We linger too long, no doubt, beside this paltry rivulet of life that
flowed through the garden of the Pyncheon House. But we deem it
pardonable to record these mean incidents and poor delights, because
they proved so greatly to Clifford's benefit. They had the earth-smell
in them, and contributed to give him health and substance. Some of his
occupations wrought less desirably upon him. He had a singular
propensity, for example, to hang over Maule's well, and look at the
constantly shifting phantasmagoria of figures produced by the agitation
of the water over the mosaic-work of colored pebbles at the bottom. He
said that faces looked upward to him there,--beautiful faces, arrayed
in bewitching smiles,--each momentary face so fair and rosy, and every
smile so sunny, that he felt wronged at its departure, until the same
flitting witchcraft made a new one. But sometimes he would suddenly
cry out, "The dark face gazes at me!" and be miserable the whole day
afterwards. Phoebe, when she hung over the fountain by Clifford's
side, could see nothing of all this,--neither the beauty nor the
ugliness,--but only the colored pebbles, looking as if the gush of the
waters shook and disarranged them. And the dark face, that so troubled
Clifford, was no more than the shadow thrown from a branch of one of
the damson-trees, and breaking the inner light of Maule's well. The
truth was, however, that his fancy--reviving faster than his will and
judgment, and always stronger than they--created shapes of loveliness
that were symbolic of his native character, and now and then a stern
and dreadful shape that typified his fate.
On Sundays, after Phoebe had been at church,--for the girl had a
church-going conscience, and would hardly have been at ease had she
missed either prayer, singing, sermon, or benediction,--after
church-time, therefore, there was, ordinarily, a sober little festival
in the garden. In addition to Clifford, Hepzibah, and Phoebe, two
guests made up the company. One was the artist Holgrave, who, in spite
of his consociation with reformers, and his other queer and
questionable traits, continued to hold an elevated place in Hepzibah's
regard. The other, we are almost ashamed to say, was the venerable
Uncle Venner, in a clean shirt, and a broadcloth coat, more respectable
than his ordinary wear, inasmuch as it was neatly patched on each
elbow, and might be called an entire garment, except for a slight
inequality in the length of its skirts. Clifford, on several
occasions, had seemed to enjoy the old man's intercourse, for the sake
of his mellow, cheerful vein, which was like the sweet flavor of a
frost-bitten apple, such as one picks up under the tree in December. A
man at the very lowest point of the social scale was easier and more
agreeable for the fallen gentleman to encounter than a person at any of
the intermediate degrees; and, moreover, as Clifford's young manhood
had been lost, he was fond of feeling himself comparatively youthful,
now, in apposition with the patriarchal age of Uncle Venner. In fact,
it was sometimes observable that Clifford half wilfully hid from
himself the consciousness of being stricken in years, and cherished
visions of an earthly future still before him; visions, however, too
indistinctly drawn to be followed by disappointment--though, doubtless,
by depression--when any casual incident or recollection made him
sensible of the withered leaf.