The following morning, Mr Thornton awoke a man of purpose, seeing to all of his interests and matters of business with an efficient determination and clarity of mind. Where there was a demand for finished cotton, the astute businessman was able to drive hard bargains to achieve a satisfactory profit for the mill. Where he had to meet his brother magistrates, he kept sharp to his time and was able to listen to all matters put before him, giving in return the benefit of his great sense and foresight. He had about him a natural proclivity for the law; for seeing what was the truth of the matter – what was, and what might be – and with that great understanding, he was able to dispatch his duties with an efficient directness which saw him make clear and quick decisions, to which his brothers all readily deferred. Indeed, those older, of higher standing within the community and those of greater wealth – realised in both property and land, and not simply held in ready capital – all saw Mr Thornton's dexterity of mind and valued his sound decision making so highly, that they looked to him for guidance, and he took on that mantle without one ounce of conscious awareness of their natural deference to him. It was he, that his fellow magistrates appointed the person to meet with the police on all matters of law, and it was he who took all actions necessary in order to reach a decision upon any criminal case.

This great respect they held for the young and austere mill Master was silently paid, and he had no knowledge of it. Where a man in possession of greater vanity or feeling of self-importance, may see his brother magistrates' ready acceptance of his decisions, and tendency to allow themselves to be swayed to his way of thinking, as a sign of his undoubtedly high-regard, Mr Thornton thought only that his decisions were took up – his reasons listened to and accepted – purely because they were logical and sound, and may therefore have been reached by any other. Had he known that those men of status and experience had revered him, he would have felt it a hindrance to his purpose, for he sought no accolades or attention, nor wished to bend the will of men, but to serve his duty with that directness and honesty upon which he so prided himself.

It was his mother who knew his worth and standing amongst men; her greedy ears sought out those titbits and she was rapacious in her thirst for the probative words that might be gleaned from her women-folk; those wives of Masters, magistrates and wealthy men, and it was an unrivalled pleasure to the proud matriarch to hear the good opinion of any vaunted Milton man for her acclaimed son.

And that day he executed his business with the relentless precision and rhythmic efficiency of a stout and sturdy heart, beating potently within a strong man's breast. It was as though the dismay of the previous day – the pain and disbelief – had been cast off completely, and left his mind all the more clear, just as the tempest clears that cloudy sky on passing, leaving in its wake uninterrupted blankets of crystal blue. His very purposelessness of the previous afternoon – the hours wasted in idling through fields and riding upon the omnibus, served to ensure his ambition that following day.

His business that day included the cases of those five for whom warrants were issued for the riot. The evidence for the three conspirators failed, and Mr Thornton charged the police to be vigilant against any future uprising, cautioning them that the strong arm of the law ought to be ready to force those who denied its authority, into submission. He thought upon the violence of the mob and took a certain satisfaction in knowing that the police were eager to prove the mobsters' guilt, and having seen to the day's business, he took himself from the stifling heat of the borough court and stepped out into the street.

The air was hardly fresher and the sun blazed down with that oppressive stillness which had marked the calamity of the day of the riot only two days previous, and as the sultry air hit him, he flagged. His vitality was sapped from his veins and he felt himself so languorous that he could no longer force his thoughts to their purpose, and instead he allowed his mind to fall upon that fateful moment, when she had placed herself before the mob – all in the name of his Irish – and then, once he had claimed her under his protection, how – once smitten down – he had awoken to find her shielding him with all the brave determination of mind and defiant independence which he so desperately loved and regretted, both at the very same moment. His fists clenched, the knuckles whitening against taut skin, as he thought on the blows she had taken. He could not but think of her. The thoughts came unbidden, and her face stood before him in his mind. He wished to be indifferent, but he could not be. He wished to blot her out with anger and frustration, but in truth, all he could feel was a painful longing; the desire to be before her once again. Just to look upon her or hear her utter some inane word of no significance, would be the only balm to his inner turmoil. She loves me! thought he, with growing incredulity. She had claimed it most passionately, and he had felt the truth of her words. So unjust in her assumption of his inconstancy of heart – so very offensive to him in her proclamation of knowing the passions which dwelt within his own breast, far greater than did he – had she been when explaining her need to reject him. And it had smarted him as no violent or maligning rebuke ever could, and yet, for all that she offended him, he longed to see her. He longed to place himself before her and see how she might react to him.

He walked through the crowded street, wending about the people, seeing none but her. He recalled to mind the weight of her body, lying prostrate upon him. He recalled the refulgent honeyed redness to her hair as it had spilled about his shoulders, glinting in that baking sunlight. Oh! how he longed for that brief moment – to re-live it once again – so that he might appreciate it for the treasure it now was to him.

'Why! Mr Thornton, you cut me very coolly,' quipped Dr Donaldson, as he appeared before Mr Thornton's vision. 'And how is your mother? The weather so warm; a bad climate for those in my trade, for it makes everyone so well!'

'I beg your pardon, Doctor, for I truly didn't see you. My mother is quite well – as always – thank you. It is a fine day, it's true.' He looked upwards to the blazing sky, and added almost forgetfully, 'A fine day for the harvest, I should think. If the wheat is got in well, it shall give us healthy order books next year, even if the fair weather does nothing for you doctors.'

'Ay!' smiled Dr Donaldson. 'It's each man for himself, is it not? All wishing for something different. When trade is good my times are bad, and when yours are bad, mine are good. Indeed, bad trade for you Milton men undermines the health; there's more of it than you might think.'

'Not I, doctor. I am iron made. Not even the worst of debts could make my pulse race!' But then he saw her face before his mind, and he ceded that where no great calamity of business might fell him, that glorious creature could. 'This strike – which affects me more than any other – it has not affected my appetite one bit. You must find yourself a patient elsewhere, doctor.'

'Oh, I have!' Dr Donaldson replied, with haste. 'Why, Mrs Hale – whom you recommended me – is proving to be a very good patient.' He frowned then, for he was not a mercenary man. 'I don't like to go on talking in this way,' ceded Dr Donaldson, 'but I fear the lady has only a few weeks left. There was never any hope of a cure, of course, and Miss Darrow has kept her as comfortable as may be, but now that the lady's time is almost up, I find myself a daily visitor. Indeed, Mr Hale demands it; nothing is too much for his wife's comfort, so she has about her both myself and Miss Darrow. No!' said he, as though seeking to confirm his own correctness of speech. 'I have seen her this morning and she is truly very ill.'

Mr Thornton was silent for a moment. The sound of her name, spoken by another, quite struck him, and he could not immediately form a reply. Indeed, that steadiness of pulse he had so recently claimed for himself, gave way but for a moment. He frowned in thought, and when next he spoke, his tone was altered to a compassionate softness.

'Is there anything I can do, Doctor? You will have seen that the family have no abundance of money; are there any comforts I might offer, which they cannot acquire for themselves?'

'No,' replied Dr Donaldson. 'I believe Miss Darrow has been seeing to all the necessary medicines, but the lady has a constant fever, and does crave fruit.' He shook his head as though this nugget of information was nothing, and continued in a careless way. 'Jargonelle pears would do as well as anything.'

Mr Thornton now knew what he must be about, and despite having no general benevolence or philanthropic tendencies, he bid the doctor to inform him if there was anything he might do for the lady's comfort – to which Dr Donaldson readily agreed – and excusing himself, walked directly to the nearest fruit-shop and chose a bunch of purple grapes, which had upon them, the most perfect of blooms, peaches of the most luxuriant colour and the freshest vine leaves to be found. All were packed into a vast basket, and – to the shop-man's surprise, Mr Thornton requested that the basket be handed directly to him – rather than being sent to Marlborough Mills as had been supposed. Taking the heavy basket in two hands, he stepped out into the street, making towards Crampton.

He had to walk through the busiest district for feminine shopping, and there were many a young lady who saw – and were puzzled by – the austere and foreboding Master, walking with his fare like a young errand boy. If those that saw him thought it strange, Mr Thornton did not. He thought only of seeing her again. I shall not stay away, he said to himself. It is my right to bring this fruit to the sick mother. It is my right and I shall do it. I shall not neglect Mr Hale for fear of her. I shall not allow her to keep me away with all her protestations of our impossibility. A pretty joke it shall be, when she has ordered me to love another, and there I shall stand, in defiance of her injustice.

Walking briskly, Mr Thornton was soon at Crampton. Dixon admitted him, but he took the stairs with such purpose, that he had quite entered the drawing-room before the loyal servant was able to announce him. Standing in that room, his eyes glistened with a compassionate fervour, for Mrs Hale lay upon the sofa, heated with fever. Mr Hale was across the room, reading aloud, whilst Margaret sat beside her mother on a low stool, set about her needlework; he thought it such a sorry sight! Isabel stood – hidden, or so she had thought – in the corner of the room, in the process of pouring tea. Her heart beat thick at the sight of him, even though she had been awaiting his arrival with her usual foresight. He had seen her the moment he had entered the room, and if he had not, still he should have known that she was there, for her very presence was felt viscerally. Yet he ignored her and took his offered basket directly to Mrs Hale, speaking to her in such a restrained and mellow voice, as is always so poignantly felt by an invalid, when used by a man in the vigour of full-health.

'I spoke with Dr Donaldson, ma'am, and he informed me that fruit would be of benefit to you, and so I took the liberty – most boldly – of bringing to you, some fruit which I had quite admired.' Mrs Hale was exceedingly surprised and exceedingly gratified to think that someone beyond the confines of their small Crampton house had thought of her in her hour of decline, and so pleased was she that she was caught up in a quiver of fervour.

'Fetch a plate, Margaret!' urged Mrs Hale, in that weak and flustered voice. 'A basket, a plate – anything!' enthused the invalid, with impatience. Margaret moved to the small occasional table in the corner – where Isabel stood pouring tea – and moved to take up a plate. Isabel shrunk as Margaret came to stand beside her, fearing that Mr Thornton now must have seen her, for Margaret's movement had surely only drawn the viewer's eye to her inertia. 'No, Margaret!' chided Mrs Hale, in nervous vexation. 'That plate is far too small.' And certainly it was, for Mr Thornton's basket of fruits was plentiful. Isabel flinched at the allusion to the plate, which she held outstretched to Margaret, and knew then that she must have been seen. She set down the plate and dipping her head to the floor, spoke with an uncharacteristic mumble – so keen was she to be gone; to hide the deep flush to her cheeks.

'I shall fetch something more suitable.' And with her litheness of step, she was gone from the room. Mrs Hale appeared to find distress in there being no ready conveyance for the fruit, and Mr Thornton – having achieved his purpose in doing his duty to the Hales, and in seeing his Isabel – spoke softly to Mrs Hale, seeking to allay her fears.

'I must go,' said he. 'I have business to attend to and cannot stay. You will forgive me for being so presumptive in bringing this basket as I have – my rough northern ways – too direct – I fear, but I shall be more civilised next time – more patient and gentle. You will allow me the pleasure of bringing you some fruit again, if I should see some which is pleasing.' He stepped back with a polite and solicitous farewell – however brief – and was gone.

Mrs Hale was in raptures; never had one been so kind; never had one been so very thoughtful.

'Oh! Margaret, is not it very good of Mr Thornton, to think of me when I am unwell, and to come all this way when he is so very busy?' Margaret nodded without pause, for she was much gratified with the kindness he had shown to her mother.

'It is exceedingly good of him, Mamma.' And yet – as Mr Hale peeled a peach for his wife and spoke of its sweetness – none better – not in all his days in Hampshire – not even as a boy, when one is so easily pleased – Margaret could not but wonder if Mr Thornton's impetus for calling was perhaps due to a partiality he held for Isabel. For, although she had been about her sewing for the majority of that brief interview, she had noticed – because she had looked for it – that Mr Thornton's eyes fell everywhere but upon Isabel. And her friend – usually so bold and fearless – had been flushed of cheek, and so very eager to take up the commission of sourcing a vessel large enough to accommodate the glut of fruit, that she felt she could almost have accused Isabel of fleeing the room.

And Isabel had, because she had felt Mr Thornton's refusal to acknowledge her, and it smote her heart. However she may have professed that he ought to love another – the other being Margaret – and however she may have claimed that she would give him up, simply because she loved him so dearly, she could not do so without a bitter lamentation for her own loss and sorrow. To be in the same room as him, but not have him look upon her – no warm, interested eyes, no open dialogue or free exchange of opinions, but stifled feelings and avoidance – did not merely discompose her, but caused her bodily pain. She had fled the room, but had no desire to return whilst Mr Thornton remained, for she could not countenance the thought of standing before him again and being so thoroughly ignored. Thus, she was lethargic in her movement to the kitchen, and Mr Thornton – who had been eager to depart the moment his commission was completed – was upon her on the lower staircase, at the very moment she stopped to brace herself against the wall and catch her breath.

She paused, her ribs aching through her careless movement, and she stilled at the sound of approaching footsteps. They ceased not far above her, and a great shadow loomed over her petite form, and she knew – from the very height and breadth of him, from that masculine scent which no other could rival in pungency – that he stood behind her.

'You are unwell?' asked Mr Thornton, unable to hide the note of concern from his voice. She turned her face to look up at him and offered a sad smile with a tentative shake of her head. As she did so, she unconsciously pressed her palm to her flank, and observing the motion, Mr Thornton took another hasty step forward. 'Your ribs? You are in pain?' Again, she shook her head.

'It is only a trifle. I only moved a little too vigorously.' He was vexed. So like her, was it deny the weakness, and yet, she had been weak, for he had not missed her hasty departure from the drawing room – made at the very first opportunity that arose. He let that irritation get the better of his temper, and he spoke bitterly.

'When you fled from my presence, no doubt!' his jaw set. 'I had not thought you a coward, Miss Darrow.' And there! How easily he had provoked her ire. He smiled in satisfaction, for he would far rather see her driven to a passionate vexation, than have her shrink from him. His smile was observed, of course, and entirely misunderstood.

'I see you scorn me!' retorted Isabel, her eyes wide with indignity; she had not thought him to try and wound her. She knew he would be hurt, but she had never expected him to seek to wound her in return. 'How little you must care for me, if one day you can speak of love, and the next of my cowardice. But I must thank you, Mr Thornton, for you have shown me to be so wholly correct in my thinking; I did say that I was not for you; that you would feel a deeper love. I am ashamed to have doubted my refusal of you after you left, but now I must be grateful to you for reaffirming my conviction. No man in love would seek to wound his object; just as I sought to avoid wounding mine in refusing you.' She turned, a heavy step, one after another, as she reached the bottom of the stairs, but he moved quickly to follow her and placed himself close by, leaning in towards her, with expectation.

'You think that little of me? That I should wish to hurt you?' His voice was low and tender and so laced with his own mortification that she could not but stop and shiver, as she felt his imposing shadow move closer, until she was quite convinced that she would feel his hot breath upon her neck. 'How little you know me,' continued he, 'if you think that I could purposefully hurt you, when I love you – as I told you.'

'And did you not purposefully hurt me? Did you not seek to wound me, by calling me a coward? You must know that I did not wish to stand before you so utterly ignored. I felt and feel your disdain for me, sir, and so there can be little more for us to say to one another. Perhaps you cared for me – even loved me – but I refused you, and so – quite naturally – your feelings have changed – though, I might say, with shameful rapidity – and now we stand at odds, for you no longer love me – which is what I wished for, but what you promised never to grant – and yet I still love you, even though you are not the man I thought you to be.'

'I wonder how it is that you can claim to love me, when you think so very ill of me. To say I am such an inconstant man, as to love one day and not the next? I did speak ill, through temper, and I would have regretted it, had you not insulted me further still; not now by claiming my love for you to be a passing thing - which is it not, for I have a stronger character than that! – but by now claiming that I must have not loved you at all! You call me a liar, Miss Darrow?'