LM Montgomery owns Anne of Green Gables. Margaret Mitchell owns some other characters. I own the characters you don't recognize from any stories you have read.
The next evening Marybeth sat on the lounge chair in her back garden with a book propped open on her lap, but she wasn't reading. It seemed to her that it had been a long time since she could concentrate on the written word. But she snapped back to attention when she saw John Meredith approaching.
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. He looked at her intensely but his air was sorrowful and he made no move to touch her.
Steady yourself, thought Marybeth. This is it--this is finally it.
"Yes, John?" She said, keeping her voice even as she closed her book.
He smiled at her, a tight uncomfortable smile, and began without preamble. "I need to talk to you. About a serious matter."
She nodded and clasped her hands in her lap.
He looked down at his own hands. "This is one of the hardest things I've ever had to say. Mrs. Hamilton--Marybeth--what happened--what's been happening. It was all my fault, none of yours. My greatest regret..."
Stunned, Marybeth closed her eyes, wanted to sink into the earth. Regret? Regret was for the things one wished had never happened. Regret was for the things one felt ashamed of doing. Was he ashamed of her? She felt the color drain from her face, but she answered, as evenly as before, "I understand, John. You can go home now."
His head snapped up, "But--"
"Have a good day." She swung her legs over the edge of the chair and looked around quickly. She needed to escape from this hideous predicament, but to where? Not into the house to face Dilcey's pitying, knowing eyes. Not down to Rainbow Valley where she had trysted with Norman. She couldn't go out to the street where people might see her. She didn't want to be seen by anybody until she had time to walk off the waves of sorrow that were already overtaking her. There was only one other choice. Beyond the low stone wall was an overgrown trail that lead heaven-only-knew-where. She stood up and headed calmly for it.
"Where are you going?" He asked her, startled.
"For my evening constitutional." She reached the stone wall, swung herself over it, and paused to look at the trail. It was terribly overgrown, but she refused to head back. She became annoyed when she heard the gravel crunch behind her. He was following her.
"Please, I need to talk to you."
Marybeth pushed ahead. She was shaking now, and her progress was impeded by the shrubbery that dragged at her skirt. "There's nothing to say. You said it quite clearly," she said haughtily as she plucked her hem from a particularly thorny bramble. She heard a thud as he dropped down over the stone wall.
"But I need to explain..."
"Explain what?" She hissed. "That you regret me? How could you say this to me? Even if you thought it privately, did you have to come down here and say right to me that you regret me?" Her forward progress was slow, she didn't even know where the trail would lead, and he insisted on following her.
"Please be reasonable. I can't offer you anything, I can't promise you anything..."
"Saints preserve us, John," she said, stopping and throwing her hands up in a gesture of frustration. "When did I ever ask for anything from you? Or hint around for promises?" She turned and continued down the path.
"I never, ever wanted to hurt you. But you know how it is between us."
"What are you trying to say? Or rather, trying very hard not to say? Because you're the Presbyterian minister and I'm a Catholic? When did we ever not know that?" She looked around her then. The path had lead right to the road. She made an irritated noise and folded her arms over her stomach.
He timidly put a hand on her arm but she shook him off angrily. "Don't. I wouldn't want to tempt you to do something else to regret."
Comprehension seemed to dawn on him. "Are you thinking I regretted caring about you? No, I only regret that I have nothing to offer you."
"Then you should have just told me you couldn't see me anymore and leave it at that. I would have understood, you know. Besides, I never asked you for anything. Not ever," she repeated. She looked around quickly. There were no wagons, no buggies. She trotted across the road to the field on the other side. Over the hill at the end of the field was the beach, and she just wanted to get away.
"I don't regret you, Marybeth Hamilton!" He yelled after her.
Startled, she whirled around. She never heard him yell before. "Keep your voice down, John. Somebody will hear you."
He crossed the road after her, grabbed her hand and hurried with her down to the beach, to a little section tumbled with boulders.
"Are you crazy? If we're caught together, you'll have to answer for this!"
He took her face in his hands. "I don't want you leaving the Glen thinking I ever regretted you. Do you think this is how I would ever choose to treat a woman I cared about? Sneaking around, snatching stolen moments. If things were only different..."
"But they're not." She took his hands and held them in front of her for a moment before she dropped them and turned towards the shoreline, treading gingerly over the little rocks--the footing was unsure. She found a boulder and climbed up on it, staring over the sea. He stood next to her, leaning his arms on the rock and looking up at her.
"I'm sorry I hurt you--I'm sorry you ever thought that I wished you away."
She slumped a little then. She put her face in her hands and said, "Oh, don't say it, John. Just forget about it. Maybe we didn't know what form it would take, but we both knew it would end something like this. Surely you never thought we could get out of this situation without some pain."
"I tried not to think about it. I hoped we could avoid this kind of hurt."
She looked down at him with a wry smile that didn't reach her eyes. They looked at each other for a few moments like this, sadly, ruefully.
"Did it ever occur to you that maybe we were predestined to meet?" He asked low.
"Never for a moment," she stated. "You seem to forget who you're talking to. A good Catholic like me doesn't believe in predestination." Then she looked ahead of her with a lopsided smile, clasping her hands on her knee.
"Why did you smile?"
"I was after remembering what Father Quinn--he was my confessor when we lived in Atlanta--told me once--how every choice has consequences--that when you drained every bit of sweetness from the cup you have chosen, it was unworthy to complain when the rest of the cup was bitter..." she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "We had our times of joy and bliss, didn't we?"
He nodded, a little put out at her sly expression.
She shrugged and nodded, looking out over the ocean again.
"You should have been a theologian," he said suddenly.
"Me?" She laughed. "Sure, and if I had been born a man I could have been a Jesuit while I was at it. Actually I thought about turning nun when I was a little girl. But it all goes back to choices, doesn't it? And as bitter as life could be sometimes I had no desire to turn my back on it, give it up, enter a convent. No. I was meant for this life--raising a family."
"Ah, but if you say you were meant, isn't that the same as predestination?"
She looked into his eyes, then and choked on a sob. She slid off the boulder, threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. She felt his arms go around her in an instant and remembered where they were. "We're out in the open, John," she whispered as she moved to let him go.
But he held her more tightly, knowing she was right, but not caring. He couldn't let her go when she was crying, and truth to be told, he didn't want to let her go at all.
Nothing like this had ever happened to him before and he had no word to describe it. When he set out to win Cecilia's affections, there was no obstacle between them--he only needed her consent. Courting her had been like carefully tending a rose garden. He never tried to win Marybeth's affections--although he found her willing enough when he was ready. But the feeling between himself and Marybeth had been like stumbling accidentally onto a field of lush wildflowers; something that had sprung forth of its own accord. Cecilia was a reality; he had built an entire life around her, a happy and satisfying life. Because he knew he could never have a life with Marybeth she had slipped into the realm of fantasy for him--and he truly believed he could enjoy and admire her from afar, as a friend. But step-by-step she became a reality to him. The more time he spent with her, the more he learned about her life before the Glen--both her virtues and her faults--the more he found himself wanting the reality as much as he had wanted the fantasy.
"This is the end, isn't it, John," she murmured against his neck.
"Not because I want it to be this way," he said as he took her face in his hands, kissing her lightly.
"But what you're saying is..."
"It will only hurt worse later."
She sighed and he kissed her mouth again. She trembled with the effort of not clinging to him.
"It means we can't see each other alone again," she continued.
"No. Not alone--especially since this is what I think about when we're with other people--"
Through her tears she couldn't help smiling. "Why John Meredith! For how long have you been having such thoughts?"
He pulled her close again. "I think you would be surprised."
She left him shortly thereafter, not wanting to prolong the ache she felt. Luckily none of her children were home yet. She was met at the door by Dilcey, who took one look at her face and lead her upstairs to her bedroom.
"You've jilted that preacher?"
"No, Dilcey, he jilted me."
"You just climb into bed, Lanie and I will take care of things here."
And that's what she did. She undressed and climbed into bed, her heart sore and aching. Reading was impossible and thinking was painful. Lanie and Dilcey both tried to offer their sympathies, but nothing they said helped. When she was finally left alone she rolled over and cried until she slept.