Better Than Byron

Going Home

XVI

The beginning of atonement is the sense of its necessity.

-Lord Byron

Margaret felt dazed after having read Edgar's confession. The hot summer air irritated her skin, and her mind struggled with emotional conflict. The air in the room was oppressive. She felt feverish. Her chest tightened. She slipped her feet out of her shoes and crept out of her room, and then she traipsed into the garden. She sought refuge in her customary haunt beneath the Virgin Mary's graceful figure, and rested her temple upon her ivory feet. She fastened her eyelids shut and gave a deep, trembling sigh that spoke such sorrow. She sucked her cheeks in, and the muscles of her face writhed as she fought internally for composure; but she could not master her own heart, and thus gave way to a torrent of tears. She buried her face in her hands and sank despairingly to the grass, where she hid her ruddy face in its dewy blades.

After she had released the first outpour of tears, she became subdued and sat up groggily, looking about her with a dreamy, exhausted look. Her glasses were sitting crookedly on her nose, and her usually glossy hair was dishevelled.

"What am I doing here?" she asked herself, gazing up at the starry sky. "Making a scene before God! How shameful of me." She slowly struggled to her feet, her knees knocking together from the weakness she had been indulging. She made her way back inside, and then with one last look at Edgar's memoirs she fell asleep and did not wake from her stony sleep until noon the next day. She woke with a renewal of the pain in her chest – a choking, pungent feeling of disappointment and displeasure. She wondered what her master was doing at the moment. Would she creep into his room, address him, or simply leave the manuscript on the nearest table? No. She would send for Maria and ask her to bring breakfast up to her bed-room, and then discreetly drive into Town to seek solace in the company of her cousin.

After eating very little from the platter of fruit and cheese and slurping on but four spoonfuls of porridge, Margaret hastened to dress, rearranged her hair with Maria's help, washed her face, cleaned her teeth with the ashes laid out on her toilet-table, and then rushed out of the house and dashed into the stables. She asked one of the stable-boys to make ready her habitual horse, and then leapt onto it with the help of a stool, for her riding habit was prone to get caught in the saddle. She trotted into Town after ten minutes of galloping, and then slowed down to a tranquilising walk as she hit the streets of the busy metropolitan city. After a half-hour more of riding she reached her cousin's abode, surprising him with her aspect of fatigue.

"My sweet cousin!" he uttered with astonishment. "What is the matter? Give me your hands." She accordingly put her hands into his, and then he circled her waist with one arm and helped her into the parlour where he set her down on a chaise long and then rang the bell. When the butler appeared, he ordered him to bring the young lady a glass of water. He then stooped down and asked her what had happened to agitate her so.

"I have often wished for a stone heart," she said in a breath, "but today I wish it most. How painful it is to feel!"

"Margaret! You are ready to faint. Pray be calm."

"I will try," she said, swallowing her tears and pressing her clammy palm to her forehead, thus shielding her teary eyes from his view. The butler soon returned with a glass of water, and the glass was applied to Margaret's lips by Edmund's own hand. After gulping down half of the water Margaret pushed it away, wiping her lips with her sleeve.

"Shall you speak now, Margaret?" he asked, impatient to know what had disconcerted her.

"Yes," she nodded, keeping her eyes bent down on her trembling hands. She nibbled on her nether lip in thought and then resumed, lifting her eyes to his and meeting them with an expression of perplexity. "Where to begin, Edmund? Where to begin?"