Chapter 4 – A Thing of No Consequence

"My son is gone to Oxford, but if you will wait, he should be home soon enough. I suppose, Miss Hale, that you might wish to see him?"

Seated on a straight-backed chair beside Aunt Shaw, Margaret gripped her reticule, for her mutinous heart had leaped painfully at the thought of Mr Thornton's presence in Oxford. "Indeed," she said with all the firmness she could summon, "I should very much like to thank Mr Thornton. He has been a most kind and obliging friend to my father. We – my father was always fortunate in his friendships, and Mr Thornton was very dear to him."

"Then you must stay a while."

When Margaret did not reply, Mrs Thornton darted her a sharp look, and did not speak of her son again. So, Margaret sat in the solemn splendour of the drawing room for what seemed an eternity, while the conversation flowed on without her. She was only vaguely aware of Aunt Shaw's genteel voice ploughing on about the price of silks and lace in London, how much warmer it was in the South, how impossible it was to travel comfortably in winter. Of Mrs Thornton's answers, she took no notice at all.

They had not waited above ten minutes when the door opened; Margret rose, knowing instinctively that he had returned at last. He had not expected her, and stood for a moment in shock, before he moved again with the vigour she remembered so well. Seeing him, she was struck anew by the nobility of his bearing, the austere beauty that he wore so unconsciously. But today, his face was marked by a strange pallor that she took for grief.

"John," said Mrs Thornton, "This lady is Mrs Shaw, Miss Hale's aunt. I am sorry to say, that Miss Hale's call is to wish us goodbye."

He bowed to Aunt Shaw, briefly took Margaret's offered hand.

"You are going then?"

"Yes," Margaret said. "We leave for London tomorrow."

"And you are never coming back?" Then, in a voice so low that she strained to hear him, "No. Why should she, when there is no one to keep her here?"

He said nothing more, and turning away, set down his hat and gloves on the table. Her whole attention was absorbed by him; she could not see his face, but he was very still and his fingers, gripping the table's bevelled edge were starkly white against the darkness of his mourning suit.

An odd sensation, very like a thrust to the heart brought tears to her eyes.

Quietly, she said, "Mr Thornton, I am come to express my gratitude for all your kindness to us – to my father and mother – during our time in Milton. And I – I should also like to return your gloves. I am so sorry, I should never have kept them."

She looked up, saw his frank astonishment, how reluctantly he took from her the flat brown parcel that now lay in his hands. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much to be explained, yet her lips would not form the words that poured so heedlessly into her mind and heart, clamouring for expression against all dignity and propriety. With a supreme effort, she quelled them at last, and when she spoke again, there was only a faint tremor in her voice, almost imperceptible, so that afterwards he was sure that he had imagined it.

"Mr Thornton, I hope you will not think the worse of me for what I have done."

For a time, he was silent, his eyes burning dark and unreadable. "Miss Hale, do you truly care for my good opinion?" A pause. "I was your father's friend, and all that I did, I did for his sake."

Then, he laid the parcel on the table as though it were a thing of no account.

All the emotion welling within her cried out against the truth of what he had said. In a moment of passion, she reached for his arm. But she was too late, for he moved to the door where Aunt Shaw, visibly relieved at having completed the obligatory courtesies, was taking leave of her hostess.

"Ah, Margaret, my dear, there you are! Come and say goodbye to Mrs Thornton."

And so, she was forced to compose herself once more. Like one in a dream, Margaret crossed the threshold for the last time, aware only of how Mr Thornton kept his distance as he followed them down the steps to the waiting carriage in the mill yard. Irresolutely, she halted, lifted her eyes and saw a look pass between mother and son, of such intensity that she could not but know its meaning. Mrs Thornton had reclaimed her son; now, he belonged to no woman but her.

The knowledge of it wounded Margaret, and she turned her back on them, filled with a yearning for sanctuary. She wished that she could fly to a place where her soul could be numbed, where pain and loss had no effect, where his proximity could no longer afflict her.

The snow was everywhere, swarming in the wind, stinging Margaret's cheek as she felt for the open carriage door. Gratefully, she took the hand offered her; warm and steady it was, slim and long-fingered. She let go, and as the door swung to, the man stepped aside. She would always remember her final glimpse of him, the brilliance of his eyes and the snow, cotton-white, settling on his lips and in his dark hair.

John Thornton watched them go, the dull ache in his breast growing steadily, consuming his entire being. For an instant, the impassive mask he had worn all that interminable day slipped, he let his shoulders droop and passed a weary hand across his brow. The throbbing pain in his temples that began in Oxford had gathered force, and his only desire now, was to lie down in solitude and silence of his own room.

For much of his life, he had been schooled in self-denial, but never till today, had his strength been so sorely tested. He crossed the yard with less than his usual energy, let himself into the office, neglecting to shut the door until a gust of snow billowed in after him. At his desk he found a pile of purchase orders to be signed, and as he dropped into his chair, felled by fatigue, he let his head sink into his hands.

Now and forever, he would be haunted by the memory of her touch, of fair tapering fingers, and the cold kiss of the bracelet that graced her beloved wrist.

As the carriage approached the mill gate, Aunt Shaw who had so far observed Milton with a revolted fascination, turned to the window, determined to memorize for the entertainment of her London friends the novel sight and sound of an industrial monstrosity that produced the cotton no one wished to wear.

"Oh, how odd."

"What is it, Aunt?" Margaret asked tiredly.

"Why, Mr Thornton, of course!" Aunt Shaw exclaimed. "It is most extraordinary. He must have formed a strong attachment to your father indeed, for I have never seen a man so moved."

When Margaret, who had closed her eyes and slipped like one utterly exhausted into her corner of the carriage, roused herself, she saw only the empty mill yard, rapidly vanishing behind a falling curtain of snow.

Margaret did not answer at once, for she could not trust herself to speak. When they had left Marlborough Mills safely behind them, she said:

"Yes. They were friends, for all their disparities in age, situation and learning. He was a great comfort to papa when mother died." Then softly, she added, as though to herself, "He was a great comfort to us both."

Mrs Shaw could rein in her curiosity no longer. "What was in that parcel Margaret? What keepsake of your father's could possibly move Mr Thornton so? I never saw a colder countenance in any man. And such taciturnity! He has not half of Mr Lennox's wit or grace of manner."

"There, my dear Aunt," she said, suddenly stung by the injustice of the remark, "you are much mistaken. Mr Thornton has the warmest heart of any man living. And his reticence, well... I – I believe that something must have happened to annoy him." She mustered her brightest smile to soften the reproach, took her aunt's hand and squeezed it. "As for that, it was nothing at all."

Then, Margaret turned away, busying herself with the travelling rug, so that Aunt Shaw should not see the hot tears that came quite unexpectedly into her eyes. But her voice was steady:

"It was a thing of no consequence."

Author's note:

Dear everyone, here's the final chapter at last! It was written months ago, but while Chapter 3 was being ironed out, and while I was being distracted by other N&S story strands, this one got nowhere. Thanks for your patience, and I do hope you've enjoyed reading this despite the break in between.

I should add that the conversation between Margaret and Mr Thornton before she expresses her gratitude, and Mrs Thornton's announcement of Margaret's impending departure were either taken or adapted from the novel (Chapter 43) or the BBC drama.