Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

I tried to force myself to think of other things – of Bella, and what she would be doing. Tonight, I knew, there was to have been a dinner at Blithe Lodge for one of the most distinguished members of The Academy, the Earl of B—. The best silver would be out, and Mrs D would be resplendent in garnet and pearls, and sporting the remarkable peacock-feathered headdress that she always wore on such occasions, as signifying her supreme position in the body politic of The Academy. I imagined Bella wearing her blue silk dress, her favourite Castellani necklace *encircling her wonderful neck, a wreath of white artificial rose-buds nestling in her abundant black hair. The company would ask her to play and sing, and of course she would charm every man there. Some would even half believe they were in love with her.

I closed my eyes, but still the sleep that I craved eluded me. I remained in this state for perhaps an hour, half awake, half dozing, until the striking of the gate-house clock roused me. Now fully alert, and as far from sleep as ever, I was considering what to do with myself when my ears caught a strange sound. I thought perhaps it might be the wind, but on looking out of the window again, I could see that the branches of the trees in the Plantation were barely moving. Silence descended once more, but in a few moments it came again – an urgent whimpering, such as I have heard dogs make in their sleep.

I rose and put my boots on. Candle in hand, I opened the door.

The passage outside my room was dark, the house deathly silent. To my right was the main stair-case leading down to the vestibule; ahead, the passage ran almost the length of the house. On my left I made out two doors, leading, I presumed, to rooms that, like mine, overlooked the front lawn; another room opposite – which I later learned was Mr Carteret’s study – clearly gave onto the gardens at the rear. As I proceeded slowly down the passage, I saw that, at the far end, it made a turn to the right, towards the back of the house.

For a few moments I stood listening intently, but there was no sound to be heard, and so I began to retrace my steps a little more rapidly. To prevent the flickering flame from being extinguished, I cupped my hand around the candle, which immediately produced huge shadow-fingers that slid silently across the walls and doors on either side as I passed. Then, as I reached the second of the doors on the front side of the house, I heard it again, like a soft, involuntary moan. Placing the candle-holder on the floor, I kneeled down, my boots creaking slightly. The key-hole had a little brass cover but it was fixed fast; and so I put my ear to the door.

Silence. I waited, hardly daring to draw breath. What was that? A rustling noise, like a silken garment falling to the floor; a moment later, I began to catch what sounded like fragments of a whispered conversation. I strained to hear what was being said, pressing my ear closer to the door, and squinting my eyes in concentration; but I could make nothing out until—

‘Mais il est mort. Mort!’ *

No longer a whisper, but an anguished cry – her cry! Then, tenderly urgent, came the reply from another voice:

‘Sois calme, mon ange! Personne ne sait.’ †

Again the conversation subsided to a whisper on both sides, and only occasionally, when one or the other of the speakers raised their voice a little, was I able to catch more than a word or two.

‘Il ne devrait pas s’être produit …’

‘Qu’a-t-il dit? …’

‘Qu’est-ce que je pourrais faire? … Je ne pourrais pas lui dire la vérité …’

‘Mais que fera-t-il?…’

‘ Il dit qu’il le trouvera …’

‘Mon Dieu, qu’est-ce que c’est que ça’?’ *

In moving my position a little way, to ease the cramp in my leg, I had knocked over the candle-holder, putting out the flame in the process. Instantly, I heard footsteps inside the room hurrying towards the door. There was no time to return to my own room, and so, hastily gathering up the candle-holder, I ran as quickly as I could back down the passage, reaching the point at the far end where it turned sharply towards the rear part of the house just as the door opened.

I could not see them, but I imagined two frightened faces peering out, and anxiously looking up and down the passage. At length, I heard the door being closed, and a few moments later I ventured my head round the angle of the wall to confirm that the coast was clear.

Back in my room, I immediately sat down and wrote out as much of the conversation between Miss Carteret and her friend as I could remember. Like a scholar working on fragments of some ancient text, I sought to fill in the lacunae to make sense of what I had heard, but without success; my incomplete and disconnected transcriptions – set out above – refused to yield up their secrets. Convinced now that I was seeing mystery and conspiracy where there was none, I walked to the window to look out once again on the moonlit garden.

Miss Carteret, Miss Carteret! I was completely, preposterously, bewitched by my beautiful cousin, though I hated myself for the absurdity of it all. It had happened in two days – only two days! It was mere infatuation, I told myself yet again. Forget her. You have Bella, who is everything you could want or need. Why expend precious time on this cold thing, time that ought to be given to the accomplishment of your great enterprise?

But whoever heeds the voice of reason when love whispers, softly persuasive, in the other ear?

I was awoken early by Mrs Rowthorn knocking at my door with a tray of breakfast, as I had requested.

On descending to the vestibule half an hour later, I looked into the dining-room, and then into the two reception rooms at the front of the house; but there was no sign of either Miss Carteret or her friend, Mademoiselle Buisson. A little French clock on the mantel-piece was chiming half past seven as I opened the front door, and stepped out into a cold, dull morning.

I was drawing deeply on my first cigar of the day, in the hope that strong tobacco would have the required stimulative effect on my sluggish faculties, when Brine brought my horse round from the stable-yard. He wished me a safe journey, and I asked whether he had seen Miss Carteret that morning.

‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Not this morning. She gave orders to my sister that she would be late coming down, and that she was not to be disturbed.’

‘Please give Miss Carteret my compliments.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘You have the address safe that I gave you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

I mounted up, and was riding off under the dark echoing arch of the Scottish gate-house when I reined in my mount. Turning the horse, I galloped back into the Park.

Pushing on up the long incline, and through the avenue of oaks at its summit, I pulled up and looked down across the misty river to where Evenwood lay.

It was a day of lead-grey louring cloud, with a cold east wind sighing through the leafless trees; yet even on such a day, my heart was captivated by the beauty of the house – this place of desire and delights. When would the day come that I would enter it as Master, and my feet stand secure within its gates at last?

As I passed the Rectory, I saw Dr and Mrs Daunt, arm in arm, walking up the lane from the church. On seeing me, the Rector stopped and raised his hat in salute, which gesture I returned in kind. His wife, however, immediately disengaged her arm, and walked off alone down the lane.

In another moment I had left Evenwood, and Miss Emily Carteret, behind.

After a cold, damp ride, I turned into the High Street in Stamford at a little before nine o’clock. Returning my nag to the ostler at the George, I then arranged with the hall-porter for my bags to be carried across to the Town Station in time for the next train to Peterborough. The ride had cleared my head, lightened my mood, and sharpened my appetite; and so, having an hour in hand, I cheerily ordered up chops, bacon, and eggs, and a pot of strong coffee, and settled myself in a box by the fire in one of the public rooms to read the daily news-papers until it was time to stroll over to the station.