Up the Hill and Over

by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

Had the poor pink rose-bush suddenly flamed into crimson she could scarcely have been more surprised. She caught her breath with the shock of it! But shocks are quickly over. One adjusts one's self with incredible swiftness. A moment—and it seemed to Esther that she ought to have been expecting this. That she ought to have known it all along. Thousands of trifles mocked at her for her blindness, thousands of unheeded voices shrieked the truth into her opened ears. She felt miserably guilty. Not yet had she arrived at the stage when she could justify her blindness and deafness to herself. Later, she would understand how custom, the life-long habit of regarding the minister as a man apart, had helped to dull her perception. Later, common sense would prove her innocent of any wilful blunder. But just now, in her first bewilderment, it seemed that nothing could ever excuse that lack of understanding which had made this declaration possible!

"I love you, Esther! I have loved you for two years." (It was like the Reverend Angus to refer to the exact period.) "You must have seen it. This can be no surprise to you. You may blame me in your heart for not speaking sooner. But you were young. There seemed time enough. Then, lately, when I saw that you were no longer a child, I decided to speak as soon as your mother should have returned. But to-day I felt that I could not wait longer. I must know at once—now! I must hear you say that you love me. That you will be my wife. You will—Esther?"

His impassioned tones lingered on the name with ecstasy.

The startled girl forced herself to look at him, a look swift as a swallow's dart, but in it she saw everything—the light on his face—the love in his eyes! And something else she saw, something of which she did not know the name but from which, not loving him, she shrank with an instinctive shiver of revolt. He seemed a different man. The minister, the teacher, was gone, and in his place stood the lover, the claimer. Yes—that was it. He claimed her, his glance, his voice—somewhere in the girl's heart a red spark of anger began to glow.

She tried to speak, but he silenced her by a gesture. "No, do not answer yet. Although you must have known what I have felt for you, you are startled by my suddenness, I can see that. I have told you that it was not my intention to speak so soon. Circumstances have hurried me. I felt that I must have this settled. That—that episode of last week alone would have determined me. Things like that must not recur. I must have the right to advise, to—to protect you. You are so young. You do not know the world, its wickedness, its incredible vileness." His face was white with intense inward passion. "With me you will be safe. My God! to think of you at the mercy of that man—of any man! It stirs a madness of hate in me. Hate is a sin, I know, but God will understand—it is born of love, of my love for you."

Again the girl tried to force some words from her trembling lips. And again he stopped her.

"Do not speak yet. I apologise for my violence. Forgive it. We need not refer to this aspect of the matter again. Let us dwell only upon the sweeter idea of our love—for you do love me? You will love me—Esther?"

But the time for speech had gone. To her own intense surprise and to the minister's consternation, Esther burst into tears.

She was frightened, angry, stung with pity and a kind of horror. She felt herself honoured and insulted at the same time; and with this strange medley of emotions was a consciousness of youth and inexperience very different from the calm, untried confidence of a few minutes before.

"Forgive me, forgive me!" pleaded the conscience stricken suitor. "I have been too sudden! I should have prepared you. I should have allowed you to see more plainly." With a lover's first, fond air of possession he attempted to take her hand.