Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.18 #105 (Feb 1859).
"Every face is either a history or a prophecy." I think that of my friend Hester Grahame was both; for I studied it many years since, and each year proves the truth of my reading.
Hester was born in a little wood-colored house half-way up Red Mountain, in a town and county known to all tourists. The father and mother of this child did not possess, to any considerable degree, that thrift and energy which characterizes most Yankee farmers; for they were always in trouble. Nobody's cattle had such a genius for running away; no other fences fascinated the wind to such an extent as did theirs; and it was certain that they were always a little too late for any good fortune that befell their neighbors. They had been blessed with many children; but, as Mrs. Grahame said, "Nobody was ever so unlucky with their children as Job and her." So, when little Hester was born, there were but three boys left. If you were ever in a house where the article most needed could never be found; where the person most depended upon was never ready; where the neighbors knew much better than the parents where the next meal was coming from, you can form some idea of the influences that surrounded the childhood and girlhood of which I am endeavoring to tell you.
Schools and churches were not so common then as now; and by the time Hester could walk the four miles that lay between her own hill and the one upon whose top the schoolhouse was perched, the poor, inefficient mother had fallen into a decline, and before the child could spell the word death, the mother knew to the fullest extent its wondrous meaning. Of course there was no more school for Hester. She must see to the house—must take care of father and brothers; and her natural quickness and energy coming to her aid in the course of a few months, she did far better than her mother had ever done. So all her daily work was done well; but when she looked down upon the lake bathed in the glory of sunset; when she watched the grand old mountains as they threw off their robe of mist and stood alone against the sky, there came longings to that child's heart for another, a broader life—one that should be as beautiful as that smooth lake—as great and self-reliant as those moveless mountains.
They were not altogether vague yearnings either; for as the years gave her strength and judgment she saw that she must contrive some way to know more, and so do more, than she could now; and the how to do it was soon decided. One day, after the housework was done, she went out and picked a basketful of the large raspberries that clung to the sides of the mountain. This time she did not make them into pies, but walked to the nearest village and tried to sell them. I do not know about faint heart never winning fair lady; but sure am I that faint heart never succeeded in selling berries; and poor little Hester was almost discouraged as she knocked at the door of a substantial-looking house and asked the old gentleman who opened it the oft-repeated question. She thought he was pleasant-looking; and while he went to ask his wife, peeped timidly into the large entry, and then into the room beyond—almost screaming with delight as she saw long, deep shelves lined with books. By-and-by the old gentleman and his wife came back, and when the latter had examined the berries, after the manner of steady housekeepers, concluded to take them. "But the price. What would the little girl ask?" No one knew less about the price than the little girl; they might give her what they liked.
This amused the good man; and he soon found out that the child wanted the money to buy a book with; and after a few more questions, he told her that he was Mr. Center, the minister, and that he would pay her for the berries and give her a book besides. Never child climbed Red Mountain with a lighter heart than did Hester that afternoon; the stern heights above her seeming to smile their congratulations as she held up the long-coveted treasure. But it must not be opened until the supper was ready—until the dishes and milk-things were washed. Then down upon the broad, flat stone that served for door-step she spelled out the title of Mr. Center's present. It was that old, old book, the "Pilgrim's Progress;" and not until the long summer twilight was ended did she lift her eyes from its pages. It was hard work for her to read; she had to spell many words; but still she gathered somewhat of the meaning; and before Saturday night she closed the covers with a tear as she thought, "I have no more to read." When the Sabbath came, she thought if she could go to the village for a book she could surely walk there to church; so, prevailing upon one of her brothers to accompany her, they started, and, very much to his astonishment, Mr. Center saw his little brown-eyed friend walk into his meeting-house.
After service he came and spoke to her; and upon the next day his well-fed nag ambled to the foot of the mountain, where Mr. Center dismounted and left the beast to his own pleasure while he climbed the rugged pathway you thought so picturesque last summer.
The child Hester had finished washing; so she sat down with him and told him some of her dreams and plans—he listening kindly, and promising to befriend her. Of course Hester's father did not object. Alas! Job Grahame's character is told only too clearly when I say he was never known to object to any thing except a deficient supply of cider and tobacco. So this arrangement was made: Mr. Center would lend her books, and if she found any thing very difficult in them he would explain. He proved as good—in fact, much better—than his word; for, besides the faithful teacher, he became the warm, earnest friend; and many times said, proudly, as he marked his pupil's progress, or watched her expressive face, "Hester will make her way in the world!" And from that hour Hester's true life began; from that hour, whatever drudgery (and there was much), whatever of care and anguish (and she had many a bitter hour) came to her, she had this one consolation—she could leave it, lose it in her books. Mr. Center (blessed be his memory!) kept a firm, steady hand with her. Dearly as she loved reading, the Grammar and Arithmetic must be learned first; passionately as the child's heart asked for poetry, it was given but sparingly—oftener some earnest, strong prose that made the girl look down deep into herself, and grow strong, because she had to be so strong in order to understand it all.
No bookworm was she either. If the "Midsummer Night's Dream" made her a little discontented with home care and roughness, then from the very same volume would be found a passage elevating any life, however humble, so it was well-lived.
Being a poet, being famous, Mr. Center told the eager, ambitious child, was of little value, so that one was a Christian, and did their work well; not stopping to murmur because it was not to their liking. So the years went by, and still Mr. Center watched and guarded her; and it was well that he did so, for before she was a woman life grew to be a hard thing for her. A village had grown up at the foot of the mountain, just on the shore of the lake, and its public-house possessed great attractions for Job Grahame and his oldest son. He was the brightest of the three; and poor Hester's heart sank within her when she found that she could no longer depend upon him; that night after night the two would return from a drunken carouse, and only arise the next morning to betake themselves to the scene of their last night's degradation. That is not a pleasant time to remember; it makes the tears come to Hester's eyes now when she recalls how earnestly she used to pray for one quiet hour, when, with Milton or Shakspeare, she could dream by herself. But I am glad to say she did not neglect what the selfishness of others threw upon her. She planned, she asked advice, and in the autumn the barn held nearly as much as when old Grahame mismanaged the farm. And there were still leisure minutes, and every one was improved, so that once a fortnight she trudged down the mountain to her teacher. Once, as she was reciting a lesson, she chanced to look up, and saw, sitting at the other end of the room, a man whom she did not know, and whom her teacher carelessly presented as "My nephew, Mr. Brownlow," and then asked the next question.
When the lesson was finished Paul opened the door for Hester, as he would have done for any woman, she thanking him by a little bend of her head; and before she had walked a mile she had forgotten his existence in the fascinating pages of "Marmion." A deep sigh, as she reached her own door, told that she thought there was a long distance between the book and milking the cow; but the smile never left her face as she did all her work that night, for she was young, and youth makes not much of stepping over the line which separates fact and fancy.
A few days after, as she was picking up some chips in the door-yard, her deep sun-bonnet pulled over her face and her thoughts with Lady Clare, a voice at her side startled her by saying, "Good-evening."
She looked up hastily, and saw Mr. Brownlow. The "good-evening" was returned; and then the gentleman, taking a book from his pocket, said, "My uncle says you are fond of reading, and as I was coming this way I thought I would bring you something new."
"Oh! I am so glad!" was the eager, joyous cry; and Hester let fall the chip-basket, and, taking the book, seemed completely absorbed in its contents.
Mr. Brownlow smiled. He did not know what to make of this young girl; but being a patient man, he seated himself upon a log and looked at her.
Thirty-five years had passed over Paul Brownlow's head—years in which he had enjoyed more than most men do in a lifetime. Inheriting a large fortune, he had not known a single ungratified want until a few months before, when he had trusted his property in a speculation that failed and ruined him—if a man can be ruined by losing his money. But he was no weak boy to shrink and shiver at what life gave him; so he entered a lawyer's office, worked hard, and the week he was at his uncle's saw him admitted to the bar—beginning at so late an hour the struggle for fame and livelihood which many men earn, if they earn it at all, before that time.
When he was a rich man many mothers had paraded their daughters before him, and rumor had many times coupled his name with that of the reigning belle; but none of these women had power to move him. Indeed, he had sometimes distrusted his own ability to love. He had looked around his quiet, luxurious library, with its old books, its fine paintings, and beautiful statues (every one of which his own taste had collected in his foreign tours), and said that one room had more charms for him than any woman's face, however beautiful, or woman's heart, however loving. If he had thought so when ease and luxury were his, how much more when toil and poverty stared him in the face!
He was not a great man, but he had a good heart, and that strong will and patient perseverance which mean almost genius. One quiet month he had resolved to pass at his uncle's; after that he would count each day as loss that did not advance him a long way upon his upward road. He was a little interested in his uncle's account of Hester, and her earnestness as she recited a prosaic lesson in Latin Grammar upon that first day of their acquaintance rather pleased him. As I have said, she did not remember him long, but he watched her climbing the mountain, eyes bent on book, yet just as secure of foot as a mountain goat, and could not help smiling a little to himself to think that his eyes would follow her so persistently. He could not help thinking of her long after the winding path concealed her from his view; and in the two or three days that intervened between that first meeting and his call upon her he surprised his good uncle not a little by asking him if he did not wish to send his pupil Hester some books. Mr. Center replied that she came after her books when she wanted them, which reply made Paul ask, "How often?" "When she gets time," was the answer; whereupon Mr. Brownlow thought he should do a very kind thing if he carried her one. So the afternoon I have told you of, he started with a volume of Woodstock, and during the course of his hard walk came to the conclusion that he was doing a decidedly foolish thing. He changed his mind after he heard the joyous exclamation, and saw the bright eyes sparkle as she took the book. And all this time he was seated upon the old log, looking at Hester. If the pages had been open before his own eyes he thought he could not have told more clearly what she was reading, for flushing cheek and ever-changing eye told him how imagination possessed itself of the fascinating story.
I think Hester must have felt his gaze, for she looked up after a time and seemed to be aware of her incivility.
"I am very sorry I have left you sitting upon the stump so long. Won't you walk into the house and rest you?"
Paul thought he could not stop, but found he could stop long enough to find out her opinion of "Marmion;" and as she told him, he did not fail to notice the freshness of her ideas, even of her forms of expression. She had not read the book—she had lived it; she was no unmoved spectator; in very deed and truth she had acted her part in those deeds of chivalry. At length, with a half-smile, she resumed her long-neglected employment of chip-picking, her quick sense of the ridiculous telling her at that particular moment how amusing it was for a bare-footed girl like herself to pass so much time amidst the stately revelry of palaces, with knights and high-born dames for her companions. Paul saw it too; and although she was much too honest and noble to think herself lowered by her surroundings, he could not help pitying her as the quick blood crimsoned her cheek when she saw him glance almost unconsciously at her bare, brown feet. Timidly, yet most earnestly, for she was very thankful for the book, she pressed him to stay and share their supper of bread and milk, and, wondering at himself, he at last consented. Poor Hester, she has never forgotten how happy she was that father and brother were sober that night. It was not the last bowl of milk he drank in that little house, for month after month went by, and still he dallied at his uncle's; and when the autumn came he could no longer deny that Hester Grahame's smiles and words were the dearest. things on earth to him; that to have and hold that simple girl would be the most precious possession that life would give him. For the first time in his life he found a part of himself which he could not master. And how was it with Hester? She has told me since, amidst tears even, that no summer of her life was like that; she has told me Mr. Brownlow did almost every thing toward making her what she afterward became; how he taught her, read to her, and, more than all, saw what none had seen before, that by-and-by this young girl would find in herself a power of utterance that would place her high in the world of authors.
She has told me how a sense of rest came to her through him; how his calmness strengthened her, and that his keenly-felt appreciation became the dearest part of her life. And yet, close to womanhood as she was, she did not dream that she loved Paul Brownlow other than as a friend. She had read of love and lovers; but it was a grand thing for poems and for plays, suited to gallant knights and courtly women, but it was altogether above her simple life. And Paul saw it—saw that she was as free and unrestrained in her intercourse with him as she would have been with a dearly-loved brother; and to his honor be it spoken, not by word or look did he try to draw away the screen from the pure heart. He could not marry her then (oh, how he longed for the money that he had thrown away upon himself!); he had only his brain and his hands; he could not tell yet if there was force enough in them to support himself; and Hester herself was fastened at home, for her father had been growing infirm all summer, and now scarcely ever left the house. It was very hard for him to leave her there. He saw what her life must be, and he longed to take her in his arms and give her rest and leisure by his own toil; but he could not do it then. "At least," he said, "I can wait one year before I tell her this that she does not dream of." So one night he walked up the mountain and tried to say his "Good-by" simply, as friends say it; but he made a poor dissembler, and if Hester had not been so unconscious, if she had not trusted him so entirely, he never would have kept the promise he made himself. He would have taken her little form very close to his heart, and in wild words, such as he, calm man, never thought of before, would have told her what she was to him. But her simplicity checked him; so he only told her that he should write her very often, should send her books, and think of her many times each day. He told her how his letters and her answers would pass through his uncle's hands; then released the hands that had been hidden in his almost ever since he came, and pressed his lips to the brow that he hoped would lie on his bosom for many a year; then went away; and many white hairs mingled with his dark locks ere he saw Hester again. The parting was not to her as it was to him; for she was young and ignorant of the world's ways, and never thought but he knew best. He said it was right for him to go; that took away the sting for her; still she was very lonely. She did not try to disguise the fact to herself, and many places whose beauty attracted her were shunned because they brought to her so many memories of him. The letters came and went, almost the only events in her life. The minister was old and feeble, and did not try to teach her now, so she worked on by herself, learning more each day than the student of many a college does in a year. Her tact and diligence did much for the farm; so that matters were rather looking up with them when her oldest brother was attacked with fever, and after weeks of suffering died.
While she was watching him her old friend, Mr. Center, died by reason of years, and when she found time to think, she mourned his loss deeply; but not for many years did she know that with him she lost the great blessing of Paul Brownlow's love. Upon the same day that Mr. Center was seized with paralysis, a letter came from Paul to Hester telling her that he was obliged to go to France for a client, that he was succeeding in his business as he had never dared hope he should, and then in words as true and manly as a great love could make them, he told her what she was to him, and besought her, if she could indeed love him, to wait and trust him until he could take her to the home that would certainly be theirs at last.
But Hester never received that letter. It was probably overlooked among the mass of papers Mr. Center had accumulated; so that Paul waited and waited, and still no answer. Then from different European cities he wrote, and wrote again, without ever receiving one word in return, and by-and-by he thought her dead; and the weary heart that man carried about for many a year proved how dear she had been to him. I have no power to tell you how Hester toiled and hoped through all the years that lay between her and the success which was at last given her. While her father lived she knew she could not leave home, but she never lost sight of her aim; and as, summer after summer, she taught the district school, she denied her self dress and many little luxuries any other woman would have called indispensable, in order to buy good strong books that would help her to mould herself, until her character should be somewhat in unison with all noble, beautiful things. She called no work beneath her. Any thing she could find she made her hands do, and withal there was not a better daughter or sister in New Hampshire.
Of course there were moments of sadness, almost despair; but she noted God's discipline with the hardy mountain pine near her own door, and said, "So He deals with me; it is hard, but I can bear it." Full well she knew that she loved Paul Brownlow—that knowledge came to her with the sickness of heart that followed the cessation of his letters—but she did not repine, although her eye was very dim, and her lip quivered painfully as she tried to be brave, and tell herself, "That the love would be very blessed if God had given it; but so long as He withheld it, He could make up for it wholly, entirely."
And so her beautiful youth passed; and when the infirm old father died and one brother married, Hester took the other, who was partially insane, into the city with her, and with her brain and a few manuscripts attempted to support herself and him. She did not know how much her poems and stories were worth; but she could not help hoping that the words she had prayed over so earnestly, and felt so keenly, would not fall entirely unnoticed by her fellows. That city life is too painful for me to write much of. If you have ever haunted publishers' offices, beseeching them to give you work, not for fame but for daily bread, you can tell a little about it; if you have never done it, bless God that you have no such bitter experience to remember. As Hester was unknown, the sketches and poems, although accepted, were not often paid for, and when she found no money came from them, she procured sewing, and managed to do what Thomas Carlyle says is the first problem of all philosophy—"Keep soul and body together." Day after day she sewed, and waited patiently her time, which came at last; for her poems began to be copied, and one day she received a letter from the editor of a popular newspaper offering her steady work and good pay. Now that her books are the fashion, she thinks with sadness of the first money that gentleman paid her, for she sees again the childish look with which her helpless brother regarded the bright fire she dared afford that night. She knew not all the agony of that upward ascent until she stood upon the summit.
Very soberly, very earnestly, she did her work—God never loosing her from care for one single day; for no hand but hers ever ministered to her brother's wants, and every evening she sang the simple hymn which would alone persuade him to lie quietly in his bed. There was no great variety in Hester's life; but still she persevered, and at the close of every year she might have said, "I am gaining—nearer my end than I was a twelvemonth since;" and the day came when she lived comfortably, and allowed herself to rest now and then.
And all this time Paul Brownlow was in the same city, about his own business, their paths never for one moment crossing. He had not forgotten Hester—his love for her kept his heart young and pure, and many times he drew back his hand from a selfish act, for he felt those pure eyes upon him. Life gave him very much of success. He came from Europe, and found himself famous for the skill with which he had managed an intricate law question; but almost every evening he thought, "Life has given me all but the treasure I valued most—that was not for me." But God was very good to these two lovers. One Christmas-day a friend handed Paul a little volume, saying, "Here, Brownlow, is your Christmas present." The book chanced to be Hester's poems. Paul read many of them, and liked well their quiet, tender beauty. It was as if the heart of the writer were opened to him; he saw how it had waited, suffered, conquered, too, at the last; noted its wonderful acquaintance with nature, its earnest sympathy with truth, its loving faith and invincible will. Then he read a descriptive poem, but stopped at the last line in perfect amazement. Who wrote this book? He remembered one such day, one such scene, in his life, and—Hester Grahame was very near him. And that line was certainly an allusion to himself.
The book was thrown down, and he went from his room, hunted up his friend, and in a few words obtained the information he wanted. He sought Hester's quiet, secluded home—more than ever solitary on this Christmas evening, for out of it she had followed the dead body of her brother not many hours before. She sat by her west window, and as the servant opened the door Paul saw again the face which was dearer to him than aught else upon earth. She knew him directly, and held out her hand; but when I tell you that she is now Paul Brownlow's wife, you will not doubt his right to the kiss which he certainly took. They had been long parted, these lovers; they had loved more than most men and women do; and yet, by God's grace, they had been able to stand alone, to do each their life-work well; and you can understand why, as they sat together, they spoke no passionate words—why silent caresses and murmured thanksgivings were their only signs of betrothal. They had nothing to wait for; so on the morrow they were married—and you know, now, why Paul Brownlow loves his wife so much—why, when you turned the leaf down in that volume of "Woodstock," he told you, "You may do it in any other book of mine, but not in that;" for that was the first book of his that his wife's fingers ever touched.
I heard him ask Hester, one day as they sat very close to each other, "if she was content;" and when she said, "Perfectly content," I knew they were the dearest words he had ever heard.