Now Thursday came and Mr Thornton sat grim at breakfast, both dreading Isabel's arrival at the infirmary, and longing for it, just so that he might look upon her. He had risen early the previous day, and worked through tea and late into the night, so that he might not have to think of her, but still, she had invaded his dreams, and in those precious moments of repose, he clung to the memory of his lips on hers, and thought her the loveliest creature he had ever beheld. Then he awakened, and the sharp tongue of jealousy had flicked at him cruelly, telling him that for all she was lovely, she was not a lady, and certainly not his. He did not know if he should love her or hate her, but love her, he must, for he could not purge her from his heart; not for all he hated what she had done.

He was jealous and disappointed; he felt sorely used, suspecting that she had some long-standing attachment to Mr Bell, and that whilst tempted by him - younger man that he was - he had never been her true object. He thought - unkindly - that she must have lied when she claimed not to have loved any but he (and he knew she was capable of lying!) and for that, he hated her all the more.

If she had only told him that she was promised to another, or that she cared for him, but was not free to love him, he would have rallied against that bitter sting of disappointment, and rid himself of her spectre, but her words - carelessly spoken, he thought - had given him hope, but her embrace, her tenderness with Mr Bell, her admission of lost virtue - dashed those hopes to dust, and left a harrowed, broken man of him. The realisation of this weakness frustrated him, and he determined to be indifferent; to meet her with that cold and firm apathy, with which he spoke to any other worker at his mill. He would greet Dr Lyndhurst and make himself obliging, but to spite her; just to show her how little she could affect him. He would not let her see his hurt, nor would his mother know of how ill-used he had allowed himself to be. He rose abruptly from the table, his breakfast untouched.

'You are leaving already, John?' asked Mrs Thornton, aghast. Her son had always a large appetite, and any disinterest in food troubled her greatly.

'I have a busy morning, Mother, and much work to see to. Dr Lyndhurst shall come at half past eleven to tour the infirmary, and I must make up for the time that shall be lost.' Mrs Thornton grumbled at the reference to the infirmary - the allusion to that wretched girl - and cursed the southern doctor's gall at pressing upon her son, such an inconvenient request.

'So like these southern gentleman types!' mused Mrs Thornton, sipping at her tea. 'They are do-gooders who impose themselves upon others. No doubt he shall try to convert us to his way of thinking and declare that the whole scheme ought to be run for free.'

'He is a compassionate man, certainly, Mother. But I do not think him very charitable. I think he charges his patients quite handsomely.'

'And just as well,' said Mrs Thornton, rising. 'I can't abide anyone who would work for free.'

The hour neared eleven, and Mr Thornton saw Isabel cross the mill yard and collect the key to the infirmary from Williams. He thought to go to her; to try and speak to her a little about their heated exchange that evening at Crampton, but he could not apologise to her again; not after seeing her with Mr Bell. He prevaricated, and before he could rectify his inertia, bedraggled workers slipped past his office window, and made their way over to the infirmary. Mr Thornton was still sat there at his desk, staring blankly at his books, when there came a knock at the office door, and Dr Lyndhurst was shown in.

'Good morning, Mr Thornton.'

'Doctor,' came Mr Thornton's tight-lipped reply.

'I see that the infirmary is open. Mr Bell tells me he has made a donation towards some new equipment. That should prove useful if there is ever a serious injury to one of the workers; I expect limbs can be lost, can they not?'

'It is true,' replied Mr Thornton, irritably. 'But we run a tight ship here at Marlborough Mills, and although we have accidents, we have far fewer here, than do other mills in Milton.' Dr Lyndhurst felt the coolness of Mr Thornton's regard, and wondered that the man should dislike him so much.

'Shall we go to the infirmary, then? Miss Darrow is expecting us, I believe.'

'Is she?' was Mr Thornton's indifferent reply.

'Yes; I took tea at Crampton last evening with Mr Bell.' Dr Lyndhurst felt the sharp, blue eyes of Mr Thornton assessing him, and smiled benignly. He was now quite convinced that no other man would do for Miss Darrow.

Reluctantly, Mr Thornton led Dr Lyndhurst across the yard, cautiously dipping his head inside the infirmary door.

'Is now a good time?' frowned Mr Thornton, finding Isabel cleaning what appeared to be, a burn on a young lady's arm.

'Oh, yes! Please; just ignore us.' And she turned back to her patient and cleaned and dressed the wound with far more attention than was warranted, simply in the hope that she would not tremble if she did not attend to Mr Thornton's every word. But of course, she did!

'It runs only three days a week, but Miss Darrow is often very busy when she is here. We may have to look at turning people away who have only minor ailments.

'I could work an extra day,' put in Isabel. Mr Thornton turned to her, his expression surprised, as though he had not expected her to be listening to him as she saw to her patient.

'You would work a fourth day at no cost?'

'If I am needed.' She felt her cheeks flush as he looked at her, and she cursed herself for being so easily affected by him.

'Easily solved, then,' smiled Dr Lyndhurst. 'And the charges; they are minimal, I understand?' Mr Thornton turned back to his visitor and straightened his spine, his voice raising to its usual volume; that same short, swift manner of speaking.

'We treat the children for free; the adults pay a small fee, simply to cover the costs of medicines. Miss Darrow offers her services at no charge, and medicines are purchased wholesale, so the cost to us is low. We make no profit from running the infirmary, so the workers pay but little.'

'And has this scheme increased production? Do you find the workers the better for it?' asked Dr Lyndhurst, with interest. Mr Thornton frowned.

'The infirmary has not been open long enough for me to rightly say. It will take time for us to be certain of any true effects, but the goodwill of the workers - always low, I must own - may have grown a little.'

'The children?' asked Isabel, just as she finished bandaging her patient's arm. 'Have they improved?' Mr Thornton shuddered as she addressed him, and he willed himself to control his tumultuous feelings, but he felt such a fierce lash of anger - that she should listen to him speaking to his guest, and interrupt with her own questions and comments, as though it was only natural for her to take a role in his conversation; and after she had deceived him! After she had professed herself to be unchaste; after he had kissed her only to rudely scorn her for her unmaidenly ways. After he had seen her with Mr Bell!

'The children are perhaps, not quite so hungry. You feed them biscuits too readily, Miss Darrow. It is an infirmary; not a kitchen!' The worker saw the dark look about her Master, and quickly departed, leaving Mr Thornton scowling back at an indignant Isabel.

'I had thought you might know what it was to be hungry, sir, or have you forgotten those early years of privation?' He was vexed; that she would allude to such a private thing before another! He clenched his fists by his sides and stared at her with fierce eyes, which dared her to speak against him again. But Isabel had not forgotten - nor forgiven - his hateful words to her, and so she would not relent, even though she knew it was wrong of her to castigate him before an onlooker. 'I have seen great suffering, Mr Thornton, and have known a little of it myself. I will do what I can to alleviate the needless suffering around me. Your workers go hungry, sir. A hungry man cannot do a full day's work.' She turned from him and picked up her scissors and balm to put them away, when she felt Mr Thornton's presence draw closer.

'You think I wish for my workers to go hungry? For the children to cry with hunger? I do not! Of course I do not, but there is only so much I can do. I run a mill; not a charity.' His words were scolding, and she knew that she had offended him.

'You say "charity" as though it is something to be ashamed of. Let me say, that as an orphan, it is through charity that I did not die, half-starved on the streets, or fall prey to some devil's ill-will. I don't find fault with you, Mr Thornton. I merely explain why I have fed the children biscuits. They cost only -' But here, she stopped in mid-career, as her hand slipped and the blade of the scissors bit into her palm. She frowned and winced, pulling up her hand sharply, as red blood streaked across her skin.

'Miss Darrow; your hand!' urged Dr Lyndhurst, immediately stepping closer to look at the wound. But Mr Thornton had not forgotten Isabel's discomfiture at meeting Dr Lyndhurst, and he recalled only too well, her haunted fears that the gentleman may try to take her away, so he placed himself roughly in between Isabel and the doctor; his heart beating wildly as a wave of intense protectiveness washed over him.

'Thornton?' queried Dr Lyndhurst, in confusion.

'I will see to Miss Darrow's hand.'

'Really, Thornton! I might specialise in the mind, but I think I know my way around a bottle of ointment and a bandage.' But Mr Thornton only stood taller, offering his body as a shield to Isabel; his dark look unrelenting.

'It is but a scratch; I shall see to it,' said Mr Thornton, defiantly. For all that she had hurt him, for all that she had driven him to manly tears, he would not see her harmed or frightened; his soul would not permit it.

'Miss Darrow?' frowned Dr Lyndhurst, looking to her in question. 'Might I speak with you in private?' He was anxious for her, for Mr Thornton gave him such a dark and threatening look, and the doctor sensed in the man some inexplicable rising passion, which he thought Isabel ought not to be subjected to; despite any tendresse which might exist between them. Indeed, the mill owner had not given Isabel as single soft word or look since entering the infirmary, and was certainly out of sorts.

'Miss Darrow may not speak with you in private!' declared Mr Thornton, with cool, inexorable authority, as his eyes bore into the doctor's, with a fierce look of challenge.

'I really must insist!' replied Dr Lyndhurst, with growing concern.

'And I must ask that you leave.'

'Miss Darrow?' questioned the good doctor, for the stern and brooding Master before him was almost savage in his protection of her, and yet she did not appear at all afraid of the brooding, scowling man.

'Please do go, Dr Lyndhurst. Mr Thornton is quite right; it is only a little scratch.' Reluctantly, but seeing that Mr Thornton would not be prevailed upon to change his mind, and knowing that despite being no slight man, Mr Thornton was far bigger, Dr Lyndhurst took his leave; all the while thinking that for all his expertise of the mind, he was fairly flummoxed by matters of the heart.

No sooner had the doctor left, than Mr Thornton was at the door, locking it behind him. He turned and quickly took hold of Isabel's wrist, pulling her hand roughly towards him so that he might inspect the wound.

'Are you in pain?' panted he, pulling a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and pressing it to the wound with such an eager tenderness, that Isabel thought her heart would stop its frenetic beating and lay impotent within her breast. She gazed down onto that linen square - so pristine and white, adorned lovingly with his own initials - as it quickly turned red and was ruined. And she thought wryly of Mrs Thornton's inevitable dismay for the linen, but Mr Thornton did not notice. He saw only his Isabel, as he looked anxiously into her eyes; his chest dilating with some unknown, stifled emotion, which she could not read in those dark cheeks and flashing eyes.

'It is a scratch. It merely bleeds. Look! I shall raise up my hand above my heart and you will see that it is nothing.' And she lifted her hand and waited for the bleeding to stop, with such a careless antipathy, that Mr Thornton felt himself a hypochondriac, yet he could not berate himself for his anxiety; it had been only natural, loving her as he did. But now - a rational man - he pushed aside his concern for her hand, and dwelt instead upon Dr Lyndhurst's request to speak with her alone, and the jealousy stirred, whipping up a frantic fear of losing her to another man, or having her painfully rent from Milton; from him.

'What did Dr Lyndhurst wish to speak with you about?' hurried Mr Thornton, in a low, guttural voice. His eyebrows raised in question and he stepped closer, his breathing laboured. He cared not of her virtue, nor even Mr Bell! He knew - in that moment - that he could never allow anyone to harm her; that he could not to bear to see her afraid; that no matter her impropriety, nor whom she loved, he would love her sorely and steadfastly, until he ceased to draw breath. 'I can protect you from him; I shan't allow him to harm you. I will not leave you alone with him if you are afraid.'

'He will not harm me,' urged Isabel, softly, for his voice - so gentle, so tender! she knew not what it meant; not after he had scorned her so cruelly that evening in Crampton; not after he had barely looked at her that morning.

'He certainly will not!' continued Mr Thornton, caught up now, in his own thoughts of protecting and cherishing what he most loved. 'I will marry you, and you will have my full protection. He cannot take you away if you are my wife.'

'John!' cried Isabel, in alarm, as he took another step closer, his eyes pleading and anxious. How, she asked of herself, how can this proud man - this very best of men - have it in him to offer himself again, after all that I have hurt and disappointed him! She thought she felt the sting of tears about her eyes, and swallowed that emotion; she would not cry again. 'Do not worry yourself. I spoke with Dr Lyndhurst when he came to Crampton for tea last evening, and now have no fear of him.' Her words - spoken so calmly and with such resigned confidence - stopped him in his ardent assertions, and his panting breaths slowed until he had regained his composure.

'He looked at you in such a way that night; I saw it!' insisted Mr Thornton, his head shaking in confusion; in denial of her sudden, placid ambivalence towards the man who had so lately, stirred in her a tempest of unbridled fear.

'Yes, and he unsettled me greatly, but we spoke last evening, and he thinks me quite sane and I am glad of it, because I think he means to stay in Milton.'

'Stay in Milton!'

'He admires Margaret very much,' blushed Isabel.

'Ah!' cried Mr Thornton, dryly; his eyebrows arched. 'So I see Miss Hale and I were not destined for one another, after all! I fell in love with you, and she falls in love with Dr Lyndhurst. You were quite mistaken, were you not?'

'So it would seem,' replied she, contritely.

'Well -' He stepped backwards, giving himself that much-needed distance, and now that his fear for her had abated, he turned on her that cold, disapproving eye, which made her tremble. 'I am glad that all looks to be well for Miss Hale, at least.' He turned away from her and walked towards the door, unlocking it carelessly, but he paused before opening it. 'My mother tells me that you are to be the new owner of Marlborough Mills,' said he, shielding his face from her. 'That is a very generous gift of Mr Bell, is it not?'

'It is, but he is not in the best of health, and so is putting his affairs in order.' Mr Thornton turned in surprise; he had known the man long, and despite his jealously, he could not be unmoved. But in turning, his eye met Isabel's, and her saw there the fresh well of tears which rose up unbidden, and the sight of that pitiful emotion, cut him as no words of rejection, nor expressions of ardour for another, ever could. He wanted to comfort her, but he could not take on the tears belonging to another man, so he merely lowered his head in his sombre way, and said low -

'That is unfortunate. I am sorry to hear it.' The tears slipped from her lashes, and when she looked up, it was to find the door to the infirmary open, and Mr Thornton gone.