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.
VIII.
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