Mr Hale was seeing a young pupil to his study, when he saw Margaret take up her bonnet in anticipation of a walk.
'Oh! my good girl!' smiled he, looking upon his daughter fondly. 'You go to see Mrs Boucher?'
'I do, Papa. I shall return before you have finished your lessons for the day.'
'Indeed! Mr Thornton is taking tea with us this evening; do not be late,' enthused Mr Hale, just as Margaret coloured. Isabel had informed Margaret that she had confided in Mr Thornton about the happenings at Outwood station, and that he apportioned to Margaret no blame, but she had not seen the gentleman since that anxious evening spent in his presence, having managed to avoid him when he had called round for his previous two lessons. Still, the glimmer in her father's eyes, the vibrancy of his complexion and the pleasant intonation of his voice, made clear to Margaret, that Mr Thornton's visit was most welcome to her father, and he had been so low of late, that she forced herself to muster a smile and a promise that she would not tarry home.
Upon arriving at the Boucher's, Margaret found that Mrs Boucher was very ill - a true illness which looked to smite one down, and not merely a fancied ailment. A practical and kindly neighbour was sitting with the invalid, having seen to the children by sending them off to neighbouring houses; three of which were now with Mary Higgins. Nicholas, himself, had gone for the doctor, and although the doctor had not yet arrived to form his pronouncement, it was clear to all about the house, that Mrs Boucher was dying.
It was during this tense wait, that Mr Thornton wound his way through those dank and gloomy lanes of Princeton. He was no stranger to such poverty, and had many a time seen worse, when attending to his business as a magistrate, but still, his heart could not harden to those dreary faces; the sightless eyes of children who could not see the world for suffering; no beacon of hope upon the horizon, but merely another day of hunger and uncertainty, with each rising of the sun. The deeper he trod into the melee of ramshackle houses, the greater responsibility he felt for the workers' plight. Never before had he come this way - seen these sights - upon mill business. Always had he trod this route in the capacity of the magistrate; assessing glances, accepting the natural way of things, so that he may form impartial judgements. Now here, wending his way past lines strung up across the lanes, drying damp and tattered rags of clothing, he saw the life of his workers beyond his mills. He saw the starving faces, and the ones to whom the likes of Hamper sought to deny relief. He was not a pious man, but held within his heart a deep religion, and passionate man that he was, he could not be unmoved. No! thought he, I shall give the man work so that he may feed the children. I have opened up the infirmary to help them; I do my part and that is more than many others. He straightened his spine and held his head high, walking proudly through the rugged lanes of Princeton, yet for all his determination, and for all that he told himself he did a good thing, still the poverty struck him, and saddened that soft place within his heart.
He reached Francis Street, and after seeking directions, made for the Higgins home. There he found Nicholas Higgins sat about the house table, making a penny spin for three young children; all grubby faced and ragged-clothed, but with eager, excited eyes. Mr Thornton knocked hesitantly upon the open door, and Higgins looked sharply round.
'Master!' cried Higgins in surprise. Never had he known of a Master to come to the likes of Princeton.
'Are these your children?' asked Mr Thornton, frowning.
'Th' eldest - my Mary, ay. The three little 'uns belong t' th' family I spoke o'. Th' wife is sick an' likely dying. I called for th' doctor but 'e 'as not come.'
'You are waiting on a doctor?'
'Ay. When yo've not much brass t' pay 'em wi', they dun come none too sharpish,' replied the surly weaver.
'Know you a fast, reliable lad, who might run over to Crampton for Miss Darrow? She would come at once. I know she has a small medical supply of her own, from when she tended to Mrs Hale.' Higgins frowned and paused in thought.
'An' th' lass is a good doctor?'
'Ay! She stitched my head after the riot, despite being hurt, herself.'
'It were Miss Isabel then, caught up in the riot; not yo'r sister?'
'My sister!' cried Mr Thornton. 'Certainly not! Now man, know you a lad who can run fast to Crampton?'
'I do.' And Higgins strolled purposefully from that sparse little house, and called out for a lad named William. 'He's gone; th' lad won' be long. 'E's a fair runner,' said Higgins, stepping back inside the house. He looked to Mr Thornton suspiciously, suddenly confused by his appearance. 'Might I be helpin' yo' wi' sommat, Master?' his voice laced with amusement, at seeing the flicker of uncertainty cross Mr Thornton's face. Indeed, Mr Thornton felt quite discomposed, for the man had spoken no lie; he was seeing to a rabble of half-starved children. The father was dead, and by all accounts, the mother likely soon to follow. He had doubted Higgins unfairly and regretted his careless dismissal of the man from earlier that day.
'I came to ask if you will take work with me,' replied Mr Thornton, slowly. 'I was sceptical about your story - these children - but I see myself that it is true. I don't agree with telling a man how he may spend his money. You'd sign no pledge with me, but just as I'll not dictate to you how you spend your money, I'll not have you dictate to me how I spend mine. My wages are as I set them; they shall not change - not even if you strike - and I'll have no rabble-rousers at my mill, stirring up trouble where it's not wanted. So, my man, the question is, shall you take work with me?'
'Yo' think we could get along? Yo'r th' most stubborn Master o' th' lot! An' I like t' speak my mind. I'd tell yo' if I saw yo' doing wrong. I'd not go behind yo'r back, but I'll not hold my tongue, neither.'
'Well,' smiled Mr Thornton, wryly. 'I don't propose we get along, Higgins. I simply offer you work. You don't think yourself small beer, I must say - offering to tell me where I'm wrong. But no; I respect a man's right to his opinion; I'll not tell you not to have one, but I'll ask you to keep your head down. Don't go using that brain of yours to stir up trouble and I should think we'll be alright.'
'Sounds fair by me. 'Appen I'll 'ave 't leave my brains at home, then - case I'm forgettin' not t' use 'em.'
'Happen you might,' replied Mr Thornton, holding out his hand to formalise their agreement.
'Did the lass - Miss Isabel - change yo'r mind?' asked Higgins, with a knowing smile.
'I'm my own man, Higgins. I do what pleased me and no one else.'
'Appen it might please yo' to please the young miss?' asked Higgins, shrewdly, his eyes shining.
'And you might hold that tongue of yours if you wish to keep your place!' Higgins merely smirked; he knew the man to be quite besotted, and thought it showed good taste. Either of them two Crampton ladies would have done, mused Higgins, to himself. Miss Margaret is a fine beauty and never was there a kinder lass - so good to my poor wench - but Miss Isabel's a challenge; a spirited little thing. Hoo''ll keep 'im on 'is toes. No, 'e couldn't do better than one of those Crampton ladies, an' I just think 'e might have chosen rightly.
Here, Higgins was pulled from his thoughts by the heavy, clattering steps of young William, as he came running towards the cluster of ramshackle houses. Higgins went directly to the door, and peered out into the street.
'Did yo' find Miss Isabel, lad?'
'Ay! I did. She follows; she said her skirts were a hind -' He frowned and rolled his tongue. 'Hinder -' And here, his brows knit in confusion.
'A hindrance?' asked Mr Thornton, now stood beside Higgins at the door.
'Ay! Master. What does it mean?'
'It means she's no lady,' laughed Higgins. And the lady then came hurrying into the street, barely stifling the urge to openly run. She saw Mr Thornton stood in Higgins' doorway, but merely gave him a look as if to say "I know your purpose and I am glad, but I have not time to stop." Then she was gone; dashed into the Boucher house, the spindly, gnarly door closing roughly behind her.
Isabel stepped into the small house; the air stale and heavy with the closely-hanging shroud of death. Margaret was sat beside Mrs Boucher, looking imploringly into those filmy eyes, as though trying to bid her good courage to hold on; to rally for the sake of her children. The pragmatic neighbour stood backwards a little, knowing all too well that there was nothing to be done; that even if there was, the wretched Mrs Boucher - like her husband - had not the fight left in her.
'Let me see,' said Isabel, in that soft and quiet doctor's voice, which still managed to instil a sense of calm authority. Margaret drew back from the tragic woman and Isabel cast an assessing eye over her; fingers counting her pulse; an ear to her chest, listening to the weak, sporadic breaths, which when drawn, racked the body with a torrid rattle.
'I am dying!' gasped Mrs Boucher. 'Brought too low; they have killed me. He has killed me.'
'Are you afraid to die, Mrs Boucher?' asked Isabel, in a tone of voice which suggested to the invalid that she ought to have no fear.
'I cannot suffer more.' And the patient turned her feeble head upon her sunken pillow, and closed her eyes as though wishing for a permanent reprieve from her abysmal life.
'Should you like to see your children again, Mrs Boucher?' A long and laboured sigh, and a slight shaking of the head. Isabel frowned at the papery eyelids which remained resolutely shut; a gesture of the patient having now turned her back on the world and her children; reaching, clawing for the ultimate relief of death. 'You are tired,' said Isabel. 'A powder to help you sleep?' And Mrs Boucher nodded weakly in her grateful acquiescence, for she was flagging now, and for all she longed to be free of her tormenting life, she was afraid to meet her maker. The powder was made up, and spooned past the invalid's lips, with the delicate and steady hand of a lady well-accustomed to death and sorrow, and all the while Margaret looked on; anxious for those children and what would become of them if the mother died. Mrs Boucher fell asleep, never to awaken.
'The children?' asked Margaret, as a sheet was draped over Mrs Boucher's face.
'I should think the neighbours will take them in; Higgins will see them right,' announced Isabel, confidently.
'But Nicholas is out of work!'
'Perhaps not; I think he may have found work today.' But before Margaret could ask anything further on the matter, a portly, mean-faced man pushed his way into the house, and his sharp eyes looked assessingly from Margaret to Isabel, past the sensible neighbour, and over to the shrouded form of Mrs Boucher.
'I am too late, then?' said the man, with evident displeasure.
'Excuse me, sir, but what is your business here?' asked Isabel; her tone authoritative, as she straightened her spine and squared her shoulders in that brave, commanding way.
'I am the doctor, madam! Dr Price. And who are you?' snapped he, displeased at being questioned in such a way, and by a woman!
'I am the doctor who tended to Mrs Boucher when you did not come,' replied Isabel, defiantly.
'Doctor!' cried he. 'You are no doctor, madam. Perhaps you have tended to the sick or have a talent for nursing, but you are no doctor.'
'You are no doctor, sir. You did not come. Where were you?' And here, Isabel stepped closer to the man, and caught about him, the faint whiff of liquor.
'I was on a call - in Overton.'
'I called on yo' up past Wellin Street,' came Nicholas Higgins' gruff reply, as his shadow appeared to fill the doorway. 'What was yo' doing in Overton?'
'I had a call; I had to go there first,' replied the defiant doctor.
'Ay! Folk up Overton can pay more than folks round 'ere,' said Higgins, in disgust. 'Back o' th' queue, was it? She wa' dyin', man!'
'Then there was nothing to be done; I'm glad I went to Overton!'
'Nothing to be done!' came Isabel's impassioned reply, shaking her head in vexation. 'I gave her a powder so that she may sleep through that moment of death. Nothing to be done! You would have left her rasping for breath, afraid in her final moments; panting, sweating in her fear? You leave the poor to die like dogs and have the gall to call yourself a doctor!'
'Ay! Miss Isabel did more than yo'!' accused the neighbour. 'And hoo came from Crampton - on foot, too! - whilst yo' were up at Overton.'
'I don't know who you are, Miss, but you've no business telling me what I'm about, nor which patients I take on,' glowered Dr Price, as he took a threatening step towards Isabel. She looked up at him defiantly.
'I think you ought to go; there's no money to be made here!' He scowled, and looked as though to make some withering retort, but another - taller, more imposing - shadow, loomed about the doorway.
'The lady asked you to leave, sir,' came the cool, disapproving voice of Mr Thornton. His tone was so severe, and so undoubtable in its authority, that the shameful doctor quickly spun about; his great girth heaving with exertion.
'Mr Thornton, sir,' bustled the odious doctor, discomposed at having before him the stern businessman and magistrate.
'The lady is dead; your business here is done,' urged Mr Thornton, once more.
'This woman - I know not who she is - but she had the affront to -' But Mr Thornton took an agile step past Higgins, and placed himself before the doctor, drawing himself up to his full height; letting the man feel the intimidation of his great strength and breadth.
'The lady you speak of is my doctor up at Marlborough Mills, and whilst Higgins here, sent off for you over an hour ago, Miss Darrow was sent for and came within twenty minutes, even though she had to come from Crampton on foot - I see your carriage up the way. Be gone, man!'
'You employ a lady up at Marlborough Mills - as a doctor!' exclaimed Dr Price, in alarm. 'A woman!' Mr Thornton's eyes flashed with indignation. Not only did the foolish doctor openly question how he chose to run his mill - who he chose to employ - but the scathing way in which he had cried "A woman!", and the horrified look of disdain which he has bestowed upon Isabel, at the realisation that a Milton man of note seemed unafraid to acknowledge her as the doctor's equal, was offensive and utterly disrespectful to the woman he loved. The doctor - foolish as he was - was no simpleton. He caught the fierce, impassioned look in Mr Thornton's eye; the gruff vexation of Nicholas Higgins, and the upbraiding reproof of all three women, and hurriedly took himself off.
'Well!' sighed Mr Thornton, a weary glance at Isabel, 'I should say word will now travel fast, and soon all shall know we hold an infirmary up at Marlborough Mills. You may have your patients sooner that you had thought, Miss Darrow.' And tipping his hat to the ladies in the room, he turned on his heel and made for home, for he would not dare to linger, for fear of betraying his feelings to those three unwanted observers.
'And how were the Boucher children when you left them, my dear?' asked Mr Hale, as Margaret poured the tea. She was mindful of Mr Thornton watching her and she thought that he must secretly still disapprove of her for ever having lied to the police inspector, but she did not know that he looked at her with a curious amusement, thinking how wholly impossible it would be for him to fall out of love with Isabel, and in love with Miss Hale.
He still thought her a beauty, of course, and he knew her to be superior to any Milton lady he knew of. She was independent and unafraid to speak her mind - qualities he so much admired in Isabel - but he thought her too prone to prejudice - too quick to judge. She appeared to hold such staunch opinions, and based upon so little knowledge! She was so very determined and proud, that she did not seem inclined to listen to reason, nor let her opinions be swayed once they had been formed. Higgins was a prime example of where Margaret thought with her heart, and once a side was chosen, she was impervious to any evidence of her own personal bias.
No! thought Mr Thornton, as he watched Margaret's silly ornament plague her, as it fell from her wrist to her hand, where she would hastily push it back up that rounded, taper arm. What women endure for fashion, thought Mr Thornton; knowing only too well, that his Isabel would never tolerate such a encumbrance. No! I could not love Miss Hale - not for all her beauty or keenness of mind; nor for all her compassion and wilful independence. She has not the unwavering spirit of my Isabel. She lowers her eyes at me in fear of my judgement. She wilfully misunderstood me and was openly hostile; now I am merely tolerated. She has a cold heart, he told himself. It will warm, no doubt, for the right man, but he is not I. Assuredly not for her - she would never stoop so low as me - and certainly not for I, for I could never love any but Isabel.
And here, as though just to confirm how wrong for each other they were - how perfect for him Isabel was - Margaret stumbled in her ministrations, and a subtle frown dipped her brows. Mr Hale did not notice, for he was happily talking about the new stipulations imposed on the workers by the likes of Hamper, but Mr Thornton - watchful at that moment - saw Margaret's hesitation, and was amused to surmise that she had forgotten how he took his tea. He saw a faint blush creep up her neck, and suffuse her cheeks, as she realised her blunder - too embarrassed to ask for a correction - and then, catching Isabel's eye, he saw - to his delight - the subtle inclination of Isabel's head, silently and unobtrusively enlightening Margaret as to Mr Thornton's preference. He felt a flood of warmth within his breast, and thought - in that foolish, impassioned moment - that he should like to visit the infirmary one afternoon and take tea with her.
'No,' replied Mr Thornton, suddenly realising that a silence hung about the room, as Mr Hale awaited a response to his question. 'No; I am not in favour of any Master telling his hands how they may spend their money. And still, I cannot interfere in another man's endeavours - in how he chooses to run his own business - or I should be trenching upon him. I can only run my own mill as I see fit, and that is what I do.' Here, he turned to Isabel (who was sat beside Margaret) and said, 'I have taken Higgins on. He may pay into his Union or give up his wages for a starving turn-out - it matters not to me - but he's gone if he causes me trouble. The first hint of strike talk, and he's out!'
'That is very good; it is as it should be,' smiled Isabel, demurely. But to Margaret, this was a complete surprise, and so it was her response, which was the most feeling; it was she who expressed the most gratitude.
'Oh! Mr Thornton; that is wonderful news. We were very worried about Nicholas, were we not, Papa?'
'Yes, my dear,' came Mr Hale's smiling reply.
'It is very good of you; you are a kind man, sir.'
'Nay!' cried Mr Thornton, quickly; for the excessive gratitude discomposed him. 'He is - by all accounts - a hard and reliable worker, even if he can be the firebrand; the revolutionary.' And again, Mr Thornton's eyes met Isabel's, and he saw about her lips, and in the shining of her eyes, her pleasure at his acquiescence to her wishes, and he felt once more, how very dear she was to him. For all the brilliant smiles and gracious overtures of Miss Hale, nothing warmed him as that small, half-hidden smile of approval did, from his dearest Isabel.
'And how was your first day at the infirmary, Isabel, dear?' asked Mr Hale.
'Very quiet. One lady came by to ask of our fees, and appeared almost offended that they were affordable.' Mr Thornton smiled wryly.
'She likely thought it charity.'
'I'm sure she did. I think she accused me of being a Christian!' laughed Isabel, and Mr Thornton felt his lips twitch, just as Mr Hale and Margaret looked to each other in alarm. 'Oh, no! I am sorry; I do not mean to say I thought it an insult,' hurried Isabel, concerned for her friends' hurt feelings, 'but she spoke it as though it was a great crime.' And turning back to Mr Thornton, she tipped her head in thought and asked, 'are they not religious?'
'They are,' replied he, 'but it is fashionable for society types to take up a fleeting interest in the plight of the poor; our Milton poor are suspicious of all charity. It is usually promptly withdrawn, or where it lingers - where it is given in true Christian spirit - they are often imposed upon; told what to do and how to behave.'
'In what way, John?' asked Mr Hale, with interest.
'Well, we have about Milton some Christian groups who offer relief to the poor, but then they say the poor must come to church on this day and pray on that day, and they have not the time - they are always working - nor can they read the scriptures - never having learnt - and the assistance, though kindly given, comes to be resented.'
'So you do not agree that these Christian groups should attempt to lead the workers closer to God?' asked Margaret; her tone of voice argumentative; but not in the old way.
'I have no view on that - it is not my place to judge how religious one ought to be - but charity, if given simply for the relief of suffering, ought surely to be given in spite of any shortcoming in one's spiritual devotion?'
'Yes,' agreed Isabel. 'True charity is given freely; not simply in return for "doing as I say".' And Mr Thornton smiled, for he felt the same way, and was pleased that - as of old - they did not differ in their opinions of right and wrong.
'I am inclined to say you are correct, John,' sighed Mr Hale. 'We had Mr Higgins come by one evening when my wife was ailing,' and here, a cloud marred his expression, but was quickly shaken off, 'and I had thought him an infidel, but he stayed for some hours and we spoke at length, and I saw that there was a certain religion about him - deep within. He even stayed to join us for our family prayers, did he not, Margaret?'
'Yes, Papa. But he did not join in; merely sat beside us.'
'But that is all the same; he partook in our prayers, rather than offering his own,' cajoled Mr Hale, and for all Margaret thought that the residents of Princeton might have benefitted from a little more church and a little more prayer, she was so gladdened to see the sparkle of mirth back in her father's eyes, that she smiled at him happily, and professed her ready agreement.
'So then, Isabel,' asked Margaret, turning to her companion, in wont of a new topic of conversation, 'did you have any other visitors to your infirmary?'
'Only a young boy who had learnt that I have a supply of tea and biscuits. I shall admit, I was strict with him and sent him on his way empty-handed, for I feared all the children should be complaining of some affliction, otherwise.' Mr Thornton smiled proudly, Isabel having judged just as he would have wished.
'And no one after that?' asked he. The question brought to mind the memory of Mrs Thornton's visit; the exchange of words and her painful allusion to Isabel's lost parents. The memory stole a wistful look upon Isabel's face, and her cheeks darkened as her eyes narrowed, before being averted to the floor.
'No other workers came,' replied Isabel, with a forced smile. 'But perhaps - thanks to Dr Price - we shall have more taking up the service when next I go to the mill.' Now, Mr Thornton was not a successful businessman by chance, but because he was astute with a sharp mind, and so not only did he see the sadness that clouded his love's face, but he noted also, what he felt to be carefully chosen words, so as not to speak a lie. "No other workers came." He repeated it to himself as he walked home to Marlborough Mills, and by the time he reached the door, he felt certain that although no other workers came, a different kind of visitor had, and one who had proved to be unwelcome.
Now, if Mr Thornton suspected his mother to have passed harsh words with Isabel, he did not allow his mind to dwell upon it. He knew his mother did not favour the infirmary - thinking it a luxury he could ill-afford, and the hands being undeserving of it. He knew, too, that a significant portion of his mother's reticence towards the scheme was due to Isabel's involvement, and that his mother harboured for her a great dislike, but he also knew his mother loved him fiercely, respecting him as of faultless decisions and surety of purpose.
Never would he expect his mother to creep silently, interrogating what he had determined upon; inspecting the scheme for avenues of exploitation or unaccounted cost, and the worker - the doctor - for ill-intent. If he had known that his mother had - at the very first opportunity - taken herself down to the little infirmary to inspect the rooms and interview the new doctor, he was have felt the slight; not only towards Isabel, but towards him as a man. He would have felt the loss of his mother's confidence - where it had always been unflinching; where it had bolstered him when he was at his lowest, during those dark and difficult days after his father's death - and it would have been to him a mortal wound, close as was that deep, abiding bond between mother and son.
But Mr Thornton did not know that his mother had seen fit to question Isabel as to her intentions towards her son. He might have suspected it - a small voice, a niggling doubt - but he brushed it aside, for Isabel had spoken nothing of it, and it was, he thought, unjust to his mother to think her capable of such a deep betrayal. If his mother was uncharacteristically taciturn upon his return from taking tea in Crampton, he attributed it to Fanny's languid form reclined upon the sofa, and her constant, moaning complaints of a severe headache.
'I only wonder, Fan, that you should talk so very much, if your head pains you so greatly,' said Mr Thornton, settling himself into his chair with his newspaper.
'I do not complain so much!' scolded Fanny, indignantly. 'I only say that my head aches so that you might understand why I cannot join you and mother in conversation this evening.' Mrs Thornton's brows dipped at her daughter's ludicrous claim, and turned to her son with compressed lips.
'There was a man lingering at the gates this morning, John; I saw him from the window. Did you speak with him? I asked Williams to send him on his way, but he said he would speak only with you. He looked a rough sort; I'd not want him here.'
'Yes, Mother; I did see him. His name is Higgins and he was looking for work.'
'Higgins?' came Mrs Thornton's sharp reply, her eyes narrowing. 'Have I not heard you complain of the man before?'
'Ay! He's a Union man.'
'And he came here looking for work, did he?' replied Mrs Thornton, shaking her head over her worsted work. 'And you sent him on his way?'
'I took him on, actually.'
'Really! John,' cried Mrs Thornton, in exasperation. 'A Union man? Why ever would you?'
'I have my reasons, Mother. I know him to be true to his time; a hard worked, and skilled, and I can use all the skilled hands I can get; these Irish are so useless.' Mrs Thornton grumbled, unable to defend the Irish workers her son had imported; they were untrained and cost time and money in their mistakes. She instead turned her attention to her embroidery and let a half an hour of silence stretch between them; broken only by the intermittent sighing of Fanny; the rustling re-arrangement of her person upon the sofa. At length, she turned to her son and asked, -
'You left the mill early today, John. I thought you had called round to the Hales earlier than planned, but then Jane told me you had come back as usual to dress for tea at Crampton. Where did you go?' She tried to keep her voice neutral and free of accusation, but any deviation from her son's usual habits disturbed her; so ordered and regimented was her routine. And in her discomposure, she could not help but think of Miss Darrow and her unwelcome presence at the mill that day.
'I was seeing to some business in the Princeton district, Mother,' spoke Mr Thornton, from behind his newspaper.
'Magistrate's business?' asked Mrs Thornton, in surprise.
'No, Mother. I was meeting with the man Higgins. I got caught up there, as a neighbour was taken ill - on her death bed - and a doctor was needed.' Mrs Thornton was immediately alert with anxious concern.
'A doctor? In Princeton?'
'Ay. They sent for that man, Price - you know the man, Mother?'
'I know of him. I'd never use him - not that I'm ever ill!' replied Mrs Thornton, puffing out her chest with pride; she had an iron constitution, just like her son. Her eyes turned disdainfully to her daughter; sanguine in her idle repose. She sighed regretfully. She could not understand her daughter's weaknesses, and so blamed them on her late husband. She could not see - and mothers never have true vision where their children are concerned - that the indulgence of both mother and son - during those difficult, frugal years - had sheltered Fanny from all knowledge of what it was to struggle or be in want. She could not see that this life of ease had led her daughter to become spoilt, with a bluntness of mind which arose solely because the girl had never been required to use it.
'I'd not use him, either, Mother,' came Mr Thornton's voice, dragging his mother from her musings. 'He took over an hour to come, and the poor woman was dead by then. He had taken another patient in Overton - despite knowing the woman was waiting on him - and all because Overton pays more.'
'Hmmm,' frowned Mrs Thornton. She did not like the doctor - not that she knew much of him - but her son's concern and way of speaking, had that foul-tasting tang of philanthropy to it, and she knew, without a doubt, that she had never heard such sentiment or intonation in his voice, before the Hale's had settled in Crampton.
'He had been drinking, too, if I'm not mistaken. I'm minded to make investigations about the man,' continued Mr Thornton.
'Really, John! Must you get involved? The likes of Price don't tend to our society; what concern is it of ours?' Mr Thornton did not quite agree with his mother; he had a softer heart (though he kept it a closely guarded secret), and the memories of those sad faces; big, childish eyes, hungry and cold, stayed with him in his mind, and he knew - as we all do, if we give it but a moment's thought - that the poor feel loss and pain just as keenly as the wealthy, and that the agony of a sick or dying loved one - the desperate desire for the best medical care - is just as strong, but sadly, so much more difficult to satisfy.
He had believed every word he had ever spoken in support of the new infirmary; healthy workers would benefit him. It was on the very same principles that he had installed the wheels at some four hundred pounds apiece; that he had fitted guards to some of the most dangerous machines, in a bid to keep down the risk of accident. He had known this, but had felt it is as a businessman - that the health of his workers was a benefit to him. Now, seeing those stained faces; the rags hanging grey and tattered, in the cloistered lanes where hovels spewed out their dreary inhabitants, into the festering streets; the sight of those orphaned Boucher children, mesmerised by a spinning penny, he saw and felt the benefit of health on a human level, and for all the business acumen that he possessed, he felt the benefit of good health and a ready doctor, beyond the measurement of pounds and pence.
Not wanting to disagree with his mother (for he knew that no amount of rumination on the matter would make them see alike) he took up a candle and retreated to his study, where he immersed himself in his accounts, in a bid to stave off all thoughts of Isabel. The accounts where no less troubling, though, for the strike had cost him dear, and he had spent his capital on new machinery and a large quantity of cotton, having had a great order on hand before the strike. Now the orders began to fall off, and those that did order were late to pay. Loans needed to be repaid to the bank and his purse was light.