The Meaning of Night (73 page)

heart, to the extent that he is now engaged to Miss Maria Berkeley, Lord Cotterstock’s

youngest. Now go, before my maid comes to dress me. I don’t wish her to see you here.’

She was all smiles and playful kisses, and I stood for a moment entranced by her

gaiety and beauty until she began to usher me out of the room with many charming little

expressions of mock displeasure at my refusal to go, interspersed with more snatched

kisses.

At the door I turned and made a sweeping stage bow, hat in hand.

‘I bid you good evening, dear sweet coz, the future Lady Tansor!’

‘Go, you fool!’

One last laughing kiss, and then she turned away, picked up her embroidery, and

sat down, spectacles perched on the end of her beautiful nose, beneath the portrait of

Anthony Duport in his blue silk breeches.

Back at the Duport Arms, I had just retired to my room after taking some supper

when there was a knock at the door.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir.’

It was the sullen waiter whose acquaintance I had made during my first stay at the

inn. To sullenness he had now added a perceptible degree of shiftiness.

‘Messenger, sir.’ Sniff.

‘A messenger? For me’

‘Yessir. Downstairs in the parlour.’ Sniff. Sniff.

I immediately made my way downstairs, where I found a thin young man dressed

in the Duport livery.

‘From Miss Carteret, sir.’ He stretched out a grubby hand containing a folded

piece of paper. The short note written thereon was in French, which I shall here translate:

In haste.

Her Ladyship has been unwell this past week & his Lordship is concerned that the

damp weather is making her condition worse – despite the hot-water pipes. We are to

leave for Ventnor? tomorrow early. Date of return unknown. Do not worry about the

papers. They are quite safe. I assure you that the place is known only to you and me. And

so au revoir. E.

I had no choice now but to return to London, which I did in a rather depressed and

nervous state of mind. There I languished for three weeks, seeing hardly a soul. On my

first morning back in Temple-street I had written to Mr Tredgold, but two days later I

received a note from his brother to say that my employer had contracted a slight fever and

was not able to enter into any correspondence at present, though Dr Tredgold promised to

place my letter before him at the earliest opportunity.

I begin to fret, and am kept awake night after night by vague fears. But what is

there to be fearful of? I have triumped. The race is won, or nearly so. My labours have

been rewarded: my enemy’s expectations will soon be destroyed for ever; and to the great

glittering prize of Evenwood that I had dreamed for so long of winning has been added an

even greater: the heart of my dearest Emily. All this should be a cause of congratulation

and content. Why, then, do I feel so restless and abandoned?

Then my demons begin to whisper and chatter, reminding me of what is always

available, just beyond the confines of my room, to blot out my fears. For a time, I resist

them; but then, one night, when the fog is so thick I cannot see the roofs of the houses

opposite, they finally get the better of me.

The fog, however, is no impediment: I would know my way blindfolded. The

subdued throb of the great city surges all around, though nothing can be seen but dim

human shapes appearing out of the gloom and immediately disappearing into it, like

shuffling phantoms, their faces illuminated momentarily by the smoky flare of the

link-boys’ torches or by the feeble light of gas-lamps in houses and shop windows. These

living forms I can at least see, though briefly and indistinctly, and sometimes feel them as

we bump into each other; I can only hear and sense, more than see, the homegoing stream

of carriages, carts, omnibuses and cabs proceeding blindly, and with painful slowness, up

and down the muddy thoroughfares.

It is past midnight when I stumble down the Strand, having been pursued by

nightmares all the way from Bluegate-fields. The fog is beginning to lift a little, dispersed

by a stiffening breeze off the river. I can now see the upper stories of the buildings, and

occasionally catch sight of eaves and smoking chimneys and ragged patches of ink-black

sky through the shifting pall.

Almost before I realize it, I am in the Haymarket and sway through a brilliantly

lighted door. A young woman is sitting alone. She bestows an obliging smile on me.

‘Hello, dearie. Fancy something?’

A little conversation ensues; but as we rise to leave, we are approached by two

more females, one of whom is instantly familiar to me.

‘Goodness me, if it ain’t Mr Glapthorn,’ she says pleasantly. ‘I see you’ve made

the acquaintance of Miss Mabel.’

It was none other than Madame Mathilde, proprietress of the Abode of Beauty. I

saw a look pass between them and immediately understood how things lay. ‘And you

have added another string to your bow, Madame.’

‘Things became a little slow at the Abode after that unfortunate misunderstanding

with Mrs Bonner-Childs.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Oh, I don’t blame you, Mr Glapthorn. I like a man what does his duty no matter

what. But there, these things are sent to try us, ain’t they? Besides, as you have guessed, I

have another little concern now, in Gerrard-street – quite successful, too, tho’ I say so

mesself. Miss Mabel is one of my protijays, along with her sister here. P’raps’, she

continued, looking suggestively from Mabel to her equally comely sister, Cissie by name,

‘we might discuss a discount on quantity?’

In for a penny . . . I thought. And so I retired to Madame’s house in

Gerrard-street, with Miss Mabel and Miss Cissie on each arm, and spent a most satisfying

evening in their company, for which their employer was recompensed handsomely.

My demons temporarily satiated, I climbed the stairs to my room at first light, my

senses dulled, my head aching, and my conscience racked with guilt and self-loathing. I

miss my dearest girl, so dreadfully. Without her, what hope is there for me?

Another week goes by. But then, one bright October morning, a note comes. It is

from Lizzie Brine.

Sir,—

I thought you should know that my mistress returned from Ventnor three days

ago.

Hoping this finds you well.

L. Brine.

I sit for a full ten minutes, stunned. Three days! And no word sent! Think, think!

She has been otherwise engaged. Lord Tansor has kept her constantly by his side. She has

been attending her Ladyship night and day. There are a hundred most plausible reasons

for her not writing to tell me she is home. Perhaps, at this very moment, she is putting

pen to paper.

I instantly resolve that I will surprise her. My Bradshaw lies on the table. The

eleven-thirty departs in just under an hour. Plenty of time.

At Evenwood, the leaves are falling. They flutter forlornly across paths and

terraces and scuttle about the courtyards, almost like living things, in the suddenly cold

wind that scythes up from the river. In the kitchen garden, they accumulate in sodden

heaps amongst tangles of decaying mint and drooping borage, and beneath the plum trees

at the north end of the orchard they lie in thick golden-black swathes, soft underfoot,

beneath which the grass is already turning a sickly yellow.

Rain begins to sweep in dark funereal sheets across the formal gardens and

pleasure-grounds. When I had last seen them, the rose beds at the end of the Long Walk

had been ablaze with colour; now their early summer glories have been cut down; and the

bare earth of Lady Hester’s former clock garden – a pointless conceit which she had

planted up with Purslane, Crane’s Bill, and other flowers that supposedly opened or

closed at successive hours of the day – now seems a mute and terrible witness to human

folly, and to what time will do to us all.

I push open the little white-painted door and climb up the winding stairs to the

first floor, to the apartments above the Library where my mother died, and where I hope

to find my dearest girl. Her door is shut, the corridor deserted. I knock twice.

‘Enter.’

She is sitting by the fire, beneath the portrait of Master Anthony Duport, reading

(as I soon discover) a volume of Mrs Browning’s poems.? A travelling cloak lies on the

sofa.

‘Emily, my dearest, what is the matter? Why have you not written?’

‘Edward!’ she exclaims, suddenly looking up with an expression of surprise. ‘I

was not expecting you.’

Her face had taken on that terrible frozen look which had struck me so forcibly

when I had first seen her standing in the vestibule of the Dower House. She did not smile,

and made no attempt to rise from her chair. There was no trace now, in either her

demeanour or her voice, of the warmth and tender partiality she had formerly shown me.

In their place was a nervous coolness that instantly put me on my guard.

‘Do you know Mrs Browning’s Portuguese sonnets?’ she asked. The tone was flat

and false, and I asked my question again.

‘My love, tell me what is the matter? You have not written, and you said you

would.’

She closed the book and gave a short impatient sigh.

‘You may as well know. I am leaving Evenwood this afternoon. Phoebus and I are

to be married.’

43:

Dies irae?

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The world seemed to contract and then fall away, leaving me sundered from what

had once been, and from what I had known and believed before.

I stood in that dreadful room rooted to the spot in disbelief, feeling hope and

happiness drain out of me like blood from an opened vein. I must have closed my eyes

momentarily, for I distinctly remember opening them again and finding that Miss

Carteret had got up from her chair and was now standing by the sofa putting on her cloak.

Perhaps she had been in jest – one of those little games that women sometimes like to

play with those who adore them. Perhaps . . .

‘You cannot stay here, you know. You must leave immediately.’

Cold, cold! Hard and cold! Where was my dear girl, my sweet and loving Emily?

Beautiful still – so wonderfully beautiful! But it was not her. This furious simulacrum

was animated by a wholly different being, unrecognizable and dreadful.

‘Edward – Mr Glapthorn! Why do you not answer? Did you hear what I said?’

At last I found my tongue.

‘I heard, but I did not, and do not, understand.’

‘Then I shall tell you again. Begone, sir, or I shall call for assistance.’

Now her eyes were flashing fire, and her beautiful lips, those lips I had kissed so

often, had pursed to a tight little pout. As she stands there, rigid and menacing, enveloped

in her long black hooded cloak, she seems like some sorceress of legend newly risen from

the infernal depths; and for a moment I am afraid – yes, afraid. The change in her is so

great, and so complete, that I cannot conceive how it has come about. Like a

photographic negative, what should be light is now dark – dark as hell. Is she possessed?

Has she gone suddenly mad? Perhaps it is I who should call for assistance?

In a swirl of angry black, she heads for the door; and then it is as if I have woken

suddenly from a dream. Sorceress? Humbug! This is plain villainy. I smell it, and know it

for what it is.

Her hand is almost on the handle when I seize it and wrench her towards me. We

are face to face now, eye to eye, will to will.

‘Let me go, sir! You are hurting me!’ She struggles, but I have her fast.

‘A moment of your time, Miss Carteret.’

She sees the resolve in my eyes, and feels the superior strength of my grip; in a

moment she surrenders to the inevitable and her resistance ceases.

‘Well, sir?’

‘Let us sit in our old place in the window,’ I say. ‘It is such a pleasant place to

talk.’

She throws off her cloak and walks over to the window-seat. Before joining her, I

lock the door.

‘I see I am a prisoner,’ she says. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

‘You are pretty cool if I am,’ I reply, standing over her. She only gives a little

shrug by way of reply and looks out of the window at the rain-lashed gardens.

‘You mentioned a marriage,’ I continue. ‘To Mr Daunt. I don’t mind admitting

that this comes as something of a surprise to me.’

‘Then you are a greater fool than we thought.’

‘We? As far as I aware, you have not attained to regal status. I must therefore

deduce that you are speaking of Mr Daunt and yourself, in partnership?’

I was determined to maintain an air of unconcerned bravado; but the truth was I

felt as helpless as a baby. Of course I had the advantage of physical strength; but what

use was that? She’d played me for a damned fool, right enough; and, once again, Phoebus

Daunt had taken what was rightfully mine. And then I suddenly found myself laughing

uncontrollably, laughing so much that I had to wipe the tears away with my sleeve;

laughing at my stupidity, my utter stupidity, for trusting her. If only I had taken Mr

Tredgold’s advice! She watched me for a while as I stumbled about the room, shaking

with laughter like some maniac. Then she stood up, anger boiling up once more in her