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!
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,
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.
‘I have a great deal of work to occupy me at the moment,’ I said in answer to her enquiry. ‘I shall be more myself when it is all done.’
‘My poor Eddie! You must not work so hard, you know. It will make you ill. Come and lay your head on my lap.’ When I had settled myself at her feet, she began to run her long fingers gently through my hair as she sang an Italian lullaby, and for a few sweet minutes I was a child again, listening to the cry of sea birds, and the wind coming in from the Channel as my mother read me to sleep.
I should have resisted her tender ministrations, and told her the stark truth; but honesty continued to seem the greater evil when dissimulation spared her from pain. And as time went by, I began to perceive that my heart had not been entirely conquered by Miss Carteret; that there yet remained a place in it – small and sequestered – for Isabella Gallini, of blessed memory.
As the spring of 1854 came on, I began to suggest little outings to Miss Carteret. Would she and her aunt feel inclined to go the Opera, or to a concert at the Hanover-square Rooms? What would she think about mounting an expedition to view the Assyrian antiquities at the British Museum? All my proposals, however, were regretfully, but firmly, declined. Then one morning, just as I was despairing of ever getting her out of the confines of her aunt’s house, she suddenly expressed a wish to see the snakes in the Zoological Gardens. ‘I have never seen a snake in my life,’ she said, ‘and would very much like to do so. Can it be arranged?’
‘Most certainly,’ I said. ‘When shall we go?’
The visit was set for the following week, the 12th of April. Mrs Manners was otherwise engaged, and so, to my joy, we went alone. The rattle-snakes, in particular, delighted her, and she stood entranced for several minutes without saying a word. Later, we walked and talked in the sunshine as if we had not a care in the world. She laughed at the hippopotamus, which suddenly plunged into its bath, liberally soaking everyone close by with cold water, and clapped her hands in amusement at the pelicans being fed. As we were leaving the Gardens, descending a short flight of steps, she lost her footing, and reached out to me to prevent herself from falling down. I grasped her hand tightly until she had regained her balance; but I did not let go, and she did not pull away, not immediately. For some moments we stood a little awkwardly, hand in hand, and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she gently released herself and placed her arm through mine as we walked on.
‘Where shall we go now?’ she asked. ‘It is such a beautiful day, and I do not wish to go home quite yet.’
‘Might you like to see St Paul’s?’
When we arrived at the cathedral, after observing a notice setting out the charges, she expressed an immediate determination to ascend to the Golden Gallery. I tried to dissuade her, knowing the final part of the ascent to be dirty and awkward, and unsuitable, in my view, for a lady to attempt. But she would not be put off; and so, much against my judgment, we paid our sixpences, and began to mount the steps to the Whispering Gallery. Here we paused for breath.
‘What shall we whisper?’ she asked, placing her mouth against the cold stone.
‘You have to speak, not whisper,’ I said. ‘Run, then. See if you can hear.’
And so I ran over to the other side of the gallery, placed my ear to the wall, and waved to indicate my
