sing. Robert Monroe stood erect, with a great radiance
on his face and in his eyes. His reproach had been
taken away; he was crowned among his kindred with the
beauty and blessing of sacred yesterdays.
When the singing ceased Malcolm's stern-faced son
reached over and shook Robert's hands.
"Uncle Rob," he said heartily, "I hope that when I'm
sixty I'll be as successful a man as you."
"I guess," said Aunt Isabel, aside to the little school
teacher, as she wiped the tears from her keen old eyes,
"that there's a kind of failure that's the best
success."
Chapter VII
The Return Of Hester
JUST at dusk, that evening, I had gone upstairs and put
on my muslin gown. I had been busy all day attending to
the strawberry preserving - for Mary Sloane could not
be trusted with that - and I was a little tired, and
thought it was hardly worth while to change my dress,
especially since there was nobody to see or care, since
Hester was gone. Mary Sloane did not count.
But I did it because Hester would have cared if she had
been here. She always liked to see me neat and dainty.
So, although I was tired and sick at heart, I put on my
pale blue muslin and dressed my hair.
At first I did my hair up in a way I had always liked;
but had seldom worn, because Hester had disapproved of
it. It became me; but I suddenly felt as if it were
disloyal to her, so I took the puffs down again and
arranged my hair in the plain, old-fashioned way she
had liked. My hair, though it had a good many gray
threads in it, was thick and long and brown still; but
that did not matter - nothing mattered since Hester was
dead and I had sent Hugh Blair away for the second
time.
The Newbridge people all wondered why I had not put on
mourning for Hester. I did not tell them it was because
Hester had asked me not to. Hester had never approved
of mourning; she said that if the heart did not mourn
crape would not mend matters; and if it did there was
no need of the external trappings of woe. She told me
calmly, the night before she died, to go on wearing my
pretty dresses just as I had always worn them, and to
make no difference in my outward life because of her
going.
"I know there will be a difference in your inward
life," she said wistfully.
And oh, there was! But sometimes I wondered uneasily,
feeling almost conscience-stricken, whether it were
wholly because Hester had left me - whether it were no
partly because, for a second time, I had shut the door
of my heart in the face of love at her bidding.
When I had dressed I went downstairs to the front door,
and sat on the sandstone steps under the arch of the
Virginia creeper. I was all alone, for Mary Sloane had
gone to Avonlea.
It was a beautiful night; the full moon was just rising
over the wooded hills, and her light fell through the
poplars into the garden before me. Through an open
corner on the western side I saw the sky all silvery
blue in the afterlight. The garden was very beautiful
just then, for it was the time of the roses, and ours
were all out - so many of them - great pink, and red,
and white, and yellow roses.
Hester had loved roses and could never have enough of
them. Her favorite bush was growing by the steps, all
gloried over with blossoms - white, with pale pink
hearts. I gathered a cluster and pinned it loosely on
my breast. But my eyes filled as I did so - I felt so
very, very desolate.
I was all alone, and it was bitter. The roses, much as
I loved them, could not give me sufficient
companionship. I wanted the clasp of a human hand, and
the love-light in human eyes. And then I fell to
thinking of Hugh, though I tried not to.
I had always lived alone with Hester. I did not
remember our parents, who had died in my babyhood.
Hester was fifteen years older than I, and she had
always seemed more like a mother than a sister. She had
been very good to me and had never denied me anything I
wanted, save the one thing that mattered.
I was twenty-five before I ever had a lover. This was
not, I think, because I was more unattractive than
other women. The Merediths had always been the "big"
family of Newbridge. The rest of the people looked up
to us, because we were the granddaughters of old Squire
Meredith. The Newbridge young men would have thought it
no use to try to woo a Meredith.
I had not a great deal of family pride, as perhaps I
should be ashamed to confess. I found our exalted
position very lonely, and cared more for the simple
joys of friendship and companionship which other girls
had. But Hester possessed it in a double measure; she
never allowed me to associate on a level of equality
with the young people of Newbridge. We must be very
nice and kind and affable to them - noblesse oblige, as
it were - but we must never forget that we were
Merediths.
When I was twenty-five, Hugh Blair came to Newbridge,
having bought a farm near the village. He was a
stranger, from Lower Carmody, and so was not imbued
with any preconceptions of Meredith superiority. In his
eyes I was just a girl like others - a girl to be wooed
and won by any man of clean life and honest heart. I
met him at a little Sunday-School picnic over at
Avonlea, which I attended because of my class. I
thought him very handsome and manly. He talked to me a
great deal, and at last he drove me home. The next
Sunday evening he walked up from church with me.
Hester was away, or, of course, this would never have
happened. She had gone for a month's visit to distant
friends.
In that month I lived a lifetime. Hugh Blair courted me
as the other girls in Newbridge were courted. He took
me out driving and came to see me in the evenings,
which we spent for the most part in the garden. I did
not like the stately gloom and formality of our old
Meredith parlor, and Hugh never seemed to feel at ease
there. His broad shoulders and hearty laughter were
oddly out of place among our faded, old-maidish
furnishings.
Mary Sloane was very much pleased at Hugh's visit. She
had always resented the fact that I had never had a
"beau," seeming to think it reflected some slight or
disparagement upon me. She did all she could to
encourage him.
But when Hester returned and found out about Hugh she
was very angry - and grieved, which hurt me far more.
She told me that I had forgotten myself and that Hugh's
visits must cease.
I had never been afraid of Hester before, but I was
afraid of her then. I yielded. Perhaps it was
very weak
of me, but then I was always weak. I think that was why
Hugh's strength had appealed so to me. I needed love
and protection. Hester, strong and self-sufficient, had
never felt such a need. She could not understand. Oh,
how contemptuous she was.
I told Hugh timidly that Hester did not approve of our
friendship and that it must end. He took it quietly
enough, and went away. I thought he did not care much,
and the thought selfishly made my own heartache worse.
I was very unhappy for a long time, but I tried not to
let Hester see it, and I don't think she did. She was
not very discerning in some things.
After a time I got over it; that is, the heartache
ceased to ache all the time. But things were never
quite the same again. Life always seemed rather dreary
and empty, in spite of Hester and my roses and my
Sunday-School.
I supposed that Hugh Blair would find him a wife
elsewhere, but he did not. The years went by and we
never met, although I saw him often at church. At such
times Hester always watched me very closely, but there
was no need of her to do so. Hugh made no attempt to
meet me, or speak with me, and I would not have
permitted it if he had. But my heart always yearned
after him. I was selfishly glad he had not married,
because if he had I could not have thought and dreamed
of him - it would have been wrong. Perhaps, as it was,
it was foolish; but it seemed to me that I must have
something, if only foolish dreams, to fill my life.
At first there was only pain in the thought of him, but
afterwards a faint, misty little pleasure crept in,
like a mirage from a land of lost delight.
Ten years slipped away thus. And then Hester died. Her
illness was sudden and short; but, before she died, she
asked me to promise that I would never marry Hugh
Blair.
She had not mentioned his name for years. I thought she
had forgotten all about him.
"Oh, dear sister, is there any need of such a promise?"
I asked, weeping. "Hugh Blair does not want to marry me
now. He never will again."
"He has never married - he has not forgotten you," she
said fiercely. "I could not rest in my grave if I
thought you would disgrace your family by marrying
beneath you. Promise me, Margaret."
I promised. I would have promised anything in my power
to make her dying pillow easier. Besides, what did it
matter? I was sure that Hugh would never think of me
again.
She smiled when she heard me, and pressed my hand.
"Good little sister - that is right. You were always a
good girl, Margaret - good and obedient, though a
little sentimental and foolish in some ways. You are
like our mother - she was always weak and loving. I
took after the Merediths."
She did, indeed. Even in her coffin her dark, handsome
features preserved their expression of pride and
determination. Somehow, that last look of her dead face
remained in my memory, blotting out the real affection
and gentleness which her living face had almost always
shown me. This distressed me, but I could not help it.
I wished to think of her as kind and loving, but I
could remember only the pride and coldness with which
she had crushed out my new-born happiness. Yet I felt
no anger or resentment towards her for what she had
done. I knew she had meant it for the best - my best.
It was only that she was mistaken.
And then, a month after she had died, Hugh Blair came
to me and asked me to be his wife. He said he had
always loved me, and could never love any other woman.
All my old love for him reawakened. I wanted to say yes
- to feel his strong arms about me, and the warmth of
his love enfolding and guarding me. In my weakness I
yearned for his strength.
But there was my promise to Hester - that promise give
by her deathbed. I could not break it, and I told him
so. It was the hardest thing I had ever done.
He did not go away quietly this time. He pleaded and
reasoned and reproached. Every word of his hurt me like
a knife-thrust. But I could not break my promise to the
dead. If Hester had been living I would have braved her
wrath and her estrangement and gone to him. But she was
dead and I could not do it.
Finally he went away in grief and anger. That was three
weeks ago - and now I sat alone in the moonlit rose-
garden and wept for him. But after a time my tears
dried and a very strange feeling came over me. I felt
calm and happy, as if some wonderful love and
tenderness were very near me.
And now comes the strange part of my story - the part
which will not, I suppose, be believed. If it were not
for one thing I think I should hardly believe it
myself. I should feel tempted to think I had dreamed
it. But because of that one thing I know it was real.
The night was very calm and still. Not a breath of wind
stirred. The moonshine was the brightest I had ever
seen. In the middle of the garden, where the shadow of
the poplars did not fall, it was almost as bright as
day. One could have read fine print. There was still a
little rose glow in the west, and over the airy boughs
of the tall poplars one or two large, bright stars were
shining. The air was sweet with a hush of dreams, and
the world was so lovely that I held my breath over its
beauty.
Then, all at once, down at the far end of the garden, I
saw a woman walking. I thought at first that it must be
Mary Sloane; but, as she crossed a moonlit path, I saw
it was not our old servant's stout, homely figure. This
woman was tall and erect.
Although no suspicion of the truth came to me,
something about her reminded me of Hester. Even so had
Hester liked to wander about the garden in the
twilight. I had seen her thus a thousand times.
I wondered who the woman could be. Some neighbor, of
course. But what a strange way for her to come! She
walked up the garden slowly in the poplar shade. Now
and then she stooped, as if to caress a flower, but she
plucked none. Half way up she out in to the moonlight
and walked across the plot of grass in the center of
the garden. My heart gave a great throb and I stood up.
She was quite near to me now - and I saw that it was
Hester.
I can hardly say just what my feelings were at this
moment. I know that I was not surprised. I was
frightened and yet I was not frightened. Something in
me shrank back in a sickening terror; but I, the real
I, was not frightened. I knew that this was my sister,
and that there could be no reason why I should be
frightened of her, because she loved me still, as she
h
ad always done. Further than this I was not conscious
of any coherent thought, either of wonder or attempt at
reasoning.
Hester paused when she came to within a few steps of
me. In the moonlight I saw her face quite plainly. It
wore an expression I had never before seen on it - a
humble, wistful, tender look. Often in life Hester had
looked lovingly, even tenderly, upon me; but always, as
it were, through a mask of pride and sternness. This
was gone now, and I felt nearer to her than ever
before. I knew suddenly that she understood me. And
then the half-conscious awe and terror some part of me
had felt vanished, and I only realized that Hester was
here, and that there was no terrible gulf of change
between us.
Hester beckoned to me and said,
"Come."
I stood up and followed her out of the garden. We
walked side by side down our lane, under the willows
and out to the road, which lay long and still in that
bright, calm moonshine. I felt as if I were in a dream,
moving at the bidding of a will not my own, which I
could not have disputed even if I had wished to do so.
But I did not wish it; I had only the feeling of a
strange, boundless content.
We went down the road between the growths of young fir
that bordered it. I smelled their balsam as we passed,
and noticed how clearly and darkly their pointed tops
came out against the sky. I heard the tread of my own
feet on little twigs and plants in our way, and the
trail of my dress over the grass; but Hester moved
noiselessly.
Then we went through the Avenue - that stretch of road
under the apple trees that Anne Shirley, over at
Avonlea, calls "The White Way of Delight." It was
almost dark here; and yet I could see Hester's face
just as plainly as if the moon were shining on it; and
whenever I looked at her she was always looking at me
with that strangely gentle smile on her lips.
Just as we passed out of the Avenue, James Trent
overtook us, driving. It seems to me that our feelings
at a given moment are seldom what we would expect them
to be. I simply felt annoyed that James Trent, the most
notorious gossip in Newbridge, should have seen me
walking with Hester. In a flash I anticipated all the
annoyance of it; he would talk of the matter far and
wide.
But James Trent merely nodded and called out,
"Howdy, Miss Margaret. Taking a moonlight stroll by
yourself? Lovely night, ain't it?"
Just then his horse suddenly swerved, as if startled,
and broke into a gallop. They whirled around the curve
of the road in an instant. I felt relieved, but
puzzled. James Trent had not seen Hester.
Down over the hill was Hugh Blair's place. When we came
to it, Hester turned in at the gate. Then, for the
first time, I understood why she had come back, and a
blinding flash of joy broke over my soul. I stopped and
looked at her. Her deep eyes gazed into mine, but she
did not speak.
We went on. Hugh's house lay before us in the
moonlight, grown over by a tangle of vines. His garden
was on our right, a quaint spot, full of old-fashioned
flowers growing in a sort of disorderly sweetness. I
trod on a bed of mint, and the spice of it floated up
to me like the incense of some strange, sacred, solemn
ceremonial. I felt unspeakably happy and blessed.
When we came to the door Hester said,
"Knock, Margaret."
I rapped gently. In a moment, Hugh opened it. Then that
happened by which, in after days, I was to know that
this strange thing was no dream or fancy of mine. Hugh
looked not at me, but past me.
"Hester!" he exclaimed, with human fear and horror in
his voice.
He leaned against the door-post, the big, strong
fellow, trembling from head to foot.
"I have learned," said Hester, "that nothing matters in
all God's universe, except love. There is no pride
where I have been, and no false ideals."
Hugh and I looked into each other's eyes, wondering,
and then we knew that we were alone.
Chapter VIII
The Little Brown Book Of Miss Emily