VII The Guest
WHEN Phoebe awoke,--which she did with the early twittering of theconjugal couple of robins in the pear-tree,--she heard movements belowstairs, and, hastening down, found Hepzibah already in the kitchen.She stood by a window, holding a book in close contiguity to her nose,as if with the hope of gaining an olfactory acquaintance with itscontents, since her imperfect vision made it not very easy to readthem. If any volume could have manifested its essential wisdom in themode suggested, it would certainly have been the one now in Hepzibah'shand; and the kitchen, in such an event, would forthwith have streamedwith the fragrance of venison, turkeys, capons, larded partridges,puddings, cakes, and Christmas pies, in all manner of elaborate mixtureand concoction. It was a cookery book, full of innumerable oldfashions of English dishes, and illustrated with engravings, whichrepresented the arrangements of the table at such banquets as it mighthave befitted a nobleman to give in the great hall of his castle. And,amid these rich and potent devices of the culinary art (not one ofwhich, probably, had been tested, within the memory of any man'sgrandfather), poor Hepzibah was seeking for some nimble little titbit,which, with what skill she had, and such materials as were at hand, shemight toss up for breakfast.
Soon, with a deep sigh, she put aside the savory volume, and inquiredof Phoebe whether old Speckle, as she called one of the hens, had laidan egg the preceding day. Phoebe ran to see, but returned without theexpected treasure in her hand. At that instant, however, the blast ofa fish-dealer's conch was heard, announcing his approach along thestreet. With energetic raps at the shop-window, Hepzibah summoned theman in, and made purchase of what he warranted as the finest mackerelin his cart, and as fat a one as ever he felt with his finger so earlyin the season. Requesting Phoebe to roast some coffee,--which shecasually observed was the real Mocha, and so long kept that each of thesmall berries ought to be worth its weight in gold,--the maiden ladyheaped fuel into the vast receptacle of the ancient fireplace in suchquantity as soon to drive the lingering dusk out of the kitchen. Thecountry-girl, willing to give her utmost assistance, proposed to makean Indian cake, after her mother's peculiar method, of easymanufacture, and which she could vouch for as possessing a richness,and, if rightly prepared, a delicacy, unequalled by any other mode ofbreakfast-cake. Hepzibah gladly assenting, the kitchen was soon thescene of savory preparation. Perchance, amid their proper element ofsmoke, which eddied forth from the ill-constructed chimney, the ghostsof departed cook-maids looked wonderingly on, or peeped down the greatbreadth of the flue, despising the simplicity of the projected meal,yet ineffectually pining to thrust their shadowy hands into eachinchoate dish. The half-starved rats, at any rate, stole visibly outof their hiding-places, and sat on their hind-legs, snuffing the fumyatmosphere, and wistfully awaiting an opportunity to nibble.
Hepzibah had no natural turn for cookery, and, to say the truth, hadfairly incurred her present meagreness by often choosing to go withouther dinner rather than be attendant on the rotation of the spit, orebullition of the pot. Her zeal over the fire, therefore, was quite anheroic test of sentiment. It was touching, and positively worthy oftears (if Phoebe, the only spectator, except the rats and ghostsaforesaid, had not been better employed than in shedding them), to seeher rake out a bed of fresh and glowing coals, and proceed to broil themackerel. Her usually pale cheeks were all ablaze with heat and hurry.She watched the fish with as much tender care and minuteness ofattention as if,--we know not how to express it otherwise,--as if herown heart were on the gridiron, and her immortal happiness wereinvolved in its being done precisely to a turn!
Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly arrangedand well-provisioned breakfast-table. We come to it freshly, in thedewy youth of the day, and when our spiritual and sensual elements arein better accord than at a later period; so that the material delightsof the morning meal are capable of being fully enjoyed, without anyvery grievous reproaches, whether gastric or conscientious, foryielding even a trifle overmuch to the animal department of our nature.The thoughts, too, that run around the ring of familiar guests have apiquancy and mirthfulness, and oftentimes a vivid truth, which morerarely find their way into the elaborate intercourse of dinner.Hepzibah's small and ancient table, supported on its slender andgraceful legs, and covered with a cloth of the richest damask, lookedworthy to be the scene and centre of one of the cheerfullest ofparties. The vapor of the broiled fish arose like incense from theshrine of a barbarian idol, while the fragrance of the Mocha might havegratified the nostrils of a tutelary Lar, or whatever power has scopeover a modern breakfast-table. Phoebe's Indian cakes were the sweetestoffering of all,--in their hue befitting the rustic altars of theinnocent and golden age,--or, so brightly yellow were they, resemblingsome of the bread which was changed to glistening gold when Midas triedto eat it. The butter must not be forgotten,--butter which Phoebeherself had churned, in her own rural home, and brought it to hercousin as a propitiatory gift,--smelling of clover-blossoms, anddiffusing the charm of pastoral scenery through the dark-panelledparlor. All this, with the quaint gorgeousness of the old china cupsand saucers, and the crested spoons, and a silver cream-jug (Hepzibah'sonly other article of plate, and shaped like the rudest porringer), setout a board at which the stateliest of old Colonel Pyncheon's guestsneed not have scorned to take his place. But the Puritan's facescowled down out of the picture, as if nothing on the table pleased hisappetite.
By way of contributing what grace she could, Phoebe gathered some rosesand a few other flowers, possessing either scent or beauty, andarranged them in a glass pitcher, which, having long ago lost itshandle, was so much the fitter for a flower-vase. The earlysunshine--as fresh as that which peeped into Eve's bower while she andAdam sat at breakfast there--came twinkling through the branches of thepear-tree, and fell quite across the table. All was now ready. Therewere chairs and plates for three. A chair and plate for Hepzibah,--thesame for Phoebe,--but what other guest did her cousin look for?
Throughout this preparation there had been a constant tremor inHepzibah's frame; an agitation so powerful that Phoebe could see thequivering of her gaunt shadow, as thrown by the firelight on thekitchen wall, or by the sunshine on the parlor floor. Itsmanifestations were so various, and agreed so little with one another,that the girl knew not what to make of it. Sometimes it seemed anecstasy of delight and happiness. At such moments, Hepzibah wouldfling out her arms, and infold Phoebe in them, and kiss her cheek astenderly as ever her mother had; she appeared to do so by an inevitableimpulse, and as if her bosom were oppressed with tenderness, of whichshe must needs pour out a little, in order to gain breathing-room. Thenext moment, without any visible cause for the change, her unwonted joyshrank back, appalled, as it were, and clothed itself in mourning; orit ran and hid itself, so to speak, in the dungeon of her heart, whereit had long lain chained, while a cold, spectral sorrow took the placeof the imprisoned joy, that was afraid to be enfranchised,--a sorrow asblack as that was bright. She often broke into a little, 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 ourpoor Hepzibah, in a moral sense, with a kind of pale, dim rainbow.Towards Phoebe, as we have said, she was affectionate,--far tendererthan ever before, in their brief acquaintance, except for that one kisson the preceding night,--yet with a continually recurring pettishnessand irritability. She would speak sharply to her; then, throwing asideall the starched reserve of her ordinary manner, ask pardon, and thenext instant renew the just-forgiven injury.
At last, when their mutual labor was all finished, she took Phoebe'shand in her own trembling one.
"Bear with me, my dear child," she cried; "for truly my heart is fullto the brim! Bear with me; for I love you, Phoebe, though I speak soroughly. Think nothing of it, dearest child! By and by, I shall bekind, and only kind!"
"My dearest cousin,
cannot you tell me what has happened?" askedPhoebe, with a sunny and tearful sympathy. "What is it that moves youso?"
"Hush! hush! He is coming!" whispered Hepzibah, hastily wiping hereyes. "Let him see you first, Phoebe; for you are young and rosy, andcannot help letting a smile break out whether or no. He always likedbright 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 thatthe shadow may fall across his side of the table! But let there be agood deal of sunshine, too; for he never was fond of gloom, as somepeople are. He has had but little sunshine in his life,--poorClifford,--and, oh, what a black shadow. Poor, poor Clifford!"
Thus murmuring in an undertone, as if speaking rather to her own heartthan to Phoebe, the old gentlewoman 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. Phoeberecognized it as the same which had passed upward, as through herdream, in the night-time. The approaching guest, whoever it might be,appeared to pause at the head of the staircase; he paused twice orthrice in the descent; he paused again at the foot. Each time, thedelay seemed to be without purpose, but rather from a forgetfulness ofthe purpose which had set him in motion, or as if the person's feetcame involuntarily to a stand-still because the motive-power was toofeeble to sustain his progress. Finally, he made a long pause at thethreshold of the parlor. He took hold of the knob of the door; thenloosened his grasp without opening it. Hepzibah, her handsconvulsively clasped, stood gazing at the entrance.
"Dear Cousin Hepzibah, pray don't look so!" said Phoebe, trembling; forher cousin's emotion, and this mysteriously reluctant step, made herfeel 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, benothing but cheerful!"
The final pause at the threshold proved so long, that Hepzibah, unableto endure the suspense, rushed forward, threw open the door, and led inthe stranger by the hand. At the first glance, Phoebe saw an elderlypersonage, in an old-fashioned dressing-gown of faded damask, andwearing his gray or almost white hair of an unusual length. It quiteovershadowed his forehead, except when he thrust it back, and staredvaguely about the room. After a very brief inspection of his face, itwas easy to conceive that his footstep must necessarily be such an oneas that which, slowly and with as indefinite an aim as a child's firstjourney across a floor, had just brought him hitherward. Yet therewere no tokens that his physical strength might not have sufficed for afree and determined gait. It was the spirit of the man that could notwalk. The expression of his countenance--while, notwithstanding it hadthe light of reason in it--seemed to waver, and glimmer, and nearly todie away, and feebly to recover itself again. It was like a flamewhich we see twinkling among half-extinguished embers; we gaze at itmore intently than if it were a positive blaze, gushing vividlyupward,--more intently, but with a certain impatience, as if it oughteither to kindle itself into satisfactory splendor, or be at onceextinguished.
For an instant after entering the room, the guest stood still,retaining Hepzibah's hand instinctively, as a child does that of thegrown person who guides it. He saw Phoebe, however, and caught anillumination from her youthful and pleasant aspect, which, indeed,threw a cheerfulness about the parlor, like the circle of reflectedbrilliancy around the glass vase of flowers that was standing in thesunshine. He made a salutation, or, to speak nearer the truth, anill-defined, abortive attempt at curtsy. Imperfect as it was, however,it conveyed an idea, or, at least, gave a hint, of indescribable grace,such as no practised art of external manners could have attained. Itwas too slight to seize upon at the instant; yet, as recollectedafterwards, seemed to transfigure the whole man.
"Dear Clifford," said Hepzibah, in the tone with which one soothes awayward infant, "this is our cousin Phoebe,--little PhoebePyncheon,--Arthur's only child, you know. She has come from thecountry to stay with us awhile; for our old house has grown to be verylonely now."
"Phoebe--Phoebe Pyncheon?--Phoebe?" repeated the guest, with a strange,sluggish, ill-defined utterance. "Arthur's child! Ah, I forget! Nomatter. She is very welcome!"
"Come, dear Clifford, take this chair," said Hepzibah, leading him tohis place. "Pray, Phoebe, lower the curtain a very little more. Nowlet us begin breakfast."
The guest seated himself in the place assigned him, and lookedstrangely around. He was evidently trying to grapple with the presentscene, and bring it home to his mind with a more satisfactorydistinctness. He desired to be certain, at least, that he was here, inthe low-studded, cross-beamed, oaken-panelled parlor, and not in someother spot, which had stereotyped itself into his senses. But theeffort was too great to be sustained with more than a fragmentarysuccess. Continually, as we may express it, he faded away out of hisplace; or, in other words, his mind and consciousness took theirdeparture, leaving his wasted, gray, and melancholy figure--asubstantial emptiness, a material ghost--to occupy his seat at table.Again, after a blank moment, there would be a flickering taper-gleam inhis eyeballs. It betokened that his spiritual part had returned, andwas doing its best to kindle the heart's household fire, and light upintellectual lamps in the dark and ruinous mansion, where it was doomedto be a forlorn inhabitant.
At one of these moments of less torpid, yet still imperfect animation,Phoebe became convinced of what she had at first rejected as tooextravagant and startling an idea. She saw that the person before hermust have been the original of the beautiful miniature in her cousinHepzibah's possession. Indeed, with a feminine eye for costume, shehad at once identified the damask dressing-gown, which enveloped him,as the same in figure, material, and fashion, with that so elaboratelyrepresented in the picture. This old, faded garment, with all itspristine brilliancy extinct, seemed, in some indescribable way, totranslate the wearer's untold misfortune, and make it perceptible tothe beholder's eye. It was the better to be discerned, by thisexterior type, how worn and old were the soul's more immediategarments; that form and countenance, the beauty and grace of which hadalmost transcended the skill of the most exquisite of artists. Itcould the more adequately be known that the soul of the man must havesuffered some miserable wrong, from its earthly experience. There heseemed to sit, with a dim veil of decay and ruin betwixt him and theworld, but through which, at flitting intervals, might be caught thesame expression, so refined, so softly imaginative, whichMalbone--venturing a happy touch, with suspended breath--had impartedto the miniature! There had been something so innately characteristicin this look, that all the dusky years, and the burden of unfitcalamity which had fallen upon him, did not suffice utterly to destroyit.
Hepzibah had now poured out a cup of deliciously fragrant coffee, andpresented it to her guest. As his eyes met hers, he seemed bewilderedand disquieted.
"Is this you, Hepzibah?" he murmured sadly; then, more apart, andperhaps 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 hernear-sightedness, and the fret of inward discomfort, had rendered sohabitual that any vehemence of mood invariably evoked it. But at theindistinct murmur of his words her whole face grew tender, and evenlovely, with sorrowful affection; the harshness of her featuresdisappeared, as it were, behind the warm and misty glow.
"Angry!" she repeated; "angry with you, Clifford!"
Her tone, as she uttered the exclamation, had a plaintive and reallyexquisite melody thrilling through it, yet without subduing a certainsomething which an obtuse auditor might still have mistaken forasperity. It was as if some transcendent musician should draw asoul-thrilling sweetness out of a cracked instrument, which makes itsphysical imperfection heard in the midst of ethereal harmony,--so deepwas the sensibility that found an organ in Hepzibah's voice!
"There is nothing but love here, Clifford," she added,--"nothing butlov
e! You are at home!"
The guest responded to her tone by a smile, which did not half light uphis face. Feeble as it was, however, and gone in a moment, it had acharm of wonderful beauty. It was followed by a coarser expression; orone that had the effect of coarseness on the fine mould and outline ofhis countenance, because there was nothing intellectual to temper it.It was a look of appetite. He ate food with what might almost betermed voracity; and seemed to forget himself, Hepzibah, the younggirl, and everything else around him, in the sensual enjoyment whichthe bountifully spread table afforded. In his natural system, thoughhigh-wrought and delicately refined, a sensibility to the delights ofthe palate was probably inherent. It would have been kept in check,however, and even converted into an accomplishment, and one of thethousand modes of intellectual culture, had his more etherealcharacteristics retained their vigor. But as it existed now, theeffect was painful and made Phoebe droop her eyes.
In a little while the guest became sensible of the fragrance of the yetuntasted coffee. He quaffed it eagerly. The subtle essence acted onhim like a charmed draught, and caused the opaque substance of hisanimal being to grow transparent, or, at least, translucent; so that aspiritual gleam was transmitted through it, with a clearer lustre thanhitherto.
"More, more!" he cried, with nervous haste in his utterance, as ifanxious to retain his grasp of what sought to escape him. "This iswhat I need! Give me more!"
Under this delicate and powerful influence he sat more erect, andlooked out from his eyes with a glance that took note of what it restedon. It was not so much that his expression grew more intellectual;this, though it had its share, was not the most peculiar effect.Neither was what we call the moral nature so forcibly awakened as topresent itself in remarkable prominence. But a certain fine temper ofbeing was now not brought out in full relief, but changeably andimperfectly betrayed, of which it was the function to deal with allbeautiful and enjoyable things. In a character where it should existas the chief attribute, it would bestow on its possessor an exquisitetaste, and an enviable susceptibility of happiness. Beauty would behis life; his aspirations would all tend toward it; and, allowing hisframe and physical organs to be in consonance, his own developmentswould likewise be beautiful. Such a man should have nothing to do withsorrow; nothing with strife; nothing with the martyrdom which, in aninfinite variety of shapes, awaits those who have the heart, and will,and conscience, to fight a battle with the world. To these heroictempers, such martyrdom is the richest meed in the world's gift. Tothe individual before us, it could only be a grief, intense in dueproportion with the severity of the infliction. He had no right to bea martyr; and, beholding him so fit to be happy and so feeble for allother purposes, a generous, strong, and noble spirit would, methinks,have been ready to sacrifice what little enjoyment it might haveplanned for itself,--it would have flung down the hopes, so paltry inits regard,--if thereby the wintry blasts of our rude sphere might cometempered to such a man.
Not to speak it harshly or scornfully, it seemed Clifford's nature tobe a Sybarite. It was perceptible, even there, in the dark old parlor,in the inevitable polarity with which his eyes were attracted towardsthe quivering play of sunbeams through the shadowy foliage. It wasseen in his appreciating notice of the vase of flowers, the scent ofwhich he inhaled with a zest almost peculiar to a physical organizationso refined that spiritual ingredients are moulded in with it. It wasbetrayed in the unconscious smile with which he regarded Phoebe, whosefresh and maidenly figure was both sunshine and flowers,--theiressence, in a prettier and more agreeable mode of manifestation. Notless evident was this love and necessity for the Beautiful, in theinstinctive caution with which, even so soon, his eyes turned away fromhis hostess, and wandered to any quarter rather than come back. It wasHepzibah's misfortune,--not Clifford's fault. How could he,--so yellowas she was, so wrinkled, so sad of mien, with that odd uncouthness of aturban on her head, and that most perverse of scowls contorting herbrow,--how could he love to gaze at her? But, did he owe her noaffection for so much as she had silently given? He owed her nothing.A nature like Clifford's can contract no debts of that kind. It is--wesay it without censure, nor in diminution of the claim which itindefeasibly possesses on beings of another mould--it is always selfishin its essence; and we must give it leave to be so, and heap up ourheroic and disinterested love upon it so much the more, without arecompense. Poor Hepzibah knew this truth, or, at least, acted on theinstinct of it. So long estranged from what was lovely as Clifford hadbeen, she rejoiced--rejoiced, though with a present sigh, and a secretpurpose to shed tears in her own chamber that he had brighter objectsnow before his eyes than her aged and uncomely features. They neverpossessed a charm; and if they had, the canker of her grief for himwould long since have destroyed it.
The guest leaned back in his chair. Mingled in his countenance with adreamy delight, there was a troubled look of effort and unrest. He wasseeking to make himself more fully sensible of the scene around him;or, perhaps, dreading it to be a dream, or a play of imagination, wasvexing the fair moment with a struggle for some added brilliancy andmore durable illusion.
"How pleasant!--How delightful!" he murmured, but not as if addressingany one. "Will it last? How balmy the atmosphere through that openwindow! An open window! How beautiful that play of sunshine! Thoseflowers, how very fragrant! That young girl's face, how cheerful, howblooming!--a flower with the dew on it, and sunbeams in the dew-drops!Ah! this must be all a dream! A dream! A dream! But it has quitehidden the four stone walls!"
Then his face darkened, as if the shadow of a cavern or a dungeon hadcome over it; there was no more light in its expression than might havecome through the iron grates of a prison-window--still lessening, too,as if he were sinking farther into the depths. Phoebe (being of thatquickness and activity of temperament that she seldom long refrainedfrom taking a part, and generally a good one, in what was goingforward) now felt herself moved to address the stranger.
"Here is a new kind of rose, which I found this morning in the garden,"said she, choosing a small crimson one from among the flowers in thevase. "There will be but five or six on the bush this season. This isthe most perfect of them all; not a speck of blight or mildew in it.And how sweet it is!--sweet like no other rose! One can never forgetthat scent!"
"Ah!--let me see!--let me hold it!" cried the guest, eagerly seizingthe flower, which, by the spell peculiar to remembered odors, broughtinnumerable associations along with the fragrance that it exhaled."Thank you! This has done me good. I remember how I used to prize thisflower,--long ago, I suppose, very long ago!--or was it only yesterday?It makes me feel young again! Am I young? Either this remembrance issingularly distinct, or this consciousness strangely dim! But how kindof the fair young girl! Thank you! Thank you!"
The favorable excitement derived from this little crimson rose affordedClifford the brightest moment which he enjoyed at the breakfast-table.It might have lasted longer, but that his eyes happened, soonafterwards, to rest on the face of the old Puritan, who, out of hisdingy frame and lustreless canvas, was looking down on the scene like aghost, and a most ill-tempered and ungenial one. The guest made animpatient gesture of the hand, and addressed Hepzibah with what mighteasily be recognized as the licensed irritability of a petted member ofthe family.
"Hepzibah!--Hepzibah!" cried he with no little force and distinctness,"why do you keep that odious picture on the wall? Yes, yes!--that isprecisely your taste! I have told you, a thousand times, that it wasthe evil genius of the house!--my evil genius particularly! Take itdown, at once!"
"Dear Clifford," said Hepzibah sadly, "you know it cannot be!"
"Then, at all events," continued he, still speaking with some energy,"pray cover it with a crimson curtain, broad enough to hang in folds,and with a golden border and tassels. I cannot bear it! It must notstare me in the face!"
"Yes, dear Clifford, the picture shall be covered," said Hepzibahsoothingly. "There is a crimson curtain in a trunk above stairs,
--alittle faded and moth-eaten, I'm afraid,--but Phoebe and I will dowonders with it."
"This very day, remember" said he; and then added, in a low,self-communing voice, "Why should we live in this dismal house at all?Why not go to the South of France?--to Italy?--Paris, Naples, Venice,Rome? Hepzibah will say we have not the means. A droll idea that!"
He smiled to himself, and threw a glance of fine sarcastic meaningtowards Hepzibah.
But the several moods of feeling, faintly as they were marked, throughwhich he had passed, occurring in so brief an interval of time, hadevidently wearied the stranger. He was probably accustomed to a sadmonotony of life, not so much flowing in a stream, however sluggish, asstagnating in a pool around his feet. A slumberous veil diffuseditself over his countenance, and had an effect, morally speaking, onits naturally delicate and elegant outline, like that which a broodingmist, with no sunshine in it, throws over the features of a landscape.He appeared to become grosser,--almost cloddish. If aught of interestor beauty--even ruined beauty--had heretofore been visible in this man,the beholder might now begin to doubt it, and to accuse his ownimagination of deluding him with whatever grace had flickered over thatvisage, and whatever exquisite lustre had gleamed in those filmy eyes.
Before he had quite sunken away, however, the sharp and peevish tinkleof the shop-bell made itself audible. Striking most disagreeably onClifford's auditory organs and the characteristic sensibility of hisnerves, it caused him to start upright out of his chair.
"Good heavens, Hepzibah! what horrible disturbance have we now in thehouse?" cried he, wreaking his resentful impatience--as a matter ofcourse, and a custom of old--on the one person in the world that lovedhim. "I have never heard such a hateful clamor! Why do you permit it?In the name of all dissonance, what can it be?"
It was very remarkable into what prominent relief--even as if a dimpicture should leap suddenly from its canvas--Clifford's character wasthrown by this apparently trifling annoyance. The secret was, that anindividual of his temper can always be pricked more acutely through hissense of the beautiful and harmonious than through his heart. It iseven possible--for similar cases have often happened--that if Clifford,in his foregoing life, had enjoyed the means of cultivating his tasteto its utmost perfectibility, that subtile attribute might, before thisperiod, have completely eaten out or filed away his affections. Shallwe venture to pronounce, therefore, that his long and black calamitymay not have had a redeeming drop of mercy at the bottom?
"Dear Clifford, I wish I could keep the sound from your ears," saidHepzibah, patiently, but reddening with a painful suffusion of shame."It is very disagreeable even to me. But, do you know, Clifford, Ihave something to tell you? This ugly noise,--pray run, Phoebe, and seewho is there!--this naughty little tinkle is nothing but our shop-bell!"
"Shop-bell!" repeated Clifford, with a bewildered stare.
"Yes, our shop-bell," said Hepzibah, a certain natural dignity, mingledwith deep emotion, now asserting itself in her manner. "For you mustknow, dearest Clifford, that we are very poor. And there was no otherresource, but either to accept assistance from a hand that I would pushaside (and so would you!) were it to offer bread when we were dying forit,--no help, save from him, or else to earn our subsistence with myown hands! Alone, I might have been content to starve. But you were tobe given back to me! Do you think, then, dear Clifford," added she,with a wretched smile, "that I have brought an irretrievable disgraceon the old house, by opening a little shop in the front gable? Ourgreat-great-grandfather did the same, when there was far less need! Areyou ashamed of me?"
"Shame! Disgrace! Do you speak these words to me, Hepzibah?" saidClifford,--not angrily, however; for when a man's spirit has beenthoroughly crushed, he may be peevish at small offences, but neverresentful of great ones. So he spoke with only a grieved emotion. "Itwas not kind to say so, Hepzibah! What shame can befall me now?"
And then the unnerved man--he that had been born for enjoyment, but hadmet a doom so very wretched--burst into a woman's passion of tears. Itwas but of brief continuance, however; soon leaving him in a quiescent,and, to judge by his countenance, not an uncomfortable state. Fromthis mood, too, he partially rallied for an instant, and looked atHepzibah with a smile, the keen, half-derisory purport of which was apuzzle to her.
"Are we so very poor, Hepzibah?" said he.
Finally, his chair being deep and softly cushioned, Clifford fellasleep. Hearing the more regular rise and fall of his breath (which,however, even then, instead of being strong and full, had a feeble kindof tremor, corresponding with the lack of vigor in hischaracter),--hearing these tokens of settled slumber, Hepzibah seizedthe opportunity to peruse his face more attentively than she had yetdared to do. Her heart melted away in tears; her profoundest spiritsent forth a moaning voice, low, gentle, but inexpressibly sad. Inthis depth of grief and pity she felt that there was no irreverence ingazing at his altered, aged, faded, ruined face. But no sooner was shea little relieved than her conscience smote her for gazing curiously athim, now that he was so changed; and, turning hastily away, Hepzibahlet down the curtain over the sunny window, and left Clifford toslumber there.
The House of the Seven Gables Page 9