But, as the little personage could not be induced to approach near enough to explain himself, Phœbe concluded 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, or 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 resort, Phœbe 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 vacant, and its floor, table, and circular bench were still damp, and bestrewn with twigs 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 Phœbe’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 Phœbe’s departure,—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 themselves 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, however; and immediately, as if the application had been 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 sidelong entrance. As Hepzibah, in order not to expose herself to inspection from without, invariably opened a door in this manner, Phœbe 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.
XX. The Flower of Eden
Phœbe, coming so suddenly from the sunny daylight,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 themselves 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 herself 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 windows of this room, and fell upon the dusty floor; so that Phœbe 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 subtile, 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 departure, and therefore anxious for an explanation.
The artist looked paler than ordinary;there was a 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 Phœbe had ever witnessed,shining out of the New England reserve with which Holgrave 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.
“I ought not to rejoice that you have come, Phœbe,” 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!” answered Holgrave. “We are alone in the house!”
“Hepzibah and Clifford gone?” cried Phœbe. “It is not possible!And why have you brought me into this room,instead of the parlor?Ah, something terrible has happened!I must run and see!”
“No, no, Phœbe!” said Holgrave holding her back.“It is as I have told you. They are gone,and I know not whither. A terrible event has,indeed happened, but not to them, nor,as I undoubtingly believe,through any agency of theirs.If I read your character rightly, Phœbe,” he continued,fixing his eyes on hers with stern anxiety,intermixed with tenderness, “gentle as you are,and seeming to have your sphere among common things,you yet possess remarkable strength.You have wonderful poise, and a faculty which,when tested, will prove itself capable of dealing with matters that fall far out of the ordinary rule.”
“Oh, no, I am very weak!” replied Phœbe, trembling.“But tell me what has happened!”
“You are strong!” persisted Holgrave. “You must be both strong and wise;for I am all astray, and need your counsel.It may be you can suggest the one right thing to do!”
“Tell me!—tell me!” said Phœbe, all in a tremble. “It oppresses,—it terrifies me,—this mystery!Anything else I can bear!”
The artist hesitated.Notwithstanding what he had just said,and most sincerely,in regard to the self-balancing power with which Phœbe impressed him,it still seemed almost wicked to bring the awful secret of yesterday to her knowledge. It was like dragging a hideous shape of death into the cleanly and cheerful space before a household fire, where it would present all the uglier aspect, amid the decorousness of everything about it. Yet it could not be concealed from her; she must needs know it.
“Phœbe,” said he, “do you remember this?” He put into her hand a daguerreotype;the same that he had shown her at their first interview in the garden,and which so strikingly brought out the hard and relentless traits of the original.
“What has this to do with Hepzibah and Clifford?” asked Phœbe, with impatient surprise that Holgrave should so trifle with her at such a moment. “It is Judge Pyncheon!You have shown it to me before!”
“But here is the same face,taken within this half-hour” said the artist,presenting her with another miniature.“I had just finished it when I heard you at the door.”
“This is death!” shuddered Phœbe, turning very pale.“Judge Pyncheon dead!”