Page 7 of Through Darkened Clouds

He would resume his life here. He would throw his time and effort into the workings of the mill. As he had done before she had entered his world.

But it would never be the same. He had had a glimpse of perfection—what a perfect life in this existence might have been like—and he would not forget it. It would remain forever in the shadows of his mind—longed for, cherished. The vision would remain, although he would soon never see her again.

She was the sun. He knew this now. He had known it since the moment he had gently laid her unconscious form upon the sofa in his drawing room.

When she was gone from this toiling town, when she took her leave of this place where her mother had died and she had lived through such heartache—only darkness, gloom would remain in his world. The sun would shine in other realms, far from his own.

Would it have been better if Hale had never come? Sometimes, when the swell of longing for her ripped through his heart in fresh agony, he almost wished that she had never set foot in Milton.

Chapter three

Frozen ground crunched underfoot as Mr. Thornton crossed the yard to the mill office in the dim light before dawn. Steam from his breath rose and vanished into the frigid air as he turned the key in the lock and pulled the chains off the doors to his mill.

Inside, the cavernous space would gradually warm as steam flowing through endless pipes animated the machinery now silently still in the darkness.

Arriving at his office, he lit the lantern on his desk and sat down in the wooden chair. Winter had passed, but on this weary April morn, the cold seeped through to his soul. The heat of steam and the mass of humanity that would fill the building with noise would never warm the part of him that felt all the invigorating sustenance of life draining away.

He had not realized how much he had cherished the mere chance of seeing her or being near her until the hope of it was taken away. There would be nothing left but endless clouds and the lingering memory of the time she had lived in this dreary town.

A long, low whistle sounded from the far yard. Within the hour, the floors of the factory would fill with laborers freshly woken from their beds. For them, it would be another ordinary day. For him, the darkness of a long and lonely life loomed before him.

At mid-day, Mr. Thornton sped his way on foot through the town, unable to keep his thoughts on anything but her—wondering if she had yet recovered from her illness from her grief. He was almost dizzy with the pulsing need to comfort her. Nothing could keep him from going to Crampton to offer his aid.

No one answered the doorbell upon his arrival, so he quietly let himself in. “Mr. Bell?” he called out with trepidation and heard the creak of the floorboards upstairs in response.

“Is that you, Thornton?” Mr. Bell answered as he came into view, peering over the banister. “Have you half an hour to spare?” he asked as Mr. Thornton climbed the stairs.

“If I can be of any help…” was the swift answer, although Mr. Thornton thought of the work that lay on his desk. “How is she?” was the inevitable, pressing question that never left his swirling thoughts.

“The fever has gone down, but she still has not woken. The doctor suggested reading to her as a method of rousing her to consciousness. But I need to rest this weary head of mine, and Dixon is busy in the kitchen. Can I ask you to read to the girl for a brief spell while I lay these old bones down for a nap?”

“I…of course,” he answered, startled to be given the opportunity to see her.

“Her room is straight back…to the right, at the far end.”

Mr. Thornton stood reeling for a moment at the prospect of heading into so private a sphere of her home. In very fact, his legs began to tremble ever so slightly as he walked down the short hallway.

He hesitated at the doorway, his heart quickening to enter the sacred place where she lay. He took a deep breath before walking through the open door. A curtained window allowed the afternoon light to filter into the small room. One glance took in the marble-topped bureau and the writing desk with her books and parchment, but his eyes sought the prone figure lying in the bed against the wall.

Her face was pale and still. A tug of fear pulled at him. He had seen her as fragile as this once before on the day of the riot—he had known what it was to hold her lifeless form in his arms.

He could not move, arrested as he was by the sight of her frail, serene beauty. Her hair, unloosed from its customary binding, splayed around the soft cheeks and smooth neck.

The longing to gather her in his arms—to feel the warmth of her weight against him again—gripped him. How much he wanted to comfort her, to let his great love soften the pain of her terrible loss!

His heart beat thick with the desire to hold her, to touch her. But he steeled himself for the duty he had been asked to perform. Taking the open Bible from the wooden chair at her bedside, he sat down to read from it.

Teach me thy way, O Lord, and lead me in a plain path, because of mine enemies.

Deliver me not over unto the will of mine enemies: for false witnesses are risen up against me, and such as breathe out cruelty.

I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the Lord.

He stopped reading for a moment to gaze at her. Her hands, those hands that had served him tea—that had once clasped firmly about his neck—were laid upon the quilt. He was tempted to take those hands in his. It might be the last chance he had to touch her….

But he could not. He would not take what was not his. Had she not told him what she thought of him? No, she did not want his love.