Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘Do you know Mrs Browning’s Portuguese sonnets?’ she asked. The tone was flat and false, and I put my question again.

‘My love, tell me what is the matter? You have not written, and you said you would.’

She closed the book and gave a short impatient sigh.

‘You may as well know. I am leaving Evenwood this afternoon for London. I have a great deal to do. Phoebus and I are to be married.’

*[‘The materials of war’. Ed. ]

*[A resort on south coast of the Isle of Wight known for its mild climate. Ed. ]

*[A link was a torch made of tow and pitch used for lighting people along the streets; thus link-boys – boys who provided this service. Ed. ]

*[As the subsequent reference to ‘Mrs Browning’s Portuguese sonnets’ (i.e. the ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’) makes clear, this is the edition of Poems published in two volumes by Chapman and Hall in November 1850. Ed. ]

43

Dies irae *

The world seemed to contract and then fall away, leaving me sundered from what had once been, and from what I had known and believed before.

I stood in that dreadful room rooted to the spot in disbelief, feeling hope and happiness drain out of me like blood from a severed vein. I must have closed my eyes momentarily, for I distinctly remember opening them again, and finding that Miss Carteret had got up from her chair, and was now standing by the sofa putting on her cloak. Perhaps she had been in jest – one of those little games that women sometimes like to play with those who adore them. Perhaps …

‘You cannot stay here, you know. You must leave immediately.’

Cold, cold! Hard and cold! Where was my dear girl, my sweet and loving Emily? Beautiful still – so wonderfully beautiful! But it was not her. This furious simulacrum was animated by a wholly different being, unrecognizable and dreadful.

‘Edward – Mr Glapthorn! Why do you not answer? Did you hear what I said?’

At last I found my tongue.

‘I heard, but I did not, and do not, understand.’

‘Then I shall tell you again. You must go now, or I shall call for assistance.’

Now her eyes were flashing fire, and her beautiful lips, those lips I had kissed so often, had pursed to a tight little pout. As she stood there, rigid and menacing, enveloped in her long black hooded cloak, she seemed like some sorceress of legend newly risen from the infernal depths; and for a moment I was afraid – yes, afraid. The change in her was so great, and so complete, that I could not conceive how it had come about. Like a photographic negative, what should have been light was now dark – dark as hell. Was she possessed? Had she gone suddenly mad? Perhaps it was I who should have called for assistance?

In a swirl of angry black, she headed for the door; and then it was as if I had woken suddenly from a dream. Sorceress? Humbug! This was plain villainy. I smelled it, and knew it for what it was.

Her hand was almost on the door-handle when I seized it and wrenched her towards me. We were face to face now, eye to eye, will to will.

‘Let me go, sir! You are hurting me!’ She struggled, but I had her fast.

‘A moment of your time, Miss Carteret.’

She saw the resolve in my eyes, and felt the superior strength of my grip; in a moment, she surrendered to the inevitable, and her resistance ceased.

‘Well, sir?’

‘Let us sit in our old seat in the window. It is such a pleasant place to talk.’ I held out a shepherding arm.

She threw off her cloak and walked over to the window-seat. Before joining her, I locked the door.

‘I see I am a prisoner,’ she said. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

‘You are pretty cool if I am,’ I replied, standing over her. She only gave a little shrug by way of reply, and looked out of the window at the rain-lashed gardens.

‘You mentioned a marriage,’ I continued. ‘To Mr Daunt. I don’t mind admitting that this comes as something of a surprise to me.’

‘Then you are a greater fool than we thought.’

I was determined to maintain an air of unconcerned bravado; but the truth was that I felt as helpless as a baby. Of course I had the advantage of physical strength; but what use was that? She had played me for a damned fool, right enough; and, once again, Phoebus Rainsford Daunt had taken what was rightfully mine. And then I suddenly found myself laughing uncontrollably, laughing so much that I had to wipe the tears away with my sleeve; laughing at my stupidity, my utter stupidity, for trusting her. If only I had taken Mr Tredgold’s advice!

She watched me for a while as I stumbled about the room, shaking with laughter like some maniac. Then she stood up, anger boiling up once more in her great black eyes.

‘You must let me go, sir,’ she said, ‘or it will be the worse for you. Unlock the door immediately!’

Ignoring her demand, I returned to where she was standing and threw her back into the window-seat. Her eyes began to dart round the room, as if she were looking for some means of escape, or perhaps for a weapon with which to attack me. If she had only smiled then, and confessed that it had all been a silly joke! I would have instantly folded her in my arms and forgiven her. But she did not smile. She sat bolt upright, breathing hard, her furious eyes wide open, larger than I had ever seen them before.

‘And may I enquire whether you love Mr Phoebus Daunt?’

‘Love him?’ She leaned her cheek against the glass, and a sudden calm came over her, almost as if she were in a trance.

‘I simply ask because you gave me the clear impression – as did your friend, Miss Buisson – that he was repellent to you.’

‘There is no word to describe what I feel for Phoebus. He is my sun, my moon, my stars. My life is his to command.’ Her breath had misted the pane, and she began slowly tracing out a letter, then another, and then a third and a fourth: P-H-O-E …

Stung now to real anger, I snatched her hand away and rubbed out the letters with my sleeve.

‘Why did you lie to me?’

Her reply was immediate.

‘Because you are nothing to me, compared to him; and because I needed to keep you fed with lies, until you delivered up to me the evidence of your true identity.’

She glanced towards the portrait of young Anthony Duport in his juvenile finery, hand on hip, a dark-blue sash across his chest. Her words were like a knife to the heart. In two strides, I was standing beneath the portrait. I took hold of it with one hand and attempted to open the cupboard it concealed with the other; but it was locked.

‘Would you like the key?’ She reached into her pocket. ‘I said I would keep everything safe.’ Smiling, she held out a little black key.

I saw her face, and knew then that all was lost; yet even in the agony of my despair, I took the key, inserted it in the lock of the cupboard, and the little panelled door swung open. Snatching up a candle from a nearby table, I peered inside. But I could see nothing. I stood closer and felt all around. The cupboard, of course, was empty.

‘You see,’ I heard her say. ‘All safe. No one will find your secrets now. No one.’

I did not have to ask where the papers were. He had them now. The keys that would have unlocked the gates of Paradise for me were now in my enemy’s hands.

And then I knew that I had been defeated; that every hope and dream I had cherished had been turned to dust and ashes.

What do you know? Nothing.

What have you achieved? Nothing.

Who are you? Nobody.

I was still standing with my back to her, staring into the empty cavity, when she spoke. Her voice had dropped to a rapt whisper.