It was a subdued party which returned to the house at Crampton in Mr Bell's hired carriage. Mr Hale was troubled about the passing conversation at dinner, fearing that his goddaughter had offended his pupil and his mother. Margaret was glad to have the evening done with, but was gratified to learn that Isabel possessed all the tender feeling she felt a young lady ought to have; she was not merely a supporter of the autocratic Masters, but a thinking young lady, with the dexterity of mind of any man, but the sensibilities of a lady. She felt now, upon reflection, that she would very well term Isabel a friend, for the wont of compassion which had troubled her so often on their previous interviews with Mr Thornton, had now been eradicated, even if it was at the expense of Mr Thornton's regard for her new friend. Mr Bell had been quite diverted, and felt a certain pride in Isabel's bold speech. He - and he alone - had yet observed further, that Mr Thornton was in no way repelled by Isabel's proclamations; indeed, he had appeared to take a keen interest in her opinions and once or twice, he quite believed he saw a glimpse of fleeting admiration. He was not wholly surprised though, for although he thought Mr Thornton a bit too grave, a bit too serious and undoubtedly without that certain flare he so favoured and had cultivated for himself, he knew him to be a man of quick mind and firm resolution; unafraid to take up a stance and adhere to it, even in the face of society's rebuke. No, thought Mr Bell, Thornton will not quail over some boldly spoken words at a dinner; not if he is the man I estimate him to be.

But Isabel felt simply wretched, for not only did she feel mortified to have disrupted Mrs Thornton's dinner party, and not only did she fear her association with Margaret could only taint her young friend in the eyes of Milton society, she also felt the very ludicrousness of her situation, for that evening, whilst living inside a work of fiction, she had foretold of the future; happenings of some ten or more years from now. And yet, she asked herself, would that even be the future? The book did not journey beyond a few brief years, and perhaps history would be kinder to the inhabitants of Milton, than it had to those of Lancashire and beyond. Her lip curled in wry amusement. History! cried the voice in her head. It is not history, now. Now, it is the future, if it is even to be. History! It was my history, indeed; but now it is be to my future.

Rudely pulled for her thoughts, was Isabel, upon the Hale's arrival at the Crampton house. The carriage turned away, carrying Mr Bell promptly to his hotel, and, as the front door opened to admit the returning party, Dixon's red-rimmed eyes did meet them; her expression one so grave - so very foreboding - that it instilled into the hearts of all three diners, some dreaded fear.

'Mamma!' cried Margaret. Mr Hale grasped at his daughter; clutching at her as a though clinging in a life raft amongst a turbulent sea; a man swept out into the indigo abyss, miles from land and safety. She felt the tremble in his touch, and sought to comfort him, but knew not how, for her own thoughts and emotions were in disarray.

'Dixon, what has happened?' asked Isabel in her calm, commanding way; no trace of emotion. 'You must tell me,' urged she, pushing past the debilitated two.

'A fit of sorts, Miss Isabel. I had to get the neighbour to send for Donaldson; the charwoman having been gone. He says she is better now and resting, but oh, miss!' And the sobbing began anew, disrupted only by the staid and measured steps of Dr Donaldson upon the stairs.

'I have given her a draught of opiates to see her rested; she will sleep until the morrow.'

'Wretched daughter!' cursed Margaret, in her grief. 'I should never have left Mamma. I should not have gone. I did not wish to go.' Her thoughts were scattered and would not form a coherent string; all she could conceive of, was that she had failed her mother and left her alone in the care of a servant, whilst she had dressed in silk and sat down to a lavish meal.

'Fits?' came Mr Hale's question; his voice weakened and trembling as his limbs. He caught the flicker of understanding which passed between Dr Donaldson and his goddaughter and rounded on her in desperation. 'You knew she would have fits? You have known this and kept it from us!'

'I suspected them to come, sir, but they could not be predicated with any accuracy. One could not say when they should start, and so I thought not to burden you or Margaret with the knowledge of what nature had determined for Mrs Hale.' Seeing the gentleman's concern - his sudden burst of frailty - Dr Donaldson led him gently up the stairs towards his bedchamber, talking all the while in soothing tones of one well practiced in grief.

'She will rally, sir. She will recover from the fit by the morrow, I should expect, and may not have another turn for a little while.'

'But the disease? Can it be cured? Will it abate?' asked Mr Hale, fearfully. And now he saw a cautious glance towards Margaret, which told him to be the only person of the household to be kept from the doctor's confidence.

'It will not, sir,' admitted Isabel, with a gentle sadness. Nodding vaguely - for he chose not to dwell upon such a heavy and sorrowful prediction - he looked accusingly at his daughter.

'You knew of this? It is not just these doctors - Donaldson and Isabel - who knew of your mamma's condition?'

'I did, Papa,' said Margaret, voice laced with regret.

'You are cruel! So very cruel!' accused he, but Dr Donaldson cut him short and attested to his fallacy.

'There is nothing to be done. We must make her comfortable, and that, Miss Darrow can do most readily. Now, Miss Hale here, can see to her mother's spirits, whilst Isabel can attend to her person. I should think her quite comfortable for the time she has remaining.' Seeing no lightening of countenance; no rallying of spirits, Dr Donaldson sought to appeal to the former clergyman's inherent nature. 'Take faith, sir, in the immortality of the soul, and know that it can never perish, never suffer.' But Dr Donaldson had not a wife, and he could not truly comprehend the pain of knowing one would lose one's lifelong companion. So too, he could not comprehend that his advice that only one person need take up the invalid's bedside vigil, was impossible to follow, for all who loved her would fight jealously to take up that charge.

The doctor left, and Mr Hale insisted upon staying up; his body now so suddenly frail; gone was the middle-aged man from one brief hour before, and in his place stood a man in his seventies. Margaret was able to cajole her father into retiring to the drawing room with a heavy volume, where he might rest in comfort upon an easy chair, and then determined that she, herself, would sit beside her mother.

'I must be beside her, too, Miss Margaret!' insisted an anxious Dixon, and for all the jealous exclusion she had felt at knowing her mother had confided in her servant before she had confided of her ills to her daughter, Margaret could not but offer a weak smile; softening at the loyal servant's determination.

'You will say up, too?' asked Margaret, with a pleading glance at Isabel. 'With Dr Donaldson gone, if Mamma should take another turn -' But she broke off, unable to voice her morbid thoughts.

'Certainly, I will!' agreed Isabel, readily, and so it was that the three ladies sat about the mistress of the house, as the lady in question lay in a death-shrouded repose. She was pale, and had about her an inertia which spoke only of the grave. None that looked upon her could deny that Death would soon take her as his own. The sight of her mother, so suddenly altered from the excitable invalid of only some few hours before - upon seeing her precious daughter dressed up in white silk - was of such stark contrast, as to bodily knock the air from Margaret's lungs, and she felt her eyes sting with tears, which sought to rent her soul in two.

'Oh! Mamma!' sobbed she, sat beside her ailing mother, knowing that never again would her gentle Mamma be well; knowing that soon she would not even have the pleasure of looking upon her face or hearing her delicate voice. So much time she had lost! thought she, as she kept up her vigil. Those years spent at Harley Street - only to return to Helstone for the holidays - bound only to that beloved place called home, and those gentlest of parents, by her mother's warm and regular letters. And upon her return, she had found herself the second child, overshadowed by the favoured son. Her brother, Frederick, (her mother's favourite - as well as Dixon's) had taken off to join the navy, and she had thought that, upon his departure, she would assume the mantle of dearest companion. But Harley Street had stolen from her that chance, and whilst away with her Cousin and Aunt Shaw - receiving the education and exposure to society, her mother felt to be her right (and something which would never have been achieved in rural Helstone), Dixon had taken her place at her mother's side, so that when she returned to Helstone after her Cousin Edith's marriage, she found herself excluded from that inner circle. Now it was too late; those months and years missed; a closeness which was sure to be restored through grief and suffering in her mother's final moments, but not the closeness she had so craved.

And that loyal servant, who had usurped the daughter in Mrs Hale's confidence - no longer a young woman herself - did sit up, upon a hard chair against the wall, her head sagging and eyes drooping, a sudden drop and slumber attained, only for the head to snatch back upon that age-thickened neck, and come to a jarring halt in an assumption of wakefulness. The eyes would blink in earnest - urging sleep away - but time could not be abated, and the lids drooped yet again, the heavy head sagged once more - just as did the heavy heart - and, head lowered, chin resting upon chest, Dixon succumbed to a cacophony of gentle snoring.

Mr Hale would anxiously come to Mrs Hale's door, listening for sounds of discomfort, before turning away with little satisfaction; little reassurance gained. Margaret heard his heavy step - dull through exhaustion - as he made his repeated visits, and sought finally to reassure him as only a daughter can, and so it was that he, too, allowed sleep to overcome him. Margaret wanted - selfishly - to urge Isabel to her bed, so that she may have sole ownership of her mother's care, now that all others rested, but she dared not, and so she passed the night beside her mother, reassured by the silent observation of Isabel; who offered no words of reassurance, but tended closely to her mother's resting pulse and the sound of her gentle breathing.

Mrs Hale awoke to a gathering of concerned faces, which she could not quite account for, having little recollection of the tumultuous evening that had passed. She did, indeed, rally as Doctor Donaldson had predicted, and had to be ordered to remain the day in bed. Upon her second day she claimed to feel much better, and determined that she would like to sit about the drawing room as she took her rest. Her wish was granted, but she could find no comfort in any position and took on a restlessness which turned feverish by evening. On the third day, Margaret asked Dr Donaldson what they might do to ensure her mother passed a more comfortable night that ensuing evening, and the doctor - having explained that her discomfort and listlessness was likely the result of the opiates he had given her - advised that the family try her with a water-bed. He announced that he knew Fanny Thornton to be in possession of such a mattress, and assured Margaret that he would call upon the Thorntons and have the bed loaned to them by the morrow. Margaret was relieved, but in the next moment despaired, for Dr Donaldson stilled her, and informed her that upon reflection, he had not time to call in at the Thornton's that day, for his rounds were numerous.

'You might walk to Marlborough Mills, though, and ask them to send by the mattress? For the walk shall no doubt do you good.' Margaret readily agreed, but upon returning to her mother's room to announce her commission, she found Mrs Hale lying listless once again, and could not bear to leave her side.

'I shall not be able to go!' lamented Margaret, clutching at her weary mother's hand. 'I cannot leave her to walk four miles when Mamma is like this!' Isabel frowned, for she was more than capable of making the walk - and in such a short time, too - but she knew the import of Margaret venturing to Marlborough Mills for the water-bed.

'I am here, Margaret. You ought to go, if it will help your mother to sleep. Sleep is what she needs. And you have not left the house since the evening of the dinner. The walk will do you well.' But Margaret only half listened, for her attention was caught up in her mother, and nothing could stir her from her mother's side.

'I cannot. Perhaps later this afternoon, or to-morrow, if Mamma rallies again, but I cannot go now.' Isabel was alarmed; this was not how the story was meant to unfold, for if she did not go to Marlborough Mills, and the strikers were to learn of the Irish hands Mr Thornton had imported - if those starving, impoverished strikers should seek to riot, who was to protect Mr Thornton from their violence? She could not think of leaving him.

'You surely ought to go? Dr Donaldson has just seen her, and he was happy with her to-day. I am here, should she take a turn,' encouraged Isabel, for not only did Margaret need to defend Mr Thornton from the rioters, but she needed to put herself before him, place her arms about his neck and take a blow which had been meant for him, in order for him to profess his great passion for her. Alas! Isabel's encouragement fell on deaf ears, for Margaret was determined not to give up her role of helpmeet, now that she had secured it, and turned instead to her friend with uncharacteristic impatience.

'You might go yourself?' Her face brightened as she warmed to the idea, for surely, it made perfect sense. 'Yes, you might go to Marlborough Mills and request the loan of the water-bed. I shall remain with Mamma in case she should need me - in case Papa should need me,' added Margaret (for Mr Hale had barely struck a smile, nor moved with any purpose, since his wife was taken ill, relying heavily on his daughter, instead), 'and you would be back before long, would you not?' Isabel sighed. She could not refuse such a reasonable request, and she did truly believe that the water-bed would settle Mrs Hale for a good nights' sleep, and she knew that someone had to go to the mill to intervene in the ensuing riot, but she was loath to have the person be anyone but Margaret. Still, she was defeated, and so it was that in the stifling heat of the three o'clock sun, Isabel stepped out into the quiet, dusty streets.

Those Milton streets, with its people so full of purpose, were always loud and bustling, forcing one to wend one's away about the crowds, as all went about their errands, or stood about their stalls. The streets had grown quieter in the previous few weeks - in honour of the strike - which kept the workers at home and the buyers from the market, and - as Isabel knew to expect, with that foretold insight - she noticed as she walked the two miles to the mill, that the streets towards Crampton were quiet, with a desolate lifelessness about them. As she walked on, dazzled by the oppressive heat of the sun, and as she drew into the mill district, she felt a nervous energy grow, and take up the very streets and winding lanes, as though each walkway was a vein within the body, flooding with a coursing excitement. The streets became more populated as she drew ever closer to Marlborough Street, but there was no purposeful activity; no bustling movement of bodies through which she would have to navigate her path, for instead stood groups of people; all ill-shod and grim of face. Each gathering stood idle as though awaiting some key moment; the dwellers speaking low in urgent tones. Knowing their purpose, Isabel could only steel her strength and press on, drawing up to Marlborough Street.

As she entered that very street, she saw the faces grow in number, and eyes darting about her, into the lanes which all led onto that busy street. She saw the faces of the starved press up against the windows of their squalid dwellings; crush about the doorways as though awaiting some fearful spectacle. Those fierce faces with intense and fiery eyes, then spewed from their hovels and seeped out into those dank and dreary lanes, the flow of people swelling, drawing ever closer to the top of Marlborough Street. Isabel had read the book; she knew of these descriptions and she had seen, with her own eyes and in her own time, the faces of the bleak and desperate; the hollow eyes of those who had lost their minds and were driven to a feral madness, but never had she seen such a sight as that which lingered about the darkened lanes off Marlborough Street; as those which slowly advanced on her position, creeping ever closer to the mill. These sights, she felt, unsettled her more than any great blast of gunfire she had even seen; more than any mighty explosion, or the carnage it left in its wake, for here she stood alone and unarmed, dreading what would come, and trusting that her favourite book would lead her to the right course of action.

She reached the gate to the mill as an ominous stillness took hold of the street. It was as though the crowds had drawn in one great collective breath, and awaited only the spark before they would all exhale and ignite. She rapt quickly on the door, awaiting the porter to admit her. At length he came, and pulled open the door a fraction - just enough to see who had rung the bell.

'Oh, it is you, miss,' he rushed out, in a sigh of relief, and he hastily pulled the door open, wide enough to admit her, before swiftly closing it and seeing it all locked up. 'Th' folk all come up this way, I reckon?' asked he with trepidation. She nodded swiftly in reply.

'They do; I think they mean to charge the mill door.' His eyes widened in alarm, although he had thought it to be so himself, and he quickly took himself off to inform his Master, who was up in the attic above the mill, seeing to his Irish. Alone, and feeling foolish on seeking the loan of a water-bed when she knew a riot to be upon them, Isabel could only take herself up to the mill house, and beg to speak with Mrs Thornton.