_Roger._ Wrong, Hester. Done me wrong? Wronged me? Nay, Hester, wronged thyself; wronged thine innocent babe; wronged the world; wronged whom thou wilt, but not wronged me! To wake me from a doting dream--that was not wrong! A dream of woman's purity and innocence; a foolish dream of married happiness between thy youth and my decrepitude; to put an end to such a madness, surely was not wrong!

Wronged me? Thy levity hath righted my poor mind, which, pondering o'er thy beauties, listed to one side.

_Hester._ Oh! pardon me!

_Roger._ Pardon thee? yea, why should I not? I do pardon thee; yea, more, I do applaud thine act. Thou wast no slothful servant; thou didst not fear the coming of thy lord; thou puttest all to use and gottest cent per cent. Therefore, the care I show for thee is hire and wages; it is thy due, accept it freely.

_Hester._ Let me and my babe depart. Receive thy money and thy house, I can take nothing from thee. Ah! if I could I would return thee every penny I have spent of thine.

_Roger._ Wait till I ask thee to account. What! am I so old, and yet not know the cost of dalliance? Nothing dearer. And he who eared my field during my absence, being now, in thy abas.e.m.e.nt, so chary of his presence, spent little of his gold, I'll warrant. Who is he, Hester?

_Hester._ Thou shalt never know.

_Roger._ Never's a long word, Hester; it stretches beyond the judgment into eternity. Come, I'll know him then, tell me now.

_Hester._ He is a scholar and can cope with thee; thou canst not find him.

_Roger._ If he do walk the earth, I'll find him out; if he be now in h.e.l.l, I'll follow him; where'er he be, his peace is forfeited and I will--

_Hester._ What wilt thou do to him?

_Roger._ Nothing, Hester, nothing. I merely wish to thank him for the love he showed thee during my absence, whereby thou didst mourn for me the less.

_Hester._ Thou wilt not kill him?

_Roger._ What a silly thing thou hast become, now thou hast left the path of virtue! Do I kill thee? Am I dangerous? Is there force in this withered body to harm a l.u.s.ty knave, a brave seducer of ripe womanhood?

_Hester._ Nay, do not harm him.

_Roger._ At thy request, mistress.

_Hester._ The fault was mine.

_Roger._ No doubt 'twas thine alone.

_Hester._ Wreak vengeance then on me alone.

_Roger._ I have none.

_Hester._ I would I could believe thee.

_Roger._ As well give faith to me as him. But, truly, Hester, I had thought these puritans, these pilgrim fathers, had left all fleshly l.u.s.ts behind them with their vanities in England. He must be a rare bird in these parts--O, I shall know him by his plumage!

_Hester._ He's safe enough.

_Roger._ Perhaps, but then these poachers, who fish in others'

ponds, are proud of their achievements. They will talk. They brag in their cups and strut and ogle when they're sober.

_Hester._ I'll warn him of thee.

_Roger._ Thou wilt do nothing of the kind. But come, Hester, man and wife ought not to quarrel. Let us set a good example to the world in peace if not in chast.i.ty. Sit you here and listen to me.

_Hester._ Well?

_Roger._ Hester, I loved thee when thou wast a babe, A prattling child no taller than my knee, A pretty little innocent, a tot That wavered in its walk and won my heart By tender trustfulness. Thou'dt leave thy father, Mother, all, to nestle in these arms The whiles I told some worn out fairy tale, Or sang of Robin Hood.

That was before thy mind did take its shape, And subsequent events have blotted out All memories of thy babyhood.

_Hester._ Nay, but I do recall, as in a haze, Some of the incidents of infancy.

_Roger._ Perhaps. Hester, thou wast the dearest child That ever blest fond parents, unfolding sweet Thy mother's beauties and thy father's strength.

And canst thou now remember who made himself A child to play with thee vain, foolish games; Who taught thee out of books such lessons as Thy little mind could grasp?

_Hester._ It was thou.

_Roger._ Then, as thou didst grow toward womanhood, Some fifteen springs, thy gentle mother died; A woman beautiful and pure, as sweetly Ignorant of all her charms as is The hyacinth.

_Hester._ Mother! Mother!

_Roger._ Pray G.o.d the saints see nothing here on earth: Or else that in their golden paradise Some sleepy potion dull their sympathies With us: for who could look upon this world, And see mankind divested of the lies That make our comeliness; or, with an eye undimmed, Behold the brutal tragedies of life; And yet find happiness or peace in Heaven?

h.e.l.l's flames would reach unto the tree of life Itself and singe thy mother's heart, if she Could see that scarlet letter on thy breast.

[_Hester covers her face and moans._]

Great G.o.d! what thread of continuity Doth string the whirling incidents of life?

This woman was that maid whose purity Excelled imagination's greatest reach; Whose happiness sang ever like the lark Arising from the earth to soar in Heaven!

And now behold her dyed in scarlet sin, Branded with infamy, and moaning here In deepest anguish!

Nay, come; let out thy grief in linked words, For this tooth-gated dumb remorse will herd Thy thoughts until they gore each other.

Hester, thy strength is greater than to yield Thus to thy misery; do not lash Thy heart into a fury; never blow The tiny sparks of pain Into the flaming coals of h.e.l.l.

That sinning soul is traitor to itself That leagues its bruised thoughts with imps of h.e.l.l To torture conscience.

_Hester._ Leave me, I pray you.

_Roger._ Not yet, else were my visit bootless.

Hester, I will not dwell upon thy life From year to year, nor drag thy colliered soul Back to its days of spotless innocence.

Thy father's amity for me, thou knowest, And how, upon his death, I stood toward thee In place of parents.

_Hester._ Would you had remained a father to me!

_Roger._ I loved thee, Hester; daughter, sister, sweetheart, You were to me. And you did love me too, And as an elder brother looked on me In gentle confidence.

So did the years post by in th' dim afterglow That comes to aged men; while love with thee Was in the dawning; a tender sky with both Of us, my sun already set; and thine Not yet arisen; nor did it ever rise To shine on me, fool that I was!

_Hester._ I never loved you, should not have married you; Knew nothing then of love except the name.

_Roger._ Aye, you loved me, and you loved me not; Hester, I wronged thee when I married thee; The fault was mine, old as I was, to hope To still the sweet necessities of youth With pa.s.sionless love; nature demands her due, And we should know, while love may grow at home, Pa.s.sion requires some novelty.

_Hester._ We both have done foul wrong unto each other, And, as this world doth judge, mine is the greater.

_Roger._ Yet thou wast tempted by thy youth, my absence, A handsome lover's importunity: But what can be said for me, old as I was, To drive and badger thy chaste ignorance To marry mine infirmities?

_Hester._ How can I right this wrong?