'Tell me, my dearest lady, is it of me that you speak. If it is not, then humble me - be merciless and break an old man's heart with one small syllable. If you say 'no' then, without a word I will leave you and this pregnant arbour, walk out into the night, walk out of your life, and may be, who knows, out of mine also...'
Whether or not he was gulling himself it is certain that he was living the very essence of his words. Perhaps the very use of words themselves was as much a stimulus as Irma's presence and his own designs; but that is not to say that the total effect was not sincere. He was infatuated with all that pertained to love. He trod breast-deep through banks of thorn-crazed roses. He breathed the odours of a magic isle. His brain swam on a sea of spices. But he had his own thought too.
'It was of you I spoke,' said Irma. 'You, Mr Bellgrove. Do not touch me. Do not tempt me. Do nothing to me. Just be there beside me. I would not have us desecrate this moment.'
'By no means. By no means.' Bellgrove's voice was deep and subterranean.
He heard it with pleasure. But he was sensitive enough to know that for all its sepulchral beauty, the phrase he had just used was pathetically inept - and so he added, 'By no means whatsoever...' as though he were beginning a sentence.
'By no means whatsoever, ah, definitely not, for who can tell, when, unawares, love's dagger...' but he stopped. He was getting nowhere. He must start again.
He must say things that would drive his former remarks out of her mind. He must sweep her along.
'Dear one,' he said, plunging into the rank and feverish margin of love's forest. ''Dear' one!'
'Mr Bellgrove - O, Mr Bellgrove,' came the hardly audible reply.
'It is the headmaster of Gormenghast, your suitor, who is speaking to you, my dear. It is a man, mature and tender - yet a disciplinarian, feared by the wicked, who is sitting beside you in the darkness. I would have you concentrate upon this. When I say to you that I shall call you Irma, I am not asking for permission from my love-light - I am telling her what I shall do.'
'Say it, my male!' cried Irma, forgetting herself. Her strident voice, quite out of key with the secret and muted atmosphere of an arbour'd wooing, splintered the darkness.
Bellgrove shuddered. Her voice had been a shock to him. At a more appropriate moment he would teach her not to do things of that kind.
As he settled again against the rustic back of the seat he found that their shoulders were touching.
'I will say it. Indeed I will say it, my dear. Not as a crude statement with no beginning or ending. Not as a mere reiteration of the most lovely, the most provocative name in Gormenghast, but threaded into my sentences, an integral part of our conversation, Irma, for see, already it has left my tongue.'
'I have no power, Mr Bellgrove, to remove my shoulder from yours.'
'And I have no inclination, my dove.' He lifted his big hand and tapped her on the shoulder she had referred to.
They had been so long in darkness that he had forgotten that she was in evening dress. In touching her naked shoulder he received a sensation that set his heart careering. For a moment he was deeply afraid. What was this creature at his side? and he cried out to some unknown God for delivery from the Unknown, the Serpentine, from all that was shameless, from flesh and the devil.
The tremendous gulf between the sexes yawned - and an abyss, terrifying and thrilling, sheer and black as the arbour in which they sat; a darkness wide, dangerous, imponderable and littered with the wrecks of broken bridges.
But his hand stayed where it was. The muscle of her shoulder was tense as a bowstring, but the skin was like satin. And then his terror fled. Something masterful and even dashing began to possess him.
'Irma,' he whispered huskily. 'Is 'this' a desecration. Are we blotting the whitest of all love's copybooks? It is for you to say. For myself I am walking among rainbows - for myself I...' But he had to stop speaking for he wished, more than anything else to lie on his back and to kick his old legs about and to crow like a barn-cook. As he could not do this he had no option but to put his tongue out in the darkness, to squint with his eyes, to make extravagant grimaces of every kind. Excruciating shivers swarmed his spine.
And Irma could not reply. She was weeping with joy. Her only answer was to place her hand upon the headmaster's. They drew together - involuntarily. For a while there was that kind of silence all lovers know. The silence that it is sin to break until of its own volition, the moment comes, and the arms relax and the cramped limbs can stretch themselves again, and it is no longer an insensitive thing to inquire what the time might be or to speak of other matters that have no place in Paradise.
At last Irma broke the hush.
'How happy I am,' she said very quietly. 'How very happy, Mister Bellgrove.'
'Ah my dear... ah,' said the Headmaster very slowly, very soothingly 'that is as it should be... that is as it should be.'
'My wildest, my very 'wildest' dreams have become real, have become something I can touch' (she pressed his hand). 'My little fancies, my little visions - they are no longer so, dear master, they are substance, they are you... they are You.'
Bellgrove was not sure that he liked being one of Irma's 'little fancies, little visions' but his sense of the inappropriate was swamped in his excitement.
'Irma!' He drew her to him. There was less 'give' in her body than in a cakestand. But he could hear her quick excited breathing.
'You are not the only one whose dreams have become a reality, my dear. We are holding one another's dreams in our very arms.'
'Do you mean it, Mr Bellgrove?'
'Surely, ah, surely,' he said.
