Better Than Byron

Unforeseen Visits

VII

A quiet conscience makes one so serene.

-Lord Byron

The following morning, Edgar was the first to enter the breakfast-room. He waited a half hour for the headmistress, and when at last she came, she was besieged with sullen variations of, "you missed the nine o'clock bell," and, "I am fairly gutfounded!" Margaret smiled at him, too much refreshed by a steady sleep to mind his testy expressions. As she stepped forth, he noticed his cloak hanging from her arm.

"That is mine, Miss Vickers," he observed, looking grimly upon it.

"Yes, and I am returning it to you," she said, hanging it on a chair hard by. She took her habitual place opposite him and began eating quietly and placidly, as if she had forgotten that she had company. Edgar did not take one bite of his food or a sip of his coffee, for he could not comprehend her silence. At length, she looked up at him and froze upon perceiving his morose countenance.

"Are you not hungry, Mr. Thurlow?" she asked.

"I have no appetite for food."

"Well, what have you an appetite for?" she asked thoughtlessly, swallowing some of her tea. He would have answered, "You," but that would have been too outrageous.

"Words, Miss Vickers," he said, connecting the tips of his fingers as he propped his elbows up on the table. "I have an appetite for words." Again, she looked perplexedly at him. 'She is entirely unconscious of my feelings,' he pondered gloomily. 'She recalls nothing from the night before. She did not see the expression in my eyes – my tone – when I left her sleeping in her bed – I would have gladly slipped in beside her!'

"Ah," she said, meekly surprised. "Do you wish to converse? What about?"

"I do not know," he said, sulkily sinking in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. 'I do know. I want to tell you how desperate I am for your affections. I wish to tell you that I am envious of whoever secures your compassion and regard. Fiend seize it all!'

"Well," Margaret cleared her throat, pouring herself some more tea. "Suddenly you seem reluctant to hold a conversation with me. Or have you no more words at your disposal?"

"None that would suit!" he growled, biting his nether lip.

"Really, Mr. Thurlow," she said, suddenly fixing her eyes on him. "You don't look at all well. You grow pale – you grow fierce. Soon you will be mad. Why do not you take a turn of the grounds, and maybe ride into Town? You may go to Hatchard's and buy me a book. I am far too busy to go myself."

"Very good," he rose abruptly from his chair; nearly turning it over in his heated haste, and ambled towards the door. He paused as his hand rested on the doorknob. "What book do you wish me to purchase, madam?"

"I would ask for Gil Blas – by Lesarge. Shall I give you some money to pay for it?"

"Not necessary," he said brusquely, quickly ducking out of the room and making for the stables as if to a place of refuge.

*

Now I must put off my hero's silent sufferings, and write of something lighter – more ideally fitted to the bright setting of spring. It was the last day of school, and the first day of May. Spring had burst in from every open window. Margaret was going from class to class, bidding her pupils goodbye, and taking some of her finissantes aside to give them a motherly word of advice. It was then that a caller was announced.