Upon later reflection, John realised that the most surprising thing about Miss Margaret's rejection was not the rejection itself; rather, it was his own reaction to it. He knew he had no affection from her, no reason to hope, no chance of ever winning the love of a lady such as her- yet as her taunting, cruel words reached him, a new pain ripped through his open heart.
Any man. He was not singular- to her, he was but one of the masses. The tiny doubts which had needled his mind leapt with joy at the affirmation of their validity. She had done what she would do for any man. To her, he was no more, no less than any other man present at the riot in peril. He had read the signs so utterly badly, exposing himself to her vitriol.
Gentleman. Around her, it was true- he did not feel like a gentleman. Her, with all her graces and accomplishments, could not, should not lower herself to one such as him. Uncouth. Rough and barbaric- at times around her he felt positively wild! The insult rang true; the presumption of his being below her was there, and justified in every word, look and act. But to have his love, his every precious feeling proffered rejected as ungentlemanly- her mode of address was pure torture. Yet still those doubts sang their victory- she could never belong to him. She never would, and to offer his hand was a presumption and an insult.
Possession. That he should want her for his possession, as if she were a mere toy, a passing fancy- her ignorance to the depth of his emotions, the yet untapped reservoir of love within him, and in the same sentence, rejection of any emotion he might feel towards her as the mere commercial quantification of a possession… that wound once established only festered.
I don't want to possess you, I wish to marry you because I love you. The words tore from his throat. All lay bare. All lay bare and remained so, was rejected; no more than rejected- repulsed with such a violence of will, with a declaration that such feelings were nor appropriate nor welcome, nor ever reconcilable with her feelings… He heaved a breath.
He knew she was all but unconquerable. The sting of rejection and failure was not soothed by the difficulty of the task.
And then her apology. Not one from the heart, but a mere social courtesy offered to preserve any civil relationship between them- No. He could not be so unkind to her character. Her eyes entreated him. His rage overcame him.
That his feelings were not only deemed unrequited but offensive!
That she assumed him so cold and calculating to be unable to appreciate any worth other than commercial!
That she extended the presumption of his underhandness to assuming pleasure at the necessary actions at the Mills.
She quieted the hurt by excusing her bluntness- that he could immediately forgive her it, that he would forgive her anything just to be near her! Just to hold her, be with her, have some semblance of hope when thinking of any future acquaintance they may have together!
The thought of others merely pushes the knife twisting in his gut deeper.
He offered her his heart, and she was her usual brash, decided self in deeming it unworthy and insulting to her.
Yet, try as he might, he could not hate her. And try as he might, he could not make recede the ache of pain in his stomach that would not go away, that made him hot with shame and cold with humiliation in the same minute.
Indeed, the thing that surprised John the most of Margaret's rejection was not the rejection itself. He had told himself to have no hope. That had not prevented hope from rising up, from expectations and fanciful imaginations of future happiness from flitting across his consciousness. And no matter how much he sought to restrain them, the occasional harmful hope still sought destination in his mind.