The House of the Seven Gables
upward gush, wrought magically with these variegated pebbles, and made
a continually shifting apparition of quaint figures, vanishing too
suddenly to be definable. Thence, swelling over the rim of moss-grown
stones, the water stole away under the fence, through what we regret to
call a gutter, rather than a channel. Nor must we forget to mention a
hen-coop of very reverend antiquity that stood in the farther corner of
the garden, not a great way from the fountain. It now contained only
Chanticleer, his two wives, and a solitary chicken. All of them were
pure specimens of a breed which had been transmitted down as an
heirloom in the Pyncheon family, and were said, while in their prime,
to have attained almost the size of turkeys, and, on the score of
delicate flesh, to be fit for a prince’s table. In proof of the
authenticity of this legendary renown, Hepzibah could have exhibited
the shell of a great egg, which an ostrich need hardly have been
ashamed of. Be that as it might, the hens were now scarcely larger than
pigeons, and had a queer, rusty, withered aspect, and a gouty kind of
movement, and a sleepy and melancholy tone throughout all the
variations of their clucking and cackling. It was evident that the race
had degenerated, like many a noble race besides, in consequence of too
strict a watchfulness to keep it pure. These feathered people had
existed too long in their distinct variety; a fact of which the present
representatives, judging by their lugubrious deportment, seemed to be
aware. They kept themselves alive, unquestionably, and laid now and
then an egg, and hatched a chicken; not for any pleasure of their own,
but that the world might not absolutely lose what had once been so
admirable a breed of fowls. The distinguishing mark of the hens was a
crest of lamentably scanty growth, in these latter days, but so oddly
and wickedly analogous to Hepzibah’s turban, that Phœbe—to the poignant
distress of her conscience, but inevitably—was led to fancy a general
resemblance betwixt these forlorn bipeds and her respectable relative.
The girl ran into the house to get some crumbs of bread, cold potatoes,
and other such scraps as were suitable to the accommodating appetite of
fowls. Returning, she gave a peculiar call, which they seemed to
recognize. The chicken crept through the pales of the coop and ran,
with some show of liveliness, to her feet; while Chanticleer and the
ladies of his household regarded her with queer, sidelong glances, and
then croaked one to another, as if communicating their sage opinions of
her character. So wise, as well as antique, was their aspect, as to
give color to the idea, not merely that they were the descendants of a
time-honored race, but that they had existed, in their individual
capacity, ever since the House of the Seven Gables was founded, and
were somehow mixed up with its destiny. They were a species of tutelary
sprite, or Banshee; although winged and feathered differently from most
other guardian angels.
“Here, you odd little chicken!” said Phœbe; “here are some nice crumbs
for you!”
The chicken, hereupon, though almost as venerable in appearance as its
mother—possessing, indeed, the whole antiquity of its progenitors in
miniature,—mustered vivacity enough to flutter upward and alight on
Phœbe’s shoulder.
“That little fowl pays you a high compliment!” said a voice behind
Phœbe.
Turning quickly, she was surprised at sight of a young man, who had
found access into the garden by a door opening out of another gable
than that whence she had emerged. He held a hoe in his hand, and, while
Phœbe was gone in quest of the crumbs, had begun to busy himself with
drawing up fresh earth about the roots of the tomatoes.
“The chicken really treats you like an old acquaintance,” continued he
in a quiet way, while a smile made his face pleasanter than Phœbe at
first fancied it. “Those venerable personages in the coop, too, seem
very affably disposed. You are lucky to be in their good graces so
soon! They have known me much longer, but never honor me with any
familiarity, though hardly a day passes without my bringing them food.
Miss Hepzibah, I suppose, will interweave the fact with her other
traditions, and set it down that the fowls know you to be a Pyncheon!”
“The secret is,” said Phœbe, smiling, “that I have learned how to talk
with hens and chickens.”
“Ah, but these hens,” answered the young man,—“these hens of
aristocratic lineage would scorn to understand the vulgar language of a
barn-yard fowl. I prefer to think—and so would Miss Hepzibah—that they
recognize the family tone. For you are a Pyncheon?”
“My name is Phœbe Pyncheon,” said the girl, with a manner of some
reserve; for she was aware that her new acquaintance could be no other
than the daguerreotypist, of whose lawless propensities the old maid
had given her a disagreeable idea. “I did not know that my cousin
Hepzibah’s garden was under another person’s care.”
“Yes,” said Holgrave, “I dig, and hoe, and weed, in this black old
earth, for the sake of refreshing myself with what little nature and
simplicity may be left in it, after men have so long sown and reaped
here. I turn up the earth by way of pastime. My sober occupation, so
far as I have any, is with a lighter material. In short, I make
pictures out of sunshine; and, not to be too much dazzled with my own
trade, I have prevailed with Miss Hepzibah to let me lodge in one of
these dusky gables. It is like a bandage over one’s eyes, to come into
it. But would you like to see a specimen of my productions?”
“A daguerreotype likeness, do you mean?” asked Phœbe with less reserve;
for, in spite of prejudice, her own youthfulness sprang forward to meet
his. “I don’t much like pictures of that sort,—they are so hard and
stern; besides dodging away from the eye, and trying to escape
altogether. They are conscious of looking very unamiable, I suppose,
and therefore hate to be seen.”
“If you would permit me,” said the artist, looking at Phœbe, “I should
like to try whether the daguerreotype can bring out disagreeable traits
on a perfectly amiable face. But there certainly is truth in what you
have said. Most of my likenesses do look unamiable; but the very
sufficient reason, I fancy, is, because the originals are so. There is
a wonderful insight in Heaven’s broad and simple sunshine. While we
give it credit only for depicting the merest surface, it actually
brings out the secret character with a truth that no painter would ever
venture upon, even could he detect it. There is, at least, no flattery
in my humble line of art. Now, here is a likeness which I have taken
over and over again, and still with no better result. Yet the original
wears, to common eyes, a very different expression. It would gratify me
to have your judgment on this character.”
He exhibited a daguerreotype miniature in a morocco case. Phœbe merely
glanced at it, and gave it back.
“I know the face,” she replied; “for its stern eye has been following
me about all day. It is my Puritan ancestor, who hangs yonder in the
parlor. To be sure, you have found some way of copying the portrait
without its black velvet cap and gray beard, and have given him a
modern coat and satin cravat, instead of his cloak and band. I don’t
think him improved by your alterations.”
“You would have seen other differences had you looked a little longer,”
said Holgrave, laughing, yet apparently much struck. “I can assure you
that this is a modern face, and one which you will very probably meet.
Now, the remarkable point is, that the original wears, to the world’s
eye,—and, for aught I know, to his most intimate friends,—an
exceedingly pleasant countenance, indicative of benevolence, openness
of heart, sunny good-humor, and other praiseworthy qualities of that
cast. The sun, as you see, tells quite another story, and will not be
coaxed out of it, after half a dozen patient attempts on my part. Here
we have the man, sly, subtle, hard, imperious, and, withal, cold as
ice. Look at that eye! Would you like to be at its mercy? At that
mouth! Could it ever smile? And yet, if you could only see the benign
smile of the original! It is so much the more unfortunate, as he is a
public character of some eminence, and the likeness was intended to be
engraved.”
“Well, I don’t wish to see it any more,” observed Phœbe, turning away
her eyes. “It is certainly very like the old portrait. But my cousin
Hepzibah has another picture,—a miniature. If the original is still in
the world, I think he might defy the sun to make him look stern and
hard.”
“You have seen that picture, then!” exclaimed the artist, with an
expression of much interest. “I never did, but have a great curiosity
to do so. And you judge favorably of the face?”
“There never was a sweeter one,” said Phœbe. “It is almost too soft and
gentle for a man’s.”
“Is there nothing wild in the eye?” continued Holgrave, so earnestly
that it embarrassed Phœbe, as did also the quiet freedom with which he
presumed on their so recent acquaintance. “Is there nothing dark or
sinister anywhere? Could you not conceive the original to have been
guilty of a great crime?”
“It is nonsense,” said Phœbe a little impatiently, “for us to talk
about a picture which you have never seen. You mistake it for some
other. A crime, indeed! Since you are a friend of my cousin Hepzibah’s,
you should ask her to show you the picture.”
“It will suit my purpose still better to see the original,” replied the
daguerreotypist coolly. “As to his character, we need not discuss its
points; they have already been settled by a competent tribunal, or one
which called itself competent. But, stay! Do not go yet, if you please!
I have a proposition to make you.”
Phœbe was on the point of retreating, but turned back, with some
hesitation; for she did not exactly comprehend his manner, although, on
better observation, its feature seemed rather to be lack of ceremony
than any approach to offensive rudeness. There was an odd kind of
authority, too, in what he now proceeded to say, rather as if the
garden were his own than a place to which he was admitted merely by
Hepzibah’s courtesy.
“If agreeable to you,” he observed, “it would give me pleasure to turn
over these flowers, and those ancient and respectable fowls, to your
care. Coming fresh from country air and occupations, you will soon feel
the need of some such out-of-door employment. My own sphere does not so
much lie among flowers. You can trim and tend them, therefore, as you
please; and I will ask only the least trifle of a blossom, now and
then, in exchange for all the good, honest kitchen vegetables with
which I propose to enrich Miss Hepzibah’s table. So we will be
fellow-laborers, somewhat on the community system.”
Silently, and rather surprised at her own compliance, Phœbe accordingly
betook herself to weeding a flower-bed, but busied herself still more
with cogitations respecting this young man, with whom she so
unexpectedly found herself on terms approaching to familiarity. She did
not altogether like him. His character perplexed the little
country-girl, as it might a more practised observer; for, while the
tone of his conversation had generally been playful, the impression
left on her mind was that of gravity, and, except as his youth modified
it, almost sternness. She rebelled, as it were, against a certain
magnetic element in the artist’s nature, which he exercised towards
her, possibly without being conscious of it.
After a little while, the twilight, deepened by the shadows of the
fruit-trees and the surrounding buildings, threw an obscurity over the
garden.
“There,” said Holgrave, “it is time to give over work! That last stroke
of the hoe has cut off a beanstalk. Good-night, Miss Phœbe Pyncheon!