 Chapter 6 of The House of the Seven Gables The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Chapter 6. Malls Well After an early tea, the little country girl strayed into the garden. The enclosure had formally been very extensive, but was now contracted within small compass, and hemmed about, partly by high wooden fences, and partly by the outbuildings of houses that stood on another street. In its center was a grass-plat, surrounding a ruinous little structure which showed just enough of its original design to indicate that it had once been a summer house. A hop vine, springing from last year's root, was beginning to clamber over it, but would be long in covering the roof with its green mantle. Three of the seven gables either fronted or looked sideways, with a dark solemnity of aspect, down into the garden. The black, rich soil had fed itself with the decay of a long period of time, such as fallen leaves, the petals of flowers, and the stalks and seed, vessels of vagrant and lawless plants, more useful after their death, than ever while flaunting in the sun. The evil of these 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. Phoebe saw, however, that their growth must have been checked by a degree of careful labor, bestowed daily and systematically on the garden. The white double rose-bush had evidently been propped up anew against the house since the commencement of the season, and a pear-tree and three damson trees, which, except a row of current 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 escalant 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. Phoebe wondered whose care and toil it could have been that had planted these vegetables and kept the soil so clean and orderly. Not surely her cousin Hepsibus, who had no taste nor spirits for the lady-like employment of cultivating flowers, and with her reckless 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, Phoebe found an unexpected charm in this little nook of grass and foliage and aristocratic flowers, amplifying 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 dusky 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 farmhouse 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 an alienable 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-coupe of very reverent 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 Pinchon 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. Improved of the authenticity of this legendary renown, Hephseba 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 Hepsibus' turban that Phoebe, 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 pails 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, side-long 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 tutillary sprite, or banshee, although winged and feathered differently from most other guardian angels. Here, you odd little chicken, said Phoebe, 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 Phoebe's shoulder. "'That little foul pays you a high compliment,' said a voice behind Phoebe. 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 when she had emerged. He held a hoe in his hand, and while Phoebe 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 Phoebe at first fancied it. "'These 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. They'll never honour me with any familiarity, though hardly a day passes without my bringing them food. Miss Hepsiba, I suppose, will interweave the fact with their other traditions and set it down that the fowls know you to be a pinch on.' "'The secret is,' said Phoebe, smiling, that I have learned how to talk with hens and chickens.' "'Ah, but these hens,' answered the young man, these hens of aristocratic lineage would scorn to understand the vulgar language of a barnyard fowl. I prefer to think, and so would Miss Hepsiba, that they recognise the family tone. For you are a pinch on?' "'My name is Phoebe Pinchon,' 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 Hepsiba'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 Hepsiba 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 Phoebe with less reserve, for, in spite of her 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 Phoebe, 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 nearest 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, so 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 commonize, a very different expression. It would gratify me to have your judgment on this character.' He exhibited at the daguerreotype miniature in a Morocco case. Phoebe 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 parlour. To be sure, you have found some way of copying the portrait without its black velvet cap and grey 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 Hullgrave, 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 all I know, to his most intimate friends, my exceedingly pleasant countenance, indicative of benevolence, openness of heart, sunny good humour, 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 with all 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 Phoebe, turning away her eyes. It is certainly very like the old portrait. But my cousin Hephseba 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 will 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 Phoebe. "'Is almost too soft and gentle for a man's.' "'Is there nothing wild in the eye?' continued Hullgrave, so earnestly that it embarrassed Phoebe, 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 Phoebe 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 Hephseba's, you should ask her to show you the picture.' "'It will suit my purpose still better to see the original,' replied the daguerreotypeist Cooley. "'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.' Phoebe 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 features seemed rather to be lack of ceremony than any approach to offensive rudeness. There was an odd kind of authority, too, in which he now proceeded to say, rather as if the garden were his own than a place to which he was admitted merely by Hephseba'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 Hephseba's table. So we will be fellow-laborers, somewhat on the community-system.' Silently, and rather surprised at her own compliance, Phoebe accordingly betook herself to weeding a flower bed, but busied herself still more with the 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 have more practice 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 Phoebe Pinchon. Any bright day, if you will put one of those rose buds 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 Phoebe, with a tone which certainly had laughter in it, yet which seemed to be more than half an earnest. Be careful not to drink it, Maul's well, said he, neither drink nor beige their face in it. Maul's well, answered Phoebe. 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 Phoebe, lingering a moment, saw a glimmering light, and then the steady beam of a lamp in a chamber of the gable. On returning into Hepsiba's apartment of the house, she found the low-studded parlour 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 Hepsiba? she asked. Do, if you please, my dear child? answered Hepsiba. But put it on the table in the corner of the passage. My eyes are weak, and I can seldom bear the lamp light on them. What an instrument is the human voice! How wonderfully responsive to every emotion of the human soul! In Hepsiba's tone, at that moment, there was a certain rich depth and moisture, as if the words, common place as they were, had been steeped in the warmth of her heart. Again, while lighting the lamp in the kitchen, Phoebe fancied that her cousin spoke to her. In a moment, Cousin! answered the girl. These matches just glimmer and go out. But instead of a response from Hepsiba, 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 Phoebe'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. Hepsiba'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 Phoebe. Did you speak to me just now? No, child! replied Hepsiba. 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 Hepsiba'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 Phoebe. The girl sat silently for a moment. But soon, her sense is 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 someone in the room with us? Phoebe, my dear little girl! said Hepsiba, after a moment's pause. You were up at times, and have been busy all day. Pray go to bed, for I am sure you must need rest. I will sit in the parlour 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 stepped forward, kissed Phoebe and pressed her to her heart, which beat against the girl's bosom with a strong, high and tumultuous swell. How came there to be so much love in this desolate old heart, that it could afford to well over thus abundantly? Good night, cousin! said Phoebe, strangely affected by Hepsiba'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 the 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 Hepsiba, with a hush through it, was going up along with the footsteps, and again, responsive to her cousin's voice, Phoebe heard that strange, vague murmur which might be likened to an instinctive shadow of human utterance. CHAPTER VII When Phoebe 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 Hepsiba 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 old factory 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 Hepsiba'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 Hepsiba was seeking for some nimble little tit-bit, 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 Phoebe whether old speckle, as she called one of the hens, had laid an egg the preceding day. Phoebe ran to sea, but returned without the expected treasure in her hand. At that instant, however, the blast of a fish-dealer's caulk was heard, announcing his approach along the street. With energetic wraps at the shop window, Hepsiba 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 Phoebe 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 unequaled by any other mode of breakfast cake. Hepsiba 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 ghost of departed cook-maids looked wonderingly on, or peeped down the great breath of the flu, despising the simplicity of the projected meal, yet ineffectually pining to thrust their shadowy hands into each incoate dish. The half-starved rats, at any rate, stole visibly out of their hiding-places, and sat on their hind legs snuffing the fuming atmosphere, and wistfully awaiting an opportunity to nibble. Hepsiba had no natural turn for cookery, and, to say the truth, had fairly incurred her present meagerness by often choosing to go without her dinner, rather than be intended on the rotation of the spit, or abolition 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 Phoebe 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 do not know 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 over much to the animal department of our nature. The thoughts, too, that run around the ring of familiar guests have a pickancy and mirthfulness, and oftentimes a vivid truth, which more rarely find their way into the elaborate intercourse of dinner. The leaps of a 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 center of one of the cheerfulest 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 tutillary lar, or whatever power has scope over a modern breakfast-table. Phoebe's Indian cakes were the sweetest offering of all, in their hue befitting the rustic alters of the innocent and golden age, or, so brightly yellow were they, resembling some of the bread which was changed to glistening gold when minus tried to eat it. The butter must not be forgotten. Butter which Phoebe 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-paneled parlor. All this, with the quaint gorgeousness of the old china cups and saucers, and the crusted spoons, and a silver cream-jug, Hepha's only other article of plate, and shaped like the rudest poringer, set out a board at which the statelious of old Colonel Pinchon's guests did 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, Phoebe 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 Hepha, the same for Phoebe. But what other guests did her cousin look for? Throughout this preparation there had been a constant tremor in Hepha's frame, an agitation so powerful that Phoebe could see the quivering of her gaunt shadow as thrown by the fire-light 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 Hepha would fling out her arms and enfold Phoebe 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 unwanted 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 lane 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 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 in tears came both at once, and surrounded our poor Hepheba, in a moral sense, with a kind of pale, dim rainbow. Towards Phoebe, 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 labour was all finished, she took Phoebe'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, Phoebe, though I speak so roughly. Think nothing of it, dearest child. By and by I shall be kind, and only kind.' "'My dearest cousin, can you not tell me what has happened?' asked Phoebe with a sunny and tearful sympathy. What is it that moves you so?' "'Hush! Hush! He's coming,' whispered Hepheba, hastily wiping her eyes. "'Let him see you first, Phoebe, for you are young and rosy, and cannot help letting a smile break out whether or no. He 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 was never 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 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 passageway, above stairs. Phoebe recognized it as the same which had passed upward as through her dream in the night time. The approaching guest, whoever it might be, appeared to pause at the head of the staircase. He paused twice or thrice in the descent. He paused again at the foot. Each time the delay seemed to be without purpose, but rather from a forgetfulness of the purpose which had set him in motion. Or as if the person's feet came involuntarily to a standstill, because the motive power was too feeble to sustain his progress. Finally he made a long pause at the threshold of the parlor. He took hold of the knob of the door, then loosened his grasp without opening it. Hepsiba, her hands convulsively clasped, stood gazing at the entrance. Dear cousin Hepsiba, pray don't look so, said Phoebe, trembling, for her cousin's emotion and this mysteriously reluctant step made her feel as if a ghost were coming into the room. You really frighten me. Is something awful going to happen? whispered Hepsiba. Be cheerful. Whatever may happen, be nothing but cheerful. The final pause at the threshold proved so long that Hepsiba, unable to endure the suspense, rushed forward, threw open the door and led in the stranger by the hand. At the first glance Phoebe saw an elderly personage in an old-fashioned dressing-ground of faded damask and wearing his gray or almost white hair of an unusual length. It quite overshadowed his forehead except when he thrust it back and stared vaguely about the room. After a very brief inspection of his face it was easy to conceive that his footstep must necessarily be such and one as that which, slowly and with as indefinite a name as a child's first journey across a floor, had just brought him hitherward. Yet there was no tokens that his physical strength might not have sufficed for a free and determined gait. It was the spirit of the man that could not walk. The expression of his countenance, while notwithstanding it had the light of reason in it, seemed to waver and glimmer and nearly to die away and feebly to recover itself again. It was like a flame which we see twinkling among half-extinguished embers. We gaze at it more intently than if it were a positive blaze gushing vividly upward, more intently but with a certain impatience as if it ought either to kindle itself into satisfactory splendor or be at once extinguished. For an instant after entering the room the guest stood still, retaining Hepsiba's hand indistinctively, as a child as that of the grown person who guides it. He saw Phoebe, however, and caught an illumination from her youthful and pleasant aspect which, indeed, to a cheerfulness about the parlor, liked the circle of reflected brilliancy around the glass vase of flowers that was standing in the sunshine. He made a salutation, or, to speak nearer the truth, an ill-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. It was too slight to seize upon at the instant, yet, as recollected afterwards, seemed to transfigure the whole man. Dear Clifford, said Hepsiba, in the tone with which one soothes a wayward infant, this is our cousin Phoebe, little Phoebe Pinschan, Arthur's only child, you know. She has come from the country to stay with us a while, for our old house has grown to be very lonely now. Phoebe, Phoebe Pinschan, Phoebe, repeated the guest with a strange, sluggish, ill-defined utterance, Arthur's child. Ah, I forget. No matter. She is very welcome. Come, dear Clifford, take this chair, said Hepsiba, leading him to his place. Pray, Phoebe, lower the curtain a very little more. Now let us begin breakfast. The guest seated himself in the place assigned him, and looked strangely around. He was evidently trying to grapple with the present scene, and bring it home to his mind with a more satisfactory distinctness. He desired to be certain, at least, that he was here, in the low-studded, cross-beamed, oaken-panel parlor, and not in some other spot which had stereotyped itself into his senses. But the effort was too great to be sustained with more than a fragmentary success. Continually, as we may express it, he faded away out of his place. Or, in other words, his mind and consciousness took their departure, leaving his wasted gray and melancholy figure, a substantial emptiness, a material ghost, to occupy his seat at table. Again, after a blank moment, there would be a flickering taper gleam in his eyeballs. It betoken that his spiritual part had returned, and was doing its best to kindle the heart's household fire, and light up intellectual lamps in the dark and ruinous mansion, where it was doomed to be a forlorn inhabitant. At one of these moments of less torpid, yet still imperfect animation, Phoebe became convinced of what she had first rejected as too extravagant and startling an idea. She saw that the person before her must have been the original of the beautiful miniature in her cousin Hepsiba's possession. Indeed, with a feminine eye for costume, she had at once identified the damask dressing gown which enveloped him as the same in figure, material, and fashion with that so elaborately represented in the picture. This old, faded garment, with all its pristine brilliantly extinct, seemed in some indescribable way to translate the wearer's untold misfortune and make it perceptible to the beholder's eye. It was the better to be discerned by this exterior type how worn and old were the soul's more immediate garments, that form and countenance, the beauty and grace of which had almost transcended the skill of the most exquisite of artists. It could the more adequately be known that the soul of the man must have suffered some miserable wrong from its earthly experience. There he seemed to sit with a dim veil of decay and ruin betwixt him in the world, but through which, at flitting intervals, might be caught the same expression so refined, so softly imaginative, which malbone, venturing a happy touch with suspended breath, had imparted to the miniature. There had been something so innately characteristic in this look that all the dusky years and the burden of unfit calamity which had fallen upon him did not suffice utterly to destroy it. Hepsiba had now poured out a cup of deliciously fragrant coffee and presented it to her guests. As his eyes met hers he seemed bewildered and disquieted. Is this you, Hepsiba? He murmured sadly, then more apart and perhaps unconscious that he was overheard. How changed? How changed? And is she angry with me? Why does she bend her brow so? Perhaps, Hepsiba, it was that wretched scowl which time in her nearsightedness and the fret of inward discomfort had rendered so habitual that any vehemence of mood invariably evoked it. But at the indistinct murmur of his words her whole face grew tender and even lovely with sorrowful affection. The harshness of her features disappeared, 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 really exquisite melody thrilling through it, yet without subduing a certain something which an obtuse auditor might still have mistaken for asperity. It was as if some transcendent musician should draw a soul-thrilling sweetness out of a cracked instrument, which makes its physical imperfection heard in the midst of ethereal harmony. So deep was the sensibility that found an organ in Hepsiba's voice. There is nothing but love here, Clifford! she added. Nothing but love! You are at home! The guest responded to her tone by a smile which did not half light up his face. Feeble as it was, however, and gone in a moment, it had a charm of wonderful beauty. It was followed by a coarser expression, or one that had the effect of coarseness on the fine mould and outline of his countenance, because there was nothing intellectual to temper it. It was a look of appetite. He ate food with what might almost be termed veracity, and seemed to forget himself, Hepsiba, the young girl, and everything else around him, in the sensual enjoyment which the bountifully spread table afforded. In his natural system, though high-wrought and delicately refined, a sensibility to the delights of the pallet was probably inherent. It would have been kept in check, however, and even converted into an accomplishment, and one of the thousand modes of intellectual culture had his more ethereal characteristics retain their vigor. But as it existed now, the effect was painful, and made Phoebe droop her eyes. In a little while the guest became sensible of the fragrance of the yet untasted coffee. He coiffed it eagerly. The subtle essence acted on him like a charmed draught, and caused the opaque substance of his animal being to grow transparent, or at least translucent, so that a spiritual gleam was transmitted through it, with a clearer luster than hitherto. More! More! he cried, with nervous haste in his utterance, as if anxious to retain his grasp of what sought to escape him. This is what I need. Give me more! Under this delicate and powerful influence he sat more erect, and looked out from his eyes with a glance that took note of what it rested on. It was not 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 to present itself in remarkable prominence. But a certain fine temper of being was now not brought out in full relief, but changeably and imperfectly betrayed, of which it was the function to deal with all beautiful and enjoyable things. In a character where it should exist as the chief attribute, it would bestow on its possessor an exquisite taste, and an enviable susceptibility of happiness. Beauty would be his life, his aspirations would all tend toward it, and, allowing his frame in physical organs to be in consonance, his own developments would likewise be beautiful. Such a man should have nothing to do with sorrow, nothing with strife, nothing with the martyrdom which, in an infinite variety of shapes, awaits those who have the heart and will and conscience to fight a battle with the world. To these heroic tempers such martyrdom is the richest mead in the world's gift. To the individual before us it could only be a grief, intense and due proportion with the severity of the inflection. He had no right to be a martyr. And, beholding him so fit to be happy, and so feeble for all other purposes, a generous, strong, and noble spirit would, me thinks, have been ready to sacrifice what little enjoyment it might have planned for itself. It would have flung down the hopes so paltry in its regard, if whereby the wintry blast of our rude sphere might have come tempered to such a man. Not to speak it harshly or scornfully, it seemed Clifford's nature to be a siborite. It was perceptible, even there, in the dark old parlor, and the inevitable polarity with which his eyes were attracted towards the quivering play of sunbeams through the shadowy foliage. It was seen in his appreciating notice of the vase of flowers, the scent of which he inhaled with a zest almost peculiar to a physical organization so refined that spiritual ingredients are molded in with it. It was betrayed in the unconscious smile with which he regarded Phoebe, whose fresh and maidenly figure was both sunshine and flowers, their essence in a prettier and more agreeable mode of manifestation. Not less evident was this love and necessity for the beautiful, in the instinctive caution with which, even so soon, his eyes turned away from his hostess and wandered to any quarter rather than come back. It was Hepsibos' misfortune, not Clifford's fault. How could he, so yellow as she was, so wrinkled, so sad of mean, with that odd uncouthness of a turban on her head, and that most perverse of scowls contorting her brow? How could he love to gaze at her? But did he owe her no affection for so much as she had silently given? He owed her nothing. A nature like Clifford's can contract no debts of that kind. It is, we say it without censure, nor in diminution of the claim which it indefeasibly possesses on beings of another mold. It is always selfish in its essence, and we must give it leave to be so, and heap up our heroic and disinterested love upon it so much the more, without a recompense. Poor Hepsibos knew this truth, or at least acted on the instinct of it. So long a strange from what was lovely, as Clifford had been, she rejoiced. Rejoiced, though with a present sigh, and a secret purpose to shed tears in her own chamber that he had brighter objects now before his eyes than her aged and uncomely features. They never possessed a charm, and if they had, the canker of her grief for him would long since have destroyed it. The guest leaned back in his chair. Mingled in his countenance with a dreamy delight, there was a troubled look of effort and unrest. He was seeking to make himself more fully sensible of the scene around him, or perhaps dreading it to be a dream, or a play of imagination, was vexing the fair moment with a struggle from some added brilliancy and more durable illusion. How pleasant! How delightful! He murmured, but not as if addressing any one. Will it last? How ball me the atmosphere through that open window! An open window! How beautiful that play of sunshine! Those flowers! How very fragrant! That young girl's face! How cheerful! How blooming! A flower with a dew on it, and sunbeams in the dew drops! Ha-ha! This must be all a dream, a dream, a dream! But it is quite hidden the four stone walls. Then his face darkened, as if the shadow of a cavern or a dungeon had come over it. There was no more light in its expression than might have come through the iron grates of a prison window, still lessening too, as if he were sinking farther into the depths. Phoebe, being of that quickness and activity of temperament that she seldom long refrained from taking apart, and generally a good one in what was going forward, 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 the vase. There will be but five or six on the bush this season. This is the 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 forget that scent. Ah! Let me see! Let me hold it! cried the guest, eagerly seizing the flower, which, by the spell peculiar to remembered odors, brought innumerable associations along with the fragrance that it exhaled. Thank you. This has done me good. I remember how I used to prize this flower. Long ago, I suppose, very long ago. Or was it only yesterday? It makes me feel young again. Am I young? Either this remembrance is singularly distinct, or this consciousness strangely dim. But how kind of the fair young girl! Thank you. Thank you. The favorable excitement derived from this little crimson rose afforded Clifford the brightest moment which he enjoyed at the breakfast table. It might have lasted longer, but that his eyes happened, soon afterwards, to rest on the face of the old Puritan, who, out of his dingy frame and lusterless canvas, was looking down on the scene like a ghost and a most ill-tempered and ungenial one. The guest made an impatient gesture of the hand, and addressed Hepsiba with what might easily be recognized as the licensed irritability of a petted member of the family. Hepsiba! Hepsiba! cried he with no little force and distinctness. Why do you keep that odious picture on the wall? Yes, yes. That is precisely your taste. I have told you a thousand times that it was the evil genius of the house, my evil genius particularly. Take it down at once. Dear Clifford, said Hepsiba sadly, you know it cannot be. Then it 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 not stare me in the face. Yes, dear Clifford, the picture shall be covered, said Hepsiba soothingly. There is a crimson curtain and a trunk above stairs, a little faded and moth-eaten, I'm afraid, but Phoebe and I will do wonders 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? Hepsiba will say, we have not the means. A troll idea that. He smiled to himself, and through a glance of fine sarcastic meaning towards Hepsiba. But the several moods of feeling, faintly as they were marked, through which he had passed, occurring in so brief an interval of time, had evidently wearied the stranger. He was probably accustomed to a sad monotony of life, not so much flowing in a stream, however sluggish, as stagnating in a pool around his feet. A slumbrous veil diffused itself over his countenance, and had in effect, morally speaking, on its naturally delicate and elegant outline, like that which a brooding mist with no sunshine in it, throws over the features of a landscape. He appeared to become grosser, almost claudish. If ought of interest or beauty, even ruin beauty, had here to forebeen visible in this man, the beholder might now begin to doubt it, and to accuse his own imagination of deluding him with whatever grace had flickered over that visage, and whatever exquisite luster had gleamed in those filmy eyes. Before he had quite sunken away, however, the sharp and peevish tinkle of the shop-bell made itself audible. Striking most disagreeably on Clifford's auditory organs, and the characteristic sensibility of his nerves, it caused him to start upright out of his chair. Good heavens, Hepsiba! What horrible disturbance have we now in the house? cried he, wreaking his resentful impatience, as a matter of course and a custom of old, on the one person in the world that loved him. I have never heard such a hateful clamour. 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 dim picture should leap suddenly from its canvas, Clifford's character was thrown by this apparently trifling annoyance. The secret was that an individual of his temper can always be pricked more acutely through his sense of the beautiful and harmonious than through his heart. It is even possible, for similar cases have often happened, that if Clifford in his foregoing life had enjoyed the means of cultivating his taste to its utmost perfectability, that subtle attribute might, before this period, have completely eaten out or filed away his affections. Shall we venture to pronounce, therefore, that his long and black calamity may not have had a redeeming drop of mercy at the bottom? Dear Clifford, I wish I could keep the sound from your ears, said Hepsiba, patiently, but reddening with the painful suffusion of shame. It is very disagreeable even to me. But do you know, Clifford, I have something to tell you? This ugly noise, a pre-run Phoebe, and see who 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 Hepsiba, a certain natural dignity, mingled with deep emotion, now asserting itself in her manner. For you must know, dear Clifford, that we are very poor, and there was no other resource, but either to accept assistance from a hand that I would push aside, and so would you, were to offer bread when we were dying for it, no help save from him, or else to earn our subsistence with my own hands. Alone I might have been content to starve, but you were to be given back to me. Do you think, then, dear Clifford, added she with a wretched smile, that I have brought an irretrievable disgrace on the old house, by opening a little shop in the front gable? Our great-great-grandfather did the same, when there was far less need. Are you ashamed of me? Shame! Disgrace! Do you speak these words to me, Hepsiba? Big Clifford? Not angrily, however, for when a man's spirit has been thoroughly crushed, he may be peevish at small offenses, but never resentful of great ones. So he spoke with only a grieved emotion. It was not kind to say so, Hepsiba. What shame can befall me now! And then the unnerved man, he that had been born for enjoyment, but it met a doom so very wretched, burst into a woman's passion of tears. It was but a brief continuance, however, soon leaving him in a cohescent, and a judge by his countenance, not an uncomfortable state. From this mood to he partially rallied for an instant, and looked at Hepsiba with a smile, the keen half-derisory purport of which was a puzzle to her. Are we so very poor, Hepsiba? said he. Finally his chair being deep and softly cushioned, Clifford fell asleep. Hearing the more regular rise and fall of his breath, which, however, even then, instead of being strong and full, had a feeble kind of tremor, corresponding with a lack of vigor in his character. Using these tokens of settled slumber, Hepsiba seized the opportunity to peruse his face more attentively than she had yet dared to do. Her heart melted away in tears, her profoundest spirit sent forth a moaning voice, low, gentle, but inexpressibly sad. In this depth of grief and pity she felt that there was no irreverence in gazing at his altered, aged, faded, ruined face. But no sooner was she a little relieved than her conscience smote her for gazing curiously at him, now that he was so changed. And, turning hastely away, Hepsiba let down the curtain over the sunny window, and left Clifford to slumber there. CHAPTER VIII. THE PINCHON OF TODAY. Phoebe, on entering the shop, beheld there the already familiar face of the little devourer, if we can reckon his mighty deeds are right, of Jim Crow, the elephant, the camel, the dramataries, and the locomotive. Having expended his private fortune on the two preceding days, in the purchase of the above unheard of luxuries, the young gentleman's present errand was on the part of his mother, in quest of three eggs and half a pound of raisins. These articles Phoebe accordingly supplied, and as a mark of gratitude for his previous patronage, and a slight super-added morsel after breakfast, put likewise into his hand a whale. The great fish, reversing his experience with the prophet of Nineveh, immediately began his progress down the same red pathway of fate, whether so varied a caravan had preceded him. This remarkable urchin, in truth, was the very emblem of old father time, both in respect of his all-devouring appetite for men and things, and because he, as well as time, after engulfing this much of creation, looked almost as youthful as if he had been just that moment made. After partly closing the door, the child turned back, and mumbled something to Phoebe, which, as the whale was but half-disposed of, she could not perfectly understand. What did you say, my little fellow? asked she. Mother wants to know, repeated Ned Higgins more distinctly, how old-made Pinchon's brother does. Folks say he has got home. My cousin Hepsiba's brother, exclaimed Phoebe, surprised at this sudden explanation of the relationship between Hepsiba and her guest. Her brother! and where can he have been? The little boy only put his thumb to his broad snub-nose with that look of shrewdness which a child, spending much of his time in the street, so soon learns to throw over his features, however unintelligent in themselves. Then as Phoebe continued to gaze at him, without answering his mother's message, he took his departure. As the child went down the steps, a gentleman ascended them and made his entrance into the shop. It was the portly, and had it possessed the advantage of a little more height, would have been the stately figure of a man considerably in the decline of life, dressed in a black suit of some thin stuff, resembling broadcloth as closely as possible. A gold-headed cane of rare oriental wood added materially to the high respectability of his aspect, as did also a neckcloth of the utmost snowy purity and the conscientious polish of his boots. His dark square countenance, with its almost shaggy depth of eyebrows, was naturally impressive, and would, perhaps, have been rather stern had not the gentleman considerably taken upon himself to mitigate the harsh effect by a look of exceeding good humor and benevolence. Owing, however, to a somewhat massive accumulation of animal substance about the lower region of his face, the look was perhaps unctuous rather than spiritual, and had, so to speak, a kind of fleshly effulgence, not altogether so satisfactory as he doubtless intended it to be. A susceptible observer at any rate might have regarded it as affording very little evidence of the general benignity of soul, whereof it purported to be the outward reflection. And, if the observer chanced to be ill-natured, as well as acute and susceptible, he would probably suspect that the smile on the gentleman's face was a good deal akin to the shine on his boots, and that each must have cost him and his boot-black, respectively, a good deal of hard labour to bring out and preserve them. As the stranger entered the little shop, where the projection of the second story and the thick foliage of the elm-tree, as well as the commodities at the window, created a sort of gray medium, his smile grew as intense as if he had set his heart on counteracting the whole gloom of the atmosphere, besides any moral gloom pertaining to Hepsiba and her inmates, by the unassisted light of his countenance. On perceiving a young rosebud of a girl, instead of the gaunt presence of the old maid, a look of surprise was manifest. He at first knit his brows, then smiled with more unctuous benignity than ever. Ah, see how it is! said he in a deep voice, a voice which, had it come from the throat of an uncultivated man, would have been gruff, but, by dint of careful training, was now sufficiently agreeable. I was not aware that Miss Hepsiba Pinchon had commenced business under such favorable auspices. You are her assistant, I suppose. I certainly am," answered Phoebe, and added, with a little air of ladylike assumption, for, civil as the gentleman was, he evidently took her to be a young person serving for wages. I am a cousin of Miss Hepsiba on a visit to her. Her cousin, and from the country. Pray pardon me then, said the gentleman, bowing and smiling, as Phoebe never had been bowed to nor smiled on before. In that case, we must be better acquainted, for, unless I am sadly mistaken, you are my own little kin's woman likewise. Let me see. Mary? Dolly? Phoebe? Yes. Phoebe is the name. Is it possible that you are Phoebe Pinchon, only child of my dear cousin and classmate, Arthur? Ah, I see your father now, about your mouth. Yes, yes, we must be better acquainted. I am your kinsman, my dear. Surely you must have heard of Judge Pinchon. As Phoebe curtsied in reply, the judge bent forward with a pardonable and even praiseworthy purpose, considering the nearness of blood and the difference of age, of bestowing on his young relative a kiss of acknowledged kindred and natural affection. Unfortunately, without design, or only with such instinctive design as gives no account of itself to the intellect, Phoebe, just at the critical moment, drew back, so that her highly respectable kinsman, with his body bent over the counter and his lips protruded, was betrayed into the rather absurd predicament of kissing the empty air. It was a modern parallel to the case of Ixion embracing a cloud, and was so much the more ridiculous as the judge prided himself on eschewing all airy matter, and never mistaking a shadow for a substance. The truth was, and it is Phoebe's only excuse, that, although Judge Pinchon's glowing benignity might not be absolutely unpleasant to the feminine beholder, with the width of a street or even an ordinary-sized room interposed between, yet it became quite too intense, when this dark, full-fed physiognomy, so roughly bearded too, that no razor could ever make it smooth, sought to bring itself into actual contact with the object of its regards. The man, the sex, somehow or other, was entirely too prominent in the judge's demonstrations of that sort. Phoebe's eyes sank, and, without knowing why, she felt herself blushing deeply under his look. Yet she had been kissed before, and without any particular squeamishness, by perhaps half a dozen different cousins, younger as well as older than this dark-browned, grisly-bearded, white-neck clothed, and unctuously benevolent judge. Then why not by him? On raising her eyes, Phoebe was startled by the change in Judge Pinchon's face. It was quite a striking, allowing for the difference of scale, as that betwixt a landscape under a broad sunshine, and just before a thunderstorm, not that it had the passionate intensity of the latter aspect, but was cold, hard, inimitable, like a day-long brooding cloud. Dear me, what is to be done now? thought the country girl to herself. He looks as if there were nothing softer in him than a rock, nor milder than the east wind. I meant no harm, since he really is my cousin. I would have let him kiss me if I could. Then, all at once, it struck Phoebe that this very Judge Pinchon was the original of the miniature which the daguerreotypist had shown her in the garden, and that the hard, stern, relentless look now on his face was the same that the sun had so inflexibly persisted in bringing out. Was it, therefore, no momentary mood, but, however skillfully concealed, the settled temper of his life? And not merely so, but was it hereditary in him, and transmitted down as a precious heirloom from that bearded ancestor, in whose picture both the expression, and, to a singular degree, the features of the modern Judge were shown as by a kind of prophecy? A deeper philosopher than Phoebe might have found something very terrible in this idea. It implied that the weaknesses and defects, the bad passions, the mean tendencies, and the moral diseases which lead to crime, are handed down from one generation to another. By a far sureer process of transmission than human law has been able to establish in respect to the riches and honors which it seeks to entail upon posterity. But, as it happened, scarcely had Phoebe's eyes rested again on the Judge's countenance than all its ugly sternness vanished, and she found herself quite overpowered by the sultry dog-day heat, as it were, of benevolence, which this excellent man diffused out of his great heart into the surrounding atmosphere. Very much like a serpent, which, as a preliminary defascination, is said to fill the air with his peculiar odor. I like that, cousin Phoebe, cried he with an emphatic nod of approbation. I like it much, my little cousin. You are a good child, and know how to take care of yourself. A young girl, especially if she be a very pretty one, can never be too cherry of her lips. Indeed, sir, said Phoebe, trying to laugh the matter off, I did not mean to be unkind. Nevertheless, whether or no it was entirely owing to the inauspicious commencement of their acquaintance, she still acted under a certain reserve, which was by no means customary to her frank and genial nature. The fantasy would not quit her, that the original Puritan, of whom she had heard so many somber traditions, the progenitor of the whole race of New England pinchons, the founder of the house of the Seven Gables, and who had died so strangely in it, had now stepped into the shop. In these days of offhand equipment, the matter was easily enough arranged. On his arrival from the other world he had merely found it necessary to spend a quarter of an hour at a barber's, who had trimmed down the Puritan's full beard into a pair of grizzled whiskers. Then, patronizing a ready-made clothing establishment, he had exchanged his velvet doublet and sable cloak, with a richly worked band under his chin, for a white collar and cravat, coat, vest, and pantaloons, and lastly, putting aside his steel-hilted broadsword to take up a gold-headed cane, the colonel pinchon of two centuries ago steps forward as the judge of the passing moment. Of course, Phoebe was far too sensible a girl to entertain this idea in any other way than as matter for a smile. Possibly also, could the two personages have stood together before her eye, many points of difference would have been perceptible, and perhaps only a general resemblance. The long lapse of intervening years, in a climate so unlike that which had fostered the ancestral Englishman, must inevitably have wrought important changes in the physical system of his descendant. The judge's volume of muscle could hardly be the same as the colonel's. There was undoubtedly less beef in him. Though looked upon as a weighty man, among his contemporaries, in respective animal substance, and is favored with a remarkable degree of fundamental development, well adapting him for the judicial bench, we conceive that the modern judge pinchon, if weighed in the same balance with his ancestor, would have required at least an old-fashioned fifty-six to keep the scale in equilibrio. Then the judge's face had lost the ruddy English hue that showed its warmth through all the duskiness of the colonel's weather-beaten cheek, and had taken a shallow shade, the established complexion of his countrymen. If we mistake not, moreover, a certain quality of nervousness had become more or less manifest, even in so solid a specimen of puritan descent as the gentleman now under discussion. As one of its effects, it bestowed on his countenance a quicker mobility than the old Englishman's had possessed, and keener vivacity, but at the expense of a sturdier something, on which these acute endowments seemed to act like dissolving acids. This process, for ought we know, may belong to the great system of human progress, which, with every ascending footstep, as it diminishes the necessity for animal force, may be destined gradually to spiritualize us, by refining away our grosser attributes of body. If so, Judge Pinchon could endure a century or two more of such refinement, as well as most other men. The similarity, intellectual and moral, between the judge and his ancestor, appears to have been at least as strong as the resemblance of mien and feature could afford reason to anticipate. In old Colonel Pinchon's funeral discourse, the clergyman absolutely canonized his deceased parishioner, and opening, as it were, a vista through the roof of the church, and thence through the firmament above, showed him seated, harp in hand, among the crowned choristers of the spiritual world. On his tombstone, too, the record is highly eulogistic, nor does history, so far as he holds a place upon its page, assail the consistency and uprightness of his character. So also, as regards the Judge Pinchon of today, neither clergyman, nor legal critic, nor inscriber of tombstones, nor historian of general or local politics, would venture a word against this eminent person's sincerity as a Christian, or respectability as a man, or integrity as a judge, or courage and faithfulness as the often tried representative of his political party. But besides these cold, formal, and empty words of the chisel that inscribes, the voice that speaks, and the pen that writes, for the public eye, and for distant time, and which inevitably lose much of their truth and freedom by the fatal consciousness of so doing, there were traditions about the ancestor, and private diurnal gossip about the Judge, remarkably accordant in their testimony. It is often instructive to take the woman's, the private and domestic, view of a public man. Nor can anything be more curious than the vast discrepancy between portraits intended for engraving, and the pencil sketches that pass from hand to hand behind the original's back. For example, tradition affirmed that the Puritan had been greedy of wealth. The Judge, too, with all the show of liberal expenditure, was said to be as close-fisted as if his grip were of iron. The ancestor had clothed himself in a grim assumption of kindness, a rough hardiness of word and manner, which most people took to be the genuine warmth of nature, making its way through the thick and inflexible hide of a manly character. His descendant, in compliance with the requirements of a nicer age, had etherealized this rude benevolence into that broad benignity of smile wherewith he shone like a noonday sun along the streets, or glowed like a household fire in the drawing-rooms of his private acquaintance. The Puritan, if not belied by some singular stories, murmured, even at this day, under the narrator's breath, had fallen into certain transgressions to which men of his great animal development, whatever their faith or principles, must continue liable, until they put off impurity along with a gross earthly substance that involves it. We must not stain our page with any contemporary scandal to a similar purport that may have been whispered against the Judge. The Puritan, again, an autocrat in his own household, had worn out three wives, and merely by the remorseless weight and hardness of his character and the conjugal relation, had sent them, one after another, broken-hearted to their graves. Here the parallel in some sort fails. The Judge had wedded but a single wife, and lost her in the third or fourth year of their marriage. There was a fable, however, for such we choose to consider it, though not impossibly typical of Judge Pinchon's marital deportment, that the lady got her death-blow in the honeymoon, and never smiled again, because her husband compelled her to serve him with coffee every morning at his bedside, in token of fealty to her liege-lord and master. But it is too fruitful a subject, this of hereditary resemblances, the frequent recurrence of which, in a direct line, is truly unaccountable, when we consider how large an accumulation of ancestry lies behind every man at the distance of one or two centuries. We shall only add, therefore, that the Puritan, so at least says chimney-corner tradition, which often preserves traits of character with marvellous fidelity, was bold, imperious, relentless, crafty, laying his purposes deep, and following them out with an veteracy of pursuit that knew neither rest nor conscience, trampling on the weak, and, when essential to his ends, doing his utmost to beat down the strong. Whether the Judge in any degree resembled him, the further progress of our narrative may show. Scarcely any of the items in the above-drawn parallel occurred to Phoebe, whose country birth and residence, in truth, had left her pitifully ignorant of most of the family traditions, which lingered like cobwebs and incrustations of smoke about the rooms and chimney corners of the house of the Seven Gables. Yet there was a circumstance, very trifling in itself, which impressed her with an odd degree of horror. She had heard of the anathema, flung by Maul, the executed wizard, against Colonel Pinchon and his posterity, that God would give them blood to drink, and likewise of the popular notion that this miraculous blood might now and then be heard gurgling in their throats. The latter scandal, as became a person of sense, and, more specially, a member of the Pinchon family, Phoebe had set down for the absurdity which it unquestionably was. But ancient superstitions, after being steeped in human hearts and embodied in human breath, and passing from lip to ear and manifold repetition, through a series of generations, become imbued with an effect of homely truth. The smoke of the domestic hearth has scented them through and through. By long transmission among household facts, they grow to look like them, and have such a familiar way of making themselves at home that their influence is usually greater than we suspect. Thus it happened that when Phoebe heard a certain noise in Judge Pinchon's throat, rather habitual with him, not altogether voluntary, yet indicative of nothing, unless it were a slight bronchial complaint, or, as some people hinted, an apoplectic symptom, when the girl heard this queer and awkward engurgitation, which the writer never did hear and therefore cannot describe, she very foolishly started and clasped her hands. Of course it was exceedingly ridiculous in Phoebe to be discomposed by such a trifle, and still more unpardonable to show her discomposure to the individual most concerned in it. But the incident chimed in so oddly with her previous fancies about the Colonel and the Judge, that for the moment it seemed quite to mingle their identity. What is the matter with you, young woman? said Judge Pinchon, giving her one of his harsh looks. Are you afraid of anything? Oh, nothing, sir, nothing in the world! answered Phoebe with a little laugh of vexation at herself. But perhaps you wish to speak with my cousin Hepsiba. Shall I call her? Stay a moment, if you please, said the Judge, again beaming sunshine out of his face. You seem to be a little nervous this morning. The town air, cousin Phoebe, does not agree with your good wholesome country habits. Or has anything happened to disturb you? Anything remarkable in cousin Hepsiba's family? An arrival, eh? I thought so. No wonder you are out of sorts, my little cousin. To be an inmate with such a guest may well startle an innocent young girl. You quite puzzle me, sir? replied Phoebe, gazing inquiringly at the Judge. There is no frightful guest in the house but only a poor, gentle, child-like man whom I believe to be cousin Hepsiba's brother. I am afraid, but you, sir, will know better than I, that he is not quite in his sound senses. But so mild and quiet he seems to be, that a mother might trust her baby with him. And I think he would play with the baby as if he were only a few years older than itself. He startle me? Oh, no indeed! I rejoiced to hear so favourable and so ingenuous an account of my cousin Clifford. Said the benevolent Judge. Many years ago, when we were boys and young men together, I had a great affection for him and still feel a tender interest in all his concerns. You say, cousin Phoebe, he appears to be weak-minded, having grant him at least enough of intellect to repent of his past sins. Nobody, I fancy, observed Phoebe, can have fewer to repent of. And is it possible, my dear, rejoin the Judge with a commiserating look, that you have never heard of Clifford Pinchon, that you know nothing of his history? Well, it is all right, and your mother has shown a very proper regard for the good name of the family with which she has connected herself. Believe the best you can of this unfortunate person, and hope the best. It is a rule which Christians should always follow, in their judgments of one another, and especially is it right and wise among near relatives whose characters have necessarily a degree of mutual dependence. But is Clifford in the parlor? I will just step in and see. Perhaps, sir, I had better call my cousin Hepsiba. Said Phoebe, hardly knowing, however, whether she ought to obstruct the entrance of so affectionate a kinsman into the private regions of the house. Her brother seemed to be just falling asleep after breakfast, and I am sure she would not like him to be disturbed. Pre-sir, let me give her notice. But the judge showed a singular determination to enter unannounced, and as Phoebe, with the vivacity of a person whose movements unconsciously answered to her thoughts, had stepped towards the door, he used little or no ceremony in putting her aside. No, no, Miss Phoebe! said Judge Pinchon, and a voice as deep as a thunder-growl, and with the frown as black as the cloud went at issues. Stay you here! I know the house, and I know my cousin Hepsiba, and know her brother Clifford likewise, nor need my little country cousin put herself to the trouble of announcing me. In these latter words, by the by, there were symptoms of a change from his sudden harshness into his previous dignity of manner. I am at home here, Phoebe, you must recollect, and you are the stranger. I will just step in, therefore, and see for myself how Clifford is, and assure him and Hepsiba of my kindly feelings and best wishes. It is right at this juncture that they should both hear from my own lips how much I desire to serve them. Ha! Here is Hepsiba herself. Such was the case. The vibrations of the judge's voice had reached the old gentlewoman in the parlor, where she sat, with face averted, waiting on her brother's slumber. She now issued forth as would appear to defend the entrance, looking, we must need say, amazingly like the dragon which, in fairy tales, is want to be the guardian over an enchanted beauty. The habitual scowl of her brow was undeniably too fierce, at this moment, to pass itself off on the innocent score of nearsightedness, and it was bent on Judge Pinchon in a way that seemed to confound, if not alarm him, so inadequately had he estimated the moral force of a deeply grounded antipathy. She made a repelling gesture with her hand, and stood a perfect picture of prohibition, at full length, in the dark frame of the doorway. But we must betray Hepsiba's secret, and confess that the native timorousness of her character even now developed itself in a quick tremor, which to her own perception, set each of her joints at variance with its fellows. Possibly the judge was aware how little true hardyhood lay behind Hepsiba's formidable front. At any rate, being a gentleman of steady nerves, he soon recovered himself, and failed not to approach his cousin without stretched hand, adopting the sensible precaution, however, to cover his advance with a smile so broad and sultry, that had it been only half as warm as it looked, a trellis of grapes might at once have turned purple under its summer-like exposure. It may have been his purpose, indeed, to melt poor Hepsiba on the spot, as if she were a figure of yellow wax. Hepsiba, my beloved cousin, I am rejoiced! exclaimed the judge most emphatically. Now at length you have something to live for. Yes, and all of us, let me say, your friends in Kindred have more to live for than we had yesterday. I have lost no time in hastening to offer any assistance in my power towards making Clifford comfortable. He belongs to us all. I know how much he requires, how much he used to require, with his delicate taste and his love of the beautiful. Anything in my house, pictures, books, wine, luxuries of the table, he may command them all. It would afford me most heartfelt gratification to see him. Shall I step in this moment? No, replied Hepsiba, her voice quivering too painfully to allow of many words. He cannot see visitors. A visitor, my dear cousin, do you call me so? cried the judge, whose sensibility, it seems, was hurt by the coldness of the phrase. Nay then, let me be Clifford's host, and your own likewise. Comet wants to my house. The country air and all the conveniences, I may say, luxuries, that I have gathered about me will do wonders for him. And you and I, dear Hepsiba, will consult together, and watch together, and labor together to make our dear Clifford happy. Come, why should we make more words about what is both a duty and a pleasure on my part? Come to me at once. On hearing these so hospitable offers, and such generous recognition of the claims of Kindred, Phoebe felt very much in the mood of running up to Judge Pinchon, and giving him, of her own accord, the kiss from which she had so recently shrunk away. It was quite otherwise with Hepsiba. The judge's smile seemed to operate on her a serbity of heart like sunshine upon vinegar, making it ten times sourer than ever. Clifford, said she, still too agitated to utter more than an abrupt sentence, Clifford has a home here. May heaven forgive you, Hepsiba, said Judge Pinchon, reverently lifting his eyes towards that high court of equity to which he appealed. If you suffer any ancient prejudice or animosity to weigh with you in this matter, I stand here with an open heart, willing and anxious to receive yourself and Clifford into it. Do not refuse my good offices, my earnest propositions for your welfare. They are such, in all respects, as it behooves your nearest kinsmen to make. It will be a heavy responsibility, cousin, if you combine your brother to this dismal house and stifled air, when the delightful freedom of my country seat is at his command. It would never suit Clifford, said Hepsiba as briefly as before. Woman broke forth the judge, giving way to his resentment. What is the meaning of all this? Have you other resources? Nay, I suspect it as much. Take care, Hepsiba, take care. Clifford is on the brink of as black a ruin as ever befell him yet. But why do I talk with you, woman, as you are? Make way! I must see Clifford. Hepsiba spread her gaunt figure across the door, and seemed really to increase in bulk, looking the more terrible also, because there was so much terror and agitation in her heart. But Judge Pinchon's evident purpose of forcing a passage was interrupted by a voice from the inner room, a weak, tremulous, wailing voice, indicating helpless alarm, with no more energy for self-defense than belongs to a frightened infant. Hepsiba! Hepsiba! cried the voice. Go down on your knees to him, kiss his feet, and treat him not to come in. Oh, let him have mercy on me! Mercy, mercy! For the instant it appeared doubtful whether it were not the judge's resolute purpose to set Hepsiba aside and step across the threshold into the parlor, once issued that broken and miserable murmur of entreaty. It was not pity that restrained him, for, at the first sound of the enfeebled voice, a red fire kindled in his eyes, and he made a quick pace forward, with something inexpressibly fierce and grim darkening forth, as it were, out of the whole man. To know Judge Pinshan was to see him at that moment. After such a revelation, let him smile with what sultriness he would, he could much sooner turn grape's purple, or pumpkin's yellow, than melt the iron-branded impression out of the beholder's memory. And it rendered his aspect, not the less, but more frightful, that it seemed not to express wrath or hatred, but a certain hot feldness of purpose, which annihilated everything but itself. Yet, after all, are we not slandering an excellent and amiable man? Look at the judge now. He is apparently conscious of having erred, into energetically pressing his deeds of loving kindness on persons unable to appreciate them. He will await their better mood, and hold himself as ready to assist them then as at this moment. As he draws back from the door, an all-comprehensive benignity blazes from his visage, indicating that he gathers Hepsiba, little Phoebe, and the invisible Clifford, all three, together with the whole world besides, into his immense heart, and gives them a warm bath in its flood of affection. You do me great wrong, dear cousin Hepsiba. Said he, first kindly offering her his hand, and then drawing on his glove preparatory to departure. Very great wrong, but I forgive it, and will study to make you think better of me. Of course, our poor Clifford being in so unhappy a state of mind, I cannot think of urging an interview at present. But I shall watch over his welfare as if he were my own beloved brother, nor do I at all despair, my dear cousin, of constraining both him and you to acknowledge your injustice. When that shall happen, I desire no other revenge than your acceptance of the best offices in my power to do you. With a bow to Hepsiba, and a degree of paternal benevolence in his parting nod to Phoebe, the judge left the shop, and went smiling along the street. As his customary with the rich, when they aim at the honors of a republic, he apologized, as it were, to the people for his wealth, prosperity, and elevated station, by a free and hearty manner towards those who knew him, putting off the more of his dignity and due proportion with the humbleness of the man whom he saluted, and thereby proving a haughty consciousness of his advantage, as irrefragibly as if he had marched forth preceded by a troop of lackeys to clear the way. On this particular forenoon, so excessive was the warmth of Judge Pinchon's kindly aspect, that, such at least was the rumor about town, an extra passage of the water carts was found essential in order to lay the dust occasioned by so much extra sunshine. No sooner had he disappeared than Hepsiba grew deadly white, and, staggering towards Phoebe, let her head fall on the young girl's shoulder. Oh, Phoebe, murmured she, that man has been the horror of my life. Shall I never, never have the courage? Will my voice never cease from trembling long enough to let me tell him what he is? Is he so very wicked? asked Phoebe. Yet his offers were surely kind. Do not speak of them. He has a heart of iron. rejoined Hepsiba. Go now, and talk to Clifford. I'm using, keeping quiet. It would disturb him wretchedly to see me so agitated as I am. There, go, dear child, and I will try to look after the shop. Phoebe went accordingly, but perplexed herself meanwhile, with queries as to the purport of the scene which she had just witnessed, and also whether judges, clergymen, and other characters of that eminent stamp and respectability could really, in any single instance, be otherwise than just and upright men. A doubt of this nature has a most disturbing influence, and, if shown to be a fact, comes with fearful and startling effect on minds of the trim, orderly, and limit-loving class in which we find our little country girl. Dispositions more boldly speculative may derive a stern enjoyment from the discovery, since there must be evil in the world that a high man is as likely to grasp his share of it as a low one. A wider scope of view, and a deeper insight, may see rank, dignity, and station all prove delusory, so far as regards their claim to human reverence, and yet not feel as if the universe were thereby tumbled headlong into chaos. But Phoebe, in order to keep the universe in its old place, was feigned to smother, in some degree, her own intuitions as to Judge Pinchon's character. And as for her cousin's testimony and disparagement of it, she concluded that Hepsiba's judgment was embittered by one of those family feuds which render hatred the more deadly by the dead and corrupted love that they intermingle with its native poison.