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 departed 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.Phœbe 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 rosebush had evidently been propped 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 amputation of several superfluous or defective limbs.There were also a few species of antique and hereditary flowers, in no very flourishing condition,but scrupulously weeded; as if some person, either out of love or curiosity,had been anxious to bring them to such perfection as they were capable of attaining.The remainder of the garden presented a well-selected assortment 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 promised an early and abundant harvest.
Phœbe 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 Hepzibah’s,who had no taste nor spirits for the lady-like employment of cultivating flowers,and—with her recluse 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,Phœbe 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 peculiar smile,as if glad to perceive that nature, elsewhere 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 it worth their while to come hither,possibly from the range of hives beside some farm-house miles away.How many aerial voyages might they have made, in quest of honey, or honey-laden, betwixt dawn and sunset!Yet, late as it now was, there still arose a pleasant 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 upward 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 solitary chicken. All of them were pure specimens of a breed which had been transmitted down as an heirloom in 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 been ashamed of. Be that as it might,the hens were now scarcely larger than pigeons, and had a queer, rusty, withered aspect,and a gouty kind of movement, and a sleepy and melancholy tone throughout all the variations 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 present representatives, judging by their lugubrious deportment,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 distinguishing mark of the hens was a crest of lamentably scanty growth, in these latter days,but so oddly and wickedly analogous to Hepzibah’s turban,that Phœbe—to the poignant distress of her conscience,but inevitably—was led to fancy a general resemblance betwixt these forlorn bipeds and her respectable 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. Returning,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;while Chanticleer and the ladies of his household regarded 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 guardian angels.
“Here, you odd little chicken!” said Phœbe; “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,—mustered vivacity enough to flutter upward and alight on Phœbe’s shoulder.
“That little fowl pays you a high compliment!” said a voice behind Phœbe.
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 Phœbe was gone in quest of the crumbs,had begun to busy himself with drawing up fresh earth about the roots of the tomatoes.
“The chicken really treats you like an old acquaintance,” continued he in a quiet way,while a smile made his face pleasanter than Phœbe 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 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 Phœbe, 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 understand 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 Pyncheon?”
“My name is Phœbe Pyncheon,” said the girl, with a manner of some reserve;for she was aware that her new acquaintance could be no other than the daguerreotypist,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 person’s care.”
“Yes,” said Holgrave, “I dig, and hoe, and weed, in this black old earth,for the sake of refreshing myself 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 occupation, so far as I have any, is with a lighter material. 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 Phœbe with less reserve; for, in spite of prejudice,her own youthfulness sprang forward to meet his. “I 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.”
“If you would permit me,” said the artist, looking at Phœbe,“I should like to try whether the daguerreotype 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 unamiable;but the very sufficient reason, I fancy, is, because 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 morocco case. Phœbe merely glanced at it, and gave it back.
“I know the face,” she replied; “for its stern eye has been following me about all day.It is my Puritan ancestor, who hangs yonder in the parlor. To be sure,you have 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 your alterations.”
“You would have seen other differences had you looked 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 probably 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, openness of heart,sunny good-humor, and other praiseworthy 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 eminence,and the likeness was intended to be engraved.”
“Well, I don’t wish to see it any more,” observed Phœbe, 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 Phœbe. “It is almost too soft and gentle for a man’s.”
“Is there nothing wild in the eye?” continued Holgrave, so earnestly that it embarrassed Phœbe,as did also the quiet freedom with which he presumed on 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?”
“It is nonsense,” said Phœbe a little impatiently,“for us to talk about a picture which you have never seen. You mistake it for some other. A crime, indeed!Since you are a friend of my cousin Hepzibah’s, you should ask her to show you the picture.”
“It will suit my purpose still better to see the original,” 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.”
Phœbe was on the point of retreating, but turned back, with some hesitation;for she did not exactly comprehend his manner, although, on better observation,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 proceeded to say,rather as if the garden were his own than a place to which he was admitted merely by Hepzibah’s courtesy.
“If agreeable to you,” he observed, “it would give me pleasure to turn over these flowers,and those ancient 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 Hepzibah’s table.So we will be fellow-laborers, somewhat on the community system.”
Silently, and rather surprised at her own compliance,Phœbe accordingly betook herself to weeding a flower-bed,but busied herself still more with cogitations 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 conversation had generally been playful,the impression left on her mind was that of gravity, and, except as his youth modified it,almost sternness. She rebelled, 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 buildings, 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 beanstalk. Good-night, Miss Phœbe 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 picture of the flower and its wearer.” He retired towards his own solitary gable,but turned his head, on reaching the door, and called to Phœbe,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 Phœbe. “Is that it with the rim of mossy stones?I have no thought of drinking there,—but why not?”
“Oh,” rejoined the daguerreotypist, “because, like an old lady’s cup of tea, it is water bewitched!”
He vanished; and Phœbe, lingering a moment, saw a glimmering light,and then the steady beam of a lamp, in a chamber of the gable.On returning into 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 sideways towards a corner.
“Shall I light a lamp, Cousin Hepzibah?” she asked.
“Do, if you please, my dear child,” answered Hepzibah.“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 wonderfully 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, Phœbe 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 utterance of feeling and sympathy, rather than of the intellect.So vague was it, that its impression or echo in Phœbe’s mind was that of unreality.She concluded that she must have mistaken some other sound for that of the human voice;or else that it was altogether 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 imperfectly visible.In the remoter parts of the room, however, its walls being so ill adapted to reflect light,there was nearly the same obscurity as before.
“Cousin,” said Phœbe, “did you speak to me just now?”
“No, child!” replied Hepzibah.
Fewer words than before, but with the same mysterious 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 Phœbe.The girl sat silently for a 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 indefinable reluctance,“is there not some one in the room with us?”
“Phœbe, 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, 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 Phœbe,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 so much love in this desolate old heart,that it could afford to well over thus abundantly?
“Goodnight, cousin,” said Phœbe, strangely affected 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 footstep 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, Phœbe heard that strange, vague murmur,which might be likened to an indistinct shadow of human utterance.
VII. The Guest
When Phœbe awoke,—which she did with the early twittering of the conjugal couple of robins in the 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 close 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 certainly have been the one now in Hepzibah’s hand; and the kitchen, in such an event,would forthwith have streamed with the fragrance of venison, turkeys, capons, larded partridges,puddings, cakes, and Christmas pies, in all manner of elaborate mixture and concoction.It was a cookery book, full of innumerable old fashions of English dishes,and illustrated with engravings, 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 culinary 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.
Soon, with a deep sigh, she put aside the savory volume, and inquired of Phœbe whether old Speckle,as she called one of the hens, had laid an egg the preceding day. Phœbe 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 summoned 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 Phœbe 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-girl, 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 possessing a richness, and, if rightly prepared, a delicacy,unequalled by any other mode of breakfast-cake. Hepzibah 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 opportunity to nibble.
Hepzibah had no natural turn for cookery, and, to say the truth,had fairly incurred her present meagreness 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, therefore, was quite an heroic test of sentiment.It was touching, and positively worthy of tears (if Phœbe, the only spectator,except the rats and ghosts aforesaid, 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 minuteness of attention as if,—we know not how to express it otherwise,—as if her own heart were on the gridiron,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 material delights of the morning meal are capable of being fully enjoyed,without any very grievous reproaches, whether gastric or conscientious,for yielding 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 mirthfulness,and oftentimes a vivid truth, which more rarely find their way into the elaborate intercourse of dinner.Hepzibah’s small and ancient table, supported 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 parties.The vapor of the broiled fish arose like incense from the shrine of a barbarian idol,while the fragrance of the Mocha might have gratified the nostrils of a tutelary Lar,or whatever power has scope over a modern breakfast-table.Phœbe’s Indian cakes were the sweetest offering of all,—in their hue befitting 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 Phœbe 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-panelled 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, Phœbe gathered some roses and a few other flowers,possessing 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 Phœbe,—but what other guest did her cousin look for?
Throughout this preparation there had been a constant tremor in Hepzibah’s frame;an agitation so powerful that Phœbe 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 Phœbe in them,and kiss her cheek as tenderly as ever her mother had;she appeared 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 breathing-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 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 our poor Hepzibah,in a moral sense, with a kind of pale, dim rainbow. Towards Phœbe, 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 pardon,and the next instant renew the just-forgiven injury.
At last, when their mutual labor was all finished, she took Phœbe’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, Phœbe, 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 Phœbe, with a sunny and tearful sympathy. “What is it that moves you so?”
“Hush!hush!He is coming!” whispered Hepzibah, hastily wiping her eyes. “Let him see you first, Phœbe;for you are young and rosy, and cannot help letting a smile break out whether or no. He always 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 Phœbe,the old gentlewoman stepped on tiptoe about the room,making such arrangements as suggested themselves at the crisis.