Better Than Byron

A Day Out

II

Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.

-Lord Byron

That same day, the servants and pupils were continually asking Margaret about Edgar's self-styled past. "Did madam know anything?" – "Did she know Mr. Thurlow's chère-amie's name?" – "Had he given her a congé?" – "Who was his father?" – "What was his approximate worth?" – "Did he own a house beyond the seminary?" – "Was he a very evil man – as bad as Byron?" To all these inquiries she patiently replied, "Mr. Thurlow and I do not discuss our private matters. Our relationship is strictly master-employee." Yet when she dined with him she had an overpowering urge to be his friend and confidante, an inducement that only truly understanding people struggle with.

Several circumstances convinced her that Edgar was intently self-critical – that he examined himself tirelessly – that he had emotional conflicts, was moody, arrogant, and scorned inferiority of mind and position. This may come as a surprise to the reader, for he had shown some dislike to his own sophistication, but a part of him contradicted this scorn, for whoever could not live up to his sophistication, he thought beneath him and therefore unfit to associate with. He did not care whether a man or woman was good or bad, but whether they could emulate him.

He regarded Margaret with an indifferent eye; she was a pleasant enough companion, had the sensibility to always have something to talk of at mealtimes, but he thought her a pragmatic and plain lady of an uncommonly rational turn of mind.

When morning came, they set off to London in separate carriages. The school had five, and ten others were ordered for the excursion. Edgar was packed into Miss Vickers's carriage, facing Miss Ashe while Margaret faced M. Doucet. She spoke fluently to him in French, received a smile and a chuckle from him not infrequently, and though she did not raise his lowered spirits, she managed to distract him from some of his daily cares and irritations. These were the only teachers that accompanied them, for all fifty boarders – the twenty locals had remained at home, as it was a holiday – were going into Town.

Many times did Edgar wish to speak to Margaret, but many times was he denied the privilege, as either M. Doucet or Miss Ashe caught her attention before he could muster the courage to address her. It was a curious thing. She was calm, clement and industrious, and did not at all fit his romantic standards – he laughed inwardly when trying to fit her into one of his former Parisian scenes: a dimly lit café with artists and women of coarse manners, men puffing on cigars, two grisettes kissing on the mouth. No, indeed! She would put them all to shame with her nourishing country morals.

At length, they arrived in London. "What a city!" Miss Ashe exclaimed as they alighted from the carriage. "The noise—the bustle—the ceaseless energy. How fresh!"

"How dirty," Edgar remarked, turning up his lips at a beggar-boy sitting against the smoke-encrusted wall of a building hard by. Margaret, perceiving the destitute child, took pity on the cast off soul, and stooped to his level with a sympathetic look.

"How are you, my boy?"

"Very poorly, ma'am," he said, turning up his sooty face. "I got no brass, an' me mum's sent me off to th' poorhouse, but I'd rather not go. I'd rather go a-beggin'."

"You poor creature!" she sighed, producing her purse and then placing a sovereign into the boy's dirty palm. "Go and buy yourself something to eat, little one. And, hold." She rummaged in her reticule, and then drew out a pocket sonnet-book. "Here you go, child. Read it every night before you go to sleep. It is food for thought."