Margaret stayed to talk with her new friend for a while longer, but her thoughts were distracted by the tumble of conjectures running through her mind as to what “dark secret” could be lurking in Mr. Thornton’s past.
The door latch clacked, and Nicholas Higgins entered his home. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of the visitor. The room went still, waiting for his reaction. He met the eyes of his ailing daughter. “Yo’ were right. I didn’t think she’d come.”
“Now here’s the wonder,” he went on, surveying the newcomer with cautious doubt. “If she’ll come again, or if she’s here just to lay pity on us and satisfy herself with having done her deed of charity.”
Bessy looked to Margaret with a yearning to know if her father’s words were too harsh, or if they spoke the truth.
Margaret would not be cowed. She looked him straight in the eye. “If you’ll allow it, I should like to be a friend to your daughter. As I have said, I’ve recently come from the South and have made no friends myself to speak of,” she stated with a polite firmness.
“Mayhap yo’ speak the truth, so yo’ can visit my Bess if it’ll give her some comfort. But mind yo’ don’t fill her head with your religious notions. She has enough of God and heaven and all the like with her Methodist ways. And I’ll believe in God again when the masters who sit in their churches and call themselves Christian see fit to have a heart for the suffering of the poor in this town.”
“Father’s always angry ‘gainst the masters,” Bessy explained, seeing the stricken look on Margaret’s face. “Don’t mind him. Yo’ haven’t done anything wrong but be a gentleman’s daughter. Which is no crime,” she said defiantly, glancing at her father.
“Yo’ll come back, as yo’ said,” Bessy pleaded as Margaret stood up to take her leave.
“I will,” Margaret promised, giving her new friend a reassuring smile.
The visit with Bessy Higgins was still very much on Margaret’s mind at mealtime that evening.
She missed having a window that overlooked a garden as they ate. In fact, there were no windows at all in their town dining room. The old oak table that was perfectly sized for the airy vicarage in Helstone filled the closed space so that the cane-seat chairs nearly bumped the papered walls when they pulled them out to seat themselves and to leave the table. Candles in wall sconces and on the table lit the shadowy room.
“I’ve invited Mr. Thornton to tea,” Mr. Hale announced after saying a prayer of thanks for the food. He took a bite of the boiled potatoes in front of him.
Mrs. Hale put down her fork. “When?” she asked in some alarm.
“Tuesday next,” her husband answered.
“Well, then, we shall have time to prepare,” she replied with relief.
Margaret stared at her plate, a rush of nervousness flooding through her to think of receiving Mr. Thornton as their guest. She had not seen him since the tour of the mill.
That evening, in the quiet hours after her mother had gone to bed, Margaret approached her father’s study. She lingered in the doorway of the dimly lit room for a moment before Mr. Hale noticed her presence and took off his reading glasses to address her.
“What is it, my dear?” he asked.
Margaret entered the room and sat in the chair opposite him, where Mr. Thornton sat for his lessons. Discomforted as she was by her purpose in coming to him, her burning curiosity was stronger, and she took only a moment to strangle her hesitation.
“I have a question to ask about Mr. Thornton,” she began, looking down at her hands.
Relieved this was not about his wife’s delicate health, Mr. Hale’s shoulders relaxed. Confusion crossed his brow at his daughter’s solemnity.
“The Higgins girl I told you about at dinner tonight…Bessy. Well, we talked a bit about Mr. Thornton, and she said that he had worked hard to reach his position as master. And she said….“
Margaret felt again the reluctance to share common gossip with her father, but she must discover if her father knew anything to validate such a claim.
“She talked of a rumor that there was some manner of a dark secret about Mr. Thornton’s past.”
“Ah,” her father replied, settling back in his chair as if preparing for one of his teaching sessions. “There is truth to it, although said in such a way implies something ominous on Mr. Thornton’s part, which could not be further from the truth.”
Now it was Margaret’s turn to look the picture of confusion.
“I will tell you what your godfather, Mr. Bell, told me. You must grant that Mr. Bell may not know all the details, but I expect he knows well enough to give a sufficient understanding of what happened. Mr. Thornton’s father was caught up in some kind of speculation that turned out very badly, and he became deeply indebted. Unable to endure the shame, he killed himself.”
“Oh!” The quiet exclamation from Margaret escaped unconsciously.
“Yes,” Mr. Hale agreed with her reaction. “A very horrible affair, to be sure.” He continued, “This left his son, our Mr. Thornton, to become the head of his family when he was still in school—perhaps a lad of fifteen or sixteen. Too proud to take charity, the family moved to a surrounding village where John took work as a shop boy. Remember that he had a small sister to keep as well as his mother. Somehow they managed to save a portion of his modest wages to pay back the father’s debts. Andwhen he reached young manhood, he set about personally to begin making these payments to the men his father owed.”
Margaret was stunned. A pang of compassion rose from deep within her as she imagined Mr. Thornton as a young lad working in a draper’s shop.
