Chapter Eight
The Definition of Friendship
'Mr Hale,' John interjected without so much as a tinge of tact. 'From whom did you hear that I was to be engaged?'
Mr Hale stopped and blinked at the question, unanticipated as it had been, particularly given that he had been talking about Aristotle, the name, Ann, never once leaving his lips. The ageing man took off his spectacles and scratched at the bridge of his nose as he trawled through his memory, unreliable archive that it was, full of dust and disorganised cataloguing.
'Why, from Mr Bell, I should think,' he said at last.
John blustered, and his eyes flashed with the incensed blaze of annoyance.
'Of course,' John retaliated with a terse hawk of his mouth, not the least bit surprised to ascertain the source of this vile rumour. Mr Bell had always been too wily for his own good, his proclivity for mockery and mischief well known in Milton. That is what inevitably happened when a man was indolent and did not have a trade to occupy his idle hands, he took up a sport, and that diversion was very often the hunting and killing of other men's good name for fun.
Sensing his pupil's dissatisfaction, Mr Hale felt it only right to offer a further explanation. 'He told me that you were having a great deal to do with the Latimers of late, and that Miss Latimer had been spending a considerable amount of time at Marlborough House,' he began.
Grumbling under his breath, John was more aggravated than ever by this report, mainly because he could not argue with any of it. It was all true. For a start, he had been seeing a lot of Mr Latimer in recent months, more than he would have liked to, but that was all to do with business, given that he was a banker and John a customer in need of financial relief. As for Miss Latimer calling at his house, that was also correct, even if Mr Hale had been misled as to the reason for her attendance. Miss Latimer had never once been asked there as his guest, no, because she was always invited as his sister's friend, nothing more. If it were not impolite to say so, John would have noted how far from enjoying her presence, he found her artful sycophancy disconcerting, and he did whatever he could to avoid her whenever she came by. For all that John was a man, and all men appreciate flattery, their insecure egos thriving on it, he was a shy person, and as such, he did not welcome toadyism in the way that others did. That is perhaps why he valued Margaret's company so highly. She just let him be himself, even if she disliked what himself signified, her lack of approbation a refreshing change.
'I believe he inferred that the young lady comes from a very good family and was considered an excellent match for a Thornton. You are, after all, both prominent families in Milton, or so I am told. Then what with the two of you being so well-suited, it was suggested that it would not be long until we were to hear the banns read in church,' Mr Hale concluded, his eyes wary as he cautiously watched the young man who sat before him hunched over in unease, afraid that he had overstepped the mark. He hoped that he had made it clear that this analysis was not his own, but Mr Bell's.
John nodded, even if his jaw was taught and his lips tight. 'He told you this?' he muttered. 'Just you?' he checked, an impatient insistence to his last enquiry.
Mr Hale was yet again confounded by the irregularity of it all.
'Indeed. It was just the two of us, if I recall,' he confirmed, unsure of who his friend thought might also have been privy to their conversation. The retired minister was a sheltered soul, he hardly saw anybody, so he was not one to impart gossip, either by nature, or by opportunity.
'And I hope you know that I would never breathe a word of your private affairs to anybody else, you have my solemn oath.'
The young man sniffed irritably in acknowledgement as his eyes fell upon the fire, a mournful shadow dimming their keen clarity. This left Mr Hale feeling terribly uneasy, and he clasped his hands together as he deliberated over what to say next.
'If I may, dear boy, I…'
'Go on,' he replied with a tone that resembled a snarl.
'I think you know that I am not the most observant of men,' he confessed. 'It is all good and well when it comes to books, but when it comes to studying people, I fear I am ill-qualified.'
'As am I,' John countered, thinking on how badly he had misjudged his step when it came to Margaret.
He tried not to dwell on the mess he had made of things over the past year, a right pig's ear. It still struck him as profoundly ludicrous, that for such a careful and calculated sort of man, he had somehow allowed himself to make so many imprudent mistakes when it came to his first real experience of love. Falling for her as he did, John had known that Margaret did not harbour any degree of marked fondness for him when he had proposed, or at the very least, he had appreciated that she did not admire him in the way that a woman ought to admire a prospective husband. It was plain to him that she did not exalt him with the same passion that he cherished in his heart on her behalf, that would be an unattainable dream, even John had been able to see that through the mist of his infatuation.
And yet, when he thought about the way Margaret had rushed down from her sanctuary to aid him in his hour of need, a flicker of hope, obstinate blighter that it was, still burnt fiercely in his masculine breast. There was no denying the way she had nobly shielded him from danger as she barricaded herself between him and the rioters. The way she had thrown her arms around his neck and clung to him for dear life, just so that he would not be harmed. As John closed his eyes and let the delectable memory of her hands sliding along his cravat and grazing that slither of skin, that exposed flank of mortality that was not entombed in starched formality, flood him with a heady fever of desire, he dared to let himself hope, even for the briefest of moments, that she had at least cared for him in some small way. He still held onto this hope, stubbornly refusing to let it go, and so it would be, this pitiful, lonely man clutching onto this illusive glimmer of optimism throughout the chapters of his life, treasuring it until the bitter end.
While John was sinking into the depths of despair, Mr Hale was still grappling with his conscience, struggling to find the right words.
'But I…forgive me, I am not one to talk so unreservedly, nor, do I think, are you the sort of man to have his affairs discussed so openly,' Mr Hale stuttered, soldiering on with his clumsy speech, rousing John from his remote ruminations, somewhere far away, lost in the recesses of his troubled mind. 'I just wanted to say that I think I understand.'
John's expression must have been one of palpable confusion, because Mr Hale proceeded to shake his head at his own incompetence before he resumed.
'I may not have known you long, John, but I hope I know you well enough that I may talk freely. And I believe that you have not been yourself of late. Your mood, it has been distracted, or rather, disillusioned. I thought it first to be the mill that was the cause of your unhappiness, – Mr Bell told me a little of your plight since the strike.'
What followed was a boisterous huff from John. Good grief! Was he all Mr Bell ever talked about?!
'However, I have given it a great deal of thought since your last visit, and after what Margaret said, (John jolted), I have reached the conclusion that it has nothing to do with that. I do not think you are perturbed by matters at the mill, or not as much as all that. You are a shrewd fellow, an industrious one, and you have survived challenges before,' Mr Hale contended, reddening at the forthright mention of John's past, not that the man minded, for he was not ashamed of it.
'To be sure, I think you shall take such strife in your stride and weather it better than just about any man I can think of.' Although Mr Hale did not let it show, he did allow himself a brief interval of personal reflection and self-pity at this point in his sermon. It pained him to think that while John was a man of indisputable strength of conviction and courage, Mr Hale was sorry to say that he could not claim such a merit for himself.
'Thank you,' John allowed, still unsure of where all this was going.
'No,' Mr Hale continued, 'I think your problem is love.'
'Love?!' John blurted out. Oh, Lord! What had Margaret told her father? He had assumed that everything that had passed between them had remained just so, between them, but could it be that she had confessed all to one or both of her parents?
'Yes, love,' Mr Hale reiterated through a nervous cough. He had said it now, so there was no going back, no matter how uncomfortable he might feel.
'The thing is, I do know something of love, believe it or not. In truth, I loved my wife more than she ever knew,' he said sadly, the empty space in his heart where she had left a void crying like an abandoned babe as it wailed for her loss.
'I cannot talk of love with much eloquence. I could never write poems about it,' he admitted with a small chuckle, remembering the array of courtly verses the beautiful young lady had been sent by her numerous admirers, each of them making him feel hopeless and humdrum for being nothing more than a humble country clergyman who lacked their grand prospects and aspirations. Then again, she had chosen him. He could never fathom why, but Maria Beresford had chosen Richard Hale for her husband, and in turn, she had made him the happiest of men for twenty-six years.
'I could hardly speak of it, of this immense ache I felt for her, I was always too afraid, much to my eternal regret. But I know what love is, I have experienced it first-hand, and it is a fine thing. And all I shall say to you now is this...true love is rare, it is beautiful, and it is worth striving for. You are a good man, John. An honest man. A kind man. A principled man. Any woman would be lucky to share your name and share in your life. Miss Latimer could not ask for a better husband. Be brave, John,' he urged earnestly, 'be brave, and she will love you for it.'
John stared at him in silence. He was lost for words.
One half of him wanted to get up and hurl himself at Mr Hale, to fall to the ground and embrace him or shake his hand forcefully, the child locked away inside of him craving a father figure, and all the guidance and encouragement that brought. He had profoundly missed his own father over the past fourteen years, and to hear Mr Hale talk to him thus, by offering him advice in times of trouble and faith in his character, John could have wept. On the other hand, John's main concern was that Mr Hale should be immediately informed that while his sentiments were appreciated, his assumptions were false, fouler than the lies spat out by the Devil himself. It was imperative that Mr Hale knew that he did not, could not, ever want Miss Latimer to be his wife. While there was one person in the world whom John wished to know this unshakable fact above all else, it would not do for her father, the man he yearned to be his father-in-law, to think him capable of loving another, that the mill master's heart could be unfaithful to his beloved Margaret. Leaning forward, John was ready to denounce this claim, this allegation, once and for all. With a voice that was solemn and sober, he opened with,
'Mr Hale, I can assure you that you are gravely mistaken. It is not tru −'
However, John was cut short by his tutor, and not for the first time that night.
'Ah, here you are! We were starting to wonder where you had got to,' he declared as Margaret re-entered the room carrying a tray that boasted a fresh pot of tea and some scrumptious looking scones. John was conflicted. There was nothing he had wanted more than Margaret's speedy return, yet ironic as it was, he would have quite readily delayed her arrival by a mere minute, if only it meant he had been able to finish his sentence and tell Mr Hale that he was, and never would be, engaged to Miss Latimer. But no matter, it was perhaps best that Margaret was here, for now he would have the chance to apprise her of the fact too. Two birds with one stone, and all that. Nonetheless, when John went to open his mouth to utter his revelation, nothing came out, and he sat there like a cod fish as Margaret poured him his tea and handed it over, a bemused look on her face to see the even more bemusing one overhauling his. He would have tried again, he really would, but Mr Hale, being more talkative than ever tonight, once again broke the interlude of silence.
'Now then, my good fellow, where was I?' he asked. 'Oh, yes, I wanted to know your thoughts on the subject.'
John's mien was as blank as an unblemished sheet of paper.
'I beg your pardon?' he mumbled, reluctant to disclose that he had not been paying the least bit of attention to what his tutor had been saying the whole evening.
'About Aristotle's writings on relations between men and women,' Mr Hale reminded him, and John noticed the way Margaret blinked in surprise at the vulgar phrasing used by her father. 'His question as to whether men and women can truly be friends, given their supposed fundamental differences.'
A meditative hush fell upon the room as all three people present contemplated this, each of them thinking their personal thoughts. Rotating his head just a fraction to the side to regard Margaret, John saw that she too was reflecting on the matter. She had given up her sewing, and with her teaspoon sluggishly looping round and round the rim of her cup, she stared at an unmarked spot upon the floor, her right eyebrow hitched as she considered her response.
'Yes,' John said at last, and he spied the way she twitched in her seat to hear him once again speak, her mind obviously elsewhere. With a spark of hope kindling within, he could tell that she was listening to him intently, so he vowed to himself not to waste this rare opportunity to say what he must.
'I think that men and women are not so different as people would have us suppose. It is true that they are anatomically distinct, and as such, there are things that one can do that the other cannot, such as the act of childbirth. And again, there are some things which one is better at doing than the other, such as carrying a heavy physical load. But these discrepancies are few and far between. I believe that there is more that makes us similar than dissimilar,' John advocated.
'Explain,' Mr Hale pressed, placing the tips of his fingers together as he lounged back in his chair and crooked one leg on top of the other, his joints grumbling in complaint.
The pupil paused as he considered where to begin. He was not a man for speeches, he never had been, always preferring instead to keep his opinions to himself. However, when it was something he was passionate about, John could match any orator who had ever lived.
'For a start, I do not think that women are lesser than men in any way. As a matter of fact, I think the opposite, and I often find myself wondering whether they are in fact far greater.' John then paused as he saw Margaret shift once again.
'High praise, indeed,' Mr Hale chortled with animation, nodding to his daughter in agreement, who, much to John's dissatisfaction, did not react to any of this, but that only incited him to continue.
'Women are depicted as weaker by nature, but I do not think a man can begin to imagine the strength it takes to bear and birth a child, and that is not counting providing that wean with love throughout its life. That takes a kind of determined willpower that is inspiring,' he insisted, thinking on the women he had seen in his mill who worked their fingers to the bone to provide for their families, all the while ignoring their aching backs as they carried a baby. He had seen more than one child born on his factory floor, and the screams of those mothers sent shivers through his very bones.
'And I do not believe for a minute that they are any less intelligent than men, despite what folk say. It is just that women are denied the chance to prove themselves like we can. If they were given equal opportunities to be educated and enter into the world of commerce, politics or the law, they would soon show us their worth, giving us a run for our money. And what is more, men are liable to be quick to anger, as well as being prone to arrogance and selfishness, a flaw which I firmly believe has led to many a tragedy, whether it be mindless wars that kills us dead abroad, or senseless laws that rob us of life at home. But women, while they can be as selfish as anyone, they know how to nurture, they spend their lives caring for others, and so, they are the ones best placed to decide what is to be done for the better, for the greater good.'
'And do you think women have a threshold?' Mr Hale questioned. 'Do you think there is a limit to how far they can be the equal of a man?'
As a man who had been outnumbered three to one by women for many years, Mr Hale did not hold these narrow-minded sentiments himself, for he knew how capable womenfolk were. But all the same, he wanted to hear what his pupil had to say, particularly since Margaret was present and would doubtless have a persuasive opinion of her own. Mr Hale was astonished that she had not spoken up more tonight. His daughter was never one to hold her tongue, that had always been the case for both of his spirited children, but then again, perhaps she was still feeling a trifle poorly, shame, when she had been in such jolly spirits just before John's arrival, watching and waiting for him at her window.
However, John was not quite done. 'We have a Queen, do we not, who sits on our throne? So if she can rule a nation, whilst also being a wife and mother, then why cannot all women rule their towns, their homes and their own lives?' John advocated, thinking of the most majestic woman he knew, and how he longed for her to be the supreme monarch of his small world. At this, he smiled to himself. He had spent his entire adult life cultivating autonomy, ensuring that he was the master of his own fate, and yet now, how he wished she would take the reins and allow him to rest awhile as she steered him in whatever direction she saw fit, because he trusted her compass implicitly, even more than he did his own.
'No, women are not lesser than men, they are greater, and because of this, I think not only are they entitled to be our friends, but that they should be encouraged to be so, not so much for their sakes, but for ours. For without women in the world, we are lost souls, adrift and deprived of their saving grace. I, for one, pray that I can one day find a good woman to be my friend, for I know that with her humanity and guidance, she could make me a better man,' he finished with a deep sigh.
'I am glad to hear it, Mr Thornton,' came an inconspicuous yet confident voice from across the room. 'Or else we could never hope to be friends.'
He sat up straight. She had spoken? Had she finally spoken to him?
John tried his best to tame his tone when he addressed her next. He was all too aware that the last time they had conversed in this room had been when he had insulted her and interrogated her trustworthiness, so it was essential that tonight, he did not sound anything but gentle and gentlemanly.
'And are we friends, Miss Hale?' he asked softly, his reverberation low, inviting Margaret to come out of her shell and open up to him.
Margaret wrinkled her nose at this, as if his suggestion had been illogical.
'That is not up to me,' she told him, returning her eyes to her cup, her pretty lips pouting indecisively.
John was unsure of what she meant, so he ventured a further question.
'So what, then, do you consider to be important qualities for someone who wishes to be your friend?'
She laughed. 'Why, friendship, of course,' she replied plainly. 'But I think my idea of friendship is perhaps very different to everybody else's,' she added thoughtfully.
'And what do you think it is, my dear?' her father prodded, and both John and Margaret startled with fright, since they had half forgotten that he was there at all.
'I know one thing, and that is that friendship is not always easy,' said Margaret straight away. 'Most people think that to be friends, two people must get along all the time. That they must always agree. That they must be similar in every way. But I do not think it so. Friendship can be hard to define, but it is definitely not all about smiles and laughter, nor is it grounded in the superficial art of congenial affability. Anybody can be friendly if they want to, that is not difficult. No, friendship, the word, the bond, it is about constancy and companionship.'
With a hand unconsciously rising to rub at the scar on her temple, Margaret distractedly murmured, 'It is about knowing that you have somebody who cares about you, who cares whether you are well or ill, happy or sad, alive or dead. They care that you are here, that you are in their life, that you exist at all,' she explained, her eyes glassy as she nibbled her lip.
'Sometimes people can grow angry with each other. Their feelings can become fragile. Hurtful things can be said. Mistakes can be made. But friendship, true friendship, sees beyond such petty things. It is stronger, resilient, and far more understanding than anything that might seek to break it. It recognises that people are human, and that they are imperfect, but it is about wanting to be there for another person, accepting them for who and what they are, with all their virtues and all their faults laid bare without criticism. For you see, without all this, they are not whole, they are not themselves, and how can we claim to love somebody if we do not accept all of them?'
Letting her fingers skim her skirt, Margaret felt something in her pocket, and touching it, she realised that it was a string of solitary wool, and this strange relic gave her the assurance she needed to say her piece.
'Friendship, it is about caring for a person unreservedly. It is about showing them respect, offering them encouragement, and minding how they feel and what they think. It is being there for them, regardless of what may happen, and showing them day in and day out that you are not indifferent to them, but that they matter to you, that you think of them, always.'
All this time, Margaret had been looking down, but as she finished, she peered up, and she was disconcerted to see both her father and Mr Thornton staring at her. While her father smiled and nodded, Mr Thornton did not move a muscle. His eyes, which she tried her best not to meet, lest she become lost in them, were unemotional, his features and body language rigid, refusing to betray his thoughts. It was clear to her that he had not liked what she said, that he completely disagreed, and even though it hurt to think so, Margaret was still glad she had said what she did, and to him, of all people, and tonight, of all nights.
Blushing, Margaret picked up her sewing once more, and with a tremble to her voice, she concluded with: 'There, that is what friendship means…to me, anyway.'
Several minutes passed without another word being uttered, until, at last, the clock chimed the hour, and the three of them realised that it was getting frightfully late, that it was eleven o'clock, a mere hour until Christmas Day was upon them.
'I had better go,' John murmured half-heartedly, remembering that he had promised his mother and sister that he would see in the bells with them at midnight when they arrived back from their party. He had upset his mother enough by not staying home tonight, so returning now was the least he could do.
'Of course! Of course!' Mr Hale agreed, standing up and stretching out his arms, his old bones more than ready for a trip to Bedfordshire.
'Please, let me show you out,' he offered, aware that Dixon had been busy of late preparing for tomorrow's festivities, and so would greatly appreciate not being roused from her bed at this sleepy hour.
However, it was John who would have the final word, and on swiftly rising to his feet in one purposeful movement, he retorted with a brusque and commanding: 'No!' before he decreed: 'Miss Hale will show me out.'
