Shadow in the North

Chapter Forty-Four - Heart and Lungs

All about Watson's mill yard, was a cacophony of noise and smoke. The water pails clunked their metallic chime, and their liquid sloshed carelessly upon the ground - drenching well-worn shoes. Then came the great rush of that vital water, as it splattered onto the burning shed; a hiss of steam erupting from the smouldering rafters. Men cried out for more water, and feet scuffed hurriedly across the yard. Womenfolk cried over singed faces and shrouded bodies, and slumped men sat upon the ground, panting through their labours.

A grim sight it was, but a testimony to the depth of humanity, which dwelt amongst the very lowest of society; those most wretched of men, whom would always be looked down upon. For what was a noble, courageous and feeling heart, if it was accompanied by shabby shoes, brown necks and dropped "H's"! And in testament to that nefarious wheel that is "society", peddled by the middle-men (who desperately seek not to be the lowers), Mr Watson stood well back - almost at the gates - and with clean face and hands and a dandy suit, he said, -

'Well, we shan't make Wetherby's order, now!' He was not a popular fellow, but even so, those nearest to him were surprised to see that he felt no trepidation for his brother and fellow Master, Mr Thornton. But perhaps he did not know his brother was crushed beneath a burning roof, for he was stood such a long way off, that he likely could not see a thing! And as if to prove he was not heartless, but merely selfish in his own disinterest, he turned to his right-hand man, and said, 'now where is Thornton? I shan't be pleased if he's gone off, and the fire still blazing!'

'Thornton, sir?' asked his overseer, and he glanced nervously at his colleagues, stood about awaiting some direction, for he did not wish to tell his master, that his new brother was likely dead.

'Yes, Thornton!' boomed Watson. 'I say, where's Thornton?'

Then came the mumbled voices, all looking to one another in amazement, as the attuned ear deciphered a litany of, "Master Thornton", and "Thornton were near th' shed, weren't 'e?". A solemn voice did add, "Thornton's gone", "He's lost,' agreed the fellow's friend. Now, Mr Thornton was a Master, and so they would shed no tears, but still, they acknowledge that he was a fair man - far fairer than the rest - and so lately married! So, too, was the tall imposing figure, always discernible to the crowds; such an integral part of the tapestry of Milton. It was with a heavy sense of loss - which they thought they ought not feel - that those nameless workers decided he was dead.

And as the rumour swept the yard, and people pulled up short, or a pail paused in motion, the name of Thornton rang about the mill yard in hushed and whispered tones, until it met Margaret's ears, and looking to her husband, she did gasp again, -

'Mr Thornton is dead!'

Dr Lyndhurst held his unsteady wife in his arms, before leading her backwards towards an up-turned crate, and gently settling her upon it. His expression was calm and his tone and gestures were soothing, but inwardly, his body was a seething mass of tension. The shock on Margaret's face pained him, and his heart beat thickly for Isabel, whom he cared for second only to Margaret, having felt for her from the very first, a most peculiar attachment. To think of that poor wife - locked up and all alone! - whilst her husband lay dead or dying in that burning shed, was more than he could countenance.

He knew Isabel would not cope without her husband, for Mr Thornton was not just her husband, but her anchor and protector. And Mrs Thornton, too! would be so wholly undone by such a catastrophic loss. Dr Lyndhurst felt a knot of tension within his breast, and his eyes stung at the thought of that stern dark face, whom he had come to call "friend". He could not foresee how Isabel could possibly navigate the alien world of Milton, without her steadfast supporter at her side.

And Higgins, too! His life was not to be forgot; he could not die in that mill fire without singeing their hearts, and just as smartly as could one of their own household. For he was honest and a tonic to any jaded mind; he was warm and loyal, and both women - Isabel and Margaret - did look to the man in a fatherly way - and Dr Lyndhurst knew - for all their differences in circumstance and class - that Nicholas Higgins was - in truth - nothing less than a friend to he and Mr Thornton. Oh, but Mr Thornton; had he now any need of a friend, or was he gone to his eternal resting place? Dr Lyndhurst thought it very likely the latter, but yet, he could not give up hope; not when the prospect of the worst, was so wholly abhorrent to every sensibility he held dear.