He had spoken of love. The fervent depth of his emotion had wound its possessive tendrils about her. And she had resisted—frightened to be owned, to be swallowed up in this unknown power.
She dropped herself onto the bed and sobbed softly into her pillow.
Mr. Thornton fairly staggered down the stairs he had so eagerly climbed only moments before. He halted as he stepped into the street. He knew not where to turn or how to proceed.
The enveloping darkness of the town matched the blackness of his desolation. He followed the light of the gas-lit lamps, his vision blurry from the sting of tears in his eyes.
Had a mere torrent of words between them obliterated his every hope of a happy future? It could not be, and yet he had opened his heart to her, and she had cast off his love as an insult to her character. She refused to give him any approval or honor for his life’s work.
He was not good enough for her. He had known it from the start. And still he had blundered on with the desperate hope of winning her. What a fool he had been to think she would care for him!
He stepped off the street to head up the path of the cemetery hill, dashing his hand across his face to wipe unwonted tears from his eyes.
Clouds moved like phantoms across the sky. The moon crept from obscurity to shine its meager light on his misery.
He wished with all his might he could turn his love into hate. With a rising swell of anger against her, he attempted to hurl his heart to safer shores of disdain or dismissal. But he could not hate her, even in her rejection of him.
How magnificent she had looked in her righteous fury! With her upturned face, so close to his, she had defied him with her glorious confidence and glowing compassion.
No, there would never be any woman like Margaret. And oh!—he knew how passionately she would love if ever there was a man who deserved to receive it from her. Pain tore through his chest to know he was not that man.
How cruel Providence had been to set her in his path not once but twice—only to make him suffer the lesson of unrequited love. For he knew he would never love like this again. He would love her despite the agony it inflicted upon his soul.
He went up and down the streets aimlessly, unaware of his surroundings. He walked; the cadence and exertion of motion allayed the despair he feared would crush him to stay still.
At last, as his feet grew weary, he headed for his home.
As he crossed the dark mill yard, visions from the riot played in his head. The door he now unlatched and swung open was the same door he had thrown open to save her earlier this day.
He climbed the stairs with heavy steps, dreading his mother’s notice. She was there. A single candle burned on the table where she sat sewing. She did not look up as he approached.
“Is it all settled then?” she asked in a pleasant tone that masked the sorrow she was battling.
“I don’t wish to speak of it,” he answered, walking past her to go to his private quarters.
“What? She has refused you?” She could not fathom it.
Her shock halted him. He slumped to lean his frame against the fireplace mantel as the pain of her rejection struck him anew.
“She does not care for me, Mother. I am not good enough,” he said.
Mrs. Thornton stood, nearly dizzy with such jarring news, and tottered over to comfort him. She laid a hand on his arm, infinitely gentle with her son as her anger exploded against the girl. “Not good enough? Was all sense knocked out of the girl? She cannot mean to reject you! Not after what she did.”
He recovered himself enough to stand erect again, although his head hung in his sorrow. “She refuses to understand me. I can never do right in her eyes.”
Mrs. Thornton huffed. “And who is she to know you and all you have worked for? Foolish girl! I’d like to see her find a better man than my son! It serves you well she has refused you—“
“Mother, please,” he half-moaned. “I love her still. I will not hear your words against her.”
Mrs. Thornton pressed her lips together, excoriating the girl in her mind for the pain she caused her son.
“Let us not speak of it, please. I will be better in the morning,” he pleaded.
His mother nodded, and he turned to head upstairs to his bedchamber, wishing only to find relief from this torture in unconsciousness.
Chapter twenty-eight
In luxuriant and simple parlors where ladies met, at the grocer’s and in the streets, in kitchens where servants gathered for meals, and in the more squalid homes of the factory workers—townspeople prattled and whispered about the young lady who had thrown herself into Mr. Thornton’s arms. Riot or no riot, many supposed the lady must have set her sights on the Master beforehand to act so scandalously. People passionately argued whether Mr. Thornton had saved a lover from danger, or if an audacious girl had merely forced him into marriage.
