Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

He turned and pulled angrily on the bell-rope that hung just behind his desk.

I made one last effort, though I knew it was too late.

‘My Lord, you must believe me. I am truly your son. I am the heir of your blood for which you have longed.’

‘You! My son! Look at you. You are not my son, sir. You are barely a gentleman by the state of your appearance. My only son died when he was seven years old. But I have an heir, thank God, who is every inch a gentleman; and though he does not have my blood, he is everything I could wish for in a son, and fit in all respects to assume the ancient name that I have the honour to bear.’

At that moment a knock came at the door, and Hooper reappeared.

‘Hooper, show this – gentleman – out. He is not to be admitted to this house again, under any circumstance.’

Look at me! Look at me! I cried inwardly. Do you not see her in me? Can you not see yourself? Is there nothing in these features to convince you that it is your own son, and not some adventuring impostor, who stands before you?

I tried to hold his gaze, willing him to see the truth. But his eyes were blank and cold. I picked up my hat, and turned away from him. As I reached the door, I gave a brief half-glance back. He was sitting at his desk again, and had taken up his pen.

*[‘Said, and done’ (Terence, Heautontimorumenos). Ed.]

45

Vindex *

I walked away from Evenwood for the last time, through the drizzle and the dark, stopping only once as I reached the Western Gates to look back at the many-towered palace that I had once dreamed would be mine.

The lamps on the Library Terrace had been lit – it was Lord Tansor’s inveterate habit to walk there every evening, whatever the weather, with his dog. Above, in my mother’s old apartments, a light gleamed. She was there – my dearest love was there! And then I felt such a weight of sadness descend upon my spirit, crushing every vestige of hope in me. I took one final, lingering look at the place that had brought me to such despair, and then turned my back on it for ever. I had been stripped of everything due to me by right of birth. But one thing remained in my full possession: the will to bring Phoebus Daunt to account. To this new end, I would now devote myself, to the last ounce of my strength.

I began the next day.

My first task was to observe his movements. To accomplish this, I dressed myself in moleskin trousers, a greasy black coat, a coarse unbuttoned shirt, and a cap and dirty muffler, all purchased from a Jew-clothesman in Holywell-street, and spent several uncomfortable hours every day, loitering in the vicinity of Mecklenburgh-square, and following my enemy when he emerged. His daily routine varied little. Usually he would leave the house at about one o’clock and, if the weather permitted, walk to the Athenaeum in Pall Mall; at three o’clock on the dot he would take a cab back to Mecklenburgh-square, emerging again between five and six to walk or take another cab somewhere for dinner – sometimes to the Divan Tavern in the Strand, or perhaps to Verrey’s or Jaquet’s. *He usually dined alone, and never returned home later than ten o’clock. A light would burn in one of the upper rooms for several hours – some new dreary epic, I expected, was being given to the world. I never saw any visitors come to the house; and, to my infinite relief, there was no sign of Miss Carteret.

I continued to brave cold and hunger – and the indignity of seeming to belong to that vagabond class of Londoner who live and die in the streets of the metropolis – until, on the fifth day, towards six o’clock, just as I was about to give up and return to Temple-street, I saw my quarry leave his house and make his way westwards towards Gower-street. Pulling my hat down, I followed him.

I was close now – close enough to see his black beard and the shimmer on his silk hat as he passed under a lamp. He walked with a determinedly confident air, swinging his stick, his long coat trailing out behind him like a king’s train. It had been four years and more since I had seen him playing croquet with a tall dark-haired lady at Evenwood. Dear God! I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing, for the first time, that it had all been laid out before my very eyes on that hot June afternoon in 1850, and I had failed to see it: Phoebus Daunt and his beautiful croquet partner – my enemy and my dearest love. Seething inwardly, with my eye fixed on his retreating form, I continued shadowing him.

He swung south to Bedford-square, and thence down St Martin’s-lane until he came at last to Bertolini’s in St Martin’s-street, Leicester-square, which he entered. I took up my position just across the street. The two pocket-pistols made for me by M. Honoré of Liège, which have accompanied me on all my midnight rambles about the city, were in readiness. There was no moon that night, and sufficient fog to make escape certain.

Two hours later, he stepped out into the street again, with another fellow. They shook hands, and his companion walked off towards Pall Mall, while Daunt took his way northwards. In Broad-street, he turned into a narrow lane, lit by a single gas-lamp at the far end.

I was no more than six or seven feet behind him, but he had no idea I was there – my years as Mr Tredgold’s private agent had taught me how to pursue someone without their being at all aware of my presence, and I was confident that I remained invisible to him. The lane was deserted. I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of the pistols. A few steps more. My shoes were wrapped in rags so that my steps made no sound. He stopped, just under the lamp, to light a cigar – a perfectly illuminated target. Hidden in a doorway, I raised the pistol and brought my aim to bear on the back of his head, just above the collar of his coat.

But nothing happened. My hand was shaking. Why could I not pull the trigger? I took aim again, but by now he had moved out of the yellow arc of light, and in a moment had disappeared into the darkness.

I remained standing in the doorway, gun in hand and still trembling, for several minutes.

I had done many things in my life of which, God knows, I was ashamed; but I had never yet killed a man. Yet I had imagined, foolishly, that it would be easy for me, I who had seen violence done in the course of my work, simply to raise my pistol and blow his brains out, relying on my hate and rage to carry me through. Was I so weak after all? Had my will been overruled by conscience? I had had him where I wanted him, my hated enemy; and something had held me back, though my thirst to be revenged on him remained as sharp as ever. Then I told myself that there is little in this world that may not be mastered with study and application; and murder is perhaps the least of challenges, if the injury be great enough, and the will sufficient. Conscience, if that is what had stayed my hand, must be stamped down.

I replaced the pistol in my pocket, and began to make my way back to Temple-street. I was badly shaken. I considered once more whether I was really capable of such a deed. Might not my courage fail me, as it had just done, when the moment came to strike the fatal blow? The mere act of mentally posing the question engendered another little thrill of doubt. Surely I would not flinch a second time? There – again: that momentary prick of apprehension.

Shocked to the core by my inability to do what I wished to do above all things, I stumbled off, arriving at last at the opium-master’s door in Bluegate-fields.

Oh God, what dreams came to me that night – dreams so terrible that I cannot bear to set them down! I ended by raving wildly for an hour or more, so that a doctor had to be called, to administer a strong sleeping draught. When I awoke, it seemed as if I had been laid on a soft bed. A cold salty breeze flowed over my face, and I could hear the cry of sea birds, and the sound of water lapping. Where was I? Surely I was in my old bed at Sandchurch again, with the little round window open to let in the morning air from the Channel? Slowly, I opened my eyes.