Mrs. Hight, like myself, was spent with conversation, and had ceased
even the one activity of fanning herself. I brought a desired drink of
water, and happily remembered some fruit that was left from my luncheon.
She revived with splendid vigor, and told me the simple history of her
later years since she had been smitten in the prime of her life by the
stroke of paralysis, and her husband had died and left her alone with
Esther and a mortgage on their farm. There was only one field of good
land, but they owned a great region of sheep pasture and a little
woodland. Esther had always been laughed at for her belief in
sheep-raising when one by one their neighbors were giving up their
flocks, and when everything had come to the point of despair she had
raised all the money and bought all the sheep she could, insisting that
Maine lambs were as good as any, and that there was a straight path by
sea to Boston market. And by tending her flock herself she had managed
to succeed; she had made money enough to pay off the mortgage five years
ago, and now what they did not spend was safe in the bank. “It has been
stubborn work, day and night, summer and winter, an’ now she’s beginnin’
to get along in years,” said the old mother sadly. “She’s tended me
’long o’ the sheep, an’ she’s been a good girl right along, but she
ought to have been a teacher;” and Mrs. Hight sighed heavily and plied
the fan again.
We heard voices, and William and Esther entered; they did not know that
it was so late in the afternoon. William looked almost bold, and oddly
like a happy young man rather than an ancient boy. As for Esther, she
might have been Jeanne d’Arc returned to her sheep, touched with age and
gray with the ashes of a great remembrance. She wore the simple look of
sainthood and unfeigned devotion. My heart was moved by the sight of her
plain sweet face, weather-worn and gentle in its looks, her thin figure
in its close dress, and the strong hand that clasped a shepherd’s staff,
and I could only hold William in new reverence; this silent
farmer-fisherman who knew, and he alone, the noble and patient heart
that beat within her breast. I am not sure that they acknowledged even
to themselves that they had always been lovers; they could not consent
to anything so definite or pronounced; but they were happy in being
together in the world. Esther was untouched by the fret and fury of
life; she had lived in sunshine and rain among her silly sheep, and been
refined instead of coarsened, while her touching patience with a ramping
old mother, stung by the sense of defeat and mourning her lost
activities, had given back a lovely self-possession, and habit of sweet
temper. I had seen enough of old Mrs. Hight to know that nothing a sheep
might do could vex a person who was used to the uncertainties and
severities of her companionship.