Mr Thornton had left the house at Crampton in a daze. He could not think, but only feel, and he felt himself the victim of some violent beating. He turned an indolent smile as the doleful impression struck him, for it called to mind the riot of the previous day - the impetus for his calling round at Crampton that very morning - the inducement to speak his feelings and offer himself so openly; so unguardedly. His Isabel, was, to him, a fierce and passionate creature who staked her claim to independence of thought and action with the violence of any man, and yet he had seen in her a gentle, feminine timidity; a desire to care for and nurture, which had wrought in him - previous to his rejected proposal, a sensation of confounded emotion. For he knew - when first it had struck him that he loved her - that he might be spurned, and quite forcibly, and he had been afeared, but prepared to look her rebellion stoutly in the face. And yet her tenderness, and solicitous actions which were to him, so utterly feminine, had given him reason to hope.

He had set himself before her knowing - fearing - that he would find elation or despair, and that even if the worst should come, he would have a foundation upon which to move forwards; loving her silently, without hope, and with a certain bitterness he knew he would not be unable to feel, or proudly crushing her to his breast and clinging to her as a warrior does his prize. And yet there had been no acceptance of his hand, nor the tigerish rebuke he had thought to hear upon failing to win her as his wife. Instead, she had cried those womanly tears and clung to his hand like a weeping goddess. The gentleness was there, laced with such unrivalled sorrow that he had been at first disconcerted, and then disordered in his thoughts. He had thought her aggrieved by his solicitations, and had recoiled with mortified pride, only to find himself in raptures the next; that dainty hand pressing its small and muscled fingers into his own great, calloused hand, and it had warmed him; warmed his skin and warmed his heart. He thought he had stopped breathing; stood there awaiting a reply.

The words came then, and were so thoroughly unwelcome, when she had scolded him for avowing his love for her, that he had felt himself smitten down for the second time in one passing of the sun. And yet, so abruptly, his spirit had lifted, with her imploring explanation, that she thought him compelled to speak only through duty. He saw the truth of it in her look, and he had allowed himself to hope again. The hope that he might have her good opinion - that his words many not be unwelcome - had prompted him to speak freely - to scold her for her reckless protection of him and his Irish during the riot, and then came the passion - the flagrant castigation as she attested herself to be a free and thinking being, rightfully able to impose her own will, and unwilling to yield to another.

It was clear to him in that moment, that she had not wholly understood him, but how could she? for she failed to apprehend the true depth of his love. She saw not that he loved her despite - because of - her brave and passionate mind. She so clearly felt he meant to crush her - to depress her freedom of spirit by exerting upon her, his own free will, and yet he never would; not his treasured love! He had told her such, and he knew she sensed it in him, and yet still she would not have him. He thought her regard for him too weak - not a great enough inducement, but she had claimed to love him! The very words which had filled his dreams and set his soul alight! That declaration ought to have secured his future happiness, but no! she refused him. She spoke to him in riddles, until he could not even venture a sure attempt at understanding her.

She says she loves no other! he told himself, as he walked briskly through those crowded Milton streets. How can it be; that she could love me, and only me, but will not allow our happiness? And he thought on her audacious supposition that he would love another; that he would one day thank her for rejecting him. The very notion was offensive to him. He felt a violent surge of injustice swell within his breast, as his heart thundered in distortion; so wholly shaken was his own body. She claims to love me! cried he to himself, but she knows nothing of love. To say that I shall love another, to claim Miss Hale a great beauty who could usurp her in my affections; she must think me weak! She must think me so fickle of heart that I could love another; be swayed but such an inconsequential thing as physical beauty!

And so he felt he hated her, for had she refused him due to a lack of affection on her part, he would have smarted, but licked his wounds and loved her bitterly, still. Had she shown some preference - of which he had been certain some was felt - but declined him simply because she did not wish to marry; never had any intention of marrying, he would have felt her a fool, and could have loved her for it all the more; delighting in that weakness, which spoke to him of one untouched by love - one who had never known it and could not know what it was to give it up - but she had not. She had professed a true and lasting love; an absolute indifference to all others, but would not have him due to her discourteous estimations of his own heart. That he - his love for her, itself - would be his very failing! That, he could not forgive. And he had told her, with a calmness he no longer felt, that he loved her and would love her, still. That he would wait patiently until she learnt the truth of his avowal, and just to spite her, he felt he would; simply to prove her falsehood and make her feel the fallacy of her assessment of him. He clenched his fists and set his jaw at the very injustice of it, and he had never felt himself more angry or resentful.

He stopped; his expression dark; his scowl etched upon his skin in a concertina of deep trenches. And yet, for all that I scorn her, I love her. Love her even more than I had when I arose this morning, he lamented, inwardly. He wished he could sit down and cry as a small child; curled up on some doorstep and sob until the pain was bled out through unabated tears, but he was a grown man and could not. Sentient and imposing he stood, a grave look about him which sent those close by, hurrying from his presence, and then, because he stood idle, an omnibus pulled up and beckoned him to embark. He realised he had caused a confusion, but had not the words nor voice to explain his purpose and so he climbed the steps and let himself be carried off to some unknown destination.

On he rode, past those grey and sullied streets, the smoke dissolving into the air above Milton, and greenery took over the landscape as they delved into the country-side. Hedge-rows lined the lanes; the likes of which could not be found in Milton, and he looked on with a vague disinterest, for he could see the passing scene and his eyes took an interest, but his mind could not. At length, the omnibus stopped at some small country town, and everybody alighted, and so did Mr Thornton. His fellow travellers moved off quickly, soon about their purpose, but he had no destination, and so merely turned about, and walked back the way he had just come. He stole from the path and struck out across the fields, delighting in the briskness of unhindered movement; no crowds or carriages to navigate; only fresh air and vitality. Greedily, he gulped in a great lungful of air, and pressed on in animation, for the physical exertion cleared his mind and drove away the agony of the morning - the very bitter resentfulness of his rejected proposal - until he felt his blood flow with that honest, steady rhythm, and he felt himself more sure.

It was foolish, thought he, with stoic reasoning, for him to be so entirely discomposed by one failed interview, for had he not thought himself to be rejected? He had hoped for some euphoric outcome, but he had not truly expected it, and so he cast aside the vexation, and allowed himself to think of her; his beloved Isabel! He sought to bring to mind every occasion that he had seen her, that he might use up his love and see it all consumed in one fitful burst. Every dress she wore, every opinion she voiced or look she gave; each book she took up of an evening he had passed tea at Crampton - for he had never seen her with a needle, but for the time she had stitched his head. Every blush, every taking of the hand - even that ugly burlap sack! He sighed wistfully; she would not be used up; no number of thoughts would rid her from his mind. He loved her and would have to love her still. If he realised that he had not given up all hope - if he knew that he clung to the very pronouncement of her love for him - it did not enter his thoughts. When reasoning that for all he despised her iniquitous judgement of his adoration for her, that he should love her still; yearn for her still, it was with no conscious realisation that it was because he still hoped to prove her wrong and feel some evidence of the love for him which she had so boldly declared.

The man who returned to Marlborough Mills that afternoon, was no wiser, nor more sure of his next action, than the man who had left that house in Crampton earlier that morning. His mood was sombre; dulled with the exertion of his spirits, and he could more calmly attest that she had wronged him with her words, but that he loved her in spite of her illusion.

Mrs Thornton had spent the day sat at the dining room table, poring over her table linens. She took great pride in her linens, and much enjoyment from tending to them, but that day, they served only to give her an occupation, as she sat with an anxious sense of foreboding, awaiting her son's return. She knew his business, and where he had called early that morning, and she wondered that he had not yet returned. Then she thought it - with a bitterness of heart - not so very strange that he should delay in returning home, for no doubt he was with his betrothed, exulting in their shared happiness, whilst her own mortification was ensured. To think of it; her son - her most-loved and precious of sons, to whom she was devoted - to now place before her some other woman, who would become the first in his affections, the keeper of his confidence and his staunchest defender.

She thought with acerbity, that she would have been able to tolerate the relegation to second before her son, had her usurper not been of such strong and wilful character. For Miss Darrow was no mild and voiceless thing, and the matriarch knew, instinctively, that where she loved, she would do so with a fierce and fearless passion. Her very independence of nature would ensure that she would not allow herself to be oppressed or imposed upon by her new mother-in-law, and she thought it very likely that Miss Darrow would have about her a certain possessiveness in her regard for her son. She chose not to dwell upon the similarities of character which they shared, but noted only, that if her son had chosen for himself some finished, placid lady - such as Miss Latimer - at least then, she would still retain his confidence in all matters of business. At least then, she might be deferred to in her strength of character, against one so completely weak and bland. But alas! Her son had chosen wisely - as far as finding for himself a strong woman of purpose - but the very advantages of Miss Darrow, would prove to be the very cause of Mrs Thornton's loss.

She heard a noise about the stairs, and dropped her sewing into her lap, glancing anxiously to the door, but ah! just a maid on some inconsequential matter. The dropped linen was picked up, and she endeavoured to continue her work, but she was so ill-at-ease and so very full of dread, that her heart beat thick and her hands shook with trepidation. She ought to have been able to rejoice in her son's happiness, and for his sake, she would try - she would dampen every wounded tenderness of feeling, and hide it away for the privacy of her room. She would offer him a measured congratulations; not excessive, but neither was her nature. And yet, those words she knew she must speak - those mortified feelings she knew she must hide - would not be the truth of how she felt, for she was fiercely jealous and was possessive of her son's love.

It smarted, also, that she would lose him so to such a wholly unsuitable girl as Miss Darrow. Mrs Thornton found there was much to admire in the girl. She was brave and quick of mind. She had an honesty and plainness of speaking which was refreshing in a modern young lady, and she saw in the girl a pleasing humbleness of character. Her actions of the riot - though reckless and unwanted in their germination - proved her to be the truest of defenders her son could wish for, and Mrs Thornton took great pride in knowing one could care for her son in such a deserving way. And yet, Miss Darrow was penniless and rash; she spoke on matters so wholly improper for their society, and her nature was to be so repugnantly independent as to make even Mrs Thornton - strong lady as she was - recoil in alarm. She was - to Mrs Thornton - a mystery, which held for her, no small amount of intrigue, but an even greater amount of fear. She would not have chosen the girl for her son; not for her own selfish purposes, nor for her son's honest and just ones. For she would be a handful to manage, and she felt certain her son would come to regret is affections if the girl did not learn to bend to his guiding hand.

She tried to cast off all thoughts of that girl, and how her son might be rejoicing with her at that very moment. She tried to seek solace in her linens, but even that simple occupation, stirred in her a deep mortification of feeling, for in the basket were linens of her own, marked with the initials G.H.T. (for George and Hannah Thornton) and then those belonging to her son - purchased with his own money - lovingly marked J.T. with his own initials. Mrs Thornton looked over her own linens, so very fine - the likes of which could no longer be bought - and traced the laboured initials with her fingers, a wistful sigh escaping her narrowed, pinched lips. She had been so very proud to have those linens, to mark upon them, the initials of her and her new husband, when first they were married, and now the lot would befall Miss Darrow, and that treasure would be hers; that pride and satisfaction, passed down to the usurper.

Still, she loved her son with a fierce determination, and so it was that she thought to unpick the G. and H. from those fine and rare linens, and in a kind gesture of welcome that she did not honestly feel, she intended to replace those two symbolic letters with a new and poignant J. and I. She was saved from this most painful of commissions, however, by finding that she had no Turkey-red marking thread, and so she left her linens free from alteration. But thinking on it - on how all would now become Miss Darrow's - her place as Mistress of the house snatched away from her - she had to smile wryly, for no matter how precious the linens, the pride she took in them, nor the satisfaction she felt in running the household with a strictness of economy and rigidity of habit; no matter how fine and comfortable the house that the penniless girl would have the honour to call her own, all was nothing to winning her son. No! to be chosen by he; to have him by one's side for all the days evermore, was beyond the wealth of kings, the buyers of purple, the splendour of palaces and the wearers of bejewelled crowns. A girl of no name or standing, could be chosen by her son, and once made his wife, would be set apart from any other woman in all the world. She thought grimly - for one fleeting moment - that it was only right that such a son would take a wife who could so completely replace the loyal mother, in all she did for her son, for he deserved no less, and Miss Darrow, she ceded, had many qualities much admired in the north. Indeed, if Miss Darrow had not grown wild in those savage and exotic lands, she thought - that in time - and if she was able to overcome the relegation to second place - she could come to quite like the girl and not merely admire her coldly from a distance.

And in thinking such, she could not refrain from comparing her son's intended with her own daughter, who possessed no strength of character nor clarity of mind. The revelation was mortifying and Mrs Thornton, for all she loved her daughter - despite her weaknesses and faults - set aside her sewing and picked up Henry's Commentaries in atonement for abusing her daughter with such thoughts.

Thus, she was reading - or attempting to read, but not truly seeing - when she at last heard that measured step. He was upon the stairs; now paused before the door. Why does he not come! Let me hear the words and have it be done at once! cried Mrs Thornton, to herself. The door opened and he drew towards her but did not speak; merely stood by as though to allow her to finishing reading her page. She stayed there in that attitude - feigning attention to those Commentaries - as she felt his shadow fall upon her. At last, she could bear it no longer and turned to look at him.

'Well, John?' And he knew what she was asking; she need say no more, for she had known of his purpose that morning. He wished he could make some jest of it, but he could not, and his mother deserved more from him, for he saw in her look, that she was most anxious to hear his news. Having to utter those words and recount that morning, struck a fresh surge of pain within him, and he turned from her so that she could not see his face. He moved behind her and stooped to kiss her brow in reassurance to both his mother and himself.

'She will not have me, Mother.' He turned from her then, and stood before the mantle-piece, willing away the tears that sought to betray his deepest suffering. Mrs Thornton, for all that she had resented her son's affections, and his duty to go to Miss Darrow and offer himself up, knew his heart was true, and deeply bound to the girl. His utterance - without any offered explanation - struck her dumb, and she rose swiftly from her seat at the sound of pain, so evidently carried by his voice. She tottered - the first time in her life that she had ever tottered - and steadying herself, she placed her hands gently upon his shoulders.

'A mother's love is ordained by God, John. It is true and lasting, and shall never fade. A girl's is quick and fleeting and changes with the wind.' She inhaled deeply and set her teeth in vexation, barely suppressing a vicious snarl, for though she did not wish Miss Darrow to have him, she saw the rejection as the gravest of slights to her son, and felt unbridled anger for the pain the girl had caused him. 'She would not have my lad? She is a fool if she would not. My son!' He felt the anger in her voice, even though he stood with his back to her and could not see her look. He shook his head sadly and knew not what to say, for he did not truly understand what had passed between them that morning.

'She says she is not for me, Mother. She said that I shall love another, and so will not have me, despite promising that she loves me.' Mrs Thornton took a hastily step back in alarm, for his words were wholly unexpected.

'She says she loves you but will not have you?'