First of all, big thanks to Kayran, who was so kind to beta this part for me. Every time you are NOT annoyed by a wrong verb form or awkward expression – it is her doing.

I have some reservations about this story. First of all, starting a new one before finishing the lastis not really a a good thing to do. But it looks like you guys are not much into "That Woman!", so let's see how this one goes. I am not sure that a story like this one should exist at all, so don't hesitate to tell me if you think it shouldn't. I won't tell you anything new if I say that reviews can motivate and demotivate authors.

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The Error of Judgement

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By Ikuko.

Part one. Letter from Oxford.

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The servant who entered his room in the morning,
received no answer to his speech; drew near the bed, and saw the
calm, beautiful face lying white and cold under the ineffaceable
seal of death. The attitude was exquisitely easy; there had been
no pain-no struggle. The action of the heart must have ceased as
he lay down.

Mr. Bell was stunned by the shock;
-Wallis, pack up a
carpet-bag for me in five minutes. Here have I been talking. Pack
it up, I say. I must go to Milton by the next train.'

The bag was packed, the cab ordered.

But just as Wallis brought the bag in, the room tilted around Mr. Bell, his legs gave way under him and he collapsed on the floor. Wallis, terrified by the state of his master, dropped the bag on the floor and run to get Dr. Forbes.

It took some time for Mr. Bell to recall who and where he was. The grief was the next thing he remembered. Poor Hale. They had just talked last night, how could it be possible that he is gone! Poor Margaret! What would become of her!

Mr. Bell tried to cry out, but no articulated words came. He saw the old face of Dr. Forbes, leaning over him, saying something he could not quite understand. The words reached him as a strange jumble through the thick cotton wool in his head.

But slowly, painfully, he began to recover. The world stopped spinning and tilting on it's axes; the words began form, though with great difficulty. He can could not feel his left hand and foot, or the left part of his face for that matter. Dr. Forbes shook his head dolefully. He knew it was coming, but hoped that his old friend and patient still had some months, if not years. But the shock of losing his oldest friend was a horrible blow to Mr. Bell. All Dr. Forbes could do now was to wait for the inevitable.

Bell was desperately attempting to speak, forcing his disobedient lips into forming the words one by one.

'Wallis… get… Dennis… will'

'What will you do, Mr. Bell?' Willis asked, puzzled.

'No… Need… To make… a will…'

'Dennis. Mr. Dennis, the attorney, he leaves next door, I believe' supplied Dr. Forbes.

Scared Wallis stared back at Dr. Forbes, unsure if it was safe to leave his master even for the moment; but at further urging from Mr. Bell he turned and ran out of the room.

Dr. Forbes patted Bells hand. There was not much he could do now. He hoped with all his heart that Dennis would be found soon. There was no telling how fast the situation would progress, and Bell was desperate. Fortunately, Wallis returned in a few minutes with the short plump man, carrying a well-worn leather bag.

The new comer looked at the scene suspiciously. He recognized Dr. Forbes and his patient, but the state of the latter was so pitiful that Mr. Dennis was not sure that his services could be possibly required.

'Is he really able to make a will in this state of his?' he asked the doctor.

'He can talk with difficulty, but he is perfectly lucid, I can vouch for that, at least for now. He also has the use of the right side of his body. But there is no telling how his condition will change from now on. If you want my honest opinion, if Mr. Bell is to make his last will,he better do it now.'

Mr. Bell's pale face was now covered with red spots; he seemed angry that his fitness of mind was doubted. He once again started to say something incoherently, but realized that it was not helping his case. He started afresh, speaking carefully, and enunciating every word with a desperate distinction, relaying on nods and one-hand gestures as much as on words to convey his meaning. Yes. He wanted to make a will. Yes, he had full capacity of his mind. No, he would not like to postpone it. Yes, they were to write it now, please. Yes, he had an heir in mind. He wished to leave all his worldly possessions to his god-daughter, Miss Hale, presently of Crampton, Northern Milton, Darkshire, daughter of his old friend Reverend Richard Hale. Yes, Dr. Forbes would witness that the will was made legally.

It took Mr. Bell better part of half an hour to make himself understood and his wishes recorded properly. Mr. Dennis shook his head more than once while composing the simple testament for his new client, but there was no real ground for objections. Mr. Bell was speaking as sensibly as any other, if somewhat thickly through the lisp as he laboriously forced his unwilling lips and tongue to his will. He made sure that the name and the address of his beneficiary was scrupulously recorded before leaning back on the pillows and smiling lopsidedly:

'Thornton is in for a surprise... But he will be glad of it, in the end. Unless he is more fool than I think he is. She will bring him a nice little nest egg.'

If Mr. Dennis was a little puzzled by this, he did not show it and returned to the papers. That business was quickly settled and Mr. Dennis was bowed out of the room by Dr. Forbes.

The good doctor returned to his prostrate friend, who was now trying to articulate something new. Once again, Dr. Forbes had to decipher his intent from words, guessing half of the time the meaning and getting an impatient nod of approval. A letter. Bell could write, but his hand was still weak and shaking. Yes, he wanted Dr. Forbes to write for him. In the state he was now, he could not go and tell Margaret the melancholy news about her father by himself, but it needed to be done, and be done by a friend. Yes. It would be impossible to write such news to her directly. must not learn of her father's passing from a formal and cold piece of paper. Someone must tell her gently. Someone... There is Mr. Thornton. Yes. Forbes was to write to Mr. Thornton, under Mr. Bell's slow and laboured dictation.

…...

Mr. Thornton awoke that Wednesday morning with a heavy heart. His business dealings were looking more hopeless by the day; for every success he won in a desperate battle, there was a loss coming from a new direction. His travel to Havre, which was undertaken under the hope of getting new buyers, proved to be fruitless. The only bright spot of this trip, his stolen, guilty pleasure of visiting Helstone on his way back had probably given him more pain than joy. The country that brought Margaret to the world was as bright, beautiful, serene and remote as Margaret herself. The trip had made him understand her better. It was no great wonder that she had difficulty accepting her new home! And no wonder that her removal from that wonderful village to a grim place like Milton had killed her mother. The visit to Helstone explained many things, but most importantly, it permitted Mr. Thornton to partake, in this small way, in something that was her former life, even if she herself would never be his.

The morning post brought an unexpected letter from his landlord, though the address was written in unfamiliar hand. For a moment, Mr. Thornton looked at the letter apprehensively; there was no business expected for now, the rent was payed for many months ahead. His own financial troubles were not endangering Mr.'s Bell interests in any way for now. But of course Mr. Bell used his influence with Mr. Thornton without reserve, and to be honest, with little consideration for the trouble he gave his tenant. Yet Bell was as close to a friend as a landlord could be, and Mr. Thornton always submitted to his appeals willingly.

These musings were arrested by a shock he received upon opening the letter. Written mostly in the same hand as the address, it brought in its few lines news of new tragedy: Mr. Hale died suddenly in his sleep, and Mr. Bell was so overcome by losing his friend that he had fallen grievously ill himself.

Mr. Hale dead! Thornton could not believe it, it was impossible, the old gentleman was doing so much better after the death of his wife... Poor Mr. Hale! His friend was gone, just like his own father, so suddenly, so unfair... The only person who shared his love for philosophy, the only one who had sympathized with his tastes. There will never again be any more readings of classics, no more discussions of the merits of Plato and Aristotle, no more tea drinking in the invitingly warm little sitting room.

Margaret! How could he forget! In his grief over his friend he forgot the one that had been so perpetually in his thoughts. His mind was still full of thoughts of Margaret growing up there,in Helstone, as a happy carefree child; and this reality of the girl who was now tormented by seemingly endless suffering, the contrast was unbearable to him.

He returned to the pursuit of his letter. The letter was written in unfamiliar hand except for the signature, which was quite shaky. In disjointed, incoherent sentences it begged Mr. Thornton to assist Margaret to the best of his ability, as she was left so utterly alone and friendless, explaining that the only family she had left was now either in Spain or Greece. The letter veered around at that point, telling him to bring Margaret to her father's funeral on Wednesday, if she was fit to come. Then it returned to her pitiful situation, rambling upon the need of finding her friends who would be willing to take her in.

Mr. Thornton knew that he would wish for nothing better than to be such friend himself, but he resolutely squashed this thought. She did not want him. He would not force his case now when she is so helpless. He will would do his duty, as any disinterested friend would. He will would break the news gently to her, and console with her as far as it is possible for such a disinterested friend. He would make sure that she is was managing reasonably well and had all necessary help. Yes. he would do this, as a friend.

He looked at the date on the letter. It was Wednesday already, but the letter was dated last Friday. Likely the servant entrusted with the letter was too careless or too distraught with the illness of his master and the death of his friend and forgot to post it for several days. Miss Hale would not be able to come, the funeral had started an hour ago already.

So, the funeral of his friend was taking place right now, somewhere in Oxford, far away from the grave of his wife and his living daughter, among strangers, if at all attended. Poor Hale. Poor Mr Bell, if he understood the tone of the letter correctly, he was in no shape to attend the funeral himself. Poor Margaret! At least there he could provide some help. But what would become of her! Orphaned, penniless, and all alone in the world, how was she to sustain herself?

The very thought of bringing such news to her turned his stomach. Yet it had to be done, and done properly. It would probably take time, and it could not be rushed. He wrote a few quick lines of directions for his overseer. The mills were running at half capacity, Williams should be able to carry on without too much supervision. Mr Thornton's time was as short as ever, they would have to manage on their own for today. He returned home to change into a deep mourning. He explained briefly the news to his surprised mother and left for Crampton with a heavy heart.