Shadow in the North

Chapter Twenty-Seven - In Wont of Occupation

Somewhere between his proposal and the incident at Outwood station, she had given up her belief that he belonged with Margaret, and perhaps naively - certainly selfishly - she had allowed herself to think that Margaret and Mr Thornton simply would not be. That he loved her - Isabel - and therefore could not - would not - love Margaret. And she had reasoned that Margaret - knowing of her regard for Mr Thornton, and suspecting that the gentleman returned it - would certainly never allow herself to form an attachment to a man so openly admired by her companion. Indeed, the case had looked to Isabel quite hopeless; Gaskell had written well, but her tale could not withstand the presence of another, and Isabel was another! She was in Milton - how, she did not know! - but in Milton she was and would remain.

She had now her own character and storyline. She felt she really ought to take up her part and let the writer lead her where she will. But just as she had been on the precipice of such a resolve, Gaskell's characters had intervened; there were Frederick and Leonards - that dreadful Outwood station - madness to have ever gone there - for either young lady! Why a writer would torment their characters in such a way! Then came the lies - they had to come - and with the lies came the rebuke, and although Mr Thornton appeared to have forgiven her - to have understood the lies of both she and Margaret - he had turned from her, wishing upon them the stale, passionless regard of "friendship", and left her without even the handshake of said friend.

Now she was caught up in the Crampton house - alone (for the Hales were about their plight in Princeton) and where once she had delighted in the thought of walking into the Marlborough Mills infirmary and tending to her first patient, now she feared an indifferent greeting from the son - nothing more than a volunteer, whose work he considered the kind of charity which was so despised by all men northern - and an openly hostile greeting from the mother. Oh, the mother! Isabel grimaced, clenching her fists. She could go anywhere; face all kinds of danger, and do it quite willingly with only a little fear, but place before her the indifference of the man she loved, and the staunch dislike of his mother, and she veritably trembled. This is madness! scolded Isabel of herself, laughing cruelly at her own weakness. I've never been one to quail over a cold look or harsh word! And determining this to be so, she took herself out to bask in the freshest air that Milton had to offer.

She had no destination in mind, and walked with no purpose other than to work off her nervous energy, and so it was only a matter of time until her aimless wanderings brought her into the mill district - one of the few areas she knew - and there, after passing a myriad of faces lingering about mill yards - some worn down through vigorous exertion, others gaunt and half-starved as they queued in hope of work - she came upon Nicholas Higgins.

He too - like those thin, wretched creatures with grim mouths and pained faces - looked for work, but he held himself differently, proud man as he was. He did not slouch, and although his clothes were in need of patching, he had not that slatternly air that so tainted those hopeless others. There was - to Isabel - something in his very posture which avowed his defiance of his circumstances. He needed work and would take anything that was honest, but he was not so desperate as to go against his principles and break with the union. Nor was he of that injured, suffering kind, who have only pity for themselves, and think life to owe them a living. He would not stand mute in line, hoping for a fellow brother to fall ill so that he might take his place. He had about his bearing a ferocity which said, "I know I am a steady hand and worth my wages; now take me if you will and pay me fair, and I'll play fair by you, but I'll have my wits about me."

'Nicholas!' called Isabel, hurrying to match his purposeful gait. He looked round, surprised to hear the call of his man in that soft, southern dialect, for surely only a working Milton lass would call out to him in such a way? But he turned and saw her, and gave a wry smile, for he knew Isabel to be no true lady.