Червона літера
The Pastor and His Parishioner
Suchwastheruintowhichshehadbroughttheman,once—nay,whyshouldwenotspeakit?—stillsopassionatelyloved!Hesterfeltthatthesacrificeoftheclergyman’sgoodname,anddeathitself,asshehadalreadytoldRogerChillingworth,wouldhavebeeninfinitelypreferabletothealternativewhichshehadtakenuponherselftochoose.Andnow,ratherthanhavehadthisgrievouswrongtoconfess,shewouldgladlyhavelaiddownontheforestleaves,anddiedthere,atArthurDimmesdale’sfeet.
"Oh,Arthur!"criedshe,"forgiveme!Inallthingselse,Ihavestriventobetrue!TruthwastheonevirtuewhichImighthaveheldfast,anddidholdfast,throughallextremity;savewhenthygood—thylife—thyfame—wereputinquestion!ThenIconsentedtoadeception.Butalieisnevergood,eventhoughdeaththreatenontheotherside!DostthounotseewhatIwouldsay?Thatoldman!—thephysician!—hewhomtheycallRogerChillingworth!—hewasmyhusband!"
Theministerlookedatherforaninstant,withallthatviolenceofpassion,which—intermixedinmoreshapesthanonewithhishigher,purer,softerqualities—was,infact,theportionofhimwhichthedevilclaimed,andthroughwhichhesoughttowintherest.NeverwasthereablackerorafiercerfrownthanHesternowencountered.Forthebriefspacethatitlasted,itwasadarktransfiguration.Buthischaracterhadbeensomuchenfeebledbysuffering,thatevenitslowerenergieswereincapableofmorethanatemporarystruggle.
