Алая буква
Pearl
Itwasaface,fiend-like,fullofsmilingmalice,yetbearingthesemblanceoffeaturesthatshehadknownfullwell,thoughseldomwithasmile,andneverwithmaliceinthem.Itwasasifanevilspiritpossessedthechild,andhadjustthenpeepedforthinmockery.ManyatimeafterwardshadHesterbeentortured,thoughlessvividly,bythesameillusion.
Intheafternoonofacertainsummer’sday,afterPearlgrewbigenoughtorunabout,sheamusedherselfwithgatheringhandfulsofwildflowers,andflingingthem,onebyone,athermother’sbosom;dancingupanddownlikealittleelfwhenevershehitthescarletletter.Hester’sfirstmotionhadbeentocoverherbosomwithherclaspedhands.Butwhetherfromprideorresignation,orafeelingthatherpenancemightbestbewroughtoutbythisunutterablepain,sheresistedtheimpulse,andsaterect,paleasdeath,lookingsadlyintolittlePearl’swildeyes.Stillcamethebatteryofflowers,almostinvariablyhittingthemark,andcoveringthemother’sbreastwithhurtsforwhichshecouldfindnobalminthisworld,norknewhowtoseekitinanother.Atlast,hershotbeingallexpended,thechildstoodstillandgazedatHester,withthatlittlelaughingimageofafiendpeepingout—or,whetheritpeepedorno,hermothersoimaginedit—fromtheunsearchableabyssofherblackeyes.
"Child,whatartthou?"criedthemother.
"Oh,IamyourlittlePearl!"answeredthechild.
