Fate & Circumstance - A North & South Continuation

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - AMIDST SILENCE AND SHADOW

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – AMIDST SILENCE AND SHADOW

It was the silence alone, fraught with uncertainty in the aftermath, that held the power to discountenance him, to tug at his resolve. As lethal as a knife it wielded its power with ruthless precision, seeking to carve through the armour of his steely self-control as though it were but the sheerest cotton and even as he instinctively strove to repel its embrace, he felt it insistently press against him, as impatient as a lover, as suffocating as the omnipresent gloom that lay like a grubby veil over the filthy, cluttered streets that he so blindly peered out upon. 

All around him shadows lingered, harbouring in every corner, as intangible as spectres, heightening the unassailable sense of foreboding that infused the air. The house lay in shrouded stillness, the activity of the servants strangely and inexplicably absent, for he could discern no muffled murmur of voices, no quick footsteps in the corridors or upon the stairs. It was as if the house itself had become but a sepulchre, an empty shell long since abandoned - one in which he alone stood, enveloped by the solitude that was as desolate as it was profound. A lugubrious murkiness bathed every surface, smothering the furniture and furnishings like a dark, sombre stain, its presence seeming to court the shadows and swell their ranks in greater abundance so that they seemed to fuse inexorably as one. An involuntary shiver skittered like a breath of arctic wind along the length of his spine as he peered disconsolately about him, for it was a room where unseen phantoms wove with restless abandon amidst the gloom, dancing to the melancholy strains of uncertainty, roused like drowsy warriors from the somnolence of eternal slumber. In the space of a few short hours it was as if morning had turned inexplicably to dusk, the lamenting turbidity of the skies that bore inclemently down upon the town only seeming to emphasize the dreariness that encompassed him. 

And yet, amidst it all, like a lone and precious flower pushing tentatively through the hard, barren soils of wretchedness, called into glorious prominence by the ardent whim of fancy, it was as though he could feel the very essence of Margaret’s spirit surround him, infusing his very being with its sultry warmth; and for a timeless moment, unmeasured by clock or heartbeat, the honeyed memories of the past few days, so sweet and intoxicating in their allure, swam untainted through his mind - times when he and Margaret had sat together on the sofa, basking in the blissful reality of the other’s feelings and talking with the quiet intimacy of newly united lovers in those hushed hours of the evening when the rest of the house had gone to bed. Only fleetingly did they linger, gentle and unharsh, for all too quickly their image faded, extinguished as if a flame, the creeping chill of his present solicitude seeking to force itself tenaciously upon him once more. 

Returning his gaze to the window, he stared mindlessly down upon the pedestrian scene of the street below, feeling only the interminable soliloquy of the silence as it eddied around him. Never more profoundly had he felt so isolated from the world beyond, as though he himself stood entirely apart from its incessant cacophony. He barely registered them – those countless, nameless people who, with heads bowed low to shield their faces from the burgeoning impact of a sudden down-pouring of rain, hurried swiftly past the vast wooden gates at the far end of the mill-yard which, having been flung wide to permit Doctor Donaldson’s cab earlier, now yawned like a huge, gaping mouth in constant expectation of food. Certainly those faceless masses he looked dispassionately upon could know nothing of his own debilitating wretchedness. Time did not hang suspended for them, poised tremulously between silence and chaos, as it did for him, for only the clock sitting primly upon the dining room mantel attested to time having progressed at all, each moment pulled from him like petals torn from a rose by a fractious wind. 

For almost an hour he had waited, his fear for Margaret’s wellbeing crawling like a slow insidious poison through his blood, seeking to tarnish and corrode the hope to which he so possessively clung and to fuel the voices of unrest that murmured their elegiac prophecies in his mind. It was more than he could tolerably endure. His heart thumped ever harder against his ribs, its stark, tumultuous rhapsody vying with the tempestuous tattoo of the rain which, like the heavy deluge of unchecked tears, began to strike more insistently against the glass. 

If he should lose her…

Dread squeezed like a tight, constricting band about his heart. Surely Fate would not bring her back to him only to tear her from his side forever? And yet…to think of her as she had first appeared to him when he had found her in the street – so unresponsive to his voice and touch, so without awareness - tore at his insides like brutal claws. Never had he felt such an acute sense of terror as he had at the sight of that livid face! Never had he known the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of his own beleaguering helplessness! He had been loathe to leave her even when the doctor had come to attend her, every fibre of his being screaming to remain, to stay where he could watch over her; and yet, for all his determination, propriety had proved too strong an adversary as he had found himself with little choice but to yield unwillingly to its strident call and bow submissively to his mother’s own continual urgings for him to quit the room.

Minute flowed seamlessly into minute. 

Past tumbled into present and present into future, each instant marked by the silent hands of the dining room clock.

He drew in his breath, impatience prickling with increasing persistence. Above him the ever-present pall of cloud and smoke loomed above Milton in an indifferent marriage of black and grey, the rain beating now with all the querulous tempestuousness of a fish-wife in mid-harangue. Reaching impulsively into his waistcoat pocket to take out his watch, his narrowed gaze lowered to survey its familiar round face, seeking confirmation of he knew not what. A grimace stole like a dark cloud across his features as disquiet, as onerous as a cloak of lead, threw itself around him, its weight upon his shoulders almost tangible. For all his self-restraint, so forcefully imposed, he felt his inherent control begin to trickle from him, draining slowly away like water evaporating in a desert. Dear God! How much longer was he to wait? If only he could go to her now! If only he could see for himself that she still breathed the same air as he! 

He pushed the watch back with unceremonious deftness and began to pace about the room, able to remain still no longer. Never had he felt so impotent! So bereft of purpose! He hardly knew what to do with himself - how to act to alleviate the seething maelstrom that erupted forth, breaking loose from its tethers, to swirl frenetically within him. Back and forth he moved, restive of limb, aimless of purpose, feverishly attempting to seek relief in simply moving his feet, the muffled soliloquy of his footsteps beating against the rug, drumming out their monotonous tattoo, his hands agitating with an almost zealous restiveness at his sides as if wringing at the unseen fetters of etiquette that bound him so steadfastly to the room. Every fibre of his being sought to fight against those bindings, clamouring for liberty, to follow blindly the alluring call of his impetuous heart. Yet the voice of rationality, summoned instinctively by the very force of his indelible will, was stronger. Like a lone cavalier in the darkness it called for reason, for patience, above the raffish cry of recklessness, holding his feet to the floor as solidly as if they had been encased in lead. 

It was the brief, decisive knock upon the drawing room door that pulled him from his troubled reverie with a brutal jolt. He reacted instinctively, automatically, his intrinsic composure, although severely compromised by the force of his strong emotions, rising up like a glittering flame from the embers as he shifted his attention sharply towards the doorway. His searching regard came immediately to rest upon Doctor Donaldson standing there, his medical bag clasped in one hand, the respectful look that he bestowed upon John lifting some of the solemnity from his whiskered face. 

“Doctor Donaldson,” John began, asserting himself, the old habits of faultless courtesy prevailing. He took several steps across the rug and halted abruptly, ruthlessly stemming the almost overpowering impulse to demand in that very instant what Margaret’s condition was. Recovering himself quickly, he instead extended his arm to bid the older man into the room, an impregnable curtain falling across his eyes and swathing from sight the melancholy shadows that tarried within their pellucid depths. 

He stood tall, his proud shoulders squared, his very demeanour portraying to the doctor a coolness of manner that rigorously concealed the tumult that bubbled beneath the surface and which threatened, at any moment, to destroy the feigned mask of imperturbability into which he meticulously schooled his features. At such a time he knew that he could not allow himself to weaken, to fall prey to those tormenting voices that whispered like mournful harbingers in his mind. “You have come to speak to me about Miss Hale?” 

“I have,” Doctor Donaldson concurred with a brief, solicitous nod. At John’s invitation he came more fully into the drawing-room, pausing briefly just inside the doorway to place his bag upon the floor, his long thin body bending like a reed as he did so. As he straightened himself to continue the interview his voice grew earnest, flecked with a respectful familiarity. “You will, I hope, forgive my intrusion upon you, Mr Thornton, but in the light of the recent and more intimate connection that now exists between yourself and Miss Hale, I thought that you would wish to know of her condition as soon as may be.“

John inclined his head in tacit affirmation, although as he opened his mouth to speak his propensity to remain phlegmatic took flight with the exuberance of a migrating bird in search of warmer shores, launching into the taut ambience of the room upon the febrile wings of a deep-rooted desire that begged only to be once more by Margaret’s side. “May I go to her now? Can I sit with her?” 

At his request Doctor Donaldson solemnly shook his head, regret quickly imbuing his ageing countenance. “I’m afraid that that is not possible, Mr Thornton,” he stated, his tone tinged with infinite regret. “Your mother will be down shortly, although at the moment is currently calling for one of the servants to assist Dixon in making Miss Hale more comfortable. However, when that has been done, I have been asked to assure you that Dixon will send word to you.” 

John inclined his head, his regard lowering briefly from the doctor’s as he felt the jagged blade of disappointment shear through him. Almost imperceptibly his broad shoulders dropped, his whole body seeming to buckle. With an effort he held himself firm, resolute, pausing but subliminally before seeking to find his voice to speak. “Of course,” he responded in reluctant resignation. As he met the doctor’s benevolent eyes his own were bleak and shadowed. “How is she?” 

“Miss Hale’s ordeal has left her very weak as I am sure you must be aware,” Doctor Donaldson replied, his matter of fact tone laced with sympathy. “Indeed, when she regained consciousness a short while after I came to attend her, it was for very little duration and clouded by confusion, although she is sleeping peacefully now.”

“I see.” John answered soberly. “I had hoped…” He curtailed the thought abruptly. How could he speak of what he felt? How could he voice to the doctor his own sense of inadequacy and powerlessness in being unable to be of use to the woman he loved? 

“She may continue to sleep for a while yet,” Doctor Donaldson went on, as if entirely oblivious to John’s preoccupations. “I have given her some laudanum which should help ease the pain caused by the bruising to her head, although I must say that it is indeed a miracle that she did not cut her head open when she fell.”

“She will recover though?” John questioned distractedly, hardly hearing the doctor’s words above the clamouring of his own discordant thoughts. His intense gaze searched the doctor’s face intently. All that mattered to him was that Margaret would be well again. Fate could throw at him what it liked if only she would recover. “She will be all right?” 

“It is my hope that she will be,” Doctor Donaldson replied. “From my examination of her it appears that she has suffered no broken bones. She has, however, as you already know, sustained a bump to her head as well as a few other residual cuts and bruises.”

John regarded him steadily, his heart seeming to swim up into his throat in breathless anticipation. Yet only impassivity carved itself across his features, holding them stern and intractable. “Then the situation is not as serious as might have been first assumed?” 

“That indeed appears to be the case at the moment, yes,” the doctor responded, although with a degree of reservation. “It is, however, the extent of the injury to the brain that is most difficult to diagnose.”

John felt his heartbeat stutter, its rhythm growing erratic as he perceived the profundity in the doctor’s tone. “What are you saying?” A deep frown furrowed his brow, his quizzing blue eyes burning with such a compelling amalgam of quiet insistence and fierce ready passion that the doctor found himself obliged to look away to escape their sheer intensity.

“When I examined Miss Hale, her symptoms did not seem unusual for one who has suffered such a trauma. She was a little disorientated upon waking, as I have said, but that is not in itself unusual in the circumstances and should ease as she becomes more cognizant. I am, as I say, hopeful of her complete recovery, but I am afraid, as in all cases such as this, that I cannot tell you conclusively whether she will suffer any more serious complications as a result of the fall. She is peaceful at the moment and shows no sign of deterioration, although I have asked your mother to ensure that she is not left alone - certainly not for the remainder of the day and evening and that any change in her condition should be reported to me at once.” 

“And if her condition does worsen?” he questioned, pushing the words, so heinous to his mind, from his lips. 

“It is difficult to say.” 

“Could she die?” 

“Mr Thornton, I do not think that you should be –,” Doctor Donaldson began.

“Doctor Donaldson, please,” John interrupted, his heart pulsing more swiftly as his voice rose sharply and decisively above the doctor’s, his tone bristling with a curt impatience that he had not entirely intended. He drew in a long breath in an attempt to bring his errant emotions under greater regulation, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he endeavoured to retain his equilibrium. “I must know.”

For a long moment Doctor Donaldson said nothing. Certainly he did not wish to cause further unnecessary concern, although his steadfast respect for the younger man who stood so gravely before him propelled him into speech, stating plainly and simply what John himself already knew. “As with all injuries of this nature, it is a possibility, yes,” he stated bluntly. 

The candidness of the doctor’s response fell like a smothering mantle over the room, bringing with it a peculiar feeling of absolute and immediate devastation. The words lingered upon the air, settling like gelid invisible fingers around John’s neck like a noose. He felt himself inhale quickly, breathing deeply and consciously to draw the air into his lungs. For a timeless eternity only the sound of the rain rapping like unrelenting fists upon the window could be heard before, as if to join the doleful chorus, from the rooms below, calling out the pinnacle of the hour, the sullen chime of a grandfather clock echoed like a death knell, its strangely hollow and cacophonous announcement causing the air to quiver like the agitated feathers of a bird.

Carried inexorably upon the tide of those mournful chimes John moved towards the fireplace, barely conscious of his own actions in doing so, his feet, erstwhile adhered to the floor, impelling him across the room in a few short strides. Dear God! If he lost her now…He shook his head firmly against the thought, denying the whispers that murmured on the fringes of his conscience. The shadows pressed closer as the fragile mask of implacability tore from his face to expose the raw, flagrant grief that churned beneath. Impulsively he reached out and grasped the mantelpiece with both hands, gripping it like a lifeline in a desperate attempt to master some measure of control over his emotions, his fingers moulding tenaciously to the smooth solid contours. Margaret! His heart cried out her name, shredding at his every nerve. His pulse hammered hard and fast. Around him the room began to recede and blur, narrowing down solely to the spot upon which he stood; and even though he did not move, he felt his heart shatter like glass, the euphoric happiness upon whose rapturous wings he had been soaring for the past few days strewing at his feet like the abandoned skeins of cotton that littered the cold stone floor of his deserted mill. 

“I must tell you, Mr Thornton, that the possibility of Miss Hale’s condition deteriorating to such an extent is but a slight one,” Doctor Donaldson said, seeking to instil optimism where the fallow pastures of pessimism had been allowed, somewhat needlessly, to prevail. “She is young and strong and as I have said, her symptoms are not at the moment unusual for one who has suffered a fall of this kind. You should not think the worst.”

As the doctor’s words penetrated his thoughts John nodded, the gesture barely perceptible. He could only pray that the doctor was correct in his diagnosis, that his optimism for her recovery was well-placed. He had to have faith in that, for without it he would be lost. “What can I do? What must be done to help her?” he asked, his voice breaching the air in a hoarse whisper, his dark head rising sharply in surly defiance against the compelling undertow of foreboding that sought to overwhelm him so completely. 

“I am afraid that there is little that can be done but to wait and see what the next few hours bring,” Doctor Donaldson replied. “She may sleep for a while so I would suggest that she is disturbed by the comings and goings of servants as little as possible. Indeed, it is imperative that she rests so that she may regain her strength. To that end, I have advised your mother to ensure that Miss Hale keeps to her bed for a few days. After that - and as long as Miss Hale herself feels well enough and able to do so without becoming too much fatigued - there is no reason why she cannot begin to venture beyond the confines of her bedchamber.”

John’s hands loosened their steadfast hold upon the mantelpiece and dropped to his sides. He turned, his attention coming to rest upon Doctor Donaldson who stood sedately before him. “You may be assured that we shall do all that we can to ensure that Miss Hale is kept comfortable.” 

“I am sure that you will,” Doctor Donaldson said, an acquiescent smile gracing his thin lips. “Indeed, it assures me greatly that Miss Hale is in such capable hands.” He pulled out his watch then to glance down at the time before replacing it. “You must forgive me, but I must leave you now to attend another call. However, if Miss Hale’s condition does appear to worsen – particularly if she should become feverish or starts to convulse – you must send for me immediately. I will leave the address where I shall be with one of your servants, although I will return later to check upon her further.”

“Thank you,” John said, moving forward and extending his right hand to shake the doctor’s. “I am very grateful to you.”

“I am glad to be of service to you, Mr Thornton,” Doctor Donaldson replied, moving to return to the spot where his bag sat waiting to be reclaimed. Then, quite suddenly, he turned back to John, coming to stand once again in front of him. “If I may say, Mr Thornton, Miss Hale has always struck me - most particularly during my dealings with her at the time of her mother’s last illness – as being possessed of more fortitude and vigour than many a young woman of her age. It is that strength which – I am quite certain - will see her through this ordeal.” He met John’s pensive regard, his thin fingers reaching up to rest upon John’s shoulder with benevolent compassion. “She will be your wife yet, Mr Thornton,” he said with an air of sagaciousness. “I am sure of it.” 

“I am counting on it,” John responded, the simple truth of his feelings weaving through every word. Oh! How fervently he wished it!

Doctor Donaldson inclined his head in understanding and then, without another word, stepped away, bestowing upon John a brief departing nod before going to retrieve his medical bag and taking his leave of the room. 

***

The sibilant swish of his mother’s gown as she came into the drawing room not ten minutes after Doctor Donaldson’s departure alerted John to her presence even before she spoke. He did not, however, turn immediately to acknowledge her but instead remained exactly as he was, positioned like a swarthy statue before the fire, his unmoving body numb to its heat, his dark head dipped forward in jaded introspection, his half-lowered lids revealing little of the eyes that were fixed unblinkingly upon the bright orange flames that bobbed playfully about the charred coals. He could not see her face, but instinctively he was aware of her concerned and protracted regard as it came to rest unwaveringly upon him. 

“John?”

The hush encircling him broke immediately as his mother’s voice, inevitably questioning, indubitably strained, bridged the short distance between them. The fire, as if roused into animation by the sound of her voice, hissed as if in answer, a profusion of glowing, incandescent sparks issuing in abandonment, the brilliance of their evanescent birth swiftly fading as the transient fanfare vanished as quickly as it had begun. It had the effect too of stirring him from his own prolonged state of inertia. Shaking off the stony stillness that had hereintobefore inhabited him, he pulled himself up to his full and imposing height, his back straightening inflexibly, fuelled still by the tension that had not yet entirely dissipated from his body following his interview with the doctor. 

“Doctor Donaldson came to speak to you about Margaret?” His mother’s keen assessing eyes, seemingly cleansed of their hard edge of habitual austerity, met his with a look of questing expectation, the lines of worry scoring deeper into her skin as her anxious gaze travelled in quiet assessment over his harrowed face. 

“He did,” John replied. “He has gone to make another call, but will return later.”

She folded her arms stiffly before her as she came to stand closer to him, her skirts murmuring like an entourage of ghostly voices about her feet. “He is very attentive,” she commented blandly.

“Yes.” He inclined his head as he glanced back towards the fire, lost briefly in the squally labyrinth of his thoughts. “I am glad of it too.”

She nodded. The silence rose like an irrefutable barrier between them, eliciting an awkwardness that seemed to pervade from every corner, infusing them both with an uncertainty that knew not how to begin. Even in the unwieldy quietude of the capacious room he heard the plangent call of the tempest. He knew not what to say, the words that he longed to speak stilling obdurately in his throat. 

Can I go to her…?

Can I see her…?

Oblivious to the tacit cry of his soul, his mother said nothing. She offered no blessed relief to his heartfelt plea. Presently, her arms still folded before her, she moved away from him, taking a few short steps into the centre of the room. Despite her staunchly held poise, however, he discerned a fierce rigidity in her demeanour that he had not noticed before - as though she too were fighting her own personal battle against some strong undefined and unspoken emotion. As he watched her staid progress he found himself almost pre-emptively expecting her to cross directly to her preferred armchair close to the fire, but instead of doing as he had thought she made her way towards the same window before which he had himself not long ago stood, her expression inscrutable as she peered indifferently through the mottled glass onto the dismal scene beyond. 

“When will you send Dixon to London?” Her enquiry was laconic, straightforward, not unexpected. 

He sighed heavily. “I believe that it is better that Dixon remain here in Milton with Margaret,” he told her, giving voice to the decision which, in spite of his earlier concordance with her in the immediate aftermath of the accident, had begun to solidify more fully in his mind over the course of the morning. Amid the turmoil of the storm that had raged through him in his lonely hour of solitude he had come to realise what needed to be done to ensure that Margaret’s needs were met in the fullest and most expedient way. To be sure, to keep Dixon in Milton with Margaret was the most natural decision - in spite of his mother’s own assertion to tend to Margaret herself - and he knew absolutely that he would abide by that reasoning. 

His mother, unsurprisingly, found his voite-face utterly incomprehensible. “Surely, John, you will reconsider?” she gasped in indignant dismay, her dissonant voice raising an octave higher as her usually unfaltering composure deserted her for a transitory instant. “After all, what else would you have done? Margaret’s family must be told of what has happened! They will be expecting her in London!”

“And so they will be told,” he responded with an infinite calmness that contrasted sharply with her own more jarring tones. “I will send a letter to Mrs Shaw to inform her of Margaret’s accident. She will not be left wondering what has become of her.” He abandoned his position before the fire and began to walk about, thinking broodingly of Margaret who lay sleeping upstairs and of the missive that must be sent to her relations to allay their concerns that she had come to harm on the journey but instead had fallen whilst still in Milton itself. 

“But Dixon is known by the family!” his mother went on, her disquiet blatant. “She will be able to give Margaret’s relatives far more comfort than any note that might be sent! For heaven’s sake, John! I thought that you were of the opinion that Dixon should go?”

He had expected to meet with some resistance to his announcement, although it was only through sheer force of will that he managed to maintain his meticulously controlled poise in the face of it. “Dixon is to remain here in Milton while Margaret recovers,” he reiterated succinctly. Wearily he glanced down at the rug, pinching the skin between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, longing to be done with the subject and to return to Margaret’s bedside where he could watch over her while she slept. If only word would come from Dixon that he might go to her! With some effort he focussed his mind upon the present situation and the pacification of his mother who stood so wholly perturbed before him. “You know as well as I, Mother, that she is known and trusted by Margaret and in the absence of her aunt and cousin, is the closest to a family member that Margaret has.”

“That may be so, but -” his mother began, the dissonant words dying in her throat as he thrust one hand out, his fingers scything the air like a knife through paper, to halt her intended diatribe.

“As Margaret’s maid, Dixon will expect to remain with her,” he said, stating his case clearly and concisely, the gravity of his convictions glowing lucidly within his cobalt eyes. “Also, considering Dixon’s long service with the family, I am certain that Margaret would expect it too.”

His mother’s lips pursed as she turned half away from him, although he heard her audible humph of vexation. “Who knows how these London relatives will react if they read such a thing in a letter!” she murmured. “And have I not already told you that I will tend Margaret myself while Dixon is gone?” 

“I know that you have, Mother, and I am grateful to you for offering to do so, but my mind is made up. I have made my decision,” John said, resolutely repelling those tiny arrows that strove to penetrate the impregnable fortress of his unswerving resolve, the very timbre of his voice liberally laced with a sharp, unshakable cogency that warned that he would remain utterly undeterred upon the matter. Yet he saw too the impact of his brusque manner upon his mother. The flash of hurt that stole across her countenance as she looked towards him was swift but unmistakable and he bowed his head, suddenly ashamed of having subjected her to the unguarded belligerence of his response. “I am sorry. You must forgive me, Mother,” he said, his tone dropping contritely to a softer cadence as his left hand rose to knead the skin of his forehead in a bid to ease the tension centred there. “I am not quite myself today.”

“I understand, John,” she said, her posture relaxing a little as she relented in her argument at last. 

They did not speak for a long time, the easy companionship they had always shared falling prey to the ambiguity that governed the situation in which they now found themselves immersed. He perceived his mother’s taciturnity but did not attempt to draw her from it. He walked to the sofa and paused, one hand reaching down to grip its back, the pressure his very hold exerted causing his knuckles to jut like rigid white rocks from the smooth landscape of his hand. He glanced abstractly towards the rain-mottled window. He could still hear the melancholy requiem of the rain as it sluiced down from the pewter skies above. To be sure, it was the only sound to be heard at all. 

Only when the sullenness of the quietude began to nag relentlessly at his nerves and he found himself unable to bear it any longer did he take a conciliatory step towards his mother, seeking to find a way to return to the familiar openness they had once shared, his voice fragmenting the stillness like an animal calling out through the drowsy mantle of night. 

“Doctor Donaldson said that Margaret woke briefly while he was attending her.” 

“Yes,” his mother intoned as her regard drew level with his, her grim countenance twisting as though in discomfort of the memory. “Although she was quite insensible for much of the time.”