In Consequence

In Consequence - Chapter 1

Margaret lay motionless upon her bed, her arms outstretched in surrender to the sweltering heat of an August night. The clatter of a lone pair of clogs on the cobblestone street below rose through the stilted air, jarring the torpid silence of the hour. As the echoing footsteps faded, a solemn solitude filled the room.

Her eyes languidly traced the faint outline of the open window. The moonless sky offered no light, shrouding her surroundings in impenetrable blackness. She felt the darkness envelope her, insidiously seeping into her very being and chasing every faint beam of hope into bleak despair.

The happy life she had lived in the South was an illusive shadow, a mere figment of her mind. The sorrows that had accumulated since she had arrived in this dirty and desolate city were unimaginable.

The suffering of the working classes and the bitter strife between masters and men seemed as suffocating and ominous as the gray, sooty cloud of industry’s filth that continually hovered over Milton. The only friend she had found in this place, Bessy, was dying. Margaret drew in her breath heavily and closed her eyes at the painful injustice of it all - Bessy was the same age as herself.

Her anger flared at the thought of how little the masters of these mills seemed to care for the poor wretches who worked for them. It was morally repugnant to her that these men should grow rich whilst they wrung the life out of those who labored in their factories. Did not these men depend on the lower classes for their success? It seemed to her that it was not only their Christian duty, but a sounder method of improving their own business if they would only treat their employees with more respect. Surely there would be less likelihood for animosity and the outbreak of strikes if care was taken not to ignore the workers’ inherent intelligence and humanity.

The futility of her indignation crept over her. Although she earnestly hoped that someday there might be some more permanent reconciliation between masters and men, it was too late for Bessy. No present improvements could restore her to health. Her friend would soon be dead and nothing could be done about it.

And now, although she could scarcely bring herself to think on it without trembling, her own dear mother would soon be taken from her. Mrs. Hale was doing much better now, after a few day’s rest, but this repite would not last. Dr. Donaldson could offer only the cold comfort of easing her pain - there was no hope of a full recovery.

Only here, alone in her room at night, could Margaret freely fathom the depths of her feelings. And yet she felt numb - void of emotion. She could not move, but stared into the dark as one insensate and separate from the world. It was safer to reside in oblivion, to avoid the convulsive grief that would surely overtake her if she allowed herself to feel the despair that lingered behind every waking thought.

The daily burden of maintaining a hopeful disposition had steeled her heart.  She resolved hourly to think of her duty as a helpful daughter. She knew she must rise every morning and go forward and do what needed to be done for her parents’ sake. If she allowed her heavy sorrow to overcome her -- if she should falter in her comportment -- her father would crumple in the face of fate’s harsh reality, and wither from self-inflicted guilt for bringing his family to this place, so far from home.

She struggled to retain her fortitude and remembered the task that must be accomplished on the morrow. The doctor had suggested that a water mattress might alleviate her mother’s suffering. Tomorrow, she would go to Marlborough Mills and ask to borrow the bedding that Fanny Thornton had offered to her at the dinner party.

It seemed so long ago - that grand formal dinner at Mr. Thornton’s residence. Returning home that evening to find her mother in paroxysms of intense suffering had blighted any opportunity to contemplate the pleasures and discomforts of that social affair. That had been but three days ago.

She thought of the dinner’s intriguing host, the image of him coming clearly to her from the obscurity of her tortured mind. How impressive he had looked in his handsome attire, exuding the quiet confidence of one who knew his power! She had been taken aback by his regal assurance and the sound logic with which he spoke, commanding the respect of his peers. She had never seen him to so much advantage.

Her fingers curled with an unconscious twitch at the remembrance of their handshake - how his fingers had grazed hers as he had released his hold. A faint fluttering arose in her breast at the recollection of his penetrating gaze - his eyes had seemed to speak to something deep within her. She had been spellbound for a moment at the intimacy of their silent communication.

Swift upon the heels of this vivid memory came the painful recollection of her challenging retort to him at dinner, which had chased away the fleeting hope that any enduring harmony could be nurtured between them.

She felt the sting of tears fill her eyes and her lip began to quiver. Could she not find solace in some measure of peace? Was life only to be an endless struggle here in Milton, with discord and adversity facing her at every turn?

The hardened walls of her stoic bravery cracked, and bitter tears began to stream down her face. She rolled to her side, clutching her pillow, and wept.

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In the heart of the darkened city, Mr. Thornton walked briskly alongside the anxious-looking men and women who had just arrived from Ireland. Were it not for the lighted street lamps, the town would be plunged into blackest night.