“I care for nobody—
Nobody cares for me.”
The evidence against Boucher, and other ringleaders of the riot, was taken before him: that against the three others, for conspiracy, failed. But he sternly charged the police to be on the watch; for the swift right arm of the law should be in readiness to strike, as soon as they could prove a fault. And then he left the hot reeking room in the borough court, and went out into the fresher, but still sultry street. It seemed as though he gave way all at once; he was so languid that he could not control his thoughts; they would wander to her: they would bring back the scene—not of his repulse and rejection the day before, but the looks, the actions of the day before that. He went along the crowded streets mechanically, winding in and out among the people, but never seeing them—almost sick with longing for that one half-hour—that one brief space of time when she clung to him, and her heart beat against his—to come once again.
“Why, Mr. Thornton! you’re cutting me very coolly, I must say. And how is Mrs. Thornton? Brave weather this! We doctors don’t like it, I can tell you!”
“I beg your pardon, Dr. Donaldson. I really didn’t see you. My mother’s quite well, thank you. It is a fine day, and good for the harvest, I hope. If the wheat is well got in, we shall have a brisk trade next year, whatever you doctors have.”
“Ay, ay. Each man for himself. Your bad weather, and your bad times, are my good ones. When trade is bad, there’s more undermining of health, and preparation for death, going on among you Milton men than you’re aware of.”
“Not with me, Doctor. I’m made of iron. The news of the very worst bad debt I ever had, never made my pulse vary. This strike, which affects me more than anyone else in Milton—more than Hamper—never comes near my appetite. You must go elsewhere for a patient, Doctor.”
“By the way, you’ve recommended me a good patient, poor lady! Not to go on talking in this heartless way, I seriously believe that Mrs. Hale—that lady in Crampton, you know—hasn’t many weeks to live. I never had any hope of cure, as I think I told you; but I’ve been seeing her today, and I think very badly of her.”
Mr. Thornton was silent. The vaunted steadiness of pulse failed him for an instant.
“Can I do anything, Doctor?” he asked, in an altered voice. “You know—you would see, that money is not very plentiful, are there any comforts or dainties she ought to have?”
“No,” replied the Doctor, shaking his head. “She craves for fruit—she has a constant fever on her; but jargonelle pears will do as well as anything, and there are quantities of them in the market.”
“You will tell me if there is anything I can do, I’m sure,” replied Mr. Thornton. “I rely upon you.”
“Oh! never fear! I’ll not spare your purse—I know it’s deep enough. I wish you’d give me a carte-blanche for all my patients, and all their wants.”
But Mr. Thornton had no general benevolence—no universal philanthropy; few even would have given him credit for strong affections. But he went straight to the first fruit-shop in Milton, and chose out the bunch of purple grapes with the most delicate bloom upon them—the richest-coloured peaches—the freshest vine-leaves. They were packed into a basket, and the shopman awaited the answer to his inquiry, “Where shall we send them to, sir?”
There was no reply. “To Marlborough Mills, I suppose, sir?”
“No!” Mr. Thornton said. “Give the basket to me—I’ll take it.”
It took up both his hands to carry it; and he had to pass through the busiest part of the town for feminine shopping. Many a young lady of his acquaintance turned to look after him, and thought it strange to see him occupied just like a porter or an errand-boy.
He was thinking, “I will not be daunted from doing as I choose by the thought of her. I like to take this fruit to the poor mother, and it is simply right that I should. She shall never scorn me out of doing what I please. A pretty joke, indeed, if, for fear of a haughty girl, I failed in doing a kindness to a man I liked! I do it for Mr. Hale; I do it in defiance of her.”
He went at an unusual pace, and was soon at Crampton. He went upstairs two steps at a time, and entered the drawing-room before Dixon could announce him—his face flushed, his eyes shining with kindly earnestness. Mrs. Hale lay on the sofa, heated with fever. Mr. Hale was reading aloud. Margaret was working on a low stool by her mother’s side. Her heart fluttered, if his did not at this interview. But he took no notice of her—hardly of Mr. Hale himself; he went up straight with his basket to Mrs. Hale, and said, in that subdued and gentle tone, which is so touching when used by a robust man in full health, speaking to a feeble invalid—
“I met Dr. Donaldson, ma’am, and as he said fruit would be good for you, I have taken the liberty—the great liberty—of bringing you some that seemed to me fine.” Mrs. Hale was excessively pleased; quite in a tremble of eagerness. Mr. Hale with fewer words expressed a deeper gratitude.
“Fetch a plate, Margaret—a basket—anything.” Margaret stood up by the table, half afraid of moving or making any noise to arouse Mr. Thornton into a consciousness of her being in the room. She thought it would be awkward for both to be brought into conscious collision:
