Governor Bellingham, dressed in a loose gown and comfy cap (the kind older guys loved to wear at home), was leading the group, showing off his estate and talking about his plans for improvements. His big, old-fashioned ruff under his gray beard made him look a bit like a Biblical figure, almost like John the Baptist’s head on a platter. The way he looked, so serious and old, didn’t really match the fancy, comfortable things around him that he’d clearly worked hard to have. But it’s a mistake to think that our serious ancestors, who saw life as tough and full of challenges and were always ready to sacrifice their stuff or their lives for duty, didn’t also enjoy a little luxury when they could. This wasn’t something the old pastor, John Wilson, would’ve taught, for example. His snow-white beard could be seen over Governor Bellingham’s shoulder as he suggested that pears and peaches might grow in New England’s climate, and maybe even purple grapes could thrive by the garden wall. The old clergyman, raised in the rich traditions of the English Church, had a well-established love for nice things. Even though he came off as strict in church or when criticizing people like Hester Prynne, his kindness in private made him more loved than most of his colleagues.

Behind the Governor and Mr. Wilson were two more guests: Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, the young minister who had reluctantly been involved in Hester’s public shame, and right next to him, Roger Chillingworth, an experienced doctor who had been living in town for the past couple of years. It was well-known that Chillingworth, a skilled physician, was also the friend of Dimmesdale, whose health had been getting worse lately because of his overcommitment to his work as a pastor.

The Governor stepped ahead of his guests, went up a couple of steps, and opened the big hall window, where he found himself face-to-face with little Pearl. The curtain’s shadow covered Hester and partly hid her from view.

“What’s this?” said Governor Bellingham, surprised by the little girl in front of him. “I’ve never seen anything like this since the days of King James, when I thought it was a big deal to attend a fancy court event! We used to see a lot of little figures like this during the holidays, and we called them ‘children of the Lord of Misrule.’ But how did such a guest get into my hall?”

“Well, well!” said good old Mr. Wilson. “What little bird in red feathers is this? I think I’ve seen figures like her when the sun shines through colorful windows and makes golden and red shapes on the floor. But that was back in England. Tell me, little one, who are you, and what’s your mother thinking dressing you like this? Are you a Christian child? Do you know your catechism? Or are you one of those mischievous fairies we thought we left behind in old England?”

“I’m my mother’s child,” answered the little red figure. “And my name is Pearl!”

“Pearl?—More like Ruby!—Or Coral!—Or maybe Red Rose, at least, looking at your color!” said the old minister, reaching out to try and pat Pearl’s cheek. “But where’s your mom? Ah! I see,” he added, turning to Governor Bellingham and whispering, “This is the same child we were talking about, and here is the poor woman, Hester Prynne, her mother!”

“Really?” said the Governor. “Well, I guess we should’ve figured her mother would be a scarlet woman, just like the one in that old Bible story! But she’s come at the right time, and we’ll get to the bottom of this now.”

Governor Bellingham stepped into the hall through the window, followed by the three guests.

“Hester Prynne,” he said, staring sternly at the woman with the scarlet letter, “there’s been a lot of talk about you lately. People have been seriously wondering if we, who are in charge, are doing the right thing by letting someone like you raise an innocent child. Do you think, as the mother, it’s in your child’s best interest to stay with you, or should she be taken away from you, dressed properly, and taught the right lessons? What can you teach her?”

“I can teach my daughter what I’ve learned from this,” Hester answered, touching the red letter.

“Woman, that’s your mark of shame!” the harsh magistrate replied. “It’s because of that letter that we think it’s best for the child to be taken away from you.”

“But,” Hester said, staying calm but growing paler, “this mark has taught me—and still teaches me—lessons that could help my child, even if they don’t do anything for me.”

“We’ll be careful with this decision,” said Governor Bellingham. “Master Wilson, please examine Pearl and see if she’s had the right Christian upbringing for her age.”

The old minister sat in an armchair and tried to pull Pearl between his knees. But Pearl, not used to anyone other than her mom touching her, slipped out the open window and stood on the top step, looking like a wild tropical bird ready to fly away. Mr. Wilson, surprised by this, since he was usually a grandpa-like figure and loved by kids, tried to continue with the examination.

“Pearl,” he said seriously, “you must pay attention to what you’re taught, so that one day you’ll understand the most important lessons. Can you tell me, little one, who made you?”

Pearl knew exactly who made her. Hester, who had grown up in a religious home, had started teaching her about God and the important lessons everyone needs to know, no matter how young they are. By the time she was three, Pearl was more advanced than most kids her age, and could’ve probably passed an easy test on Christian teachings, even though she’d never seen the actual books. But, like all kids, Pearl had a rebellious streak—and hers was stronger than most. So, when Mr. Wilson asked her who made her, she refused to answer, or said something completely wrong. After putting her finger in her mouth and ignoring his question, she finally said she wasn’t made at all but had been picked by her mom from a bush of wild roses growing by the prison.

She probably got the idea from the Governor’s red roses nearby, plus the memory of the rosebush outside the prison door when they had passed by earlier.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Roger Chillingworth, smiling, whispered something to the young minister. Hester, even though her life was hanging in the balance, couldn’t help but notice how different Chillingworth looked now. His face had become uglier, his dark skin even darker, and his figure seemed to have changed since the last time she saw him. For a moment, their eyes met, but Hester quickly turned her attention back to what was happening.

“This is terrible!” the Governor said, recovering from the shock of Pearl’s answer. “Here’s a child only three years old, and she doesn’t even know who made her! She probably has no idea about her soul, what’s wrong with it, or what will happen to her in the future! I think we’ve seen enough!”

Hester grabbed Pearl and pulled her into her arms, her face hardening as she stared down the Governor. She might have been all alone in the world, but with her daughter in her arms, she felt like she had something no one could take from her. She was ready to defend Pearl, no matter the cost.

“God gave me this child!” she cried. “He gave her to me to replace everything else you took from me. She is my joy! But she’s also my pain! Pearl is the reason I’m still alive, but she punishes me too! Can’t you see? She is the scarlet letter, but she’s the only one I can love. She’s more powerful than anything to make me pay for my sin. You can’t take her away! I’d rather die first!”

“My poor lady,” said the old minister, not unkindly, “The child will be well taken care of—better than you could manage.”

“God gave her to me!” Hester Prynne cried, her voice rising to a near-scream. “I won’t give her up!” Then, on impulse, she turned to the young minister, Mr. Dimmesdale, who she had barely looked at until this point. “Speak for me!” she begged. “You were my pastor, you knew my soul, and you know me better than they do. I won’t lose my child! Speak for me! You know what’s in my heart and how much stronger a mother’s rights are when all she has left is her child and the scarlet letter. Please, speak for me! I won’t lose her!”

Her desperate plea, filled with madness and fear, made the young minister step forward. He looked pale and worn, more so than when we saw him during Hester’s public punishment. His face was tired, his eyes dark and full of pain.

“There’s truth in what she says,” he began, his voice trembling but strong enough to echo through the hall. “What Hester says is true, and the feelings behind it are real. God gave her the child, and He also gave her an instinctive understanding of the child’s needs—needs that no one else could know. And there’s something deeply sacred about the bond between this mother and child.”

“Well said! But explain that to us, Master Dimmesdale!” interrupted the Governor.

“It’s true,” the minister continued. “Because if we say otherwise, we’re suggesting that God doesn’t take sin seriously and doesn’t care about the difference between wrongful lust and true love. This child, born from her father’s sin and her mother’s shame, was given by God to work on her heart, to make her feel the pain and the redemption in her soul. It was meant as a blessing, the only blessing of her life. But it was also meant, as the mother said, to be a punishment—a constant reminder of her guilt, a pain that will never fully go away. Doesn’t the child’s red clothing remind us of the scarlet letter, the symbol of her shame?”

“Well said, indeed!” cried Mr. Wilson. “I was afraid the woman only meant to make a spectacle of her child!”

“Oh, no! Not like that!” Mr. Dimmesdale exclaimed. “Believe me, she understands the incredible miracle God has worked by giving her that child. And she also understands, I think, the truth—that this child was given to her to keep her soul alive and protect her from sinking deeper into sin, which Satan would have tried to drag her into. So, it’s good for this poor, sinful woman to have a child, someone with a soul that can live forever—someone she can raise to be good and who will constantly remind her of her mistakes. But in a way, it’s also like a promise from God: if she helps the child get to heaven, the child will help her get there too! This makes the mother luckier than the father. So, for Hester’s sake, and for the child’s sake, let them stay as they are, because that’s how God intended it.”

“You speak with such seriousness,” said Roger Chillingworth, smiling at him.

“And there’s a lot of truth in what our young brother said,” added Reverend Mr. Wilson. “What do you think, Master Bellingham? Doesn’t he make a strong case for the poor woman?”

“He does,” replied the magistrate. “He’s made such good points that we’ll leave things as they are—for now. As long as there’s no further trouble from the woman. But we must make sure the child is properly taught the catechism, either by you or Master Dimmesdale. And the tithing-men need to make sure she goes to school and church regularly.”

After he spoke, the young minister stepped back a little from the group, standing partly hidden by the curtain of the window. His shadow, cast on the floor, trembled with the emotion of his words. Pearl, that wild, unpredictable child, quietly walked up to him, took his hand in both of hers, and rested her cheek against it. It was such a gentle gesture, so unexpected, that Hester couldn’t help but think, “Is that really my Pearl?” But deep down, she knew the child did have love in her, even if it usually showed in bursts of passion, not tenderness. The minister, touched by the child’s affection, looked down at her, hesitated for a moment, and then kissed her forehead. But Pearl’s calm mood didn’t last long—she laughed and skipped down the hall so lightly that old Mr. Wilson wondered if her feet even touched the ground.

“By my word, that child has some kind of magic in her,” he said to Mr. Dimmesdale. “She doesn’t need a broomstick to fly!”

“What a strange child!” said old Roger Chillingworth. “You can clearly see her mother in her. Do you think, gentlemen, that a smart philosopher could figure out who the father is just by studying the child’s nature?”

“No, no,” replied Mr. Wilson. “That would be wrong. Instead, we should fast and pray about such things—or better yet, leave it alone unless God decides to reveal it. In the meantime, any good Christian should show fatherly kindness toward the poor, abandoned child.”

With the matter settled, Hester Prynne left the house with Pearl. As they walked down the steps, it’s said that a window upstairs opened, and Mistress Hibbins, Governor Bellingham’s sour-tempered sister, stuck her face out into the sunny day. She was the same woman who, years later, was executed for being a witch.

“Psst, psst!” she whispered, her sharp, sinister face casting a shadow over the bright house. “Will you come with us tonight? There’ll be a lively gathering in the forest, and I nearly promised the Black Man that Hester Prynne would be there.”

“Give him my regrets!” Hester replied with a proud smile. “I need to stay home and take care of little Pearl. If they’d taken her from me, I might have gone with you to the forest and signed my name in the Black Man’s book—with my own blood!”

“Oh, we’ll have you there eventually,” said Mistress Hibbins, frowning as she pulled her head back inside.

But if this conversation between Mistress Hibbins and Hester actually happened and wasn’t just a story, it already proves what the young minister said: separating a fallen mother from her child would lead to even worse things. Even at this point, Pearl had saved her mother from falling into Satan’s trap.