Mr. Thornton carefully surveyed the multitude of men and women bent over humming looms as he strode through the large factory floor. Every position was filled, although not perfectly tended. Nearly all of his workers had returned. Only those that feared retribution for their part in the riot remained at bay.
He was reluctant to admit it, but hiring the Irish had not helped production. Unskilled in factory labor, their work would be better done by more experienced hands. Most of the men and women he had brought to England wished to be returned to their homeland. The only good they had done him, the Master mused with bitter exasperation, was to instigate the riot and bring an end to the strike.
What he really needed to fill the backlog of orders was to ensure that every machine was tended seamlessly by attentive and responsible hands. He could use more experienced workers who knew the labor and intricacies of the various machines and the stages of cotton production from the carding room to the final weaving process. There were few, however, who knew how to manage beyond their own station.
Mr. Thornton continued to contemplate this quandary as he made his early morning round through the mill. Suddenly, he was aware that Mr. Williams was at his side.
“Pardon me, Master, but there’s a gentleman awaiting you in your office,” the overseer related.
Mr. Thornton nodded and immediately turned his steps toward the large doors at the far end of the grand weaving shed, heading for his office in the corridor nearer the quieter carding room. He expected that one of his buyers must have come to inquire about the progress of his order, so many of which were hopelessly behind schedule because of the interminable strike. He was therefore surprised to be greeted by the gray-headed figure of his landlord.
“Thornton!” Mr. Bell exuded as he stood up to greet the Master of the mill.
“Mr. Bell, what may I do for you?” Mr. Thornton asked with a faint crinkle of his brow, wondering what financial information the wealthy man might require.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he assured the diligent businessman. “I was at the Hales yesterday and heard the most intriguing news. I’m told that you have offered for Margaret and that she has accepted you,” he remarked with a degree of incredulity.
“She has,” Mr. Thornton confirmed with a wary apprehension as to the wily Oxford scholar’s intentions.
“I believe I understand the unusual circumstances behind this rather hasty...arrangement, and am quite certain that Mr. Hale is unaware of what you have done. I wish to commend you for safeguarding my goddaughter’s reputation,” he praised the Master.
Mr. Thornton bristled at this insinuation. “I was not moved merely by honor,” he averred in a low voice as he thrust his chin forward with pride.
“No, of course not,” Mr. Bell quickly granted as he regarded the eager lover with a twitch of a smile. “I’ve always thought you were a man of uncommon perception. I believe you appreciate Margaret much as I do. She is an incomparable beauty, but it is her vibrant spirit, her intelligence and deep compassion which make her quite extraordinary,” he appraised as he studied Mr. Thornton’s face for his reaction.
“Yes,” the younger man breathed aloud, rendered almost speechless as he absorbed the animated description of the woman he loved. The Master had long held a great respect for Mr. Bell, although their temperaments and mannerisms could scarcely be more different. At this moment, however, Mr. Thornton felt a bond of kinship with the clever Oxford scholar, as one who shared the discovery of a secret treasure.
Mr. Bell smiled knowingly at the Master. “I believe it is a fair match. Congratulations, Thornton, you are a lucky man!” the older man enthused as he extended his hand.
“Thank you,” the groom-to-be replied as he shook the proffered hand, unable to suppress a smile of warming pride.
“If I may be so bold....” Mr. Bell began as he looked to the Master for permission to continue.
“Yes,” Mr. Thornton tonelessly allowed, inescapably intrigued as to what he should say on the subject.
“I’m certain that you may be aware that Margaret is not yet...comfortable with this situation,” he continued, stealing a comprehensive glance at Mr. Thornton, whose eyes had narrowed in apprehension at the older man’s words.
“I’m persuaded that she is not yet acquainted with your gentler sensibilities, seeing only the harshness of the working world around her,” he quickly endeavored to explain. “She is still new to Milton. The ways of industry are yet unfamiliar to her, coming from the fields of Hampshire and the refined circles of London.”
Mr. Thornton listened with steadfast interest, his head cocked to the side.
“Your enduring patience will do much to dissuade her from her ignorance. She is not aware of the challenges that beset you as a man of business. Give her time,” he counseled gently, giving the Master a steady look as the younger man blinked and faintly nodded his head in acknowledgment.
“Margaret has a large heart with grand ideals and a strong determination to set the world to right,” Mr. Bell continued more vociferously. “I perceive that you recognize her intellect - that you will not disregard her opinions as others might,” he concluded, noting with satisfaction the distant, contemplative gaze of the Master.
“I have no doubt that you will come to a greater understanding of each other. Indeed, I look forward to seeing this match,” Mr. Bell announced with a grin, as he recognized the hopeful gleam in the younger man’s eyes at his pronouncement.
“Congratulations again, Thornton. You could not have made a finer choice,” the wealthy landowner warmly remarked as he shook hands again with his tenant. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a train to catch. I bid you farewell,” he said before turning to depart,
leaving the Master standing somewhat bewildered in the middle of his office.
**********
At the Crampton residence, Mr. Hale studied the Greek philosophers in the quiet confines of his study while the women of the household were in the throes of preparing for Mr. Thornton’s visit that evening.
Mrs. Hale took care to rest herself in her upstairs sitting room, so that she might be ready for entertaining while Dixon bustled about below in the kitchen, muttering about the lack of help in Milton.
In the cooler air of the nearby scullery, Margaret carefully ironed the family’s fine table linen. With the day’s activities all pointed toward the arrival of her new fiancé, Margaret could hardly think of anything else.
She had woken this morning no nearer to a sense of peaceful resolution than when sleep had overtaken her. Still uncertain if she should be happily resigned to marrying the Master of Marlborough Mills, Margaret tried to understand the myriad feelings that rose and fell within her breast.
She had attempted to remain calmly composed earlier when her mother had eagerly elaborated upon every detail of the arrangements to be made. Every mention of his name had caused her nerves to tingle with unknown expectancy.
As she firmly pressed the heavy iron over the white linen, she wondered if he would wear the burgundy cravat that she remembered when he had come to tea some months ago. She blushed to recall now how fine he had looked that evening. Halting her ironing, her stomach fluttered at the thought of standing before him again today.
She must find time to get away, she told herself as she began to move the heated iron over the cloth again. She would look forward to visiting Bessy this afternoon when she finished her chores.
Later, as Margaret carried a tray of tea and sandwiches upstairs, she was surprised to find her mother diligently arranging a vase of flowers in the drawing room. “Mother, what are you doing down here? I thought you wished to rest so that you will be well for the evening,” she gently reminded her with cautious concern for her health.
“I’m feeling so much better today. I could not stay in my room. I wished to help make ready for the day,” Mrs. Hale responded with a happy smile.
Margaret studied her mother’s face and noted with rising hope that the sallowness had vanished, replaced by a more natural glow. Perhaps it was well that she had the opportunity to forget herself in thinking of more exciting things, although Margaret felt a pang of guilt for not sharing the same uninhibited enthusiasm for her future.
“I’m certain the silver needs polishing,” her mother remarked as she began to examine the dinnerware that Dixon and laid out on the table.
“I will polish the silver, Mother. Let us go now to your room for some tea. I’m sure it can only benefit you to try to take your ease today. Dixon and I can manage everything well,” she assured her as she headed her mother toward the stairs.
****
It was still early in the afternoon when Margaret finished polishing the silver. Then, after checking on her mother once more, she escaped the house to briskly walk the streets to the Princeton district.
Eager to spend some time with her friend, Margaret knocked on the plain wooden door of the Higgins’ home.
Mary opened the door with a tear-stained face. “Oh Miss!” she sobbed.
Margaret’s heart constricted with dread. Quickly, she stepped inside to confirm her worst fear.
Mary gestured to Bessy’s still form, which rested peacefully against the pillows - much the same as Margaret had left her yesterday.
Margaret stepped forward reverently, not wanting to believe her friend was dead.
So this is death, Margaret mused sorrowfully as she sat down in a chair next to the body. She felt the tears forming in her eyes as she looked upon the serene face of the girl who had spent most of her life working in the mills. At least she would be at peace - more than she ever had been in this poor existence, Margaret thought, marveling at the tranquility of Bessy’s still expression as Mary quietly sobbed nearby.
After some time of solemn contemplation, Margaret turned to Mary. “Where is Nicholas?” she asked softly.
The meek girl shook her head in ignorance. “I sent word...” she began, but before she could finish, the door pushed open and the distressed father stepped into the house.
His eyes swiftly sought the place where his sickly daughter had always lain. Margaret stood up and moved aside as he approached the body, unwilling to believe the reports of neighbors who had sent him rushing home. He looked at Margaret. “Were yo’ with her?” he asked with a pained expression.
“No,” Margaret whispered, bowing her head in regret.
He stared dumbstruck at Bessy’s still form for a moment before turning to Margaret again. “Mayhap’ she’s fallen in a deep spell. It were not the first time...” he suggested with wavering desperation.
Margaret met his gaze bravely and shook her head. Tears began to spring from her eyes as she watched the last ray of hope die in his eyes.
A primordial cry rent from his lips as he sank down onto the bed next to the body.
Margaret’s tears fell unhindered as she watched him take his lifeless daughter into his arms.
“My poor Bessy!” he cried as he held her, his body shaking with racking sobs.
***************
The bell on the door at Hancock’s Jewelers tinkled brightly as Mr. Thornton swept into the store from the bustling street. A well-dressed, balding man looked up to appraise who had entered his quiet establishment.
“Mr. Thornton,” Mr. Hancock warmly greeted the respected Milton manufacturer. “How may I help you? I believe your sister’s birthday was several months ago,” he remarked with a congenial smile.
The corners of Mr. Thornton’s mouth edged upwards at the jeweler’s astute memory. He had come every March in recent years, having found that a gift of jewelry always pleased Fanny.
“I’m looking to purchase a ring,” Mr. Thornton answered with serious resolution, not wanting to appear as one headlong in love, although he had scarcely been able to think of anything else but this errand all morning. He was impatient to prove his affection with such a token and yearned to have her wear it so that all the world would know that she was promised to him.
“I see...” Mr. Hancock mused, swiftly recognizing the Master as an ardent lover. In his lifetime, he had seen hundreds of men stroll through his door with similar intent - their earnest manner always gave them away. He smiled inwardly at his sly assessment. “Have you anything in particular in mind?” he asked politely.
Mr. Thornton’s brow furrowed slightly in contemplation. “Something beautiful - of significance, but not overly grand,” he replied thoughtfully.
“Something with refined elegance and special beauty - perhaps to reflect the lady who will wear it?” the storeowner adroitly suggested, raising his eyebrows.
“Exactly so,” the younger man acknowledged with a comprehending smile, faintly embarrassed to be so openly read.
Mr. Hancock proudly led the groom-to-be to the fine selection of gemstone rings in his shop.
Bewildered at the onset by the dazzling array of diamonds, sapphires, and rubies before him, Mr. Thornton’s eyes soon alighted on a sparkling diamond ring that seemed unique among its sisters. Mounted upon a delicate filigree of swirling vines in white gold, a rounded square diamond rose between two smaller emeralds of brilliant green. He thought instantly of the pastoral home from which his southern beauty had come.
As the small brass bell sounded at Mr. Thornton’s departure, Mr. Hancock smiled with satisfaction. Pleased to have made a successful sale, he was also amused to see that the longstanding bachelor had at last been sufficiently smitten enough to be ensnared by the bonds of wedlock.
We are all susceptible to the caprice of love, the jeweler mused cheerfully as he readied his display of rings for the next besotted lover.
Outside, the Master of Marlborough Mills strode absently through the crowded streets with burgeoning joy. Tonight, he would see Margaret again and, if his hopes were confirmed, she would allow him to place a ring of engagement on her finger.
He reached up to feel the small velvet pouch that was settled in his breast pocket and smiled broadly in satisfaction.
***************
Margaret and Nicholas dolefully walked the streets toward Crampton. Frightened that Nicholas would seek solace for his sorrows in strong drink, Margaret had convinced him to come home with her.
Uncertain that the church held the answers to the deep questions of men, the weary union leader nevertheless had hope that a talk with Margaret’s father, the kind old parson, would give him some comfort.
When they arrived at the townhouse, Margaret directed her friend to wait in the kitchen while she searched for her father.
Mr. Hale was rather taken aback by the sudden request to meet with the mill worker. His concerns were only magnified by his daughter’s hasty explanation of events, which led him to believe that the disgruntled and bereaved union leader who awaited him in the kitchen would reek of gin. The pained look of compassion on his dear daughter’s face, however, made it impossible for him to decline.
Margaret then entered her mother’s room tentatively to see how she was faring. The elder woman looked up from her reclined position on the sofa and smiled at her daughter’s entrance.
“You are doing well, Mother?” Margaret gently asked in disguised cheerfulness.
“I’m feeling so much better, dear. I shall be quite happy to join everyone at dinner tonight,” she replied with eager anticipation.
Margaret’s face fell. She could not bear to think of entertaining Mr. Thornton upon the heels of such a mournful occasion. “Oh Mother!” she expelled with a heavy sigh. “Do you think we could arrange dinner on another day? I fear I cannot receive Mr. Thornton tonight,” she sorrowfully explained. She was reluctant to cause her mother any disturbance, but could not see any other way to avoid an evening of forced pleasantry which would be so odious to her.
“Whatever is the matter, Margaret?” her mother asked, her face now filled with worry as she noted her daughter’s unhappiness.
Margaret explained her grief and although Mrs. Hale was clearly disturbed by the change in plans, she sympathized with her daughter’s sentiments and agreed to defer the dinner.
Margaret’s stomach roiled uneasily as she somberly descended the stairs to notify Dixon.The family’s servant was dutifully exasperated with Margaret’s announcement, but gave the young mistress a sympathetic glance as she wiped her floured hands with a tea towel and went to confer with Mrs. Hale upstairs.
Margaret then turned to join the men who were quietly talking at the sturdy table near the scullery. She was pleased to see the quiet transformation of her hard-working friend, who sat calmly across from her father with cap in hand, his face newly scrubbed.
“It’s one thing for all them’s that put on their finery an’ go to church on a Sunday to keep the faith, but it’s a fair mite harder if you’re working from dawn to dusk for your bread,” Nicholas spoke to her father. “And you’ll pardon my saying, but the likes of you ‘ave never watched your daughter waste her life away slavin’ in those mills,” he declared hotly in his misery, looking askance at Margaret as she silently sat down to join them.
“I know her life was not easy...” Mr. Hale began.
“Easy!” he fairly exploded, his face distorted in his pain. “She never had one moment of rejoicing. Never-ending work and hardship is all she got in this life,” he exclaimed bitterly.There’s many a time when I’ve thought I didna believe in God. I cannot believe he meant the world to be as it is, with the masters ruling over us - the rest of us left to live a half-life in the shadows.”
“He gave us the world, and our wits and intelligence to find the grace and beauty in others,” Mr. Hale started to explain.
“Am I to believe he gave some more than others?” Higgins interrupted in heated tones. “And that was His will?”
“It is our duty to make peace with others,” Mr. Hale returned with fervor. “It’s a pity you seem to think in terms of...war and strife. I know there is suffering and I know there are cruel and greedy masters, but surely it would be better for people of good will on both sides to sit down and share ideas of how to do God’s will - to live in peace and harmony,” the old vicar contended in good faith. “Wouldn’t you think a man like...like Thornton would be open to ideas?” he queried hopefully, appealing to the working man’s reason and innately trusting the integrity of his favorite pupil.
“Thornton?” he burst out incredulously with contempt. “He’s the one that brought the Irish, that led to the riot that broke the strike!”
Margaret cringed at his vehemence, at once alarmed that her father might reveal her recent betrothal.
“Even Hamper would’ve waited! Thornton makes no pretense to yield a jot, but rushes out to replace us with his Irish. No, Thornton is the hardest of the lot. And now, just when we need him to be hard, to hunt down men like Boucher - men who betrayed us - what does he do? He says he’s the injured party - he won’t press charges!” Nicholas ranted in frustration.
“But surely, Mr. Thornton is right,” Mr. Hale offered.
Yes, anything further would look like revenge,” Margaret added, mollified a little to find something of praise concerning the man she was to marry. Still, Nicholas’ virulent response upon hearing Mr. Thornton’s name frightened her. Her body tightened in nervous apprehension.
“There, you see. I believe Mr. Thornton is a reasonable man,” Mr. Hale urged Higgins to consider. “Why...don’t you think that with Margaret’s influence his hardened ways might be softened?” the older man put forth.
Nicholas’ brow creased in confusion as Margaret shot her father a desperate look of warning.
“What do you mean?” Higgins asked the former parson, his face darkening with growing suspicion.
Mr. Hale looked to his daughter with confounded agitation, realizing at once that she had not yet informed her friend of her engagement.
Margaret gathered her courage, swallowing hard before she could force the words from her lips. “Mr. Thornton has asked for my hand, Nicholas,” she said quietly, her eyes cast to the floor.
“And you have accepted him?” he finished sharply as he bounded from his seat. The scraping squeak of wood on stone punctuated his wounded anger.
“Yes,” she answered meekly, her eyes bravely flashing to his to observe his reaction.
“How could you betray us...everything we’ve worked for?” he spat wildly. “Yo’ call yourself a friend to my Bessy when you’ve bound yourself to them’s that ‘ave sent her to her grave?” he demanded in disgust, the pain in his expression searing Margaret to her core.
“It is not like that - you do not understand!” Margaret eagerly attempted to explain.
Mr. Hale looked on, horrified by the working man’s explosion of bitter virulence.
“Mr. Higgins!” he cried out, finding his voice at last. “You are much distraught in your grief, butI beg of you, we mustn’t let hatred rule us,” he pleaded, endeavoring to calm the atmosphere of antagonism that had suddenly arisen.
Nicholas glanced at the old parson with a glimmer of contrition before returning his attention to Margaret, who he now recognized was shaking with hurt and grief.
“I’ll not forget your kindness to the dead,” he admitted more softly as he stood looking down at her, “but I doubt as we need keep company with yo’ now that you’ve put in to be leagued with the privileged set,” he announced flatly before sweeping his cap on his head.
“I thank you for your time,” he said to Mr. Hale with a polite nod and turned to depart.
“Nicholas!” Margaret called out after him, but he paid no heed and continued determinedly up the stairs.
Mr. Hale looked on in shocked dismay as his daughter drew herself up from her seat and brought a handkerchief to her eyes.
“I am sorry, Father,” she whispered in distress as she hastily fled up the stairs to go to her bedchamber.
***********
Mr. Williams stepped through the open doorway of the Master’s office sometime in the mid afternoon. “The messenger insisted this was urgent,” the stocky overseer explained as he held out a letter for his employer. “It’s from the Hales,” he added with curiosity, wondering why the gentleman’s family from the south would be bothering the Master.
At this mention, Mr. Thornton’s head snapped up. He took the message from his employee’s hands with a swift nod of dismissal. A feeling of uneasy foreboding crept through his veins, as he tore open the letter.
He quickly scanned Mrs. Hale’s delicate script, which politely rescinded his invitation to dinner that evening due to the untimely demise of Margaret’s working friend, Bessy Higgins.
The expectant joy that had buoyed him all day suddenly drained away. He would not see her today. He let out his breath slowly in bitter disappointment as he thought of the ring in his pocket. He sat motionless at his desk, holding the letter loosely in his grasp.
At this moment, his mother walked through the doorway.
Mrs. Thornton was accustomed to making the rounds at the mill on occasion to ensure that all was in order. Her intimidating, hawk-like watch was well known to the mill hands. No one quibbled or snickered at the presence of the Master’s mother on the factory floor.
She had come to see for herself how the workers were faring now that production at the mill had resumed, but one glance at her son told her that all was not well.
“What is it, John?” she demanded in some alarm, noting the hollow look of despair on his face.
He glanced up at her, startled out of the descending trail of his thoughts. “My dinner engagement this evening has been called off. Margaret’s friend, Bessy Higgins, died today,” he explained in even tones, his thoughts still distant as he considered the implications of this occurrence.
“She was one of ours, Mother. She worked in the carding room,” he told her, feeling an uncommon twinge of guilt. He had not known the girl had been his employee, having looked up the girl’s name only recently.
“Was she unwell?” his mother asked, curious to know if the girl’s death was unexpected.
“I believe so. According to the books, she stopped working a few weeks before the strike. She had worked here but a year,” he told her, hoping that Margaret would not lay this death to his charge. If Bessy had died of some illness instigated by the harsh conditions of factory work, it was likely she had been ill before she had even come to Marlborough Mills.
Mrs. Thornton discerned his concern. “There are many ills which plague the working class, John. You have done what is in your power to ensure the health and safety of your workers. Surely, you cannot be blamed for this girl’s death,” she assured him.
He nodded his head faintly in acknowledgment of the logic of her words, although they did not assuage the gnawing anxiety that this event would throw him in an unfavorable light.
“Do you dine with them later this week?” his mother quietly asked.
He inhaled deeply. “I don’t know. The letter did not specify a date. I suppose it is uncertain when Margaret will be ready to entertain,” he answered sorrowfully. This declaration, however, began to change the tide of his thoughts. Chastising himself inwardly for thinking of his own displeasure, he now considered with a sharp pang of helplessness the sorrow in which Margaret was plunged.
“She is bereaved and friendless Mother. Shall I go to her?” he asked with a searching gaze as a powerful yearning to comfort the woman he loved overwhelmed him.
Mrs. Thornton flinched at his inquiry, but her mother’s heart reached out to him when she saw in his eyes the intensity of his desire to offer his love. “I think it would be best to give her time alone to grieve,” she answered gently.
Her son dropped his gaze and nodded in reluctant acquiescence. Although everything within him burned to go to her - to gather her in a tight embrace and tell her that he understood her sorrow, he knew that she was not yet ready to find comfort in his arms.
Mrs. Thornton’s compassionate gaze roved over the dejected figure of her son. “Perhaps you will be called to dine tomorrow evening or the next,” she endeavored to cheer him but met no response other than a faint nod.
“I will tell cook that you are joining us tonight,” she announced softly as she quietly retreated from the room and closed the door behind her.
Alone now in his office, Mr. Thornton slumped further over his desk, holding his head in his hands.
*****
During the next few hours, the Master was seen in every part of the large mill barking out instructions, examining work in progress, and following deliveries as he threw himself into his work in an endeavor to ignore his anxiety. When the whistle blew and the iron machinery slowed to a stop, he returned to his office and pored over his ledgers.
Finally, amidst the silence of the room, he dropped his quill with an exasperated sigh. It was no use. He could not stop thinking of her. The image of her form - bowed in grief with tear-stained cheek - continually appeared to him. His heart ached to think of her in distress and his pulse quickened in mounting fear to imagine her resurgent antipathy for the cotton mills.
He passed his hand over his face in tired frustration. If only he could speak to her!
He rose from his chair and paced to the window to dazedly look out over the landscape of his desultory empire - the gray buildings and dusty yard began to fade into colorless shadow in the waning daylight. The brilliance and energy of industry and progress now seemed devoid of its luster. Only one light sparkled with luminescent radiance on his horizon - Margaret Hale.
****
Mr. Thornton endured the sympathetic and curious glances of his mother and Fanny at dinner, and excused himself shortly afterward to retreat to his study. Surrounded by the silent company of the books he had amassed in the oak-paneled room, his eyes fell to the copy of Plato’s works laying open on his desk.
An anguished sigh escaped his lips as he thought of the brief note he had written to Mr. Hale, graciously bowing out of taking his lesson this evening in light of the circumstances. He had been sorely tempted to go despite the turn of events, but knew that it would be presumptuous to impose himself upon them at this time.
He walked to the window and back again to his desk, endeavoring to master the swell of agitation he felt at his helplessness. Denied the opportunity to assure her of his compassion, he worried that the unguarded accumulation of judgments against him might break the tenuous bond that had been formed between them.
He swore bitterly at the capricious twists of fate which would at one moment place within his grasp all that he should ever want, only to wrest it from him with the strike of importunate death.
He felt acutely the sorrow that Margaret must feel in losing a friend so newly gained. He knew it had been a great struggle for her to come to this city, where everything must seem harsh in comparison to the pleasant, easy life she had had in the south. He admired the strength and resolution she had demonstrated in befriending a girl whom others would barely deem to acknowledge. He was glad she had made this fond connection to Milton, and was pained to think that this small comfort was taken from her.
A stab of regret smote him as he recalled the cold words he had spoken at the dinner party and how little she must think of his capacity for compassion. She would think him unmoved by the loss of a mere factory girl. She saw him as an oppressor, just as all the other men at the table.
His ire rose against his fellow masters who indeed seemed to treat their workers with little regard for their humanity - who even snickered and laughed at their ignorance and declined to implement measures which might improve their health.
He was not like them -- or was he? Returning again to the window, he halted and looked out. Everything he had striven to build was now encased in darkness. He struggled to recall anything he had said or done in recent weeks that would redeem him in her eyes. Was he so very different from the others in his relentless pursuit of success? He was not greedy for profit, but only desirous that his efforts should prove that progress was born of determination, wisdom and efficiency. This is what had borne him through the desolate years when he had worked to give his family a worthy home and name. But was it enough?
The remembrance of how her eyes kindled with righteous compassion for the rioters gave him pause. His brow furrowed in contemplation of her power to dissuade him of his convictions. What was it she expected of him? He could scarcely afford to abandon the principles upon which his business was constructed and throw his efforts to charitable ends without a view to profit, he thought defensively.
But in the next moment he felt the tug of her judgments moving him to re-examine his purpose. His only aim at present was to gain her love and respect. He felt the part of the heartsick fool to acknowledge it, but he could not dismiss it. He wished to become the man she wanted him to be. He wanted her to look at him with unrestrained adoration and willingly welcome him into her arms.
He closed his eyes and his body shuddered in the sublime thought of it.
He clenched his fists and strode across the room, the panic rising once again at the notion of losing her. If only he could make her understand a portion of the burning emotions that coursed through his veins!
As his eyes roved the room, they were drawn to the light of the solitary lantern on his desk. He suddenly realized what he must do. Swiftly, he sat down in the polished leather chair and picked up his quill.
*****
At evening’s end, Margaret sat stoically on her bed. Dinner with her parents had been painfully silent; her father’s attempts at conversation had thinly veiled the moribund mood of those gathered.
Dixon, too, had tried to cheer her with a fond remembrance as she had helped her prepare for bed. A faint smile had come upon Margaret’s lips as the family servant recalled how faithfully Margaret had tended a robin’s grave as a young girl. “You’ve a tender heart for all the weak and poor creatures on this earth, Miss Margaret. God bless you for it,” she had told her gently.
Alone now in the darkening shadows, she felt drained of all emotion, her tears all spent. The shock of grief and abandonment had come in unpredictable bursts of anguish which had shaken her fragile hold on stability.
She rose and walked trance-like to the open window to gaze over the stone and brick landscape of man’s making. How she yearned to smell the sweet night air of Helstone and hear the soft rustling of leaves amid the crickets’ song! She closed her eyes to transport herself for a moment and imagine the kiss of a country breeze on her cheek.
She opened her eyes to scan the heavens questioningly. She had tried to make a home here in Milton, finding a kindness and comfort in coming to know more of God’s people. Everything had been taken away from her! Bessy, Nicholas...
Turning from the window, she padded toward the solace of her bed, endeavoring to push away the remembrance of Nicholas’ awful abandonment. But as sat down again on the soft mattress, she could not forget the piercing look of betrayal her friend had given her upon his discovery of her betrothal to Mr. Thornton. His hasty rejection of her friendship left an aching hollowness in her breast.
She felt tears begin to gather again and her throat swelled with sorrow. Oh Bessy, what am I to do? She pleaded silently to her departed friend, wishing desperately she could hear the assurances of Bessy’s wise judgments. But she would never hear her voice again.
A bitter anger rose within her to think that her friend’s life was cut short by the deplorable conditions of working in a cotton mill. It was unjust that the masters should make profit while these people slowly suffered and died. Was not this what the union was fighting for - to be treated with more consideration for their well-being and intelligence as human beings?
Nicholas’ accusation of betrayal rang in her ears and she winced at the memory of his pained expression. How could she align herself with the masters when Nicholas struggled so hard against their arbitrary and demeaning ways?
She knew she could never forfeit her close relation to Mary and Nicholas and felt increasingly trapped between two worlds. How little sympathy masters and men seemed to have for each other, she mused in distress. If only they could overcome their pride and stubbornness and reach some understanding, did they not see how they needed each other?
But her heart could not conceive of any hope of reconciliation between the classes at present. She recalled with growing indignation the shock and cold disdain with which Mrs. Thornton and the others had discovered her liaison with the strikers. The icy rebuke she had received from Mr. Thornton and the controlled, unfeeling manner with which he had spoken to her, convinced her that he would hardly smile upon her continuing friendship with the Higgins as his wife.
Defiance swelled within her at the thought of being controlled and directed by his strong opinion to give up her cherished alliance with Milton’s struggling poor. How could she have agreed to marry him, she wondered in agitation? It would never do to be bound to one who would belittle her compassion and constrain her to tepid acceptance of the deep divide between rich and poor. They were too far apart in mind and spirit to make a happy union!
All her thoughts now began to gather ominously against the promise she had made. Warm tears began to prick at the corner of her eyes as confusion and weariness overwhelmed her. She recalled with anguish how pleased her parents were with her engagement and remembered, too, the look of earnest hope in Mr. Thornton’s eyes at her acceptance. But it was no use to think on it now, she determined. “I cannot marry him,” she cried out at last as she threw herself down onto her pillow with choking sobs.