The result of actaully enjoying homework... I, in no way, try to attempt to recreate the form in which Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote his tale. I meerly wanted to think of a moment in time with his characters. (And in an effort to procrastinate on writing the essay for the class. Mwahahaha. I iz a slacker.)
Inspired by my love, my Josh Groban and his song, "Remember when it Rained."
For it only had to be once. Once for Hester to realize something in her heart. Once for Arthur to find it in his own.
With Pearl finally asleep, Hester sat in the candlelight by the window, listening to the at first soft pattering of the rain, until it grew louder and louder.
She was laughing as she entered the sanctuary of the church. "Remember when it rained in England, Arthur?"
The young minister still recoiled at the familiarity she addressed him with, but replied promptly. "Of course. There most were courageous enough to brave the storm. Look, there, Mistress Hubbard still walks through the torrent!"
Hester looked at Mr. Dimmesdale's bemused yet distracted expression, finding herself wondering at the sculpture of his chin, his nose, the deepness of his eyes. She blushed and looked to her hands.
"It is a wonder you have not married, reverend. You care overly much for your flock," she said.
Drenched from the rain, her hair was darker than its usual black, and her skin glowed paler than its usual white. Her hands still distracted her, the golden band on her left finger, the shackle to an invisible prison she oft forgot.
"There are things, Hester, we cannot have unless God wills it."
"Does God tell you what He wills?" Hester challenged.
"Through His scripture," began the clergyman.
"And this interpreted by His servants," she looked at his face.
Her eyes pierced him, the ferocity of her spirit overwhelming him yet once more. Her visits to him were frequent, and they discussed all that could be discussed between minister and parishioner. Her thoughts challenged his own, hers testing boundaries theological and societal.
The rain pattered on the roof of the church, a less than steady rhythm than that pattering of two uncertain hearts.
"Do you ever think of love, Arthur?"
"God's love for his children, yes," his voice hitched, her burning eyes held some unspoken question, and the familiar unsettling of his stomach began to bother him again.
"Will you ever marry, Arthur?"
He sighed, and turned away from her, "It would be God's will for me to marry the woman I love."
She pressed her hand to his. "Look at me."
Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale remembered when it rained, the secret and his pain.