Червона літера
The Pastor and His Parishioner
Eachaghost,andawe-strickenattheotherghost.Theywereawe-strickenlikewiseatthemselves,becausethecrisisflungbacktothemtheirconsciousness,andrevealedtoeachheartitshistoryandexperience,aslifeneverdoes,exceptatsuchbreathlessepochs.Thesoulbehelditsfeaturesinthemirrorofthepassingmoment.Itwaswithfear,andtremulously,and,asitwere,byaslow,reluctantnecessity,thatArthurDimmesdaleputforthhishand,chillasdeath,andtouchedthechillhandofHesterPrynne.Thegrasp,coldasitwas,tookawaywhatwasdreariestintheinterview.Theynowfeltthemselves,atleast,inhabitantsofthesamesphere.
Withoutawordmorespoken—neitherhenorsheassumingtheguidance,butwithanunexpressedconsent—theyglidedbackintotheshadowofthewoodswhenceHesterhademerged,andsatdownontheheapofmosswheresheandPearlhadbeforebeensitting.Whentheyfoundvoicetospeak,itwasatfirstonlytoutterremarksandinquiriessuchasanytwoacquaintancesmighthavemade,aboutthegloomysky,thethreateningstorm,and,next,thehealthofeach.Thustheywentonward,notboldly,butstepbystep,intothethemesthatwerebroodingdeepestintheirhearts.Solongestrangedbyfateandcircumstances,theyneededsomethingslightandcasualtorunbeforeandthrowopenthedoorsofintercourse,sothattheirrealthoughtsmightbeledacrossthethreshold.
Afterawhile,theministerfixedhiseyesonHesterPrynne’s.
