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John Thornton could not bear the way the clerks regarded him these days. It made him feel the way he felt when Miss Hale rejected him– he felt small; unsure; lost. He was as diminished in his employees’ view as he had been in hers. He could not say which hurt more; he vacillated each day between the varying humiliations which had accompanied his life since the riot.
He was the last to leave the mill that evening, certainly long after the Irish hands. He cursed their inadequate work, and their over-fondness for drink. He cursed himself, he cursed his father, he cursed the sky. Sighing, he locked the heavy wooden doors for the night, and started across the courtyard to his family home.
The house was sparsely lit, per his mother’s instruction of economy. He prayed he may be able to slip in unnoticed. Dinner would have been finished for a good while now; he had given clear instructions to cook that his mother and sister were to dine at the regular hour, and not wait for him. He stepped into the front door, carefully locking it behind him. Removing his hat and coat, he was dismayed to hear his sister wailing in the sitting room. He kept to the rug, and walked as silently as possible toward his study. He nearly made it to his own door, before the sitting room’s was flung open, sending orange light into the passage, along with his sister’s cries.
His mother looked grave. ‘You speak to her,’ she hissed, as she bundled her skirts and pushed past him. He began to make an inquiry of her, but she was disappearing into the dim light before he could summon the words. Steeling himself, he entered the sitting-room.
Fanny was laying prone on the settee, her hands covering her face. A maid was offering her comforts in the form of wine and sweet words, but it had little effect on his sister, who continued to howl.
‘Why, Fan, whatever is the matter?’ he asked, dreading the answer.
‘Oh, John!’ She uncovered her eyes, but remained laid out in her dramatic fashion. ‘Mamma says Miss Hale shall not come to the wedding!’
‘Beg pardon?’ he asked, utterly lost.
‘She says Miss Hale shall not come!’ she cried again, a bit more forcefully.
‘I…’ he sat down opposite her, and tried to collect himself. He had imagined Fanny’s worries to be inconsequential, but he had not figured to hear the name Miss Hale. ‘I had no notion you were especially fond of Miss Hale, Fanny. But she is mourning now for her parents; it stands to perfect reason she should not attend a wedding.’
‘But she must, John!’ she exclaimed as she swung her legs to the floor, and with the help of the maid, pulled herself up into a seated position. ‘Why, our wedding shall be as grand as any she may have seen in London! She must know that you have given us the most exquisite day!’
He made no move to disguise his groan as he sank back into the chair. ‘You wish Miss Hale to attend your wedding, in the midst of her grief, so she may witness a demonstration of material wealth?’ he asked slowly. As his sister nodded, he brought his own hands over his eyes. ‘Miss Hale is unlikely to be impressed by such a display. It is not in her nature.’
Fanny scoffed. ‘It is in every young woman’s nature to wish to be wed. Every young woman desires to attend weddings and Christenings and make her own plans…’ she explained, trailing off dreamily. ‘Even the lower classes have such aspirations, John.’ She turned to face the maid. ‘Is that not so, Jane?’
‘Yes, miss.’
Thornton was not convinced by the maid’s quick reply, but he made nothing of it. ‘Miss Hale is a well-brought up lady, Fanny; if she has declined the invitation it will be owing to the propriety of grief. Had these tragedies not occurred, I do not doubt she will have been in attendance.’ His heart ached as he thought of her sat there in the church, looking beautiful; perhaps wearing virginal white. He swallowed hard. ‘I suppose many people have sent their responses?’ he asked, trying to change to a happier subject.
‘Oh,’ she pouted. ‘Perhaps.’
‘They have done, sir,’ interjected Jane. ‘All the best families of Milton and Keighley.’
‘There, Fan,’ he said, as gently as he could manage. ‘You see? There will great attendance at your wedding, and no doubt the ladies will be able to decipher the great expense to which I have gone to provide for you.’
Fanny scoffed. ‘Do you see, John? The other mill-owners will know what you are able to provide, but a Londoner… to have a real Londoner be impressed by my wedding…’ she trailed off, her eyes glassy at such a dazzling prospect.
‘I do not believe Miss Hale owns being a Londoner, Fanny; she claims Hampshire as her home.’ But his remarks were little heeded.
‘You must convince her to come, John.’
‘However shall I do that?!’
‘Call on her. Go to her. Tell her I must, must, have the pleasure of her company before she removes to London.’
‘I do not see it likely she will be removing to London anytime–’
‘Oh, but she is! She called on me only today to say good-bye.’
A hot, unpleasant sensation filled his lower abdomen. He opened his mouth once, twice, trying to find the appropriate words. ‘Whatever do you mean?!’ he finally managed, hoping that, as often, Fanny had the wrong end of the stick.
‘Well, she could not stay here with no family,’ said Fanny, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. As he considered her words, he realised she was, of course, correct. A young lady could not stay in this city without protection… he thought miserably. Fanny had resumed her chatter, but he heard little of what she said. He rose slowly, and crossed to the fire. She could stay in Milton, if that is what she wanted… she could be my wife, if that is what she wanted…
His mother’s voice cut through his misery. ‘You’ve not agreed to this foolishness, John!’
‘He has, mother!’ said Fanny, once again coming up hysterical. His mother regarded him with pity and disgust, and for a moment he could not figure what it was that he had agreed to. Until his sister pipped up again. ‘He calls at Crampton now and he shall convince her!’
Mrs Thornton began to roundly scold Fanny, who started to wail. Eager for any reason to leave the premises, he exited the sitting-room without saying farewell.
*****
Thornton walked along the dusky, dusty streets, his mind an utter jumble of competing thoughts. He resented his sister sending him on this errand– resented himself, really, for acquiescing. He resented Miss Hale for her hasty rejection, yet longed to see her, to be near her. Even if she declined to speak to him or raise her eyes to meet his own, if he was in her presence, his soul was light. He resented the hands, the clerks, the Irish, the rioters, the cost of this bloody wedding… he was possessed of a maddening and pressing urge to run through the streets, as though he were a child again. As though if he kept his physical form in motion, he may outrun his agonies. Before he knew it, he was in Crampton. He found himself turning toward the Hale home with little consciousness of how he’d managed to get there so quickly. Perhaps I did run…
Exhaling deeply, he climbed the few steps to their door, and knocked. He stood back, waiting for Dixon and her endlessly sour disposition. Ladies maids were not often to be found in Milton, and he wondered if this was their common state, or if the late Mrs Hale had merely acquired a particularly unpleasant one. He was rather surprised when the door was opened by a young gentleman; tall and handsome. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said with an easy politeness.
‘Good evening, sir’ returned Thornton. ‘Forgive me, I was seeking an audience with Miss Hale. I am called Thornton; I was a friend of Mr Hale’s before his death.’
The sandy-haired man extended a ready hand. ‘I have heard your name, yes. I am Lennox, Margaret’s cousin. Well, her cousin by marriage. Please do come in, and I shall see if she is receiving.’
Thornton stepped over the threshold, and removed his hat. His host started upstairs toward the bedrooms, and Thornton stood stiffly in the passage, waiting to be invited into the house. He wondered if Miss Hale would receive him, and how such a refusal could be explained to her cousin-in-law. His mind raced with possibilities– he hardly noticed the door to the kitchen opening, and Dixon bustling out with a tea-tray. ‘Oh,’ she said, with a pronounced frown. ‘You’ve come to call.’
‘Mr Lennox has only–’
‘Captain.’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘He is a Captain. Captain Lennox,’ said Dixon with a sniff.
‘Ah. I thank you,’ responded Thornton mildly. Dixon narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but carried on bringing the tray upstairs without another word. Just as she disappeared from view up the stairs, the Captain was descending.
‘I am afraid Margaret is rather done for this evening,’ he explained, looking apologetic. ‘It is a trying time for her, but she says if you’ve got a message, I may deliver it.’
Thornton felt instantly foolish, and hoped his colour had not risen to a noticeable level. ‘I have been sent on an errand by my sister. It is… you see, she is about to be wed, and though I have explained to her the seriousness of Miss Hale’s situation, she had rather set her heart on Miss Hale attending the church before she returns to London.’ The Captain raised his eyebrows, but offered no commentary. ‘I called this evening to see if Miss Hale may consider changing her mind. Though I understand if grief and the pressing removal prevent her doing so.’
The Captain grinned. ‘I’ve no sister, but I do know the pain of being sent on a fool’s errand by a lady.’ He looked Thornton up and down. ‘Will you have a brandy, sir? Forgive me, but I know when a man is need of a good drink.’
Unable to think of a compelling reason to decline the invitation– and, as ever, half-hoping for a glance of Miss Hale, Thornton nodded his assent, and followed Lennox through to the sitting room, once Mr Hale’s study.
‘I had spent many happy hours here in Mr Hale’s company. He was a good man,’ he said with a sigh.
‘I regret I did not know him,’ said the Captain as he poured two healthy measures. ‘Mrs Hale visited us in London once or twice, but Mr Hale never did. I have heard he was quite gentle; a learned man.’ He handed Thornton a glass, and gestured to the settee. The two men sipped in silence for a moment. ‘I shall of course pass along your sister’s invitation to Margaret, but, as you acknowledge, I shall not insist on her attending.’
‘I would not have you do so,’ said Thornton gravely.
‘Tell me, Mr Thornton, what is your profession?’
‘I own a mill. Cotton.’
‘Now that is fascinating,’ said the Captain, as he rose to refresh their glasses. He passed the next quarter of an hour asking Thornton questions about the machinery, and the various processes of turning simple cotton into proper cloth. Thornton was surprised– impressed, really– at the younger man’s interest in his profession. He had rather imagined Londoners of that social class to be utterly removed from the manufacturing sphere. Once the Captain had exhausted that line of questioning, they spoke for a few minutes on the affairs of the day, and Thornton attempted to enquire about the events of Crimea, though in truth, he knew very little of military matters, and cared very little, when they did not threaten his personhood or his livelihood.
The Captain slouched in his seat some, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He eyed his empty glass, and Thornton half-hoped he would be offered a third measure, despite his head starting to swim. Whatever he’d been served, it was of an excellent quality– unlike anything he’d been served in the Hale home previously. He wondered if the Captain had brought it from his own home. After a moment, the Captain rose, hand outstretched for Thornton’s glass, which was duly handed over.
‘I shall be quite glad of having Miss Margaret in my household,’ said the Captain, when he had settled in once more. ‘Mrs Lennox– my wife, you see– well, she has the most excellent vivacity and temperament, but Miss Margaret is far more sensible. She will bring a fine balance to my home, much as she did when she and my wife were girls.’
‘Miss Hale is eager for her return to London,’ he said, hoping some of his bitterness was disguised. ‘She will have much to return to– all the various attachments a young lady makes in such a place.’
‘I know of no attachments, but I cannot say I pass much of my day gossiping with the ladies,’ the Captain said with a grin. ‘Mrs Lennox would like my brother to make her an offer, but he seems less keen than she does. Which is not to say he finds any objections to Miss Margaret, nor her character. He is a solicitor, you see, and quite occupied by his work. I suppose he thinks he would not have adequate time to dedicate to a wife. Although…’ he considered for a moment, ‘Miss Margaret is rather an independent sort. I imagine she would be quite capable at managing a household and children.’
An icy fist gripped at Thornton’s stomach. ‘Yes, I rather think she would.’
‘Are you married, Mr Thornton?’
‘I am not.’
‘Shame. It is not without its foibles and follies, but I heartily recommend it to any gentleman. A man’s labour feels far more significant when there is a lady installed in the home– someone to benefit from it all. Mrs Lennox is in her confinement, and if I may say so, having a lad of my own has brought real joy I’ve never known.’ Thornton held tight to the arm of the chair, barely conscious of his knuckles going stark white. Overhead a clock chimed. ‘Is that the hour?’ exclaimed the Captain, consulting his own pocket-watch. ‘I say Thornton, I had not meant to keep you so very late. You will forgive me?’ Rising with his hand extended, Thornton rose, and reached to meet him.
*****
Thornton was grateful for the cool night air. It sobered him some. He walked along the deserted streets, regretting he had not met Miss Hale, though admitting he’d thoroughly enjoyed the hours spent in the Captain’s company. Since Mr Hale’s death, he had no one with whom he could socialise– another gentleman with whom he could converse, and enjoy a drink. He began to consider calling on his fellow mill-owners with greater regularity. It was true their respective wives and Thornton’s mother gave dinners, but those occasions were really for the ladies. But then again… I suppose they will only wish to discuss the business of manufacturing, and utterly fail to distract me from those woes.
Miss Hale once more pressed herself into the forefront of his consciousness. The Captain spoke so fondly of the joys of marriage. It had not bothered him that he had never managed to find a wife; his mother kept his house very well, and his sister was well-practised at spending his money. There was something he had not considered, though; that a wife could be a salve against loneliness. To his mind, husbands and wives would lead very separate lives in their separate spheres. Yet he could not rid himself of the image of sitting in his study on an evening, perhaps taking a brandy, in the company of Miss Hale– well, she would have to be Mrs Thornton. She would stitch; he might read; perhaps they would discuss their days, or their thoughts and feelings on various subjects. She was so very frank and open with him now, and they were but acquaintances. Why, when they were married– if, he corrected himself harshly, if they were married– she would be a brilliant conversationalist. Despite his best efforts tears pressed at his eyes as he thought of the joys such a marriage would bring him. He was grateful for the dark– he knew what people said of him these days, and his expressions of such severe emotions would do nothing to quell the rumours that he’d lost his touch.
*****
None slept in the Thornton household the night before the wedding. Mrs and Miss Thornton– and a small cadre of servants– were awake, taking it in turns to fuss and wail and cajole and scold. Mr Thornton lay awake, as was his recent, regrettable, custom, thinking of his many woes: of money, of manpower. Each time his thoughts began to move in the direction of Miss Hale, he forced himself back to practical concerns. Not, to be sure, that he could do anything productive about a dwindling cash flow, nor the ineptitude of the Irish hands. But they caused him less agony than she, and he found it more favourable to consider himself a failure in business, than a failure in character, or appearance.
He rose from the bed, intending to stretch his legs in the courtyard, but fear of meeting his mother, sister, or both in the passage kept him within his bedroom. He sat by the fire, and light a candle, intending to read some Walter Scott. Yet after half-an-hour of trying, he could not concentrate on the adventures of Ivanhoe, and so abandoned it for the newspaper. He had less patience for that, and found it immensely satisfying to hoy it into the flames, and watch it curl into nothingness. He rubbed his eyes. He wondered if he would see Miss Hale at the church. He ceased rubbing, curious if such an activity would negatively impact the shape or bearing of his features. He crossed to the old glass on his shaving table, and regarded himself.
There were some gentlemen, even amongst his acquaintances in Milton, who he had considered rather vain. They were forever buying the newest fashions from the continent, showing them off at every opportunity. He had little interest in such topics, though, being honest with himself, he had thought once or twice of asking his sister for some advice. Not that Miss Hale would be impressed by such trappings…
He supposed he was not ugly– schoolfellows and a remarkably blunt mother would have apprised him of that fact. But am I good enough for Miss Hale? He was possessed of blue eyes, even teeth, a striking nose, and his skin remained unmarked– he had been highway fortunate to avoid a childhood battle with smallpox. He was not so young anymore, but he felt a keen vitality still. After a moment, he was overtaken by a real sense of shame, and stepped away from the mirror, face burning in agitation. It is just as I told Fanny, Miss Hale would not be so vain as to reject me for my appearance. My defect lies within.
He lay back down in the bed, and tried to work out with how few men he could successfully run the mill. He fell asleep to the sounds of his sister shouting about orange blossoms.
*****
Thornton woke to his mother jostling him awake. She chided him for sleeping in as she whipped open the curtains. He blinked as he sat up, and realised the house was eerily quiet. ‘Where is Fanny?’ he asked, momentarily dreading she had decided to flit to Gretna Green.
‘She is asleep on the settee in the front sitting-room. And you will not wake her!’ she hissed, whirling to face him. Thornton held up a hand to indicate he had no intention of doing so. ‘She was awake half the night,’ Mrs Thornton huffed, ‘I shall be terribly glad once this wedding has finished. Then we may concentrate our efforts on matters of true importance.’
‘What is that?’
‘The mill, John,’ she responded with little patience. ‘The wedding– and any other distractions– shall be removed from our lives forthwith.’
‘You speak of Miss Hale,’ he said quietly, looking down at the sheets; refusing to look at her anymore.
‘Yes, I do.’
He sighed. ‘She does not prevent my attending to my business matters, mother.’
‘But she is hardly good for you, John.’ He let the remark pass. Then, a little more tenderly, she added, ‘It gives me pain too, that she refused you. But if marriage is your goal, we can find a suitable woman. Pining over Miss Hale… it hurts my own heart to see you in such agony.’
‘Will you have tea sent up for me, mother?’ the tightness in his chest constricted his voice.
‘John…’
‘Tea is all I seek, mother.’ Mrs Thornton nodded, and took her leave. He fell back against the pillows, irritation growing within.
*****
Thornton took his tea and toast in his bedroom. The servant who’d brought it to him looked exhausted and irritated– evidently she was one of the ones kept awake all night by his sister. When he’d eaten, performed his ablutions, and dressed, he started downstairs, seeking the quiet respite of his study until such time as he needed to escort Fanny to the church. His thoughts were a jumble of self-righteous anger and self-pity, both emotions, he reasoned, were compounded by lack of sleep. He breathed deep, and tried to keep himself calm for Fanny and his mother. This day was for them, after all– the ladies would have the wedding they wished for.
Even through the heavy wood of the door, he could hear the commotion of activity in the passages. Servants running, Fanny weeping, his mother shouting– at which party he could not determine, but he was pleased it was not him. At five minutes to nine, there was a sharp rap on the door. He called out, ‘enter!’ and a servant came in, gave a perfunctory curtsey, and said Miss Fanny was ready. He followed the girl out into the passage, and there, at the top of the stairs, was Fanny. He caught his breath as she descended.
By, but she is a woman… he thought, as she carefully came down to meet him. Her gown was in perfect white lace, and her veil trimmed with silk, a few delicate sprigs of orange blossoms framed her face. She looked immensely lovely– and though it had been but minutes before, he no longer saw a trace of that hysterical child who had shouted and pouted all morning. ‘Well,’ she asked, smiling brightly, ‘what say you, John?’
He leant forward to kiss her cheek. ‘There is no lovelier bride in all of England. Mr Watson is a lucky man.’
‘He has got three mills, John. I am the lucky one,’ she said with great earnestness. He nodded, not wishing to contradict her on her wedding day, and gripped her arm, guiding her outside to the waiting carriage. Their mother was stationed by the door looking grim. He knew she would never say it, but he imagined she would feel the loss of her daughter. The servants lined the path, wishing Miss Fanny well, and ooh-ing and ahh-ing over her remarkable garment.
At the carriage, Thornton climbed in first, and the driver helped hand his sister and mother up to him. Fanny beamed with pride as she waved to the servants. The day was remarkably warm and clear for the autumn, and he could see the pride in his sister’s face as the denizens of Milton craned to get a look at her as their carriage passed through town. He could not determine what his own feelings were. I ought to be proud of what I am able to provide for my family, he decided; this day may bankrupt me, but I have done what I must, and given them what they deserve.
Soon they were in front of the church, and Mr Thornton quickly alighted the carriage, first helping his mother down, then Fanny. She gripped his arm tightly, and for a moment he saw trepidation cross her face. He supposed marriage was more of a daunting prospect for young ladies than young men: to leave their mothers and suddenly have the roles and responsibilities of a wife thrust upon them.
They crossed the threshold together, their mother having gone ahead of them. The doors facing into the church were half-shut, but he did his best to steal a few glances at the assembled guests. He tried to lie to himself and say he wished to look upon all his sister’s well-wishers, but such attempts at dishonesty, even in his own mind, vexed and shamed him. There she is, at last. She looked pale and drawn, but she smiled politely at the other guests who paused to greet her. He could not quite determine the colour of her dress, but it rather appeared to be a lilac– not quite the white he’d envisaged, but far from the voluminous black crepe which had swathed her graceful frame of late. She sat by her cousin, clad in his regimentals. He knew the Captain was no love rival, of course, but it burned him to see how easily she chatted with him, even smiling occasionally. He could not think of the last time he had seen her smile. He was not certain he had done anything to cause her happiness in the near two years of their acquaintance. Had I tried to make her smile? To laugh? She would not have accepted any insincere flatteries, but had I thought to pay her compliments in such—
‘—the other side is more traditional,’ the vicar’s words broke into his consciousness.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, it is customary for the escort to stand on the bride’s other side, Mr Thornton.’
He stepped around to Fanny’s other side a little sheepishly, earning a withering look from the vicar. Once he was satisfied with their positing, he gave the Thornton siblings a curt nod, and walked up the aisle. The crowd, murmuring quietly began to quiet. When the vicar had reached his place, he nodded, and the organ began to play. Fanny took a heaving breath, then began to walk forward— Thornton nearly stumbled, such was the severity of her movement. They walked together, heels making a rather satisfying sound on the worn, stone floor. Mr Watson stood in wait, his back turned to the pair. When they reached his shoulder, he turned to receive his bride.
Watson was clearly delighted by Fanny’s appearance, and took her hands warmly, before the vicar hissed that he was not to take possession of the lady until her brother had given his permission. Sheepishly, Watson dropped her, and Fanny once again clung to Thornton. The vicar cleared his throat and began to speak his words. Thornton tried desperately to concentrate on what was being said, but he found his thoughts occupied by a sudden anxiety of the prominence of his position— at least, as far as Miss Hale was concerned. She will be looking at me. What will she be thinking of? Will she be filled with relief that she is not stood here with me? Or perhaps, some sadness…
‘I say again, who giveth this woman unto this man?’ The vicar and Fanny were glaring at him. Mortified, Thornton stepped forward, and placed his sister’s hand in Watson’s. He made a half-bow toward the vicar, then turned on his heel, and joined his mother at the pew. She too was glaring. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling like an errant child again, and prayed his lapse in attention would not be remarked on any further.
It had been many years since he had attended a service, and he found himself muddling his way through the old words and hymns. Finally the vicar pronounced the couple as married, and Fanny and Watson made their way down the aisle, both smiling in perfect satisfaction. His mother took his arm. Her gaze was steely, but he could see a hint of tears in her eyes which betrayed her emotion. ‘You’ve done very well by her, John,’ she whispered, as he led her out of the church, following Fanny’s wake. He tried to catch Miss Hale’s eye as they walked, but she was occupied in the hymnal. I am glad she cares little for me; he thought to himself, letting the falsehood soothe him for just a moment. I could not do so well by her as once I was able to; it would not be fair if I brought her into another financially precarious situation. He helped his mother into the carriage— Fanny and Watson having departed for the Thornton residence in Watson’s own conveyance, but explained he would prefer to walk back to the house. Mrs Thornton protested, but Mr Thornton simply waved the driver on. The exertion— and the mental calmness it would bring— was worth the earful he'd receive from his sister for being late to the wedding breakfast.
He turned on his heel, but had to take an immediate step backwards, as there, before him, stood Miss Hale. ‘Fanny looked beautiful,’ she said, without any preamble. The shock of seeing her meant he was only able to offer a feeble, ‘yes’, in response.
‘I am afraid we must away,’ she half-turned over her shoulder to gesture to the Captain, standing in her wake. ‘But you will pass on my thanks to Fanny– Mrs Watson, I suppose I ought to say– for her invitation. I am glad my last view of Milton was such a pleasurable one.’
‘It is decided, then, that you shall not return?’
‘There is little reason,’ she said slowly, ‘though I should like to visit mamma again some day.’ Her eyes became glassy with tears, and he reached into his breast pocket for his handkerchief. She accepted it, and gracefully, gently, dabbed at her perfect brown eyes. He could feel a pressure building within himself, but stayed silent despite an urge to once again make his declarations again; or to tell her not to go; or to drag her inside the church and insist the vicar perform another wedding. She started to return the linen to him, but he shook his head. She frowned, and reached into her pocket. She produced a freshly-starched handkerchief of her own, with delicate irises stitched in the corner. ‘Something blue,’ she said, holding it out to him, ‘for luck.’ He reached out and gripped her hand tightly. Her eyes widened a little, and a faint blush appeared at the top of her cheekbones. But she did not pull away. He took the handkerchief, and let her hand fall away. ‘For luck,’ he repeated, running his thumb over the iris.
‘Farewell, Mr Thornton,’ said Miss Hale, offering him a low bow. He was desperate to take her hand once more, but he worried she may find it impertinent. Before he could find the perfect way of expressing his own good-bye, she was talking toward her cousin. The Captain offered Mr Thornton a raised hand in salute, and he returned the gesture. They turned the corner by the church, and disappeared from view, well on their way to disappearing from Milton. He ran his thumb over the iris– over and over again– as he walked. For luck.