A New Beginning

You Are Not Your Mistakes

A fleeting confusion is before long superseded by realization, though it takes another breath for recognition to dawn. His lips set into a grim line. Understanding comes before acceptance, from which arouses mingled affront and alarm as his mind revisits every entry his memory can recall. A minute nod and diversion of gaze is his only response.

"I'm sorry, I–"

The scent of leather fills your nose, the consequence of uninterrupted idle fidgeting the cover. Your heart is hammering, your cheeks are ablaze, and you barely dare to look at him. His guise is now vacant of consequence or sentiment, though his eyes speak of unease and rightfully so.

Upon perusing his journal, the prospect of being caught had seemed like the happiest of moments, as it would augur he was no longer dying but alas, what had then been the easiest thing in the world to justify is now impossible to defend and the torturous silence makes it all the more worse. For all your vindications and rationale, reading someone else's memoirs and musings without their knowledge or consent is a huge invasion of privacy and, though he most certainly has his share of misdeeds under his belt, his offences does in no way pardon yours.

"You were sick, Arthur. Real sick! I needed answers – to have my doubts removed, while you were still... alive."

The last word is barely a whisper.

"I understand."

His voice is harsh and low, even for him, and though mortification has given way for deflation and his tone is free of blame, the tinge of affront remains and he is still averting your eye.

While you have no doubt of the sincerity of his words, his tone is for want of the repose and mellowness denoting nonchalance and you can only pray that this offense is an infringement of confidentiality, of which his pride can pardon.

You sit down next to him and hand him his journal. He accepts.

"How much you read?"

Your hesitance is all the answer he needs. He brushes his thumb over the edge of the pages.

"You got them answers you needed?"

"I read your entries about Mary," you admit, evading his question and yet, the choice of subject is answer in itself. To even bring up her name, one that you know is affixed to an array of adverse emotions has guilt stabbing at your heart but the need to know weighs stronger. "You also said her name during your fever," you add, as if that alone can exonerate you. "Quite a few times too."

Arthur's attention remains on the leather-bound manuscript in his hand. You can only imagine how his mind boggles. You expect him to at any moment start pacing the floor, leave the hut to be alone with his musings, or to insist on taking you right back to your family this very moment, as had been the plan before. Yet he stays.

He places the journal on the adjacent armchair where you had slept and prepares to engage your prompt with an overtly winded breath. Then he starts talking. His calm voice athwart his agile hands is telltale of agitation of spirit. You sit in quietude, in jealous hurt, and in ache for his shattered heart as he talks about Mary Linton, or Mary Gillis, as had been her name when they were engaged to be married. A, for them, unfortunate combination of antithesis of values, conduct, and temper, the mere circumstance of two souls living at opposite and opposing sides of the path of law and virtue and, conceivably the most profound reason of them all, filial obedience, had resulted in a number of permutations which proved incompatible with a future together as husband and wife.

When he has nothing more to say on the subject, a pressing silence ensues where the jaunty chirping outside is a strange contrast to the gloom inside. You take note of Arthur's recurrent, fleering glances towards the open window. How the outdoors must be tempting him.