considering his own interest in the matter, he
might have bestirred himself with a little more alac-
rity.
“Do you hear me, Jaffrey Pyncheon?” screamed
Hepzibah, as she again approached the parlor-door,
after an ineffectual search elsewhere. “Clifford is
gone!”
At this instant, on the threshold of the parlor,
emerging from within, appeared Clifford himself!
His face was preternaturally pale; so deadly white,
296 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
indeed, that, through all the glimmering indistinctnes$
of the passage-way, Hepzibah could discern his fea.
tures, as if a light fell on them alone. ‘Their vivid
and wild expression seemed likewise sufficient to illu-
minate them; it was an expression of scorn and
mockery, coinciding with the emotions indicated by
his gesture. As Clifford stood on the threshold, partly
turning back, he pointed his finger within the parlor,
and shook it slowly as though he would have sum-
moned, not Hepzibah alone, but the whole world, to
gaze at some object inconceivably ridiculous. This
action, so ill-timed and extravagant, — accompanied,
too, with a look that showed more like joy than any
other kind of excitement, — compelled Hepzibah to
dread that her stern kinsman’s ominous visit had
driven her poor brother to absolute insanity. Nor
zould she otherwise account for the Judge’s quiescent
mood than by supposing him craftily on the watch,
while Clifford developed these symptoms of a dis-
tracted mind.
“ Be quiet, Clifford!” whispered his sister, raising
her hand to impress caution. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake
be quiet!”
*“‘ Let him be quiet! What can he do better?” an-
swered Clifford, with a still wilder gesture, pointing
into the room which he had just quitted. ‘ As for us,
Hepztbah, we can dance now! —we can sing, laugh,
play, do what we will! The weight is gone, Hepzi-
bah! it is gone off this weary old world, and we may
be as light-hearted as little Phebe herself!”
And, in accordance with his words, he began to
laugh, still pointing his finger at the object, invisible
to Hepzibah, within the parlor. She was seized with
a sudden intuition of some horrible thing. She thrust
‘‘AS FOR US, HEPZIBAH, CAN DANCE NoW!”’
CLIFFORD’S CHAMBER. 297
herself past Clifford, and disappeared into the room;
but almost immediately returned, with a ery choking
in her throat. Gazing at her brother with an affrighted
glance of inquiry, she beheld him all in a tremor and
a quake, from head to foot, while, amid these commoted
elements of passion or alarm, still flickered his gusty
mirth.
“ My God! what is to become of us?” gasped Hep.
sibah.
“Come!” said Clifford, in a tone of brief decision,
most unlike what was usual with him. “ We stay
here too long! Let us leave the old house to our
eousin Jaffrey! He will take good care of it!”
Hepzibah now noticed that Clifford had on a cloak,
-a garment of long ago, —in which he had con-
stantly muffled himself during these days of easterly
storm. He beckoned with his hand, and intimated,
so far as she could comprehend him, his purpose that
they should go together from the house. There are
chaotic, blind, or drunken moments, in the lives of
persons who lack real force of character, — moments
of test, in which courage would most assert itself, —
but where these individuals, if left to themselves, stag-
ger aimlessly along, or follow implicitly whatever
guidance may befall them, even if it beachild’s. No
matter how preposterous or insane, a purpose is a
God-send to them. MHepzibah had reached this point.
Unaccustomed to action or responsibility, — full of
horror at what she had seen, and afraid to inquire, or
almost to imagine, how it had come to pass, — af-
frighted at the fatality which seemed to pursue her
brother, — stupefied by the dim, thick, stifling atmos
phere of dread, which filled the house as with a death
smell, and obliterated all definiteness of thought, --
298 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
she yielded without a question, and on the instant, te
the will which Clifford expressed. For herself, she
was like a person in a dream, when the will always
sleeps. Clifford, ordinarily so destitute of this fac-
ulty, had found it in the tension of the crisis.
‘Why do you delay so?”’ cried he, sharply. ‘ Put
on your cloak and hood, or whatever it pleases you t¢
wear! No matter what; you cannot look beautiful
nor brilliant, my poor Hepzibah! Take your purse,
with money in it, and come along!”
Hepzibah obeyed these instructions, as if nothing
else were to be done or thought of. She began to
wonder, it is true, why she did not wake up, and at
what still more intolerable pitch of dizzy trouble her
spirit would struggle out of the maze, and make her
conscious that nothing of all this had actually hap-
pened. Of course it was not real; no such black,
easterly day as this had yet begun to be; Judge
Pyncheon had not talked with her; Clifford had not
jaughed, pointed, beckoned her away with him; but
she had merely been afflicted —as lonely sleepers
often are — with a great deal of unreasonable misery,
in a morning dream!
‘“‘ Now — now —I shall certainly awake!” thought
Hepzibah, as she went to and fro, making her little
preparations. ‘I can bear itno longer! I must wake
up now!”
But it came not, that awakening moment! It came
not, even when, just before they left the house, Clif
ford stole to the parlor-door, and made a parting obei
sance to the sole occupant of the room.
“¢ What an absurd figure the old fellow cuts now! ”
whispered he to Hepzibah. “Just when he fancied
he had me completely under his thumb! Come
CLIFFORD'S CHAMBER. 299
pome; make haste! or he will start up, like Giant
Despair in pursuit of Christian and Hopeful, and
eatch us yet!”
As they passed into the street, Clifford directed
Hepzibah’s attention to something on one of the posts
of the front door. It was merely the initials of his
ywn name, which, with somewhat of his characteristic
grace about the torms of the letters, he had cut there
when a boy. The brother and sister departed, and
left Judge Pyncheon sitting in the old home of his
forefathers, all by himself; so heavy and lumpish that
we can liken him to nothing better than a defunct
nightmare, which had perished in the midst of its
wickedness, and left its flabby corpse on the breast of
the tormented one, to be gotten rid of as it might!
XVII.
THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS.
SuMMER as it was, the east wind set poor Hepzi
bah’s few remaining teeth chattering in her head, as
she and Clifford facea it, on their way up Pyncheon
Street, and towards the centre of the town. Not
merely was it the shiver which this pitiless blast
brought to her frame (although her feet and hands,
especially, had never seemed so death-a-cold as now),
-but there was a moral sensation, mingling itself with
the physical chill, and causing her to shake more in
spirit than in body. The world’s broad, bleak at-
mosphere was all so comfortless!} Such, indeed, is
the impression which it makes on every new adven-
turer, even if he plunge into it while the warmest tide
of life is bubbling through his veins. What, then,
must it have been to Hepzibah and Clifford, — so
time-stricken as they were, yet so like children in
their inexperience, —as they left the doorstep, and
passed from beneath the wide shelter of the Pyncheon
Elm! They were wandering all abroad, on precisely
such a pilgrimage as a child often meditates, to the
world’s end, with perhaps a sixpence and a biscuit
in his pocket. In Hepzibah’s mind, there was tho
wretched consciousness of being adrift. She had lost
the faculty of self-guidance; but, in view of the diffi-
culties around her, felt it hardly worth an effort to
regain it, and was, moreover, incapable of making one.
THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS. 801
As they proceeded on their strange expedition she
now and then cast a look sidelong at Clifford, and
could not but observe that he was possessed and
swayed by a powerful excitement. It was this, in-
deed, that gave him the control which he had at once,
and so irresistibly, established over his movements. It
not a little resembled the exhilaration of wine. Or,
it might more fancifully be compared toa joyous piece
of music, played with wild vivacity, but upon a dis-
ordered instrument. As the cracked jarring note
might always be heard, and as it jarred loudest amid
the loftiest exultation of the melody, so was there a
continual quake through Clifford, causing him most to
quiver while he wore a triumphant smile, and seemed
almost under a necessity to skip in his gait.
They met few people abroad, even on passing from
the retired neighborhood of the House of the Seven
Gables into what was ordinarily the more thronged
and busier portion of the town. Glistening sidewalks,
with little pools of rain, here and there, along their
unequal surface ; umbrellas displayed ostentatiously in
the shop-windows, as if the life of trade had concen-
tred itself in that one article ; wet leaves of the horse-
. chestnut or elm-trees, torn off untimely by the blast
and scattered along the public way; an unsightly ax
cumulation of mud in the middle of the street, which
perversely grew the more unclean for its long and
laborious washing,— these were the more definable
points of a very sombre picture. In the way of move-
ment, and human life, there was the hasty rattle of a
eab or coach, its driver protected by a water-proof cap
over his head and shoulders; the forlorn figure of an
ald man, who seemed to have crept out of some sub-
terranean sewer, and was stooping along the kennel,
302 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
and poking the wet rubbish with a stick, in quest of
rusty nails; a merchant or two, at the door of the post
pffice, together with an editor, and a miscellaneous pole
jtician, awaiting a dilatory mail; a few visages of re-
tired sea-captains at the window of an insurance office,
looking out vacantly at the vacant street, blaspheming
at the weather, and fretting at the dearth as well of
public news as local gossip. What a treasure-trove
to these venerable quidnuncs, could they have guessed
the secret which Hepzibah and Clifford were carrymg
along with them! But their two figures attracted
hardly so much notice as that of a young girl, who
passed at the same instant, and happened to raise her
skirt a trifle too high above her ankles. Had it been
a sunny and cheerful day, they could hardly have gone
through tke streets without making themselves obnox-
ious to remark. Now, probably, they were felt to be
in keeping with the dismal and bitter weather, and
therefore did not stand out in strong relief; as if the
sun were shining on them, but melted into the gray
gloom and were forgotten as soon as gone.
Poor Hepzibah! Could she have understood this
fact, it would have brought her some little comfort ;
for, to all her other troubles, — strange to say!—
there was added the womanish and old-maiden-like
misery arising from a sense of unseemliness in her
attire. Thus, she was fain to shrink deeper into her-
self, as it were, as if in the hope of making people
suppose that here was only a cloak and hood, thread.
bare and wofully faded, taking an airing in the midst
of the storm, without any wearer!
As they went on, the feeling of indistinctness and
anreality kept dimly hovering round about her, and
so diffusing itself into her system that one of her
THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS. 303
nands was hardly palpable to the touch of the other.
Any certainty would have been preferable to this.
She whispered to herself, again and again, “ Am 1
awake ?— Am I awake?” and sometimes exposed
her face to the chill spatter of the wind, for the sake
of its rude assurance that she was. Whether it was
Clifford’s purpose, or only chance, had led them
thither, they now found themselves passing beneath
the arched entrance of a large structure of gray stone,
Within, there was a spacious breadth, and an airy
height from fioor to roof, now partially filled with
smoke and steam, which eddied voluminously upward
and formed a mimic cloud-region over their heads.
A train of cars was just ready for a start; the loco-
motive was fretting and fuming, like a steed impa-
tient for a headlong rush; and the bell rang out its
hasty peal, so well expressing the brief summons which
life vouchsafes to us in its hurried career. Without
question or delay, — with the irresistible decision, if
not rather to be called recklessness, which had so
strangely taken possession of him, and through him
of Hepzibah, — Clifford impelled her towards the
cars, and assisted her to enter. The signal was given;
the engine puffed forth its short, quick breaths; the
train began its movement; and, along with a hundred
other passengers, these two unwonted travellers sped
onward like the wind.
At last, therefore, and after so long estrangement
from everything that the world acted or enjoyed, they
had been drawn into the great current of human life,
and were swept away with it, as by the suction of fate
itself.
Still haunted with the idea that not one of the past
incidents, inclusive of Judge Pyncheon’s visit, could
804 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
be real, the recluse of the Seven Gables murmured in
her brother’s ear, —
“Clifford! Clifford! Is not this a dream?”
“A dream, Hepzibah!” repeated he, almost laugh
ing in her face. “On the contrary, I have never been
awake before ! ”
Meanwhile, looking from the window, they could see
the world racing past them. At one moment, they
were rattling through a solitude; the next, a village
had grown up around them; a few breaths more, and
it had vanished, as if swallowed by an earthquake.
The spires of meeting-houses seemed set adrift from
their foundations ; the broad-based hills glided away.
Kverything was unfixed from its age-long rest, and
moving at whirlwind speed in a direction opposite to
their own.
Within the car there was the usual interior life cf
the railroad, offering little to the observation of other
passengers, but full of novelty for this pair of strangely
enfranchised prisoners. It was novelty enough, indeed,
that there were fifty human beings in close relation
with them, under one long and narrow roof, and drawn
onward by the same mighty influence that had taken
their two selves into its grasp. It seemed marvellous
how all these people could remain so quietly in their
seats, while so much noisy strength was at work in
their behalf. Some, with tickets in their hats (long
travellers these, before whom lay a hundred miles of
railroad), had plunged into the English scenery and
adventures of pamphlet novels, and were keeping com-
pany with dukes and earls. Others, whose briefer
span forbade their devoting themselves to studies so
abstruse, beguiled the little tedium of the way with
penny-papers. A party of girls, and one young man,
THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS. 305
on opposite sides of the car, found huge amusement it
a game of ball. They tossed it to and fro, with peals
of laughter that might be measured by mile-lengths ;
for, faster than the nimble ball could fly, the merry
players fled unconsciously along, leaving the trail of
their mirth afar behind, and ending their game under
another sky than had witnessed its commencement,
Boys, with apples, cakes, candy, and rolls of variously
tinctured lozenges, — merchandise that reminded Hep-
zibah of her deserted shop, — appeared at each momen.
tary stopping-place, doing up their business in a hurry,
or breaking it short off, lest the market should ravish
them away with it. New people continually entered.
Old acquaintances — for such they soon grew to be,
in this rapid current of affairs — continually departed.
Here and there, amid the rumble and the tumult sat
one asleep. Sleep; sport; business; graver or lighter
study ; and the common and inevitable movement on-
ward! It was life itself!
Clifford’s naturally poignant sympathies were all
aroused. He caught the color of what was passing
about him, and threw it back more vividly than he re-
ceived it, but mixed, nevertheless, with a lurid and
portentous hue. Hepzibah, on the other hand, felt
herself more apart from human kind than even in the
seclusion which she had just quitted.
* You are not happy, Hepzibah!” said Clifford,
apart, in a tone of reproach. ‘ You are thinking of
that dismal old house, and of Cousin Jaffrey,’ — here
came the quake through him, — “and of Cousin Jaf
frey sitting there, all by himself! Take my advice,
-- follow my example, — and let such things slip
aside. Here we are, in the world, Hepzibah ! — in
the midst of life ! — in the throng of our fellow-beings!
VOL, III. 20
306 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
Let you and I be happy! As happy as that youtis
and those pretty girls, at their game of ball!”
“ Happy!” thought Hepzibah, bitterly conscious, at
the word, of her dull and heavy heart, with the frozex
pain in it, — “happy! He is mad already ; and, if |
could once feel myself broad awake, I should go mad
too!”
If a fixed idea be madness, she was perhaps not re.
mote from it. Fast and far as they had rattled and
clattered along the iron track, they might just as well,
as regarded Hepzibah’s mental images, have been pass-
ing up and down Pyncheon Street. With miles and
miles of varied scenery between, there was no scene
for her, save the seven old gable-peaks, with their
moss, and the tuft of weeds in one of the angles, and
the shop-window, and a customer shaking the door, and
compelling the little bell to jingle fiercely, but without
disturbing Judge Pyncheon! ‘This one old house was
everywhere! It transported its great, lumbering bulk
with more than railroad speed, and set itself phleg-
matically down on whatever spot she glanced at. The
quality of Hepzibah’s mind was too unmalleable to
take new impressions so readily as Clifford’s. He had
a winged nature; she was rather of the vegetable
kind, and could hardly be kept long alive, if drawn
up by the roots. Thus it happened that the relation
heretofore existing between her brother and herself
was changed. At home, she was his guardian ; here,
Clifford had become hers, and seemed to comprehend
whatever belonged to their new position with a sin.
gular rapidity of intelligence. He had been startled
into manhood and intellectual vigor ; or, at least, inte
a condition that resembled them, though it might be
both diseased and transitory.
THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS. 307
The conductor now applied for their tickets; and
Clifford, who had made himself the purse-bearer, put
a bank-note into his hand, as he had observed others
do.
“ For the lady and yourself?” asked the conductor
6 And how far?”
*‘ As far as that will carry us,” said Clifford. * I¢
is no great matter. We are riding for pleasure
merely !”’
*‘ You choose a strange day for it, sir!” remarked
a gimlet-eyed old gentleman, on the other side of the
ear, looking at Clifford and his companion, as if curi-
ous to make them out. ‘The best chance of pleasure,
in an easterly rain, I take it, is in a man’s own house,
with a nice little fire in the chimney.”
“‘T cannot precisely agree with you,” said Clifford,
courteously bowing to the old gentleman, and at once
taking up the clew of conversation which the latter
had proffered. “It had just occurred to me, on the
contrary, that this admirable invention of the rail-
road — with the vast and inevitable improvements to
be looked for, both as to speed and convenience — is
destined to do away with those stale ideas of home and
fireside, and substitute something better.”
“In the name of common-sense,” asked the old
gentleman, rather testily, ‘“‘ what can be better for a
man than his own parlor and chimney-corner ?”’
“These things have not the merit which many good
people attribute to them,” replied Clifford. ‘“ They
may be said, in few and pithy words, to have ill served
a poor purpose. My impression is, that our wonder-
fully increased and still increasing facilities of locomo-
tion are destined to bring us round again to the no-
madic state. You are aware, my dear sir, -- you must
308 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
have observed it in your own experience, — that all
/human progress is in a circle; or, to use a more ac-
‘curate and beautiful figure, in an ascending spiral
curve. While we fancy ourselves going straight for-
ward, and attaining, at every step, an entirely new
position of affairs, we do actually return to something
long ago tried and abandoned, but which we now find
etherealized, refined, and perfected to its ideal. The
past is but a coarse and sensual prophecy of the pres-
ent and the future. To apply this truth to the topic
now under discussion. In the early epochs of our
race, men dwelt in temporary huts, of bowers of
branches, as easily constructed as a bird’s-nest, and
which they built, — if it should be called building,
when such sweet homes of a summer solstice rather
grew than were made with hands, — which Nature, we
will say, assisted them to rear where fruit abounded,
where fish and game were plentiful, or, most especially,
where the sense of beauty was to be gratified by a love-
lier shade than elsewhere, and a more exquisite ar-
rangement of lake, wood, and hill. This life possessed
a charm, which, ever since man quitted it, has vanished
from existence. And it typified something better than
itself. It had its drawbacks ; such as hunger and
thirst, inclement weather, hot sunshine, and weary and
foot-blistering marches over barren and ugly tracts,
that lay between the sites desirable for their fertility
and beauty. But in our ascending spiral, we escape
all this. These railroads— could but the whistle be
made musical, and the rumble and the jar got rid of
—— are positively the greatest blessing that the ages
have wrought out for us. They give us wings; they
annihilate the toil and dust of pilgrimage ; they spirit
aalize travel! Transition being so facile, what can be
THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS. 309
any man’s inducement to tarry in one spot? Why,
therefore, should he build a more cumbrous habitation
than can readily be carried off with him? Why should
he make himself a prisoner for life in brick, and stone,
and old worm-eaten timber, when he may just as easily
dwell, in one sense, nowhere, — in a better sense, wher-
ever the fit and beautiful shall offer him a home?”
Clifford’s countenance glowed, as he divulged this
theory ; a youthful character shone out from within,
converting the wrinkles and pallid duskiness of age
into an almost transparent mask. The merry girls let
their ball drop upon the floor, and gazed at him.
They said to themselves, perhaps, that, before his hair
was gray and the crow’s-feet tracked his temples, this
now decaying man must have stamped the impress of
his features on many a woman’s heart. But, alas! no
woman’s eye had seen his face while it was beautiful.
“T should scarcely call it an improved state of
things,” observed Clifford’s new acquaintance, “ to live
everywhere and nowhere ! ”
“ Would you not?” exclaimed Clifford, with sin-
gular energy. “It is as clear to me as sunshine, —
were there any in the sky, — that the greatest possi-
ble stumbling-blocks in the path of human happiness
and improvement are these heaps of bricks and stones,
consolidated with mortar, or hewn timber, fastened to-
gether with spike-nails, which men painfully contrive
for their own torment, and call them house and home !
The soul needs air ; a wide sweep and frequent change
of it. Morbid influences, in a thousand-fold variety,
gather about hearths, and pollute the life of house-
holds. There is no such unwholesome atmosphere as
that of an old home, rendered poisonous by one’s de-
funct forefathers and relatives. I speak of whai I
310 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
know. There is a certain house within my familiay
recollection, — one of those peaked-gable (there are
seven of them), projecting-storied edifices, such as you
occasionally see in our older towns, — a rusty, crazy,
creaky, dry-rotted, damp-rotted, dingy, dark, and mis-
erable old dungeon, with an arched window over the
porch, and a little shop-door on one side, and a great,
melancholy elm before it! Now, sir, whenever my
thoughts recur to this seven-gabled mansion (the fact
is so very curious that I must needs mention it), im-
mediately I have a vision or image of an elderly man,
of remarkably stern countenance, sitting in an oaken
elbow-chair, dead, stone-dead, with an ugly flow of
blood upon his shirt-bosom! Dead, but with open
eyes! He taints the whole house, as I remember it.
I could never flourish there, nor be happy, nor do nor
enjoy what God meant me to do and enjoy!”
His face darkened, and seemed to contract, and
shrivel itself up, and wither into age.
‘“‘ Never, sir!” he repeated. “I could never draw
cheerful breath there!”
“‘T should think not,” said the old gentleman, eying
Clifford earnestly, and rather apprehensively. “I
should conceive not, sir, with that notion in your
head ! ”’
“Surely not,” continued Clifford; “and it were a
relief to me if that: house could be torn down, or burnt
up, and so the earth be rid of it, and grass be sown
abundantly over its foundation. Not that I should
ever visit its site again! for, sir, the farther I get
away from it, the more does the joy, the lightsome
freshness, the heart-leap, the intellectual dance, the
youth, in short, — yes, my youth, my youth! — the
more does it come back to me. No longer ago than
THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS. dll
this morning, I was old. J remember looking in the
glass, and wondering at my own gray hair, and the
wrinkles, many and deep, right across my brow, and
the furrows down my cheeks, and the prodigious
trampling of crow’s-feet about my temples! It was
too soon! I could not bear it! Age had no right to
come! I had not lived! But now do I look old? If
so, my aspect belies me strangely; for —a great
weight being off my mind —I feel in the very heyday
of my youth, with the world and my best days before
me!”
“I trust you may find it so,” said the old gentle-
man, who seemed rather embarrassed, and desirous of
avoiding the observation which Clifford’s wild talk
drew on them both. ‘ You have my best wishes for
it.”
“For Heaven’s sake, dear Clifford, be quiet!”
whispered his sister. ‘ They think you mad.”
“Be quiet yourself, Hepzibah !”’ returned her
brother. ‘No matter what they think! I am not
mad. For the first time in thirty years my thoughts
gush up and find words ready for them. I must talk,
and I will!”
He turned again towards the old gentleman, and re-
newed the conversation.
“Yes, my dear sir,” said he, “it is my firm belief
and hope that these terms of roof and hearth-stone,
which have so long been held to embody something
sacred, are soon to pass out of men’s daily use, and be
forgotten. Just imagine, for a moment, how much of
human evil will crumble away, with this one change!
What we call real estate — the solid ground to build
a house on — is the broad foundation on which nearly
all the guilt of this world rests. A man will commit
312 TEE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
almost any wrong, — he will heap up an immense pil
of wickedness, as hard as granite, and which will
weigh as heavily upon his soul, to eternal ages, — only
to build a great, gloomy, dark-chambered mansion, fo1
himself to die in, and for his posterity to be miserable
in. He lays his own dead corpse beneath the under-
pinning, as one may say, and hangs his frowning pict.
ure on the wall, and, after thus converting himself into
an evil destiny, expects his remotest great-grandchil
dren to be happy there! Ido not speak wildly. 1}
have just such a house in my mind’s eye!”
“Then, sir,” said the old gentleman, getting anx.
fous to drop the subject, “ you are not to blame for
jeaving it.”
‘Within the lifetime of the child already born,”
Clifford went on, “all this will be done away. The
world is growing too ethereal and spiritual to bear
these enormities a great while longer. To me, —
though, for a considerable period of time, I have lived
chiefly in retirement, and know less of such things
than most men, —even to me, the harbingers of a
better era are unmistakable. Mesmerism, now! Will
that effect nothing, think you, towards purging away
the grossness out of human life?”
“ All a humbug!” growled the old gentleman.
*‘ These rapping spirits, that little Phebe told us of,
the other day,” said Clifford, — ‘‘ what are these but
the messengers of the spiritual world, knocking at the
door of substance? And it shall be flung wide open!”
*“ A humbug, again!” cried the old gentleman,
growing more and more testy, at these glimpses of
Clifford’s metaphysics. “I should like to rap with a
good stick on the empty pates of the dolts who circu-
late such nonsense ! ”
“FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, DEAR CLIFFORD, BE QUIET!”’
WHISPERED HIS SISTER. ‘‘THEY THINK YOU MAD”
Set
THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS. 318
“Then there is electricity, — the demon, the angel,
the mighty physical power, the all-pervading intelli-
gence!” exclaimed Clifford. ‘Is that a humbug, too?
Is it a fact — or have I dreamt it — that, by means of
electricity, the world of matter has become a great
nerve, vibrating thousands of miles in a breathless
point of time? Rather, the round globe is a vast
head, a brain, instinct with intelligence! Or, shall
we say, it is itself a thought, nothing but thought,
and no longer the substance which we deemed it! ”
“Tf you mean the telegraph,” said the old gentle.
man, glancing his eye toward its wire, alongside the
rail-track, “it is an excellent thing, —that is, of
course, if the speculators in cotton and politics don’t
get possession of it. A great thing, indeed, sir, par-
ticularly as regards tke detection of bank-robbers and
murderers,”’
“T don’t quite like it, in that point of view,” replied
Clifford. ‘“ A bank-robber, and what you call a mur-
derer, likewise, has his rights, which men of enlight-
ened humanity and conscience should regard in so
much the more liberal spirit, because the bulk of so-
ciety is prone to controvert their existence. An al-
most spiritual medium, like the electric telegraph,
should be consecrated to high, deep, joyful, and holy
missions. Lovers, day by day,-—- hour by hour, if so
often moved to do it, — might send their heart-throbs
from Maine to Florida, with some such words as these,
‘I love you forever!’ —‘ My heart runs over with
love!’ —‘I love you more than I can!’ and, again, at
the next message, ‘I have lived an hour longer, and
love you twice as much!’ Or, when a good man has
departed, his distant friend should be conscious of an
electric thrill, as from the world of happy spirits, telk
814 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
ing him, ‘ Your dear friend is in bliss!’ Or, to an
absent husband, should come tidings thus, ‘ An immor-
tal being, of whom you are the father, has this moment
come from God!’ and immediately its little voice
would seem to have reached so far, and to be echoing
in his heart. But for these poor rogues, the bank-rob-
bers, — who after all, are about as honest as nine peo-
ple in ten, except that they disregard certain formalli-
ties, and prefer to transact business at midnight rather
than ’Change-hours,—and for these murderers, as
you phrase it, who are often excusable in the motives
of their deed, and deserve to be ranked among public
benefactors, if we consider only its result, — for unfor-
tunate individuals like these, I really cannot applaud
the enlistment of an immaterial and miraculous power
in the universal world-hunt at their heels! ”
“You can’t, hey?” cried the old gentleman, with a
hard look.
“Positively, no!” answered Clifford. “It puts
them too miserably at disadvantage. For example,
sir, in a dark, low, cross-beamed, panelled room of an
old house, let us suppose a dead man, sitting in an
arm-chair, with a blood-stain on his shirt- bosom, —
and let us add to our hypothesis another man, issuing
from the house, which he feels to be over-filled with
the dead man’s presence, — and let us lastly imagine
him fleeing, Heaven knows whither, at the speed of a
hurricane, by railroad! Now, sir, if the fugitive alight
in some distant town, and find all the people babbling
about that self-same dead man, whom he has fled so
far to avoid the sight and thought of, will you not al-
low that his natural rights have been infringed? He
has been deprived of his city of refuge, and, in my
bumble opinion, has suffered infinite wrong! ”
THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS. 315
“ You are a strange man, sir!” said the old gentle-
man, bringing his gimlet-eye to a point on Clifford, as
if determined to bore right into him. “TI can’t see
through you!”
“No, I’ll be bound you can’t!” cried Clifford
‘aughing. “And yet, my dear sir, I am as transpar
mt as the water of Maule’s well! But come, Hepzi-
bah! We have flown far enough for once. Let ug
alight, as the birds do, and perch ourselves on the
nearest twig, and consult whither we shall fly next! ”
Just then, as it happened, the train reached a soli-
tary way-station. Taking advantage of the brief
pause, Clifford left the car, and drew Hepzibah along
with him. A moment afterwards, the train — with
all the life of its interior, amid which Clifford had
made himself so conspicuous an object — was gliding
away in the distance, and rapidly lessening to a point,
which, in another moment, vanished. The world had
fled away from these two wanderers. They gazed
drearily about them. At a little distance stood a
wooden church, black with age, and in a dismal state
of ruin and decay, with broken windows, a great rift
through the main body of the edifice, and a rafter
dangling from the top of the square tower. Farther
off was a farm-house, in the old style, as venerably
black as the church, with a roof sloping downward
from the three-story peak, to within a man’s height of
the ground. It seemed uninhabited. There were the
relics of a wood-pile, indeed, near the door, but with
grass sprouting up among the chips and scattered logs.
The small rain-drops came down aslant ; the wind was
not turbulent, but sullen, and full of chilly moisture.
Clifford shivered from head to foot. The wild effer-
Gescence of his mood — which had so readily supplied
3816 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
thoughts, fantasies, and a strange aptitude of words,
and impelled him to talk from the mere necessity of
giving vent to this bubbling-up gush of ideas — had
entirely subsided. A powerful excitement had given
him energy and vivacity. Its operation over, he forth
with began to sink.
“ You must take the lead now, Hepzibah!” mun
mured he, with a torpid and reluctant utterance. ‘“ De
with me as you will!” |
She knelt down upon the platform where they were
standing and lifted her clasped hands tothe sky. The
dull, gray weight of clouds made it invisible; but it -
was no hour for disbelief, — no juncture this to ques-
tion that there was a sky above, and an Almighty
Father looking from it!
“OQ God!” —ejaculated poor, gaunt Hepzibah, —-
then paused a moment, to consider what her prayer
should be, — “O God. — our Father, — are we no?
thy children ? Have mercy on us!”
XVIII.
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON.
JUDGE PyNcHEON, while his two relatives have flea
away with such ill-considered haste, still sits in the old
parlor, keeping house, as the familiar phrase is, in the
absence of its ordinary occupants. To him, and to
the venerable FYouse of the Seven Gables, does our
story now betake itself, like an owl, bewildered in the
daylight, and hastening back to his hollow tree.
The Judge has not shifted his position for a long
while now. He has not stirred hand or foot, nor
withdrawn his eyes so much as a hair’s-breadth from
their fixed gaze towards the corner of the room, since
the footsteps of Hepzibah and Clifford creaked along
the passage, and the outer door was closed cautiously
behind their exit. He holds his watch in his left
hand, but clutched in such a manner that you cannot
see the dial-plate. How profound a fit of meditation !
Or, supposing him asleep, how infantile a quietude of
conscience, and what wholesome order in the gastric
region, are betokened by slumber so entirely undis-
turbed with starts, cramp, twitches, muttered dream-
talk, trumpet-blasts through the nasal organ, or any the
slightest irregularity of breath! You must hold your
own breath, to satisfy yourself whether he breathes
at all. It is quite inaudible. You hear the ticking of
his watch; his breath you do not hear. A most re
freshing slumber, doubtless! And yet, the Judge car
818 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
not be asleep. His eyes are open! A veteran poli
fician, such as he, would never fall asleep with wide:
open eyes, lest some enemy or mischief-maker, taking
him thus at unawares, should peep through these win-
dows into his consciousness, and make strange discov-
eries among the reminiscences, projects, hopes, appre-
hensions, weaknesses, and strong points, which he has
heretofore shared with nobody. A cautious man is
proverbially said to sleep with one eye open. That
may be wisdom. But not with both; for this were
heedlessness! No, no! Judge Pyncheon cannot be
asleep.
It is odd, however, that a gentleman so burdened
with engagements, — and noted, too, for punctuality,
—should linger thus in an old lonely mansion, which
he has never seemed very fond of visiting. The oaken
chair, to be sure, may tempt him with its roominess.
It is, indeed, a spacious, and, allowing for the rude
age that fashioned it, a moderately easy seat, with ca-
pacity enough, at all events, and offering no restraint
to the Judge’s breadth of beam. A bigger man might
find ample accommodation in it. His ancestor, now
pictured upon the wall, with all his English beef about
him, used hardly to present a front extending from
elbow to elbow of this chair, or a base that would
cover its whole cushion. But there are better chairs
than this, — mahogany, black-walnut, rosewood, spring-
seated and damask-cushioned, with varied slopes, and
innumerable artifices to make them easy, and obviate
the irksomeness of too tame an ease,— a score of
such might be at Judge Pyncheon’s service. Yes!
in a score of drawing-rooms he would be more than
welcome. Mamma would advance to meet him, with
outstretched hand ; the virgin daughter, elderly as he
THE JUDGE HAS NOT SHIFTED HIS POSITION FOR A
LONG WHILE NOW
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON. 319
has now got to be, — an old widower, as he smilingly
describes himself, — would shake up the cushion for
the Judge, and do her pretty little utmost to make
him comfortable. For the Judge is a prosperous
man. He cherishes his schemes, moreover, like other
people, and reasonably brighter than most others; or
did so, at least, as he lay abed this morning, in an
agreeable half-drowse, planning the business of the
day, and speculating on the probabilities of the next
fifteen years. With his firm health, and the little
inroad that age has made upon hin, fifteen years or
twenty — yes, or perhaps five-and-twenty !— are no
more than he may fairly call his own. Five-and-twenty
years for the enjoyment of his real estate in town and
country, his railroad, bank, and insurance shares, his
United States stock, — his wealth, in short, however
invested, now in possession, or soon to be acquired ;
together with the public honors that have failen upon
him, and the weightier ones that are yet to fall! It is
good! It is excellent! It is enough!
Still lingering in the old chair! If the Judge has a
little time to throw away, why does not he visit the in-
surance office, as is his frequent custom, and sit awhile
in one of their leathern-cushioned arm-chairs, listening
to the gossip of the day, and dropping some deeply de-
signed chance-word, which will be certain to become
the gossip of to-morrow! And have not the bank di-
rectors a meeting at which it was the Judge’s purpose
to be present, and his office to preside? Indeed they
have; and the hour is noted on a card, which is, or
ought to be, in Judge Pyncheon’s right vest-pocket.
Let him go thither, and loll at ease upon his money-
bags! He has lounged long enough in the old chair!
This was to have been such a busy day! in the
820 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
first place, the interview with Clifford. Half an hour,
by the Judge’s reckoning, was to suffice for that; it
would probably be less, but — taking into considera-
ation that Hepzibah was first to be dealt with, and
that these women are apt to make many words where
a few would do much better — it might be safest to al-
low half an hour. Half an hour? Why, Judge, it is
already two hours, by your own undeviatingly accurate
chronometer! Glance your eye down at it and see!
Ah! he will not give himself the trouble either to bend
his head, or elevate his hand, so as to bring the faith-
ful time-keeper within his range of vision! ‘Time, all
at once, appears to have become a matter of no mo-
ment with the Judge!
And has he forgotten all the other items of his
memoranda? Clifford’s affair arranged, he was to meet
a State Street broker, who has undertaken to procure
a heavy percentage, and the best of paper, for a few
loose thousands which the Judge happens to have by
him, uninvested. The wrinkled note-shaver will have
taken his railroad trip in vain. Half an hour later, in
the street next to this, there was to be an auction of
real estate, including a portion of the old Pyncheon
property, originally belonging to Maule’s garden-
ground. It has been alienated from the Pyncheons
these four-score years; but the Judge had kept it in his
eye, and had set his heart on reannexing it to the small
demesne still left around the Seven Gables ; and now,
during this odd fit of oblivion, the fatal hammer must
have fallen, and transferred our ancient patrimony to
some alien possessor! Possibly, indeed, the sale may
have been postponed till fairer weather. If so, will the
Judge make it convenient to be present, and favor thy
auctioneer with his bid, on the proxinate vccasion f
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON. 391
The next affair was to buy a horse for his own driv.
mg. ‘The one heretofore his favorite stumbled, this
very morning, on the road to town, and must be at
once discarded. Judge Pyncheon’s neck is too pre-
cious to be risked on such a contingency as a stumbling
steed. Should all the above business be seasonably
got through with, he might attend the meeting of a
charitable society; the very name of which, however.
in the multiplicity of his benevolence, is quite for-
gotten; so that this engagement may pass unfulfilled,
and no great harm done. And if he have time, amid
the press of more urgent matters, he must take meas-
ures for the renewal of Mrs. Pyncheon’s tombstone,
which, the sexton tells him, has fallen on its marble
face, and is cracked quite in twain. She was a praise-
worthy woman enough, thinks the Judge, in spite of
her nervousness, and the tears that she was so oozy
with, and her foolish behavior about the coffee; and
as she took her departure so seasonably, he will not
grudge the second tombstone. It is better, at least,
than if she had never needed any! The next item on
his list was to give orders for some fruit-trees, of a
rare variety, to be deliverable at his country-seat, in
the ensuing autumn. Yes, buy them, by all means;
and may the peaches be luscious in your mouth, Judge
Pyncheon! After this comes something more im-
portant. A committee of his political party has be-
sought him fora hundred or two of dollars, in addition
to his previous disbursements, towards carrying on the
fall campaign. The Judge is a patriot; the fate of
the country is staked on the November election; and
besides, as will be shadowed forth in another para-
graph, he has no trifling stake of his own in the same
great game. He will do what the committee asks;
Ver m1. a1
322 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
nay, he will be liberal beyond their expectations; they
shall have a.check for five hundred dollars, and more
anon, if it be needed. What next? A decayed
widow, whose husband was Judge Pyncheon’s early
friend, has laid her case of destitution before him, in
a very moving letter. She and her fair daughter have
scarcely bread to eat. He partly intends to call on
her, to-day,— perhaps so— perhaps not,— accord-
ingly as he may happen to have leisure, and a small
bank-note.
Another business, which, however, he puts no great
weight on (it is well, you know, to be heedful, but not
Over-anxious, as respects one’s personal health), —
another business, then, was to consult his family phy-
sician. About what, for Heaven’s sake? Why, it is
rather difficult to describe the symptoms. A mere
dimness of sight and dizziness of brain, was it? — or a
disagreeable choking, or stifling, or gurgling, or bub-
bling, in the region of the thorax, as the anatomists
say ?—or was it a pretty severe throbbing and kick-
ing of the heart, rather creditable to him than other-
wise, as showing that the organ had not been left out
of the Judge’s physical contrivance? No matter what
it was. The doctor, probably, would smile at the
statement of such trifles to his professional ear; the
Judge would smile in his turn; and meeting one
another’s eyes, they would enjoy a hearty laugh to-
gether! But a fig for medical advice! The Judge
will never need it.
Pray, pray, Judge Pyncheon, look at your watch,
aow! What—nota glance! It is within ten min-
utes of the dinner-hour! It surely cannot have
slipped your memory that the dinner of to-day is to be
the most important, in its consequences, of all the din.
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON. 323
ners you ever ate. Yes, precisely the most important;
although, in the course of your somewhat eminent
eareer, you have been placed high towards the head of
the table, at splendid banquets, and have poured out
your festive eloquence to ears yet echoing with Web.
ster’s mighty organ-tones. No public dinner this,
however. It is merely a gathering of some dozen or
so of friends from several districts of the State; men
of distinguished character and influence, assembling,
almost casually, at the house of a common friend, like-
wise distinguished, who will make them welcome to a
little better than his ordinary fare. Nothing in the
way of French cookery, but an excellent dinner never-
theless. Real turtle, we understand, and salmon, tau-
tog, canvas-backs, pig, English mutton, good roast-
beef, or dainties of that serious kind, fit for substantial
country gentlemen, as these honorable persons mostly
are. The delicacies of the season, in short, and fla-
vored by a brand of old Madeira which has been the
pride of many seasons. It is the Juno brand; a glo-
rious wine, fragrant, and full of gentle might; a bot-
tled-up happiness, put by for use; a golden liquid,
worth more than liquid gold; so rare and admirable,
that veteran wine-bibbers count it among their epochs
to have tasted it! It drives away the heart-ache, and
substitutes no head-ache! Could the Judge but quaff
a glass, it might enable him to shake off the unac-
countable lethargy which (for the ten intervening min-
utes, and five to boot, are already past) has made him
such a laggard at this momentous dinner. It would
all but revive a dead man! Would you like to sip it
now, Judge Pyncheon ?
Alas, this dinner! Have you really forgotten its
true object? Then let us whisper it, that you may
324 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
start at once out of the oaken chair, which realiz
seems to be enchanted, like the one in Comus, or that
in which Moll Pitcher imprisoned your own grand-
father. But ambition is a talisman more powerful
than witchcraft. Start up, then, and, hurrying through
the streets, burst_in upon the company, that they may
begin before the fish is spoiled! They wait for you:
and it is little for your interest that they should wait.
These gentlemen—need you be told it?—have as-
sembled, not without purpose, from every quarter of
the State. They are practised politicians, every man
of them, and skilled to adjust those preliminary
measures which steal from the people, without its
knowledge, the power of choosing its own rulers. ‘The
popular voice, at the next gubernatorial election,
though loud as thunder, will be really but an echo of
what these gentlemen shall speak, under their breath,
at your friend’s festive board. They meet to decide
upon their candidate. This little knot of subtle
schemers will control the convention, and, through it,
dictate to the party. And what worthier candidate,
—more wise and learned, more noted for philan-
thropic liberality, truer to safe principles, tried oftener
by public trusts, more spotless in private character,
with a larger stake in the common welfare, and deeper
grounded, by hereditary descent, in the faith and prac-
tice of the Puritans, — what man can be presented for
the suffrage of the people, so eminently combining all
these claims to the chief-rulership as Judge Pyncheon
here before us?
Make haste, then! Do your part! The meed for
which you have toiled, and fought, and climbed, and
crept, is ready for your grasp! Be present at this
dinner ! — drink a glass or two of that noble wine! —
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON. #25
make your pledges in as low a whisper as you will! —
and you rise up from table virtually governor of the
glorious old State! Governor Pyncheon of Massachu-
setts |
And is there no potent and exhilarating cordial in
a certainty like this? It has been the grand purpose
of half your lifetime to obtain it. Now, when there
needs little more than to signify your acceptance, why
do you sit so lumpishly in your great-great-grand-
father’s oaken chair, as if preferring it to the guber-
natorial one? We have all heard of King Log; but,
in these jostling times, one of that royal kindred will
hardly win the race for an elective chief-magistracy.
Well! it is absolutely too late for dinner! Turtle,
salmon, tautog, woodcock, boiled turkey, South-Down
mutton, pig, roast-beef, have vanished, or exist only
in fragments, with lukewarm potatoes, and gravies
crusted over with cold fat. The Judge, had he done
nothing else, would have achieved wonders with his
knife and fork. It was he, you know, of whom it
used to be said, in reference to his ogre-like appetite,
that his Creator made him a great animal, but that
the dinner-hour made him a great beast. Persons
of his large sensual endowments must claim indul-
gence, at their feeding-time. But, for once, the Judge
is entirely too late for dinner! Too late, we fear, even
to join the party at their wine! The guests are warm
and merry; they have given up the Judge; and, con-
cluding that the Free-Soilers have him, they will fix
upon another candidate. Were our friend now to
stalk in among them, with that wide-open stare, at
once wild and stolid, his ungenial presence would be
apt to change their cheer. Neither would it be seemly
in Judge Pyncheon, generally so scrupulous in his
826 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
attire, to show himself at a dinner-table with that
crimson stain upon his shirt-bosom. By the by, how
came it there? It is an ugly sight, at any rate; and
the wisest way for the Judge is to button his coat
closely over his breast, and, taking his horse and
chaise from the livery-stable, to make all speed to
his own house. There, after a glass of brandy and
water, and a mutton-chop, a beefsteak, a broiled fowl,
or some such hasty little dinner and supper all in one,
he had better spend the evening by the fireside. He
must toast his slippers a long while, in order to get
rid of the chilliness which the air of this vile old house
has sent curdling through his veins.
Up, therefore, Judge Pyncheon, up! You have lost
aday. But to-morrow will be here anon. Will you
rise, betimes, and make the most of it? To-morrow!
To-morrow! To-morrow! We, that are alive, may
rise betimes to-morrow. As for him that has died to-
day, his morrow will be the resurrection morn.
Meanwhile the twilight is glooming upward out of
the corners of the room. The shadows of the tall fur-
niture grow deeper, and at first become more definite;
then, spreading wider, they lose their distinctness of
outline in the dark gray tide of oblivion, as it were,
that creeps slowly over the various objects, and the
one human figure sitting in the midst of them. The
gloom has not entered from without; it has brooded
here all day, and now, taking its own inevitable time,
will possess itself of everything. The Judge’s face,
indeed, rigid, and singularly white, refuses to melt into
this universal solvent. Fainter and fainter grows the
tight. It is as if another double-handful of darkness
nad been scattered through the air. Now it is no
onger gray, but sable. There is still a faint appear
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON. 327
ance at the window ; neither a glow, nor a gleam, nor
a glimmer, — any phrase of light would express some-
thing far brighter than this doubtful perception, or
sense, rather, that there is a window there. Has it
yet vanished? No!—yes!—not quite! And there
is still the swarthy whiteness, — we shall venture to
marry these ill-agreeing words, — the swarthy white.
ness of Judge Pyncheon’s face. The features are all
gone: there is only the paleness of them left. And
how looks it now? ‘There is no window! There is
no face! An infinite, inscrutable blackness has anni-
hilated sight! Where is our universe? All crumbled
away from us; and we, adrift in chaos, may hearken
to the gusts of homeless wind, that go sighing and
murmuring about, in quest of what was once a world!
Is there no other sound? One other, and a fearful
one. It is the ticking of the Judge’s watch, which,
ever since Hepzibah left the room in search of Clif-
ford, he has been holding in his hand. Be the cause
what it may, this little, quiet, never-ceasing throb of
Time’s pulse, repeating its small strokes with such
busy regularity, in Judge Pyncheon’s motionless hand,
has an effect of terror, which we do not find in any
other accompaniment of the scene.
But, listen! That puff of the breeze was louder; it
had a tone unlike the dreary and sullen one which has
bemoaned itself, and afflicted all mankind with mis-
erable sympathy, for five days past. The wind has
veered about! It now comes boisterously from the
northwest, and, taking hold of the aged framework of
the Seven Gables, gives it a shake, like a wrestler
that would try strength with his antagonist. Another
and another sturdy tussle with the blast! The old
house creaks again, and makes a vociferous but some:
328 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
what unintelligible bellowing in its sooty throat (the
big flue, we mean, of its wide chimney), partly in
complaint at the rude wind, but rather, as befits their
century and a half of hostile intimacy, in tough defi-
ance. A rumbling kind of a bluster roars behind the
fire-board. A door has slammed above stairs. A win-
dow, perhaps, has been left open, or else is driven in
by an unruly gust. It is not to be conceived, before-
hand, what wonderful wind-instruments are these old
timber mansions, and how haunted with the strangest
noises, which immediately begin to sing, and sigh, and
sob, and shriek, — and to smite with sledge-hammers,
airy but ponderous, in some distant chamber, — and
to tread along the entries as with stately footsteps, and
rustle up and down the staircase, as with silks mirac-
ulously stiff, — whenever the gale catches the house
with a window open, and gets fairly into it. Would
that we were not an attendant spirit here! It is too
awiul! This clamor of the wind through the lonely
house ; the Judge’s quietude, as he sits invisible; and
that pertinacious ticking of his watch !
As regards Judge Pyncheon’s invisibility, however,
that matter will soon be remedied. The northwest
wind has swept the sky clear. The window is dis-
tinctly seen. Through its panes, moreover, we dimly
catch the sweep of the dark, clustering foliage, out-
side, fluttering with a constant irregularity of move-
ment, and letting in a peep of starlight, now here,
now there. Oftener than any other object, these
glimpses illuminate the Judge’s face. But here comes
more effectual light. Observe that silvery dance upon
the upper branches of the pear-tree, and now a little
lower, and now on the whole mass of boughs, while,
through their shifting intricacies, the moonbeams faij
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON. 829
aslant into the room. They play over the Judge’s
figure and show that he has not stirred throughout
the hours of darkness. They follow the shadows, in
changeful sport, across his unchanging features. They
gleam upon his watch. His grasp conceals the dial.
plate ; but we know that the faithful hands have met;
for one of the city clocks tells midnight.
A man of sturdy understanding, like Judge Pyn-
cheon, cares no more for twelve o'clock at night
than for the corresponding hour of noon. However
just the parallel drawn, in some of the preceding
pages, between his Puritan ancestor and himself, it
fails in this point. The Pyncheon of two centuries
ago, In common with most of his contemporaries, pro-
fessed his full belief in spiritual ministrations, al.
though reckoning them chiefly of a malignant char-
acter. The Pyncheon of to-night, who sits in yonder
arm-chair, believes in no such nonsense. Such, at
least, was his creed, some few hours since. His hair
will not bristle, therefore, at the stories which — in
times when chimney-corners had benches in them,
where old people sat poking into the ashes of the past,
and raking out traditions like live coals — used to be
told about this very room of his ancestral house. In
fact, these tales are too absurd to bristle even child-
hood’s hair. What sense, meaning, or moral, for ex-
ample, such as even ghost-stories should be suscepti-
ble of, can be traced in the ridiculous legend, that, at
midnight, all the dead Pyncheons are bound to assem-
ble in this parlor? And, pray, for what? Why, to
see whether the portrait of their ancestor still keeps
its place upon the wall, in compliance with his testa-
mentary directions! Is it worth while to come out vi
their graves for that ?
630 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
We are tempted to make a little sport with the idea,
Ghost-stories are hardly to be treated seriously, any
longer. The family-party of the defunct Pyncheons,
we presume, goes off in this wise.
First comes the ancestor himself, in his black cloak
steeple-hat, and trunk-breeches, girt about the waist
with a leathern belt, in which hangs his steel-hilted
sword ; he has a long staff in his hand, such as gentle.
men in advanced life used to carry, as much for the
dignity of the thing as for the support to be derived
from it. He looks up at the portrait; a thing of no
substance, gazing at its own painted image! All is
safe. The picture is still there. The purpose of his
brain has been kept sacred thus long after the man
himself has sprouted up in graveyard grass. See! he
lifts his ineffectual hand, and tries the frame. All
safe! But is that a smile? —is it not, rather, a
frown of deadly import, that darkens over the shadow
of his features? The stout Colonel is dissatisfied !
So decided is his look of discontent as to impart ad-
ditional distinctness to his features; through which,
nevertheless, the moonlight passes, and flickers on the
wall beyond. Something has strangely vexed the ances-
tor! With a grim shake of the head, he turns away.
Here come other Pyncheons, the whole tribe, in their
half a dozen generations, jostling and elbowing one an-
other, to reach the picture. We behold aged men and
prandames, a clergyman with the Puritanic stiffness
still in his garb and mien, and a red-coated officer of
the old French war ; and there comes the shop-keeping
Pyncheon of a century ago, with the ruffles turned
back from his wrists; and there the periwigged and
brocaded gentleman of the artist’s legend, with the
beautiful and pensive Alice, who brings no pride out
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON. 381
of her virgin grave. All try the picture-frame. What
do these ghostly people seek? A mother lifts her
child, that his little hands may touch it! There is
evidently a mystery about the picture, that perplexes
these poor Pyncheons when they ought to be at rest.
In a corner, meanwhile, stands the figure of an elderly
man, in a leather jerkin and breeches, with a carpen-
ter’s rule sticking out of his side pocket ; he points his
finger at the bearded Colonel and his descendants,
nodding, jeering, mocking, and finally bursting into
obstreperous, though inaudible laughter.
Indulging our fancy in this freak, we have partly
lost the power of restraint and guidance. We distin
guish an unlooked-for figure in our visionary scene.
Among those ancestral people there is a young man,
dressed in the very fashion of to-day: he wears a dark
frock-coat, almost destitute of skirts, gray pantaloons,
gaiter boots of patent leather, and has a finely wrought
gold chain across his breast, and a little silver-headed
whalebone stick in his hand. Were we to meet this
figure at noonday, we should greet him as young Jaf-
frey Pyncheon, the Judge’s only surviving child, who
has been spending the last two years in foreign travel.
If still in life, how comes his shadow hither? If dead,
what a misfortune! The old Pyncheon property, to-
gether with the great estate acquired by the young
man’s father, would devolve on whom? On poor,
foolish Clifford, gaunt Hepzibah, and rustic little
Phebe! But another and a greater marvel greets
us! Can we believe our eyes? A stout, elderly gen-
tleman has made his appearance ; he has an aspect of
eminent respectability, wears a black coat and panta-
loons, of roomy width, and might be pronounced scru-
pulously neat in his attire, but for a broad crimson
882 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
stain across his snowy neckcloth and down his shirt
bosom. Is it the Judge, or no? How can it be Judge
Pyncheon? We discern his figure, as plainly as the
flickering moonbeams can show us anything, still seated
in the oaken chair! Be the apparition whose it may,
it advances to the picture, seems to seize the frame,
tries to peep behind it, and turns away, with a frown
as black as the ancestral one.
The fantastic scene just hinted at must by no means
be considered as forming an actual portion of our story.
We were betrayed into this brief extravagance by the
quiver of the moonbeams ; they dance hand-in-hand
with shadows, and are reflected in the looking-glass,
which, you are aware, is always a kind of window or
doorway into the spiritual world. We needed relief,
moreover, from our too long and exclusive contempla-
tion of that figure in the chair. This wild wind, too,
has tossed our thoughts into strange confusion, but
without tearing them away from their one determined
centre. Yonder leaden Judge sits immovably upon
our soul. Will he never stir again? We shall go
mad unless he stirs! You may the better estimate his
quietude by the fearlessness of a little mouse, which
sits on its hind legs, in a streak of moonlight, close by
Judge Pyncheon’s foot, and seems to meditate a jour-
ney of exploration over this great black bulk. Ha!
what has startled the nimble little mouse? It is the
visage of grimalkin, outside of the window, where he
appears to have posted himself for a deliberate watch.
This grimalkin has a very ugly look. Is it a cat watch-
ing for a mouse, or the devil for a human soul? Would
we could scare him from the window!
Thank Heaven, the night is wellnigh past! The
moonbeams have no longer so silvery a gleam, nor
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON. 333
contrast so strongly with the blackness of the shadows
among which they fall. They are paler, now; the
shadows look gray, not black. The boisterous wind is
hushed. What is the hour? Ah! the watch has at
last ceased to tick; for the Judge’s forgetful fingers
neglected to wind it up, as usual, at ten o’clock, being
half an hour or so before his ordinary bedtime, — and
it has run down, for the first time in five years. But
the great world-clock of Time still keeps its beat. The
dreary night — for, oh, how dreary seems its haunted
waste, behind us ! — gives place to afresh, transparent
cloudless morn. Blessed, blessed radiance! The day-
beam — even what little of it finds its way into this
always dusky parlor—seems part of the universal
benediction, annulling evil, and rendering all goodness
possible, and happiness attainable. Will Judge Pyn-
cheon now rise up from his chair? Will he go forth,
and receive the early sunbeams on his brow? Will
he begin this new day, — which God has smiled upon,
and blessed, and given to mankind, — will he begin
it with better purposes than the many that have been
spent amiss? Or are all the deep-laid schemes of yes-
terday as stubborn in his heart, and as busy in his
brain, as ever ?
In this latter case, there is much to do. Will the
Judge still insist with Hepzibah on the interview with
Clifford ? Will he buy a safe, elderly gentleman’s
horse? Will he persuade the purchaser of the old
Pyncheon property to relinquish the bargain, in his
favor? Will he see his family physician, and obtain
a medicine that shall preserve him, to be an honor and
blessing to his race, until the utmost term of patri-
archal longevity? Will Judge Pyncheon, above all,
make due apologies to that company of honorable
884 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
friends, and satisfy them that his absence from the
festive board was unavoidable, and so fully retrieve
himself in their good opinion that he shall yet be Gov-
ernor of Massachusetts ? And all these great purposes
accomplished, will he walk the streets again, with that
dog-day smile of elaborate benevolence, sultry enough
to tempt flies to come and buzz in it? Or will he,
after the tomb-like seclusion of the past day and night,
go forth a humbled and repentant man, sorrowful,
gentle, seeking no profit, shrinking from worldly honor,
hardly daring to love God, but bold to love his fellow-
man, and to do him what good he may? Will he bear
about with him, —no odious grin of feigned benig-
nity, insolent in its pretence, and loathsome in its false-
hood, — but the tender sadness of a contrite heart,
broken, at last, beneath its own weight of sin? For it
is our belief, whatever show of honor he may have
piled upon it, that there was heavy sin at the base of
this man’s being.
Rise up, Judge Pyncheon! The morning sunshine
glimmers through the foliage, and, beautiful and holy
as it is, shuns not to kindle up your face. Rise up,
thou subtle, worldly, selfish, iron-hearted hypocrite,
and make thy choice whether still to be subtle, worldly,
selfish, iron-hearted, and hypocritical, or to tear these
sins out of thy nature, though they bring the life
blood with them! The Avenger is upon thee! Rise
up, before it be too late !
What! Thou art not stirred by this last appeal?
No, not a jot! And there we see a fly, — one of your
common house-flies, such as are always buzzing on the
window-pane, —: which has smelt out Governor Pyn-
cheon, and alights, now on his forehead, now on his
chin, and now, Heaven help us! is creeping over the
GOVERNOR PYNCHEON. 335
bridge of his nose, towards the would-be chief-magis-
trate’s wide-open eyes! Canst thou not brush the fly
away? Art thou too sluggish? Thou man, that hadst
so many busy projects yesterday! Art thou too weak,
that wast so powerful? Not brush away a fly? Nay,
then, we give thee up!
And hark! the shop-bell rings. After hours like
these latter ones, through which we have borne our
heavy tale, it is good to be made sensible that there is
a living world, and that even this old, lonely mansion
retains some manner of connection with it. We breathe
more freely, emerging from Judge Pyncheon’s pres-
ence into the street before the Seven Gables.
b.4@ D.o
ALICE’S POSIES.
UncLE VENNER, trundling a wheelbarrow, was the
earliest person stirring in the neighborhood the day
after the storm.
Pyncheon Street, in front of the House of the Seven
Gables, was a far pleasanter scene than a by-lane, con-
fined by shabby fences, and bordered with wooden
dwellings of the meaner class, could reasonably be ex-
pected to present. Nature made sweet amends, that
morning, for the five unkindly days which had pre-
ceded it. It would have been enough to live for,
merely to look up at the wide benediction of the sky, or
as much of it as was visible between the houses, genial
once more with sunshine. Every object was agreeable,
whether to be gazed at in the breadth, or examined
more minutely. Such, for example, were the well-
washed pebbles and gravel of the sidewalk; even the
sky-reflecting pools in the centre of the street ; and the
grass, now freshly verdant, that crept along the base
of the fences, on the other side of which, if one peeped
over, was seen the multifarious growth of gardens.
Vegetable productions, of whatever kind, seemed more
than negatively happy, in the juicy warmth and abun-
dance of their life. The Pyncheon Elm, throughout
its great circumference, was all alive, and full of the
morning sun and a sweet-tempered little breeze, which
lingered within this verdant sphere, and set a thousand
ALICE’S POSIES. 337
leafy tongues a-whispering all at once. This aged tree
appeared to have suffered nothing from the gale. It
had kept its boughs unshattered, and its full comple.
ment of leaves ; and the whole in perfect verdure, ex
cept a single branch, that, by the earlier change with
which the elm-tree sometimes prophesies the autumn,
had been transmuted to bright gold. It was like the
golden branch that gained Atneas and the Sibyl ad-
mittance into Hades.
This one mystic branch hung down before the maiu
entrance of the Seven Gables, so nigh the ground that
any passer-by might have stood on tiptoe and plucked
it off. Presented at the door, it would have been a
symbol of his right to enter, and be made acquainted
with all the secrets of the house. So little faith is due
to external appearance, that there was really an invit-
ing aspect over the venerable edifice, conveying an idea
that its history must be a decorous and happy one, and
such as would be delightful fora fireside tale. Its
windows gleamed cheerfully in the slanting sunlight.
The lines and tufts of green moss, here and there,
seemed pledges of familiarity and sisterhood with Na-
ture; as if this human dwelling-place, being of such
oid date, had established its prescriptive title among
primeval oaks and whatever other objects, by virtue of
their long continuance, have acquired a gracious right
to be. A person of imaginative temperament, while
passing by the house, would turn, once and again, and
peruse it well: its many peaks, consenting together in
the clustered chimney ; the deep projection over its
basement-story ; the arched window, imparting a look,
if not of grandeur, yet of antique gentility, to the
broken portal over which it opened; the luxuriance
oi gigantic burdocks, near the threshold; he would
_ VOL. Ir. 22
2
388 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
note all these characteristics, and be conscious of some
thing deeper than he saw. He would conceive the
mansion to have been the residence of the stubborn old
Puritan, Integrity, who, dying in some forgotten gen-
eration, had left a blessing in all its rooms and cham-
bers, the efficacy of which was to be seen in the re-
ligion, honesty, moderate competence, or upright pov-
erty and solid happiness, of his descendants, to this
day.
One object, above all others, would take root in the
amaginative observer’s memory. It was the great tuft
of flowers, — weeds, you would have called them, only
a week ago, — the tuft of crimson-spotted flowers, in
the angle between the two front gables. The old peo-
ple used to give them the name of Alice’s Posies, in
remembrance of fair Alice Pyncheon, who was believed
to have brought their seeds from Italy. They were
flaunting in rich beauty and full bloom to-day, and
seemed, as it were, a mystic expression that something
within the house was consummated.
It was but little after sunrise, when Uncle Venner
made his appearance, as aforesaid, impelling a wheel-
barrow along the street. He was going his matutinal
rounds to collect cabbage-leaves, turnip-tops, potato-
skins, and the miscellaneous refuse of the dinner-pot,
which the thrifty housewives of the neighborhood were
accustomed to put aside, as fit only to feed a pig. Un-
ele Venner’s pig was fed entirely, and kept in prime
order, on these eleemosynary contributions ; insomuch
that the patched philosopher used to promise that, be-
fore retiring to his farm, he would make a feast of the
portly grunter, and invite all his neighbors to partake
of the joints and spare-ribs which they had helped te
fatten. Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon’s housekeeping had
ALICE’S POSIES. 339
49 greatly improved, since Clifford became a membes
of the family, that her share of the banquet would hav
been no lean one; and Uncle Venner, accordingly,
was a good deal disappointed not to find the large
earthen pan, full of fragmentary eatables, that ordina-
rily awaited his coming at the back doorstep of the
Seven Gables.
“J never knew Miss Hepzibah so forgetful before,”
said the patriarch to himself. ‘She must have had a
dinner yesterday, — no question of that! She always
has one, nowadays. So where’s the pot-liquor and
potato-skins, [ ask? Shall I knock, and see if she’s
stirring yet? No, no,—’twon’t do! If little Phebe
was about the house, I should not mind knocking ; but
Miss Hepzibah, likely as not, would scowl down at me
out of the window, and look cross, even if she felt
pleasantly. So, Ill come back at noon.”
With these reflections, the old man was shutting the
gate of the little back-yard. Creaking on its hinges,
however, like every other gate and door about the
premises, the sound reached the ears of the occupant
of the northern gable, one of the windows of which
had a side-view towards the gate.
“Good morning, Uncle Venner!” said the daguerre-
otypist, leaning out of the window. ‘“ Do you hear no-
body stirring ?”’
“Not a soul,” said the man of patches. “ But
that’s no wonder. ’T is barely half an hour past sun-
rise, yet. But I’m really glad to see you, Mr. Hol-
grave! There’s a strange, lonesome look about this
side of the house; so that my heart misgave me, some-
how or other, and I felt as if there was nobody alive
in it. The front of the house looks a good deal cheer-
ier; and Alice’s Posies are blooming there beautifully;
840 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
and if I were a young man, Mr. Holgrave, my sweet
heart should have one of those flowers in her bosom,
though I risked my neck climbing for it! Well, and
did the wind keep you awake last night ?”’
“It did, indeed!” answered «he artist, smiling. “ If
[ were a believer in ghosts, — and I don’t quite know
whether I am or not, —I should have concluded that
all the old Pyncheons were running riot in the lower
rooms, especially in Miss Hepzibah’s part of the house,
But it is very quiet now.”
“Yes, Miss Hepzibah will be apt to over-sleep her-
self, after being disturbed, all night, with the racket,”
said Uncle Venner. “ But it would be odd, now,
would n’t it, if the Judge had taken both his cousins
into the country along with him? I saw him go into
the shop yesterday.”
“ At what hour?” inquired Holgrave.
“Oh, along in the forenoon,” said the old man.
“Well, well! I must go my rounds, and so must my
wheelbarrow. But I’ll be back here at dinner-time ;
for my pig likes a dinner as well as a breakfast. No
meal-time, and no sort of victuals, ever seems to come
amiss to my pig. Good morning to you! And, Mr.
Holgrave, if I were a young man, like you, I’d get
one of Alice’s Posies, and keep it in water till Phoebe
comes back.”
“JT have heard,” said the daguerreotypist, as he
drew in his head, “ that the water of Maule’s well suits
those flowers best.”
Here the conversation ceased, and Uncle Venner
went on his way. For half an hour longer, nothing
disturbed the repose of the Seven Gables; nor was
there any visitor, except a carrier-boy, who, as he
passed the front doorstep, threw down one of his news:
ALICE’S POSIES. 341
vapers; for Hepzibah, of late, had regularly taken it
mh. After a while, there came a fat woman, making
rodigious speed, and stumbling as she ran up the
steps of the shop-door. Her face glowed with fire-
heat, and, it being a pretty warm morning, she bub-
bled and hissed, as it were, as if all a-fry with chim-
ney-warmth, and summer-warmth, and the warmth of
her own corpulent velocity. She tried the shop-door;
it was fast. She tried it again, with so angry a jar
that the bell tinkled angrily back at her.
“The deuce take Old Maid Pyncheon!” muttered
the irascible housewife. “Think of her pretending
to set up a cent-shop, and then lying abed till noon!
These are what she calls gentlefolk’s airs, I suppose!
But Ill either start her ladyship, or break the door
down ! ”
She shook it accordingly, and the bell, having a
spiteful little temper of its own, rang obstreperously,
making its remonstrances heard, — not, indeed, by the
ears for which they were intended, — but by a good
lady on the opposite side of the street. She opened her
window, and addressed the impatient applicant.
“You'll find nobody there, Mrs. Gubbins.”
“But [ must and will find somebody here!” cried
Mrs. Gubbins, inflicting another outrage on the bell.
“YT want a half-pound of pork, to fry some first-rate
flounders, for Mr. Gubbins’s breakfast; and, lady or
not, Old Maid Pyncheon shall get up and serve me
with it !”
“ But do hear reason, Mrs. Gubbins!” responded
the lady opposite. “She, and her brother too, have
both gone to their cousin, Judge Pyncheon’s at his
country-seat. ‘There’s not a soul in the house, but
that young daguerreotype-man that sleeps in the north
§42 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
gable. I saw old Hepzibah and Clifford go away
yesterday ; and a queer couple of ducks they were,
paddling through the mud-puddles! They ’re gone
I'll assure you.”
“And how do you know they’re gone to the
Judge’s?” asked Mrs. Gubbins. “ He’s a rich man;
and there ’s been a quarrel between him and Hepzibah,
this many a day because he won’t give her a living.
That ’s the main reason of her setting up a cent-shop.”
*‘ T know that well enough,” said the neighbor. ‘ But
they ’re gone, —that’s one thing certain. And who
but a biood relation, that could n’t help himself, 1 ask
you, would take in that awful-tempered old maid, and
that dreadful Clifford? That’s it, you may be sure.”
Mrs. Gubbins took her departure, still brimming over
with hot wrath against the absent Hepzibah. For an-
other half-hour, or, perhaps, considerably more, there
was almost as much quiet on the outside of the house
as within. The elm, however, made a pleasant, cheer-
ful, sunny sigh, responsive to the breeze that was else-
where imperceptible ; a swarm of insects buzzed mer-
rily under its drooping shadow, and became specks of
light whenever they darted into the sunshine ; a locust
sang, once or twice, in some inscrutable seclusion of the
tree; and a solitary little bird, with plumage of pale
gold, came and hovered about Alice’s Posies.
At last our small acquaintance, Ned Higgins, trudged
up the street, on his way to school; and happening, for
the first time in a fortnight, to be the possessor of a
cent, he could by no means get past the shop-door of
the Seven Gables. But it would not open. Again and
again, however, and half a dozen other agains, with the
inexorable pertinacity of a child intent upon some ob
ject important to itself, did he renew his efforts for ad
ALICE’S POSIES. 343
mittance. He had, doubtless, set his heart upon an ele
phant; or, possibly, with Hamlet, he meant to eat a
crocodile. In response to his more violent attacks, the
bell gave, now and then, a moderate tinkle, but could
not be stirred into clamor by any exertion of the little
fellow’s childish and tiptoe strength. Holding by the
door-handle, he peeped through a crevice of the cur
tain, and saw that the inner door, communicating with
the passage towards the parlor, was closed.
*‘ Miss Pyncheon!” screamed the child, rapping on
the window-pane, “I want an elephant!”
There being no answer to several repetitions of the
summons, Ned began to grow impatient; and his little
pot of passion quickly boiling over, he picked up a
stone, with a naughty purpose to fling it through the
window; at the same time blubbering and sputtering
with wrath. A man —one of two who happened to
be passing by — caught the urchin’s arm.
“‘ What ’s the trouble, old gentleman?” he asked.
_ “T want old Hepzibah, or Phebe, or any of them!”
answered Ned, sobbing. ‘They won’t open the door;
and I can’t get my elephant!”
“Go to school, you little seamp!” said the man.
“There ’s another cent-shop round the corner. ’T is
very strange, Dixey,” added he to his companion,
“what ’s become of all these Pyncheons! Smith, the
livery-stable keeper, tells me Judge Pyncheon put his
horse up yesterday, to stand till after dinner, and has
not taken him away yet. And one of the Judge’s hired
men has been in, this morning, to make inquiry about
him. He’s a kind of person, they say, that seldom
breaks his habits, or stays out o’ nights.”
‘Oh, he’ll turn up safe enough !” said Dixey. “ And
as for Old Maid Pyncheon, take my word for it, she
344 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
has run in debt, and gone off from her creditors. |
foretold, you remember, the first morning she set uf
shop, that her devilish scowl would frighten away cus
tomers. They could n’t stand it!”
“‘T never thought she ’d make it go,” remarked his
friend. “This business of cent-shops is overdone
among the womenfolks. My wife tried it, and lost five
dollars on her outlay!”
“Poor business!” said Dixey, shaking his head.
“ Poor business ! ”
In the course of the morning, there were various
other attempts to open a communication with the sup-
posed inhabitants of this silent and impenetrable man-
sion. The man of root-beer came, in his neatly painted
wagon, with a couple of dozen full bottles, to be ex-
changed for empty ones; the baker, with a lot of
crackers which Hepzibah had ordered for her retail
custom ; the butcher, with a nice titbit which he fan-
cied she would be eager to secure for Clifford. Had
any observer of these proceedings been aware of the
fearful secret hidden within the house, it would have
affected him with a singular shape and modification of
horror, to see the current of human life making this
small eddy hereabouts, — whirling sticks, straws, and
all such trifles, round and round, right over the black
depth where a dead corpse lay unseen !
The butcher was so much in earnest with his sweet-
bread of lamb, or whatever the dainty might be, that
he tried every accessible door of the Seven Gables,
and at length came round again to the shop, where he
ordinarily found admittance.
“It’s a nice article, and I know the old lady would
jump at it,” said he to himself. ‘She can’t be gone
away! In fifteen years that I have driven my cart
ALICE’S POSIES. 845
hrough Pyncheon Street, I’ve never known her to be
way from home; though often enough, to be sure, a
nan might knock all day without bringing her to the
door. But that was when she’d only herself to pro-
vide for.”
Peeping through the same crevice of the curtain
where, only a little while before, the urchin of ele
phantine appetite had peeped, the butcher beheld the
inner door, not closed, as the child had seen it, but
ajar, and almost wide open. However it might have
happened, it was the fact. Through the passage-way
there was a dark vista into the lighter but still obscure
interior of the parlor. It appeared to the butcher that
he could pretty clearly discern what seemed to be the
stalwart legs, clad in black pantaloons, of a man sit-
ting in a large oaken chair, the back of which con-
cealed all the remainder of his figure. This contempt-
uous tranquillity on the part of an occupant of the
house, in response to the butcher’s indefatigable efforts
to attract notice, so piqued the man of flesh that he
determined to withdraw.
“So,” thought he, ‘“ there sits Old Maid Pyncheon’s
bloody brother, while I’ve been giving myself all this
trouble! Why, if a hog had n’t more manners, I’d
stick him! [I call it demeaning a man’s business to
trade with such people; and from this time forth, if
they want a sausage or an ounce of liver, they shall
run after the cart for it!”
He tossed the titbit angrily into his cart, and drove
off in a pet.
Not a great while afterwards there was a sound of
music turning the corner, and approaching down the
street, with several intervals of silence, and then a re-
aewed and nearer outbreak of brisk melody. A mob
846 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
of children was seen moving onward, or stopping, in
unison with the sound, which appeared to proceed
from the centre of the throng; so that they were
loosely bound together by slender strains of harmony
and drawn along captive; with ever and anon an ac
session of some little fellow in an apron and straw-hat.
capering forth from door or gateway. Arriving unde:
the shadow of the Pyncheon Elm, it proved to be th:
Italian boy, who, with his monkey and show of pup»
pets, had once before played his hurdy-gurdy beneath
the arched window. The pleasant face of Phebe —
and doubtless, too, the liberal recompense which she
had flung him — still dwelt in his remembrance. His
expressive features kindled up, as he recognized the
spot where this trifling incident of his erratic life had
chanced. He entered the neglected yard (now wilder
than ever, with its growth of hog-weed and burdock),
stationed himself on the doorstep of the main entrance,
and, opening his show-box, began to play. ach in-
dividual of the automatic community forthwith set to
work, according to his or her proper vocation: the
monkey, taking off his Highland bonnet, bowed and
scraped to the by-standers most obsequiously, with
ever an observant eye to pick up a stray cent; and
the young foreigner himself, as he turned the crank of
his machine, glanced upward to the arched window,
expectant of a presence that vould make his music the
livelier and sweeter. The throng of children stood
near; some on the sidewalk; some within the yard ; two
or three establishing themselves on the very door-step $
and one squatting on the threshold. Meanwhile, the
locust kept singing in the great old Pyncheon Elm.
‘“‘T don’t hear anybody in the house,” said one of the
children to another. “The monkey won’t pick up any:
thing here.”
ALICE’S POSIES. 347
«There is somebody at home,” affirmed the urchin
gn the threshold. “I heard a step!”
Still the young Italian’s eye turned sidelong up
ward ; and it really seemed as if the touch of genuine,
though slight and almost playful, emotion communi-
cated a juicier sweetness to the dry, mechanical pro-
cess of his minstrelsy. These wanderers are readily re-
sponsive to any natural kindness — be it no more than
a smile, or a word itself not understood, but only a
warmth in it — which befalls them on the roadside of
life. They remember these things, because they are
the little enchantments which, for the instant, — for
the space that reflects a landscape in a soap-bubble, —
build up a home about them. Therefore, the Italian
boy would not be discouraged by the heavy silence
with which the old house seemed resolute to clog the
vivacity of his instrument. He persisted in his melo-
dious appeals; he still looked upward, trusting that his
dark, alien countenance would soon be brightened by
Pheebe’s sunny aspect. Neither could he be willing to
depart without again beholding Clifford, whose sensi-
bility, like Phcebe’s smile, had talked a kind of heart’s
language to the foreigner. He repeated all his music
over and over again, until his auditors were getting
weary. So were the little wooden people in his show-
box, and the monkey most of all. There was no re
sponse, save the singing of the locust.
“No children live in this house,” said a school-boy,
at last. ‘* Nobody lives here but an old maid and an
oldman. You’ll get nothing here! Why don’t you
go along?”
“You fool, you, why do you tell him?” whispered a
shrewd little Yankee, caring nothing for the music, but
# good deal for the cheap rate at which it was had
348 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
“ Let him play as long as he likes! If there’s nobods
to pay him, that’s his own lookout!”
Once more, however, the Italian ran over his round
of melodies. To the common observer — who could
understand nothing of the case, except the music and
the sunshine on the hither side of the door — it might
have been amusing to watch the pertinacity of the
street-performer. Will he succeed at last? Will that
stubborn door be suddenly flung open? Will a group
of joyous children, the young ones of the house, come
dancing, shouting, laughing, into the open air, and
cluster round the show-box, looking with eager merri-
ment at the puppets, and tossing each a copper for
long-tailed Mammon, the monkey, to pick up ?
But to us, who know the inner heart of the Seven
Gables as well as its exterior face, there is a ghastly
effect in this repetition of light popular tunes at its
door-step. It would be an ugly business, indeed, if
Judge Pyncheon (who would not have cared a fig for
Paganini’s fiddle in his most harmonious mood) should
make his appearance at the door, with a bloody shirt-
bosom, and a grim frown on his swarthily white visage,
and motion the foreign vagabond away! Was ever
before such a grinding out of jigs and waltzes, where
nobody was in the cue to dance? Yes, very often.
This contrast, or intermingling of tragedy with mirth,
happens daily, hourly, momently. The gloomy and
desolate old house, deserted of life, and with awful
Death sitting sternly in its solitude, was the emblem
of many a human heart, which, nevertheless, is com.
pelled to hear the thrill and echo of the world’s gayety
around it.
Before the conclusion of the Italian’s performance,
a couple of men happened to be passing, on their way
to dinner.
ALICE’S POSIES. 845
«“ f say, you young French fellow!” called out one
vf them, — “‘come away from that doorstep, and go
somewhere else with your nonsense! The Pyncheon
family live there; and they are in great trouble, just
about this time. They don’t feel musical to-day. It
is reported all over town that Judge Pyncheon, who
pwns the house, has been murdered; and the city
marshal is going to look into the matter. So be off
with you, at once!”
As the Italian shouldered his hurdy-gurdy, he saw
on the doorstep a card, which had been covered, all
the morning, by the newspaper that the carrier had
flung upon it, but was now shuffled into sight. He
picked it up, and perceiving something written in pen-
cil, gave it to the man to read. In fact, it was an en-
graved card of Judge Pyncheon’s with certain pencilled
memoranda on the back, referring to various busi-
nesses which it had been his purpose to transact dur-
ing the preceding day. It formed a prospective epit
ome of the day’s history; only that affairs had not
turned out altogether in accordance with the pro-
gramme. The card must have been lost from the
Judge’s vest-pocket, in his preliminary attempt to gain
access by the main entrance of the house. Though
well soaked with rain, it was still partially legible.
“Look here, Dixey!” cried the man. “This has
something to do with Judge Pyncheon. See! — here’s
his name printed on it; and here, I suppose, is some
of his handwriting.”
“ Let ’s go tothe city marshal with it! ” said Dixey.
‘Tt may give him just the .tew he wants. After all,”
whispered he in his companion’s ear, “it would be no
wonder if the Judge has gone into that door and never
some out again! A certain cousin of his may hav,
850 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
been at his old tricks. And Old Maid Pyncheon hav
ing got herself in debt by the cent-shop,—and the
Judge’s pocket-book being well filled, — and bad blood
amongst them already! Put all these things together
and see what they make! ”
“Hush, hush!” whispered the other. ‘“ It seems
like a sin to be the first to speak of such a thing.
But I think, with you, that we had better go to the
city marshal.”
“ Yes, yes!” said Dixey. ‘“ Well! —I always said
there was something devilish in that woman’s scowl!”
The men wheeled about, accordingly, and retraced
their steps up the street. The Italian, also, made the
best of his way off, with a parting glance up at the
arched window. As for the children, they took to
their heels, with one accord, and scampered as if some
giant or ogre were in pursuit, until, at a good distance
from the house, they stopped as suddenly and simulta
neously as they had set out. Their susceptible nerves
took an indefinite alarm from what they had over.
heard. Looking back at the grotesque peaks and
shadowy angles of the old mansion, they fancied a
gloom diffused about it which no brightness of the sun-
shine could dispel. An imaginary Hepzibah scowled
and shook her finger at them, from several windows
at the same moment. An imaginary Clifford — for
(and it would have deeply wounded him to know it)
he had always been a horror to these small people —
stood behind the unreal Hepzibah, making awful gese
tures, in a faded dressing-gown. Children are even
more apt, if possible, than grown people, to catch the
contagion of a panic terror. For the rest of the day,
the more timid went whole streets about, for the sake
of avoiding the Seven Gables; while the bolder sig-
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A STRAW BONNET
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ALICE’S PUSIES. 351
nalized their hardihood by challenging their comrades
to race past the mansion at full speed.
It could not have been more than half an hour after
the disappearance of the Italian boy, with his unsea-
sonable melodies, when a cab drove down the street.
It stopped beneath the Pyncheon Elm; the cabman
took a trunk, a canvas bag, and a bandbox, from the
top of his vehicle, and deposited them on the doorstep
of the old house ; a straw bonnet, and then the pretty
figure of a young girl, came into view from the inte-
rior of the cab. It was Phebe! Though not alto-
gether so blooming as when she first tripped into our
story, —for, in the few intervening weeks, her ex-
periences had made her graver, more womanly, and
deeper-eyed, in token of a heart that had begun to
suspect its depths, — still there was the quiet glow of
natural sunshine over her. Neither had she forfeited
her proper gift of making things look real, rather than
fantastic, within her sphere. Yet we feel it to be a
questionable venture, even for Phcebe, at this junc-
ture, to cross the threshold of the Seven Gables. Is
her healthful presence potent enough to chase away
the crowd of pale, hideous, and sinful phantoms, that
have gained admittance there since her departure ?
Or will she, likewise, fade, sicken, sadden, and grow
into deformity, and be only another pallid phantom,
to glide noiselessly up and down the stairs, and af-
fright children as she pauses at the window ?
At least, we would gladly forewarn the unsuspecting
girl that there is nothing in human shape or substance
to receive her, unless it be the figure of Judge Pyn-
cheon, who— wretched spectacle that he is, and fright-
ful in our remembrance, since our night-long vigil with
atm | —~ still keeps his place in the oaken chair,
852 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
Phoebe first tried the shop-door. It did not yield to
her hand; and the white curtain, drawn across the
window which formed the upper section of the door,
struck her quick perceptive faculty as something un-
usual. Without making another effort to enter here,
she betook herself to the great portal, under the arched
window. Finding it fastened, she knocked. A re-
verberation came from the emptiness within. She
knocked again, and a third time; and, listening in-
tently, fancied that the floor creaked, as if Hepzibah
were coming, with her ordinary tiptoe movement, to
admit her. But so dead a silence ensued upon this
imaginary sound, that she began to question whether
she might not have mistaken the house, familiar as
she thought herself with its exterior.
Her notice was now attracted by a child’s voice, at
some distance. It appeared to call her name. Look-
ing in the direction whence it proceeded, Phoebe saw
little Ned Higgins, a good way down the street, stamp-
ing, shaking his head violently, making deprecatory
gestures with both hands, and shouting to her at
mouth-wide screech.
“No, no, Phebe?” he screamed. ‘ Don’t you go
in! There’s something wicked there! Don’t—don’t
— don’t go in!”
But, as the little personage could not be induced to
approach near enough to explain himself, Phcebe con-
cluded that he had been frightened, on some of his
visits to the shop, by her cousin Hepzibah; for the
good lady’s manifestations, in truth, ran about an
equal chance of scaring children out of their wits, ar
compelling them to unseemly laughter. Still, she felt
the more, for this incident, how unaccountably silent
and impenetrable the house had become. As her next
ALICE’S POSIES. 358
resort, Phoebe made her way into the garden, where
on so warm and bright a day as the present, she had
little doubt of finding Clifford, and perhaps Hepzibah
also, idling away the noontide in the shadow of the
arbor. Immediately on her entering the garden-gate,
the family of hens half ran, half flew, to meet her;
while a strange grimalkin, which was prowling under
the parlor window, took to his heels, clambered hastily
over the fence, and vanished. The arbor was vacan‘
~ and its floor, table, and circular bench were still damp
and bestrewn with twiys, and the disarray of the past
storm. The growth of the garden seemed to have got
quite out of bounds; the weeds had taken advantage
of Pheebe’s absence, and the long-continued rain, to
run rampant over the flowers and kitchen-vegetables.
Maule’s well had overflowed its stone border, and
made a pool of formidable breadth in that corner of
the garden.
The impression of the whole scene was that of a
spot where no human foot had left its print for many
preceding days, — probably not since Pheebe’s depart-
ure, —for she saw a side-comb of her own under the
table of the arbor, where it must have fallen on the
last afternoon when she and Clifford sat there.
The girl knew that her two relatives were capable
of far greater oddities than that of shutting them-
selves up in their old house, as they appeared now to
have done. Nevertheless, with indistinct misgivings
of something amiss, and apprehensions to which she
could not give shape, she approached the door that
formed the customary communication between the
house and garden. It was secured within, like the
two which she had already tried. She knocked, how-
ever; and immediately, as if the application had been
VOL. III. 23
854 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
expected, the door was drawn open, by a considerable
exertion of some unseen person’s strength, not wide,
but far enough to afford her a side-long entrance. As
Hepzibah, in order not to expose herself to inspection
from without, invariably opened a door in this man
ner, Phcebe necessarily concluded that it was her
cousin who now admitted her.
Without hesitation, therefore, she stepped across
the threshold, and had no sooner entered than the
door closed behind her.
x
THE FLOWER OF EDEN.
Pua@se, coming so suddenly from the sunny day:
light, was altogether bedimmed in such density of
shadow as lurked in most of the passages of the old
house. She was not at first aware by whom she had
been admitted. Before her eyes had adapted them-
selves to the obscurity, a hand grasped her own, with
a firm but gentle and warm pressure, thus imparting
a welcome which caused her heart to leap and thrill
with an indefinable shiver of enjoyment. She felt her-
self drawn along, not towards the parlor, but into a
large and unoccupied apartment, which had formerly
been the grand reception-room of the Seven Gables.
The sunshine came freely into all the uncurtained win-
dows of this room, and fell upon the dusty floor ; so
that Phebe now clearly saw — what, indeed, had been
no secret, after the encounter of a warm hand with
hers— that it was not Hepzibah nor Clifford, but
Holgrave, to whom she owed her reception. The sub-
tile, intuitive communication, or, rather, the vague
and formless impression of something to be told, had
made her yield unresistingly to his impulse. Without
taking away her hand, she looked eagerly in his face,
not quick to forebode evil, but unavoidably conscious
that the state of the family had changed since her de.
parture, and therefore anxious for an explanation.
The artist looked paler than ordinary ; there was a
856 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
thoughtful and severe contraction of his forehead,
tracing a deep, vertical line between the eyebrows.
His smile, however, was full of genuine warmth, and
had in it a joy, by far the most vivid expression that
Pheebe had ever witnessed, shining out of the New
England reserve with which MHolgrave habitually
masked whatever lay near his heart. It was the look
wherewith a man, brooding alone over some fearful
object, in a dreary forest, or illimitable desert, would
recognize the familiar aspect of his dearest friend,
bringing up all the peaceful ideas that belong to home,
and the gentle current of every-day affairs. And yet,
as he felt the necessity of responding to her look of
inquiry, the smile disappeared.
“T ought not to rejoice that you have come, Phe-
be,” said he. “ We meet at a strange moment!”
** What has happened ?”’ she exclaimed. ‘ Why is
the house so deserted? Where are Hepzibah and
Clifford?”
“Gone! I cannot imagine where they are!” an-
swered Holgrave. ‘“ We are alone in the house! ”
“¢ Hepzibah and Clifford gone?” cried Phoebe. “1
vs not possible! And why have you brought me into
this room, instead of the parlor? Ah, something ter-
rible has happened! I must run and see!”
“No, no, Phebe!” said Holgrave, holding her
back. “Itis as I have told you. They are gone, and
I know not whither.
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HER EYES DROP. ‘‘YOU KNOW I LOVE YoU!”
THE FLOWER OF EDEN. 361
himself within the precincts of common life. On the
contrary, he gathered a wild enjoyment, — as it were,
a flower of strange beauty, growing in a desolate spot,
and blossoming in the wind, — such a flower of mo-
mentary happiness he gathered from his present po-
sition. It separated Phoebe and himself from the
world, and bound them to each other, by their exclu-
sive knowledge of Judge Pyncheon’s mysterious death,
and the counsel which they were forced to hold respect-
ing it. The secret, so long as it should continue such,
kept them within the circle of a spell, a solitude in
the midst of men, a remoteness as entire as that of an
island in mid-ocean; once divulged, the ocean would
flow betwixt them, standing on its widely sundered
shores. Meanwhile, all the circumstances of their sit-
uation seemed to draw them together ; they were like
two children who go hand in hand, pressing closely
to one another’s side, through a shadow-haunted pas-
sage. The image of awful Death, which filled the
house, held them united by his stiffened grasp.
These influences hastened the development of emo-
tions that might not otherwise have flowered so. Pos-
sibly, indeed, it had been Holgrave’s purpose to let
them die in their undeveloped germs.
“Why do we delay so?” asked Phebe. ‘“ This se-
eret takes away my breath! Let us throw open the
doors!”
“Tn all our lives there can never come another mo-
ment like this!” said Holgrave. ‘ Phcebe, is it all
terror ?— nothing but terror? Are you conscious of
no joy, as I am, that has made this the only point of
life worth living for ?”
“Tt seems a sin,” replied Phebe, trembling, “to
think of joy at such a time!”
862 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
“ Could you but know, Pheebe, how it was with me
the hour before you came!” exclaimed the artist. “ A
dark, cold, miserable hour! ‘The presence of yonder
dead man threw a great black shadow over everything ;
he made the universe, so far as my perception could
reach, a scene of guilt and of retribution more dread-
ful than the guilt. The sense of it took away my
youth. I never hoped to feel young again! The
world looked strange, wild, evil, hostile ; my past life,
so lonesome and dreary; my future, a shapeless gloom,
which I must mould into gloomy shapes! But, Phebe,
you crossed the threshold ; and hope, warmth, and joy
came in with you! The black moment became at once
a blissful one. It must not pass without the spoken
word. I love you! ”
“‘ Flow can you love a simple girl like me?” asked
Phebe, compelled by his earnestness to speak. ‘ You
have many, many thoughts, with which I should try in
vain to sympathize. And I, —I, too, —I have ten-
dencies with which you would sympathize as little.
That is less matter. But I have not scope enough to
make you happy.”
* You are my only possibility of happiness!” an-
swered Holgrave. “I have no faith in it, except as
you bestow it on me! ”
“ And then —I am afraid!” continued Pheebe,
shrinking towards Holgrave, even while she told him
so frankly the doubts with which he affected her
“You will lead me out of my own quiet path. You
will make me strive to follow you where it is pathless.
I cannot do so. It is not my nature. I shall sink
down and perish !”
“ Ah, Phebe! ” exclaimed Holgrave, with almost a
ugh, and a smile that was burdened with thought
THE FLOWER OF EDEN. 368
* Tt will be far otherwise than as you forebode. The
world owes all its onward impulses to men ill at ease.
The happy man inevitably confines himself within an-
cient limits. I have a presentiment that, hereafter, it
will be my lot to set out trees, to make fences, — per-
haps, even, in due time, to build a house for another
generation, — in a word, to conform myself to laws,
and the peaceful practice of society. Your poise will
be more powerful than any oscillating tendency of
mine.”
“ T would not have it so!” said Phebe, earnestly.
** Do you love me?” asked Holgrave. ‘“ If we love
one another, the moment has room for nothing more.
Let us pause upon it, and be satisfied. Do you love
me, Phcebe ?”
“You look into my heart,” said she, letting her eyes
drop. ‘ You know I love you! ”
And it was in this hour, so full of doubt and awe,
that the one miracle was wrought, without which every
human existence is a blank. The bliss which makes
all things true, beautiful, and holy shone around this
youth and maiden. They were conscious of nothing
sad nor old. They transfigured the earth, and made
it Eden again, and themselves the two first dwellers in
it. ‘The dead man, so close beside them, was forgot-
ten. At such a crisis, there is no death; for immor-
tality is revealed anew, and embraces everything in its
hallowed atmosphere.
But how soon the heavy earth-dream settled down
again |
“ Hark!” whispered Phebe. “Somebody is at the
street-door ! ”
“* Now let us meet the world!” said Holgrave. ‘ No
doubt, the rumor of Judge Pyncheon’s visit to this
864 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
house, and the flight of Hepzibah and Clifford, %
about to lead to the investigation of the premises. We
have no way but to meet it. Let us open the door at
once.”
But, to their surprise, before they could reach the
street-door, — even before they quitted the room iz
which the foregoing interview had passed,—they heard
footsteps in the farther passage. The door, therefore
which they supposed to be securely locked, — whicl
Holgrave, indeed, had seen to be so, and at which
Pheebe had vainly tried to enter, — must have been
opened from without. The sound of footsteps was not
harsh, bold, decided, and intrusive, as the gait of
strangers would naturally be, making authoritative
entrance into a dwelling where they knew themselves
unwelcome. It was feeble, as of persons either weak
or weary; there was the mingled murmur of two
voices, familiar to both the listeners.
“Can it be?” whispered Holgrave.
“Tt is they!” answered Phebe. “ Thank God! —
thank God!”
And then, as if in sympathy with Pheebe’s whis-
pered ejaculation, they heard Hepzibah’s voice, more
distinctly.
“Thank God, my brother, we are at home! ”
“ Well! — Yes! — thank God!” responded Clif
ford. “A dreary home, Hepzibah! But you hav
done well to bring me hither! Stay! That parlor
door is open. I cannot pass by it! Let me go and
rest me in the arbor, where I used, —oh, very long
ago, it seems to me, after what has befallen us, —
where I used to be so happy with little Phebe!”
But the house was not altogether so dreary as Clif
ford imagined it. They had not made many steps, ~
‘“oARK!’’ WHISPERED PHBE. ‘‘SOMEBODY IS AT THE STREET-
DOOR’
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m truth, they were lingering in the entry, with the list-
lessness of an accomplished purpose, uncertain what
to do next, — when Phebe ran to meet them. On be.
holding her, Hepzibah burst into tears. With all her
might, she had staggered onward beneath the burden
of grief and responsibility, until now that it was safe
to fling it down. Indeed, she had not energy to fling
it down, but had ceased to uphold it, and suffered
it to press her to the earth. Clifford appeared the
stronger of the two.
“It is our own little Phoebe! — Ah! and Holgrave
with her,” exclaimed he, with a glance of keen and
delicate insight, and a smile, beautiful, kind, but mel-
ancholy. “I thought of you both, as we came down
the street, and beheld Alice’s Posies in full bloom.
And so the flower of Eden has bloomed, likewise, in
this old, darksome house to-day.”
X XI,
THE DEPARTURE.
‘THE sudden death of so prominent a member of tné
social world as the Honorable Judge Jaffrey Pyncheon
created a sensation (at least, in the circles more im.
mediately connected with the deceased) which had
hardly quite subsided in a fortnight.
It may be remarked, however, that, of all the events
which constitute a person’s biography, there is scarcely
one — none, certainly, of anything like a similar im-
portance —to which the world so easily reconciles it-
self as to his death. In most other cases and contin-
gencies, the individual is present among us, mixed up
with the daily revolution of affairs, and affording a
definite point for observation. At his decease, there
is only a vacancy, and a momentary eddy, — very
small, as compared with the apparent magnitude oi
the ingurgitated object, — and a bubble or two, ascend-
ing out of the black depth and bursting at the surface.
As regarded Judge Pyncheon, it seemed probable, at
first blush, that the mode of his final departure might
give him a larger and longer posthumous vogue than
ordinarily attends the memory of a distinguished man.
But when it came to be understood, on the highest pro-
fessional authority, that the event was a natural, and
-— except for some unimportant particulars, denoting
2, slight idiosyncrasy — by no means an unusual form
of death, the public, with its customary alacrity, pro
THE DEPARTURE. 367
ceeded to forget that he had ever lived. In short, the
honorable Judge was beginning to be a stale subject
before half the county newspapers had found time to
put their columns in mourning, and publish his exceed-
ingly eulogistic obituary.
Nevertheless, creeping darkly through the places
which this excellent person had haunted in his life.
time, there was a hidden stream of private talk, such
as it would have shocked all decency to speak loudly
at the street-corners. It is very singular, how the fact
of a man’s death often seems to give people a truer
idea of his character, whether for good or evil, than
they have ever possessed while he was living and act-
ing among them. Death is so genuine a fact that it
excludes falsehood, or betrays its emptiness; it is a
touchstone that proves the gold, and dishonors the
baser metal. Could the departed, whoever he may be,
return jn a week after his decease, he would almost in-
variably find himself at a higher or lower point than
he had formerly occupied, on the scale of public ap-
preciation. But the talk, or scandal, to which we now
allude, had reference to matters of no less old a date
than the supposed murder, thirty or forty years ago,
of the late Judge Pyncheon’s uncle. The medical
opinion, with regard to his own recent and regretted
decease, had almost entirely obviated the idea that a
murder was committed in the former case. Yet, as
the record showed, there were circumstances irrefraga-
bly indicating that some person had gained access to
old Jaffrey Pyncheon’s private apartments, at or near
the moment of his death. His desk and private draw-
ers, in a room contiguous to his bedchamber, had been
ransacked ; money and valuable articles were missing ;
there was a bloody hand-print on the old man’s liner ;
368 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
and, by a powerfully welded chain of deductive evi
dence, the guilt of the robbery and apparent murder
had been fixed on Clifford, then residing with his uncle
in the House of the Seven Gables.
Whencesoever originating, there now arose a theory
that undertook so to account for these circumstances
as to exclude the idea of Clifford’s agency. Many
persons affirmed that the history and elucidation ot
the facts, long so mysterious, had been obtained by the
daguerreotypist from one of those mesmerical seers,
who, nowadays, so strangely perplex the aspect of hu-
man affairs, and put everybody’s natural vision to the
blush, by the marvels which they see with their eyes
shut.
According to this version of the story, Judge Pyn-
cheon, exemplary as we have portrayed him in our
narrative, was, in his youth, an apparently irreclaim-
able scapegrace. The brutish, the animal instincts,
as is often the case, had been developed earlier than
the intellectual qualities, and the force of character,
for which he was afterwards remarkable. He had
shown himself wild, dissipated, addicted to low pleas-
ures, little short of ruffianly in his propensities, and
recklessly expensive, with no other resources than
the bounty of his uncle. This course of conduct had
alienated the old bachelor’s affection, once strongly
fixed upon him. Now it is averred, — but whether
on authority available in a court of justice, we da
not pretend to have investigated, — that the young
man was tempted by the devil, one night, to search
his uncle’s private drawers, to which he had unsus-
pected means of access. While thus criminally oc-
cupied, he was startled by the opening of the cham.
ber-door. There stood old Jaffrey Pyncheon, in his
THE DEPARTURE. 369
nightclothes! The surprise of such a discovery, his
agitation, alarm, and horror, brought on the crisis oi
a disorder to which the old bachelor had an hered-
itary liability; he seemed to choke with blood, and
fell upon the floor, striking his temple a heavy blow
against the corner of a table. What was to be done?
The old man was surely dead! Assistance would
come too late! What a misfortune, indeed, should it
come too soon, since his reviving consciousness would
bring the recollection of the ignominious offence which
he had beheld his nephew in the very act of com-
mitting !
But he never did revive. With the cool hardihood
that always pertained to him, the young man continued
his search of the drawers, and found a will, of recent
date, in favor of Clifford, — which he destroyed, —
and an older one, in his own favor, which he suffered
to remain. But before retiring, Jaffrey bethought
himself of the evidence, in these ransacked drawers,
that some one had visited the chamber with sinister
purposes. Suspicion, unless averted, might fix upon
the real offender. In the very presence of the dead
man, therefore, he laid a scheme that should free him-
self at the expense of Clifford, his rival, for whose
character he had at once a contempt and a repug-
nance. Itis not probable, be it said, that he acted
with any set purpose of involving Clifford in a charge
of murder. Knowing that his uncle did not die by
violence, it may not have occurred to him, in the hurry
of the crisis, that such an inference might be drawn.
But, when the affair took this darker aspect, Jaffrey’s
previous steps had already pledged him to those which
remained. So craftily had he arranged the circum-
stances, that, at Clifford’s trial, his cousin hardly
VOL. III. 24
870 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
found it necessary to swear to anything false, but only.
to withhold the one decisive explanation, by refraining
to state what he had himself done and witnessed.
Thus Jaffrey Pyncheon’s inward criminality, as re-
garded Clifford, was, indeed, black and damnable;
while its mere outward show and positive commission
was the smallest that could possibly consist with so
great asin. This is just the sort of guilt that a man
of eminent respectability finds it easiest to dispose of.
It was suffered to fade out of sight or be reckoned
a venial matter, in the Honorable Judge Pyncheon’s
long subsequent survey of his own life. He shuffled
it aside, among the forgotten and forgiven frailties of
his youth, and seldom thought of it again.
We leave the Judge to his repose. He could not
be styled fortunate at the hour of death. Unknow-
ingly, he was a childless man, while striving to add
more wealth to his only child’s inheritance. Hardly
a week after his decease, one of the Cunard steamers
brought intelligence of the death, by cholera, of Judge
Pyncheon’s son, just at the point of embarkation for
his native land. By this misfortune Clifford became
rich; so did Hepzibah; so did our little village maid-
en, and, through her, that sworn foe of wealth and
all manner of conservatism, — the wild reformer, —
Holgrave !
It was now far too late in Clifford’s life for the good
opinion of society to be worth the trouble and anguish
of a formal vindication. What he needed was the
love of a very few; not the admiration, or even the
respect, of the unknown many. The latter might prob-
ably have been won for him, had those on whom the
guardianship of his welfare had fallen deemed it ad-
visable to expose Clifford to a miserable resuscitation
THE DEPARTURE. oT1
of past ideas, when the condition of whatever comfort
he might expect lay in the calm of forgetfulness. After
such wrong as he had suffered, there is no repara-
tion. The pitiable mockery of it, which the world
might have been ready enough to offer, coming so
long after the agony had done its utmost work, would
have been fit only to provoke bitterer laughter than
poor Clifford was ever capable of. It is a truth (and
it would be a very sad one but for the higher hopes
which it suggests) that no great mistake, whether
acted or endured, in our mortal sphere, is ever really
set right. Time, the continual vicissitude of circum-
stances, and the invariable inopportunity of death,
render it impossible. If, after long lapse of years,
the right seems to be in our power, we find no niche
to set itin. The better remedy is for the sufferer to
pass on, and leave what he once thought his irrepa-
rable ruin far behind him.
The shock of Judge Pyncheon’s death had a perma-
nently invigorating and ultimately beneficial effect on
Clifford. That strong and ponderous man had been
Clifford’s nightmare. There was no free breath to be
drawn, within the sphere of so malevolent an influence.
The first effect of freedom, as we have witnessed in
Clifford’s aimless flight, was a tremulous exhilaration.
Subsiding from it, he did not sink into his former in-
tellectual apathy. He never, it is true, attained to
nearly the full measure of what might have been his
faculties. But he recovered enough of them partially
to light up his character, to display some outline of
the marvellous grace that was abortive in it, and to
make him the object of no less deep, although less
melancholy interest than heretofore. He was evidently
happy. Could we pause to give another picture of his
872 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
daily life, with all the appliances now at command
to gratify his instinct for the Beautiful, the garden
scenes, that seemed so sweet to him, would look mean
and trivial in comparison.
Very soon after their change of fortune, Clifford,
Hepzibah, and little Pheebe, with the approval of the
artist, concluded to remove from the dismal old House
of the Seven Gables, and take up their abode, for the
present, at the elegant country-seat of the late Judge
Pyncheon. Chanticleer and his family had already
been transported thither, where the two hens had
forthwith begun an indefatigable process of egg-laying,
with an evident design, as a matter of duty and con-
science, to continue their illustrious breed under better
auspices than for a century past. On the day set for
their departure, the principal personages of our story,
including good Uncle Venner, were assembled in the
parlor.
“The country-house is certainly a very fine one, so
far as the plan goes,” observed Holgrave, as the party
were discussing their future arrangements. “But I
wonder that the late Judge — being so opulent, and
with a reasonable prospect of transmitting his wealth
to descendants of his own — should not have felt the
propriety of embodying so excellent a piece of domes-
tic architecture in stone, rather than in wood. Then,
every generation of the family might have altered the
interior, to suit its own taste and convenience; while
the exterior, through the lapse of years, might have
been adding venerableness to its original beauty, and
thus giving that impression of permanence which I
consider essential to the happiness of any one mo-
ment.”
“Why,” cried Phebe, gazing into the artist’s face
THE DEPARTURE. 373
with infinite amazement, “ how wonderfully your ideas
are changed! A house of stone, indeed! It is but
two or three weeks ago that you seemed to wish peo-
ple to live in something as fragile and temporary as a
bird’s-nest ! ”
* Ah, Phebe, I told you how it would be!” said
the artist, with a half-melancholy laugh. ‘ You find
me a conservative already! Little did I think ever to
become one. It is especially unpardonable in this
dwelling of so much hereditary misfortune, and under
the eye of yonder portrait of a model conservative,
who, in that very character, rendered himself so long
the evil destiny of his race.”
“ That picture!” said Clifford, seeming to shrink
from its stern glance. ‘ Whenever I look at it, there
is an old dreamy recollection haunting me, but keep-
ing just beyond the grasp of my mind. Wealth it
seems to say!— boundless wealth !— unimaginable
wealth! I could fancy that, when I was a child, ora
youth, that portrait had spoken, and told me a rich
secret, or had held forth its hand, with the written
record of hidden opulence. But those old matters are
so dim with me, nowadays! What could this dream
have been?”
“ Perhaps I can recall it,” answered Holgrave.
“See! There are a hundred chances to one that no
person, unacquainted with the secret, would ever touch
this spring.”
“ A secret spring!” cried Clifford. ‘“ Ah, I remem-
ber now! I did discover it, one summer afternoon,
when I was idling and dreaming about the house, long
long ago. But the mystery escapes me.”
The artist put his finger on the contrivance to which
he had referred. In former days, the effect would
3874 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
probably have been to cause the picture to start fon
ward. But, in so long a period of concealment, the mar
chinery had been eaten through with rust; so that at
Holgrave’s pressure, the portrait, frame and all, tum-
bled suddenly from its position, and lay face down.
ward on the floor. A recess in the wall was thus
brought to light, in which lay an object so covered
with a century’s dust that it could not immediately be
recognized as a folded sheet of parchment. Holgrave
opened it, and displayed an ancient deed, signed with
the hieroglyphics of several Indian sagamores, and
conveying to Colonel Pyncheon and his heirs, forever,
a vast extent of territory at the Eastward.
“‘ This is the very parchment the attempt to recover
which cost the beautiful Alice Pyncheon her happiness
and life,” said the artist, alluding to his legend. “It
is what the Pyncheons sought in vain, while it was
valuable ; and now that tiey find the treasure, it has
long been worthless.”
‘“¢ Poor Cousin Jaffrey! This is what deceived him,”
exclaimed Hepzibah. ‘ When they were young to-
pether, Clifford probably made a kind of fairy-tale of
this discovery. He was always dreaming hither and
thither about the house, and lighting up its dark cor-
ners with beautiful stories. And poor Jaffrey, who
took hold of everything as if it were real, thought my
brother had found out his uncle’s wealth. He died
with this delusion in his mind! ”
“But,” said Phebe, apart to Holgrave, “ how came
you to know the secret ?”
*“* My dearest Phebe,” said Holgrave, ‘ how will it
please you to assume the name of Maule? As for the
secret, it is the only inheritance that has come dowv
to me from my ancestors. You should have known
ee ee
wae? PSHE =
HOLGRAVE OPENED IT, AND DISPLAYED AN ANCIENT
DEED
ee
THE DEPARTURE. 375
sooner (only that I was afraid of frightening you
away) that, in this long drama of wrong and retribu-
tion, I represent the old wizard, and am probably as
much a wizard as ever he was. The son of the exe-
cuted Matthew Maule, while building this house, took
the opportunity to construct that recess, and hide away
the Indian deed, on which depended the immense land-
claim of the Pyncheons. Thus they bartered their
Eastern territory for Maule’s garden-ground.”
“ And now,” said Uncle Venner, “I suppose their
whole claim is not worth one man’s share in my farm
yonder ! ”
“ Uncle Venner,” cried Phoebe, taking the patched
philosopher’s hand, ‘“ you must never talk any more
about your farm! You shall never go there, as long
as you live! There is a cottage in our new garden, —
the prettiest little yellowish-brown cottage you ever
saw; and the sweetest-looking place, for it looks just
as if it were made of gingerbread, —and we are going
to fit it up and furnish it, on purpose for you. And
you shall do nothing but what you choose, and shall -
be as happy as the day is long, and shall keep Cousin
Clifford in spirits with the wisdom and pleasantness
which is always dropping from your lips! ”
“ Ah! my dear child,” quoth good Uncle Venner,
quite overcome, “if you were to speak to a young
man as you do to an old one, his chance of keeping
his heart another minute would not be worth one of
the buttons on my waistcoat! And—soul alive! —
that great sigh, which you made me heave, has burst
off the very last of them! But, never mind! It was
the happiest sigh I ever did heave; and it seems as if
I must have drawn in a gulp of heavenly breath, to
make it with. Well, well Miss Phebe! They'll
3876 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
miss me in the gardens hereabouts, and round by the
back doors; and Pyncheon Street, I’m afraid, wil
hardly look the same without old Uncle Venner, wha
remembers it with a mowing field on one side, and the
garden of the Seven Gables on the other. But either
I must go to your country-seat, or you must come to
my farm, —that’s one of two things certain; and I
leave you to choose which!”
‘Oh, come with us, by all means, Uncle Venner! ”
said Clifford, who had a remarkable enjoyment of the
old man’s mellow, quiet, and simple spirit. ‘ I want
you always to be within five minutes’ saunter of my
chair. Yeu are the only philosopher I ever knew of
whose wisdom has not a drop of bitter essence at the
bottom |”
“Dear me!” cried Uncle Venner, beginning partly
to realize what manner of man he was. “And yet
folks used to set me down among the simple ones, in
my younger days! But I suppose I am like a Rox-
bury russet,—a great deal the better, the longer I
can be kept. Yes; and my words of wisdom, that
you and Pheebe tell me of, are like the golden dande-
lions, which never grow in the hot months, but may
be seen glistening among the withered grass, and un-
der the dry leaves, sometimes as late as December.
And you are welcome, friends, to my mess of dande
lions, if there were twice as many!”
A plain, but handsome, dark-green barouche haa
now drawn up in front of the ruinous portal of the
old mansion-house. The party came forth, and (with
the exception of good Uncle Venner, who was to fol-
low in a few days) proceeded to take their places.
They were chatting and laughing very pleasantly to
gether ; and—as proves to be often the case, at mo
THE DEPARTURE. 377
ments when we ought to palpitate with sensibility —
Clifford and Hepzibah bade a final farewell to the
abode of their forefathers, with hardly more emotion
than if they had made it their arrangement to return
thither at tea-time. Several children were drawn to
the spot by so unusual a spectacle as the barouche and
pair of gray horses. Recognizing little Ned Higgins
among them, Hepzibah put her hand into her pocket,
and presented the urchin, her earliest and staunchest
customer, with silver enough to people the Domdaniel
cavern of his interior with as various a procession of
quadrupeds as passed into the ark.
Two men were passing, just as the barouche drove
‘off.
“Well, Dixey,” said one of them, “ what do you
think of this? My wife kept a cent-shop three months,
and loss five dollars on her outlay. Old Maid Pyn-
cheon has been in trade just about as long, and rides
off in her carriage with a couple of hundred thousand,
—reckoning her share, and Clifford’s, and Phebe’s,
-——and some say twice as much! If you choose to
call it luck, it is all very well; but if we are to take it
as the will of Providence, why, I can’t exactly fathom
it!”
“ Pretty good business!” quoth the sagacious Dixey,
— “pretty good business ! ”
Maule’s well, all this time, though left in solitude
was throwing up a succession of kaleidoscopic pictures.
in which a gifted eye might have seen foreshadowed
the coming fortunes of Hepzibah and Clifford, and the
descendant of the legendary wizard, and the village
maiden, over whom he had thrown Love’s web of sor-
cery. The Pyncheon Elm, moreover, with what folli-
age the September gale had spared to it, whispered
378 THE HOUSE OP THE SEVEN GABLES.
unintelligible prophecies. And wise Uncle Venner,
passing slowly from the ruinous porch, seemed to hear
a strain of music, and fancied that sweet Alice Pyn-
cheon — after witnessing these deeds, this bygone woe
and this present happiness, of her kindred mortals ~
had given one farewell touch of a spirit’s joy upon
her harpsichord, as she floated heavenward from the
House OF THE SEVEN GABLES !
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UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA
3 0112 001452876