Adam Bell was a sentimental old fool, and he knew it. This quality above all others, he felt, was to blame for his current location: the train station in Milton. He had no business left here that could not be accomplished by post, no logical motive for a visit to this grimy, smoky town when he could have been spending his last (for he felt them to be his last) weeks of life in his beloved Oxford. Nothing, that is, except an interview with a dearly beloved goddaughter.

In truth, she had only requested his help if he 'happened to be in Milton again on business', and to this he had readily agreed, thinking his remaining time a matter of years; and indeed, that such a fuss about a former friend's good opinion was quite extraordinary. He had reflected, then, that the young woman beside him was truly a pillar of morality: so upset by a necessary lie that she was reduced to tears.

A few weeks' passage, however, bringing with them no northern business and an alarmingly declining health, had given him time for thought. He remembered those pure, innocent tears, the woeful certainty that 'Mr. Thornton must despise me'. He remembered also that poor Margaret suffered so horribly because 'he thought badly of her', and the excellence which she attributed to Thornton's character. How shocked she had been when Mr. Bell had dared think him capable of doubting her honor! Surely that was a crowning proof.

And so a suspicion had begun to form in Mr. Bell: supposing Hale had been wrong, and his daughter did bear a 'tendresse' for the intense mill-master? On the heels of this thought came those former certainties: that in the man there was a passion for his charge. He had no longer thought so during his last visit to Milton – the gentleman's manners had been quite restrained and cool, interspersed with flashes of hard feeling – but perhaps, if coupled with Frederick's leave-taking and the jealousy such a sight would certainly inspire in an unknowing lover… This rapid train of thought had hardly finished before Mr. Bell, grinning and whistling more cheerfully than he had since his good friend's death, had settled on a course of action. He was to go north at once.

Adam Bell loved his Margaret with all the paternal feeling he could have felt for ten of his own children combined, and he wanted her to be happy. That, and he would gladly give up a whole week of life to see Thornton's reaction to the coming interview.

He was not to be disappointed.

John Thornton was amid his accounts when his clerk announced Mr. Bell. Shaking himself from the hundredth contemplation of the terrible figures, he rose and greeted his landlord.

"Mr. Bell, please have a seat. I trust no disagreeable business brings you here?" For that surely would have been vinegar in his smarting wounds. To be forced to bend to another's will during the last of his independent days… intolerable. But no:

"Not at all, my dear fellow, not at all. I merely have a peculiar errand to run – the consequence of an inability to resist a lady's smile, I'm afraid. But," – as he looked properly about the room – "it would seem I have come at a bad time. Is business not going well?"

The tenseness which had entered Mr. Thornton's face at this flippant mention of 'a lady' – for of course there was but one lady whom he could think of, for whom he pined though she was lost to him – changed to a kind of resigned pride. " The mill is going under. I'm afraid you shall be looking for a new tenant before the month is out, sir."

"Oh dear," and the genuine regret in Mr. Bell's voice and air mollified John somewhat, "I am sorry. The matter of the new tenants, I'm afraid, must be for my heir to decide, for I've not much life left in me." A short, uncomfortable pause. " Ah well, I suppose these things must happen in their time, and at least I can be certain that Miss Hale will not squander my fortune on gowns and fripperies."

The reaction the shrewd Fellow had been angling for was immediate in coming: "Miss Hale!" cried he, with a tightness to his lips but a painful yearning shining from his eyes. "Is Miss Hale then to inherit?"

"Yes indeed. She is a beloved goddaughter to me, and I have no other family. Futhermore, I daresay there are none so worthy." Mr. Thornton could not but agree to this wholeheartedly, though he answered only with a slight bow. His composure returned to him (And, he berated himself, why should he appear discomposed by the mention of a mutual friend? He must control himself better in the future.) and he recalled his landlord's purpose for the visit.

"What is this errand you mentioned, sir?"

His composure was again tested by the answer: "Ah. That too is to do with Margaret. It concerns a Hale family secret, if you will, which I believe she always meant to tell you, but could not. Now Frederick is safely immured in Spain forever, she asked me to lay everything clearly before you." John Thornton knew not what he heard, thrown between confusion and concern and despair at what he thought to be coming: the identity of the hated other lover, though what Frederick had to do with the matter he knew not. His posture remained relaxed and his face Thornton schooled to simple confusion and concern. The eloquently raised eyebrow prompted Mr. Bell to continue. "I told you a time ago that Fred, fearing a court marshal, was not in England at the time of his mother's death. Apparently, I was mistaken."

Mr. Thornton could hardly comprehend it. Then that night… "It was her brother…" slipped from his lips. An unbelieving, joyous, relieved, beautiful smile changed his face into something radiant. To have all his bitterest angers and jealousies swept away by four slight words, to have his dear one's honor again without the slightest doubt fixed in his mind! All those months of agony, of loneliness, of longing and raging from one moment to the next, of the desperate love in his heart throughout it all…

Mr. Bell smiled as if he were the cat that had got the cream. "Indeed it was her brother whom she was embracing at the Outward station. He was fleeing England once more, it must have been very painful for both of them. But yet more so, I fear, when that man Leonards recognized Fred." Through the elation, true understanding began to dawn on John. "There is still a price on Fred's head, if you'll remember. He did the only thing he could, as did she in lying to protect him, for Margaret dared not risk the chance of capture by the police while Frederick was still in England. Later, she had hopes of his being cleared in court, and so was obliged to keep her silence."

Such remorse John Thornton felt now! How he regretted his distrust, the viciously angry way he had to spoke to a woman who must have been greatly suffering under it and her conscience! He was ashamed at his lack of faith, and yet he knew that his conclusions had been only natural. The shame lay in refusing, out of furious jealousy, to listen to her attempted explanations. Oh Margaret, he though, how I must have hurt you!

During this veritable hurricane of thought and feeling he had sprung out of his chair and paced the length of his office. His voice when he asked, "And now?" was hoarse.

Mr. Bell sighed. "Now she has given up all hope of his return. She asked me, therefore, to explain her actions, since she can no longer do so herself. Margaret feared the obvious lie had debased your opinion of her and hoped to restore it to that of a friend – for herself and her poor father."

That 'of a friend' stung Mr. Thornton, as Mr. Bell had intended. The flash of renewed despair in his countenance, quickly smoothed away by a hand through the hair, was fascinating. "Of course, Mr. Bell. Please tell her that I sincerely apologize for my lack of confidence and will not betray her secret. I wish both she and the young Mr. Hale all the best." The resolute formality with which these words were uttered seemed to burden and dampen the whole room.

"Very well, sir, very well. I shall do just that. Good morning to you." And Mr. Bell rose and seemed to want to leave the interview. At the door he turned, and the attitude he saw so clearly displayed relented him from his teasing: Mr. Thornton stood at the window, head lowered, fingers clenched on the sill. His depression was tangible. With a sigh, the Oxfordian stepped once more into the room.

"I myself told a falsehood earlier, Thornton." The tightening of the back, the further ducking of the head screamed: why can this old fool not leave my to my misery? Mr. Bell was undaunted. "I said that I had been moved to come here by a lady's smile. That is a lie, I'm afraid: it was Margaret's tears that drove me here. She does not smile much now."

Tears? Thornton turned. "Is she unhappy in London?" He would not have her unhappy for all the world! And so upset over my good opinion? His heart beat quick in his chest. Mr. Bell's ponderous headshake was tortuously slow.

"I'm afraid the society does not really appeal to her, intelligent girl that she is."

"And… And she was crying?" the concern and hope in Thornton's face were clear as day. Apparently his legendary steely control had deserted him at a topic so close to his heart. Mr. Bell looked at him measuringly.

"Aye," he said slowly, hoping Margaret would forgive him for his breach of confidentiality, "she was afraid you despised her for her lie, and could not bear it. Poor child, it weighs heavily upon her." A sad shake of the head.

Would his emotions ever calm? Now he was again on the pinnacle of glowing hope, and it made him speak too quickly, eyes burningly intense. "No, no, I could never despise her." He recollected himself, flushed, coughed once in embarrassment and smoothed himself into his former sternness. "I thank you, Mr. Bell, for telling me this."

"Not at all, it was very much to my pleasure, I assure you." And it was at that.

A very few weeks later, that which John Thornton had predicted came to pass: he was forced to shut down Marlborough Mills. All the hands had been paid out their week, all his finances were in order – if almost nonexistent. The last necessary action remaining was traveling to London to give up his lease. It was a source of most nervous anticipation and pleasure that he would have to see Margaret to do so. He had been stirred into a flurry of hope by Mr. Bell's words, that 'she had not been able to bear thinking that he despised her'. He, who loved her more than anything! More than the Mill, more than life, more than even his mother! Every moment brought a new upheaval to his heart and plans. Surely such words indicated a feeling that was more than friendly; could only mean that she had a heart turning to him at last. He would ask her again. But she was such a light, moral, unblemished creature that there could be nothing more natural than that she be terribly upset at this lie; she would not need to love him to be capable of tears. He could not ask her. He might never see her again. He would ask. She had rejected him once already. He could not ask. The specter of the other lover had proven nothing more than that – a specter. He would ask. What of this Mr. Lennox who returned frequently in conversation, who did her business and knew her well, who by all reports was quite enamored of her? He could not ask. But then such words and such tears…

He knew he must at least try to court her again. He had been mortified once; surely there could be no harm in being mortified once more? The hope of winning those tender, loving looks for his own – though who was he to deserve them? – must be worth more than anything. The quick drum of his heart seemed to say: Hurry. Hurry to London, for I cannot stand it any more!

When Mr. Thornton arrived at Mrs. Shaw's lodgings at Harley Street and was let into the parlor (though the butler had looked at him with a faint trace of disdain in the pursed lips and haughty nose), he discovered at once why Fanny had longed for London: the elegance of this house, this room was so superior to anything that was to be had in Milton that he felt his hopes at once to be feeble, paltry things. How could he expect her to leave this for a house next to a mill? These loving cousins for a stern mother-in-law? This fresh air for the grit and smoke of Milton? Impossible. And yet, rallying himself, he would try.

Mrs. Shaw rose. "Mr. Thornton! What a surprise. I believe you know my daughter, Mrs. Lennox and her husband Captain Lennox. Mr. Henry Lennox is his brother." A low bow, a dark look at the latter from under straight brows.

"My apologies for disturbing your morning, Mrs. Shaw. I have come to see Miss Hale about a few business matters."

It was Mr. Lennox who answered him, with a look of pride and triumph, for he had been made to hear much of Margaret's talk of 'Mr. Thornton' and was very much relieved to discover him not at all dashing. "Miss Hale is out administering to our less fortunate families. Perhaps I can satisfy you, as I am her lawyer and principal advisor." He said it with relish enough to make Mr. Thornton hate him.

"Very well, sir."

"Excellent. Mrs. Shaw, I trust we may make use of your back parlor?" The assent was readily given and the two gentlemen (or was it one gentleman and one man, as he had once proudly declared himself to be?) excused themselves.

The back parlor was as tasteful as the front room had been, and his awkwardness made John Thornton draw himself up even sterner than he had been. " I have come to negotiate the end of my lease, Mr. Lennox. I fear you must be aware that Marlborough Mills has gone under."

"Indeed I have sir, and I am very sorry to hear it. Before you talk of leases, however, I would ask you to listen to a business proposition that Margaret and I," – and oh how the casual use of her Christian name stung! – "have designed. Ordinarily, I would have journeyed to Milton in a few days to put it to you, so I am glad you have saved me the trouble." And it amounted to this: that Margaret would invest in his Mill. The joy and relief in his dark eyes, the eagerness with which he leaned forward to hear, I am sure I need not describe. It was a scheme so typical of her goodness and kindness that he hardly felt worthy to her money. He swore to himself, if she would still lend him the money when he had said his piece, that he would be the best possible Master in her honor.

Henry Lennox had just finished his dry account when Margaret, back from her rounds, strode into the room. The men both rose.

"Mr. Thornton!" she cried, walking forward quickly to offer him her hand, though Lennox obviously found it very strange, "I did not expect to see you here! How are my Milton friends? Has Henry explained the – the business proposition?" She was anxious and flustered, but her eyes when she looked upon him were sorrowful and so, so soft.

"He has indeed," he answered gravely, determined now to be certain of his rival. She seemed discouraged by his gravity, but retained her composure. Once he had thought her to be haughty and disdaining for that very quality of patience and forbearance that he now admired! Foolish!

"Well, then I am sure he has explained it well. I am certain I could not manage half my business so well without Henry to guide me." Lennox murmured something in which the phrase 'at your service' could be discerned, but Mr. Thornton was intensely watching her face and eyes, and what he saw raised his hopes higher than they had been: for there was no loving, tender devotion as he had seen that fateful evening at the Outward station, no attitude of earnest adoration. No, what made her eyes smile on Henry Lennox was gratitude and esteem, but not love. She may yet be mine! "So you see it is merely a business proposition, and you must not feel obliged to me – it is you who would be doing me a service you see, for the interest at the bank is quite poor and – well, I am so glad Henry has explained it!"

"Nevertheless, Miss Hale, I am deeply obliged to you, and I thank you. Before we draw up the final papers, however, I wonder if you would walk with me for a while? I have many greetings from Milton to give you." This was said with the bright, easy smile he had not worn for months, and that made Mr. Lennox for the first time sensible of the danger.

"Oh, yes!" She was blushing and smiling and nervous and radiant; how he loved her! "Yes. How are my friends Nicholas and Mary? And the Boucher children?"

He told her, as she donned bonnet and shawl once more, and gave her their well wishes, and as she took his arm and stepped into the street with him, he was wild with tenderness and anxiety and love.

Presently there came a pause in the conversation, and she looked away as if with uneasy shame. Mr. Thornton remembered that Mr. Bell had enlightened him, but now wondered if he had found the time to tell his charge of her forgiveness before his death some ten days past. He cleared his throat. "I've had a visit from Mr. Bell."

She looked up at him, luminous eyes bright with consciousness and tears. He pressed her hand. "I am sorry for his death, Miss Hale. I fear you have endured more than your fair share of suffering in these last two years."

"Yes, well," with a brittle smile and a quick hand passed over her eyes, "I have also been very happy, here and in Milton."

He must ask her. He half feared she would feel the rapid tattoo of his heart through his jacket, feel the intensity of his eyes as a burn on her skin. He stopped walking, and she turned to look at him, a question in her eyes.

"Margaret." She began to tremble. "Margaret, I'm sorry I doubted you. I was wild with jealousy and despair when I saw you with your brother that night. I thought how lucky he was to have such love, and how undeserving when he led you into that clear falsehood. My pain made me unwilling to listen."

"Mr. Thornton," she gasped, "I should be the one apologizing, I who told that terrible lie! Not you, you were ever right in your conduct. I am the one shamed." Her voice shook. Her face was turned down towards the path under their feet, and he placed a hand gently under her chin to raise it. The eyes that met his made breathing briefly impossible, for she turned on him such a look as he had longed for, had seen in his dreams, had been jealous of when it was turned on another.

"Margaret," he breathed, and the hand under her chin gently spread to cup her cheek, "please. Marry me."

The sigh that trembled against his fingers was sweet, and the tears forming in her eyes now pure and joyous. She buried her head against his shoulder to hide these emotions, but he had already seen them, and his heart soared as if lighter than factory-smoke. He embraced her, drawing her to him as tightly as he had always wished, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair and feeling her soft cheek against his neck, her hands pressed between them.

"Yes," she cried against the fabric of his coat, "yes, yes, a thousand times yes!"

John Thornton had never been so happy.