Childish Loves (28 page)

***

I am back in Cambridge, though it was neither the publication of the
Hours
nor Kitty's loan, which at last came through (in spirit, at least, if not in its material form; I have begged an advance off Hanson), that precipitated my immediate removal. It is almost fair to say I have been
chased
out. Mary's noble father, after his reception at Burgage Manor, applied himself more successfully to blackening my name amongst the citizens of Southwell – by putting it abroad that I had promised to marry a poor innocent girl, his daughter, fitting up a house for her to be mistress of; afterwards getting her with child and abandoning both child and mother to their fate among the streets of Nottingham, etc. etc. The character of the informer was sufficiently obvious to any impartial judge that his lies were mostly ignored; but they had their effect on one party with a more particular interest in my reputation – that is, Mr Leacroft, who had been dangling his daughter before my eyes for the better part of a year, in a way that could only inspire in him strong sympathies for Mary's father.

All of this coincided with the return of Captain Leacroft, who sent me a rather shame-faced letter, as we get on very well together, that stopped just short of calling me out. As I wish him no harm, and he is an excellent shot, I interpreted this letter in the manner most favourable to his good sense. Miss Leacroft, meanwhile, has been forbidden to so much as speak to me. She saw me once as she was coming out of church and gave me a look (to do her justice) that suggested she felt everything she
ought
, and a good deal more than I had supposed. Her brother, at their father's urging, then sent me a second letter, and we met, not at dawn exactly, but at the Coach and Horses, around four o'clock in the afternoon.

He explained to me that his father's sense of Julia's honour would be perfectly satisfied by my extended absence from Southwell; but that if I remained, the family must demand some other satisfaction. Mr Leacroft hopes to rekindle the interest of Lady Hathwell's steward, who is a good man, with some prospects; and was much in love. Julia meanwhile has lost all her colour – she has grown quite pale, not from weeping, but from its suppression, as Mr Leacroft finds her misery provoking. John, who is sick of the whole business, wishes for nothing but another ship to carry him into
more peaceful waters
. At least I could put his mind at rest. Since there is nothing to keep me in Southwell, I promised to leave; at which he, in a different tone, and with an air almost of disappointment, asked me if I had a message for his sister.

I thought of answering
Crede Byron
, the family motto, but it seemed not exactly to meet the case. So I gave him instead a copy of my book, which I had about me, and wrote under my name on the fly-leaf,
To Julia
. Then, after considering a moment:
Vixi puellis nuper idoneus
.

*

Edleston in fact did
not
recognize me but passed by me twice while I was staring at hats in the window of Kettler's on Charles Street. I caught his reflection in the glass and said nothing, though why it gives me such pleasure
to go unrecognized
is more than I can say. I have heard my name spoken at Fawlkes the Booksellers, on the steps of the Corn Exchange, in a chop-house, at the Mitre, and once, even, in chapel (there is a new boy in the choir Bankes wanted me to look at). As the author of
Hours of Idleness
, a nobleman, and a member of the University. It occurs to me at last what fame is: a kind of concealment, which permits me to eavesdrop on conversations regarding myself. Bankes has determined to act as a corrective. He likes to quote from the book, especially from the preface, which requires on my part a certain muscular rigour of expression.

The second time Edleston passed me I called after him. He turned and looked at me and then – embraced me in the street, a cause for wonder, as he used to dislike extremely attracting attention. But he is much improved, in temper and character, and not so shy as he was, or vain, which is perhaps the same thing. His voice cracks occasionally and his face, which had never known a razor, bristles now unless he shaves it. There was some awkwardness at the beginning, as there always is in such cases, polite inquiries made and repetition of sentiments, but afterwards we walked along the Backs as far as Clare Bridge, and got along very well. We both indeed had the sense of possessing
a great deal of news
. The river was high (it had rained all week; this was the first sunshiny day), and the fields long in grass, and rich-smelling. The cows dined contentedly, and we sat down against the dry roots of a tree and watched them.

Mr Ashdown has obtained a place for him as clerk in his own firm. The position is available from October, at which point Edleston will remove to London. And as I mean to go down in a fortnight, with no intention of returning until the beginning of term, we have but two weeks left. At present he has nowhere to live in London and means to sleep in his sister's parlour until he finds lodgings. This produced a slight embarrassment, as it raised again the question of our residing together, which we had talked of as a solution. Of course, he knows me to be a creature of strong habits, and a weak will; and it may well be, in October, that I choose to remain in London, and we can pursue our original plan. But he does not depend on it, which is all that I ask.

When he asked me why at last I had decided to return to Cambridge (it could not be on his account, as I had kept away so long), I told him. Later he reverted to the subject of women and spoke lightly of making his fortune in London by a great match. Then the rain returned briefly, in spite of the heat. It was too hot to sit still, and since I did not feel like swimming, we walked back along the river to Trinity and agreed to meet again in the evening after chapel, which Edleston is obliged to attend.

*

We have met since, almost every morning and evening, for a week. I certainly love him more than any human being, and neither time or distance have had the least effect on my (in general) changeable disposition. After mattins Edleston comes to my room and wakes me and watches me dress – in boot and spur most days, as he hopes to become a gentleman and I am teaching him to ride. Then we ride out past Grantchester, as far as Hauxton church sometimes, or Harston, returning to dine at Grantchester. He used to have a strong aversion to drink, but he has given it up (his aversion, I mean), and we get drunk together. Indeed, I have not been
very
sober for a week, but as I touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup and vegetables, it does me no harm. Edleston gets drunk quickly, becoming first silent, then silly, then sleepy; then he falls asleep altogether. But I wake him again and we ride home. He does not sing in the choir, as his voice has broken, but is still expected to Evensong, to which he dutifully makes an appearance. More dutifully than decently, I should guess. So far no one has remarked on his condition. But this state of affairs cannot last, and will not – in a week I shall be gone.

Edleston pretends not to understand the necessity of this, as I have just returned to Cambridge (after a year's absence) and there is nothing to keep me in London but the pleasure of staring at my book in the shops. I tell him, this is exactly my reason for going. Pretends, I say, for the truth is, we both feel the necessity of it. We cannot go on as we have been going on. No happiness is so perfect that it does not demand more happiness. The weather itself has been as quiet as winter, and as hot as Africa. Not a cloud stirs. What we talk about together, I hardly know – for we never stop talking, and I never think twice what I am saying, before or after, which accounts perhaps for my imperfect recollection. Women sometimes; it is a relief to me to be able to talk to him of women. He has developed a humorous sort of ambition, in this respect, and means to set himself up as a
modern beau
. I have offered to introduce him to Madame DuReine when he arrives in London, and he is full of curiosity about her. A very childish curiosity, which is not unlike fear. But I have seen him kissing his sister and taking her by the arm affectionately. He need have no doubts of his
propensity
in that direction.

What we do
not
talk about is much clearer to me. One morning, as he did not find me at home, he left a note. We had arranged to go riding together, but the Marquis of Tavistock had come down the night before. I had supped with him at his Tutor's, which was entirely a Whig party; and having got drunk, fell asleep afterwards on the settee and was later removed to the servant's bed. I woke up in a very understandable state of confusion and could not find my shoes. When I found them (the Marquis was still asleep, or had gone out; his servant did not answer my call), I wandered across the courtyard, feeling ghostly, and discovered the note from Edleston under the door. What was in it I cannot here repeat. He had been – excessively disappointed by my absence. He had been angry.

I sat down, a little angry myself, and not very clear–headed, and began to make him a reply, in which the passion of anger eventually gave way to other strong feelings, which I was too ashamed afterwards to look at. But I sent it him regardless. When I saw him again in the afternoon, everything was forgotten or forgiven; at least, no mention was made of the note. But since then we have kept up a kind of correspondence by these means, which is never discussed between us, but contains a great deal of what … we choose to leave unsaid. I find this manner of
carrying-on
almost unbearable, but every morning or evening, as soon as he is gone, I sit down to write. When I see him again the thought of what he must know makes my head burn.

*

It is all over – he is gone; or rather, I have left him. On the last night, we took supper in my rooms with a bottle or two of claret, which we got through quickly enough. Afterwards he lay down on my bed and I read to him from the
Hours
. There was a great deal of tears on both sides. He declared the Highlander to be his favourite, or next favourite, apart of course from the Cornelian; which showed I think some acuteness on his part. He liked its sentiment and force and
felt
the verse flowing freely and naturally beneath my pen. He liked the lines
Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow
, which struck him as hopeful in spite of the hopelessness of the rest. ‘Thoughts on a college examination' pleased him less; he does not admire my ironical vein. It is the face I present to everyone else, which is the very reason he dislikes it.

Whenever St Bene't's tolled the hour, he said he must go, and remained.

We talked also about his apprenticeship. He did not much relish the thought of living with his sister's husband, especially as they had a son, who cried at the sight of him; and she was carrying a second and consequently continually out of temper. He had seen them at Easter and was obliged to make himself useful; but he could not help it, he had a horror of small children. Especially boys. The child had entirely destroyed what was left of their former intimacy, after his sister's marriage. Her colouring was poor; and the weight of her belly made her flat-footed and slow, when she had always been boyish and graceful. They had liked to run races together. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, In October, when you come down – but I don't know what I could have said, and I did not say it.

At two or three o'clock, he said he really must go, and I suggested we meet again for a final parting at breakfast. He said he would return after mattins. Then he said he had a sort of confession to make, which accounted partly for his ill-humour. He was always first dissatisfied with everyone else when he had something to be guilty over. He was sitting up in bed with his chin on his elbow; I had pushed the easy-chair to the side of the bed. His head was just above my knee and I sometimes stroked his hair. He confessed to me that he had kissed a girl, the daughter of one of his schoolteachers, a little older than himself. He had not told me before for fear of offending.

‘Why should I mind it,' I said.

He had kissed her for the first time on midsummer's night, and a few times since; but on my return from Southwell, he had purposely avoided her. But then a few days ago he had kissed her again. He told himself, there was nothing he need be ashamed of, he had done me no harm, and after all, I had spent the better part of the year consorting with every variety of womankind, to use my own phrase for it, but then, in spite of everything, he felt ashamed. After a minute, for I had said nothing to break the silence, he broke it himself by asking, ‘Do you mean to get married?' It was a strange turn his thoughts had taken.

‘I suppose we all marry in the end,' I said.

‘It seems an odd sort of life,' he said. ‘To spend it among women.'

‘I believe in most marriages a husband and wife are very seldom together.'

‘Then why marry at all?' he asked.

‘To be apart from them.'

He could not deny there was something pleasant in it, he continued. The girl in question was slight and pretty – quite unlike her father. Her face was very warm, but then, they had been dancing, in the heat of the May-pole fire. Afterwards, he meant the next day, they were very strange with each other; and indeed they had been strange enough before. It was all very strange. He could not get used to it. It seemed not at all natural. A few days ago he had kissed her again, perhaps I could recall his reason for it; she, not at all willingly at first, for he had come across her in the Priory gardens, on her way to her father. He took advantage of the coincidence and darkness (it was almost ten o'clock), and she resisted him a little, but as he was angry he did not much mind. And soon she did not mind it either. They parted at last rather suddenly when Mrs Carmichael appeared in the kitchen door with a bucket in hand. And he had not seen her since; but he had begun to think about her, thinking of me as well, and whether I liked to amuse myself in this manner with women.