When her elf-child had departed, Hester Prynne made
a step or two towards the track that led through the
forest, but still remained under the deep shadow of
the trees. She beheld the minister advancing
along the path entirely alone, and leaning on a staff
which he had cut by the wayside. He looked haggard
and feeble, and betrayed a nerveless despondency in
his air, which had never so remarkably characterised
him in his walks about the settlement, nor in any
other situation where he deemed himself liable to
notice. Here it was wofully visible, in this
intense seclusion of the forest, which of itself would
have been a heavy trial to the spirits. There
was a listlessness in his gait, as if he saw no reason
for taking one step further, nor felt any desire to
do so, but would have been glad, could he be glad of
anything, to fling himself down at the root of the
nearest tree, and lie there passive for evermore.
The leaves might bestrew him, and the soil gradually
accumulate and form a little hillock over his frame,
no matter whether there were life in it or no.
Death was too definite an object to be wished for or
avoided.
To Hester’s eye, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale
exhibited no symptom of positive and vivacious suffering,
except that, as little Pearl had remarked, he kept
his hand over his heart.
XVII. THE PASTOR AND HIS PARISHIONER
Slowly as the minister walked, he had almost gone
by before Hester Prynne could gather voice enough
to attract his observation. At length she succeeded.
“Arthur Dimmesdale!” she said, faintly
at first, then louder, but hoarsely—“Arthur
Dimmesdale!”
“Who speaks?” answered the minister.
Gathering himself quickly up, he stood more erect,
like a man taken by surprise in a mood to which he
was reluctant to have witnesses. Throwing his
eyes anxiously in the direction of the voice, he indistinctly
beheld a form under the trees, clad in garments so
sombre, and so little relieved from the gray twilight
into which the clouded sky and the heavy foliage had
darkened the noontide, that he knew not whether it
were a woman or a shadow. It may be that his
pathway through life was haunted thus by a spectre
that had stolen out from among his thoughts.
He made a step nigher, and discovered the scarlet
letter.
“Hester! Hester Prynne!”, said he;
“is it thou? Art thou in life?”
“Even so.” she answered. “In
such life as has been mine these seven years past!
And thou, Arthur Dimmesdale, dost thou yet live?”
