Normally John made quick time of his walk from Crampton back to his home, but tonight his pace slowed as he was lost in thought. Never had his conversation with Miss Hale taken such a turn. She usually appeared annoyed or vexed when they engaged in conversation, not to mention this was possibly the first time a discussion between the two had not ended in argument. Previously it had vacillated between her open love and preference for the South and questioning his methods as a master, challenging his authority and principles. But tonight! Tonight had been a revelation.
He was truly in his sister's debt, a condition he had never before thought he would be in. Their mode of conversation had perhaps already taken on a more friendly tone than usual, but it was her reading of the passage that had changed everything for him. As she read the awkward, flowery words, he felt his heart thud at the realization that he could understand them, even feel them himself. The idea that a woman could consume his mind and heart had always seemed impossible; he had assumed his heart was cold. But then Margaret.
He had acknowledged to himself her beauty and a grudging admiration of her ideals, however frustrated he was at her deliberate misunderstanding of him. But any thoughts of her beyond that, he had tried to force away from himself. And that should have been his first clue that he was affected by her. That he felt any need to train himself not to think of her, to avoid her was proof enough that he might care for her. Previously, he did not ever have to tell himself to cast women he met away from his mind; they simply were not present. But she had stayed in his mind, in his skin, and as she read this evening he realized openly that he did not want to cast her away. She had taken hold of him, and he now suffered it gladly. No woman had ever captivated him as she did, and now there was no denying the ever-rising burn in his breast as he thought of her. He had unconsciously fought against her influence and power long enough. Now he would embrace it and glory in such a feeling, new and all-encompassing.
The question now was how to proceed. It had been difficult for him to remain composed as they spoke, as he desired to know how to gain her favor. He did not want to give himself away and spring upon her his interest even as she spoke against such actions. He told himself to be careful in his leading questions, but was afraid of overstepping the mark even as he uttered the words.
The honest truth was that he viewed himself as a rough, uncouth man, especially when in her presence, and he had no way of knowing how to please any woman, much less Margaret. He did not know where to begin, so his question of how a man may show attention was out of sheer ignorance and desperation. It was a strange sensation, to feel he knew nothing about a subject. He was used to being in command, to being consulted for his knowledge and experience. But with Margaret, he felt as a boy of fifteen, unsure and eager.
He had been surprised and pleased at her willingness to answer his questions. He hoped that she named such actions as would be pleasing to her, not just to women in general. He would remember her words and cherish them, put them into practice. But once he did, how would she receive his regard? Would she be offended and push him away? Would she feel pity for the awkward way he was sure to go about beginning? Would she even understand that he was applying her words to his behavior around her, that he was showing her his admiration? He was anxious as he pondered the various and possible outcomes of him taking such steps. He was nervous, he was sure, he was wild to be near her, he was afraid of making himself a fool. But he was most enticed by the possibility that she would return his affection.
He stopped walking at this thought and nearly turned back, yearning to know if he had any chance, any hope. But no, she could not feel strongly about him now, even if she felt anything at all. He would need to work at it; he would need to court her in some manner. Her own words turned his feet toward home, crushing the sudden desire to be imprudent and impudent by throwing himself at her feet. She would most certainly deny him now; he was certain she would deny him later, as well, but he must try.
The rest of his journey home was spent in this feverish feeling of joy and agony. Joy to be thinking of her, to thrill in her being, and agony to think of how low a fellow he was to aspire to her. Distracted by these overwhelming feelings and thoughts, he barely gave his mother any notice on his entering the house. He lay awake half the night wrestling within himself of how to go forward.
After Mr. Thornton left, Margaret hastened to her mother's chamber. Dixon had never returned to the drawing room, prompting some worry on Margaret's part. She was eager to spend time with her mother, fearing her role had been usurped once more by the ever-faithful Dixon. Even if her mother's clinging to her was only brought on by her increasing weakness, Margaret would not cast it aside; she valued her mother's fondness too greatly to stay away.
Dixon sat by her mother's bed, petting Mrs. Hale's hand in a soothing manner. It was clear that Mrs. Hale slept fretfully, gaining no real rest from the experience. Though the fire was low, sweat gleamed on her brow, and she was prone to twitch occasionally. Margaret was jealous of Dixon's ability to calm her mother even when asleep. Stepping forward, she spoke softly. "Dixon, you must rest yourself. I can stay with Mama."
Dixon, not having perceived Margaret's entrance, jumped in her seat, a movement which caused some alarm, for it affected Mrs. Hale and she tossed and turned for another minute or so before Dixon's ministrations calmed her once more. This being done, Dixon silently gave Margaret a stern glare which was unmistakable in its meaning: Margaret was ill-equipped to take proper care of her mother, as this small instance proved. But Margaret would not be gainsaid.
"Dixon, please," she whispered more carefully, drawing closer and putting a hand on her shoulder. "You have stayed with her so long and must be so worn out. Truly," she said in response to the emphatic shake of the head, "you should let me share the load. I hate feeling of so little use to her. Let me stay with her."
Dixon was loth to yield to a suggestion to abandon her mistress, but she knew Margaret's temper and obstinacy. She nodded and stood, allowing Margaret to take her place, swiftly taking her mother's hand. "Yes," she thought to herself, "when the miss gets that fire in her, she is so like dear master Frederick." Resolving not to stay away long, she made her way out of the chamber and past the drawing room where lingered the master, still unaware or unaccepting of how ill his wife really was.
Being left alone with her mother, Margaret's thoughts wandered back to Mr. Thornton and the strange conversation they had shared. It was unaccountable the change in their manner of conversation, to say nothing of the potentially embarrassing and misleading topic.
Margaret was unused to talk of love in any form, so to discuss it with anybody on a level bordering philosophical had previously been unthinkable. She loved her parents and family dearly, but it was not spoken of; rather, they allowed their affection to be manifest in their treatment of one another. Even Edith's conversation and exultations of love while engaged to Captain Lennox had been limited to exclamations that seemed, to Margaret, very childish. "Oh, Margaret, how well I love him!" And yet she and Edith had never spoken of the nature of love and how one is to encourage it.
Even with her limited experience in such matters, Margaret had always taken it for granted that she would one day marry. She was not given over to lengthy fancies or anything of a similar nature; she had a very pragmatic view of the whole institution. Her parents had married; her neighbors had married; one day she would also marry. Yet she had never been terribly romantic, and had never come close to losing her heart over a man. She had supposed she never would, especially after the awkward day of Henry's proposal. No, she could not marry him, but she also could not imagine liking any man better than she liked Henry. Perhaps there may yet be a man who captured her attention more, or who at least made a semblance of courting her, but the idea of being mad over a man would likely never come to pass.
And then there was Mr. Thornton. She had never met a man who irritated her in such a fashion. When in his presence, she found it difficult to rid herself of an itch in her skin or a pressure on her chest. He could be so kind to her mother and so considerate of her father, and yet he could be so cold to others. She could not make out which part was truly the man, and she was constantly torn on whether she wanted to find out or not. He had a way of looking at her in that intense, earnest way that made her feel hot, and she could not shake an uncomfortable feeling that she could not name whatever it was she did think of him. And she did not like being ignorant, especially of herself.
So if men were only going to be friends or irritants, there was no possible way Margaret could consider losing her head over the one she would eventually marry. But as she had said to Mr. Thornton tonight and as she had learned from the experience with Henry, she would at least appreciate being aware of some interest on the gentleman's part before being asked!
And then he had asked her how a man may go about things so as not to surprise the woman he had designs on! What a question! She had taken it for granted that he would surely know such customs; in fact, she had never given Mr. Thornton's knowledge of courting any thought at all. But as he asked, she could see that Mr. Thornton was perhaps just as inexperienced in matters of the heart as she was. So, despite her initial fear of his misreading her words, she had spoken. And he seemed to reward her disclosure by showing he saw no hidden meaning or hint in her suggestions.
What a change this one conversation made. She before had thought him impressive, and she admired how he had built a life for himself and his family. Could it now be that a mere half-hour's discussion had changed her, that she now could like him "personally", as she had once declared to her father that she did not? Surely all her former opinion could not be done away, but a softening on his part as they spoke had done much to soften her view of him. Would this continue, or was it a chance occurrence that would never be repeated? For her father's sake, she told herself, she hoped they would continue friendly with each other. Her father valued Mr. Thornton and his friendship, and she knew he would appreciate her having a better relationship with that man. And after their conversation tonight, she ventured to think that perhaps she would welcome a better relationship with him, as well.