Better Than Byron

A Quaint Cottage and An Intrusive Dandy

IV

Man's love is of his life a thing apart; 'Tis woman's whole existence.

-Lord Byron

Edgar Thurlow felt an unexpected sensation of contentment when he met Margaret at their next meal. It was morning, and the ball had stirred in him a fierce feeling of rebellion – rebellion against all of Society and every pest within the primitive bounds of its circles. Margaret, with all her modest dignity and feminine tranquillity, soothed and pleased him, which is generally the effect of seeming simplicity on a complex being, and he even found himself admiring her as he bid her good-morning with his usual gravity and rigidity of manner, for he was habitually frozen in the morning, but warmed as the day progressed.

Though he was said to have left his mistress behind in Paris, news had reached Margaret that Edgar's mistress was lodged at a solitary cottage north of London – but five miles from the seminary – for he had often been espied riding in that direction. She brought this up at their morning meal, not worrying about the impertinence of her inquiry and of the effect it would produce on him.

"Mr. Thurlow," she said with a shy yet penetrating look at her master. "Did not you express a day ago a vague wish to reform?"

"Reform, madam?" he asked, growing suspicious at her measured tone. "What the devil for?"

"You well know what I mean. I am not as plain spoken as you, so I shall not presume to dispense with the question lodged inside my throat as directly as you would. I prefer speaking with more subtlety. That is the only way to conserve harmony."

"Oh, I understand," he muttered, biting into a morsel of brown bread in the manner of a wolf. "You've heard that my mistress is living in this neighbourhood. Well!"

"Well?" she repeated, firmly staring at him.

"Well what? I have as good as admitted that the gossip is based upon facts. Do not expect anything other than a brief confirmation of this from me, madam."

"Then do you affirm that you have a mistress not six miles from London?"

"Yes," he said deprecatingly, only to vex her. "And that is that. My private business does not concern you, Miss Vickers, and never shall. Now, may I partake of my meal without being subtly criticised by you?" She made a slight jump, as if startled, and then continued eating quietly and thoughtfully, evidently disturbed by her master's irrepressibly gruff address and snappish mood. Had she touched on a taboo subject, or was he merely ill-humoured? Neither spoke to each other until Miss Vickers withdrew quietly to her sitting-room, leaving Edgar regretting every bitter word he had thrust upon his attentive, gentle-mannered employee. "The devil take my tongue," he said to himself, rising nervously from his chair and then hurrying into the stables, whereupon he was seen taking off northward at a gallop.

*

The stone cottage was nestled within a grouping of trees and shrubs, and was thus an ideal place for privacy. The wooden fence encasing it was being slowly but surely thrust aside by the determined holly trees, and the stone path that led up to the wooden doors was lined with weeds and pebbles. Because it was so well hidden by the pine trees in the premises, as good as no sun managed to flood the cramped courtyard. The sun's rays simply lay in scattered spots across the yard, much like a fishing net. The two deep-set windows at the front were opened wide, but there was no movement visible within.

A sound of hooves presently awakened the spellbound stillness of the place, and in the next moment a darkly clad man dismounted his glossy black horse. After fastening its reins to one of the thinner trees he walked to the wicket gate, discreetly unhinging the latch. However, a keen ear was listening, and as soon as it heard the familiar steps, the listener pattered frantically out of the pretty cottage and flung herself on the approaching gentleman, squealing out, "Papa!"