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Updated: July 22, 2025
Phoebe and he were young together; nor had Holgrave, in his premature experience of life, wasted entirely that beautiful spirit of youth, which, gushing forth from one small heart and fancy, may diffuse itself over the universe, making it all as bright as on the first day of creation.
The one essential question was put by Hawthorne into the mouth of Holgrave in the House of the Seven Gables.
"Is there nothing wild in the eye?" continued Holgrave, so earnestly that it embarrassed Phoebe, as did also the quiet freedom with which he presumed on their so recent acquaintance. "Is there nothing dark or sinister anywhere? Could you not conceive the original to have been guilty of a great crime?"
"Shall I never have courage enough to tell him what he is?" IV. The Spell is Broken The shop thrived under Phoebe's management, and the acquaintance with Mr. Holgrave ripened into friendship. Then, after some weeks, Phoebe went away on a temporary visit to her mother, and the old house, which had been brightened by her presence, was once more dark and gloomy.
It were better that they should crumble to ruin once in twenty years, or thereabouts, as a hint to the people to examine into and reform the institutions which they symbolize." "How you hate everything old!" said Phoebe in dismay. "It makes me dizzy to think of such a shifting world!" "I certainly love nothing mouldy," answered Holgrave. "Now, this old Pyncheon House!
"I ought not to rejoice that you have come, Phoebe," said he. "We meet at a strange moment!" "What has happened!" she exclaimed. "Why is the house so deserted? Where are Hepzibah and Clifford?" "Gone! I cannot imagine where they are!" answered Holgrave. "We are alone in the house!" "Hepzibah and Clifford gone?" cried Phoebe. "It is not possible!
No meal-time, and no sort of victuals, ever seems to come amiss to my pig. Good morning to you! And, Mr. Holgrave, if I were a young man, like you, I'd get one of Alice's Posies, and keep it in water till Phoebe comes back." "I have heard," said the daguerreotypist, as he drew in his head, "that the water of Maule's well suits those flowers best."
The artist looked paler than ordinary; there was a thoughtful and severe contraction of his forehead, tracing a deep, vertical line between the eyebrows. His smile, however, was full of genuine warmth, and had in it a joy, by far the most vivid expression that Phoebe had ever witnessed, shining out of the New England reserve with which Holgrave habitually masked whatever lay near his heart.
"How can you love a simple girl like me?" asked Phoebe, compelled by his earnestness to speak. "You have many, many thoughts, with which I should try in vain to sympathize. And I, I, too, I have tendencies with which you would sympathize as little. That is less matter. But I have not scope enough to make you happy." "You are my only possibility of happiness!" answered Holgrave.
"But I was not born a gentleman; neither have I lived like one," said Holgrave, slightly smiling; "so, my dear madam, you will hardly expect me to sympathize with sensibilities of this kind; though, unless I deceive myself, I have some imperfect comprehension of them.
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