Chapter Four
You Fool!
John Thornton trudged through the snow like a plough, fighting against the storm of snowflakes that attempted to both throng and stab him. He tried his darnedest to ignore the biting sting as the cold of the slush that caked his legs stole up him like an assailant, first encasing his toes, and then stealing inch by inch up towards the landmark of his knees. Muttering some regrettably ungentlemanly words under his breath, John continued on, each step he took more dogged than the last, the blood that pumped to his thighs and calves being fortified by an added dose of determination.
He would go there! He would get there! He would get to see her!
Yes, even if it was the last thing he did, even if it killed him, John would see her tonight.
He scoffed noisily at his own moronic idiocy. This was insanity! He had been away for three weeks, three drawn-out, weary, fruitless weeks, and this was John's first day back in Milton. Needless to say, there were a multitude of tasks that required his urgent attention at the mill; letters, machinery repairs, invoices, and goodness knows what that he had to look over if everything was to return to a status of normality under its commander's efficient routine. He had been imprudent to put off returning this long, to avoid Milton and all it contained, but he had told himself that it was necessary, that it would be beneficial for his forthcoming trade plans, that it would lead to better things, and not only that, but John had also strived to indoctrinate himself into believing that a little time, a little distance, they would help him get over…
Sigh.
At any rate, it was not just about business, because what of his family? John knew that he ought to be spending tonight with his mother and sister, the two of them having been denied his company for longer than was standard, not that Fanny would mind, of course, she would hardly have noticed that he was gone, or if she had, she would have delighted in it, her joy only diminishing when she saw him walk back through the door. As for his mother, she would be anxious for her son to remain at home and get some rest. In fact, she had been pestering him all afternoon about staying in and regaining his strength, the shadows under his eyes and sag of his typically imposing stance enough to tell her that he was weakened, if not in body, then certainly in spirit. Nonetheless, he had resisted her entreaty, and much to his mother's annoyance, John had insisted that he would be going out tonight, no matter what. He was set on it, inflexible man that he was, one who was not easily bent by opposition or perturbed by obstacles. If he were, then he would have never made it this far in life, his steadiness and perseverance intrinsic to his character, the fundamental foundation of his ability to not just survive in the face of misfortune, but to prosper. In light of this, there was one thing that his absence had taught him, and it was that when John Thornton had settled on something, whether it be a commitment of his time, his intellect, his purse, his industry, or indeed, his heart, he would be unfaltering in his loyalty until the bitter end.
So that was that. He would love her, whether she wanted his love or not.
John halted in the middle of the street, and there, he leaned against a lamppost, and found himself letting out a groan of despair. Unfolding his arms, which had been huddled in front of him to stop his fingers from turning blue, he lifted one of his gloveless hands to his face and drew it down from top to bottom in jaded despondency.
'Oh, John, John, John!' he muttered. 'What are you doing? You fool!'
On stopping, his legs began to feel their fatigue, and they flagged beneath him, causing the mill master to at first sway, and then slump against the post, the hard, ice-smeared metal smacking into his back and proffering him some comradely support, as well as a hefty clout of scornful ridicule for being such a buffoon. Appearing like something akin to a Dickensian ne'er-do-well, he was grateful that there was nobody around, for if there had been, they would have lingered and gawked at him, speculating as to whether he was drunk, before promptly judging him for his sorry state. Then again, perhaps he was intoxicated, but not on drink, rather, on love, that sweet and sickly potion inebriating every thread of his person, both exhilarating and afflicting the individual fibres of his soul, drugging him like a spell that was too powerful, too perfect in its pain, to break.
John knew that he should not go to the Hales. On his journey back from France, first on the boat, then on the train, then in the carriage, he had been afforded plenty of time to give himself a thorough talking to, impressing upon himself that he should not attend his usual lesson tonight. He would make his excuses, for he had numerous and legitimate ones, and undoubtedly Mr Hale would understand perfectly, unassuming friend that he was. For Heaven's sake! It was Christmas Eve, after all, a time for family, a time for staying at home beside the fire with a glass of brandy, when a man could congratulate himself on all he had achieved over the past year.
John gritted his teeth and scowled.
Of course, in his case, what had he actually achieved?
Letting his eyes slowly wander up from the blanket of snow that covered the ground, John's gaze fell upon a window directly opposite him, on the other side of the street. Even although the thick curtains were partially drawn, he could still glimpse the clandestine haven inside, peeking through the thin tear in the veil of their privacy that had been carelessly left agape, and through that narrow slit, he spied a family: father, mother, child. The three of them were certainly a merry sight, one which simultaneously filled John with hope and hate.
Why hate, one might ask?
If truth be told, John did not hate anybody, not really. Yes, it would be fair to say that there were many people he mildly disliked, mainly because he considered them either loud, licentious or lazy, three words, three shortcomings, that he could not abide, but as for hate, no, that was a strong word, even for a man of such strong convictions. Nevertheless, it was true that what he saw tonight filled the master with profound hatred. It was because John despised them for being so happy. How could it be that others boasted this effortless ability to find serenity, yet for him, it was an allusive dream? As John observed them from a distance, he felt his heart cry to witness the way the wife smiled adoringly at her husband, the look of wholesome faith in her eyes as he bent down to kiss her, their relationship not one of mistrust and animosity, but of unequivocal respect and reverence.
God! What a year it had been! A year of revelations. A year that had unravelled him.
Never before in all his twenty-nine years had John thought about taking a wife and having children of his own. He was too busy for such things, and if he were honest, John was always afraid that something would go wrong, meaning that he would be unable to provide for them, so he was best not dragging them into his life, one tainted with a history of failure and humiliation. No, a mother and sister were enough female company for him, more than enough, or at least, that had been so, up until a year ago, when his priorities had unexpectedly and abruptly changed, when his ordered world had been shaken asunder by the sight of a pretty face.
John could have watched them for hours, lost in an introspective haze, but his attention was snatched away as the child ran across his vision, galloping about gaily, his little legs jumping and skipping as he savoured the magic of this night. The man then picked up his son, and pulling his wife close, the three of them were secured in his protective embrace, a jumble of arms wrapping around each other in unreserved love.
After that, John had to look away. It was too much to bear, too great a grief for his heart to harbour, thinking, knowing, that he would never experience such pure contentment, not as a husband, nor as a father. No, he was doomed to spend the remainder of his days as plain, insufferable, unlovable John Thornton.
Master. Magistrate. Nothing. Nobody.
'Oh, Margaret,' he whispered into the wind, the unscrupulous breeze whirling his words around and spitting them back in his face like a hawk of mockery.
'That could have been us,' he breathed, thinking that if she had said yes six months ago, they could have been married by now, and possibly even blessed with the knowledge that they were having their first child together. But it was not to be, because she had said no, and so, that was that.
Finally, John gave in and continued on, leaving the unnamed family behind to enjoy their harmonious night in peace, far away from the contempt of his loneliness. As he walked further across town, John's mind turned to think on matters that were so unfriendly in their dejection, that the surrounding coldness no longer bothered his bones by comparison. Instead, he tried to occupy his mind more pleasantly. John hoped that Margaret had liked the tree. He had chosen it carefully, ensuring that it was the very best he could find, not to mention having parted with a pretty penny for his efforts. He was not sure if it was a step too far, an overfamiliar offering that a London gentleman would never have presumed to give. John had deliberated about it for some days, but on the afternoon that he had left for Dover, he had finally given in and ordered the tree for the Crampton house, meticulously taking into account its restricted proportions. It was after determining that he was not a man to be concerned about niggles in regard to social etiquette, so long as his intentions were honourable, which, of course, they were, that John had concluded that it was the right thing to do. And what was more, he and Margaret had been through so much together, a private affair of the heart, a bloody battle of admiration and apathy that was unknown to almost everybody around them, that he felt justified in extending this gift to her on the first Yuletide since they had met, the first Christmas that they could have been, should have been, man and wife.
Approaching the graveyard that sat high above the city, John found himself brusquely stopping again, and with his eyes raised to the heavens, he sighed once more. John was not entirely sure whether he believed in God, not after everything he had been through as a young man cast into the callous world. He had experienced hardship, and he had suffered heartache, and so, he often wondered whether God really existed out with the mind of man, or whether he had simply given up and gone away, assigning humanity to writhe in the fire of its own gradual and agonising downfall. Nevertheless, one thing was for sure, and that was that God had been cruel to Margaret this year. John would not call himself a particularly sympathetic person, but he could at least grasp when someone was careworn. In fact, he was often referred to as a surprisingly understanding justice of the peace, appreciating that extenuating circumstances, such as the sequences of deprivation and violence, often left people feeling alone or afraid, making lawlessness appear like an attractive answer, a radical act that would resolve their problems, when in reality, it only sought to aggravate them. Still, even with this insight, John held fast to the principle that struggle was a natural part of life, that in order to survive and thrive, one must walk through the flames of adversity in order to be moulded, to be bent into shape, and to come out stronger than before, ready to brave the future with an armour of mettle. Be that as it may, despite himself, John could not help but feel deeply sorry for Margaret. She had been through so much, sweet creature, and what was worse, was that he was helpless to help her. As a master and a magistrate, for better or for worse, he had at least some modest influence in the lives of others, but when it came to her, what was he to Margaret? Nothing, that's what. Grudgingly, John knew only too well that he was no relation of hers, nor was he an old and trusted friend, so he had no alternative but to stand back and watch while her world collapsed around her, and all the while, there she would stand in the midst of her discontent, defiant and dignified to the last.
Darling Margaret. Fierce Margaret. Remarkable Margaret.
She had been forced to leave her Helstone home, her paradise, saying goodbye to her London family and friends, and come here, to Milton, a town marred by voracity and grime, somewhere she most assuredly did not belong. Thenceforth, after all that, after all the upheaval she had endured, bearing it with such rousing heroism, she had lost her mother. John felt a wretched sensation stab at his heart, and he scowled at the snow, just like he scowled at everything else these days. Yes, he knew all too well of the trials of loss. With sober recollection, he reflected on the grief that death could bring, the devastation it could wreak if it were defiled by disgrace, a trauma that his dear Margaret had at least been spared. Then again, had she not been dealt a more unfair hand than he ever had? It was true that John had known poverty, it had been his companion for many years, the shadow of which he could swear still stalked him, a phantom that would not leave him alone, and it made him shudder every time he sensed its unwelcome lurking, threatening to drag him back into its pit of privation, a trench that he now felt too old and too tired to dig his way out of all over again. In spite of this, while the changes in his social position had been more severe than Margaret's, more shaming by far, at least he had been able to stay in Milton, with his own people, finding security in his familiar surroundings. However, in her case, Margaret had been obliged to wave goodbye not only to a parent, but a house, a financial sense of stability, a landscape, a drove of family members, and her rightful place in society. And in that lay the crux of the matter. For Margaret, it had been worse, infinitely worse, and for that, John could not forgive God for turning his back on her, something he himself would never do, no matter what she had done to him in return.
Reaching the inn that lay just a street or two away from the Hale's, John strolled past it, and as he did so, a stranger, a blonde-haired man staggered out, and when he saw him, the master's fist tightened into a ball so taut, that the nimble bones of his fingers began to grind and crack.
That bast –
No! John would not degrade himself by being so uncouth, the scoundrel did not deserve such consideration.
Oh, but he was! He was that word.
That was one of the reasons why John had agreed in advance not to come tonight. What if he was there? As he had already observed, Christmas was a time for family, so would it not be natural for Margaret's young man to join in the festivities and rejoice in ushering in the dawn of Christmas Day with the woman he lov –
No! Stop it! John did not know that the man loved her, nor that Margaret returned his affections, no matter how damming the evidence might be. Yes, this had been one reason why John had felt it best that he should keep away, in case the man had been there, and then what? He found him to be a crook and was forced to deal with the villain to protect Margaret's honour? Or worse, that he turned out to be a perfectly decent gentleman, despite his reckless and selfish actions which had resulted in Margaret being out late at night, rendering her vulnerable to both attack of body and accusation of character? To be sure, it could be that under all that thoughtless foolhardiness, he was a good man, a man who warranted her devotion. After all, John could not conceive Mr Hale permitting his only child to associate with and attach herself to an inappropriate lover. But then again, Mr Hale might not know. He did not know everything. He did not know that his pupil had fallen in love with his daughter and asked her, implored her, for her hand in marriage. However, this impasse did not help him, because it brought John no closer to deciphering Margaret's relationship with the man from the station, the one she had embraced under the cloak of darkness, as if they had something to hide, gazing at him as she did with unquestionable love.
It was now, plagued by the thought of such an undesirable conclusion, that John shivered, his neck tilting unconsciously as he scoured his naked skin against the fur lining of his coat, begging it to be compassionate and impart some warmth. He needed to keep his head if he wanted to remain sane, so it went without saying that the stock on which it sat should be kept alert, lest the nerves within freeze and obstruct, the blood in his veins hardening into clotted rivers of ice, unable to flow, causing him to lose his wits altogether.
The truth was that John was both ashamed and afraid. He could not help but suspect that Margaret was avoiding him, in fact, he was sure of it. He had attended four weeks of lessons in the shade of her half-presence, her absence manifest, her refusal to see him unbearably cruel and crushing. Only, he deserved it, deep down, he knew that he had well and truly earned her displeasure. He had hurt her with his words, ones he could not take back, no matter how sorely he wished there was a way to reverse his blunder and recover what little semblance of respect and regard she had held for him.
Nonetheless, John told himself that Margaret was just as much at fault as he. She had started this war between them, she had fired the inaugural shot, not he. It had begun when the southern beauty had initially arrived in the town, just under a year ago. Her self-assured ways were undeniably amiable, her unabashed independence admirable, rare qualities that had attracted John to her from the beginning. Nonetheless, her arrogance and preconceptions, these faults that were born of youth and inexperience, they had unfortunately served her ill, clouding her opinion of him and compelling Margaret to set herself up in defiance against him and all John stood for.
Then he had proposed, albeit without thinking things through, he realised that now, but she had been the one to be harsh, condemning his feelings and humiliating his hopes, diminishing them into something laughable and pathetic, denouncing every facet of his proud character. After that, she had been cold with him, although, perhaps that was nothing more than a lack of poise on Margaret's part, the woman unable to understand how to be around him, how to act, how to manage the onslaught of his affection, especially when it was offered with such cloak and dagger like secrecy and suppression. There had even been days when John had left her presence in dismay, wondering what on earth he was playing at, raking over his gruff and uneasy manners, so it was no wonder she was probably similarly confused by his unpredictable bearing. While he should have been patient, proving to Margaret that he could be relied upon, that he was a steady bet as a contender for her hand, he instead gave in to his precarious passions. By means of his feet, John had allowed his temper to carry him away from his beloved more than once, never once smiling at her as he stormed off, never once admitting how he truly felt, his discourtesy, his querulousness, they each eclipsed the acute agony that tore his soul to shreds. Love was surely supposed to be consistent, but in John's experience, it was downright chaotic, even if his devotion to Margaret was forever constant, as constant as the stars. After that, in the fracas of their furious clash of wills and wants, there had been Outwood, the event that had altered everything, devastating all that remained of his frail hope. He had seen Margaret with her man, and then she had lied, not just to John, but to the law, and in doing so, she had wounded him twice. Her falsehood had demonstrated to him that not only was she capable of deceit, a wrongdoing he would never before have imagined accusing Margaret of, but that at the same time, she had committed the even more heinous crime of loving another, and by this offence, she had hurt John more than she would ever know, more than he would ever show.
During the tense weeks that had followed his proposal and then her duplicity, Margaret had never once recoiled into the shadows and removed herself from his sight. No, she had faced him. She had been bold, insolent, even, showing him that she did not reproach herself, that while she took absolute responsibility for her decisions and her conduct, Margaret felt no blame, perhaps even no remorse. Then it had happened, the very thing John had dreaded happening, and at the same time, dared to happen.
'Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?'
