At early morning—the very hour, or nearly so, when
Puffer Hopkins was holding an interview with the two
women—an aged figure, wild and distracted, wandered
about the fields beyond the city. His steps were uncertain
and his whole look and action full of confusion and
doubt: he seemed to be seeking something that was
not to be found, and wherever he cast his eyes, wondered
that it was not there. Where he had past the night, God
only knows; but now that it was morning, he came
abroad, drenched, disordered in dress, and wavered and

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

groped about in the clear sunshine as if it had been
mist. Bewildered and with troubled steps, he crossed
the low hollows and meadows; straggled more perplexed
than ever, through a crowded orchard; and at length
stood on an ancient highway, the old Post Road. The
moment his steps touched the road, they seemed on a
familiar track; his look brightened; and with a gleaming
countenance, he glanced about, till his eye fell on an
old, faded country house. What joyful and happy
gleams broke through the old man's features as he looked
upon that old faded house! His eyes sparkled, his hands
trembled for joy; and he raised them up and stretched
them forth as if he could grasp that building, as a familiar
friend, by an outstretched hand. Then the brightness
passed away from his look; he was deeply moved, and
in his agitation could scarcely drag himself to the spot
where his eyes were fixed. With trembling hand he
lifted the latchet of the gate; and as he walked up the
path, he shook like one in a spasm.

Many times he walked round and round the house, before
he entered. Then he went to the rear, raised a door
that led to a ground cellar, and peered for a long space
down into the gloom of the earth before he would descend.
Through heaps of lumber, old decaying casks,
and other ancient fragments, he picked his way; holding
his breath and spreading out his arms before him. He soon
found stairs that led into the upper chambers, and climbing
these, he was in an apartment all dust and darkness,
still as death, barren and silent as the grave itself. He
paused and listened, as if he expected the approach of
some well-known tread; the greeting, perhaps, of a
familiar voice. No voice answered—how could it at that
lapse of time, unless it had lingered in the corners and
recesses of the chamber, years after its owner was laid
in the earth?

“Shall I let the morning light in upon all these?”
said the old man, who called up in his mind a vivid
image of all that this chamber held: “not yet; I think
I could not bear it yet! I know that broad day is without,”
he felt it more because of the darkness, “but I dare not
let it in this chamber yet.”

With this he moved about the apartment, touching
every thing with his hand—gently and kindly, as a blind

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

man features and faces he would know—until he had
gone through every article about the room, save one, and
that was a chair—a simple, old-fashioned arm-chair, that
stood by the hearth. He many times approached this
as if he would know it as he had known whatever else
was there; but his heart gave out and he fell back, leaning,
in the darkness, against whatever chanced to be
nearest.

Wrought upon by his own fancy and these acts of
association, finding these many endeavors to no purpose,
he rushed to a window, burst its hasp, and casting its
shutters wide back, turned about and straining his gaze
upon the empty chair by the hearth, he fell down like
one in a fit.

Recovering, when the mid-day began to pour its warm
beams into the chamber, he looked about the apartment,
dwelling for a long time on each object; but when his
eye fell on a door which led into a small chamber in one
corner of the room, a change came over his countenance,
and he turned aside as if he dared not look that way
again. Presently, however, and seemingly moved thereto
by some sudden impulse, he proceeded to the door,
which was closed, drew it open, and clutching the door-post
to hold him up, he leaned forward and looked within.
There was nothing there but a narrow truckle-bed with a
single tattered blanket upon it, and the cords, such as were
visible, mouldering and dragging upon the floor; and yet
what a shuddering horror crossed the old man's face as he
gazed upon it, how he trembled and bore heavily against
the door-post, as if he had been smitten blind and helpless
by the shock of a sudden blow.

He could neither enter nor retire; but stood there like
one rooted to the earth. His mind was dwelling on what
had passed there twenty years before: a little hideous
old man, older than himself, lay, shivering under
that blanket—he saw every line of his countenance—
resting on his elbow, straining his ear to catch what passed
in the neighboring chamber, and chuckling like a fiend,
as he listened.

Consciousness and some power of motion, by degrees
came back; he went away and sate down for a time, lost
in a deep reverie; then he rose, and going forward cautiously,
as if under the horrible belief that, that other old

[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]

man was lying in wait within—he closed the door, turned
the key in the lock which groaned aloud, and caused him
to start; placed a chair with its back against the door,
dropped into the seat, and fixed his eyes, as if he would
never remove them thence, upon the old arm-chair
standing by the hearth. Sometimes he wept as he
looked there; then smiled, as if he would cheer some one
that filled its seat; and then a keen anguish, an imploring
look—full of sharpest desolation—shot into every
feature and blinded his eyes with grief.

In this way he sate there for an hour or more, suffering
with pangs that spake aloud in every line of his face,
every muscle of his tortured old body—but immoveable.
He strained his eyes forward—“She is going—God help
us all—she is gone!” he cried, and broke from the chamber.
He speeded swiftly into the hall; unfastened the
door—the old bar crumbled as he pulled it down—and was
in the open air. Much as he was moved, his feet yet lingered
about the place; and while he wavered in his mind
whether to stay or fly—standing and looking by turns
back upon the house and out upon the road that
stretched away into the country—his attention was fixed
by a young figure that approached. It was a fair creature
that he saw, not yet grown to the full age of care; but,
nevertheless, pale, travel-stained, and partly borne down
by a burthen (it was a plain willow basket) which she
carried, and which she held close to her side.

She was hurrying by, when the old man accosted her.

“Stop me not, for heaven's sake, stop me not,” she
cried, as Hobbleshank stood in her way. “Life and death
are in my steps. Death behind and death before me;
and life only—a little lingering life—in such speed as I
may make. I must be gone at once!”

The old man stood for a time, gazing at the pale young
creature, and wondering what her meaning might be;
recovering from his surprise, he presently laid his hand in
hers (which was cold as marble) and said:

“Come in with me; you are sick and weary—that you
cannot deny—with long travel. You need rest, and may
find a little here. I once had good right to say to all
comers, `welcome here!'—that was many, many long,
dreary years ago—it was then a cheerful, merry house;
and now, we who are both stricken in sorrow, have a

[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]

privilege any where, where darkness is, and dust and
lonely gloom. Come in and rest.”

As he spake, he drew her gently toward the house:
she hesitated at first, and when she cast her eyes up at
the old building, shuddered and started back as if it had
been a prison; but when she turned and saw tears
streaming in the old man's eyes—he had watched her
with a sad constancy—she smiled sorrowfully, and at once
entered in.

Why did she pause as she paced that broad old hall?
What were those crumbling old walls, and those fading
figures painted to the ceiling, saying to her? She looked
about like one restored to a world she had known before;
and could not tell where nor when. Wondering more
and more, and on the watch at every step, like one
that looks for a surprise, she was led by Hobbleshank,
whose steps seemed moved that way by a force he could
not control, into the chamber where he had suffered
so much. He would have closed the door behind them,
to shut off the cold airs that dwelt about the hall.

“In God's name,” cried his young companion, “do
not shut this chamber up so tight; you will stifle me. I
had rather suffer all the unkindness of winter, than see
any thing more of closed doors and darkened windows. I
have seen enough already!” She looked uneasily about
as she spake, sighed as in spite of herself, and was
silent.

“You have had heavy troubles, for one so young,”
said the old man, “I know you have: for your eyes
seem to be looking not at present objects, but on what is
behind and far away!”

“Don't speak of them now,” she answered, drawing
her breath short and fast; “but go out and look back upon
the road, whether any travellers are coming this way in
great haste. There will be a dark, deadly carriage close
behind them.”

Hobbleshank begged her to be seated, and went forth
as she requested. He soon came back, and answered that
there was none to be seen.

“I strained my gaze,” said the old man, “the whole
length of the road. Be comforted; there is no one in
pursuit.”

“In pursuit?” she answered, lifting her eyes

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

upon him with a broad look of surprise and wonder.
“Then you know that I have fled. Do you know from
whom?”

“How could I fail to know?” answered Hobbleshank,
whose heart softened toward the gentle questioner.
“You have fled from tyrants. I see no stripes
upon your person; you do not wear a prison garb; and yet I
will swear that you are flying from the most cursed, cruel
relentless despotism that could be laid on a young spirit
like yours. Some one that may have spared your fair
flesh, has been cutting your young heart to the quick—
has been breaking your beautiful hopes, one by one; and
you feel the sunshine and the free air to-day, for the first
time, perhaps, in many a long year. Give an old man
credit for some spirit of sorrowful judgment, and say I am
right!”

Could the earnest truth with which Hobbleshank spake,
out of the very bosom of a great inner world of sorrow in
himself, fail to touch the other pale sufferer?

“I have had some troubles,” she answered, feigning
to smile. “But what of that, I am only grown old a
little before my time. I will try to forget what is past;
would God grant me strength to bear up against what is
to come!” As she spake, a deadly paleness blanched
her cheeks, and her eyes brightened into a vague
splendor, that was almost fearful to look upon.

The old man sate fixed in his seat, gazing upon her;
while there came floating into his mind, and assuming
form and color, as he watched her haggard look, her features
white as the tombstone marble, and her thin trembling
form, the memory of one just so troubled, shrunken
and sorrowful, that faded away from that old arm-chair,
a life-time ago.

Each lost in their own wandering and troubled
thoughts, they sate there dumb and silent as two images
in a cold vault.

“Do you dwell here?” she said at length; but seeing
the dusty walls, from which the hangings tumbled piece-meal,
and how dull cob-webs had engrossed the corners of
the room, she added, “But I know you cannot.”

“And yet I do,” answered Hobbleshank, “in the spirit.
My mind has lived in these chambers for many
years; but this poor old body drags itself along in yonder

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

city. This house is mine, and yet not mine; rather it
belongs to a child of mine, whether in his grave or no, I
cannot tell.”

“Then he may be happy!” she said. “I have looked
down into many graves, and used to think them dreary.
But now I know there are graves on the earth, gloomier
than any dug in the soil. Why do I stay here, talking
so: when I should be abroad on my journey? I would
not have tarried—though I am glad for your sake and
my own, now, that I did—had I not wished, most fervently
wished, to cross the threshold of the city with
some strength and spirit to meet my task. I must go.”

She rose; possessed herself of the willow basket,
which she had laid on the ground, at her side, and took
the old man by the hand.

“I am sorry that you go,” he said, looking kindly
upon the gentle creature. “You know not what guests
and fancies you leave me to. Can I go with you to the
great city in no friendly service?”

“In none whatever, I fear,” she answered. “My
task is a simple one, and asks only a kindly spirit to fill
it well. I go to tend at the bedside of a dear friend who is
sick. I must hasten, or he may have bid the world goodby
already. I think,” she added, laying her pale white
hand upon the basket, “I have some comfort here for
him.”

“An old man's good wishes shall go with you every
step! Cheer up and speed, then, if such be your errand:
the city darkens apace, and I shall be alone again, as I
have been, and shall be, how long heaven knows.”

He led her through the old broad hall; she looked at
the dim old figures with the same strange interest as before;
and in a moment they stood upon the door-step.

“Remember,” said Hobbleshank, “though we have
met but once, we are old friends.”

She pressed his hand closely in her own, and proceeded
on her way. Once forth upon the road again, she
strained her eyes with painful earnestness toward the
city, as if she could so call up out of all the great
and turbid mass, the little bedside she wished to see;
pausing only once or twice to look back at the old man,
who at last fell within and closed the door.

p264-160

Previous section

Next section