Page 4 of Through Darkened Clouds

Mr. Thornton hailed a cab for his companion. “You will not hesitate to call on me or my house if there is any need,” he offered with gentle vehemence as Mr. Bell climbed into his seat.

“Thank you. You will be the first upon whom I would call.”

“I will come tomorrow.” He would have uttered more, but the words would not come.

The older man nodded. Neither could speak, knowing the terrible blow that was imminent to one so dear to their hearts.

Mr. Thornton stood transfixed for a moment as he watched the carriage pull away and grow more distant as it lumbered onward in the direction he longed to follow. With the practiced force of years of resolution to duty and steady self-denial, he turned to take the first weighted and reluctant steps toward the great mill where his responsibilities awaited him.

Margaret stood at the window of her mother’s sitting-room and gazed out as far as she could across the plain, where nature’s peaceful spread could be seen beyond the outlaying structures of the teeming town. Below, the canal bend simulated the wide, lazy turn of an old river and gave the view a calming taste of God’s beauty, even if forged by human design.

The winter had been long and dark; the promise of spring in a glimpse of April’s lush greenery revived that sacred kernel of hope within her that had nearly withered in the harsh trials of loss that had scarred the arrival of autumn.

She turned and took a step to touch with fondness the porcelain vase on the open secretary. Pale yellow with painted roses and gilded trim, this delicate vase of her mother’s had always been full of the profusion of flowers surrounding them in Helstone. It was barren now. The rush of happier, brighter images that such an object called forth was also tinged with a deep-felt sorrow that its owner would never again replenish it with buds or blossoms and enjoy its beauty.

As each day dawned in this smoky northern town, the life she had known in the New Forest drew more distant. The people and places that had once been so constant in her life had faded into memory.

She had survived the move to Milton, with all its calamities and layered sufferings. Nothing could have prepared her for the struggles she had endured. She had tried to rise above it all. There had been days when it had taken all of her resolve just to get out of bed in the morning.

And yet, she knew deep down that she was better for coming here. She felt a power within herself, a seedling of hope and strength. The proud energy of this town and her experiences here had ripened her into something new and more powerful. Surely, her eyes had been opened to wider views of the world—new faces and ways of living that she could not regret encountering.

Now that the days were lengthening, the light helped to strengthen her onward. For now, there was peace. The fiery blasts of trial had at last subsided, and she might pick up the pieces to create a life of calm and contentment. She would continue to keep her father company and ensure his happiness to the best of her meager power. It was this spiritual duty, she knew, that kept her from succumbing to the oppressive thoughts that roamed beneath her brave smiles.

And though her labor was that of love, to assuage her father’s beleaguered soul, she had felt a lightness—a buoyant freedom since her father had left for Oxford. She could not suppress the twinge of guilt that occurred every time she acknowledged this fresh sense of liberty, nor could she wish any differently than to reclaim at present the perfect freedom to contemplate, reflect, or despair as her mood dictated.

At times, she would just sit and think. Often she would pick up her mother’s Tennyson and let the words wash over her like an ocean tide.

Some subjects, however, were still too painful to probe deeply. To contemplate what she once meant to Mr. Thornton stilled the atmosphere and stunted the nascent aspirations for a bearable future.

‘If only Mr. Thornton would come again to take his lessons and meet with father every week, then all would resume much as it had been. Father would be happy, and I would be satisfied to resume our old friendship,’ she told herself with a wistful longing which did not correspond honestly to the hidden stirrings of her heart.

The underlying turmoil of this half-truth bade her rouse from her seat, and she left the prettily furnished room and descended the stairs to enter her father’s study, which overlooked the street. She hesitated in the calm luxury of deciding whether to choose a book or to take a walk—to visit Mary Higgins, perhaps.

It was at that moment that she glanced outside and saw a familiar figure approaching the house. Her eyes darted beyond Mr. Bell to search for his companion but swiftly returned to study the grim visage of the solitary visitor. Her heart sank as she recalled her father was not due to return home until two days hence.

She knew at once what must be true and collapsed into a chair with a desperate wail. “Oh, papa! You are never coming home!”

Chapter two

Morning light filtered in through lace curtains as Dixon carried a porcelain bowl of freshly drawn water into her mistress’s bedchamber and set it down quietly on the end table by the old Helstone spindle bed. She heaved the weight of her ample body upon the chair placed for her vigil, the wooden frame under the worsted upholstery creaking its fitful compliance. With an inward sigh, she bent forward to plunge a clean cloth into the bowl and wring it with tired hands. The gentle gurgle and percussive dripping of water filled the moribund room with a welcome tinge of vitality.

“My poor Miss,” she whispered as she cooled the brow of the girl who lay prostrate in fevered grief. The loyal maid shook her head at the suffering before her, her own eyes fairly swollen from the onslaught of tears that had wet her cheeks yesterday.

“This is what comes of leaving the Church for this dreadful place,” she muttered, a hint of bitterness rising against Mr. Hale, whom she had long seen as the cause of much sorrow. A pang of guilt stole into her heart, however, for speaking ill of the dead. “Bless him, but he was a weak man. He ought not to have married,” she thought as she gazed at the pale face of the vicar’s innocent daughter.

It was little wonder the girl had collapsed in grief; after all, she was an orphan now in a strange and horridly dirty and crowded town. But Dixon worried because Margaret had not yet roused from her fevered dreams. It was growing on noon now, and she still had not stirred.

Downstairs, Mr. Bell scribbled a letter to Mrs. Shaw of London, requesting in pungent terms that she make haste to tend to her sister’s orphaned daughter. Her own daughter’s confinement notwithstanding, it was more imperative—he strongly felt—to care for the poor child who lay upstairs, insensible to the world around her.

He signed his name with a flourish and put away his quill. Looking up, he scanned the room with silent reverence. Books filled the nearby shelves; a framed pastoral scene graced the wall, and printed curtains that hinted of feminine taste lined the window that overlooked the hay-strewn street. A black leather Bible rested on the small elmwood secretary, never far from the pastor’s reach. On a nearby surface lay an open book on classical architecture. Mr. Bell picked up the folded paper next to it, curiously opening it to read the lecture schedule his friend had planned for the coming month.

A sobering wave of loss settled deeper into his consciousness. How fleeting seemed the plans of man in mortality’s merciless control! It was strange to see how accurately one can surmise the whole lifework and nature of a man by the testament of objects he has arranged to surround him.

The doorbell rang, interrupting his melancholy stupor. He made no move to answer it, having lived so long with attendant staff to care for such disruptions. But a second ring woke him to the realization that Dixon was occupied, and the scullery maid had gone to market.

He rose to answer the door himself.

“Ah, Thornton! Good of you to come. Come in, come in.”