Look Back at Me
Part 21
The streets were busy, though not as crowded as they were in the season. They were dirty streets full of grand buildings, who looked down upon the muddy roads beneath them with eyes of glass and frowns of concrete. People rushed in the cold weather, for the wind blew hard against their coats and shawls, pushing through every hole and opening it could find. Margaret looked up at the house in Harley Street; her childhood home and keeper of old friendships and dreams. Inside she was welcomed by her aunt, who had regained her usual spirit in her own home, surrounded by a handful of servants, lavish furniture, and fashionable people. At the moment these particular people were absent, not because Mrs Shaw wished to make Margaret's return as comfortable and tranquil as possible, but because Mrs Shaw expected Margaret to be freshly obstinate after her trip. Company would be most unwanted now, as Margaret was sure to shock them with her ideas and opinions; no, no, Mrs Shaw needed at least a few days to tame her again. And as Mr Bell was still accompanying her, and it was agreed upon he would be a guest at the house for at least a week, Mrs Shaw wished to have him for herself for as long as possible.
After Margaret had unpacked, changed, and dined, she found herself next to Aunt Shaw in the parlour, were a great fire was burning. Mr Bell had gone to call upon some old friends, and Mrs Shaw was visibly irritated by the fact, but not even her flirtatious smiles and pleadings could stop him. Margaret herself was a little anxious to be left alone with her aunt so quickly, but she could not blame Mr Bell, for his friends were leaving London soon. So far, aunt Shaw had asked Margaret very little about her trip, as she was determined to ask the minimum required. Margaret, in her turn, had pretended not to notice and answer all the questions most thoroughly and with an amount of enthusiasm that would knock down a horse. The name Thornton was not mentioned once. Aunt Shaw eventually gave in to her natural desire of commenting on the lives of those near to her and showing her experience and superiority in years over those mentioned. First was her own daughter, the lovely Mrs Lennox, and her husband the captain. Edith sent letters to her mama from all the hot places she, her husband and their child visited, and the letters were always asking about Margaret.
"She asks after you continually, Margaret, she wishes the best for you. At first I hardly dared to tell her about that business with that man", at these words aunt Shaw's nose crinkled as if she smelled something rotten, "but it seemed it could not be avoided, so I wrote and told her your plans." Mrs Shaw folded her hands in her lap and looked away with a stern look, as if her face had turned to marble and she would under no circumstance show any other emotion.
"If it was such a difficulty for you, aunt, I would have written to her myself with pleasure", Margaret spoke lightly and slightly sarcastic, only to teach her aunt a little lesson.
"Well, never mind that now, Margaret. I have already received an answer and I shall read it to you, for you must know what Edith has to say about the whole affair. She has been married now for some time, so she has some authority on the subject. She will surely give you the right advice", aunt Shaw spoke as if the marriage was still up for debate. Margaret poured some tea for her aunt and herself and settled back in her seat, preparing herself to be as polite and as unwavering as possible. Margaret sipped from her cup while aunt Shaw folded open the letter that had been lying next to her the whole time and held it some distance from her eyes, trying to find the appropriate distance for reading.
A little cough preceded the words and the older woman eventually began:
Dear Mama,
Your letter has to me with great surprise. Surely Margaret is playing one of her old tricks on you. She used to be so fond fooling you, never to a harmful degree, as you may recall, by saying something radical or liberal. She always had her own mind, mama.
However, if Margaret has told you she is serious than you must tell her that she has been through a troubling time, she cannot have decided on anything in a right state of mind. She is a beautiful woman, and..
Mrs Shaw continued with a fierce, lecturing tone, but Margaret's mind was already elsewhere. She looked out the window on her right, the darkness was coming quickly now. Great grey clouds were rushing by, forming thick borders between her and the stars. Margaret grew tired of her aunt's meddling far sooner than she expected she would; in her honest opinion, she believed it would take at least another week or so before aunt Shaw would burn her fuse, but only a couple of hours seemed to have done the trick. Margaret had distanced herself quickly and luckily that meant her temper could not be flared by her aunt's words, but the distance also meant a certain estrangement. Margaret regretted this, but there was nothing to be done. She depended on the bond of family, and the loyalty that came with that, together with the changeable nature of people, to eventually change aunt Shaw's and many other's mind on the subject. After all, was she not herself the proof of that loyalty and also that changeability in human nature? Opinions are based on experiences and beliefs, and aunt Shaw opinions were based on something she had never experienced for herself; she had never been a witness to the strong and loyal character that was Mr Thornton. Aunt Shaw only based her opinions on the London society she was so used to and who looked down on the industrial man who seemed to have come from no mentionable background in particular.
Margaret's mind flew away to a place more north, where a dark-haired man was sitting behind his desk, his elbows leaning heavy on the wooden surface. This man was staring at the papers in front of him, and the words made him feel as if his body was as heavy as lead. They dazzled him and pained him, but no matter how many times he read them over, they would not change. Again buyers of cotton had refused to pay, and no matter for what reason, it would not change the fact that Mr Thornton of Marlborough Mills had run out of savings and could no longer pay his workers next month. For the first time in many years, John Thornton had felt respect for his workers, and they for him, and now they could no longer depend on him. For the first time in his life, John Thornton had found love and now he could no longer afford to marry her. For the first time after his father's death, John Thornton regretted not speculating. Bitterness was piercing his soul and only his pride was keeping it from breaking him.
After having sat at his desk in the same position for some time, John suddenly moved. He took a paper from one of his drawers and began to write. The first words read: My dearest Margaret.