Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘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’s Hieroglyphikes * that I have lately acquired, on which I’d value your opinion, if you have no more pressing engagement.’

I could not refuse the good old gentleman, and so tea was called for and taken, and the work in question produced and discussed, followed by several others of a similar character. It was not until a little after four o’clock, as darkness fell, that I made my escape.

The wind was blowing in strong gusts from the east, lashing 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 coming on 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 the housekeeper.

‘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 whether 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 reappeared to ask whether 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, 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 assumed an unearthly marmoreal pallor. It seemed for a brief moment like the carved representation of some ancient goddess, 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 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 identity of my informant, I said that there was no mystery to it; a passing remark from Dr Daunt, nothing more, adding that I was glad that 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 that you have a great deal to say, 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 should it be returned, 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 only 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 authoress 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 1848 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 résumé, ‘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, Dick or Harry. I am greatly interested by photography. Lord Tansor has an album 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 Lordship’s desk. Do you know, I believe that 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 unyielding. I told her that 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 that she had admired, and for the portrait of Lord Tansor.