here and there a bit of the country
road, with the air of long practice. At first she would not tell him.
I can imagine that slanting school-boy look, that quietly malicious
indrawing of the corners of the mouth: the most enchanting obstinacy
conceivable. They were following at the time a narrow beaten path,
perhaps a cattle track, but that was not her guide, for often such a
path curved and returned aimlessly on itself or branched off quite
widely from the direction she took. At first, as I say, she was deaf
to his question, but when he repeated it, patiently, I have no doubt,
but evidently determined upon an answer, she yielded, as we all yield
to Roger in the end, and confessed that she had once followed Hester
to the village and back by this road. Hester had never guessed it,
never in fact turned her back when once started, and it had been easy
to keep her in sight. At the edge of the town Margarita had felt a
little shy and apprehensive of her fate if discovered, so she had sat
by the wood-side till Hester appeared again and followed her meekly
home.

Since then I have been able to gather some idea of Hester's appearance
from various sources, and I own that the situation has always seemed
to me picturesque in the extreme: the tall, gaunt, silent woman in her
severe, dull dress striding through the pastures, and behind her,
stealthily as an Indian--or an Italian avenger--the dark, lovely
child, now crouching amongst the bayberry, now defiantly erect, but
always graceful as a panther, her hair loose on her slender
shoulders. I cannot forbear to add that in this picture of mine, a
great vivid letter burns on the woman's breast, inseparable from her
name, of course. But this only adds to the sombre power of the
picture. It is a thing for Vedder to paint, in witchlike browns and
greys.

Margarita had never made this journey but once, but she followed her
old trail with the precision of a savage. I myself have gone that way
once only: and then but half of the distance, or a little less. It was
not in bayberry time, but through a land smooth and blue-white with
snow and with a terror pulling my heart out that I am sure I could
never endure again. How we flew over the snow! It was all a ghastly
glare, a dancing sun in a turquoise sky ... No, no, one does not live
through such things twice and I hate even the memory of it. Even with
the boiling geyser rumbling behind me, filling the baths with comfort
and oblivion, I sh