No, Thurnall should never cross his door again! On that one point he was determined, but on nothing else.
However, his intention was never fulfilled.

For long before he reached home he began to feel himself thoroughly ill.

His was a temperament upon which mental anxiety acts rapidly and severely; and the burning sun, and his rapid walk, combined with rage and terror to give him such a "turn" that, as he hurried down the lane, he found himself reeling like a drunken man.

He had just time to hurry through the garden, and into his study, when pulse and sense failed him, and he rolled over on the sofa in a dead faint.
Lucia had seen him come in, and heard him fall, and rushed in.

The poor little thing was at her wits' end, and thought that he had had nothing less than a _coup-de-soleil._ And when he recovered from his faintness, he began to be so horribly ill, that Clara, who had been called in to help, had some grounds for the degrading hypothesis (for which Lucia all but boxed her ears) that "Master had got away into the woods, and gone eating toadstools, or some such poisonous stuff;" for he lay a full half-hour on the sofa, death-cold, and almost pulseless; moaning, shuddering, hiding his face in his hands, and refusing cordials, medicines, and, above all, a doctor's visit.
However, this could not be allowed to last.