Further Chronicles of Avonlea Page 10

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