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Updated: June 27, 2025
She had heard yes, surely Hetty's voice. It seemed to come from outside, close below her window Hetty's ordinary voice, with no distress in it, speaking some words she could not catch. She listened. Actual sound or illusion, it was not repeated. She climbed out of bed and drew the curtain aside.
Beyond this morbidness of misapprehension, there was no other morbidness in Hetty's state. She did not pine or grieve; she only began slowly to wonder what she could do for Eben now. Her sense of loss and disappointment, in that she had borne him no children, began to weigh more heavily upon her.
I didn't want to tell; but it was better than having her suffer so dreadfully." "Oh, very well. You can make a friend of her. Go away and sit up prim like Phyllis. You shall have no more fun with me, I can tell you." A lump came in Hetty's throat. She knew Mark was in the wrong, and was very unkind besides; but still he had so often been good to her that she could not bear to quarrel with him.
The hard look faded again from Aunt Hetty's face as she yielding to such an irresistible entreaty, hesitatingly replied: "Yes yes, a little if you can." The day following the arrival of Pearl and Periwinkle at their Aunt Hetty's home was Sunday. But the children were not permitted to attend the church service since the time had been too short to procure suitable clothing for Pearl.
Hetty's low, sweet tones had not been raised many moments, when the dip of the oars ceased, and the holy strain arose singly on the breathing silence of the wilderness.
But the procession wouldn't stop . . . wouldn't stop. . . . Aunt Hetty hung up the last bag. "There," she said, "that's all we can do here today. Elly, you'd better run along home. The sun'll be down behind the mountain now before you get there." Elly snatched at the voice, at the words, at Aunt Hetty's wrinkled, shaking old hand. She jumped up from the trunk.
The pair came to a halt. Hetty's eyes were fastened imploringly on her brother. He did not see them. If he had, it would have made no difference. He pitied her, but in his belief her repentance was not thorough: he had no right to invite her past the gate. "Good-bye," he whispered. She understood. With a sob she bent her face and kissed him and was gone like a ghost back into the darkness.
Hetty's sorrow was full of hope, being persuaded that all was well with those whom she did not see. Dr. Eben loved no one warmly or with absorption. Hetty loved every suffering one to whom she ministered. Dr. Eben had never ceased living too much in the past. Hetty had learned to live almost wholly in the present.
As she spoke, she moved hastily about the room, making her preparations to go. Her husband did not attempt to delay her. A strange feeling was creeping over him, that, by Hetty's removal of herself from him, by her new life, her new name, new duties, she had really ceased to be his. He felt weak and helpless: the shock had been too great, and he was not strong.
They walked up to the house together. Hetty was too cold, and tired, and hurt to speak again, and Mark was too much annoyed at his own carelessness, and what he called Hetty's stupidity, to be able to thank her, and offer to make friends with her.
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