The Return of Hester Page #2

"The Return of Hester" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a poignant exploration of love, loss, and redemption. The story centers around Hester Gray, a strong-willed and passionate woman who returns to her small hometown after years away, grappling with her past decisions and the relationships she left behind. As Hester confronts old rivalries and rekindles ties with former friends and family, she embarks on a journey of self-discovery and transformation. Montgomery’s lyrical prose captures the beauty of nature and the complexity of human emotions, making it a heartfelt tale about finding one's place in the world and the enduring power of forgiveness.

• Short story

								

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
had 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
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