Chapter seven
Soft morning light filtered through the thin curtains, erasing night’s shadows with the innocent glow of hope and newness. The yellowed walls of her childhood room seemed especially warm—as something pure and sacred. She drank in the vision with desperation as the cold reality of yesterday’s awful events surged into her thoughts.
Had it all been a dream? She fervently wished it could be so, but the memory of what had happened after dinner was too vivid, and her swollen eyes reminded her of how hard she had cried last night.
Her father had led her to his study, where she had feared he would ask about Henry. But as the slanted sunbeams of approaching twilight had lingered upon the books on her father’s desk, something much worse had occurred: he had told her he was leaving the Church. And she had stood immobile and mute with shock as the most unimaginable words had tumbled from her father’s lips.
Oh, never would she understand how he could leave the Church he had loved so long! She had felt—at that horrible, dark moment—her entire world collapsing under her feet.
They would be cast out of Paradise in a matter of weeks, just when she had finally come home to enjoy it. There would be no more carefree ramblings through the forest, no rose garden, no cottagers to visit and care for, and no more proudly listening to her father’s sermons in the beloved ancient church.
Her poor father! Her heart was sick to consider his downfall. All his books—those ancient philosophers and questioning minds—had turned him off the straight and narrow way. Oh, how he must have struggled alone in his conflicted meditations! And oh, how she loved him for his honest and fervent search for truth! But she feared for his soul from his lack of faith in the Church, and was terrified that she would be eternally separated from him—her own gentle-hearted father.
She pulled back the curtains to look out at the garden and hills beyond. The sun-dappled scene that had filled her with joy yesterday now brought tides of pain.
As her eyes roved over the vine-covered wall and pear trees, she winced at the once-beautiful portion of the garden, which would now always remind her of that terrible awkwardness in rejecting Mr. Lennox. Her stomach lurched at the memory of his keen disappointment. So intense and all-consuming had been the devastating news of her father’s departure from the Church that Henry’s proposal had sunk into the background of her suffering. Poor Henry! She hoped he would soon come to realize it was for the best.
Life as she had known it had been torn from her in one afternoon.
And as if this were not enough for a girl of her age to bear, another horrible day was set before her. She moaned aloud,wanting nothing more but to pull the covers over her head and stay in bed all morning—to disappear from the world for a day.
But she had promised papa that she would break the terrible news to her mother, a duty her father just could not face. It would be the most odious task she had ever committed herself to.
For her father’s sake, she tugged aside the bedcovers and rose to dress for the day.
After breakfast, Mr. Hale got up from the table and announced that he would be out all day, returning home at seven for dinner. He gave Margaret a furtive, pleading glance, and she gave a weak nod in reply.
Margaret hung her head in despair. She could not bear the weight of this terrible secret for any length of time. What she must do, must be done quickly—before she lost all resolve to carry through on her promise.
“Mamma, why don’t we take a short stroll in the garden? The sun is out just now,” she proposed.
Mrs. Hale fetched her basket to gather flowers, and the two set out.
Walking the familiar paths through the rows of flowers—most of which had faded with the summer—tears came to her eyes as she realized she would not see them bloom again in the spring.
Nature had always been solace and contentment for Margaret. But now, the serenity and beauty of this fading October garden was a piercing pain. She struggled mightily with her silent grief for a few moments while her mother busied herself clipping roses.
“Papa is leaving the Church,” Margaret blurted out at last.
Mrs. Hale’s hands stilled. She turned to give a disapproving look to her daughter. “Of course he isn’t. Why would you say such a thing, dear?”
“Mamma, papa has given notice to the bishop. He cannot in good conscience reaffirm his vows as the new bishop has required of him.”
“Whatever do you mean? There must be a misunderstanding. Who told you this?” She demanded, her brow creased in angry confusion.
“Papa did. Last night in his study…do you recall my going there? I know it is all a terrible shock. It was for me as well. But he asked me to tell you. He could not bear to tell you, mamma.”
Mrs. Hale sat down on the garden bench, her face pale and her eyes vacant as her head drooped.
“But how can this be? He never told me he had doubts.” Her head snapped up suddenly. “Where will we go?” she asked, her eyes alert now with fright as she looked to her daughter for answers.
“To Milton-Northern.”
“Milton-Northern! So far away and with all those smoky factories! What shall we do there?”
“Papa intends to find work as a tutor. Mr. Bell says there are many who may want a tutor.”
“A tutor? Among the factory people? I can’t imagine he shall find enough pupils there.”
