The Scarlet Letter

Watching

Chillingworth crept through the door, wincing as it creaked. Please don't let me wake him, he thought. I'll be ashamed if he woke up. Roger Chillingworth quietly sat himself on the stool by Dimmesdale's bedside. The window just behind Roger was open a crack and the warm, summer wind whistled in. The night made no other noise and the moon watched silently at the creatures below her. She watched Chillingworth watch Dimmesdale's chest rise up and fall heavily with each breath, his mouth curved in the permanent frown which had rested on his face for months, the worried furrow of his brow even as he slept. Chillingworth saw all of this. It concerned him. Something was weighing Dimmesdale down tremendously. But what?

He had spent months watching him, first as a doctor for medical examination, and thought it would be important for the two to live together in order to see what exactly ailed him for almost a year. Roger Chillingworth found that it was no physical trifle, but a mental one. He thought perhaps by watching him sleep, he might give way to a clue. Dimmesdale has a tendency to talk in his sleep. He first noticed two months prior to this night.

It was late and Chillingworth went to wish the minister a good night, only to find he was sound asleep in this very bedroom, and he was mumbling to himself.

They were indiscernible words at first, but then evolved into a prayer, begging for forgiveness.

But what forgiving could Dimmesdale need? He was the most beloved minister in the entire town. The good Puritan people of the town adored him as if he were Christ himself. The very ground he trod upon was holy. If he had done wrong, then everyone else was the embodiment of sin, and were no better than Hester Prynne, the adulteress, wearing her Scarlet Letter as a mark of shame upon her bosom. Yes, if Dimmesdale were a sinner, then so were we.

Chillingworth studied the clothed chest of the minister. The soothing breathing gave an illusion of calmness in both men's hearts. If he was quiet enough, he could also hear Dimmesdale's heart beat. The rhythm was entrancing. He listened to his own, then the ministers, then together. They were both the same tempo, and yet never in sync.

Dimmesdale's breath began to shake, and he began to stir. Alarmed, Chillingworth stood up quickly, knocking over the stool he had been sitting on. The clatter further awake Dimmesdale. His heavy eyes lifted with confusion, and he looked up to see Chillingworth looming over his bed with hands at his mouth to keep from shouting.

"Chillingworth, my good sir, what is it? Why have you waken me?"

Chillingworth froze, eyes wide. I'm caught. He's caught me. What do I say?

"Sir, is there something wrong? Why are you here?"

"Dimmesdale, I must confess..."

"While I know I am a minister, now is not the time to make confessions. In the morning I shall take thee to the church. We shall then make your confession. You are a good Puritan, sir. But this may wait until morning."

He thinks I am a good Puritan. He doesn't know. His pure expectations have saved me.

"Yes, morning, sir. I'm sorry to have awoken you," Chillingworth said with a shaking voice. He solemnly turned his head. I must go before he suspects there is something else.

"Chillingworth, there is something more that ails you," Dimmesdale said sitting up. He was much more awake now that a fellow citizen was in need of his profession. God never slept, why should he?

"Oh, no, good sir. It can wait til morning." I must think up a sin to tell tomorrow that was worth waking him.

"I am awake now. And it is my duty to God to help you. Confess, my friend."

Chillingworth picked up the stool that had fallen over and slowly placed it right side up again, sitting down with extreme pain.

Shall I lie? I can think up a sin now. Perhaps that I saw a woman go by my window and did not think to escort her home. Perhaps I was at the graveyard and accidentally tripped over a tombstone, knocking it over. Perhaps I tread mud into someone's home and did not offer to clean it up. Perhaps I snapped at a child too harshly and made him cry without feeling remorse. There are many sins I can go about telling that would be much better than the truth. I can confess murder and it would be better. But what if I confessed the truth...?

"Sir, you may say it and God will he forgiving, I assure you. But he cannot forgive if you cannot say it aloud."

Chillingworth glared at the minister. He was one to talk. Maybe if he said his truth, Dimmesdale might say his own.

"The reason I was here tonight, sir, well, I was watching you."