Better Than Byron

Finding Closure

One evening, Margaret had gone out to the theatre with her mother and sister, wearing her purest white muslin and her most becoming headdress of dew-splattered red roses. Her arms were bare and white, and partly draped with a black gauze shawl. She had applied a touch of rouge to her cheeks and traced her upper eyelids with black coal; just as her French amie Annabelle had shown her to do.

She was not socially confident enough to be called brilliant, but a certain subtle energy oozed from her and captivated many a French and Italian man in close proximity to her. She delighted in being distantly admired by such fine looking gentlemen, had not Nat been hovering tirelessly in her mind and heart, reminding her of their lost love and warning her with philosophical sweetness never to forget it.

During the entr'acte, Margaret felt weary of the dim and oppressive theatre and told her mother not to follow her out as she only meant to swallow some fresh air. In her flustered determination to get out of the performance room, she did not notice a swarthy young man singling her out and then discreetly following her into the vestibule. He happened to be the playwright's son, the young and talented Antoine Vallois. Margaret had not as of yet heard of him, and as he came upon her in the vestibule, fanning herself vigorously, she fixed him with a look of inquiry.

"Mademoiselle," he murmured somewhat bashfully, embarrassed by her reaction. "I see that the atmosphere of the theatre has overwhelmed you."

"You speak perfect English, monsieur!" she observed candidly, her mouth stiffening into a subdued smile. "For a Frenchman, that is."

"Thank you, mademoiselle," he bowed, seizing her hand and lifting it to his lips. After having replaced it gently on her lap, he said with some affectation, "I am Antoine Vallois, mademoiselle Anglaise."

"Ah! You are M. Henri Vallois's son, I suppose?" she asked with animated curiosity.

"Certes, mademoiselle," he bowed, betraying a premature sensation of affection for the young woman by gazing admiringly at her face. Her cheeks filled with colour, and then she rose mechanically from the chair, bending her steps towards the doors for fear of missing the second act. Nevertheless, he was quick to react, and caught her wrist, demanding to be graced with a name before she left him.

"Margaret Vickers," she muttered with a sheepish sidelong glance at him, and then fled into the performance room.

*

The next time Margaret saw Antoine; she was sitting on the beach with her knees gathered to her breast, waiting for the sun to set. "When will it dip?" she continually asked herself, the wind piercing through her thin layer of clothes and numbing her limbs. She cradled herself, her quivering chin resting on her knees and her eyes hovering expectantly on the clouds that blurred the setting sun from view.

"Attendez-vous que le soleil se couche?" asked a faintly familiar voice from behind her, its owner sinking to the sand beside her and leaning back on his palms.

"Oui," she murmured, her teeth beginning to chatter as she spoke.

"Tiens," he said, shrugging out of his waistcoat and draping it across her shoulders. "Vous serez plus confortable ainsi."

"Merci, M. Vallois," she smiled uncertainly, quickly averting her eyes to the horizon. "Ah! Look, it is finally dipping!"

"How beautiful!" he said exultingly, gluing his chestnut eyes to the scene spread before them with an artist's admiration for natural beauty. After the bright orb had ducked into the horizon, Antoine turned to her and asked, "Do you often come here to see the sun set?"

"Whenever I can, monsieur," she replied, turning towards him with a smile. "And you? I sense that you enjoy the spectacle quite as much as I do."

"C'est vrai," he said tossing his head back and staring up at the darkening sky. "But you are too lovely to be alone at such a time. You may be assaulted by a lurking madman."

"What are you suggesting, sir?" she demanded with playful indignation. "That you escort me home? My resort is just there," she laughed, pointing to a tall, neutrally tainted building with palisades and a British flag fluttering in the chilly wind. "I think, M. Vallois, that I am fully capable of reaching it without your assistance."

"Ah, si vous voudrez," he shrugged, looking a good deal sadder than he ought to have looked. Margaret rose and bid him good-bye, trotting up the boardwalk and then disappearing into the trees.

*

Their relationship was nothing uncommon. They were more open about it than their elders approved of, and saw each other too often and in places that were too public – there was even a rumour circulating about their engagement, but that must only have arisen from one of her female relations, who were concerned for gentle Margaret's reputation. She was not misguided then – she was merely young and thoughtless. She did not know herself well enough, and though she acted as though she knew everything by saying nothing, she was a good deal too absorbed in her own life to know the disposition of her own heart. All she knew was that Antoine admired her, and that she was not altogether indifferent to him. They lived in this style for three weeks until one day, when a rumour started circulating in regard to Antoine's validity as a bachelor. The optimistic said that he had once been married but was now divorced, and the pessimistic that he had never legally separated from his wife.

Margaret was offended by the scandalous accusations and remained committed to the belief in Antoine's integrity. This was when she became even more demonstrative in her affections for the young Frenchman. They spoke together in whispers, they occasionally gave each other flowers and miniatures before the watchful public eye, and Margaret even happened to cut him a strand of her hair in a ballroom. This would have gone on until the situation would have become ridiculous and they had turned into quizzes, when one morning her mother and father came in with some legal papers. They tried to make the revelation as gently as possible, but Margaret was devastated. Her loving flatteries turned into spiteful remarks, and she no longer looked upon Antoine with admiration but with distrust. She became a self-conscious person that day, realising the importance of consistent truth. She looked upon it as a sign from Nat – with God's help, he had punished her for her slip of folly, and she would take care never to repeat that shameful mistake for as long as she lived.

Margaret isolated herself completely from Society, even refusing one offer of marriage from a middle-aged nobleman. On the day that the Vickerses left Marseilles, Margaret had bidden good-bye to her girlish self. She was no longer wild-spirited and absentminded, but controlled and emphatic to humanity as a whole. She did not wish to single out anyone as she had singled out Antoine for fear of creating selfishness in either herself or the other person involved. A year afterwards her mother passed away, and she decided to dedicate herself to giving others the gift of knowledge. She applied to many schools near London, and though most had accepted her, she undertook the post in The Deighton Academy for Young Ladies. By that time, she had already forgotten herself.

*

Margaret could not continue her read. Frustrated with life's injustices, she stamped out of the temple and propelled her journal into the brook. The waters swallowed the leather-bound notebook, and her eyes filled with the tears that had failed to come hitherto. "I have loved you," she said trying to swallow her sorrow, "And I have suffered for it – but let this be the end of it!" And she darted across the green lawn, laughing unrestrainedly. Sabah ran up to her – she had been sitting under her bed-room window, wondering why she could not identify her smell – and sprang with her around the fountain. Life was worth living after all.