“No!…I…no, there is no one else,” she faltered as she slowly turned back again, her face bowed to the ground.
“Then can you not give me hope…for the future?”
Her heart twisted inside, for his very pressing of the question made her recognize she could never take Henry Lennox as her husband. “Henry, I…” she faltered, lifting her pitying eyes.
“I see. Then I must apologize for troubling you with such an unpleasant offer,” he clipped, his voice now cold. “You invited me to visit here. I was under the impression that you had a favorable opinion of me…”
“I am fond of you…but I’m afraid only as a friend. If we could only continue to be friends,” she offered pleadingly, but he scowled and whipped around, retracing the path to the house.
Margaret trailed behind him miserably, handing her father the basket of treasure that had cost her so much trouble. He took no note of the price paid for the desired fruit.
“Ah…and now you see, Mr. Lennox,” he said, taking two pears out of the basket and giving one to their guest, “how we enjoy ourselves here. Our surroundings are not only beautiful, but provide us with such treats as this.”
“Yes, you must pity us Londoners. We must attempt to find comparable beauty in marble, stone, and iron while we find enjoyment in culture, conversation, and art. Alas, we cannot all live in the country. We are forced to find what we want at the market,” Mr. Lennox answered with dry sarcasm.
Margaret saw the startled look on her father’s face at this rather cutting reply. A flare of anger rose in her breast at Henry’s callous sophistication. It was moments like this, when Henry’s clever sarcasm ruled over others, that annoyed Margaret and made her feel the great disparity between them.
Realizing how incompatible they were, she assured herself that her decision was sound. How could he be so cold and condescending when he had only moments ago spoken of that which should be the most holy of subjects in his heart? Sorrow touched her as she saw his deep weakness.
Oh, she would wait to find a deeper love—a love beyond pride and self-concern! She would never marry for anything less.
As she silently made this vow, the memory of the gentleman from the North came to mind.
She kept her head bent low as Henry conversed with her father in a terse manner that confused the vicar. But Mr. Lennox did not linger for long and soon made an excuse for taking his leave.
Margaret walked him down the garden path to the road. With his hand on the gate, he turned to speak. She saw the clouds of hurt and regret on his face.
“Do not think harshly of me, Margaret! I know I have been utterly contemptuous just now. My pride lashes out when wounded. My heart—yes, even barristers have one, you know—my heart is stubborn once fastened on a subject. It has not been trained in the battering whimsies of romantic feelings. In spite of all of this trouble, I do love you, Margaret. I do. Farewell!” Then he turned away from her and marched down the path without looking back.
His parting speech distressed her, for she felt acutely the pain she had caused him.
Returning to the house, Margaret longed only to escape to her room, where she might be unhappy without alarming anyone. However, she put on a calm visage and kept to her custom of sitting in the drawing room with her mother, who commented on all the trouble taken in preparing an adequate table for their unexpected guest.
Daylight was fading when her father entered the room. “Margaret, are you very busy, my dear? I have something important to discuss. Would you come into my study?”
Weary as she was, there was something in his eyes that expressed his desperation. “Of course, papa,” she returned and dutifully followed him into the room where he spent so much of his time reading and thinking
That same evening—far from the pleasant hillsides of Hampshire—Mr. Thornton sat at the long dining table in his home, reading his correspondence while his mother and sister sewed in the adjoining room. The darkened mill outside the tall windows was silent. All was peaceful.
“Mother, I have here a predicament to which you may know the answer better than I,” Mr. Thornton said, turning to her with an open letter in his hand. “In which Milton districts could a gentleman of modest means find a suitable home for a family? Whiteside, Crampton?”
“Whiteside is a fair deal gentler and cleaner than Crampton, although neither would be suitable for a true gentleman, if you askme,“ Fanny declared with a proud flick of her blond curls.
Hannah Thornton gave a sidelong glance at her daughter before addressing her son. “For what purpose do you ask?”
“Mr. Bell has a friend who is giving up his living as a vicar in the south country to come to Milton.”
“Giving up his living? What will he do here?” she asked.
“He means to make a living as a tutor. There’s a good many here who might pay to catch up on their knowledge of the classics and the ancient languages. I am myself interested in studying with him.”
“I don’t see why Mr. Bell should prevail upon you to look for this man’s housing—as if you have naught else to do!” she huffed, annoyed beyond measure that anyone would treat her son as a clerk of some kind. “And I should think you’d have your mind too much on building the future to spend time studying the books of the ancients.”
“You know well that I admire any man who will give up his comforts and defy society’s censure to live by his principles. I am happy to assist Mr. Bell in this case, even though it costs me a portion of my attention,” he returned calmly.
A disapproving look was all he received in reply.
“In any case—beyond my taking up the classics—their arrival here will not affect us,” he said, returning to his work.
