The Meaning of Night Part 30

'Good-bye, Mr Glapthorn,' she called back from the front door. Then she stopped and thought for a moment. 'It is a curious name, is it not? Glapthorn. Most curious, and most suitable for a dark horse.' And with that, she disappeared into the house, laughing.

I turned to Miss Carteret.

'May I call again?'

She offered her hand to me, which I took in mine, and held for a most precious moment.

'Do you need to ask?'

36:.

Amor vincit omnia1 __________________________________________________________________________________.

I paid my second visit to Wilton-crescent the following Friday. On this occasion I was introduced to Mrs Fletcher Manners a bustling, pretty looking woman, only half a dozen years or so older than her niece and invited to take luncheon with the two ladies. Afterwards, when Mrs Manners left to pay her afternoon calls, Miss Carteret and I were left alone in the drawing-room.

'This has been most delightful, Mr Glapthorn,' she said, as soon as her aunt had gone. 'But I'm afraid I shall be returning to Evenwood tomorrow, and so will not have the pleasure of receiving you again for some time unless . . .'

I immediately took the hint.

'It is possible that I may have occasion to visit Evenwood in the near future. Dr Daunt and I are slaves to the bibliophilic pa.s.sion I mean we love old books, and share a number of other antiquarian and scholarly interests. He has asked me to look over the proofs of an article he has written, and it will be best if I return these to him in person. When I do so, perhaps you would not mind if I called at the Dower House.'

'You would be most welcome,' she said. Then she sighed. 'Though I do not know how much longer I shall be able to call the Dower House my home. Sir Hyde Teasedale has expressed a wish to acquire the tenancy for his daughter, who is soon to be married; and I fear Lord Tansor will look upon a paying tenant with rather more favour than a dependent relative.'

'But he will not turn you out, surely?'

'No, I am sure he will not. But I have little money of my own and will be unable to match the price Sir Hyde is willing to pay for the let of the property.'

'Then Lord Tansor must find you somewhere else. Has he spoken to you on this subject?'

'Only briefly. But let us not be gloomy. Lord Tansor will not let me starve, I am sure.'

We conversed for a little longer, and I experienced again, as I had done by the Serpentine the previous week, that luxurious sense of having her all to myself. A little of her old reserve yet remained; but I left the house that morning emboldened by the warmth of her manner towards me, and feeling more in love than ever.

I immediately wrote to Dr Daunt, and it was arranged that I would go up to Northamptons.h.i.+re the Thursday following, being the first day of December.

The Rector and I pa.s.sed a stimulating afternoon discussing Iamblichus, and Dr Daunt professed himself in my debt for the few trifling amendments to his translation and commentary that I had ventured to suggest.

'This has been most kind of you, Mr Glapthorn,' he said, 'most kind. I have given you a deal of trouble, I dare say. And a trip to the country in such weather is doubly burdensome.'

It was blowing hard outside, as it had been for a day or more, and the accompanying rain had turned the surrounding roads and tracks into quagmires.

'Pray do not mention it,' I replied. 'I am willing to endure any discomfort for the sake of learning, and for the prospect of such a conversation as we have enjoyed this afternoon.'

'You are kind to say so. But will you stay and take some tea? I am afraid my wife is not at home, and my son is abroad, on a lecture tour; so it will be just us two. But I can dangle a little temptation before you a particularly fine copy of Quarles' Hieroglyphikes2 I have lately acquired, on which I'd value your opinion, if you can spare the time.'

I could not refuse the old gentleman, and so tea was called for and taken, and the volume in question produced and discussed, followed by several others. It was not until a little after four o'clock, with darkness falling, that I made my escape.

The wind was blowing in strong gusts from the east, las.h.i.+ng the rain against my face as I picked my way through the slippery ruts of the track that led from the Rectory to the Dower House. With the rain falling suddenly harder, I abandoned my original intention of walking round to the front of the house and ran as fast as I could across the stable-yard to knock on the kitchen door, which was soon opened by Mrs Rowthorn.

'Mr Glapthorn, sir, come in, come in.' She ushered me inside, where I found John Brine warming his toes by the kitchen fire.

'Were you expected, sir?' asked Mrs Rowthorn.

'I've been at the Rectory and wished to pay my compliments to Miss Carteret, if she is at home, before I return to Easton.'

'Oh yes, sir, she's at home. Would you like to come up and wait?'

'Perhaps I could dry myself by the fire for five minutes first,' I said, taking off my coat and walking over to stand next to where John Brine was sitting. After a minute or two, Mrs Rowthorn scuttled upstairs on some errand, giving me the opportunity to ask Brine if he had any news.

'Nothing much to tell, sir. Miss Carteret has kept to the house these past few days, and has received only Mrs Daunt, who has been twice now since Miss came back from London. Mr Phoebus Daunt, as you know, will not return for some weeks.'

'Miss Carteret has not been out, you say?'

'No, sir except, that is, to wait on Lord Tansor.'

'Brine, you really are a most infuriating fellow. Could you not have told me this before? When did your mistress wait on Lord Tansor?'

'On Tuesday afternoon,' came a voice, not John Brine's. Turning, I saw his sister, Lizzie, standing at the foot of the stairs.

'John took her up in the landau,' she continued. 'They were back within an hour.'

'And do you know the purpose of the visit?' I asked.

'I believe it concerned Lord Tansor's decision to let the Dower House to Sir Hyde Teasedale. Miss has been offered accommodation in the great house, in the apartments previously occupied by the first Lady Tansor. I am to go with her. John will remain here, with the others, to serve Sir Hyde's daughter and her husband.'

Just then, as I was digesting this news, Mrs Rowthorn appeared and asked if I was ready to be shown upstairs, whereupon I proceeded to the vestibule in the housekeeper's generous wake.

Miss Carteret was seated by the fire in the room where we had conducted our first conversation. She made no movement as we entered, as if she had not heard Mrs Rowthorn's knock, and sat with her chin resting on her hand staring meditatively into the flames.

'Please, Miss, Mr Glapthorn is here.'

Lit by the glow of the fire on one side, and on the other by the rays from a nearby colza lamp, her face had a.s.sumed an unearthly marmoreal pallor. It seemed for a brief moment like the carved representation of some ancient G.o.ddess, terrible and untouchable, rather than the face of a living woman. But then she smiled, rose from her chair to greet me, and apologized for her dreaminess.

'I have been thinking of Papa and Mamma,' she said, 'and of all the happy years we have spent here.'

'But you are not leaving Evenwood, I think, only the Dower House.'

For a moment her face took on a guarded look; but then she inclined her head slightly and looked at me teasingly. 'How well informed you are, Mr Glapthorn, on all our little doings! I wonder how you do it?'

As I did not wish to give away the ident.i.ty of my informant, I said there was no mystery to it: a pa.s.sing remark from Dr Daunt, nothing more, adding that I was glad Lord Tansor had recognized his duty towards her.

'Well then, I have my explanation,' she said. 'But perhaps I should begin to inform myself a little about you, if we are to be friends. Come and sit by me, and tell me all about Edward Glapthorn.'

She made room for me on the little sofa on which she was sitting and folded her hands in her lap, waiting for me to begin. I remained for a second or two entranced by her beautiful face, and by the closeness of her person.

'Have you nothing to say?'

'Nothing, I'm sure, that would interest you.'

'Come, come, Mr Glapthorn, no false modesty. I sense you have a great deal to say about yourself, if you would only allow yourself to do so. Your parents, now. What of them?'

The truth was on my lips; but something held me back. Once I had declared my love for her, and if it should be returned, then I had resolved in my heart to tell her everything; to trust her as I had trusted no one else, not even Bella. But for now, until all was certain, I felt obliged to speak the truth as far as I was able, and to apply a little dab of falsehood to the rest.

'My father was a captain in the Hussars and died before I was born. My mother supported us by writing novels.'

'A novelist! How fascinating! But I cannot recall an auth.o.r.ess by the name of Glapthorn.'

'She wrote anonymously.'

'I see. And where were you brought up?'

'On the Somerset coast. My mother's family were West Country people.'

'Somerset, do you say? I do not know it well myself, but I have heard Lord Tansor speak of it as a beautiful county his first wife's people came from there, you know. And do you have brothers or sisters.'

'My older sister died when she was very young. I never knew her. I was educated at home by my mother, and then at the village school. Later, after my mother died, I studied at Heidelberg and then travelled a good deal on the Continent. I came to London in 1849 and found my present employment at Tredgolds. I collect books, study photography, and generally lead a rather dull life. There you have it. Edward Glapthorn, en tout et pour tout.'

'Well,' she said when I had finished my resume, 'I still accuse you of false modesty, for I infer from your account that you undoubtedly possess some remarkable talents to which you are not prepared to admit. Photography, for example. That is something which calls for both scientific knowledge and an artistic eye, yet you mention it almost off-handedly, as if its secrets could be mastered by any Tom, d.i.c.k or Harry. I am greatly interested by photography. Lord Tansor has an alb.u.m containing some excellent views of Evenwood. I've often looked through it with admiration. The same photographer, I believe, was responsible for the portrait of Lord Tansor that stands on his Lords.h.i.+p's desk. Do you know, I believe I should like to have my portrait taken. Yes, I think I should like that very much. Would you take my portrait, Mr Glapthorn?'

I searched her eyes, those great dark pools, infinitely deep, but they gave back no suggestion of any ulterior meaning to her question. I saw only frankness and honesty, and my heart leaped within me that she should look upon me in such a way, without the reserve that had once seemed so impenetrable. I told her I would be pleased and honoured to take her portrait, and then, recklessly perhaps, tumbled out an admission that, at Mr Tredgold's instigation, I had been responsible for producing the photographic views of Evenwood she had admired, and for the portrait of Lord Tansor.

'But of course!' she cried. 'The portrait carries the initials E.G. for Edward Glapthorn! What an extraordinary thing, that you should have come to Evenwood to take your photographs and I never knew! To think that we might have met then, or pa.s.sed each other in the grounds as strangers, unaware that we were destined to meet one day.'

'So you think our meeting was destined?' I asked.

'Don't you?'

'I am a fervent believer in Fate,' I replied. 'It is the pagan in me. I have tried to argue myself out of it, but find I cannot.'

'Then it seems we are helpless,' she said quietly, turning her head towards the fire.

Silence descended on the room, a silence that seemed deepened and made almost palpable by the faint ticking of a clock and the sound of the logs crackling and flaring, and by the roaring wind throwing leaves and small branches against the windows.

I felt my breath quicken with the desire to draw her close to me, to feel her hair against my face, and her breast against mine. Would she push me away? Or would she instantly yield to the moment? Then I saw her head drop, and knew that she was weeping.

'Forgive me,' she said, almost in a whisper.

I was on the point of a.s.suring her that no apology was required for her display of feeling; but then I saw that she had not addressed her remark to me, but to some other person, absent in body but present in her mind.

'You should not have died!' She was speaking now in a kind of moan, and shaking her head rapidly from side to side; then I understood that the sudden thought of her father's dreadful death must have come upon her unexpectedly, as fresh grief often will.

'Miss Carteret -'

'Oh, Mr Glapthorn, I am so sorry.'

'No, no, no. You must not be sorry. Are you all right? Shall I call for Mrs Rowthorn?'

My heart broke to see her in such open distress, though my pity for her contended with boiling rage for what Daunt had done to her. Though he may not have been an active partic.i.p.ant in Mr Carteret's death, the conviction remained that he had been implicated in it. And so the responsibility for one more injury was added to his account, which I swore must soon be called in for payment.

In answer to my solicitations, Miss Carteret insisted that she required nothing and began to wipe away her tears. In a moment or two she had composed herself and was asking me, with every appearance of cheerful interest, when I was to return to London. I said that I would be staying in Easton that night and would leave in the morning.

'Oh!' she exclaimed, as a violent gust of wind rattled one of the windows. 'You cannot walk back to Easton in this weather. John Brine would take you, but one of the horses is lame. You must stay the night. I insist.'

Of course I objected that I could not possibly trespa.s.s on her kindness, but she would have none of it. She immediately rang for Mrs Rowthorn and asked her to prepare a room and lay another place for dinner.

'You will not mind our dining a deux, I hope, Mr Glapthorn?' she asked. 'It is a little scandalous, I know, having no one to chaperone me; but I have little time for tiresome conventions. If a lady wishes to dine with a gentleman in her own home, then it is surely no concern of anyone else. Besides, company is rare at the Dower House these days.'

'But I think you spoke of having friends in the neighbourhood?'

'My friends keep a respectful distance at this sad time, and I have little taste for going out. I think perhaps we are alike, Mr Glapthorn. We prefer our own company best.'

Dinner alone with Miss Emily Carteret! How extraordinary it was to find myself seated opposite her in the panelled dining-room overlooking the gardens at the back of the Dower House, and to hear myself talking to her with a degree of familiarity that I could not have imagined possible only a few hours earlier. We began to discuss the events of the day, including, of course, the late action at Sinope,3 and found ourselves in agreement that Russia needed to be taught a lesson it rather surprised, as well as pleased, me that Miss Carteret's bellicosity was even more p.r.o.nounced than mine. The Heir of Redclyffe4 was then dissected to its disadvantage and Mr Ruskin's views on the Gothic style of architecture considered and commended in every respect.5 We laughed; we disputed, now seriously, now facetiously; we discovered we liked a great many things in common, and disliked a great many more. We found we were both intolerant of stupidity and dullness, and equally enraged by wanton ignorance. An hour flew by; then two. Ten o'clock had just chimed when, having removed ourselves to the drawing-room, I asked my hostess if she would be kind enough to play.

'Some Chopin, perhaps,' I suggested. 'I remember so well, on my first visit to the Dower House, hearing you play something by him a Nocturne, I think.'

'No,' she corrected, colouring slightly. 'A Prelude. Number fifteen, in D flat, called the Raindrop.6 Unfortunately, I no longer have the music. Perhaps something else. Let me sing to you instead.'

She hurried over to the piano-forte, as if anxious not to dwell on the memory of that evening, and began to deliver a pa.s.sionate rendition of Herr Schumann's 'An meinem Herzen, an meiner Brust',7 to a delicate accompaniment. Her voice was deep and rich, but overlaid with a caressing softness of tone. She played and sang with closed eyes, having both the music and the words by heart. When she had finished, she shut the lid and sat for a moment looking towards the window. The blind had been drawn down, but she continued to stare at the blank fabric, as if she could see straight through it, across the lawn, and through the Plantation to some distant object of the most intense interest .

'You sing from the heart, Miss Carteret,' I said.

She did not answer me, but continued to stare at the blind.

'Perhaps the piece holds a special meaning for you?' She turned towards me.

'Not at all. But you appear to be asking another question.'

'Another question?'

'Yes. You ask if the piece holds a special meaning for me, but really you wish to know something else.'

'I see you have the measure of me,' I said, pulling up a chair. 'You are right. I do wish to know something, but now I am ashamed by my presumptuousness. Please forgive me.'

She gave a little smile before replying. 'Friends are allowed to be a little presumptuous, Mr Glapthorn even such new ones as we are. Now put your scruples aside and tell me what you wish to know.'

'Very well. I have been curious though it is no business of mine, no business whatsoever concerning the ident.i.ty of the man I saw you talking to in the Plantation, on the evening of my first visit. I happened to be standing by the window, you see, and observed you. But you do not need to answer. I have no right -'

'Do you really ask out of mere curiosity, Mr Glapthorn, or from some other motive?'

I felt trapped by her questioning stare and, as I invariably do on such occasions, resorted to bl.u.s.ter.

'Oh no, I am incorrigibly inquisitive, that is all. It is a strength in many respects, but in others I am keenly aware that it is a rather vulgar failing of mine.'

'I applaud your frankness,' she said, 'and you shall be rewarded for it. The gentleman you saw was Mr George Langham, the brother of one of my oldest friends, Miss Henrietta Langham. I'm afraid you witnessed the final dissolution of Mr Langham's romantic hopes. He proposed to me secretly some months ago, but I refused him. He came again that night, not knowing that my father -'

She stopped, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

'No, no,' she said, seeing me about to speak. 'Let me continue. I saw Mr Langham from the window, as I was playing, and went to see what he wanted. He forgot himself to such an extent, even when I told him what had happened to my father, that he begged me to reconsider my previous decision. We parted in anger, I am afraid, on both sides. I fear Henrietta is also cross with me for refusing him. But I do not love George in that way, and never will, and so could not possibly marry him. There, Mr Glapthorn, is your answer. Is your curiosity satisfied.'