Before the Scarlet Letter

The Scholar and His Books

The soft light of waning embers cast a mysterious glow onto the arrangement of humble yet strangely elegant fixtures placed before the hearth. A young woman sat within reach of the fading light's grasp, compelled to remain near the warmth, but not so close as to stir the ashes of what once lie in the blackened grate. Her obsidian eyes observed the steady death of the embers, her right hand moving furiously with her needle, weaving into the fabric that was clutched in her left. 

The distant creak of the old, wooden door of the residents library startled the young woman from her entranced gaze. It was expected, but the long groan of the door always struck her with a pang of fear, a pang of dread, perhaps. Night after night, once the fire had softened into mere whispers of light, the bolt was turned in that door and a pale, thin man emerged from its depths. His uneven steps alerted the young woman of his approaching presence as he drew near to witness the fleeting fire, and in his mind's eye, the consummation of another day with his wife. 

As the man reclined near the hearth, the woman dropped her eyes from the smoldering embers and to her work at hand, refusing to meet his cold, grey eyes. Those seemingly unblinking orbs were set fast upon her, behind wiry spectacles which rested on the permanent indent of their place upon his nose. The grey eyes searched the woman's downtrodden expression, as her customary nuptial smile did not wash over his weary frame. 

The pair sat as tombs before the fireside, the dying glow casting whispered shadows upon them like ghosts. The man silently begged for that smile, the one that would greet him during the icy nights and remind him that spring should soon come again, that he was not stranded in an eternal winter. He needed, so earnestly, to bask himself in that smile, in order that the chill of so many lonely hours among his books might be taken off the scholar's heart. His eyes studied her once more, and then he spoke with a dry and fearful tone, not unlike the decaying wood near the fireplace that remained untouched.

"What ails thee, Hester?" Master Prynne's voice crackled from hours of disuse. The young woman did not lift her eyes from her work. 

"What dost thou sayest, my husband? No ailment has fallen upon me," Hester replied, a tremulous smile stretched onto her lip, and eyes still wrought upon her work. 

The scholar cast his gaze to the dead embers that were now cooling within the grate. The light had finally dissipated and the chilled night air settled between the two until Hester stopped her needlework. A muffled sigh escaped her innocent lips before she dropped the embroidery aside and proceeded to their chambers, alone, not glancing back to the pensive man beside the grate.

 
She wandered down the shadowy corridor to the bland grey chamber which housed her sleeping quarters. Her mind raced with scenarios of a loveless life that appeared to be her present and future. An overwhelming sensation of sorrow washed over her frame and she collapsed beside the large bed, kneeling in prayer to find strength from above.

"Oh Heavenly Father," she whispered to the empty air, "dost thou know my loneliness, dost thou know my impending doom that shall fall upon my sorrowful brow? If it pleases you, oh Lord, allow me to escape these chains which bind me ever so tightly to the misery I have been placed into. I beg in your Son's name...." She stood, mournful tears pooling in her eyes, "amen." 

Hester then took the pin that held her long tresses upon her head, allowing the curls to fall past her shoulders. The woman dabbed a handkerchief at her soggy eyes then clothed herself with her cotton night gown and sat under the heavy quilt upon the bed. The candlelight danced in her eyes as once again she was lost in the entrance of fire. Her fingers subconsciously floated toward the flame, yearning to feel something, anything, even pain...but as the tender flesh neared the heat, the flame leaped upon her hand, slightly singeing the skin. She yelped in pain as the burning sensation throbbed on her presently bright red index finger.

The uneven steps once again gave away the secret of the scholar's presence. Hester quickly hushed the flame and pulled the quilt over her trembling frame.

"Hester? Was that you, my wife?" Master Prynne himself held a flickering candle, casting a strange shadow upon his worn features. Slowly, Hester rose from her position and glared at the man, the two souls locked in a stalemate. That is until the scholar gave up with a sigh. "Hester, I shall ask ye again," he gazed at his wife, "what brings such woe upon you?" His shoulders dropped as Hester's eyes fell to the quilt that she had instinctively clutched to her chest.

"You are the physician," she finally spoke, "the scholar that remains hidden and cold with your books day and night. Can you not deduce knowledge from me as you do with the ink on the withered pages of your study?" Roger was taken aback by his wife's sudden brazen tone. "Roger Prynne, I am dying here!" She cried out with the emotion that had been held restrained over the past months; "I feel as a prisoner, daily bearing the chain of...of loneliness...."

"Did thou ever love this face?" Roger asked solemnly, "that day that we stood hand in hand at the alter; dost thou remember it? Art thou pledged to me as my wife?" His soft voice grew to match the sound of rolling thunder.

"Yes...yes..." Hester whispered, the throb of her wound moving to a pang in her heart, "then I felt love, I believed in the prosperity of love for us both. My mind concocted the heavenly picture of our love and held fast to this image; alas, here we both stand once more and the love is no longer thriving," she pleaded for his understanding. He nodded, slowly, painfully. His eyes lifted toward the heavens, then rested on his wife, who sat starring at him. "Roger," she said to him, "I am not happy in this place. It is too familiar, too confining. Europe has grown too small for us. But there is, Roger Prynne, I daresay a way to escape this without broken vows of love," her eyes grew brighter in the dim light, "I believe that there are ships sailing for New England this spring. Shall we go aboard, and venture into this new world? Likewise, begin again with our love?" She placed her sympathetic hand upon his, begging for his consent.
"I shall consider your proposition," Master Prynne voiced, "but for now, you must rest," the scholar took Hester's long fingers and kissed it softly, as if the air had reached down and brushed the velvet skin; and Master Prynne stood, observing that his wife grew rigid with this touch, and disappeared from the shadowed chamber to ponder the decision that lies before him amongst his books.