The Meaning of Night

‘Miss Carteret—’

‘Oh, Mr Glapthorn, I am so sorry.’

‘No, no, no. You must not be sorry. Are you quite well? Shall I call for Mrs Rowthorn?’

My heart broke to see her in such open distress, though my pity for her contended with boiling rage for what Daunt had brought her to. He might not have been an active participant in Mr Carteret’s death, but the conviction remained that he had been implicated in it. And so the responsibility for one more injury was added to his account, which I swore must soon be called in for settlement.

In answer to my solicitations, Miss Carteret insisted that she required nothing and began to wipe away her tears. In a moment or two she had composed herself and was asking me, with every appearance of cheerful interest, when I was to return to London. I said that I would be staying in Easton that night and would leave in the morning.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, as a violent gust of wind rattled one of the windows. ‘You cannot walk back to Easton in this weather. John Brine would take you, but one of the horses is lame. You must stay the night. I insist.’

Of course, I objected that I could not possibly trespass on her kindness, but she would have none of it. She immediately rang for Mrs Rowthorn, and asked her to prepare a room and lay another place for dinner.

‘You will not mind our dining a deux, I hope, Mr Glapthorn?’ she asked. ‘It is a little scandalous, I know, having no one to chaperone me; but I have little time for tiresome conventions. If a lady wishes to dine with a gentleman in her own home, then it is surely no concern of anyone else’s. Besides, company is rare at the Dower House these days.’

‘But I think you spoke of having friends in the neighbourhood?’

‘My friends keep a respectful distance at this sad time, and I have little taste for going out. I think perhaps we are alike, Mr Glapthorn. We prefer our own company best.’

Dinner alone with Miss Emily Carteret! How extraordinary it was to find myself seated opposite her in the panelled dining-room overlooking the gardens at the back of the Dower House, and to hear myself talking to her with a degree of familiarity that I could not have imagined possible only a few hours earlier. We began to discuss the events of the day, including, of course, the late action at Sinope,^* and found ourselves in agreement that Russia needed to be taught a lesson – it rather surprised, as well as pleased, me that Miss Carteret’s bellicosity was even more pronounced than mine. The Heir of Redclyffe^†was then dissected – to its disadvantage – and Mr Ruskin’s views on the Gothic style of architecture considered and commended in every respect.^* We laughed; we disputed, now seriously, now facetiously; we discovered that we liked a great many things in common, and disliked a great many more. We found that we were both intolerant of stupidity and dullness, and equally enraged by wanton ignorance. An hour flew by; then two. Ten o’clock had just chimed when, having removed ourselves to the drawing-room, I asked my hostess whether she would be kind enough to play.

‘Some Chopin, perhaps,’ I suggested. ‘I remember so well, on my first visit to the Dower House, hearing you play something by him – a Nocturne, I think.’

‘No,’ she corrected, colouring slightly. ‘A Prelude. Number 15, in D flat, called “The Raindrop”.^† Unfortunately, I no longer have the music. Perhaps something else. Let me sing to you instead.’

She hurried over to the piano-forte, as if anxious not to dwell on the memory of that evening, and began to deliver a passionate rendition of Herr Schumann’s ‘An meinem Herzen, an meiner Brust’,^‡ to a delicate accompaniment. Her singing voice was deep and rich, but overlaid with an enchanting softness of tone. She played and sang with closed eyes, having both the music and the words by heart. When she had finished, she shut the lid and sat for a moment looking towards the window. The blind had been drawn down, but she continued to stare at the blank fabric, as if she could see straight through it, across the lawn, and through the Plantation, to some distant object of the most intense interest.

‘You sing from the heart, Miss Carteret,’ I said.

She did not answer me, but continued to stare at the blind.

‘Perhaps the piece holds a special meaning for you?’

She turned towards me.

‘Not at all. But you appear to be asking another question.’

‘Another question?’

‘Yes. You ask whether the piece holds a special meaning for me, but really you wish to know something else.’

‘I see you have the measure of me,’ I said, pulling up a chair. ‘You are right. I do wish to know something, but now I am ashamed by my presumptuousness. Please forgive me.’

She gave a little smile before replying. ‘Friends are allowed to be a little presumptuous, Mr Glapthorn – even such new ones as we are. Now put your scruples aside, and tell me what you wish to know.’

‘Very well. I have been curious – though it is no business of mine, no business whatsoever – as to the identity of the man I saw you talking to in the Plantation, on the evening of my first visit. I happened to be standing by the window, you see, and observed you. But you do not need to answer. I have no right—’

She coloured, and I apologized for my forwardness; but she quickly came back.

‘Do you really ask out of mere curiosity, Mr Glapthorn, or from some other motive?’

I felt trapped by her questioning stare and, as I invariably do on such occasions, resorted to bluster.

‘Oh no, I am incorrigibly inquisitive, that is all. It is a strength in many respects, but in others I am keenly aware that it is a rather vulgar failing of mine.’

‘I applaud your frankness,’ she said, ‘and you shall be rewarded for it. The gentleman you saw was Mr George Langham, the brother of one of my oldest friends, Miss Henrietta Langham. I’m afraid you witnessed the final dissolution of Mr Langham’s romantic hopes. He proposed to me – secretly – some months ago, but I refused him. He came again that night, not knowing that my father—’