The Meaning of Night

and then go on to Peterborough. But I shall be back in good time for tea. Shall we say three o’clock?’

^*[‘May he rest [in peace]’. Ed.]

^*[John Snetzler (1710–85), the German-born organ builder to George III. Ed.]

^*[A form of divination that consisted of taking the first passage from Homer, or, later, Virgil, that the eye fell upon as an indication of future events. The Bible was also so used. Ed.]

^*[Bibliotheca Duportiana. A Descriptive Catalogue of the Library Established by William Perceval Duport, 23rd Baron Tansor, by the Reverend A.B. Daunt, MA (Cantab). With an Annotated Hand- list of Manuscripts in the Duport Collection by P.A.B. Carteret (privately printed, 4 vols, 1841). Ed.]

22

Locus delicti^*

After leaving Dr Daunt, I was admitted to the Dower House by Mrs Rowthorn. As I was ambling towards the stair-case, I noticed that one of the doors leading off the vestibule was ajar.

Now, I cannot resist a half-opened door – just as I am unable to stop myself from peeping into a lighted and uncurtained window as I pass it on a dark night. The desired privacy proclaimed by a deliberately closed door I can respect; but not if it is half open. That, for me, is an invitation that I will always accept. This one was especially tempting, for I knew that it must lead into the room in which Miss Carteret had been playing the piano-forte the previous evening.

I continued on my way, but waited on the first-floor landing for a moment or two until I was sure that the housekeeper had returned to the lower regions of the house, then quickly descended the stairs again, and entered the room.

The atmosphere was close, heavy, and silent. The instrument I had heard – a fine Broadwood six-octave grand – stood before the far window. On it, opened, as if ready to be played, was a piece of music: an Etude by Chopin. I turned over the pages, but it was not the piece that I had heard the night before. I looked about me. The pale blinds had been drawn down, and through them the morning sun cast a muted silver light about the room. My eye picked out three or four dark-velvet ottomans and matching chairs, with coloured cushions of Berlin-work scattered upon them; the walls, hung with a rich red self-patterned wall-paper, were covered with a profusion of portraits, prints, and silhouettes. A number of round tables, covered in chenille cloths and laden with a variety of japanned and papier-mache boxes, pottery ornaments, and bronze figurines, were placed here and there amongst the chairs and ottomans, whilst above the fireplace, to the right of the door, hung an umbrageous seventeenth-century depiction of Evenwood.

The comfortable but unremarkable character of the room left me feeling a little cheated until I noticed, lying under the piano-forte, two or three half-torn sheets of music, which appeared to have been violently ripped out of a larger compilation. I walked over to the instrument, and bent down to pick up the remnants.

‘Do you play, Mr Glapthorn?’

Miss Emily Carteret stood in the doorway, looking at me as I was picking up the ripped sheets to place them on the piano-stool.

‘Not as well as you, I fear,’ I said, truthfully, though the note sounded false, a pathetic attempt at gallantry. But my words had an effect on her nonetheless, for she began to look at me with a strange concentration of expression, as if she were waiting for me to confess some mean action.

‘You heard me playing last evening, I suppose. I hope I did not disturb you.’

‘Not in the least. I found it extremely affecting. A most satisfying accompaniment to the close contemplation of a twilit garden.’

I meant her to know that I had not only heard her playing, but had also witnessed the rendezvous with her lover in the Plantation; but she simply remarked, in a flat, vacant tone, that I did not give the impression of possessing a contemplative disposition.

I immediately regretted the cynical tone that I had adopted, for I saw now that her face was drawn, with dark rings around the eyes that betokened long hours of sleeplessness. Her manner had less of the frigidity of our first encounter, although I remained wary of the way that her eyes slowly but constantly scrutinized my person with judicial intensity, like a prosecuting counsel cross-examining a hostile witness. But the burden of her grief was now apparent. She was human, after all; and what could have prepared her for this, the senseless slaughter of her father? It was not in her nature to speak her misery – I saw that clearly; but the o’er-fraught heart^* must somehow find expression, or it will break.

She picked up the torn pieces of music that I had placed on the piano-stool.

‘A favourite piece of my father’s,’ she said, though offering no explanation as to why the sheets had been spoiled in this way. ‘Are you an admirer of Chopin, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘In general, I prefer the music of earlier times – the elder Bach, for instance; but I attended Monsieur Chopin’s concert at Lord Falmouth’s …’

‘July ’forty-eight,’ she broke in. ‘But I was there, too!’

At this, I recounted how I had found myself in London in the summer of that year, soon after taking up residence in Camberwell, and had happened to see an advertisement for the recital. The coincidence of our both being present that evening to hear the maestro play produced a distinct change in her. Her look softened somewhat, and as we talked about our separate recollections of the evening, a faint smile would occasionally moderate the severity of her expression.

‘Miss Carteret,’ I said softly, as I was taking my leave, ‘I hope you will not think it presumptuous of me if I beg you – once more – to see me as a friend, for I truly wish to be so. You have told me that you neither want nor need my sympathy, but I fear I must presume to give it to you, whether you will or no. Please will you let me?’

She said nothing, but at least she did not rebuff me, as formerly; and so, emboldened, I pressed on.

‘I have despatched my report to Mr Tredgold, and so shall return to Stamford this evening, and take train to London tomorrow. But, if I may, I hope you will allow me to return for your father’s funeral. I shall not, of course, presume on your hospitality …’

‘Of course you may return, Mr Glapthorn,’ she interrupted, ‘and I shall not hear of your staying anywhere tonight but here. You will forgive me, I hope, for being so cold with you before. It is my nature, I fear, to let very