of the military escort, issuing from the church-door. The procession
was to be marshalled thence to the town-hall, where a solemn banquet
would complete the ceremonies of the day.
Once more, therefore, the train of venerable and majestic fathers was
seen moving through a broad pathway of the people, who drew back
reverently, on either side, as the Governor and magistrates, the old
and wise men, the holy ministers, and all that were eminent and
renowned, advanced into the midst of them. When they were fairly in
the market-place, their presence was greeted by a shout. This—though
doubtless it might acquire additional force and volume from the
childlike loyalty which the age awarded to its rulers—was felt to be
an irrepressible outburst of enthusiasm kindled in the auditors by
that high strain of eloquence which was yet reverberating in their
ears. Each felt the impulse in himself, and, in the same breath,
caught it from his neighbor. Within the church, it had hardly been
kept down; beneath the sky, it pealed upward to the zenith. There were
human beings enough, and enough of highly wrought and symphonious
feeling, to produce that more impressive sound than the organ tones of
the blast, or the thunder, or the roar of the sea; even that mighty
swell of many voices, blended into one great voice by the universal
impulse which makes likewise one vast heart out of the many. Never,
from the soil of New England, had gone up such a shout! Never, on New
England soil, had stood the man so honored by his mortal brethren as
the preacher!
How fared it with him then? Were there not the brilliant particles of
a halo in the air about his head? So etherealized by spirit as he was,
and so apotheosized by worshipping admirers, did his footsteps, in the
procession, really tread upon the dust of earth?
As the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all eyes
were turned towards the point where the minister was seen to approach
among them. The shout died into a murmur, as one portion of the crowd
after another obtained a glimpse of him. How feeble and pale he
looked, amid all his triumph! The energy—or say, rather, the
inspiration which had held him up, until he should have delivered the
sacred message that brought its own strength along with it from
heaven—was withdrawn, now that it had so faithfully performed its
office. The glow, which they had just before beheld burning on his
cheek, was extinguished, like a flame that sinks down hopelessly
among the late-decaying embers. It seemed hardly the face of a man
alive, with such a death-like hue; it was hardly a man with life in
him, that tottered on his path so nervelessly, yet tottered, and did
not fall!
One of his clerical brethren,—it was the venerable John
Wilson,—observing the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was left by the
retiring wave of intellect and sensibility, stepped forward hastily to
offer his support. The minister tremulously, but decidedly, repelled
the old man’s arm. He still walked onward, if that movement could be
so described, which rather resembled the wavering effort of an infant,
with its mother’s arms in view, outstretched to tempt him forward. And
now, almost imperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress, he
had come opposite the well-remembered and weather-darkened scaffold,
where, long since, with all that dreary lapse of time between, Hester
Prynne had encountered the world’s ignominious stare. There stood
Hester, holding little Pearl by the hand! And there was the scarlet
letter on her breast! The minister here made a pause; although the
music still played the stately and rejoicing march to which the
procession moved. It summoned him onward,—onward to the
festival!—but here he made a pause.
Bellingham, for the last few moments, had kept an anxious eye upon
him. He now left his own place in the procession, and advanced to give
assistance; judging, from Mr. Dimmesdale’s aspect, that he must
otherwise inevitably fall. But there was something in the latter’s
expression that warned back the magistrate, although a man not readily
obeying the vague intimations that pass from one spirit to another.
The crowd, meanwhile, looked on with awe and wonder. This earthly
faintness was, in their view, only another phase of the minister’s
celestial strength; nor would it have seemed a miracle too high to be
wrought for one so holy, had he ascended before their eyes, waxing
dimmer and brighter, and fading at last into the light of heaven.
He turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his arms.
“Hester,” said he, “come hither! Come, my little Pearl!”
It was a ghastly look with which he regarded them; but there was
something at once tender and strangely triumphant in it. The child,
with the bird-like motion which was one of her characteristics, flew
to him, and clasped her arms about his knees. Hester Prynne—slowly,
as if impelled by inevitable fate, and against her strongest
will—likewise drew near, but paused before she reached him. At this
instant, old Roger Chillingworth thrust himself through the
crowd,—or, perhaps, so dark, disturbed, and evil, was his look, he
rose up out of some nether region,—to snatch back his victim from
what he sought to do! Be that as it might, the old man rushed forward,
and caught the minister by the arm.
“Madman, hold! what is your purpose?” whispered he. “Wave back that
woman! Cast off this child! All shall be well! Do not blacken your
fame, and perish in dishonor! I can yet save you! Would you bring
infamy on your sacred profession?”
“Ha, tempter! Methinks thou art too late!” answered the minister,
encountering his eye, fearfully, but firmly. “Thy power is not what it
was! With God’s help, I shall escape thee now!”
He again extended his hand to the woman of the scarlet letter.
“Hester Prynne,” cried he, with a piercing earnestness, “in the name
of Him, so terrible and so merciful, who gives me grace, at this last
moment, to do what—for my own heavy sin and miserable agony—I
withheld myself from doing seven years ago, come hither now, and twine
thy strength about me! Thy strength, Hester; but let it be guided by
the will which God hath granted me! This wretched and wronged old man
is opposing it with all his might!—with all his own might, and the
fiend’s! Come, Hester, come! Support me up yonder scaffold!”
The crowd was in a tumult. The men of rank and dignity, who stood more
immediately around the clergyman, were so taken by surprise, and so
perplexed as to the purport of what they saw,—unable to receive the
explanation which most readily presented itself, or to imagine any
other,—that they remained silent and inactive spectators of the
judgment which Providence seemed about to work. They beheld the
minister, leaning on Hester’s shoulder, and supported by her arm
around him, approach the scaffold, and ascend its steps; while still
the little hand of the sin-born child was clasped in his. Old Roger
Chillingworth followed, as one intimately connected with the drama of
guilt and sorrow in which they had all been actors, and well entitled,
therefore, to be present at its closing scene.
“Hadst thou sought the whole earth over,” said he, looking darkly at
the clergyman, “there was no one place so secret,—no high place nor
lowly place, where thou couldst have escaped me,—save on this very
scaffold!”
“Thanks be to Him who hath led me hither!” answered the minister.
Yet he trembled, and turned to Hester with an expression of doubt and
anxiety in his eyes, not the less evidently betrayed, that there was a
feeble smile upon his lips.
“Is not this better,” murmured he, “than what we dreamed of in the
forest?”
“I know not! I know not!” she hurriedly replied. “Better? Yea; so we
may both die, and little Pearl die with us!”
“For thee and Pearl, be it as God shall order,” said the minister;
“and God is merciful! Let me now do the will which he hath made plain
before my sight. For, Hester, I am a dying man. So let me make haste
to take my shame upon me!”
Partly supported by Hester Prynne, and holding one hand of little
Pearl’s, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale turned to the dignified and
venerable rulers; to the holy ministers, who were his brethren; to the
people, whose great heart was thoroughly appalled, yet overflowing
with tearful sympathy, as knowing that some deep life-matter—which,
if full of sin, was full of anguish and repentance likewise—was now
to be laid open to them. The sun, but little past its meridian, shone
down upon the clergyman, and gave a distinctness to his figure, as he
stood out from all the earth, to put in his plea of guilty at the bar
of Eternal Justice.
“People of New England!” cried he, with a voice that rose over them,
high, solemn, and majestic,—yet had always a tremor through it, and
sometimes a shriek, struggling up out of a fathomless depth of remorse
and woe,—“ye, that have loved me!—ye, that have deemed me
holy!—behold me here, the one sinner of the world! At last!—at
last!—I stand upon the spot where, seven years since, I should have
stood; here, with this woman, whose arm, more than the little strength
wherewith I have crept hitherward, sustains me, at this dreadful
moment, from grovelling down upon my face! Lo, the scarlet letter
which Hester wears! Ye have all shuddered at it! Wherever her walk
hath been,—wherever, so miserably burdened, she may have hoped to
find repose,—it hath cast a lurid gleam of awe and horrible
repugnance round about her. But there stood one in the midst of you,
at whose brand of sin and infamy ye have not shuddered!”
It seemed, at this point, as if the minister must leave the remainder
of his secret undisclosed. But he fought back the bodily
weakness,—and, still more, the faintness of heart,—that was striving
for the mastery with him. He threw off all assistance, and stepped
passionately forward a pace before the woman and the child.
“It was on him!” he continued, with a kind of fierceness; so
determined was he to speak out the whole. “God’s eye beheld it! The
angels were forever pointing at it! The Devil knew it well, and
fretted it continually with the touch of his burning finger! But he
hid it cunningly from men, and walked among you with the mien of a
spirit, mournful, because so pure in a sinful world!—and sad, because
he missed his heavenly kindred! Now, at the death-hour, he stands up
before you! He bids you look again at Hester’s scarlet letter! He
tells you, that, with all its mysterious horror, it is but the shadow
of what he bears on his own breast, and that even this, his own red
stigma, is no more than the type of what has seared his inmost heart!
Stand any here that question God’s judgment on a sinner? Behold!
Behold a dreadful witness of it!”
[Illustration: “Shall we not meet again?”]
With a convulsive motion, he tore away the ministerial band from
before his breast. It was revealed! But it were irreverent to describe
that revelation. For an instant, the gaze of the horror-stricken
multitude was concentred on the ghastly miracle; while the minister
stood, with a flush of triumph in his face, as one who, in the
crisis of acutest pain, had won a victory. Then, down he sank upon the
scaffold! Hester partly raised him, and supported his head against her
bosom. Old Roger Chillingworth knelt down beside him, with a blank,
dull countenance, out of which the life seemed to have departed.
“Thou hast escaped me!” he repeated more than once. “Thou hast escaped
me!”
“May God forgive thee!” said the minister. “Thou, too, hast deeply
sinned!”
He withdrew his dying eyes from the old man, and fixed them on the
woman and the child.
“My little Pearl,” said he, feebly,—and there was a sweet and gentle
smile over his face, as of a spirit sinking into deep repose; nay, now
that the burden was removed, it seemed almost as if he would be
sportive with the child,—“dear little Pearl, wilt thou kiss me now?
Thou wouldst not, yonder, in the forest! But now thou wilt?”
Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief,
in which the wild infant bore a part, had developed all her
sympathies; and as her tears fell upon her father’s cheek, they were
the pledge that she would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor
forever do battle with the world, but be a woman in it. Towards her
mother, too, Pearl’s errand as a messenger of anguish was all
fulfilled.
“Hester,” said the clergyman, “farewell!”
“Shall we not meet again?” whispered she, bending her face down close
to his. “Shall we not spend our immortal life together? Surely,
surely, we have ransomed one another, with all this woe! Thou lookest
far into eternity, with those bright dying eyes! Then tell me what
thou seest?”
“Hush, Hester, hush!” said he, with tremulous solemnity. “The law we
broke!—the sin here so awfully revealed!—let these alone be in thy
thoughts! I fear! I fear! It may be, that, when we forgot our
God,—when we violated our reverence each for the other’s soul,—it
was thenceforth vain to hope that we could meet hereafter, in an
everlasting and pure reunion. God knows; and He is merciful! He hath
proved his mercy, most of all, in my afflictions. By giving me this
burning torture to bear upon my breast! By sending yonder dark and
terrible old man, to keep the torture always at red-heat! By bringing
me hither, to die this death of triumphant ignominy before the people!
Had either of these agonies been wanting, I had been lost forever!
Praised be his name! His will be done! Farewell!”
That final word came forth with the minister’s expiring breath. The
multitude, silent till then, broke out in a strange, deep voice of awe
and wonder, which could not as yet find utterance, save in this murmur
that rolled so heavily after the departed spirit.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XXIV.
CONCLUSION.
After many days, when time sufficed for the people to arrange their
thoughts in reference to the foregoing scene, there was more than one
account of what had been witnessed on the scaffold.
Most of the spectators testified to having seen, on the breast of the
unhappy minister, a SCARLET LETTER—the very semblance of that worn by
Hester Prynne—imprinted in the flesh. As regarded its origin, there
were various explanations, all of which must necessarily have been
conjectural. Some affirmed that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the
very day when Hester Prynne first wore her ignominious badge, had
begun a course of penance,—which he afterwards, in so many futile
methods, followed out,—by inflicting a hideous torture on himself.
Others contended that the stigma had not been produced until a long
time subsequent, when old Roger Chillingworth, being a potent
necromancer, had caused it to appear, through the agency of magic and
poisonous drugs. Others, again,—and those best able to appreciate
the minister’s peculiar sensibility, and the wonderful operation of
his spirit upon the body,—whispered their belief, that the awful
symbol was the effect of the ever-active tooth of remorse, gnawing
from the inmost heart outwardly, and at last manifesting Heaven’s
dreadful judgment by the visible presence of the letter. The reader
may choose among these theories. We have thrown all the light we could
acquire upon the portent, and would gladly, now that it has done its
office, erase its deep print out of our own brain; where long
meditation has fixed it in very undesirable distinctness.
It is singular, nevertheless, that certain persons, who were
spectators of the whole scene, and professed never once to have
removed their eyes from the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, denied that there
was any mark whatever on his breast, more than on a new-born infant’s.
Neither, by their report, had his dying words acknowledged, nor even
remotely implied, any, the slightest connection, on his part, with the
guilt for which Hester Prynne had so long worn the scarlet letter.
According to these highly respectable witnesses, the minister,
conscious that he was dying,—conscious, also, that the reverence of
the multitude placed him already among saints and angels,—had
desired, by yielding up his breath in the arms of that fallen woman,
to express to the world how utterly nugatory is the choicest of man’s
own righteousness. After exhausting life in his efforts for mankind’s
spiritual good, he had made the manner of his death a parable, in
order to impress on his admirers the mighty and mournful lesson, that,
in the view of Infinite Purity, we are sinners all alike. It was to
teach them, that the holiest among us has but attained so far above
his fellows as to discern more clearly the Mercy which looks down,
and repudiate more utterly the phantom of human merit, which would
look aspiringly upward. Without disputing a truth so momentous, we
must be allowed to consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale’s story as
only an instance of that stubborn fidelity with which a man’s
friends—and especially a clergyman’s—will sometimes uphold his
character, when proofs, clear as the mid-day sunshine on the scarlet
letter, establish him a false and sin-stained creature of the dust.
The authority which we have chiefly followed,—a manuscript of old
date, drawn up from the verbal testimony of individuals, some of whom
had known Hester Prynne, while others had heard the tale from
contemporary witnesses,—fully confirms the view taken in the
foregoing pages. Among many morals which press upon us from the poor
minister’s miserable experience, we put only this into a
sentence:—“Be true! Be true! Be true! Show freely to the world, if
not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred!”
Nothing was more remarkable than the change which took place, almost
immediately after Mr. Dimmesdale’s death, in the appearance and
demeanor of the old man known as Roger Chillingworth. All his strength
and energy—all his vital and intellectual force—seemed at once to
desert him; insomuch that he positively withered up, shrivelled away,
and almost vanished from mortal sight, like an uprooted weed that lies
wilting in the sun. This unhappy man had made the very principle of
his life to consist in the pursuit and systematic exercise of revenge;
and when, by its completest triumph and consummation, that evil
principle was left with no further material to support it, when, in
short, there was no more Devil’s work on earth for him to do, it only
remained for the unhumanized mortal to betake himself whither his
Master would find him tasks enough, and pay him his wages duly. But,
to all these shadowy beings, so long our near acquaintances,—as well
Roger Chillingworth as his companions,—we would fain be merciful. It
is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and
love be not the same thing at bottom. Each, in its utmost development,
supposes a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders
one individual dependent for the food of his affections and spiritual
life upon another; each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less
passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his
subject. Philosophically considered, therefore, the two passions seem
essentially the same, except that one happens to be seen in a
celestial radiance, and the other in a dusky and lurid glow. In the
spiritual world, the old physician and the minister—mutual victims as
they have been—may, unawares, have found their earthly stock of
hatred and antipathy transmuted into golden love.
Leaving this discussion apart, we have a matter of business to
communicate to the reader. At old Roger Chillingworth’s decease,
(which took place within the year,) and by his last will and
testament, of which Governor Bellingham and the Reverend Mr. Wilson
were executors, he bequeathed a very considerable amount of property,
both here and in England, to little Pearl, the daughter of Hester
Prynne.
So Pearl—the elf-child,—the demon offspring, as some people, up to
that epoch, persisted in considering her,—became the richest heiress
of her day, in the New World. Not improbably, this circumstance
wrought a very material change in the public estimation; and, had the
mother and child remained here, little Pearl, at a marriageable period
of life, might have mingled her wild blood with the lineage of the
devoutest Puritan among them all. But, in no long time after the
physician’s death, the wearer of the scarlet letter disappeared, and
Pearl along with her. For many years, though a vague report would now
and then find its way across the sea,—like a shapeless piece of
drift-wood tost ashore, with the initials of a name upon it,—yet no
tidings of them unquestionably authentic were received. The story of
the scarlet letter grew into a legend. Its spell, however, was still
potent, and kept the scaffold awful where the poor minister had died,
and likewise the cottage by the sea-shore, where Hester Prynne had
dwelt. Near this latter spot, one afternoon, some children were at
play, when they beheld a tall woman, in a gray robe, approach the
cottage-door. In all those years it had never once been opened; but
either she unlocked it, or the decaying wood and iron yielded to her
hand, or she glided shadow-like through these impediments,—and, at
all events, went in.
On the threshold she paused,—turned partly round,—for, perchance,
the idea of entering all alone, and all so changed, the home of so
intense a former life, was more dreary and desolate than even she
could bear. But her hesitation was only for an instant, though long
enough to display a scarlet letter on her breast.
[Illustration: Hester’s Return]
And Hester Prynne had returned, and taken up her long-forsaken shame!
But where was little Pearl? If still alive, she must now have been in
the flush and bloom of early womanhood. None knew—nor ever learned,
with the fulness of perfect certainty—whether the elf-child had gone
thus untimely to a maiden grave; or whether her wild, rich nature had
been softened and subdued, and made capable of a woman’s gentle
happiness. But, through the remainder of Hester’s life, there were
indications that the recluse of the scarlet letter was the object of
love and interest with some inhabitant of another land. Letters came,
with armorial seals upon them, though of bearings unknown to English
heraldry. In the cottage there were articles of comfort and luxury
such as Hester never cared to use, but which only wealth could have
purchased, and affection have imagined for her. There were trifles,
too, little ornaments, beautiful tokens of a continual remembrance,
that must have been wrought by delicate fingers, at the impulse of a
fond heart. And, once, Hester was seen embroidering a baby-garment,
with such a lavish richness of golden fancy as would have raised a
public tumult, had any infant, thus apparelled, been shown to our
sober-hued community.
In fine, the gossips of that day believed,—and Mr. Surveyor Pue, who
made investigations a century later, believed,—and one of his recent
successors in office, moreover, faithfully believes,—that Pearl was
not only alive, but married, and happy, and mindful of her mother, and
that she would most joyfully have entertained that sad and lonely
mother at her fireside.