Shadow in the North

Chapter Thirty-One - The Mother, the Father and the Doctor

'Miss Darrow,' said Mrs Thornton, glaring at that discomposed young lady before her. It was patently obvious that she had been crying, and never having seen such an outward display of emotion in the girl, Mrs Thornton was momentarily perturbed, but then she called to mind the angry, echoing steps of her son, and her hesitancy vanished in an instant. The eyes sharpened and the lip curled. Let her cry, said Mrs Thornton to herself. Let her feel the loss of him; she'll find no truer heart, nor a stronger man.

Isabel looked up at the sound of that cold, accusing voice, and blinked furiously as she bid her few remaining tears to disperse. She cursed herself for letting the matriarch see her weakness, and in defiance of her tears, drew herself up to her full height, and although she was small and Mrs Thornton was a tall and sturdy woman, there was something in the rigidity of her posture, in the unrelenting gall of the eyes, and the subtle widening of her stance, that impressed upon Mrs Thornton, the magnitude of her opponent.

'Mrs Thornton,' said Isabel, with heavy expectation. She gave the older woman such a look, and spoke in such a tone, as to make Mrs Thornton feel as though her very presence was an impertinent inconvenience to the young girl.

'You have been speaking with my son. I know not what has passed between you – he would not talk ill of a lady, for he is a gentleman – but I know with absolute certainty, that you have wounded him, once again. No doubt it is this new southern doctor. You have a penchant for him, perhaps? I can only say that I hope you shall go with him when he returns to Oxford, or that dreary southern Kent! I thought it ill-advised for my son to have you here at this infirmary. I could see you had designs on him. You sought to catch him once, Miss Darrow, and then you cast him off. But that was not enough for you! You had to come here, pushing yourself before him, seeking his attentions once again, and now this southern doctor comes and my son is all forgot!'

'I don't know what you speak of. Southern Doctor! I met a gentleman last evening, and sat in his company – in a room full of others – below one hour. We barely spoke to one another, Mrs Thornton. I know not what Mr Thornton has said or done, to lead you to form such a foolish conclusion, but you are entirely mistaken.'

'My son has said nothing! He has pride, my son. No, I speak to you as a woman who knows what you are about, and I say to you; I want you gone! I had thought you too wilful, too intractable to make him a good wife. I was against his ever offering for you, and was glad when you rejected him – though I hated for you hurting him. Now you toy with his affections like a cat with a mouse, and you cast him off again. You are implacable in your mischief and certainly no lady!'

The stern, dark figure of Mrs Thornton stood proud, towering over Isabel, scowling her reproach, and Isabel – although affronted, although indignant in the face of such callous accusations – felt she could form no defence, for she had rejected Mr Thornton; had then allowed him to kiss her, only to push him away with her hurtful admission. Despite his cruel reproof – despite the cut which sliced through her, at hearing that dishonourable word, flung at her as a weapon of censure – she knew he could not think well of her, and she could not blame him for it. Isabel felt, stood in that infirmary – Mrs Thornton's nostrils flaring with displeasure – that she deserved the haughty sentiment of the matriarch, despite the faulty logic on which the older woman's disregard was formed.

Yet Mr Bell – who had taken himself into that smaller back room to bathe his face of all trace of his erupted emotions, in revealing himself to be Isabel's father – heard the accusations of the mother, and casting off his surprise at learning Mr Thornton had proposed and been rejected, he could not allow his daughter to be castigated in such a fashion. Stepping out from that back room, he presented himself to Mrs Thornton with that affable smile he so often wore, but the smile was forced and scornful; the eyes lit with the anticipated pleasure of his playing with words, at the proud mother's expense.