Margaret of the North (8 page)

With voice a little steadier but
barely above a whisper, he continued, "This is all new to me, too,
although not in the same way it is to you.  Only two days ago, I would never
have imagined us together like this.  Much farther in my mind was the thought
that you could express your feelings as strongly as you just did."

Margaret blushed, embarrassed and
glad that John could not see her face, "Is that all right?"

"All right?  Oh, my
love!"  He could say no more as he held her closer.

At length, she spoke again,
somewhat shyly.  "I really never knew what to expect, what it means to
love, only that I am happier than I have ever been when I am with you.  And
being with you"—she paused, searching for words—"well, I am learning
new things about myself."  She turned towards him, laid her head on his
shoulders, laced her arms around his neck and murmured, a hint of wonder in her
voice, "And about you, too" she looked up at him for an instant. 

He did not answer, merely held
her closer, content to take pleasure in the warmth of her cheeks against his
neck.

At length, Margaret sat up again
and faced John.  She had been curious about his trip to Helstone since that day
at the train station when he told her that he had just come from there.  She
wanted to ascertain—out of her own vanity, she admitted to herself—if he went
mainly on her account but she was also genuinely interested to know how he
found Helstone.

"Did you go to Helstone
because you had business there?"  Margaret knew that to be implausible but
she thought it as good a way as any to start her inquiry.

"Well, it is not
inconceivable that the south could be an untapped source for investors.  But
no, I had a more selfish reason for going.  When I found out about your
brother, I had this restless desire to do something.  At the very least, I
wanted to understand you better, to know what it was that made you who you
are.  You had seen my world but I had not really seen yours.  Maybe, I thought
Helstone would tell me more about you and that in being there, I would learn
how to make you love me."

This was precisely what Margaret
wanted to hear.  She smiled broadly but could not resist the temptation to
tease him.  "Did you think it very dull?"

"No, not at all.  It was as
I had expected—green and lush, fresh, mild, and sunny.  I came across many
grassy paths that seemed inviting, saw wild flowers to pluck and smell, and big
shady trees to loll under."  He paused, frowning.  "I heard birds chirping
all the time but I did not see too many people walking about."

She remarked with a laugh,
"In other words, it was tranquil and dull."

"Well, perhaps," he
conceded.  "But it is a charming place and there is beauty in that
tranquility that cannot but draw you in.  I can see why you were so attached to
the place."

"And I still am although
coming to Milton did change what I thought of Helstone.  I was happy there, in
a certain fashion, I suppose.  But I have found happiness here as well, more
deeply felt, certainly, more satisfying."

It was his turn to smile broadly,
and to tease her.  "Then you will stay?"

She nodded, smiled beguilingly,
and answered flippantly, "Do I really have a choice after my shameless
behavior at the train station?"  Then, she continued more seriously. 
"Helstone is not a perfect place although I did use to think it the best
place on earth.  I will always be very fond of it because I spent some of my
happiest days there.  I went back once after returning to London and realized
that I could not go back to the way it was when I lived there.  I clearly saw
during that visit that the seductive simplicity of life in Helstone also has a
downside.  I found it a problem that so many people there think only in terms
of black and white or are happy to be ignorant and to keep those around them
so."

"Those are not light
indictments.  And was it really living in Milton that brought on this change in
how you see Helstone?"

"Life here is harsher, more
complicated and requires more out of you.  But such is life, I suppose.  If you
can live here and thrive, would that not be a greater accomplishment than
thriving in a place like Helstone?  Would you not be stronger in spirit?"

"You do need to make many
comprises to live here and that is a complicated matter.  Dealing with workers'
strikes proves that every time.  But this city and all others like it also
attract countless vultures and opportunists interested only in becoming rich
and staying that way, no matter the costs.  To them, life is also just black
and white."

"I am aware that I should
not think of this place as having the virtues Helstone does not.  And Milton
lacks the beauty and serenity that can soothe tired and wounded spirits."

He grinned, teasing her once
more.  "You have me."

"Yes.  I have you." 
She smiled radiantly, her eyes misty and shining as she nestled back in his
arms.

John lay awake remembering that
evening, a delicious tingle coursing through his whole being.  He could still
feel Margaret in his arms, her hands warm on his cheeks, her mouth velvety and
moist against his, and he could hear her voice tremulous with emotion.  Every
moment they had been together only convinced him more of Margaret's feelings
for him and of how her love was, indeed, thoroughly his.  He had needed that
reassurance after nearly two years of uncertainty and hopelessness.  This
evening, he had also seen not only how strong her sentiments were but also that
Margaret was not one to hold back on them.  He caught his breath as he
recollected how ardently she responded to his kisses, if only for a few
moments.  He knew that she would love faithfully, tenderly, deeply but he never
imagined her expressing her feelings passionately.

He got up and paced his room for
some minutes, as he had done only a few nights ago when, in contrast to
tonight, he had been despondent.  This evening, he was restless with
anticipation.  He and Margaret must visit Nicholas Higgins, he thought.  He, at
least, owed Higgins gratitude for having told him about her brother, a
revelation that helped break down all the barriers he had imposed on himself
and kept him away from Margaret.

While John had his own reasons
for going to see Higgins, he could only guess the extent of Margaret's
acquaintance with him.  He knew of her friendship with Higgins's hapless older
daughter who had died from a disease common among children working in cotton
mills and he understood that the relationship had been close.  He recalled the
day he first proposed to Margaret and the sorrow he saw in her eyes when she
told him that her friend Bessy was dying.  Bitterly stung just moments before
by Margaret's disclosure that she never liked him, he was incapable of seeing,
much less of sympathizing with her grief.  Instead, angry and hurt, he had
retorted with insolence that, of course, she blamed him as well for her
friend's plight.  And yet, even in his bitterness at her blunt rejection, he
could not resent her, much less hate her.

He thought that her rejection
should have cooled his passion but it had not and, if anything, he came away
from that encounter loving her more.  It was only later—after the many times he
reflected on his unfortunate proposal—that  he understood that she reacted
precisely as her mind and heart dictated.  He had expected her to accept and be
grateful for his proposal.  His mother had convinced him of it, certain that
Margaret had bared her feelings to everyone when she intervened to protect him
from the rioters.  Any young woman, who would show her feelings in such a
manner, knew that she was risking her reputation; at the same time, however,
she was most likely calculating that the risk was worth the proposal that was
certain to follow, if the man were honorable.

But Margaret was not like most
other young women and her independence of mind demanded that she be regarded
and accepted not on society's terms but on her own.  She made it clear that her
actions at the riot had been misconstrued and she would have done what she did
for any man.  The assumption that her reputation needed rescuing and the notion
that she would accept a proposal just because it came from a rich man offended
her deeply.  Margaret was not one to be swayed by what society thought
desirable or advantageous for her.  How, then, could he help loving her
more—she who would marry only for love?  The idea of being loved by such a
woman as Margaret excited him and held the promise of happiness he had yet to
know.

John winced at the recollection
of how she asserted that she did not like him.  Yet, now that the wondrous
unfolding of a life with her lay before him, it was only natural that he would
excuse her in his mind as he never before had done.  He had long admitted to
himself that, concerned only about his own feelings, he had addressed her
rather insolently when he first proposed.  But she did not really know him at
the time, a fact she had since admitted even to his mother.  His deep love for
her had been as alien in her experience as it had been new for him.  She had
not understood that he wanted to marry her for no other reason than that he
loved her.  Again, he believed himself at fault.  In his inexperience
addressing the woman he felt he could not live without, he had been awkward
and, worse, he had been arrogant and disdainful.

The three years since they first
met had wrought changes in both of them, changes prompted by losses that, for
Margaret, were unfortunate and permanent.  He was luckier; his loss proved
temporary.  For him, the biggest change, in fact, involved the arrival of
Margaret into his life.  Though she brought him torment at first, now that she
was back in his life to stay, he tingled all over again imagining the days to
come and the moments of bliss that he had had a glimpse of that very evening. 
Perhaps, those three years had not been for naught.  He and Margaret had both
emerged from them in a way that could only make their togetherness sweeter,
more precious.

**************

On her third day at the Thornton
house, John asked Margaret when they were alone at breakfast whether she would
like to visit Nicholas Higgins and his family in the Princeton district. 
Margaret readily agreed, eager to renew her friendship with Nicholas Higgins
and his daughter Mary and anxious to know how the Boucher children were doing. 
After the children's parents died, she had taken greater pains to help them,
bringing food more often and spending time to teach them how to read.  It
gratified her that six-year old Thomas had taken the lessons seriously, reading
everything in sight and devoting hours to the books she gave him.

John and Margaret went in the
afternoon on their way to the park.  They brought a big basket of bread,
cheese, meats and fruit for the children and remembering the desolate poverty
he had seen when he first visited Nicholas to offer him a job, John requested
Williams to order loaves of bread and cheese to give to families of his former
workers who lived in the area.  Mrs. Thornton disapproved of what she thought
was her son's misguided generosity, without a doubt, influenced by Margaret. 
But on being told about it, she merely gritted her teeth and walled away
without a word.  Margaret privately rejoiced at John's act of kindness.  Many
times while Mrs. Hale was ill, she had been a recipient of that kindness when
John had sent her baskets of the freshest fruit that Milton offered.

The walk that John had taken
through the district the day he offered Nicholas Higgins work had shown him
something he had not dared look closely at before.  He saw what Margaret
saw—the hunger, the quiet despair written even on the faces of children who, at
least, did not yet recoil from a little act of kindness nor withdraw, hopeless
and resentful, as the adults had.  It was the faces of the children that he
would always remember from that visit, not only of those on the street but also
those of Boucher's children.  He began to appreciate what he had initially
thought of as Margaret's misplaced charity.  Still, he disagreed with her
reasoning.  The charity was not a question of logic, as she claimed, but better
yet, of humanity.  Could she, perhaps, have appealed to logic because she might
have thought that he would not have responded to an argument for the necessity
of being humane?  Once again, he resolved to show her that his views about
those less fortunate than him had indeed undergone and was still undergoing a
change.

**************

Nicholas opened the door at their
knock and when he saw Margaret and John, his mouth fell open and his eyes grew
bright and moist.  For a few moments, he stared speechless at them—happier,
more at peace than he had ever seen them and now smiling warmly at him.  Mary,
who had stopped what she was doing when she heard the knock, ran towards the
door when she saw Margaret and almost collided into her.  Margaret held out her
arms to prevent Mary from falling before embracing her fondly.  "You look
well Mary."

Mary put her arms around Margaret
and cried, "Oh, miss………!"  Mary, who had never been one for words,
could not say anymore and she turned away, placing her hands on her face, ashamed
of how she reacted.

"Miss Hale, you bring tears
to my eyes!"  Nicholas blurted out finally, a big grin lighting up his
face.  He glanced at John who smiled broadly back at him, "Come in, come
in, master.  Miss Hale, I knew you would never forget a friend," he said
swiftly swiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Margaret reached out and grasped
his hand with both of hers.  She held his hand for a long moment and in that
moment, memories of all that they had been through rushed back to darken her
eyes with sadness.  "It has been sometime, has it not?"

"Yes, but not too
long," he replied, too happy with the unexpected visit to notice her
sadness.  With a slight motion of his head towards John who was then handing
Mary the basket he was carrying, he added, "And I did not believe what
master here said that we will never see you again."