June, 5th
John:
-"I crossed a line there, didn't I?"
Yesterday started well enough. She was wearing jeans and a bluish flowery top, and I couldn't help thinking that we seemed dressed to match. Did she notice that too? Then she talked, I wasn't sure whether to me or to herself, but then the others came back and broke the spell. I was off balance and fell for Mr. West's tricks like a pretentious boy, a ridiculous rooster trying to defend his grounds from a goose. And then, she intervened.
I look outside the window to the dusk skies. A large bird circles and planes over the roofs of a row of houses. My notebook with exercises lays open on the table before me.
It was supposed to be humorous and reassuring comment. To make it clear that I was in the know and she could count on me. But I have the subtlety of a bull in a china shop and everything turned out just messy. It wasn't reassuring but accusing, and it was uncalled for.
The only solution I can think of, even if I hate it, is that I must stop seeing Margaret. It seems that every time we meet I do something abominable. It's obviously not my intention but I own my actions and mistakes, and this simply cannot go on.
I'll call Mr. Hale and arrange to have the lessons somewhere else, maybe at the Mills or my home. I can have a car to pick him up and send him back to his home after the lesson. I don't think he'll be inconvenienced; besides the exam is only three weeks away.
I wish I could apologize but right now I'm convinced that if I come near I will crush her a bone. If I send her a bouquet, the vase will break and cut her or she'll be allergic to just those flowers. If I get her something good like chocolates, she'll probably choke or have an indigestion and end up at the hospital.
I don't know when or how things got so off my hands, but they did and I must do something about it. For her sake I better stay away. I know it looks like cowardice but it's exactly the opposite.
June, 8th
Margaret:
Mr. West goes back to Majorca after a week and my father is alone again. Mr. Thornton's exam is near and my father is going to miss him as much as he misses my mother, my brother and Mr. West. My heart squeezes a little when I think how he must have felt my brother and I going away so soon, but I remind myself that back then he had a wife and a job to keep him occupied.
We are having dinner one evening and talking about my plans for the future when I hear him clear his throat and I raise my eyes from my meal to meet his. He leaves the fork on the table and out of the blue asks me:
- "Margaret, is there something between you and John Thornton?"
Blood drains from my face and comes back in a rush and I feel slightly sick. He notices my discomfort, or my silence, and adds:
- "Adam mentioned something and I just wondered. I don't mean to pry, babycake, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
And I don't want to tell him because I don't want to inflict any more pain to his old heart, but he is my father, we're talking about his friend, and he deserves to know the truth, so I carefully choose my words when I say:
- "He had feelings for me, he expressed them and I didn't reciprocate." Is there anything else to say? I don't think so. "It's all in the past now. I am sorry... he's your friend."
The remorse I still feel about my behavior that day brings a lump to my throat and I bend my head over my plate. My father seems satisfied with my reply and doesn't ask any more. But I can't help myself and I break down in tears.
He nods understandingly, pats my head and offers to clear the table when we're done.
June, 9th
Teaching Mr. Thornton's class is now my father's most important item of his daily routine. He gets dressed for it, he plans his days around it. From what he says I'm inclined to believe that Mr. Thornton is capable to prepare for his exam with a fortnight's worth of study, but my father insists and brings in more materials, more previous exams, more practice. Mr. Thornton treats his teacher with utmost respect, but my father really looks up at him as I don't think he's ever done with a student; when he quotes Mr. Thornton's opinions I can only hear admiration.
By the way my father speaks about Mr. Thornton I surmise they don't spend much time studying, and I wonder why a businessman spares time of his schedule to talk to an old, heartbroken scholar. Actually I do know: it's because they are friends, and I wordlessly thank Mr. Thornton every day for it.
"Who do you think you are?", I asked him that distant January day. I wish I had known the answer before asking the question.
Note: Obviously the story could end right here with a simple conversation, but Gaskell didn't deem so and I abide.