Following the incident just described, the relationship between the minister and the doctor changed substantially, though it outwardly appeared the same. Roger Chillingworth now had a clear path in front of him, even if it was not quite the one he had meant to take. And although he seemed calm, gentle, and reasonable, I am afraid there was a hidden well of malice that stirred from inside this poor old man and allowed him to conceive a more personal revenge than anyone else ever could. He had made himself the minister's one trusted friend—the person in whom Mr. Dimmesdale confided all the fear, remorse, agony, ineffective repentance, and sinful thoughts he struggled to keep away! The world would have pitied and forgiven him for all that guilty sorrow. But instead he only revealed himself to the pitiless and unforgiving doctor! All that dark treasure was lavished on the one man who sought to use it for vengeance!
The minister's shy and sensitive nature had foiled the doctor's plan for revenge. Yet Roger Chillingworth was no less satisfied with this turn of events that chance had substituted for his own wicked schemes. Fate would use both avenger and victim for its own purposes, perhaps pardoning where it seemed fit to punish. Roger Chillingworth could almost believe that he had been granted a revelation. It mattered little to him whether the revelation came from Heaven or from Hell: With its aid, he seemed to see deep into the soul of Mr. Dimmesdale. From then on, the doctor became not just an observer of the minister's life but a chief actor in it. He could manipulate the minister as he chose. Would he inspire a throb of agony? The minister was always on the rack. One only had to know how to turn the gears—and the doctor knew this well! Would he startle the minister with sudden fear? The minister imagined phantoms of awful shame flocking around him—as though these horrific forms were conjured by the wand of a magician—all pointing their fingers at his breast!
Chillingworth accomplished all of his plans with such great subtlety that the minister could never identify it, though he was always dimly aware of some evil influence watching over him. True, he looked suspiciously, fearfully—sometimes even with horror and bitter hatred—at the deformed figure of the old doctor. Everything about him—his face, his walk, his grizzly beard, his clothes—was revolting to the minister, evidence of a deeper dislike than the minister was willing to admit to himself. But he had no reason for his distrust and hatred. So Mr. Dimmesdale, knowing that one poisonous stain was infecting his entire heart, attributed his feelings to the disease. He scolded himself for his bad feelings toward Roger Chillingworth. Rather than heed any lesson from these suspicions, he did his best to root them out. And though he was unable to get rid of them, he—as a matter of principle—continued his old friendship with the old man. This gave the doctor endless opportunities to wreak his vengeance. Poor, abandoned creature that he was, the doctor was even more miserable than his victim.
The Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale actually attained great popularity through his ministry while suffering with his bodily disease—a disease made all the more torturous by the dark trouble in his soul and the scheming of his deadliest enemy. To be honest, his popularity was due in great part to his sorrows. The pain endured through his daily life had made his mind, spirit, and sense of empathy almost supernaturally acute. His growing fame already overshadowed the somber reputations of even his most well-regarded fellow ministers. Some of these men were scholars who had been engaged in their obscure theological studies for longer than Mr. Dimmesdale had been alive. Others possessed stronger minds than Mr. Dimmesdale's, full of a shrewd and rigid understanding of the world. Such strict discipline, when mixed with the right amount of religious doctrine, makes for a respectable, effective, and unwelcoming clergyman. Still others were truly saintly men whose minds had been expanded by weary hours of patient thought with their books. They had been made even holier by their communications with Heaven, achieving almost divine purity while still in their earthly bodies. All they lacked was the apostle's tongue of fire granting them the power to speak to every man's heart. These men would have tried in vain to express their high ideals in humble words and images—that is, if they had ever dreamed of trying! Instead, their voices had become distorted on their way down from these great heights.
