Chapter Five

But Why Was She Hiding?


God! How those careless words still rung in his ears like a clanging bell.

John remembered it all too well. The moment he had spoken that malicious line of petulanthostility, he could have bitten his tongue out. What was he? And why should he stab her with her shame in that way? How evil he had been that night; possessed by ill-humour at being detained so long from her; irritated by the mention of some name, because he thought it belonged to a more successful lover; ill-tempered because he had been unable to cope, with a light heart, against one who was trying, by gay and careless speeches, to make the evening pass pleasantly away, — the kind old friend to all parties, whose manner by this time might be well known to Mr Thornton, who had been acquainted with him for many years.

And then to speak to Margaret as he had done!

He had hidden his hurt poorly, his attempt to repress it rendering it more potent than ever, almost like a fermenting venom that festered within him, and for this senseless reason alone, John had lashed out when last he saw her, on that evening when he had taken tea with Mr Hale and Mr Bell.

She had not risen to leave the room, as she had done in former days, when his abruptness or his temper had annoyed her. She sat quite still, after the first momentary glance of grieved surprise, that made her eyes look like some child's who has met with an unexpected rebuff; they slowly dilated into mournful, reproachful sadness; and then they fell, and she bent over her work, and did not speak again. But he could not help looking at her, and he saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she quivered in some unwonted chill. He gave short sharp answers; he was uneasy and cross, unable to discern between jest and earnest; anxious only for a look, a word of hers, before which to prostrate himself in penitent humility. But she neither looked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew in and out of her sewing, as steadily and swiftly as if that were the business of her life. She could not care for him, he thought, or else the passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raise those eyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repentance in his. He could have struck her before he left, in order that by some strange overt act of rudeness, he might earn the privilege of telling her the remorse that gnawed at his heart. It was well that the long walk in the open air wound up that evening for him. It sobered him back into grave resolution, that henceforth he would see as little of her as possible, — since the very sight of that face arid form, the very sounds of that voice (like the soft winds of pure melody) had such power to move him from his balance.

Well, whether he had wished to be estranged from her or not, it had happened, she had made sure of it.

John cussed himself.

What an unholy night that had been! How dare he have spoken to Margaret in such an offhand way?! Curse that blasted temper of his! She had been shocked and saddened by his targeted outburst, he could see that as plain as day on his darling's sweet face, and it had wounded her in a way that he did not even know he was capable of. Lord knows that this revelation had upset John punitively, to think himself skilled in injuring her so, savage beast that he was. How could she ever love him when he could hurt her like that?John had crossed a line that night, and from that moment on, everything had changed between them. Up until then, Margaret had at least tolerated his presence, doing her best to overlook and even pacify the palpable tension between them, to pardon his simmering resentment, and to be as polite as she could.

But not now.

John had been desperate to speak with Margaret after his insensitive mistake, to tell her how sorry he was, but she had not seen him to the door as she usually did, he had been denied that sacred privilege as means of peculiar punishment, no doubt, so he had not been granted the opportunity to beg her pardon. He had half decided to come and call upon her the next day, and then the next, and so it went on, but he made petty excuses for himself, blaming the mill for keeping him tied to his desk. The long and short of it was that John had been a coward and held back until the following week, resolved that he would get a chance to be alone with Margaret on the occasion of his next lesson and plead her forgiveness then, telling her the blunt truth about how he felt, and why he had been such a fiend.

But she had not been there…

Not that night, or any night since.

It was like she was gone, spirited away, displaced and dismissed from his life, but never, - never, from his heart.

Her patience with him had reached its limits and come to an abrupt end, and he knew this because, for four weeks since, she had not been there. That is, she had been there, but she had not been there. She was in the house, that much was certain, his keen senses being sharpened, attuned to tracking her with the precision of a hunter. He may only have known her for nigh-on twelve months, but John had familiarised himself with every aspect of Margaret's character, along with the particularities of her movement of body and tenancies of mindset, a study that had been at first unintentional, but by now, it had become almost obsessional. With great frustration, he could hear her moving on the upper floor, detecting sudden and fleeting bursts of activity, then all would go still, like a millpond, and he realised that she was trying to be quiet and not draw attention to herself, even if by doing so, she was, by paradoxical contrast, making herself more conspicuous than ever.

In other words, Margaret was hiding from him.

On his last visit, three weeks ago, John was about to leave, but then he had heard a creak from above, and a silhouette had been cast about the place, almost as if somebody were leaning over him. Looking up quickly, he could have sworn that he saw a face, a pair of eyes surveying him intently from between the railings. There had been a fitful vibration of light, suggesting something had moved swiftly, and so he had impatiently watched and waited, praying that she would make herself known. But then there was nothing, no clue as to what it was that had disturbed him, and so, he gave up his futile search, accepting that another day, another week, would pass without seeing her, the master being once again denied her most charming and coveted company.

But why was she hiding?

Could it be that her father spoke the truth, and that Margaret was ill? John flinched. God, he hoped not. It was not that he believed Mr Hale capable of dishonesty, but it could be that Margaret had told him that she was unwell, what with it being one of the few acceptable reasons that would account for her non-attendance, and so, her father had trusted her. John could not bring himself to think of Margaret being in poor health, and the notion had caused him to get up and go to fetch the doctor time and time again, but on every occasion, Mr Hale had promised him that things were not as bad as all that, and he had felt unable to argue. Consequently, John had been obliged to settle down and take his tutor's word that the woman they both loved more than life itself, was not in any danger. At first, John could believe this excuse. Margaret had been busy, too busy, looking after her father, the house, and every other wretch she came across, so it was no wonder that she was plausibly a little worn out. However, then the second week had come, and then the third, and finally, the fourth, and it was then that John knew for sure that she was evading him.

But again, why?

John needed to think about this rationally.

Margaret was not one to hide herself away. She was too audacious for that, so there had to be a darn good reason. At this point, John felt all the colour drain from his cheeks when he considered the one possibility that had been haunting him for some time, ever since he had awoken on the ship to Le Havre in cold sweats as a nightmare overtook him and persecuted his mind.

Was it conceivable that Margaret was with child?

John had woken up one night and near enough cried out, an image plaguing his subconscious in which Margaret cradled her growing belly, a dream he had once welcomed with longing, but not this, not this distorted and corrupted likeness of her slender figure swelling with the life of another man's seed.

He shook his head violently.

No!

She may have had a dalliance with that young man, but Margaret would never have given herself to him, not like that, not before she was married. But then John suddenly felt horribly sick. What if she had not given herself at all? What if he had taken what was not rightfully his? What if she had not even tendered her love, but had been forced? Without knowing what he was doing, John lifted his clenched fist and slammed it against a wall, ignoring the pain as the bricks cut into his knuckles and bruised them, thin trickles of blood running furiously along his hand and seeping into each overlapping stream with a sting. John barely noticed, merely taking out his handkerchief and cleaning up the mess.

It was time he faced facts.

Whether he liked it or not, it was possible that Margaret was with child, however it had come about. That would explain why she was concealing herself, keeping stealthily out of sight, and it would explain why her health was compromised. It was most likely that her father did not even know, that would vindicate his unperturbed conscious and conduct. He was presumably in the dark, for Margaret may have covered it well, or not yet been far along enough for it to be obvious, not if one were not deliberately looking for the signs of pregnancy. John refused to believe that her father did know and was playing his pupil like a fiddle, the very thought of such betrayal from a man he cared for as a father enough to break his heart all over again.

Well, if it were true, John would not disown Margaret. No, he would stay loyal to her, even going so far as to offer for her once more, vowing to look after her and her baby. He would even allow the illegitimate mite to take on his own name, instinctively choosing to care for it as if it were his babe, even if it were obvious to everybody that he could not be the father, not only because of timing, but because the child did not resemble him in the slightest. John would do the right thing by her, and he could do nothing more than that, so if need be, he would propose again, despite accepting that any agreement would not come from a place of love, but of necessity on her part, the thought of disgrace and destitution being just marginally worse than the thought of marriage to him. However, John would not let himself dwell on such dark thoughts of an uncertain future. He had no evidence to support his unspeakable theory, and so, for now, he would try his best to banish it from his mind. What was more, knowing Margaret, or what he thought he knew of Margaret, it was unlikely to be true, and besides, there was another reason which made far more sense, and if John were wholly honest with himself, he knew it to be the real cause of her refusal to see him.

She simply did not love him.

Well! He had known what love was – a sharp pang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose flames he was struggling! but, through that furnace he would fight his way out into the serenity of middle age, - all the richer and more human for having known this great passion.

When he eventually reached the street on which the Hale's home was tucked away inconspicuously in a corner, John did not slow down, but continued at his punishing pace, all too aware that his courage derived from his grit, and if he stalled, he may never make it at all, just like a machine starved of energy and coming to a standstill. At long last, when he arrived at the foot of their home, John finally allowed himself the right to stop. Good grief! How his limbs ached. He had not appreciated how ruthlessly he was driving himself forward. He was about to walk up the steps, but before he did, John gave way to his longings, and he bestowed upon himself one small indulgence, one moment of brief relief in which his self-denial was overthrown from its throne. Letting his eyes train up from the fissured pavement, John looked towards her bedroom window. The onlooker knew it was her window, he had seen her there before, many months ago, when he was first becoming acquainted with the Hales. He had peered up casually, without reason, or so he had told himself, and John's captivated eyes had stopped still as he spied Margaret by chance. There was nothing indecent about what he saw; she was simply standing there, re-arranging her hair, twirling from side to side as she flattened the creases in her dress, all acts which suggested that it was Margaret's own boudoir. No, there was nothing improper about what he beheld, but all the same, his observation should not have lingered and become a stare, but he could not help it, he was fascinated, and from that point on, John had known that he no longer wanted to be a spectator in Margaret's life, watching and admiring her from afar. He wanted more. He wanted, needed, to be close to her, with her, to be intimately part of her world.

John had intentionally looked up at the same spot three weeks ago when he had begrudgingly left that humble home, hoping beyond hope that she would be there, searching for him, just as desperately as he searched for her, but it was not to be. Nevertheless, John had been certain that he had glimpsed a movement out of the corner of his eye. The curtain, it had quivered, he was sure of it, but then all was still once again, and so he had departed, his heart heavy with an aching need to see her.

As John stole a glance up at her private realm tonight, the curtain was once again drawn back fully, and there was a light on the windowsill, bathing the room in a dim glow. Even so, there was nobody there, and John made ready to resume his march up to the door, but then out of nowhere, something changed, and a figure approached the scene. John's breath caught in his throat as his head bucked up, and his mouth fell open as he regarded that hallowed window, all his pent-up passion sparking his senses.

It was her!

Good God! It really was her!

Just like that, Margaret came into view, and John hardly knew where to look. She glided towards the glass, towards a table that must have sat before it, and there she began to fold something and place it on a sheet of brown parcel paper. Her cheeks were radiant, her lips parted, almost like she was singing. She was adorned in a dress of the most striking red, a green band around her waist, colours which spoke of Christmas cheer. At first, John was busy taking in the loveliness of her appearance, marvelling at her carefree expression, but he was soon distracted by the sight of her laughing, something he had never seen before, and it was the most beautiful thing to behold. The cause of her amusement was adorably entertaining. Margaret was grappling with a line of ribbon, the unruly thread having got itself wrapped around her wrists and arms, and so now she was struggling to untangle herself. John found himself laughing too at her childlike farcicality, a sound that had become foreign to him in recent months. It was strangely comforting to see her befuddled. Margaret, this clever, confident woman, who was always so sure of herself, never being discomposed, yet here she was, all in a tizzy, and John liked it, for it was reassuring to know that she was human, after all.

Then, all of a sudden, she looked up.

The seconds that passed next, for seconds they would have been, felt like hours. Margaret momentarily glanced in his direction, and then she stilled as her wandering eyes met his. She simply froze; she did not blush, or frown, or even attempt to scurry off. With wide eyes and a slanted head, just like a little bird, she stayed there, matching his gaze with unswerving focus. John's heart was beating faster than it was surely safe for it to do so. He knew he could look away, even retreat with some semblance of respectability, but he did not, because something inside him refused to tear itself away from her. He had hungered for her for so long, you see, and now that he had her in his sights, John would be a fool to ever look away again. Instead, the two of them stared at each other, and finally, Margaret lifted a hand to the glass, and there, she pressed her fingers against it, her digits twitching slightly, as if to shyly wave. If he were not so mistrusting of his own worth, John could have vowed that there was a flicker of yearning in her eyes as her hand reached out to him. At last, she took her fingers away, and this time, Margaret bent them towards her, beckoning her visitor to come hither, and what was more, she smiled at him in broad, wholehearted welcome, all before she disappeared from view, like an apparition invented by his most sacrosanct desires.

John gulped.

Well, there was one thing for certain.

She had never looked at him that way before.