The Scarlet Letter

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?"

It was no wonder that they thus questioned one another's actual

and bodily existence, and even doubted of their own. So

strangely did they meet in the dim wood that it was like the

first encounter in the world beyond the grave of two spirits who

had been intimately connected in their former life, but now

stood coldly shuddering in mutual dread, as not yet familiar

with their state, nor wonted to the companionship of disembodied

beings. Each a ghost, and awe-stricken at the other ghost. They

were awe-stricken likewise at themselves, because the crisis

flung back to them their consciousness, and revealed to each

heart its history and experience, as life never does, except at

such breathless epochs. The soul beheld its features in the

mirror of the passing moment. It was with fear, and tremulously,

and, as it were, by a slow, reluctant necessity, that Arthur

Dimmesdale put forth his hand, chill as death, and touched the

chill hand of Hester Prynne. The grasp, cold as it was, took

away what was dreariest in the interview. They now felt

themselves, at least, inhabitants of the same sphere.

Without a word more spoken--neither he nor she assuming the

guidance, but with an unexpressed consent--they glided back into

the shadow of the woods whence Hester had emerged, and sat down

on the heap of moss where she and Pearl had before been sitting.

When they found voice to speak, it was at first only to utter

remarks and inquiries such as any two acquaintances might have

made, about the gloomy sky, the threatening storm, and, next,

the health of each. Thus they went onward, not boldly, but step

by step, into the themes that were brooding deepest in their

hearts. So long estranged by fate and circumstances, they needed

something slight and casual to run before and throw open the

doors of intercourse, so that their real thoughts might be led

across the threshold.