Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

He looked at me with a most pitifully anxious expression. When I had finished reading, I took his hand.

‘My dear sir, you must not be anxious for me. I am well able to meet whatever danger may present itself; and though the documents that Mr Carteret was carrying may be lost to the enemy, we have something nearly as good.’

I then told him of my foster-mother’s journals, and the corroboration of them provided by Mr Carteret’s Deposition, on hearing of which he gripped my hands and uttered a strange sort of sigh. A fierce light seemed to burn in his poor pale eyes as he reached again for his pen.

‘All is not lost then’ – he wrote – ‘as long as these statements remain safe from Daunt. They are insufficient, as you must know, but they must be safeguarded at all costs – as must the true identity of Edward Glapthorn. And then you and I must apply ourselves to overturning Lord Tansor’s folly, and so set things right at last.’

‘They are safe,’ I assured him, ‘and so am I. I have made a copy of the Deposition, which I have brought with me, to leave in your keeping.’ I placed the document on the desk. ‘Daunt can have no reason whatsoever to suspect that Edward Glapthorn is the person he seeks. And you are wrong, sir, to say that we do not have an ally. I believe we do.’

He leaned forward once more, hands shaking, and wrote the words, ‘An ally?’

Thus I opened my heart to Mr Tredgold concerning Miss Emily Carteret.

‘I love her to the utmost degree. To you, sir, I need say no more; for you know what it means to love in this way.’

‘But does she love you, in the same way?’ he wrote.

‘Every instinct tells me that she does,’ I replied, ‘though love is undeclared on both sides as yet, and must so remain until she returns from France. But already I would trust her with my life. She has long held Daunt in contempt; only think, sir, how she will regard him once he is revealed in his true colours. I have not the slightest doubt that she will support us in all our endeavours to unmask his villainy, and so expose his true character to Lord Tansor.’ And then I told him of Daunt’s association with Pluckrose; of his criminal career, as described to me by Lewis Pettingale; and finally of my conviction that Mr Carteret had been set upon by Pluckrose, acting on Daunt’s orders.

He made no attempt to write a response, though the pen was in his hand. Instead he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, apparently overcome with fatigue.

‘Sir,’ I said gently. ‘There is one more thing I must say to you.’ Mr Tredgold remained immobile. ‘I believe that I know where the final proof of my identity may be found.’

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at me.

As I had spoken the words, Miss Tredgold had entered the room, preventing me from speaking further. On seeing her brother’s face, she pronounced him unfit to continue with the conversation, and I had no choice but to withdraw, though it was agreed that I might come again the following Wednesday, if his condition continued to improve.

On the train back to London, I reflected that my trip had given me some hope that Mr Tredgold’s returning strength, and the relationship of frankness that now existed between us concerning the things that we had both kept secret from each other, might together effect some improvement in my situation. Whether such optimism was justified remained to be seen; it was a comfort, at any rate, to know that I was no longer quite alone, and that Mr Tredgold and I were united in common cause. More than this, I was now resolved that I must take my fate in my hands, and declare my love to Miss Carteret at the earliest opportunity. And then, I hoped, we would be three.

When I returned to Temple-street, I found a letter waiting for me, bearing a Paris postmark. I saw immediately that the envelope had not been inscribed by Miss Carteret; but I tore it open all the same. It was a short note from Mademoiselle Buisson.DEAR MR DARK HORSE, —I am bidden by our mutual friend to inform you that she will be returning to England on Monday next and will be most happy to receive you at the house of Mrs Manners on Wednesday. She has a slight indisposition at the present, which prevents her from writing to you herself. I may say, entre nous , that she has been a very dull companion indeed, the blame for which I lay entirely at your door. It has been ‘Mr Glapthorn this’ and ‘Mr Glapthorn that’ these weeks past, as if there was no other topic of conversation in the world but Mr Edward Glapthorn. And then with all Paris to play in, she has done nothing but keep to the house, except for little walks alone in the Bois on fine mornings, with her nose in a book. Today she is reading a tiresome volume of poetry by M. de Lisle, which I had to go out and buy for her with my own money! Et enfin , Mr Glapthorn, you are welcome to her. But do not fall in love with her. I am serious now. Adieu, cher Monsieur ,

MARIE-MADELEINE BUISSON

I read the note through again, smiling as I called to mind the writer’s little-girlish look, and her mischievously mocking ways. Serious! Flitting, fluttering Miss Buisson could never be serious. Her admonition not to fall in love with her friend was nothing but a piece of ironic teasing; for she must know that it was already too late.

Wednesday came – the day when I should have gone back to Canterbury to see Mr Tredgold. But I did not go. Everything that had seemed so demanding of my time and mental energy had fallen away into nothingness; only one desire now commanded my waking hours, and was soon to put all other duties out of mind. Instead of keeping my appointment with Mr Tredgold, I knocked on the door of Mrs Manners’s house in Wilton-crescent, at precisely eleven o’clock, and asked whether Miss Emily Carteret was at home.

‘She is, sir,’ said the maid. ‘You are expected.’

‘There,’ she said as I entered the drawing-room, ‘I have kept my promise, you see. I am back, and you are the first person I have seen.’

How my heart leaped to be in her dear presence once again! We quickly fell into a friendly way of conversation as Miss Carteret spoke of how she had passed her time in Paris, and I told her of the improvement in Mr Tredgold’s condition. Lord Tansor, she said, was away, gone to his West Indian estates with Lady Tansor; the great house had been shut up, and so she would be staying with her aunt in London until his Lordship returned.

‘Mr Daunt has gone with him,’ she added, with a little sideways look.

‘Why do you tell me that?’ I asked.

‘Because you always seem interested in where Mr Daunt is, and what he is doing.’

‘I am sorry to have given that impression,’ I replied. ‘I can assure you that I do not find Mr Phoebus Daunt in the least bit interesting.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ she said. ‘So now, Mr Glapthorn, if you will be good enough to examine me, viva voce , on my knowledge of Monsieur de Lisle, I do not think you will find me wanting.’

Two hours passed most delightfully; but then Mrs Manners appeared in the doorway, to remind her niece of some engagement that they were both obliged to fulfil. Miss Carteret accompanied me into the hall.

‘Will you come next Wednesday?’ she asked.

Thus my world began to contract to a single point of all-absorbing interest. I could think of nothing but Miss Carteret; everything else was driven from my mind. In between our weekly conversations in Wilton-crescent, I lived in a kind of featureless dream, from which I only awoke to full consciousness every Wednesday morning at eleven o’clock. I went occasionally to Blithe Lodge of an evening, but always left early on some excuse or other. One night, Bella asked me whether anything was the matter: I smiled, and told her that I had never felt better.