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 Phœbe 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 adventurer 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 communication between her own part of the house and the gable where the wandering daguerreotypist had now established his temporary home. He was not there. A book, face downward, on the table, a roll of manuscript, a half-written sheet, a newspaper, some tools of his present occupation, and several rejected daguerreotypes, 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 flickered 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 heartsinking 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 happen 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 to need from one another; and it was now her punishment, 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 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, brooding 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 one 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 lovebeam 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 reluctance 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 wondered at. She had struck with the entire force of her heart’s vibration,communicating, by some subtile magnetism, her own terror to the summons.Clifford would turn his face to the pillow, and cover his head beneath the bedclothes,like a startled child at midnight. She knocked a third time, three regular strokes, gentle,but perfectly distinct, and with meaning 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. “Shall I come in?”
A silence.
Two or three times, and more, Hepzibah repeated his 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 circular 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 against the fence. This could not be, however; he was not there; for,while Hepzibah was looking, a 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 ordinary 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 detected 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 returning 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 silently down the staircase, while the Judge and Hepzibah 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 wandering through the city,attracting all eyes, and everybody’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 him 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 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 upon 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 inclement 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 moment,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 overbalance of his body,he might be forever beyond his kinsman’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 brother. Help, Jaffrey Pyncheon!Some harm will 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 distinguish the Judge’s figure.She was certain, however, that she saw him sitting in the ancestral arm-chair,near the centre of the floor, with his face somewhat 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 composure of his temperament, retained the position into which accident had thrown him.
“I 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 himself be startled from an easy-chair with haste ill-befitting 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 alacrity.
“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, indeed, that,through all the glimmering indistinctness of the passageway, Hepzibah could discern his features,as if a light fell on them alone. Their vivid and wild expression seemed likewise sufficient to illuminate 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 summoned, 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 could she otherwise account for the Judge’s quiescent mood than by supposing him craftily on the watch,while Clifford developed these symptoms of a distracted 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?” answered Clifford, with a still wilder gesture, pointing into the room which he had just quitted. “As for us, Hepzibah, we can dance now!—we can sing, laugh, play, do what we will!The weight is gone, Hepzibah!It is gone off this weary old world, and we may be as light-hearted as little Phœbe 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 herself past Clifford,and disappeared into the room; but almost immediately returned, with a cry 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 Hepzibah.
“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 cousin 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 constantly 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,stagger aimlessly along, or follow implicitly whatever guidance may befall them,even if it be a child’s. No matter how preposterous or insane, a purpose is a Godsend to them.Hepzibah 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,—affrighted at the fatality which seemed to pursue her brother,—stupefied by the dim, thick, stifling atmosphere of dread which filled the house as with a death-smell,and obliterated all definiteness of thought,—she yielded without a question, and on the instant,to 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 faculty,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 to 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 happened. 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 laughed, 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 it no longer!I must wake up now!”
But it came not, that awakening moment!It came not, even when, just before they left the house, Clifford stole to the parlor-door,and made a parting obeisance 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, come; make haste!or he will start up, like Giant Despair in pursuit of Christian and Hopeful, and catch 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 own name, which,with somewhat of his characteristic grace about the forms 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 Hepzibah’s few remaining teeth chattering in her head,as she and Clifford faced 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 atmosphere was all so comfortless!Such, indeed, is the impression which it makes on every new adventurer,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 the wretched consciousness of being adrift. She had lost the faculty of self-guidance;but, in view of the difficulties around her, felt it hardly worth an effort to regain it, and was, moreover, incapable of making one.
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,indeed, 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 to a joyous piece of music, played with wild vivacity,but upon a disordered instrument. As the cracked jarring note might always be heard,and as it jarred loudest amidst 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 concentrated 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 accumulation 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 movement and human life, there was the hasty rattle of a cab or coach, its driver protected by a waterproof cap over his head and shoulders; the forlorn figure of an old man, who seemed to have crept out of some subterranean sewer, and was stooping along the kennel, and poking the wet rubbish with a stick, in quest of rusty nails; a merchant or two, at the door of the post-office, together with an editor and a miscellaneous politician, awaiting a dilatory mail; a few visages of retired 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 carrying 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 the streets without making themselves obnoxious 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 herself, as it were,as if in the hope of making people suppose that here was only a cloak and hood,threadbare and woefully faded, taking an airing in the midst of the storm, without any wearer!
As they went on, the feeling of indistinctness and unreality kept dimly hovering round about her,and so diffusing itself into her system that one of her hands 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 I 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 floor 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 locomotive was fretting and fuming,like a steed impatient 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 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 laughing 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. Everything 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 of 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 company 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,on opposite sides of the car, found huge amusement in 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 Hepzibah of her deserted shop,—appeared at each momentary 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 onward!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 received 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 Jaffrey 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!Let you and I be happy!As happy as that youth 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 frozen pain in it,—“happy. He is mad already; and,if I could once feel myself broad awake, I should go mad too!”
If a fixed idea be madness, she was perhaps not remote 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 passing 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 phlegmatically 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 singular rapidity of intelligence.He had been startled into manhood and intellectual vigor; or, at least,into a condition that resembled them, though it might be both diseased and transitory.
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. “And how far?”
“As far as that will carry us,” said Clifford. “It 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 car,looking at Clifford and his companion, as if curious 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.”
“I 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 railroad—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?”