The Company of Passionate Fools and Liars

Premise: Margaret receives Fred's letter renouncing England before Thornton takes Higgins on (Chapter XLI). She received the letter just before Mrs. Thornton came to castigate her for her improper behavior. Margaret goes to Princeton to clear her mind (chapter XXXIX).(Book-based, quotations from book in Italics).

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On the receipt of Henry Lennox's letter, announcing how little hope there was of his ever clearing himself at a court-martial, in the absence of the missing witnesses, Frederick had written to Margaret a pretty vehement letter, containing his renunciation of England as his country; he wished he could unnative himself, and declared that he would not take his pardon if it were offered him, nor live in the country if he had permission to do so. All of which made Margaret cry sorely, so unnatural did it seem to her at the first opening; but on consideration, she saw rather in such expression the poignancy of the disappointment which had thus crushed his hopes; and she felt that there was nothing for it but patience.

How could Margaret bear it? She had sacrificed her own character for her brother's safety. Fred was safely ensconced in Spain and yet, even there he must keep is true identity secret. The Navy would spare no expense in dragging him back to England for trial, if once word of his true name and deeds came to light. She could not clear her name or prove her maidenly conduct and thus it was she would continue to pay the price with her own tarnished reputation. Her shame weighed on her and yet she could bear this burden more easily if she thought her own guilt could lead to her brother's future innocence in the eyes of the law. Yet, his letter dashed these hopes and made her feel all the more keenly his separation. He could no more "unnative himself" than he could change his parentage, but he was a man speaking out of passion. Their hopes had been raised. For a moment, she regretted ever having contacted Henry Lennox about Fred's case. If they had not tried, if they had remained silent, Fred would have left England sooner and they would not all be reeling under the pain of their dashed hopes - a pain felt all the more acutely for the seductive whispers of the hopes they had harbored.

It was not to be. Her brother dared not return to England. She could not clear her name to Mrs. Thornton and she was forever fallen in Mr. Thornton's eyes, even now as she finally learned the value of his good opinion. Yet, there was nothing for it but to continue on. She would not continue indulging in such lines of thought.

She went out, going rapidly towards the country, and trying to drown reflection by swiftness of motion.

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Just before Mr. Thornton came up to Mrs. Boucher's door, Margaret came out of it. She did not see him; and he followed her for several yards, admiring her light and easy walk, and her tall and graceful figure. But, suddenly, this simple emotion of pleasure was tainted, poisoned by jealousy. He wished to overtake her, and speak to her, to see how she would receive him, now she must know he was aware of some other attachment. He wished too, but of this wish he was rather ashamed, that she should know that he had justified her wisdom in sending Higgins to him to ask for work, and had repented him of his morning's decision. He came up to her. She started.

"Allow me to say, Miss Hale, that you were rather premature in expressing your disappointment. I have taken Higgins on."

"I am glad of it," said she coldly.

"He tells me, he repeated to you, what I said this morning about—," Mr. Thornton hesitated. Margaret took it up: "About women not meddling. You had a perfect right to express your opinion, which was a very correct one, I have no doubt. But," she went on a little more eagerly, "Higgins did not quite tell you the exact truth." The word "truth," reminded her of her own untruth, and she stopped short, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.

Mr. Thornton at first was puzzled to account for her silence; and then he remembered the lie she had told, and all that was foregone. "The exact truth!" said he. "Very few people do speak the exact truth. I have given up hoping for it. Miss Hale, have you no explanation to give me? You must perceive what I cannot but think."

Margaret was silent. She was wondering whether an explanation of any kind would be consistent with her loyalty to Frederick.

"Nay" said he, "I will ask no farther. I may be putting temptation in your way. At present, believe me, your secret is safe with me. But you run great risks, allow me to say, in being so indiscreet. I am only speaking as a friend of your father's: if I had any other thought or hope, of course that is at an end. I am quite disinterested."

"I am aware of that," said Margaret, forcing herself to speak in an indifferent, careless way. "I am aware of what I must appear to you, but the secret is another person's, and I cannot explain it without doing him harm."

"I have not the slightest wish to pry into the gentleman's secrets," he said, with growing anger. "My own interest in you is—simply that of a friend. You may not believe me, Miss Hale, but it is—in spite of the persecution I'm afraid I threatened you with at one time—but that is all given up; all passed away. You believe me, Miss Hale?"

"Yes," said Margaret, quietly and sadly.

"Then, really, I don't see any reason for us to go on walking together. I thought, perhaps, you might have had something to say, but I see we are nothing to each other. If you're quite convinced, that any foolish passion on my part is entirely over, I wish you good afternoon." He walked off very hastily.

"What can he mean?" thought Margaret,—"what could he mean by speaking so, as if I were always thinking that he cared for me, when I know he does not; he cannot. His mother will have said all those cruel things about me to him. But I won't care for him. I surely am mistress enough of myself to control this wild, strange, miserable feeling, which tempted me even to betray my own dear Frederick, so that I might but regain his good opinion—the good opinion of a man who takes such pains to tell me that I am nothing to him. Come! poor little heart! be cheery and brave. We'll be a great deal to one another, if we are thrown off and left desolate."

While Margaret's heart continued to wallow in self-pity, her mind remained active and circled through Mr. Thornton's words with all the pointed interest of a bird of prey searching for a movement in the grass. There was something within his words which unsettled her thoughts even while he pierced her heart. His stance was not sound. She knew it was not sound. And, even more so, the sentiments reminded her of something... of some words she had heard before... As she considered the tone and underlying emotion of the expressions Mr. Thornton spoke, she saw her brother's face, heard the words of his most recent letter: "He wished he could unnative himself, and declared that he would not take his pardon if it were offered him, nor live in the country if he had permission to do so."

Fred still loved England. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. He was angry with his natal land, he was disappointed, and his anger found its source in his painfully crushed hopes.

John Thornton's words and disavowal of his previous affections echoed Fred's sentiments so closely that Margaret nearly missed a step along the cobbled street. She reached out a hand to steady herself and she paused to watch the tall form walk away from her. His shoulders were hunched forward, his steps lacked some of their usual directness. He walked as a man who wished to escape something behind him and not as a man seeking an object before him.

He is speaking as a man with disappointed hopes, her mind realized. This overflow of strong emotion, this renunciation of all he once held dear is due to his circumstances and not due to a genuine rejection of the object. But, could it be possible...? Her heart began to beat faster at this prospect, even as she fought against allowing her own hopes to rise.

I am unworthy. I know I am unworthy, she thought. But am I truly 'nothing'? Does 'nothing' inspire such passion and anger? Yet, such assumptions he has made! What must he think of me! And all based on what evidence? Oh, it is unfair, unjust! I could bear it if it was solely the falsehood that led to my rejection, but is it more?

Margaret had not fully formulated her words or brought her emotions under good regulation before she called out to the black-clad back of the man seeking to flee her tainted company. "Mr. Thornton?" She called out.

He stopped walking and swung around to face her, his feet reluctantly creeping towards her, as if she pulled him with an invisible rope.

Now that she had his attention, she did not think through the consequences of her words before she spoke. She allowed the observations flooding her mind to overflow like the river after the rain.

"Mr. Thornton, you are either a fool or a liar," she burst out, her tone as matter of fact as if she was simply observing the color of fruit or the time of day.

Mr. Thornton could not remain so composed. His surprise quickly melted into a burst of anger. He gave a wary glance at the street around them to ensure no one paid heed to her outburst and then he turned to reluctantly accompany her once more. Yet, he maintained as great a distance from her as propriety… and his sense of hearing… could allow and his posture was as rigid as a newly installed fence post.

"What can you mean, Miss Hale?" He cried; his affronted tone muted to as low of a whisper as he could manage.

"Allow me to explain myself," Margaret Hale answered, her own face flushed crimson from her own audacity. "You now classify your former regard as a 'foolish passion.' Yet, at one time you claimed an affection worthy of offering your hand in marriage. If I recall correctly, you went so far as to threaten me with the unceasing persecution of your love. This 'passion' you once believed to be 'love' and you claimed you would not free me of your love, even if you could. Yet now you say such passions are entirely extinguished. Thus, I am left with three possible explanations for your change of sentiments.

"The first is that you did not then truly understand the nature of love for I doubt that any man truly in the throes of such attachment could later demean such a divine sentiment as 'foolish passion.' Recent months have made you know yourself more fully. You now recognize the capricious, inconstant emotion that had you under its spell and can admit you did not actually love me, truly love me, at any previous point in our acquaintance. If such is the case, if you were, indeed, influenced by such impulsive and transitory feelings, then it was foolhardy to make an offer of marriage."

Margaret paused to take a breath, but she did not dare to look up to see Mr. Thornton's expression. Whether anger or hurt or indifference, she could not allow his response to influence her words. She must continue to speak before she lost her courage.

"The second possible explanation for your change is due to current circumstances. I can only assume recent events have caused your perception of my character to so fall in your eyes that you lost all esteem you once held for me. Your affections were based on your assurance of my untainted character and now you see me as a woman unworthy of your affections. Yet, what are the accusations against me? The first: that I told a falsehood to a police inspector. The second: that I behaved in an unmaidenly manner by accompanying a man to Outwood Station at dusk. Both of these accusations are serious, indeed, and if they were both true, I could not fault you for your loss of esteem. Yet you base your conclusions on unsubstantiated evidence and without a proper investigation into the facts. I cannot accept such a stance as wisdom and if your affection for me is extinguished purely by such surface-level evidence and unsubstantiated rumors, then it is not worth having."

Now, Margaret let her eyes linger on a cart and horse across the way, her gaze traveling along the reins to the shaggy mane. Yet, it was not the horse she saw. Instead, her mind flittered back to her letter from her brother and how she imagined him speaking the words rather than writing them. She could see his bright, passionate face, wrenched in anguish as he shook his fist at his natal land. Yet, for all his vigor and protests, she did not doubt he would throw himself into England's bosom and embrace the land of his birth if she would only accept him as her own. As long as England rejected Frederick, then Frederick would reject England. Then, Margaret's imagination no longer saw her brother but an image of John Thornton. She heard his words to her over again.

If you're quite convinced, that any foolish passion on my part is entirely over... He had said.

He was provoking her; he was daring her to believe him. She realized. If she could not believe Frederick, how could she believe John Thornton?

"The third possible explanation," Margaret began, turning to face her companion once more, "for your professed change of heart is that you are, in all actuality, not speaking the 'exact truth.' Your attachment remains constant, but I have disappointed your hopes. I have hurt you and rejected you. Thus, you are angry with me. You began this interrogation with a request for an explanation of my behavior. When I failed to immediately satisfy your stated aim, you responded in a way meant to distance yourself from me and assure me of your disinterest. You wish to protect yourself from further hurt, disappointment, and anger. Thus, you wish to convince me… and yourself… of your indifference."

As Margaret spoke, the storm clouds on Mr. Thornton's brow gathered and deepened evermore until she could almost hear the thunderclaps in his thoughts. Yet, she did not give him the opportunity to speak, not just yet. Instead, she took a deep breath, threw her shoulders back with all the airs of queen condemning her courtier and continued onward undaunted.

"Now, Mr. Thornton, if it is the first explanation which proves the most valid, then I must rejoice in your change of heart. After all, a love that is so fleeting and immaterial cannot bode well as a foundation for marital felicity. Your mother informed me that you had harbored no thought of me as a potential wife until the day after the riot. You never once displayed interest in me either before or after the riot. I had no hints of your desire to court my favor. Thus, your raptures after the riot can all be attributed to a passing fancy and the unruly, tempestuous mood caused by the affair at Marlborough Mills. If this is indeed the case than I believe I have spared us both a great unhappiness in my initial refusal.

"Next, let us address the second possibility. I do not pretend to my own innocence or claim I am worthy of your esteem. You have every reason to despise me for my weakness of character and for my lack of trust in the Almighty to protect me. I told a falsehood. I lied about my whereabouts to the police inspector and proved myself faithless. Of this error, I admit and repine wholeheartedly. Yet, that is the limit of my transgression. If that is the sole reason for your loss of respect, I cannot blame you. Yet, for all my guilt, I cannot entirely fault myself either. I told a lie to protect my family and to spare a man's life. If I have lost your esteem because of my lie, it is a loss I regret keenly, but I cannot blame you for your loss of trust and respect.

"The rest of what you speak, the rest of what your mother so condemns me for - the breach of character you accuse me of - these are accusations which inquiries into anyone familiar with my character can acquit me of. I must wonder, sir, that you would expend so much effort to ensure the character and reliability of a potential mill hand and yet do not expend the same effort before making such accusations against a woman you once wished to wed. You have traversed Milton this day, seeking the truth of the claims of a man you hardly know. You did not believe Nicholas Higgins. You did not trust him. However, you sought to discover the truth of the matter yourself and did not rest until you were certain of his character and your judgement.

"Tell me, whom of my acquaintance have you conferred with over the substance of my character or my relationship to the man at Outwood Station? Have you inquired with my father or Mr. Bell, perhaps? Have you spoken with Dixon or Mary Higgins? Maybe you have spoken with our nearest neighbors or my Aunt Shaw or our parishioners in Helstone? No, you condemn my character based solely on circumstances you do not understand, and you do not wish to discover the truth. You grant a potential hand more justice than the woman you once wished to wed."

Thornton could bear it no longer and he interrupted her before she could continue. He turned swiftly to face her, preventing them from walking any further. "I wished to know the truth," he reminded her. "I believe my search to discover the truth of the matter is what began this conversation. You will not give me an explanation."

Margaret shook her head, a somber expression on her beautiful face. "Mr. Thornton, you did not ask Higgins to prove his character himself. Yet, you confront me, the one already proven to tell falsehoods, and you demand me to speak the truth. How can one with an already tarnished character be the one to remove my shame in your eyes? It is not sound. You know it is not sound.

"While I can appreciate the efforts you went to protect my family from further scandal from the inquest and I can even respect the desire to protect me from my supposed 'indiscretions,' I wonder that you did not seek to speak with my father first? Is it not my father's duty to shape and protect my character? Yet, my behavior at Outwood Station was entirely condoned by my father and he would have been far more distraught by the close call we had and the falsehood I was forced to tell than who I accompanied that night."

"By this, Miss Hale, I can only confer that the man at the station is your betrothed," Mr. Thornton surmised, a great bitterness tainting his voice.

"I do not believe there is a church in all Christendom that would endorse a union between myself and that man," Margaret answered, a mixture of wry humor and exasperation in her voice.

"Then he is already wed! Miss Hale…"

"Mr. Thornton," she interrupted. "Must you think only the worst of me? I fully admit I have not treated you as you deserve, and I am fully cognizant of my own unworthiness before you. Yet, this is too much! If my father knows and does not disapprove, why are you concerned? You are making assumptions without being privy to the true state of affairs, and I believe you are doing so in order to provoke me into satisfying your curiosity. It is not sound. In doing so, you wish to force me to choose whether to protect my family's secrets or regain my standing in your eyes. How can I betray an oath made to my own father in order to regain your good opinion of me? How could I maintain my character if I acquiesced? No, Mr. Thornton, you command my loyalty to lie with you and you alone, a stance that can hardly be attributed to a 'disinterested acquaintance.' This leads me to believe my third explanation is the most accurate. You, Mr. Thornton, are lying." With a haughty toss of her head, she looked up at him, her grey eyes daring him to refute her conclusion. Yet, she hardly breathed while she waited for his response.

The anger had drained from his posture and his brows had released their shadow of cares. She found her own sense of hope rising in response. If she was proved right, if he was a man speaking out of a wounded heart, one whose attempts at distance were out of a desire to protect himself from disappointed hope rather than true indifference, than maybe, just maybe, all was not lost.

For what felt like an eternity, he remained motionless, as if she had the Touch of Midas and had turned him into solid, unresponsive gold. Then, slowly, life returned to his expressions, and he melted before her. He began to shake his head from side to side. He took one step nearer and dropped his voice to a deep whisper.

"Very few people do speak the exact truth," he answered, much slower this time. His statement had lost its former bitterness and was now full of something more akin to hesitancy. A wry, cautious smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "And I do believe you are correct. I am a fool."

"A fool and a liar, then? Well, you are in good company, since I believe those are precisely what you have accused me of. Well, since I am not convinced that your 'foolish passions' are over, perhaps we may go on walking together for a little while longer? I do believe we both may benefit from trying to understand what compels the other to dishonesty."

"Would you offer me an explanation, then?" He asked.

Rather than answer him directly, she arched one eyebrow and gestured in the direction of her home. "I might answer with a suggestion that you speak with my father about the identity of the man you saw at Outwood Station. As the head of our family, it is left to my father's discretion how much of our affairs he can include you in."

Mr. Thornton nodded once, but before he could speak, Miss Hale's brow furrowed, and she cast a plaintive look in his direction. "Only, when you speak to him, I must beg you not to mention the altercation that occurred at Outwood Station or the incident with the police inspector. His ignorance of those affairs has kept him from bearing more cares and fears than his grieving heart can manage."

"And thus, you carry such cares... and dangers... alone?" He surmised.

"I would carry far more in order to protect my family," she answered and he knew it was true. This was something he did not doubt.

He nodded again to assure her of his circumspection and then he offered her his arm. "Allow me to accompany you home, Miss Hale. I will gladly speak with your father."

"I would be lying if I said I was not glad to have your company," she said, a bright smile flooding her face and overflowing into her eyes.

His answering grin lit up his entire face and she felt his other hand clasp over the hand on his arm. "I would be a fool to refuse such an offer."

The End

Author's Note:

Ah yes. The obligatory, super cheesy "fix-it" tale.

What if Margaret responded with logic rather than emotion? Otherwise known as "Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire." Our North and South Book Club is entirely to blame for this story's existence.