Once Again
Trudy Brasure
“He had known what love was—a sharp pang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose flames he was struggling! but, through that furnace he would fight his way out into the serenity of middle age,—all the richer and more human for having known this great passion.” —Chapter XL, North and South
The train jostled its passengers for a moment before returning to the rhythmic clack and sway of the steady journey south.
Mr. Thornton glanced up from his paper to look out the window.
Gone were the idyllic green expanses. The train now passed through a closer jumble of houses, shops, and byways that he knew signaled their proximity to London.
He had been to London several times for business.
It was not an unfamiliar routine. But this time was utterly different.
This time he would sign papers that would close his official relation to Marlborough Mills forever.
All his years of unrelenting work—his self-sacrifice, intellect, and economy—had come to this.
The temptation to wallow in bitterness welled up inside of him.
He thought of that terrible morning weeks ago when his steadfast mother had rebuked God for forsaking him.
Even this morning, as she had sent him off on his solemn journey, he had seen in her eyes how much her heart still suffered sorely for him.
But he refused to be an object of pity for anyone. He had accomplished much—he had built up his mill to be the leading cotton factory in Milton. He had learned, only too late, how vital it was to work with the mill hands—to treat them as equals.
He let out a breath of helplessness as he thought of Higgins and all the others he knew by name who were now out of work.
He felt his responsibility to the men keenly.
He had done all that was in his power to keep the mill running, to keep their families fed, but he could find neither a loan nor investors to support his operation.
He had little hope of finding such investors in London. He would set his efforts to approach several of the great men of business who honored his name and discover if there might be manufacturing ventures to which he could play a managing part.
He looked down again at his paper and tried to read but could no longer focus on the words.
The last time he had travelled this way, Margaret was still living in Milton.
The time she had lived in his world had been the most precious weeks and months of his life.
His heart, even wounded as it was, had beat with a fervor that only her nearness could evoke.
Nothing in Milton had been the same since she left.
When her carriage had pulled away from his yard that unspeakably black day, she had taken a part of his heart with her.
It had been over a year now. Yet that aching longing to see her—to be near her again—had not truly abated.
He had merely dulled the pain of her absence by working long hours and throwing all of his efforts into saving the mill from financial ruin.
With the mill now closed, his days were empty—his nights even more so. It was at night, when the house was still, that all the thoughts and images he had pushed aside came rushing back to fill the gaping void.
He stared blankly out the window as the ever-more grey scenery of man’s creations passed by. Such was the view surrounding his own home: colorless, drab. All the color and zest of life had drained from Milton now that she no longer lived there.
He had little to hope for concerning his future but to keep his mother comfortable and to find for himself a position of interest so that he might forget…
no…not forget. He did not wish to forget her, else he would have put away the book that he kept at his bedside—the copy of Plato she had given him.
It was not alone for the tender memory of her father that he kept it in sight, although he often told himself so.
He knew otherwise, for sometimes he would open it to the frontispiece where she had signed her name, and he would stare at the word just above it.
A word she had written for his eyes—Yours.
It was a strange comfort to have the book near. It was the only thing he had left of her. That, and the flowers he carried with him.
His hand went to his breast pocket. He pulled out the pocketbook that held his prize and gazed for the thousandth time at the dried flowers he kept within it.
He had gathered the roses from her childhood home on the very day that Mr. Bell had told him the terrible news of Mr. Hale’s death.
He sighed aloud at the memory of the awful event which had taken her away from him.
Left fatherless and motherless in a town that had given her so much trouble, she had fled to London to be with family—the only family accessible to her.
Mr. Bell had told him of Frederick, an exiled brother who lived in Spain.
But it was Higgins who had finally chased away all the unsettled doubt about Margaret’s relationship to the man at the train station.
It had been heavenly relief to realize his simmering jealousy had been for naught.
The man she had embraced was only her brother!
He put the dried flowers away and checked his pocket watch.
He knew it was not wise to let his thoughts dwell on her for long.
He had done well to read some and ponder the possibilities of his future during the time spent traveling.
He even believed that he was not greatly affected by this journey thus far but, as much as his mind endeavored to put the thought of her away, in truth he felt every mile travelled was a mile closer to her.
Mr. Thornton’s first order of business after checking into his hotel was an appointment with Mr. Lennox about the lease to Marlborough Mills.
He had heard of Henry Lennox from Mr. Bell.
And he was not at all eager to meet a man who hoped to court Margaret—a man who, as Mr. Bell had bluntly revealed, had only been kept back before by Margaret’s want of fortune.
His jaw tightened, and he clenched his hand.
The knowledge of this gave him a great distaste for the London man.
It was only the necessity of business that propelled him onward to the Temple, a classical construction in massive stone that embodied the weight of centuries of steadfast English law.
He walked down a long marble hallway to Mr. Lennox’s chambers.
The heavy wooden door was half open, inviting him inside.
A high ceiling matched the air of dignity and the lofty purpose that the building itself imposed upon each visitor.
But on the floor below, where mortals worked the grand ideals of law in ink and paper, Mr. Thornton walked into a room with two desks, each occupied by a gentleman bent over a pile of documents.
It was a relief to Mr. Thornton that Mr. Lennox shared his chambers with another. London barrister though he may be, Mr. Lennox was not a man significant enough to have a room of his own.
Mr. Lennox looked up from his papers. “Mr. Thornton,” he said, standing to offer his hand with curious enthusiasm.
“I’m very glad to meet you at last. I’m sorry it could not be on more acceptable circumstances.
I understand that you had some trouble with a strike which ultimately caused your enterprise to collapse,” Henry began, wearing a look of sympathy appropriate for his profession.
Mr. Lennox’s glance swept over the northern manufacturer’s tall frame. Mr. Thornton was younger and more distinguished-looking than he had imagined. Had he been dressed in more dashing attire, the Milton industrialist might well pass for a Londoner.
“There are a great many factors that accumulate to cause either success or failure—the price of cotton, extended investment in equipment, American competition, and the general state of the financial houses. The complexities of running a business are great, Mr. Lennox—as are the risks involved,” Mr. Thornton replied, appraising the London lawyer before him as a man who had not yet seen fortune turn against him.
Mr. Lennox’s smiles came easily, as they would to one who had every dream in life still to expect.
“I regret very little,” Mr. Thornton continued. “All my decisions, I believe, were sound. But from what I have learned in these last two years, I would practice business in a manner which might have mitigated the radical acts of the workers.”
Henry studied the man before him with a different air.
He had not expected such eloquence from a Milton master.
Indeed, the calm dignity with which the failed businessmen composed himself was something of a surprise.
Henry had been to Milton, with its bustling energy and noise.
He had imagined Mr. Thornton would be a passionate, vociferous, and perhaps distraught character out of his element in the more refined atmosphere of London offices of great import.
“Have you any obligations for dinner this evening?” Mr. Lennox asked, suddenly stricken with an idea that might enhance his own social standing.
“No, I…”
“Then you must join me at my brother’s house. There will be a member of parliament there—a Mr. Colthurst—who is very interested in Milton industry. I cannot think of anyone better to speak to the subject than yourself,” Mr. Lennox implored.
“Thank you. It would be an honor to accept,” the northern visitor answered with a mechanical smile.
“And I am obliged to you for coming at such an opportune time. This really exceeds my former plan. You will be far more knowledgeable about Milton than Margaret,” Mr. Lennox responded.
Mr. Thornton’s heart skipped a beat. She would be there, then. A thrill of expectancy surged through him even as a conflicting stab of dread warned him of the pain it would cause him to see her happily situated so far away from him.