Childish Loves (12 page)

‘It is only the strange sounds.'

‘That none of you can be trusted.'

‘What do you mean,' I said, feeling her panic suddenly myself. ‘I am only your dear little Byron.'

This struck me almost as a confession of love, and perhaps it struck her in the same light, for it seemed to calm her, and she said nothing in reply.

By this point, we could no longer hear the others. There was a glimmer of light reflected ahead of us, and then that light disappeared. I gave Mary the torch (she was most unwilling to take it) and walked ahead for fifteen or twenty paces, where I was stopped first by an overhang of rock, and then by the body of slow-moving water beneath it – the source of the reflection, and also, of renewed noises, echoing along the surface. I could hear the slap and glide of a boat, and more distantly, the sound of human voices. But then, Mary's cries interrupted them and forced me to retrace my steps, for she was calling, ‘Do not leave me, Byron; Byron, Byron, come back.'

I returned to her and took the torch from her hand again; and after another minute, another torch appeared, and then, in its light, the face of the farmer's son. He was dripping, and wet through from the waist. ‘Are you the last?' he said. His accents were not at all rough, but sensible rather than kindly. ‘You'll have to lie down in the boat. You'll get a knock if you try sitting up.'

‘There isn't room for you in it,' Mary said when she saw the boat, a shallow wooden punt, which was tied to a post by the shore of the river – if one may speak of shores in those dark spaces.

‘That's all right. I'm used to pushing.'

And with a strange sort of obedience, she lay down in the boat and I lay down beside her.

The journey lasted no more than a minute or two, but I don't know that I have ever passed a minute of such intensity in my life before, and perhaps never will again. All the time we were conscious of the farmer's son at our feet, pushing his way through cold water, with bowed head; but we could not see him or anything else for that matter. The rock bore heavily down upon us, and I could hardly have turned over to kiss her had I wanted to. Indeed, I could think of nothing else. The punt was so narrow the length of my side pressed against the length of hers, and I could feel, against my hip, her sharp little bones. Water in the boat sluiced up occasionally against the back of my knee and the small of my back. Once one is a little wet, one only becomes wetter. Also, the caverns were very cool; I began to shiver. After about a minute, the weight of the rock over our faces grew truly intolerable – it might just as well have been the weight of the world – and I could only refrain with difficulty from letting out a great shout, when Mary took my hand blindly in her own, and pressed it so hard, and we pressed them together, finger upon finger, which gave some relief. I discovered at this point that the darkness was owing in part to the fact that I had shut my eyes. I opened them again, and the sense of
sliding
helplessly in space struck me for the first time. Torch-light exposed above our faces the growing roof of the cavern, covered in calceous streaks and wet broken gleaming stony teeth, and then the rest of our party appeared at the far shore (by this time we could lift our heads in the boat). My hand almost ached and I suppose she felt the same, for she let go of mine as soon as the punt touched ground and sat up.

‘You are very cruel to have left us,' she said to no one in particular, in her own natural teasing petulant voice.

‘The inveterate cousins!' Mr Musters cried. ‘You see, I mean to adopt Miss Pigot's excellent phrase.'

He gave her his hand, and she stepped delicately from the boat.

‘I don't like this cave,' Mary continued. ‘We thought you had all gone. I don't see what is so wonderful about a cave. It is like going to a great house and making sure to visit the cellars or the pantry, or any other dark, dirty corner. It is a low taste.'

‘I agree with you entirely, Miss Chaworth,' Mrs Pigot said. ‘A low taste, and what is worse, it requires
lying down in a boat
, which I mean to do once more, on our return, and then never again as long as I live.'

‘For shame, Mother. There is someone here who must do justice to this cave. I have not come all this way, to see so little (I quite agree with you about dirty and dark) without at least some elevating reflection, on the nature of eternity, or anything you please. But Lord Byron is silent. He has been struck; he suffers what cannot be spoken of – and what we, who speak, have not the sense to feel.'

And in this way we passed through another succession of caverns, all dripping, all dark, and made our way back out into the sunshine at last.

*

Mary had considerably recovered her spirits by the time we returned to the farm. The farmer's wife came to greet us, with cakes and tea and fresh cheese, which we consumed standing up before disposing ourselves again in the two carriages. Mary claimed Elizabeth for herself. She didn't care who joined them besides, but she was determined to sit in the barouche. It was now just after five o'clock and the sun declining cast a strong level warmth against our faces. I rode with John and Mr Becher and Mrs Pigot and pretended to fall asleep. There were still two hours ahead of us to Matlock, and then I did fall asleep and awoke to the echo of hooves between the walls of a village street; and five minutes later we pulled in front of the Old Bath Hotel.

Mrs Pigot put her hand to my forehead. ‘You are hot. I believe you have caught a chill.'

‘It is only the side of my face; it is only where I have been sleeping.'

‘Your mother would never forgive me. It was that dreadful cave.'

‘He isn't a child, Mother,' John said, stepping out.

Mr Becher and I had been given a room together, and we made our way upstairs to wash and change. I thought he might speak to me of Mary, but instead, as he sat on the bed (there was only one bed) and pulled off his muddy shoes, he asked my opinion of Mr Musters. He dressed again with more attention than I had supposed him capable of – standing for a long time before the mirror and combing his beard in place. Meanwhile I told him what I knew: that he lived at Colwick Hall, which was generally supposed to be a very fine residence, and had perhaps fifteen thousand pounds to his name. Miss Wollaston said he was engaged to Miss Chaworth, though Miss Chaworth denied it. Lord Grey knew him slightly and described him as ‘a man of method' but was very strange altogether on the subject and would not explain himself.

‘He paid Miss Pigot a great deal of attention,' Mr Becher said, fixing and un-fixing his cravat, ‘but that is often their way. I should not like to see my sister married to him. Any man who has been to a public school knows sufficiently the nature of certain temptations to judge no one harshly who yields to them. But there is a season for such things, and I should guess that in his case he had
outlived
it.'

‘I have no great reason for liking him,' I said. ‘But I don't suppose you have any better reason for
disliking
him than that he flirted with Miss Pigot.'

Mr Becher looked at me with a sudden smile. ‘Is not that enough?' he said.

We could already hear the orchestra tuning and went downstairs to find the dining room being cleared of tables, which were all pushed to the side. A light supper was then laid out upon them, and a punchbowl produced, musical with ice, to great acclaim. Guests had already begun to arrive; our own party made its appearance in little groups. Elizabeth and Mary and Miss Wollaston; John and Mr Musters together. Mrs Pigot descended at last and took a plate to herself, and a glass of punch, and sat down at one of the card-tables in the adjoining room. She looked very small, in a puffed dress and a large blue turban – like a bird with a nest on its head. Mary wore a green satin gown covered in strings of leaves. Her hat was also crowned with leaves, in gold and silver. When I took her hand to kiss it, her glove had nothing of its heat and was cool as silk.

She had already engaged herself to Mr Musters for the first two dances. Even John Pigot had managed to inscribe his name upon her card. But she promised me another dance later in the evening. ‘I suppose we shall all be forced to make do with each other,' she said. ‘I cannot imagine, in this town, there will be a very splendid choice of partners.' Then she added, with an air of relenting, ‘Poor little Byron. You have not much heart for these games, have you?'

‘I flatter myself that I have seen you in earnest – and like you better for it.'

‘When I am in earnest, I am most
unlike
myself. I had rather you liked me for anything but that.'

‘There are men enough who will care for you when you are happy.'

‘I believe you positively
wish
me miserable,' she said, sharply. ‘To be as miserable as you.' She turned on her heel, and I did not see her again until the dancing began.

As I was partnerless, I found Mrs Pigot at her card-table and sat down.

There is often a sort of hesitation at the beginning of these country balls, for the first dances are claimed by acquaintances, and no one is yet very
warm
; and it is sometimes awkward, after the usual exchange of pleasantries, to touch hands suddenly and begin to ‘put it about'.

I said as much to Mrs Pigot. ‘It is almost as good as a play, to stand aside and observe.'

She had left a little ham on her plate, and I picked at it. The first dance finished, and I noticed Mr Becher bowing deeply to Elizabeth. He was unused to the exercise, and the skin of his neck beneath his beard had reddened. But he was a fair dancer, though he did not smile.

‘Have you no partner?' Mrs Pigot said to me. ‘For shame, Lord Byron, at your age. Don't think of asking me at mine.'

‘I should ask Elizabeth, but she seems happily engaged.'

‘Do ask her. I am sure she had much rather dance with you.'

‘I have also Mr Becher's preference to consider.'

‘No, no. It is all one, at a dance; one may do as one pleases. And a reverend who sets himself up as a beau can expect no special consideration.' But after a minute, she added, ‘Though I suppose you had rather dance with Miss Chaworth. Perhaps you are waiting for Miss Chaworth.'

‘Mr Musters claimed her for the first two dances, and your son had the jump of me – and has engaged her for the next.'

‘Oh, she is cruel, is Miss Chaworth. She knows very well what she is about.'

And yet, as we watched her, she seemed less sure of herself. There were about a dozen couples, and between passes, Mary and Mr Musters had a great deal to say to each other, of an intimate, urgent, disagreeable nature. Whenever the music brought them together, they began talking at once and separated again with an air of impatience – as if they could not wait to be disagreeable again.

We sat quietly observing them until I said, ‘Has he no expectation of success? Mr Becher, I mean.' I did not want Mrs Pigot to believe my thoughts were entirely taken up with Mary.

‘He is a kind-hearted, respectable young man; and my Elizabeth is a good sort of a girl, with some beauty and not much money to her name. It is an acceptable match, but I do not think she has much appetite for what is acceptable.'

‘She struck me always as a clear-headed, well-judging person.'

‘You mean, because she judges
you
well enough. But for herself, I fear, she wishes for something more than her deserving. I have told her, you might look a great deal farther, and do no better, than Lord Byron. Lord Byron in time will cut a very fine figure, and Newstead is a handsome estate. But I'm afraid she thinks of you only as a brother, and it may be, even on your end, the attraction is wanting – that you wish for nothing better than a sister.'

By this time, the room itself had grown hotter, and the women, between reels, permitted the gentlemen to cool them with their fans. Elizabeth and Mr Becher stood together, and there was
that
in his face I almost envied him – not satisfaction exactly, but a kind of intensity. The master of ceremonies was a florid ageless sort of man. He began to make his introductions, in a loud voice; he was one of those men who mistake embarrassment for good humour. Then John claimed Mary for the next dance, and Mrs Pigot pushed me on my feet, in the direction of Elizabeth. Mr Becher, meanwhile, had found another object for his exertions, a red-haired girl in a lace dress, and I found myself at the end of a row.

‘You must begin gently with me,' I said to Elizabeth. ‘I am not at all a good dancer.'

‘I know very well what you mean. You wish to escape me, for Miss Chaworth. But my brother has claimed her now, and I have claimed you.'

‘You know very well that is
not
what I mean.'

I danced one dance with her, and then sat out the next – not with Mrs Pigot, but on my own. The music had begun to irritate me; it was like being pulled along by the ear. Also, there is nothing so oppressive as the happiness of other people. Perhaps that accounts for what followed. I mean, there are moods in which one is peculiarly susceptible to a certain kind of injury. I had seen very little of Miss Wollaston since breakfast at Annesley. She had been amusing herself with the members of our party more inclined to amusement. But she found me between sets, looking red in the face, and breathless, but not quite so cheerful and ironical as before. She asked me if I had seen Mary or Mr Musters. She had not seen them these several dances, she said, and wondered if I had claimed my engagement with her. I told her that I had not – that I had neither seen her, nor danced with her, nor cared to very much any more. ‘Oh,' says she, in her old way, ‘you mean, she has slighted you, and you mean now to stand on your ill-humour.' There was more of this, and after a minute or two, she persuaded me to find Mary and claim a dance with her – if only so Miss Wollaston would let me alone.

There is something shameful in being compelled to do what you already wish to do, and I felt very childish as I began to search the floor. But I do not think Miss Wollaston meant me any harm. I do not believe it was her idea of a joke. Mary and Mr Musters were not to be found, and I looked in the adjoining room, where Mrs Pigot was sitting. But she had not seen them either. Then Elizabeth joined us for refreshments, with a few hairs on end that stood out wispily against her forehead – she had been dancing uninterrupted since nine o'clock. I asked after Miss Chaworth and she answered, simply enough, that she had seen them go into the garden. Someone had opened the doors to the garden, to let a little air in, and she had seen them go out. These were the French doors at the back of the dining room, away from the musicians, so I pushed my way alongside the dancers to reach them. The day had been cloudless and the night was cold. The Old Bath Hotel was a fine provincial hotel in its way, and the gardens included a terraced walk with a stone balustrade and a set of steps leading to a lawn. I could see at some distance the reflection of a pond, or a fountain, and beyond that a row of trees or a brick wall. There was not much moonlight, but a hundred bright stars.