"Nay, then, I must and will see him!
What if he should die?"
"He is in no danger of death," said Hepzibah, and added, with bitterness that she could repress no longer, "none; unless he should be persecuted to death, now, by the same man who long ago attempted it!"
"Cousin Hepzibah," said the judge, with an impressive earnestness of manner, which grew even to tearful pathos, as he proceeded, "is it possible that you do not perceive how unjust, how unkind, how unchristian, is this constant, this long-continued bitterness against me, for a part which I was constrained by duty and conscience, by the force of law, and at my own peril, to act? What did I do, in detriment to Clifford, which it was possible to leave undone?
How could you, his sister—if, for your never-ending sorrow, as it has been for mine, you had known what I did—have shown greater tenderness?
And do you think, cousin, that it has cost me no pang?—that it has left no anguish in my bosom, from that day to this, amidst all the prosperity with which Heaven has blessed me?—or that I do not now rejoice, when it is deemed consistent with the dues of public justice and the welfare of society that this dear kinsman, this early friend, this nature so delicately and beautifully constituted—so unfortunate, let us pronounce him, and forbear to say, so guilty—that our own Clifford, in fine, should be given back to life and its possibilities of enjoyment?
Ah, you little know me, Cousin Hepzibah!
You little known this heart!
It now throbs at the thought of meeting him!
There lives not the human being (except yourself—and you not more than I) who has shed so many tears for Clifford's calamity!
You behold some of them now.
There is none who would so delight to promote his happiness!
Try me, Hepzibah!—try me, cousin!—try the man whom you have treated as your enemy and Clifford's!
Try Jaffrey Pyncheon, and you shall find him true, to the heart's core!"
"In the name of Heaven," cried Hepzibah, provoked only to intenser indignation by this outgush of the inestimable tenderness of a stern nature, "in God's name, whom you insult, and whose power I could almost question, since He hears you utter so many false words, without palsying your tongue—give over, I beseech you, this loathsome pretense of affection for your victim!
You hate him!
Say so like a man!
You cherish, at this moment, some black purpose against him in your heart!
Speak it out at once!—or, if you hope so to promote it better, hide it till you can triumph in its success!
But never speak again of your love for my poor brother!
I cannot bear it!
It will drive me beyond a woman's decency!
It will drive me mad!
Forbear!
Not another word!
It will make me spurn you!"
For once, Hepzibah's wrath had given her courage. She had spoken. But, after all, was this unconquerable distrust of Judge Pyncheon's integrity, and this utter denial, apparently, of his claim to stand in the ring of human sympathies—were they founded in any just perception of his character, or merely the offspring of a woman's unreasonable prejudice, deduced from nothing?
The judge, beyond all question, was a man of eminent respectability. The church acknowledged it; the state acknowledged it.
It was denied by nobody.
In all the very extensive sphere of those who knew him, whether in his public or private capacities, there was not an individual—except Hepzibah, and some lawless mystic, like the daguerreotypist, and, possibly, a few political opponents—who would have dreamed of seriously disputing his claim to a high and honorable place in the world's regard.
Nor (we must do him the further justice to say) did Judge Pyncheon himself, probably, entertain many or frequent doubts, that his enviable reputation accorded with his deserts.
His conscience, therefore, usually considered the surest witness to a man's integrity—his conscience, unless it might be for the little space of five minutes in the twenty-four hours, or, now and then, some black day in the whole year's circle—his conscience bore an accordant testimony with the world's laudatory voice.
And yet, strong as this evidence may seem to be, we should hesitate to peril our own conscience on the assertion, that the judge and the consenting world were right, and that poor Hepzibah, with her solitary prejudice, was wrong.
Hidden from mankind, forgotten by himself, or buried so deeply under a sculptured and ornamental pile of ostentatious deeds that his daily life could take no note of it, there may have lurked some evil and unsightly thing.
Nay, we could almost venture to say, further, that a daily guilt might have been acted by him, continually renewed, and reddening forth afresh, like the miraculous blood-stain of a murder, without his necessarily and at every moment being aware of it.
Men of strong minds, great force of character, and a hard texture of the sensibilities, are very capable of falling into mistakes of this kind.
They are ordinarily men to whom forms are of paramount importance.
Their field of action lies among the external phenomena of life.
They possess vast ability in grasping, and arranging, and appropriating to themselves, the big, heavy, solid unrealities, such as gold, landed estate, offices of trust and emolument, and public honors.
With these materials, and with deeds of goodly aspect, done in the public eye, an individual of this class builds up, as it were, a tall and stately edifice, which, in the view of other people, and ultimately in his own view, is no other than the man's character or the man himself.
Behold, therefore, a palace!
Its splendid halls, and suites of spacious apartments, are floored with the mosaic-work of costly marbles; its windows, the whole height of each room, admit the sunshine through the most transparent of plate glass; its high cornices are gilded, and its ceilings gorgeously painted; and a lofty dome—through which, from the central pavement, you may gaze up to the sky, as with no obstructing medium between—surmounts the whole.
With what fairer and nobler emblem could any man desire to shadow forth his character?
Ah! but in some low and obscure nook—some narrow closet on the ground floor, shut, locked, and bolted, and the key flung away—or beneath the marble pavement, in a stagnant water puddle, with the richest pattern of mosaic-work above—may lie a corpse, half-decayed, and still decaying, and diffusing its death scent all through the palace!
The inhabitant will not be conscious of it, for it has long been his daily breath!
Neither will the visitors, for they smell only the rich odours which the master sedulously scatters through the palace, and the incense which they bring, and delight to burn before him!
Now and then, perchance, comes in a seer, before whose sadly gifted eye the whole structure melts into thin air, leaving only the hidden nook, the bolted closet, with the cobwebs festooned over its forgotten door, or the deadly hole under the pavement, and the decaying corpse within.
Here, then, we are to seek the true emblem of the man's character, and of the deed that gives whatever reality it possesses to his life. And, beneath the show of a marble palace, that pool of stagnant water, foul with many impurities, and, perhaps, tinged with blood—that secret abomination, above which, possibly, he may say his prayers, without remembering it—is this man's miserable soul!
To apply this train of remark somewhat more closely to Judge Pyncheon. We might say (without in the least imputing crime to a personage of his eminent respectability) that there was enough of splendid rubbish in his life to cover up and paralyse a more active and subtile conscience than the judge was ever troubled with. The purity of his judicial character, while on the bench; the faithfulness of his public service in subsequent capacities; his devotedness to his party, and the rigid consistency with which he had adhered to its principles, or, at all events, kept pace with its organised movements; his remarkable zeal as president of a Bible society; his unimpeachable integrity as treasurer of a widow's and orphan's fund; his benefits to horticulture, by producing two much esteemed varieties of the pear, and to agriculture, through the agency of the famous Pyncheon Bull; the cleanliness of his moral deportment, for a great many years past; the severity with which he had frowned upon, and finally cast off, an expensive and dissipated son, delaying forgiveness until within the final quarter of an hour of the young man's life; his prayers at morning and eventide, and graces at mealtime; his efforts in furtherance of the temperance cause; his confining himself, since the last attack of the gout, to five diurnal glasses of old sherry wine; the snowy whiteness of his linen, the polish of his boots, the handsomeness of his gold-headed cane, the square and roomy fashion of his coat, and the fineness of its material, and, in general, the studied propriety of his dress and equipment; the scrupulousness with which he paid public notice in the street, by a bow, a lifting of the hat, a nod, or a motion of the hand, to all and sundry his acquaintances, rich or poor; the smile of broad benevolence wherewith he made it a point to gladden the whole world—what room could possibly be found for darker traits, in a portrait made up of lineaments like these? This proper face was what he beheld in the looking-glass. This admirably arranged life was what he was conscious of, in the progress of every day. Then, might not he claim to be its result and sum, and say to himself and the community—"Behold Judge Pyncheon there!"
And, allowing that many, many years ago, in his early and reckless youth, he had committed some one wrong act—or, that, even now, the inevitable force of circumstances should occasionally make him do one questionable deed, among a thousand praiseworthy, or at least blameless ones—would you characterise the judge by that one necessary deed, and that half-forgotten act, and let it overshadow the fair aspect of a lifetime?