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“I assure you Miss Hale, any foolish passion on my part is entirely over." John Thornton began to walk off hastily.
There, he had said it. She could not explain herself. She could not excuse her actions, her lies, her secrecy, the indecency he had witnessed with his very eyes. She could not or she would not.
His pride had been so hurt by her rejection those months ago, and to know she preferred another - to see her giving her tender embraces so willingly, longingly, lovingly to anyone but himself - felt like a death-blow. Perhaps this barb would not wound her the way he wished, but it had given him some satisfaction to set her down in this manner and walk away with his dignity in tact and his head held high. He began to have a sinking feeling that perhaps this barb would wound him in ways he could not foresee, when he heard her clear, haughty voice coming from behind him.
"Foolish passions they must have been, sir!" Margaret surprised herself, calling ardently after him.
"Excuse me?" He turned on her, not a little irked, stepping slowly back towards where they had parted.
"At one time, you claimed you loved me. Love. Your words now prove that you have never loved me."
"You presume to know the state of my heart?" He closed the distance between them, bending his head to look hard into her eyes. She bent hers back to meet his gaze with equal obstinacy, their faces close enough for their white breaths to mingle.
"Love suffereth long and is kind. Love does not get provoked. Love does not count its injuries. And yet, here you are, bitter over your self-conjured wounds, grasping your own illusions, with no conception that things might not be what they seem. And you a magistrate!"
"It has been my experience that more often than not, things are indeed what they seem, Miss Hale. And do you claim to be so virtuous? Does not your respected text also say that love does not behave unseemly, rejects unrighteousness, and rejoices with truth?"
Margaret was shamed at his last word, which had been uttered with a marked slowness that stabbed her to the heart. Though she knew she had behaved according to her conscience, her lie had been abhorrent to her. But which sin was worse, deceit or murder? For murder - the undeserved taking of a human life - is what the truth would certainly have led to. Her brother’s plight was so precarious, their situation as a family in such danger; was her dishonesty not merited, even vital? She came back to herself and her argument.
"Love believes all things. Love hopes all things. Love endures all things. How glad I am to know the true state of your heart before allowing you too far into my own. If you cannot believe my assurances that I have done nothing indecent, nothing deserving of your avowed disapprobation, then you have never loved. If nothing in you hoped that there was a morally right and justifiable explanation for what you saw that night, then you neither love nor know me. And if your so-called love could not endure one imagined disappointment, could not withstand the tittle-tattle of Milton’s unrivaled gossip mill, then, sir, you have never loved me." Some part of her was ashamed that she was giving so much of herself away by making an argument that consisted of so many nights’ wakeful ruminations. Another part of her was insistent that she have her say, and this might be her only chance.
"You dare to defend yourself when I saw you with my own eyes?" John’s voice had begun to rise along with his temper, dangerously close to venting the seething anger and jealousy he had been holding in. He checked himself noting that they were still in the streets of Princeton amidst the hovels and homes of his hands. He added in an almost whisper: "I saw you, you’ll remember. Unchaperoned. After dark. Embracing a man. Passionately. What was I to think?" The remembrance was painful to him and his words caught in his throat. Clearing it with an audible ahem, he continued evenly, "Was my ‘love’ to be so strong that it believed my eyes were deceiving me? And what had I to hope? You obviously prefer this lover of yours to my pathetic offerings. And, O how pathetic! How pathetic would I be to endure in this devotion to you, these fantastic sensibilities that have twisted me in knots from the first moment I saw you - how pathetic you would have made me, Miss Hale, were I to endure in these ardors..."
In his effort to keep their conversation from the ears of the meddlers who might be lurking, he had leaned in close to speak, his blue eyes boring into hers, his breath warm on her face as his words chilled her spine. Something inside of Margaret tightened. Was it his reasoning that made her unable to draw air deeply? Or him being so close she could smell his shaving soap? Or perhaps her corset was too tight.
His words stung. There was a heavy silence, though little space, between them for some moments. The full comprehension of what he had seen and surmised humbled her. How fallen she was in his eyes. And how rejected he felt. He lifted himself to his full height triumphantly.
And yet, no word of man could make scripture untrue.
"Yes," she said quietly.
He looked down at her confused. "Yes?"
"Yes. If you had loved me, you would have believed, hoped, endured." Her eyes were fixed on her hands.
"All are fools in love," he said dismissively after schooling his voice to sound more unconvinced than he felt.
"No," she met his gaze. "Love is never foolish, Mr. Thornton. Passion, on the other hand..."
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Her words hung in the air and were not lost on Mr. Thornton. The night had fallen around them. She had turned and begun her journey home before he could offer a rejoinder. Though his long legs could carry him out of Princeton at a much faster pace than hers, he walked slowly several paces behind her so as to see her back to Crampton safely. He saw her form before him, so dainty and elegant compared to his rough Northern frame, the broad, tall fellow he was. And yet, however small, her stature belied a greatness of mind and heart and conscience and feeling that bowled him over every time she loosed her tongue against him.
She was right. It stung, but she was right. He knew she was right as soon as she had spoken. Passions come and go like the turning of the tide, leaving flotsam upon the shore of one’s heart. But, should not love be the moon? Always there, the moon and the shore, welcoming passion’s approach and regretting its farewell, but never moving from its set position. Believing its object to be everything worthy and good. Never giving up hope that its devotion will be rewarded, that its faith will be proved true. Enduring as a sentry day and night, firmly embedded in its position.
As it was, his faith in her pure and exquisite maidenliness was only maintained with great moral effort. And, as soon as said effort proved too much, his belief dropped down dead and powerless, and all sorts of wild fancies chased each other like dreams through his mind. What had he to hope? Her love, her perfect love belonged to another. Yes! he knew how she would love. He had not loved her without gaining that instinctive knowledge of what capabilities were in her. Her soul would walk in glorious sunlight if any man was worthy, by his power of loving, to win back her love.
Fool he was, his affection, yea his passion, for her endured despite himself. He had been determined to get her out of his mind after witnessing the death knell to his hopes there at Outwood Station. But his heart was not so fickle.
He loves, and will love.