The House of the Seven Gables Read online

  VI Maule's Well

  AFTER an early tea, the little country-girl strayed into the garden.The enclosure had formerly been very extensive, but was now contractedwithin small compass, and hemmed about, partly by high wooden fences,and partly by the outbuildings of houses that stood on another street.In its centre was a grass-plat, surrounding a ruinous little structure,which showed just enough of its original design to indicate that it hadonce 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 theroof with its green mantle. Three of the seven gables either frontedor looked sideways, with a dark solemnity of aspect, down into thegarden.

  The black, rich soil had fed itself with the decay of a long period oftime; such as fallen leaves, the petals of flowers, and the stalks andseed--vessels of vagrant and lawless plants, more useful after theirdeath than ever while flaunting in the sun. The evil of these departedyears would naturally have sprung up again, in such rank weeds(symbolic of the transmitted vices of society) as are always prone toroot themselves about human dwellings. Phoebe saw, however, that theirgrowth must have been checked by a degree of careful labor, bestoweddaily and systematically on the garden. The white double rosebush hadevidently been propped up anew against the house since the commencementof the season; and a pear-tree and three damson-trees, which, except arow of currant-bushes, constituted the only varieties of fruit, boremarks of the recent amputation of several superfluous or defectivelimbs. There were also a few species of antique and hereditaryflowers, in no very flourishing condition, but scrupulously weeded; asif some person, either out of love or curiosity, had been anxious tobring them to such perfection as they were capable of attaining. Theremainder of the garden presented a well-selected assortment ofesculent vegetables, in a praiseworthy state of advancement. Summersquashes almost in their golden blossom; cucumbers, now evincing atendency 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 tofestoon themselves on poles; tomatoes, occupying a site so shelteredand sunny that the plants were already gigantic, and promised an earlyand abundant harvest.

  Phoebe wondered whose care and toil it could have been that had plantedthese vegetables, and kept the soil so clean and orderly. Not surelyher cousin Hepzibah's, who had no taste nor spirits for the lady-likeemployment of cultivating flowers, and--with her recluse habits, andtendency to shelter herself within the dismal shadow of thehouse--would hardly have come forth under the speck of open sky to weedand 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, andfoliage, and aristocratic flowers, and plebeian vegetables. The eye ofHeaven seemed to look down into it pleasantly, and with a peculiarsmile, as if glad to perceive that nature, elsewhere overwhelmed, anddriven out of the dusty town, had here been able to retain abreathing-place. The spot acquired a somewhat wilder grace, and yet avery gentle one, from the fact that a pair of robins had built theirnest in the pear-tree, and were making themselves exceedingly busy andhappy in the dark intricacy of its boughs. Bees, too,--strange tosay,--had thought it worth their while to come hither, possibly fromthe range of hives beside some farm-house miles away. How many aerialvoyages might they have made, in quest of honey, or honey-laden,betwixt dawn and sunset! Yet, late as it now was, there still arose apleasant hum out of one or two of the squash-blossoms, in the depths ofwhich these bees were plying their golden labor. There was one otherobject in the garden which Nature might fairly claim as her inalienableproperty, in spite of whatever man could do to render it his own. Thiswas a fountain, set round with a rim of old mossy stones, and paved, inits bed, with what appeared to be a sort of mosaic-work of variouslycolored pebbles. The play and slight agitation of the water, in itsupward gush, wrought magically with these variegated pebbles, and madea continually shifting apparition of quaint figures, vanishing toosuddenly to be definable. Thence, swelling over the rim of moss-grownstones, the water stole away under the fence, through what we regret tocall a gutter, rather than a channel. Nor must we forget to mention ahen-coop of very reverend antiquity that stood in the farther corner ofthe garden, not a great way from the fountain. It now contained onlyChanticleer, his two wives, and a solitary chicken. All of them werepure specimens of a breed which had been transmitted down as anheirloom in the Pyncheon family, and were said, while in their prime,to have attained almost the size of turkeys, and, on the score ofdelicate flesh, to be fit for a prince's table. In proof of theauthenticity of this legendary renown, Hepzibah could have exhibitedthe shell of a great egg, which an ostrich need hardly have beenashamed of. Be that as it might, the hens were now scarcely largerthan pigeons, and had a queer, rusty, withered aspect, and a gouty kindof movement, and a sleepy and melancholy tone throughout all thevariations of their clucking and cackling. It was evident that therace had degenerated, like many a noble race besides, in consequence oftoo strict a watchfulness to keep it pure. These feathered people hadexisted too long in their distinct variety; a fact of which the presentrepresentatives, judging by their lugubrious deportment, seemed to beaware. They kept themselves alive, unquestionably, and laid now andthen 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 soadmirable a breed of fowls. The distinguishing mark of the hens was acrest of lamentably scanty growth, in these latter days, but so oddlyand wickedly analogous to Hepzibah's turban, that Phoebe--to thepoignant distress of her conscience, but inevitably--was led to fancy ageneral resemblance betwixt these forlorn bipeds and her respectablerelative.

  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 offowls. Returning, she gave a peculiar call, which they seemed torecognize. The chicken crept through the pales of the coop and ran,with some show of liveliness, to her feet; while Chanticleer and theladies of his household regarded her with queer, sidelong glances, andthen croaked one to another, as if communicating their sage opinions ofher character. So wise, as well as antique, was their aspect, as togive color to the idea, not merely that they were the descendants of atime-honored race, but that they had existed, in their individualcapacity, ever since the House of the Seven Gables was founded, andwere somehow mixed up with its destiny. They were a species oftutelary sprite, or Banshee; although winged and feathered differentlyfrom most other guardian angels.

  "Here, you odd little chicken!" said Phoebe; "here are some nice crumbsfor you!"

  The chicken, hereupon, though almost as venerable in appearance as itsmother--possessing, indeed, the whole antiquity of its progenitors inminiature,--mustered vivacity enough to flutter upward and alight onPhoebe's shoulder.

  "That little fowl pays you a high compliment!" said a voice behindPhoebe.

  Turning quickly, she was surprised at sight of a young man, who hadfound access into the garden by a door opening out of another gablethan that whence she had emerged. He held a hoe in his hand, and,while Phoebe was gone in quest of the crumbs, had begun to busy himselfwith drawing up fresh earth about the roots of the tomatoes.

  "The chicken really treats you like an old acquaintance," continued hein a quiet way, while a smile made his face pleasanter than Phoebe atfirst fancied it. "Those venerable personages in the coop, too, seemvery affably disposed. You are lucky to be in their good graces sosoon! They have known me much longer, but never honor me with anyfamiliarity, though hardly a day passes without my bringing them food.Miss Hepzibah, I suppose, will interweave the fact with her othertraditions, and set it down that the fowls know you to be a Pyncheon!"

  "The secret is," said Phoebe, smiling, "that I have learned how to talkwith hens and chickens."

  "Ah, but these hens," answered the young man,--"these hens ofaristocratic lineage would scorn to understand the vulgar languag
e of abarn-yard fowl. I prefer to think--and so would Miss Hepzibah--thatthey recognize the family tone. For you are a Pyncheon?"

  "My name is Phoebe Pyncheon," said the girl, with a manner of somereserve; for she was aware that her new acquaintance could be no otherthan the daguerreotypist, of whose lawless propensities the old maidhad given her a disagreeable idea. "I did not know that my cousinHepzibah's garden was under another person's care."

  "Yes," said Holgrave, "I dig, and hoe, and weed, in this black oldearth, for the sake of refreshing myself with what little nature andsimplicity may be left in it, after men have so long sown and reapedhere. I turn up the earth by way of pastime. My sober occupation, sofar as I have any, is with a lighter material. In short, I makepictures out of sunshine; and, not to be too much dazzled with my owntrade, I have prevailed with Miss Hepzibah to let me lodge in one ofthese dusky gables. It is like a bandage over one's eyes, to come intoit. But would you like to see a specimen of my productions?"

  "A daguerreotype likeness, do you mean?" asked Phoebe with lessreserve; for, in spite of prejudice, her own youthfulness sprangforward to meet his. "I don't much like pictures of that sort,--theyare so hard and stern; besides dodging away from the eye, and trying toescape altogether. They are conscious of looking very unamiable, Isuppose, and therefore hate to be seen."

  "If you would permit me," said the artist, looking at Phoebe, "I shouldlike to try whether the daguerreotype can bring out disagreeable traitson a perfectly amiable face. But there certainly is truth in what youhave said. Most of my likenesses do look unamiable; but the verysufficient reason, I fancy, is, because the originals are so. There isa wonderful insight in Heaven's broad and simple sunshine. While wegive it credit only for depicting the merest surface, it actuallybrings out the secret character with a truth that no painter would everventure upon, even could he detect it. There is, at least, no flatteryin my humble line of art. Now, here is a likeness which I have takenover and over again, and still with no better result. Yet the originalwears, to common eyes, a very different expression. It would gratifyme to have your judgment on this character."

  He exhibited a daguerreotype miniature in a morocco case. Phoebemerely glanced at it, and gave it back.

  "I know the face," she replied; "for its stern eye has been followingme about all day. It is my Puritan ancestor, who hangs yonder in theparlor. To be sure, you have found some way of copying the portraitwithout its black velvet cap and gray beard, and have given him amodern coat and satin cravat, instead of his cloak and band. I don'tthink him improved by your alterations."

  "You would have seen other differences had you looked a little longer,"said Holgrave, laughing, yet apparently much struck. "I can assure youthat 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'seye,--and, for aught I know, to his most intimate friends,--anexceedingly pleasant countenance, indicative of benevolence, opennessof heart, sunny good-humor, and other praiseworthy qualities of thatcast. The sun, as you see, tells quite another story, and will not becoaxed out of it, after half a dozen patient attempts on my part. Herewe have the man, sly, subtle, hard, imperious, and, withal, cold asice. Look at that eye! Would you like to be at its mercy? At thatmouth! Could it ever smile? And yet, if you could only see the benignsmile of the original! It is so much the more unfortunate, as he is apublic character of some eminence, and the likeness was intended to beengraved."

  "Well, I don't wish to see it any more," observed Phoebe, turning awayher eyes. "It is certainly very like the old portrait. But my cousinHepzibah has another picture,--a miniature. If the original is stillin the world, I think he might defy the sun to make him look stern andhard."

  "You have seen that picture, then!" exclaimed the artist, with anexpression of much interest. "I never did, but have a great curiosityto do so. And you judge favorably of the face?"

  "There never was a sweeter one," said Phoebe. "It is almost too softand gentle for a man's."

  "Is there nothing wild in the eye?" continued Holgrave, so earnestlythat it embarrassed Phoebe, as did also the quiet freedom with which hepresumed on their so recent acquaintance. "Is there nothing dark orsinister anywhere? Could you not conceive the original to have beenguilty of a great crime?"

  "It is nonsense," said Phoebe a little impatiently, "for us to talkabout a picture which you have never seen. You mistake it for someother. A crime, indeed! Since you are a friend of my cousinHepzibah's, you should ask her to show you the picture."

  "It will suit my purpose still better to see the original," replied thedaguerreotypist coolly. "As to his character, we need not discuss itspoints; they have already been settled by a competent tribunal, or onewhich called itself competent. But, stay! Do not go yet, if youplease! I have a proposition to make you."

  Phoebe was on the point of retreating, but turned back, with somehesitation; for she did not exactly comprehend his manner, although, onbetter observation, its feature seemed rather to be lack of ceremonythan any approach to offensive rudeness. There was an odd kind ofauthority, too, in what he now proceeded to say, rather as if thegarden were his own than a place to which he was admitted merely byHepzibah's courtesy.

  "If agreeable to you," he observed, "it would give me pleasure to turnover these flowers, and those ancient and respectable fowls, to yourcare. Coming fresh from country air and occupations, you will soonfeel the need of some such out-of-door employment. My own sphere doesnot 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, nowand then, in exchange for all the good, honest kitchen vegetables withwhich I propose to enrich Miss Hepzibah's table. So we will befellow-laborers, somewhat on the community system."

  Silently, and rather surprised at her own compliance, Phoebeaccordingly betook herself to weeding a flower-bed, but busied herselfstill more with cogitations respecting this young man, with whom she sounexpectedly found herself on terms approaching to familiarity. Shedid not altogether like him. His character perplexed the littlecountry-girl, as it might a more practised observer; for, while thetone of his conversation had generally been playful, the impressionleft on her mind was that of gravity, and, except as his youth modifiedit, almost sternness. She rebelled, as it were, against a certainmagnetic element in the artist's nature, which he exercised towardsher, possibly without being conscious of it.

  After a little while, the twilight, deepened by the shadows of thefruit-trees and the surrounding buildings, threw an obscurity over thegarden.

  "There," said Holgrave, "it is time to give over work! That last strokeof the hoe has cut off a beanstalk. Good-night, Miss Phoebe Pyncheon!Any bright day, if you will put one of those rosebuds in your hair, andcome to my rooms in Central Street, I will seize the purest ray ofsunshine, and make a picture of the flower and its wearer." He retiredtowards his own solitary gable, but turned his head, on reaching thedoor, and called to Phoebe, with a tone which certainly had laughter init, yet which seemed to be more than half in earnest.

  "Be careful not to drink at Maule's well!" said he. "Neither drink norbathe your face in it!"

  "Maule's well!" answered Phoebe. "Is that it with the rim of mossystones? I have no thought of drinking there,--but why not?"

  "Oh," rejoined the daguerreotypist, "because, like an old lady's cup oftea, 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. Onreturning into Hepzibah's apartment of the house, she found thelow-studded parlor so dim and dusky that her eyes could not penetratethe interior. She was indistinctly aware, however, that the gauntfigure of the old gentlewoman was sitting in one of the straight-backedchairs, a little withdrawn from the window, the faint gleam of whichshowed the blanched paleness of her cheek, turned sideways towards acorner.

  "Shall I light a lamp, Cousin Hepzibah?" she asked.

&
nbsp; "Do, if you please, my dear child," answered Hepzibah. "But put it onthe table in the corner of the passage. My eyes are weak; and I canseldom bear the lamplight on them."

  What an instrument is the human voice! How wonderfully responsive toevery emotion of the human soul! In Hepzibah's tone, at that moment,there was a certain rich depth and moisture, as if the words,commonplace as they were, had been steeped in the warmth of her heart.Again, while lighting the lamp in the kitchen, Phoebe fancied that hercousin spoke to her.

  "In a moment, cousin!" answered the girl. "These matches just glimmer,and go out."

  But, instead of a response from Hepzibah, she seemed to hear the murmurof an unknown voice. It was strangely indistinct, however, and lesslike articulate words than an unshaped sound, such as would be theutterance of feeling and sympathy, rather than of the intellect. Sovague was it, that its impression or echo in Phoebe's mind was that ofunreality. She concluded that she must have mistaken some other soundfor that of the human voice; or else that it was altogether in herfancy.

  She set the lighted lamp in the passage, and again entered the parlor.Hepzibah's form, though its sable outline mingled with the dusk, wasnow less imperfectly visible. In the remoter parts of the room,however, its walls being so ill adapted to reflect light, there wasnearly the same obscurity as before.

  "Cousin," said Phoebe, "did you speak to me just now?"

  "No, child!" replied Hepzibah.

  Fewer words than before, but with the same mysterious music in them!Mellow, melancholy, yet not mournful, the tone seemed to gush up out ofthe deep well of Hepzibah's heart, all steeped in its profoundestemotion. There was a tremor in it, too, that--as all strong feeling iselectric--partly communicated itself to Phoebe. The girl sat silentlyfor a moment. But soon, her senses being very acute, she becameconscious of an irregular respiration in an obscure corner of the room.Her physical organization, moreover, being at once delicate andhealthy, gave her a perception, operating with almost the effect of aspiritual medium, that somebody was near at hand.

  "My dear cousin," asked she, overcoming an indefinable reluctance, "isthere not some one in the room with us?"

  "Phoebe, my dear little girl," said Hepzibah, after a moment's pause,"you were up betimes, and have been busy all day. Pray go to bed; forI am sure you must need rest. I will sit in the parlor awhile, andcollect my thoughts. It has been my custom for more years, child, thanyou have lived!" While thus dismissing her, the maiden lady steptforward, kissed Phoebe, and pressed her to her heart, which beatagainst 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 itcould afford to well over thus abundantly?

  "Goodnight, cousin," said Phoebe, strangely affected by Hepzibah'smanner. "If you begin to love me, I am glad!"

  She retired to her chamber, but did not soon fall asleep, nor then veryprofoundly. At some uncertain period in the depths of night, and, asit were, through the thin veil of a dream, she was conscious of afootstep mounting the stairs heavily, but not with force and decision.The voice of Hepzibah, with a hush through it, was going up along withthe footsteps; and, again, responsive to her cousin's voice, Phoebeheard that strange, vague murmur, which might be likened to anindistinct shadow of human utterance.