Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Dr. Donaldson came to the house in Crampton during this time. Margaret was saddened and worried that her mother wanted only Dixon to attend her during this visit.
Although shut out, she lingered near the door, for she could not think of attending to anything else when her mother might be given a dreadful diagnosis.
She thought she heard her mother moan. The mumbling of the doctor’s voice was indistinct, and she decided there and then that she would not be kept out of any secret concerning her mother’s health.
Hearing the scrape of a chair and sounds indicating that the visit was over, Margaret descended the stairs.
“Dr. Donaldson, please. If I may speak with you,” she said, approaching him as he headed towards the door.
He stopped to listen and assess, wondering what type of girl this might be, for there were two kinds: the ones who shrieked and wailed and made a scene of things, or the more solid type who quietly took in the meaning of things.
“I am Mrs. Hale’s only daughter, and I would like to know what you have found today regarding my mother’s health,” she requested with determination, standing erect.
“My dear, I’m not at liberty to tell you. You must ask Miss Dixon—“
“Dixon is a servant, and I am her daughter,” she said with firmness.
“I demand that you tell me! I need time to prepare my father if it is something serious, for it would be a very harsh blow for him. I have enough strength to hear the truth, and the truth is what I shall hear from you!” she commanded, her eyes imploring and defiant as she steadfastly met his.
Now, this was a girl after his own heart, a stalwart lass who would carry any burden with endurance. A beauty too, he noted, concluding that it would take a mighty man to match her power.
He stepped closer to reveal his prognosis solemnly. “We will do our best to mitigate the pain, but there will be no recovery,” he began as gently as possible.
“Oh! What is it?” Margaret exclaimed, her hand flying to cover her mouth.
“A tumor, my dear. She may have periods of relative ease, but it will not abate. At best, she will be with you a year, but no more.”
“My mother!” she whispered, her face paled and her eyes dampened with tears.
He watched as the quavering lips clamped together, and she raised herself to her full height.
“Thank you for telling me. I can bear it now that I know what lies ahead.”
He had no doubt about it. “You must let your father notice things of his own accord. He will eventually come to his own conclusion.”
“Yes” was all she could mutter.
“I shall come every fortnight. That will be an indication to your father that it is more than a passing trifle.”
She agreed, and he bid her goodbye, bounding down the stairs outside to meet with the next patient on his list.
When he reached the center of town, he saw the tall mill master walking nearby.
“Mr. Thornton!” he hailed him, and the younger man drew closer.
“I’ve seen the factory girl you sent me to.
You’re quite right. There is nothing that can be done for her, I’m afraid.
Now, as to that new patient you sent me: I met with the daughter afterward—a fine girl if I may say so.
I’m sorry to say, however, that she will probably be without a mother within the year. ”
A stab of icy dread nearly staggered the strong businessman. “Mrs. Hale?” he asked, his voice tremulous.
“Yes. You are acquainted with the family? They are new to Milton, I gathered.”
“Mr. Hale is my friend,” Mr. Thornton answered in a daze as he attempted to absorb the implications.
“You will do everything you can for her. Spare no expense,” he instructed, with sudden intensity.
“I will pay whatever may bring her comfort beyond what Hale can afford. But let him believe your regular fee covers all.”
“Of course,” the doctor answered, more than happy to accommodate the wishes of the wealthy manufacturer.
“Is there anything I can do? Anything that she might need?” Mr. Thornton asked, his earnestness touching the old physician’s heart.
“Let me think…eating fruit may do her good,” he replied.
“Fruit? Of any particular kind?”
“Whatever fresh fruit may be had,” was the reply.
Mr. Thornton set out to find the finest fruit as soon as they parted company.
Dr. Donaldson went on a few steps, reflecting upon Mr. Thornton’s reaction to the news and how he was certainly a dear friend to Mrs. Hale’s husband.
A new thought struck him, which halted his gait.
Perhaps Thornton was interested in the daughter.
He turned around to study the mill master once more, but he had vanished.
“Well!” thought he, “I suppose that Mr. Thornton would be an excellent match for a girl of her robust character! Yes, I quite like the thought,” he decided as he continued down the street.
Margaret stood in the hallway the doctor had vacated, tears staining her cheeks, when she heard a door open upstairs and Dixon’s heavy footsteps. She wiped her tears away and met her mother’s servant as she descended the stairs.
“I have spoken with Dr. Donaldson, Dixon,” she began, asserting her authority at once. “He has told me the truth.”
“It was not his truth to tell! Your mother wished to keep it secret, to protect you,” Dixon exclaimed in a loud whisper.
“Do not blame the doctor; I forced him to tell me. And as you can see, I am not a child who needs protection. You ought to know me better than that.”
Dixon studied the girl with admiration for her hardiness at such a time. “I may have mistaken you for a weaker girl, and you have my apology. But your father is sure to take it very badly,” she argued.
Margaret’s head drooped, and she sighed aloud. “Oh Dixon! Is it really true?” she blurted out in despair, searching Dixon’s expression for the truth. “How is my mother doing?” she pleaded to know all.
Dixon’s face softened with tender sympathy.
“She has her days of pain and weakness, and sometimes days of only mild sensation. Don’t you go see her right now,” she said as Margaret made a move to ascend the stairs.
“She is taking a rest. Let me tell her what has happened, and you can come to her in the afternoon as you usually do.”
“Alright,” Margaret agreed quietly.
Dixon gave her a sympathetic look and then continued on her way to the kitchen.
When the doorbell rang many moments later, Margaret was still standing near the stairs in a daze. Wakening enough to realize Dixon was not there to answer it, she went herself.
Opening the door, she was surprised to find Mr. Thornton standing there with his arms around a great basket full of fresh fruit. She could not muster even a polite smile as she stared at the offering in confusion.
“I happened to meet Dr. Donaldson at the market place. He told me your mother might benefit from eating fruit, so I took the liberty of selecting some for her,” he explained, studying the somber face and wishing he could drop the basket and enfold her in his arms.
“Oh…thank you,” she said, almost smiling, with some effort.
“If you will allow me, I can carry it to where you’d like,” he offered, straining to withhold himself from speaking any string of sympathetic words that would reveal what he knew.
Putting his gift down on the table in the front parlor as she indicated, he turned to leave. “I’m sorry your mother is unwell,” he said softly.
Margaret nodded, fighting back the tears the tenderness in his voice evoked.
He saw her struggle and hesitated a moment, but then moved to take his leave.
She followed him. “Thank you again,” she called out after him as he stepped out the door. “It was kind of you,” she said as he turned around. This time, a faint smile appeared on her lips.
“If I can be of any service,” he returned, tipping his hat politely before continuing his way down the stairs to the street.
He took reluctant strides away, taming the impulse to go back and comfort her somehow. But it was not his role to do so. And perhaps it might never be, he told himself. But underneath such reasoning, his heart still beat strong with hope.
Margaret’s heart was full as she tended to her mother that afternoon. She withheld her tears for her mother’s sake, as Mrs. Hale was yet displeased that her plans for a longer period of secrecy had been denied her.
“I don’t want to see you become somber and sad on my account, darling,” Mrs. Hale explained. “You are young and ought to be enjoying your youth,” she smiled, patting her daughter’s hand.
“And father?” Margaret asked.
Her mother’s expression grew wistful and tender. “Your father has such a gentle heart. He could never bear to see people suffer. I don’t know how to tell him. He will blame himself terribly,” she said, her voice trembling.
Margaret lifted her mother’s hand up to kiss it. “He will see…slowly. We must let him discover the truth little by little. I will help, mama.”
Mrs. Hale breathed a little easier. “I know he has his faults, but I also have mine. He has been good to me, and I…I fear I have been ungrateful,” she confided.
“Shhh now,” Margaret comforted, giving her hand a squeeze.
“I hope you will find a husband as gentle as your father. I confess I was a little surprised you did not find a match for yourself in London.”
Margaret smiled weakly, but her body tensed at the memory of the fervent “Marry me!” she had received in Milton the very day she’d ever stepped foot there.
Would Mr. Thornton make a gentle husband? He was so very different from her father. Mr. Thornton was a man of great power, who took decisive action and spoke without equivocation. Their arguing had been vehement. He had grasped her arm in her attempt to leave!
And yet, today, there was no trace of the hard-willed man. He was all tenderness and compassion. He had taken the effort to ease suffering in bringing his gift. And out of his busy day too!
“I think today I should like you to read to me a little from Psalms,” her mother said, returning Margaret’s attention to the present moment.
Margaret read, endeavoring to remain as encouraging as possible. She tried to be as attentive and gentle as ever, but cherished the hours together as never before.
Mr. Thornton came home that evening to find Fanny and his mother addressing the invitations for their annual dinner party. He took up his evening paper, but instead of reading, sidled up to the table where the women were working, Fanny setting the seal on the folded parchments.
Everyone in Milton knew the Thorntons hosted a grand dinner party each year for the town’s most powerful manufacturing men. It was the one occasion on which Mrs. Thornton set aside her proclivity to economize and served a banquet that would reflect her son’s position in society.
“All our traditional guests will receive invitations?” he asked, looking over his mother’s shoulder to see what names she had written.
“Yes, of course, John,” his mother answered, with a trace of annoyance.
“You will invite the Hales?” he prodded, having mentioned his interest in including them to her a few days before.
Fanny spoke up instead. “They are on the list. But I don’t see why we should invite these Hales, as they will have nothing in common with the people at our dinner party,” she remarked.
Her brother bristled at her arrogant tone. “It will be a great opportunity for them to integrate with Milton people. Mr. Hale is very interested in all the workings of power here,” he answered.
He lowered his voice. “Mrs. Hale may not attend, however. She has been ill.”
“The dinner party is yet six weeks hence, perhaps she may improve,” Mrs. Thornton reasoned, herself not patient with women who proclaimed themselves forever ailing with some kind of trouble or other.
Mr. Thornton remained silent.
“At any rate, they should count themselves honored to be invited. I can think of a few others I should rather have had come,” Fanny went on.
Fanny’s remarks irritated her brother. He caught the cautious glance of his mother, who knew much more about his interest in the Hales. She would know that of all their guests, there was one person whom he wished to be there above all.