FORGIVEN AND FORGOTTEN

Chapter Two

John's grip tightened on the arms of his chair, the wood creaking in complaint, a few stray splinters of mahogany snapping away from their place amongst all the other tiny shavings and stabbing into the flesh of his calloused palm.

But he would not flinch, no, he would not let her see him wince, not his strong Margaret.

With his head sloping forwards under the weight of the menacing burdens which assailed him, John's eyes were burning with feverish foreboding, the ferocity of his fear causing a smouldering fire to scald behind the film of his orbs, spheres which now blazed a most intense yet chilling blue, a strange sort of conflict to see, let alone a deeply unnerving one for any onlooker to behold.

'John?' came a small voice from across the room, the tenderness of which pierced his heart with an even measure of hope and horror, for he exalted it, the sound of her, but saints save him, he was afraid of what she would say next, of what words of pain that siren song would ply to dash his hopes to pieces until they were so fragmented, that restoration was nigh on impossible.

John could not speak.

His voice had all but abandoned him, his thick, Darkshire chords now so tightly strung that they could not flex enough to even reverberate a single note of melodic joy or woe. Swallowing a thick ball of repellent worry, he coughed gruffly.

'What?' he muttered offhandedly, a hoarse croak seeping from the pit of his throat, the master unprepared to heed what she had to say, let alone accept it.

'May I talk to you?' she asked, her hesitant question hanging suspended in the air like a phantom who mocked him for being such a stupid sap, the ghost of what might have been between them if he had not been a mere mortal who did not deserve this treasured angel sent from above to both teach him how to be a better man, and in turn, torment him by always being just that little bit out of reach with her God damned purity.

For a minute, John genuinely considered what to say in response, and he was ashamed to admit it, but he entertained the idea of telling her no, and turning Margaret away, thus denying her the chance to break his heart all over again. If he did this, he could delay her departure, even for a matter of hours, because surely that was it, that was what she wanted to say. Yes, it all made sense now. She was tired of him already, and the whirlwind of their elopement to Milton had been nothing more to her than a spur-of-the-moment madness, a flurry of dizzy romance, not the desperate longing of a lonely but loyal heart as it had been for him.

Margaret, his sweet, gentle, refined Margaret, had come to realise that she had made a terrible mistake, her head turned by giddy and girlish sentiment after being kissed so romantically for the first time on that station platform five days ago. Now that the dust had settled, she could see clearly, and instead of finding herself in the sophisticated world of gentlefolk to which she was accustomed, she instead found herself surrounded by dirt, smoke, and poverty, the bleak grime of a city of the Empire, of a manufacturing town like Milton. What was more, unlike before, when her father had brought her here, she now had no hope of leaving to look forward to, for if she married here, then here she would stay for good. To be sure, John could guess that all her old loathing for the place had likely returned, and despite not wishing to hurt him, Margaret was now planning how to escape her penurious and polluted confines before it sucked her in and swallowed her whole.

With her eyes wide open, the clever woman would have comprehended that by staying here, she was chaining herself to an uninspiring man with his lacklustre life, someone whom she could never truly give herself to, not like that, and so she had better scarper while she still could, before a ring was on her finger, a babe was in her belly, and she had bound herself to him forever. What was it that Fanny said of him? That her brother was a boring and brooding brute who would never be able to charm a woman enough to convince her to be his bride.

Aye, that was it. There was no doubt in John's mind…Margaret was leaving him.

She had come here tonight to tell him that while she respected him and valued the genuine friendship they shared − ha friendship! she could not bring herself to marry him, and after making some sort of excuse, one which would no doubt be sickeningly kind, she would tell him that she had packed her bags and was returning to London tonight, never to return again. With a heart weeping in the agonising expectation of misery, John grasped that once more, he would be forced to watch the love of his life walk away from him and the life they could have made together, and this time, she would not look back.

But wait − no!

No, no, no – no!

Had he not been through all of this before?

Yes, he had.

Shaking his head slowly from side to side and scrunching up his eyes, almost as if he were looking into a dark and distant past in search of answers, John thought about everything that had passed between them over the days, weeks, months and years that had made up the medley of their tempestuous relationship.

Then John nodded conclusively.

Yes again! It was true. He had allowed the dangerous emotion of self-doubt to govern their fragile attachment once before, and in being bitter and so unforgivably blind, he had permitted his insecurities to do Margaret an injustice, and by default, he had inflicted a great deal of harm upon the both of them by holding back when he should have been reaching out to her time and time again. He had been given so many opportunities to show her how he felt, to demonstrate to her that his love was sincere and steadfast, but in a reprehensible effort to preserve his pride, John had been a fool and stayed away and stayed quiet.

John, you absolute ass!

If John's green-eyed suspicions had not clouded his judgement before, then he would have known that Margaret was not one to scheme, lie and behave wantonly with a man without good cause, and instead of putting up a wall of stony estrangement between them in a pitiful attempt to protect his sense of integrity and his own contemptible heart, John could have found a way of encouraging her to confide in him about what he had witnessed at the station that night, and Lord help him, they could have been long wed by now.

So no, whatever she had to tell him, he was unlikely to like it, she had said so herself, but John had to try and trust his darling girl and have confidence in the depth and durability of their unbreakable bond, one which had been forged in the furnace of pain and loss, making it indestructible. So there, that was that, he would put aside his cynical reservations and listen to the woman he loved, because no matter what she had to say, Margaret merited his undivided attention, not just because of who and what she was to him, but because she had proven that she deserved his unswerving faith.

So by God, she would have it!

John lifted his eyes to meet hers, and his heart thumped in his chest to see the nervousness which poured out from those cloudy lakes, her irises glittering in the candlelight as she watched him anxiously from afar, clearly desperate to come to him, but fretful that he would not want her to.

John cursed himself inwardly. Damn! He had done it again! He had pushed her away and erected a cold and cruel partition between them all in the name of selfish self-preservation.

But no more, no more, this had to stop, and it had to stop now.

Reaching out a hand yet again, one which now trembled with the premonition of what was to come, since his aching limb perceptively knew that this may be the very last time it would be permitted the privilege of touching her, John nodded in agreement. 'Yes, love, of course you may,' he invited. 'Always.'

Nodding in turn, Margaret succumbed to John's summons, and with a few determined strides, she walked over to his side, her skirts swishing about her legs, and she came to rest next to his chair, her body tantalisingly close to his as the creases of her dress skimmed his shirtsleeve. As John looked up at her from his stiff position in his chair, he felt his breath catch in his throat. Good God! – she was glorious! John had come to realise that he would never tire of looking up and seeing Margaret standing before him, especially given that such a simple act had become devoutly symbolic to him of late. You see, when he had sat in that solitary train compartment on the way back from the birthplace of his beloved, his own private prison of despair, John had been beset by a haunting feeling of hopelessness and heartache at the thought that he would never see his cherished sweetheart again, not in person anyway.

He had hoped that she would never fade away, forcing him to forget what she looked like, but no, he need not worry about that, not when she was constantly on his mind. Whether John liked it or not, his head as well as his heart had become her enduring dwelling place, so it was only natural that Margaret's image would forever be imprinted on the forefront of his thoughts, meaning that the master knew that right up until his dying day, he would be able to remember every curve and contour of her lovely, lovely face, since it was one he knew better than his own.

But oh Lord, how he wished he could see her in the flesh again, once more, just once.

As the train had pulled into the station, and he had languidly thrust open the compartment door so that he might get a breath of air to revive him from his stifling melancholy, John had truly believed that he would never know the sweet sap of happiness, not when the only two things which truly mattered to him in the whole wide world had been taken from him, his mill, and more importantly by far, his Margaret. But of course, she had not been his Margaret, had she? In fact, she was most likely somebody else's by now, and all a lovesick John could do was pray that the lucky fellow treated her right and loved her with everything that he had, everything that he was, because anything less than that would be a crime, a crying shame. As he had made to stand up, the weight of this depressing reality had been enough to crush his courage until he was broken beyond repair, the man on the very brink of giving up.

But then, as John had looked up…there she had been.

She had stood there, like a vision, and for a moment, John had assumed that he had gone mad, his infatuated mind having conjured her up in a fit of manic obsession. But no, he had blinked, and she had not vanished, revealing that she was real, and in that instant, John had smiled, because, for some strange and unknown reason, he had understood why God had caused two trains to stop at the same arbitrary point at the same indiscriminate time.

It was because he and Margaret, they were meant to be.

So, yes, looking up and seeing Margaret may seem like a terribly ordinary thing of little note, but to our John, it had become something sacred that would forever soothe the fire in his soul.

Gazing up at her, her slight body slender and sensual as she arched her back and unconsciously leaned in towards him, John felt an urge to tug Margaret down onto his lap and hold her close while he kissed her over and over again with greedy hunger, their mouths melding until their heads swam with intoxicated and forbidden desire. John could hardly cope being so near to her, which was odd, given that it was something he had fantasised about for so long, but now that she allowed it, this closeness between them, he found that the feeling overwhelmed him in every way. He craved Margaret constantly, but right now, he needed to feel close to her to survive, just as assuredly as he needed air to breathe. But no, that would not do, dragging her down to his carnal level, so he best behave. Instead, John did not make the first move but watched enthralled as she leaned back against the edge of his desk, and in a change of pace, she peered down, while he peered up, their heights reversed for once, making him feel small in her presence, in her power.

Again, he let his eyes trail over her yellow dress, and he found himself grinning like a smitten schoolboy. For a man who had never cared a fig for clothes, it was a wonder that he was so fascinated by such a humble cloth, but then again, Margaret could make anything look magnificent. It was an unfussy garment, one spun of plain cotton, a feature which had caught his keen eye immediately. The pleats were made up of bold yellow and white stripes, with tiny flowers embroidered here and there, their sunny faces peeking out like a frisky garden. It looked even more striking on her given that her skin had a delicious brownness to it, a glow even, a darkening of dermis that had occurred after she had been abroad with her relatives. Fanny detested such a tan, but John liked it immensely. It suited Margaret, this healthy ruddiness, and it got him thinking about how he would need to take her to Spain soon to see her brother since he too should really get acquainted with the man who had haunted his dreams for so long, a man Margaret loved very much, but for reasons which John had been oh-so-very wrong about. Crooking a finger, John let it trace along one of the white lines that ran down her side, the lightsome colour a testament to Margaret's wholesome virtue, something which coursed throughout her pure being from tip to toe, just like these horizontal stripes. John grinned at the way Margaret writhed under his ticklish touch, and her head fell to the side to skim her shoulder as she blushed, her cheeks turning a radiant red.

It turned out, that in a flustered rush, Margaret had hastily packed a carpet bag to bring with her to Milton, just in case she needed to pause there for some indefinite reason, or rather, perhaps she had hoped, deep down, that the gentleman she was going to see, the man she was going to save, would ask her to stay.

At any rate, in her agitated urgency to get to the train station so that she might flit up the country and offer the man she loved her modest aid as soon as possible, Margaret had hardly been able to stop and think about what she was stuffing into her carrier. Therefore, in her scattiness, she had crammed in one of her old dresses, one which she had forgotten she even had, a terribly out-of-date and unexceptional bit of nothing which she had worn in the countryside on her visits home from London to visit her parents.

The next day, when she had awoken in John's house, her new home, Margaret had discovered that she had very little to wear, and so, tiptoeing downstairs in her yellow and white speckled gown, she had shyly stumbled upon the master eating his breakfast. Shuffling coyly on the spot, unsure of what she was supposed to do next, John had sensed her presence and glanced up, and with his jaw nearly hitting his plate of kippers, the man had just about fallen off his seat at the sight of her. You see, John had been astounded, because while he had assumed that the rare Helstone rose he had plucked from a hedgerow the day before was now secreted between the pages of a book of love poems, it turned out that he was wrong, for here it stood before his very eyes, in full bloom, in all its glory, more beautiful than ever.

Since then, Margaret had been hauled off to the dressmakers by a vexed Fanny, who had insisted that her sister-in-law-to-be, (what a mouthful of a title), could not be allowed to continue dressing like a bumpkin. Margaret had reminded Mrs Watson that she did have clothes at Harley Street that could be sent up, and while Fanny had paused for a moment, beguiled by the thought of London, she soon snapped out of it and told Margaret that this was all very well, but even so, it was best to be safe and ensure that her collection was thoroughly up-to-date. So, after a lot of fussing by Fanny, Margaret had been ordered a new wardrobe fit for the wife of the Master of Marlborough Mills, but alas, until her garments were all sewn and stitched, John could secretly delight in seeing his love in her simple gown of yellow, a colour which was happy and hopeful, the emblem of their love.

As he looked up at her tonight, her face aglow with the light of the flickering candles, John's heart swelled with pride. Margaret, she was so soft, so sweet, so sensational in every way, and she was his, all his…or was she?

As John's entranced eyes wandered across Margaret's face and form this evening, he could not help but feel a twinge of disquiet scratch away at the varnish of his valour, since there was definitely something off about her demeanour. Studying Margaret thoughtfully, John could see that she was nibbling her bottom lip, a tell-tale sign that he had recently learnt indicated that she was nervous, because his lovely lass had done it when she was trying to tell him of her request to invest in the mill, or in truth, to invest in him, and then she had done it again when she had been reintroduced to John's mother as his fiancée later that night. Again, to add to his mounting worries, Margaret was gazing down at the floor fretfully, her eyes edgy, her shoulder stiff, her small hands still locked behind her, opposed to where they ought to be, and that was fastened securely around his neck, the place where she seemed to always instinctively placed them, just like she had done on the day of the riot.

John was not sure what the matter was, but something was wrong, and he did not like it, no, he did not like it one bit. As charming as he found this novel side of his darling girl, this willingness she had to let him look upon her and love her just as she was, both in her strength and in her weakness, John could not help but feel a prick of unease jab away at his sanguinity. This was because, for reasons which he could not quite discern, he could tell that tonight Margaret had ventured beyond the point of reserved shyness, and had now entered into the realm of real trepidation, possibly even terror, something which he could not stand for her to feel, not around him, not ever.

'Margaret,' he began fondly, his deep voice vibrating with stifled affection. 'What is the matter?' he questioned, deeming it best to get straight to the point.

Margaret's head shot up, and her eyes both brimmed and blinked, making her appear like a startled doe who found herself before the barrel of a hunter's gun. 'Oh! Emm, well, oh,' she stuttered, fingering a misplaced strand of hair and pinning it behind her ear, an insignificant act which was so captivating, that John found himself hypnotised by it, the master utterly lost in his love for her. But no, he had to concentrate, so forcing his eyes away, he returned his attention to her face, and in doing so, he lifted his hand to cup it, his splayed fingers stroking her cheek.

Peering at him from below her long eyelashes, Margaret's body tingled in response to his intimate warmth. Oh! Oh my! John really was the dearest man who had ever lived. Margaret could not quite get used to the feeling of having John look at her with such naked love and longing, and even although she welcomed it, it still left her feeling lightheaded with glee as if a swarm of besotted butterflies were fluttering around her heart, their wings palpitating against her breast. He had looked at her like that at the station, and in her inexperience, as well as her shame for her past conduct towards him, Margaret had hardly been able to bring herself to return his adoring gaze, since she knew she did not deserve it. She had guessed at what it meant, that he loved her still and always had, but she had not allowed herself to assume, no, since she would not put words into his mouth, and so she had waited for him to tell her how he felt. Then, much to her relief, John had, first with a touch of his hand, then the touch of his lips, and then with the giving of his hand and heart.

Wriggling on the desk under the scrutiny of his sentimental stare, Margaret closed her eyes and breathed heavily, her lungs filling with the most appealing fragrance. Goodness, how she relished the smell of him. Margaret had come to learn that John had a smell that was particular to him alone. It was not one of paper and ink, like her father, or sea and salt, like her brother, or cigars and brandy, like Maxwell. No, John smelt of soot, and smoke, and sweat, a heady combination which was the distinct aroma of a man who was not afraid of hard work, a man who dedicated himself to the toil of his trade. It was a smell that Margaret had missed so much when in London, that she had found herself purposefully slipping away and digressing from the smart streets of Marylebone, instead deviating towards the smoke-filled lanes of the industrial city, all so that she might feel closer to him as she breathed in the vapours of a spicy sky which belonged to this world inhabited by manufacturing and its masters.

Sniffing the air of John's office, Margaret took in a generous whiff of his scent, and she nearly swooned, causing her to let out a breathy sigh that was wholly indecent. Opening her eyes, Margaret now frowned, because even although her John was as handsome as ever, she could see that he had not been looking after himself in her absence. No, he had grown thinner and his face was besmirched by dark patches below his eyes. It pained her to see him thus, her dear boy, and as a result, Margaret had vowed that she would not only love John ardently every day for the rest of her life, but she would also make it her life's mission to look after him, since even though he would never admit it, John pined for such a mutually dependent bond, for he sorely wanted a woman to care for him, just as much as he cared for her. Yes, through her devotion, Margaret would nurse and nurture him back to his full strength, because she needed him, yes, she would need him around as a happy and healthy husband for many years to come, and so would their children, their own treasured Thornton family of which he would not be the master, but the loving head.

Thinking on this, Margaret reshuffled herself on his desk, her bottom wriggling, and she wiggled her toes as she pondered what to say. 'It is nothing, really,' she tried again, her words coming out as a humiliating squeak, this woman of poise was not used to being so disconcerted. 'I should not have said it was,' she corrected, shaking her head sharply, her body quaking somewhat, the tussles of her Spanish shawl quivering.

John wrinkled his brow and moved his hand to gently squeeze her arm, the sensation of which made Margaret jump at first, but then she soon settled again and let his fingers caress her. 'Now, Margaret, that is a fib, isn't it?' he tested patiently, his manner peaceable rather than irritable, since whatever it was, John wanted more than anything for Margaret to trust him enough to talk to him. 'You just told me that you had something to tell me, and you warned me that I would not like it, so come now, pet, I think you had better be out with it before we both lose our nerve,' he prompted in half jest, half earnest entreaty since he could hardly stomach this tense suspense a second longer.

However, much to his discontent, Margaret did not say anything but merely continued staring at a fixed spot on the floor, her eyes distressed.

John could feel the pang of panic escalating in his belly. 'Please tell me, darlin',' he encouraged, more than a trifling tinge of concern to his tone.

Nothing.

'Is it my mother?' he ventured, a grumpy huff to his suggestion since even although she had generally behaved herself, John could still tell that his mother had her suspicions about Margaret's loyalty to her precious son, no matter how often he promised her that the girl's trustworthy character was beyond reproach. Again, she was far from impressed that the unmarried woman was living here, having made more than one snide comment on the matter, the matriarch only backing down when John glared at her, warning her that while she might be able to counsel him on just about any area of his life, when it came to Margaret, he would not be discouraged.

Nevertheless, Margaret shook her head.

John exhaled noisily through his nose, a comical whistling sound being the unintentional result. 'Is it my sister?' he deduced, since that would not surprise him in the least, given that despite her apparent acceptance of the news of his unexpected engagement, John's sister had been far from silent when it came to proclaiming her astonishment at his choice of bride and the scandalous suddenness of their understanding, her gossiping tongue thrilled to speculate as to the reason for their abrupt concord. She had not said it out loud, well, not to anybody other than Watson, mama, Jane, and her seamstress, but Fanny had half wondered whether, on the train, they had…well, one did hear of such things.

But again, Margaret's head moved from side to side.

John grumbled. 'One of your family, then? Your brother? Your cousin? Your aunt?' he pressed, a sour tartness to his words, for you see, John had read the letter that Mrs Shaw had sent her niece, and it went without saying that she had not held back in voicing her disdain for the match.

Not one to mince her words, Mrs Shaw had cited numerous condemning reasons why this, "failed hawker," was no good for a Beresford girl who had beauty, breeding, and brains to recommend her, meaning that she could have her pick of any young man of her choosing, so why on earth Margaret should wish to saddle herself with this penniless and uneducated tradesman was beyond her. Her aunt had continued with slanders regarding the smog, the foulness, the lack of genteel society, and the general heathenness of these far-flung cities which lacked moral uprightness and prestigious value, reminding her niece that if she married a man from these squalid parts, both she and her children would be forever contaminated by association.

In all fairness to her, an appalled Margaret had tried to hide the letter from him, but John had accidentally stumbled upon it when clearing up some papers in the drawing room, and much to his regret, his curiosity had got the better of him. With a seething temper which threatened to boil over at any moment, John's irritated and indignant eyes had scanned every unfriendly word that old bat had spouted with her poisonous pen, and it had taken every inch of his self-control not to rip up the offensive filth and fling it into the fire, condemning it to Hell for all its smears on his character, a stain which would always be upon him in the eyes of Margaret's London family.

In addition, John had learnt all about Margaret's brother when they had journeyed back on the train together, and despite there being no way young Mr Hale could have discovered their engagement already, what with the sister only having written to tell him a few days ago, he still feared that the man might manifest at any moment and whisk her away to Spain, claiming that this good-for-nothing northerner had seduced her, all so that he might steal and squander her fortune. John scowled. This was a wicked lie, of course it was, but one which John knew many a mean-spirited and malicious-tongued person whispered behind their backs. He had heard it all, every disgusting and defamatory rumour. Some said that Margaret had bought him like a slave with her wealth. Others claimed that John had bedded the fine southern lady and left her with no choice. Either way, it was the sad truth that Milton folk lived for scandal, and so, for a season, John and Margaret would have to grin and bear being the focus of their gossip. It would pass soon enough, John was sure of it, and they would quickly set upon some other innocent soul, but for now, the master was doing his best to ensure that his sweet Margaret was shielded in blissful ignorance from their spiteful natter.

However, one last time, as John watched her apprehensively, Margaret's head just swivelled left and then right, her loose chestnut curls swinging about her cherubic face.

John sighed in bewilderment and scratched his scalp.

What the devil was the matter?

Then, all of a sudden, an idea came to him.

With his eyes swooping to the space behind her, a place her two hands had not yet moved from, John inclined his head and surmised, 'Has it something to do with what you're hiding behind your back there, love?'

Margaret gasped and blushed once more, her cheeks now redder than the passionate blood which ran through his veins for want of her. Gradually, timidly, Margaret moved her hands and brought them round to her front, and there they settled on her lap and a lean bundle of papers came into view, a collection which she clasped to her tummy, and there Margaret cradled her load.

When she did not say anything, but merely swallowed thickly, John lobbied her once again, careful to retain a calming quality to his tenor and not an irascible one. 'What have you got there, Margaret?' he solicited.

As she turned her head towards him, John felt his heart clench in his chest, since Margaret, bless her, looked like a frightened kitten, and John could not stand to see her so scared, not before him. 'Hey-hey-hey!' he whispered, moving forward in his seat and prising one of her hands away so that he could lift it to his lips before tenderly kissing her palm and then each of her fingers in turn.

Good Lord! What on earth was she concealing from him?

'Margaret, come now, what is it? You can tell me. It is me, John, your John, and surely you must know that you can tell me anything,' he reminded her, the painful remnants of the past distressing him, the disturbing memory flitting through his mind of a time in their affiliation when she had felt unable to confess to him and confide in him about the identity of the man at Outwood station, the man who had all along not been a rival for her affections, but her fugitive brother.

Oh, God! If only she had told him, how different things might have been. But never mind all that now, since here they were, together at last, all of the mistakes and grief of the past laid to rest, the two of them ready to move forward as one into a joyful new beginning. Yet all the same, that is why it was so important to John that there be no more secrets between them, since he had seen the damage that concealing their feelings had caused, and he had made a promise to himself to never let such things come between them again, so there was no way in hell that he was allowing it to get in the way of their love less than a week into their engagement.

That is, of course…if they were still engaged…?

No! He must not allow himself to think like that!

Margaret patted the papers as she looked up at John, her bottom lip clenched between her teeth. When she did this, John caught sight of the slim band of cotton which she wore on the fourth finger of her left hand, a thread which he had torn from his shirt and wound round her digit after he had proposed on the train, and she had wholeheartedly accepted, both of them knowing that it would be some time before he could afford to buy her a proper symbol of their love and commitment, but then again, she had insisted that this ring was grand enough for her, dear Margaret, ever his unassuming sweetheart. Ah, so it was still there, then, well, that was something, he supposed.

Breathing heavily, Margaret cleared her throat. 'I…I have written to Henry,' she whispered, so quietly that he could hardly hear her.

As this news floated into John's ears, he stilled and stiffened, the shadow of a scowl polluting his previously affectionate face. Snatching his hand away from her and letting his disused arm slip down the side of his chair and out of sight, John clenched his fist as he tried to quell the squall of resentment which blustered like a storm in his insecure mind.

'Oh?' was all he could manage, the word coming out strained and strangled.

Margaret nodded, her fingers caressing the pages before her with a tenderness which made John's soul scream out in protest. How dare another man evoke such warmth from her – the basta −no! John would not use that word, but not because it was coarse, but because there was no such phrase in the English language to adequately define nor describe such a deplorable scoundrel.

Then, with the ugly sting of jealousy stabbing at his heart, John could not help but let out a sharp, and, he was ashamed to admit it, a childishly insensitive: 'Why?!'