Childish Loves by Benjamin Markovits

knees pressed under it and continue this journal.
    Mrs Clarke herself suggested my use of the nursery, when a thick summer rain set in one day after tea. We have all become quite comfortable. Even the presence of my cousin has declined for me in its intensity till she burns no brighter than a household fire. Yet I am constantly warming my heart against her. Whenever she leaves a room, it grows cold. Miss Wollaston has never mentioned to me the suspicions expressed in Elizabeth’s letter. In fact, we get along very well together, in a kind of alliance against Mary, and mock her for her charms quite as if we were equally indifferent to them.
    Mr Becher has said that I should fall in love and perhaps I have done no worse than follow his advice.
    There seems to be a sort of family understanding, according to which Annesley and Colwick Hall shall be united in marriage – and Mary and Mr Musters are merely the instruments of this intention. That she feels his attractions, I have no doubt. He is a proper, mild-mannered, able gentleman, with an income of fifteen thousand, a large estate, and a house on Wimpole Street, but her attraction is mixed up with a deal of fear, which he does nothing to dispel. Once or twice I have been on the point of repeating to her what he once said to me, that he liked them to have long necks, for they bend easily; but I hesitate to contribute to the awe with which she already regards him.
    Once indeed I mentioned to Miss Wollaston that Mr Musters was very charming, but one never knew what he thought – so that, in consequence, one imagined all kinds of terrible things.
    â€˜I believe I know very well what he is thinking of,’ she said. ‘I suppose you have thought it, too, or will think it.’
    We were sitting in the garden, on the gravelled walk, on a bench positioned between the windows leading into the drawing room. Mary was reading on the sofa inside; at least, she had a book in hand. I believe she was asleep. Nevertheless, I kept my voice low, and as the summer’s day was loud in other noises, there seemed little danger of our being overheard.
    â€˜Is there an engagement? I cannot be sure; sometimes he acts as if there is.’
    â€˜I believe there is an understanding,’ Miss Wollaston said.
    â€˜I cannot understand the need for secrecy. Their fortunes are equal; the families both respectable, and disposed to the match.’
    â€˜Yes,’ – for the first time, she hesitated. ‘Perhaps there is no secrecy. It has been spoken of so long, perhaps there was no occasion for making it explicit.’
    â€˜And yet, if there can be any doubt …’
    We sat like this, companionably enough, enjoying the heat of the afternoon. Miss Wollaston sometimes let the shade of her parasol fall over my face, before withdrawing it again. A kind of game, I supposed, but when I looked at her, with a smile, she appeared unconscious of it. So I said, ‘Sometimes I believe she is almost frightened of him.’
    â€˜You have been reading too many novels,’ she said. ‘In life, in Nottinghamshire at least, there is still such a thing as a good match, a comfortable engagement, and a happy marriage.’
    â€˜Then I see no reason for so much secrecy and hesitation.’
    â€˜It may be,’ she said, after a minute, ‘there is always a little fear, in such cases, which accounts for much of what you say – on both sides.’ Then, with a laugh: ‘You look very serious, my lord. You need not worry on her account. She has a great gift for doing exactly what she pleases. But I believe you are not, you speak mostly on your own.’
    â€˜I do not think you understand my cousin as well as you pretend to. She seems to me not at all happy.’
    â€˜Oh, it is the novels again; you see everything through novels. And pray, why is she so unhappy? With ten thousand a year, and Annesley Hall, and the prettiest eyes and figure in –