We took the wherry just as it was beginning to get dark and we went along to Ranelagh.
The pleasure garden was like a fairyland. Thousands of golden lamps illuminated the scene and as we stepped ashore we heard the strains of music coming from a band hidden somewhere among the trees.
Charles took my arm as we started to walk through those laid-out paths paved with gravel and bounded on each side by hedges and trees.
Beautifully dressed women with male companions strolled by. Pleasure was in the air; one knew that everyone here was bent on enjoying the evening.
“There are more and more attractions every year,” said Charles. “Every time I come I notice something new. It can’t be much more than twenty years since the grounds were purchased from Lord Ranelagh and what has been done with them is amazing. We will eat before the concert begins. I believe it is possible to get an excellent cold collation and that is by far the best.”
I allowed myself to be led into that enchanted garden. We walked past grottoes, lawns, temples, waterfalls, delightful colonnades and rotundas with their decorated pillars and statues. The lamps were beautifully arranged to look like constellations. Because it was a warm, fine night tables had been set under the trees and here we sat and enjoyed the cold collation Charles had mentioned and watched the passersby until we left for the concert in the Rotunda.
I was enchanted by the music. Everything was of the newest fashion. For the first time I heard the cello, that instrument which was only just being introduced into the country, and to hear the great Pasqualino perform was wonderful. The band played the overture from Doctor Ame’s Thomas and Sally, which was wildly applauded. But the great event of the evening was the appearance of the child prodigy. I admitted afterward to Charles that I was prepared to be skeptical. It did not seem possible that a boy so young could play to compare with the experienced, but that he should compose was surely just too much to believe. Stories about the boy had been circulated to arouse people’s interest and bring them to the Rotunda to see him. There they would be entertained by superb artists and forget that they had been brought there under false pretenses.
Just talk, was what I thought, an unusual story to arouse people’s curiosity enough to bring them to the child.
How different was the truth! He came onto the stage—a small figure, dressed like a man in a blue coat and embroidered waistcoat, white cravat and frilled lace cuffs. His breeches, knee-length, showed beneath the waistcoat as his coat was unbuttoned and he wore silken hose and black shoes with silver buckles. I heard that his clothes were copied in a larger size from his gala suit, which had been presented to him by Maria Theresa of Austria on the occasion of his playing before her two years before when he was six years old. On his head was a crimped wig tied back with a black ribbon. Dressed thus in an adult style seemed to have the effect of making him seem more of a child than he actually was.
There was an air of self-assurance about him as he sat down at the harpsichord; and a silence reigned which I can only describe as indulgent. The audience had settled to hear a clever child perform for them.
But how mistaken we were! As the boy sat there and played we were transported from this fashionable rotunda. I don’t know whether others felt as I did, but it seemed to me that I was flying through space and the music so delicately played, so inspiring and yet so mysterious, was carrying me along.
I glanced sideways at Charles. He was sitting very still, completely entranced.
I think a good many of us that night realized that we were in the presence of genius.
When the boy stopped playing there was silence for a few seconds before the applause rang out.
The boy bowed calmly and then walked off the stage with dignity. I could see a man waiting for him in the wings and I presumed this was his father.
We did not want to hear any more music that night. To hear that child play his own composition was something I wanted to carry away with me, to remember forever, as I was sure I would.
Charles whispered: “I can see you were as impressed as I was.”
“It was wonderful. I couldn’t believe it was that little boy who was playing as he did.”
“Let’s get out into the fresh air. We can take a little walk if you wish before we get the wherry back.”
I said I should like that.
Silent, still under the spell of the music, we were leaving the rotunda when I heard a voice cry: “Charles.”
A woman was coming up to us. She was exquisitely dressed in a gown of blue silk cut away in the front to reveal an embroidered petticoat in white satin. On her head was a most elaborate hat of white straw on which was perched yards and yards of blue ribbon the same color as her dress, niched in the front and culminating in an enormous bow at the back where it was tilted forward over her elaborate coiffure.
The woman went on to call her companion. “Ralph! Here, Ralph. Who do you think I’ve found? Charles … Charles Forster.”
A man appeared, fashionably dressed in velvet frogged coat with large turned back cuffs, long waistcoat, fine silk hose and buckled shoes; under his arm he carried a cocked hat.
“Charles!” he cried. “My dear fellow, what a delightful surprise. Haven’t seen you for years … since … er …”
Charles said: “I am escorting a friend of my sister’s. Mistress Ransome. … Dr. and Mrs. Lang.”
We bowed.
“Have you just come from the Rotunda?” asked the woman. “Did you see the child prodigy? Quite interesting, wasn’t he? Wonderful for his age. What about supper … ?”
“We ate before the performance and I really think I should be taking Mistress Ransome back to her friends.”
“Oh, come, Charles,” said the woman. “There’s no need to rush, surely? We were talking about you the other day, weren’t we, Ralph? We said it’s such nonsense of you to bury yourself in the country. You ought to come back. All that trouble is forgotten now. People soon forget. Nine days’ wonder and all that. I doubt whether anyone would remember if you came back now.”
Charles had turned rather pale. I felt the magic of the evening slipping away.
Ralph said: “Sybil’s right, Charles. Anyhow let’s talk of pleasant things. You and your friend must sup with us. We have a table near the colonnades. It’s very pleasant there and you can hear the band in the background.”
“No,” said Charles. “Thanks, but we must go. Goodbye.”
“Are you in town for long?” asked the man.
“No. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Pity. I should have liked to talk. I wish you’d bring Mistress … er … Ransome? along to see us before you go.”
“Thanks but there’s no time. Good-bye.”
“Au revoir,” said the woman.
Charles took my arm. I could feel the tension in him.
He was silent on the way back and I knew that that chance encounter outside the Rotunda had spoiled the day for him.
He was different now. The mask of melancholy which I had flattered myself I was helping to remove was now in place firmer than ever. I wished I could have asked him about the nine days’ wonder, whatever it was, which people would have forgotten by now.
One thing I had learned. It was that—whatever had happened—which was responsible for his melancholy. There was some tragedy in Charles Forster’s life and he could not forget it.
The wonderful companionship which we had shared during that magic day had gone; he was aloof, absentminded; and most of the time seemed hardly aware of me.
The journey back to Eversleigh seemed tedious. I rode between Isabel and James most of the time. I was of course pleased that James was coming back with us for a brief visit because I was sure Jean-Louis would be delighted to see him. At the back of my mind the thought persisted that I might even yet be able to persuade him to come to us.