Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

He was as good as his word, and I was soon wandering contentedly along sequestered paths through dripping woods and stately avenues of bare-branched limes, stopping from time to time to look out at the great house through a veil of drizzle. From certain vantage points it lay indistinct and spectral, an undifferentiated mass; from others it gained in definition, its towers and spires rearing sharply up through the mist like the petrified fingers of some titanic creature. It began to seem suddenly, and curiously, imperative to drink in every separate prospect to the brim; each detail of arch or window, each angle and nuance, appeared infinitely and urgently precious to me, as if I were a man gazing on the face of the one he loves for the last time.

At length, I found myself standing – wet and cold, and splashed with mud – before the great double doors of the Mausoleum.

It stood within a dense semi-circle of ivy-clad trees, a substantial domed building in the Graeco-Egyptian style, constructed in the year 1722 by the 21st Baron, who for his design had plundered freely – some might say uncritically – from a number of mausolea illustrated in Roland Fréart’s Parallele de l’Architecture Antique et de la Moderne. *

The building consisted of a large central chamber flanked by three smaller wings, and an entrance hall, the whole being shut off by two massive and forbidding lead-faced doors, carrying representations in relief of six inverted torches, three on each door. Two life-size stone angels on plinths – one bearing a wreath, the other an open book – guarded the entrance. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the key that Brine had given me and placed it in the inverted escutcheon.

In the central chamber were four or five imposing tombs, whilst set around the walls of the three wings were a succession of arcaded and gated loculi, some presently empty and awaiting their occupants, others closed off by slate panels, each bearing an inscription.

The first panel to catch my attention was that of Lord Tansor’s elder brother, Vortigern, whom Mr Tredgold had told me had died of an epileptic seizure; then I turned to the panel closing off the loculus that contained the remains of Henry Hereward Duport, my own brother. And then, next to it, was what I had come to see.

I stood in the cold, dank stillness for some minutes, contemplating the simple inscription on the slate panel; but not in a mood of reverence and regret, as I had expected, but with a pounding heart. This is what I read:

Laura Rose Duport

1796–1824

Sursum Corda

The inscription instantly brought to mind the note that Mr Carteret had appended to his Deposition. SORSUM CORDA: the words from the Latin Eucharist written on a slip of paper sent to him by my mother’s friend and companion, Miss Julia Eames. SURSUM CORDA. Try as I might, I could not wrench significance from the words; and yet Mr Carteret had come to a realization about them that he wished to communicate to me.

Musing on this new puzzle, I left the Mausoleum to silence and darkness, and took my way down a muddy path to a gravelled bridle-way that ran alongside the Park wall back to the South Gates. Disappointed that I had not encountered Miss Carteret on my ramblings, I arrived back at the Dower House, and went into the stable-yard to return the key of the Mausoleum to John Brine.

‘You’ll oblige me by getting a duplicate cut, Brine. Discreetly. You understand?’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Very good. My compliments to your sister.’ He tipped his cap, and quickly pocketed the coins that I had placed in his hand.

‘Don’t expect we’ll be seeing you for a while, sir.’

I turned back. ‘What? Why do you say that?’

‘I only meant that, with Miss going away—’

‘Going away? What are you talking about?’

‘Beg pardon, sir, I thought you’d have known. She’s going to Paris, sir. To spend Christmas with her friend, Miss Buisson. Won’t be back for a month or more.’

Why? Why had she not told me? For a time, as I walked back to Easton to take the Peterborough coach, I felt sick with doubt and suspicion; but as the coach pulled out of the market-square, I grew more rational. She had merely forgotten, nothing more. If our paths had crossed this morning, as we had both made our separate perambulations of the Park, she would undoubtedly have told me of her imminent departure. I was sure of it.

Back in Temple-street that afternoon, I sat at my table and took out a sheet of paper. With a beating heart, I began to write.

1, Temple-street, Whitefriars, London

2nd December 1853

DEAR MISS CARTERET, —

I write this short note to thank you, most sincerely, for your recent hospitality, & in the hope that you will allow me to anticipate an early resumption of our friendship.

It is likely, perhaps, that you may be visiting your aunt in the near future; if so, I trust you will not consider it forward of me to entertain the further hope – however slight – that you might inform me, so that I may arrange to call on you, at the usual time. If you are expecting to remain in Northamptonshire, then perhaps I may – with your permission – find occasion to visit you in your new accommodation. I wish very much to have your opinion on the work of Monsieur de Lisle. *The Poèmes antiques seem to me admirable in every way. Do you know them?

I remain, your friend,

E. GLAPTHORN

I waited anxiously for her reply. Would she write? What would she say? Two days passed, but no word came. I could do nothing but meditate moodily in my rooms, staring out of the window at the leaden sky, or sitting, with an unopened book on my lap, for hours on end in a state of desperate vacancy.

Then, on the third day, a letter came. Reverently, I laid it – unopened – on my work-table, transfixed by the sight of her handwriting. With my forefinger I slowly traced each letter of the direction, *and then pressed the envelope to my face, to drink in the faint residue of her perfume. At last I reached for my paper-knife to release the enclosed sheet of paper from its covering.

A wave of relief and joy swept over me as I read her words.

The Dower House, Evenwood, Northamptonshire

5th December 1853

DEAR MR GLAPTHORN, —

Your kind letter reached me just in time. Tomorrow I am to leave for Paris, to visit my friend Miss Buisson. I regret very much that I failed to mention this to you when you were here – my excuse is that the pleasure of your company drove all other thoughts from my head, & I did not realize the omission until after you had gone.

You must think me a very odd friend – for friends, I believe, we have agreed to be – to have kept such a thing from you, though I did not do so wilfully. But I will hope for forgiveness, as every sinner must.

I shall not return to England until January or February, but shall think of you often, and hope you will sometimes think of me. And when I return, I promise to send word to you – that, you may be assured, will be something I shall not forget to do. You have shown me such kindness and consideration – & provided me with unlooked-for mental solace at this dark time – that I should be careless indeed of my own well-being if I were to deny myself the pleasure of seeing you again, as soon as circumstances permit.

I am familiar with some of the work of M. de Lisle, but not the volume you mention – I shall take especial care to seek it out while I am in France, so that I may have something sensible to say about it when next we meet. In the meantime, I remain,

Your affectionate friend,

E. CARTERET

I kissed the paper and fell back in my chair. All was well. All was wonderfully well. Even the prospect of separation from her did not appal me. For was she not my affectionate friend, and would she not be often thinking of me, as I would be thinking of her? And when she returned – well, then I trusted to see affectionate friendship blossom quickly into consuming love.