The Meaning of Night (63 page)

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 passed

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 assuring 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

participant 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 trespass 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 à 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,? 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 pronounced than mine. The

Heir of Redclyffe? was then dissected – to its disadvantage – and Mr Ruskin’s views on

the Gothic style of architecture considered and commended in every respect.? 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.? 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 passionate rendition of Herr Schumann’s ‘An

meinem Herzen, an meiner Brust’,? 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 identity 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 bluster.

‘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.’

‘Perfectly. Except —’

‘Yes?’

‘The music, which I found torn to pieces — ’

‘The piece was, as I think I told you, one of my father’s favourites. I played it for

the last time that evening, and vowed I would never play it again. It had nothing to do

with Mr Langham, and neither did the song I sang tonight.’

‘Then I am satisfied,’ I said, giving her a grave little bow, ‘though I feel I have

pushed our friendship too far.’

‘We must all do what we feel we must, Mr Glapthorn. But perhaps you will agree

to reciprocate, for friendship’s sake. I, too, am curious to know something.’

‘And what is that?’

‘A question you refused to answer when we first met. What was your business

with my father?’

I was unprepared both for the nature and the directness of the question, and only

an ingrained habit of vigilance in matters of professional and private business prevented

me from laying the whole thing before her. But, whether by accident or design, she had

made it harder for me to prevaricate, as I’d been able to do when she’d asked me the

same question before, though still I made a clumsy attempt to do so.

‘As I said before,’ I began, ‘it is a question of professional confidence —’

‘And is a professional confidence more binding than a personal one?’ she asked.

I was cornered. She had answered my question concerning her meeting in the

Plantation; I had no choice but to respond in kind, though I took refuge in brevity, hoping

thereby to answer her as honestly as I could whilst revealing as little as possible.

‘Your father wrote to Mr Tredgold on a matter pertaining to the Tansor

succession. My principal felt it would not be appropriate for him to meet Mr Carteret in

person, as he had requested; and so I was sent instead.’

‘A matter pertaining to the succession? Surely that is something that my father

would have felt obliged to put before Lord Tansor, not Mr Tredgold.’

‘I can make no comment on that,’ I replied. ‘I can only say that it was your

father’s express wish that his communication to Mr Tredgold should be kept strictly

confidential.’

‘But what could possibly have made him act in such a way? He was a most loyal

servant to Lord Tansor. It would have been against his deepest principles to go behind his

Lordship’s back.’

‘Miss Carteret,’ I said, ‘I have already revealed more of the business than my

employer would have wished me to do; and indeed I can add nothing more to what I have

already said. Your father told me nothing when we met in Stamford, and his untimely

death has sealed my ignorance concerning the reason for his letter to my principal.

Whatever he wished to reveal to Mr Tredgold, through me, must now remain forever

unknown.’

How I hated myself for the lie. She did not deserve to be treated so, as if she was

an enemy to my interests, like Phoebus Daunt, whom she appeared to detest almost as

much I did. That alone absolved her from all suspicion of duplicity. I had no reason not to

trust her, and every reason to draw her into my confidence. She had declared herself my

friend, and had shown me courtesy and kindness, and a degree of partiality that I flattered

myself betokened incipient affection. She had a right, surely, to claim my trust. Yes, she

had a right to know what her father had written in his Deposition, and to understand what

it signified for me, and for her. This was not the time, not quite yet; but just a little

longer, and then I would put all deceit aside forever.

Had she sensed the falsehood? I could not tell, for nothing disturbed the enigmatic

serenity of her face. She appeared to be turning over what I’d said. Then, as if a thought

had struck her, she asked:

‘Do you suppose it might concern Mr Daunt –I mean the matter my father wished

to bring to Mr Tredgold’s attention?’

‘I really cannot say.’

‘But you would tell me, if you knew, wouldn’t you? As a friend.’

She had moved closer to me and was standing, with one hand resting on the

piano-forte, looking directly into my eyes.

‘It would be impossible to deny a true friend,’ I said.

‘Well then, we have balanced the books, Mr Glapthorn.’ The smile broadened.

‘Confidences have been exchanged, and our debts paid. I am so glad you came. When we

next meet, I shall have left here for good. It will be strange, to pass by the Dower House

and know that someone else is living here. But you will come and see me again, I hope,