“Hepzibah and Clifford gone?” cried Phœbe. “It is not possible! And why have you brought me into this room, instead of the parlor? Ah, something terrible has happened! I must run and see!”
“No, no, Phœbe!” said Holgrave holding her back. “It is as I have told you. They are gone, and I know not whither. A terrible event has, indeed happened, but not to them, nor, as I undoubtingly believe, through any agency of theirs. If I read your character rightly, Phœbe,” he continued, fixing his eyes on hers with stern anxiety, intermixed with tenderness, “gentle as you are, and seeming to have your sphere among common things, you yet possess remarkable strength. You have wonderful poise, and a faculty which, when tested, will prove itself capable of dealing with matters that fall far out of the ordinary rule.”
“Oh, no, I am very weak!” replied Phœbe, trembling. “But tell me what has happened!”
“You are strong!” persisted Holgrave. “You must be both strong and wise; for I am all astray, and need your counsel. It may be you can suggest the one right thing to do!”
“Tell me!—tell me!” said Phœbe, all in a tremble. “It oppresses,—it terrifies me,—this mystery! Anything else I can bear!”
The artist hesitated. Notwithstanding what he had just said, and most sincerely, in regard to the self-balancing power with which Phœbe impressed him, it still seemed almost wicked to bring the awful secret of yesterday to her knowledge. It was like dragging a hideous shape of death into the cleanly and cheerful space before a household fire, where it would present all the uglier aspect, amid the decorousness of everything about it. Yet it could not be concealed from her; she must needs know it.
“Phœbe,” said he, “do you remember this?” He put into her hand a daguerreotype; the same that he had shown her at their first interview in the garden, and which so strikingly brought out the hard and relentless traits of the original.
“What has this to do with Hepzibah and Clifford?” asked Phœbe, with impatient surprise that Holgrave should so trifle with her at such a moment. “It is Judge Pyncheon! You have shown it to me before!”
“But here is the same face, taken within this half-hour” said the artist, presenting her with another miniature. “I had just finished it when I heard you at the door.”
“This is death!” shuddered Phœbe, turning very pale. “Judge Pyncheon dead!”