Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘Well,’ I smiled, ‘I am not sure whether to be flattered or not.’

‘Oh,’ said Mademoiselle, ‘flattered, of course. A hint of mystery in a person is always an advantageous characteristic.’

‘So you think I am mysterious?’

‘Assuredly.’

‘And what do you think, Miss Carteret?’

‘I think we are all mysterious,’ she replied, opening her eyes to their fullest extent. ‘It is a question of degree. Everyone has things they would prefer to hide from the view of others, even from those to whom they are close – little secret sins, frailties, fears, even hopes that dare not be spoken; yet, on the whole, these are venial mysteries and do not prevent those who love us best from knowing us as we essentially are, both for good and bad. But there are those who are not at all what they seem. Such people, I think, are wholly mysterious. Their true selves are deliberately and entirely masked, leaving only a false aspect for others to know.’

Her unwavering gaze was uncomfortable, and the ensuing silence even more so. She was speaking generally, of course; yet there was an unmistakable pointedness to her words that struck me very forcefully. Mademoiselle gave a sigh, indicative of impatience with her serious friend, whilst I smiled weakly and, in an attempt to steer the conversation in another direction, asked Miss Carteret how long she would be staying in London.

‘Marie-Madeleine leaves for Paris tomorrow. I shall remain here a little longer, having nothing to draw me back to Evenwood.’

‘Not even Mr Phoebus Daunt?’ I asked.

At this, Mademoiselle Buisson gave out a little scream of laughter, and rocked back and forth on the sofa.

‘Mr Phoebus Daunt! You think she would go back for him? But you are teasing, I think, Mr Glapthorn.’

‘Why would Miss Carteret not wish to see her old friend?’ I asked, with an exaggeratedly uncomprehending expression.

‘Ah, yes,’ replied Mademoiselle, smiling, ‘her old friend and playfellow.’

‘Mr Glapthorn does not share the world’s admiration of Mr Phoebus Daunt,’ said Miss Carteret. ‘Indeed, he holds quite a severe opinion of him. Isn’t that right, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘But Mr Phoebus Daunt is so utterly charming!’ cried Mademoiselle Buisson. ‘And so clever, and so handsome! Are you jealous of him, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘By no means, I assure you.’

‘Do you know him, then?’ asked Mademoiselle, smiling.

‘Mr Glapthorn knows him only by reputation,’ said Miss Carteret, also smiling, ‘which he believes to be sufficient grounds for disliking him.’

They looked at each other as if they were playing some sort of game, the rules of which were known only by the two of them.

‘Do I infer, then, Miss Carteret,’ I asked, ‘that we share a similar view of Mr Daunt’s character and talents after all? When we last spoke on this subject you appeared inclined to defend him.’

‘As I implied then, I owe Mr Daunt the courtesy due to a long acquaintance, and to a close neighbour. But I do not seek to defend him. He is well able to defend himself, against your opinion, and against mine.’

‘Well,’ said Mademoiselle, ‘if you wish to have my considered opinion of Mr Phoebus Daunt, here it is. He is insufferable. That is my opinion – the long and the short of it, as you say in English. So you see, Mr Glapthorn, we are all of one mind on the subject.’

I said that I was glad of it.

‘But you know, Emily,’ she continued, turning to her friend, ‘I can think of an excellent reason for you to go back to Evenwood.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Miss Carteret.

‘Why, Mr Phoebus Daunt is not there!’

Mademoiselle seemed excessively pleased by the cleverness of her riposte. She clapped her hands together, kissed Miss Carteret on the cheek, and leaped to her feet. Then she began to dance around the room, skipping and twirling, and singing, ‘Où est le soleil? Où est le soleil?’ until she sat down once more next to Miss Carteret, flushed and bright-eyed.

‘And where has the sun gone?’ I asked.

‘To America,’ said Miss Carteret. As she spoke, she regarded her friend with a quizzical uplift of her eyebrows, and again I felt an unmistakable undercurrent of complicity. ‘He has embarked upon a lecture tour.’

‘And what is he to lecture on?’ I asked.

‘His subject, I believe, is to be “The Art of the Epic”.’

I could not stop myself from letting out a contemptuous guffaw. The Art of the Epic! Of all things! Then I checked myself, thinking that I might perhaps be reprimanded by Miss Carteret for my discourtesy towards her old playfellow; but I was gratified to see that both she and Mademoiselle were also laughing, Miss Carteret quietly and discreetly, her friend more openly.

‘You see, Emily,’ said Mademoiselle at length, ‘Mr Glapthorn is a kindred spirit. He feels things as we do. We can tell him all our secrets, and never fear that he will betray us.’

Miss Carteret rose, walked to the window, and looked out into the street.

‘It’s so stuffy in here,’ she said. ‘Shall we walk out for half an hour?’

It did not take long for the two ladies to procure shawls and bonnets, and soon we were walking through carpets of fallen leaves in Hyde-park. We rested for a while on a bench overlooking the Serpentine; but Mademoiselle Buisson was restless and, after a minute or two, she wandered off a little way, leaving Miss Carteret and me alone for the first time.

‘Miss Carteret,’ I ventured, after we had sat for a few moments looking out over the water, ‘may I enquire whether the police are any closer to apprehending your father’s attackers?’

Her eyes remained fixed on some distant point as she made her reply.

‘A man from Easton – a known ruffian – was questioned, but has since been released without charge. I have no hope at all that the police will ever identify those responsible.’

She said this in a rather pat way, as if my question had been anticipated, and the answer prepared. Her beautiful face looked strained, and I noticed that she was playing with the fringes of her shawl in a distracted manner.

‘Forgive me,’ I said softly. ‘The question was insensitive.’

‘No!’ She had now turned to look at me, and I saw that her eyes were full of tears. ‘No. You speak out of kindness, I know that, and I am grateful for your concern, truly I am. But my heart is so full – with grief for my father, and with uncertainty as to what I shall do now. My father’s death has thrown everything into doubt. I have no way of earning my living, and do not even know whether I shall be permitted to continue to remain in my present home.’

‘Surely Lord Tansor will be sensitive to your position, and to the duty he owes to you as his relative?’

‘Lord Tansor will only do what serves his own interests,’ she replied, somewhat tartly. ‘I do not complain that he has never shown me consideration in the past, but he is certainly under no obligation to do so in the future. He gave my father employment at the behest of his aunt, my grandmother; but he did so with some reluctance, though the appointment proved of inestimable benefit to him. My father was his cousin, yet he was sometimes treated no better than a servant. I cannot deny that our material circumstances provided compensation; but we owned nothing. Everything we had was in the gift of Lord Tansor; we lived by the grace and favour of his Lordship, not as members of the family in our own right and dignity. I could never make my father see the inequity of our situation, but I felt the shame and injustice of it greatly. How, then, can I consider my relationship to his Lordship to offer any guarantee of security and independence?’