_Dimsdell._ I cannot marry: I have my work to do.

_Roger._ If work precedent were to love, the world Would be unpeopled. This is the month of June, And now the locust and the linden tree Do wed the zephyrs as they blow, and weight The air with oversweetness.--What song is that?

[_Voice of Betsey singing behind scenes._]

_For her, of b.u.t.tercups and violets, A circlet for her hair he makes; And sings, in roundelays and triolets, A song that soon her fancy takes.

In Summer-tide, sweet Summer-tide, O, what can a maiden do, If, while he walks close by her side, Her lover begins to woo?_

_Roger._ That maid is innocent and happy too.

You may have noticed that--when the heart Is pure--love overflows the lips in song As sweet and limpid as a mountain spring; But--when it's bitter with base treachery-- It dams itself against all utterance, And either mines the soul, or, breaking forth, Sweeps downward to destruction. Oh! 'tis true, Love is the lyric happiness of youth; And they, who sing its perfect melody, Do from the honest parish register Still take their tune. And so must you. For you Are now in the very period of youth When myriads of unborn beings knock loud and long Upon the willing portals of the heart For entrance into life. Deny it not; I say but truth--I once was young myself.

Behold the means!

_Enter MARTHA WILSON, carrying a bunch of roses._

_Dimsdell._ Oh! Oh! [_Clasps his breast._]

_Roger._ Whither so fast, Martha, that thou canst not speak to us?

_Martha._ Oh! I beg your pardon, Doctor. Good morning, sir. I seek my father; is he with the Governor?

_Roger._ Knowledge is costly, Martha; yet thou art rich enough to buy more than information. For one of those sweet roses, I'll tell you he is well and with the Governor.

_Martha._ You beg it prettily. [_Giving Roger a rose._

_Roger._ Pure and fragrant as the giver--marry, the blush becomes it not so well; it does not come and go. Martha, thy father and the Governor are in the library. Is that not worth another rose?

_Martha._ Nay, only a very little one; for when he talks of books he's always loath to come with me.

_Roger._ Nay, slander him not. But, Martha, books or no books, for two more roses I will bring him here; and, truly, fathers were cheap at three roses apiece. What say you?

_Martha._ Nay, I'll go myself; but do not think I grudge the roses; here they are. You have not begged of me [_To Dimsdell_]. May I beg you to accept this? Gentlemen, farewell. [_Exit Martha._

_Roger._ Roses, and you asked her not!

In love! in love! up to the eyes in love!

She'll drown in love unless you marry her!

_Dimsdell._ Oh! that I were worthy of her!

_Roger._ Dost love her, Dimsdell? Ah! she's worthy love.

She's fair and young; of gentle birth and rich; And warm and pure and spirit-like as flame That floats above new brandy.

_Dimsdell._ Out upon thee, satyr! Thou dishonorest her.

_Roger._ Not a whit. Is't dishonor to her purity To urge thy smoky flame to brightness worthy Of her? 'Tis what she wishes most; witness Her confusion and her telltale blushes.

Do me justice, man; my thoughts are pure And dwell on lawful marriage only. Thou, thou Alone, couldst see impurity in that.

I spoke of thee, man, of thee; and who Beside thyself would think a mottled thought Could touch a maiden linked to thee in words Or fact?

_Dimsdell._ Oh! Oh! [_Clutching at his breast._

_Roger._ Had I young daughters by the score, each fair As Hebe, as voluptuous as Venus, All thinly clad as in the golden age, I could not wish a chaster keeper of them.

Nay, had I wives in droves like Solomon, I'd make thee Kislah Aga of my harem, Chief eunuch and sole security--What!

Call me satyr when I urge in bounds The boundless beauties of pure maidenhood, And bid thee wed them! Thus best advices are Construed amiss, and what we kindly mean Turned into scorn and filthiness!

_Dimsdell._ Forgive me, Doctor; I'm ill at ease. This pain Is like a stick thrust in a spring; it muddies All my thoughts. Oh! Oh! [_Pressing his hands to his breast._

_Roger._ Come, Dimsdell, listen to a bit of reason.

Thy body is as sound as a red apple In November. The pain's imaginary.

Marry, man, marry; thy wife will prove A counter-irritant and drive the pain away.

_Dimsdell._ No more of that, I pray you.

_Roger._ Not enough of it, not enough of it!

_Dimsdell._ No more, no more! I must not marry.

_Roger._ Think once again, man; if that thy mind Can pardon the suggestion--and, mark, I urge it With all diffidence--there is a way, Wherein the low opinion thou doth hold Of thine own virtues--not held by any else-- May wed with beauty all unspeakable, Raise up a n.o.ble lady, and show thy christian Spirit to the world.

_Dimsdell._ And what is that?

_Roger._ Wed Hester Prynne.

_Dimsdell._ Wed Hester Prynne?

_Roger._ Aye! 'twas that I said.

She is a paragon--nay, beauty's self.

All other women are but kitchen-maids Beside her loveliness.

_Dimsdell._ Wed Hester Prynne!

_Roger._ I hear her husband left her well to do; And as for that small blot that sullies her 'Twill fade when covered by thy name.

_Dimsdell._ Hester Prynne!

_Roger._ What act more merciful, more christianlike?

Redeem the reputation of her child, And to the jeers of fools stop up thine ears; Enwrap thee in her gentle arms, lay down Thine aching head upon her tender breast, And dream thyself in paradise.

_Dimsdell._ Thou fiend of h.e.l.l! I know thee now; thou cam'st But once in thine own form, and ever since Hast been too near me in a worser one.

Back to the pit, I say! No more of tempting!

_Roger._ Art mad? I'm man as thou dost seem to be; I'm not a fiend.

_Dimsdell._ What dost thou know? [_Shaking Roger by the shoulders._

_Roger._ Only this--thou art as cowardly As thou art lecherous. What! betray A woman! Desert her in her misery!

Refuse to marry her!

And all the while, cloaked in thy ministry, Dispense the sacraments of G.o.d to children-- How canst thou do it?

_Dimsdell._ If thou be not Satan, why raise this cloud?

Why vanish from my sight? Yet I did touch him even now-- I'll kill him--Kill, kill, kill--now, now, now--