Chapter 10

ROGER PRYNNE watching him. Two chairs; other furniture heavy and immovable._

_Roger._ [_Feeling Dimsdell's pulse_] There's been no change. A very long trance. At times he mumbles; at other times, as now, He lies like death. If ev'ry murderer Were stricken with the image of the thing Which he would deal, 'twould be a blessing! Yet When consciousness returns, with it will come The murderous disposition; for in these cases The mind, although it wanders while the trance Is on, always comes back upon its path Where first it left It. Therefore, 'twere wise in me To be on guard. Well, so I am; but what-- What fear should drive me hence, or make me leave The study of his case? He hath no arms But such as both of us were born with; And despite my age I am his equal that way. Ah! a chair swung by a furious man Might make an omelet of my brain; Therefore, one chair will do--and that for me. [_Removes chair._

_Enter GOVERNOR BELLINGHAM in robes of office._

_Governor._ Good morning, Doctor.

_Roger._ Good morning, Governor. I wish you, sir, As happy and as prosperous a term In office, as that just closing.

_Governor._ I thank you, sir. Has Dimsdell recovered from his trance?

_Roger._ Not yet. There he lies.

_Governor._ Wonderful! Can you account for his condition, Doctor?

_Roger._ There's no accounting for it, Governor. This is the second trance I've seen him in; How many more he's had, God only knows.

_Governor._ 'Tis most unfortunate that we must lack His eloquence to-day. The people, who Always love high-sounding words more than Wise thoughts, prefer the music of his voice To good old Wilson's drone. Why isn't he in bed?

_Roger._ Oh! there are many reasons; 'twould take too long To tell you now; but at another time I'll ask your patience for a tale more strange Than ever made your flesh to creep.

_Governor._ Is there mystery in the case?

_Roger._ Mystery! aye, and miracle, too! You know him, Governor--a man whose nerves Are gossamers, too fine to sift the music Of the blasts that blow about our burly world, And only fit for harps whereon Zephyrus In Elysium might breathe.--And yet this man-- Oh! you'd not believe it if I told you.

_Enter_ Servant.

_Servant._ Your worship is asked for at the door.

_Governor._ Say I am coming. We'll speak again of this. [_Exit Servant._ I must be gone. We servants of the State Are slaves to show, and serve the people best When most we trick them. The pageant of the day Goes much against my better judgment, but The crowd will have it so, and so farewell.

_Roger._ One moment, if you please. If he revives He'll pick the thread of life up where he dropt it; He may desire to preach, as he hath promised you, And, if he doth, 'twere better not to thwart him.

_Governor._ Very well. I'll speak to Wilson.

_Roger._ I'm sorry I cannot go with you. Farewell.

_Exit Governor. Dimsdell moves. Roger goes to his side and examines him._

The pulse hath quickened. He moves his lips.

_Dimsdell mumbles indistinctly._

I cannot catch it.--

_Dimsdell._ Think of it no more, my love.-- Our troubles now are ended, Hester; The gentle current of our mingled lives, Long parted by the barren, rocky isle Of hard necessity, flows reunited on.

_Roger._ Indeed!

_Dimsdell._ How sweet it is, in the afternoon of life, To walk thus, hand in hand, Hester. And as The golden sun of love falls gently down Into the purple glory of the West, We'll follow it.

_Roger._ A lengthy jump--from sinning youth Plump into the middle of an honored age! Yet thus the mind, in trance or dream, achieves Without an effort what it wills. Again?

_Dimsdell._ Sir, take my daughter and my blessing, too; Cherish her as the apple of thine eye; Still shield her from the buffets of the world; Let thy tenderness breathe gentle love Like an Italian air sung at twilight, When the melody without tunes that within Until the soul arising on the wings Of music soars into Heaven.

_Roger._ Is there nothing in heredity? Or will The orange-blossom take its fragrance from The Heaven above; its origin forgot?

_Dimsdell._ Hester, although the snow upon thy head Be white as that on yonder distant mount, Thine eyes are blue and deep as Leman's lake That lies before us.

_Roger._ Thus in our dreams we picture what we wish; Not held to time or place; and while the body, Like an anchor, sinks in mud, the wingéd craft Swings with the tide of thought. He's in Geneva now; Hester with him; His daughter honorably married; And all the pains of yesterday forgot. I'll write it down. [_Roger makes notes._

_Dimsdell._ Good night, dear wife, good night. The stars of Heaven melt into angel forms Which stoop to lift me to the gates of bliss. Farewell, farewell! Nay, weep not, Hester; Our sins are now forgiven. Yea, though I walk through the valley of th' shadow of death, I will fear no evil.--Say it with me, Hester.

_Roger._ Will he die thus? [_Examines Dimsdell._ The pulse is weak--a clammy sweat-- 'Tis but the culmination of the trance. 'Tis but a dream. A dream! Yet one must die; And to our human thought that death were best That came preceded by a flag of truce To parley peace. To pass away in dreams-- Without the vain regret for work undone; Without a load of sin to weight the soul; With all the argentry of honored age To frost our past; with all the fiercer heats Of life burnt out into the cold, gray ash-- That were peace! Then might a man yield up The willing ghost as calmly as a child That falls asleep upon its mother's breast To wake in paradise.

_Dimsdell starts up._

_Dimsdell._ I see thee now--and now I'll kill, kill, kill-- If thou be Satan I cannot harm thee-- But if a man--

_Dimsdell attempts to reach Roger, who keeps the one chair of the room in front of him and thus wards off Dimsdell._

_Roger._ Madman, listen! Thou canst not harm me, yet I am not Satan. My name is Roger Prynne. I am the husband of the woman you have wronged.

_Dimsdell._ Thou Roger Prynne?

_Roger._ Aye, Roger Prynne and thine accuser.

_Dimsdell looks about the room as though dazed._

_Dimsdell._ Why, how is this?--But now, the Governor's garden--and now, my room!--But now, just now, old Doctor Chillingworth--and now, mine enemy, Roger Prynne! Thou art the Devil himself!--Thou shalt not trick me thus.

_Band music in distance._

_Roger._ Trick thee? Why, madman, thou hast been in trance since yester noon. Trick thee! I like the word! 'Tis now the time of day when thou shouldst preach the great Election Sermon, the one event that makes or mars you preachers. Dost hear the music? A day hath passed since thou wast in the garden. They are marching even now to the market place.

_Dimsdell._ What shall I do? [_Aloud, but to himself._

_Roger._ Do? Stay here and settle our account; or else go on and publish thyself as what thou art--a hypocrite.

_Dimsdell._ I see it now!--Ah! Satan! Satan!--thou wouldst affright my soul and make me lose my well earned honors. Why, Roger Prynne is dead--dead. 'Twas told on good report two years ago. And now--oh! try it if thou wilt--I'll have thee burnt, burnt--burnt at the stake, if thou accusest me! Who would believe thee? Stand aside, I say! Let me pass!

_Roger._ How came the stigma on thy breast?

_Dimsdell._ Thou knowest!--Make way, I tell thee!--Thou didst place it there!--Make way!

_They struggle. Roger interposes the chair between himself and Dimsdell. Finally, Dimsdell wrenches the chair from Roger, flings it aside, and, grappling him, chokes Roger to death._

_Dimsdell._ [_Panting_] A man! A man! A man!--Dead! dead! dead!--Nay--like a man!--Like a dead man!--A trick!--A devilish trick!--Did he not come in angel form--and then as Doctor Chillingworth--and then as Roger Prynne--and now,--and now, as a dead body?

_Spurning Roger with his foot._

O, Devil, I'll avoid thee yet!--I'll confess my crime and thus unslip the noose about my soul!

_Hurriedly prepares to depart._

He said we'd meet again! We have, and 'tis the last time! [_Exit._