The Scarlet Letter

One of his clerical brethren--it was the venerable John

Wilson--observing the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was left by

the retiring wave of intellect and sensibility, stepped forward

hastily to offer his support. The minister tremulously, but

decidedly, repelled the old man's arm. He still walked onward,

if that movement could be so described, which rather resembled

the wavering effort of an infant, with its mother's arms in

view, outstretched to tempt him forward. And now, almost

imperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress, he had

come opposite the well-remembered and weather-darkened scaffold,

where, long since, with all that dreary lapse of time between,

Hester Prynne had encountered the world's ignominious stare.

There stood Hester, holding little Pearl by the hand! And there

was the scarlet letter on her breast! The minister here made a

pause; although the music still played the stately and rejoicing

march to which the procession moved. It summoned him

onward--inward to the festival!--but here he made a pause.

Bellingham, for the last few moments, had kept an anxious eye

upon him. He now left his own place in the procession, and

advanced to give assistance judging, from Mr. Dimmesdale's

aspect that he must otherwise inevitably fall. But there was

something in the latter's expression that warned back the

magistrate, although a man not readily obeying the vague

intimations that pass from one spirit to another. The crowd,

meanwhile, looked on with awe and wonder. This earthly

faintness, was, in their view, only another phase of the

minister's celestial strength; nor would it have seemed a

miracle too high to be wrought for one so holy, had he ascended

before their eyes, waxing dimmer and brighter, and fading at

last into the light of heaven!

He turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his arms.

"Hester," said he, "come hither! Come, my little Pearl!"

It was a ghastly look with which he regarded them; but there was

something at once tender and strangely triumphant in it. The

child, with the bird-like motion, which was one of her

characteristics, flew to him, and clasped her arms about his

knees. Hester Prynne--slowly, as if impelled by inevitable fate,

and against her strongest will--likewise drew near, but paused

before she reached him. At this instant old Roger Chillingworth

thrust himself through the crowd--or, perhaps, so dark,

disturbed, and evil was his look, he rose up out of some nether

region--to snatch back his victim from what he sought to do! Be

that as it might, the old man rushed forward, and caught the

minister by the arm.

"Madman, hold! what is your purpose?" whispered he. "Wave back

that woman! Cast off this child! All shall be well! Do not

blacken your fame, and perish in dishonour! I can yet save you!

Would you bring infamy on your sacred profession?"