The Meaning of Night

heart, to Le Grice, and we set about the consumption of oysters and champagne with a will. But eating oysters, Le Grice declared, only made him hungrier. He required meat and strong liquor, which, at this time of night, only Evans’s could supply. And so, a little before midnight, we arrived in King-street, Covent Garden.

The parallel lines of tables, laid out like a College hall, were still packed with boisterous supper-goers. The air was cloudy with the smoke of cigars (pipes being sensibly prohibited) and heavy with the aroma of grog and roasted meat. Adding to the convivial din of conversation and laughter, a group of singers on the stage was lustily delivering a six-part glee, their strong and splendid voices rising in a resonant crescendo above the incessant clatter of plates and the rattle of cutlery. All about us, the tables were piled high with steaming sausages, sizzling cayenned kidneys, leathery baked potatoes, and dozens of glistening fried eggs, like so many miniature suns. We called for peppered chops and bitter beer, but no sooner had they arrived than Le Grice was persuaded by some of the other fellows to sing a comic song.

As he made his way tipsily towards the stage, to raucous applause, I slipped quietly away. The rain was falling with renewed intent; but London, brilliant and beautifully vile, and the undemanding company of dear old Le Grice, had done their work.

I was myself again.

^*[‘By name’. Ed.]

^*[Built in 1816, it opened in May 1818 ‘under the patronage of H.R.H. Prince Leopold of Saxe- Coburg’, and was consequently known as the Royal Coburg Theatre. In July 1833 it was formally renamed the Royal Victoria Theatre. It was situated in Waterloo Bridge Road, Lambeth. Ed.]

3

Praemonitus, praemunitus^*

The following day, Bella and I walked out in the Regent’s Park. It was an unusually fine afternoon for October in London; and so, after looking at the elephants in the Zoological Gardens, we sat for some time by the ornamental water, talking and laughing in the pale autumn sunshine. Towards four o’clock, as the air began to grow chill, we made our way back towards the gates that led out into York-terrace.

Near the entrance to the gardens of the Toxophilite Society,^† Bella stopped and turned to me.

‘Kitty wishes me to go with her to Dieppe tomorrow.’

‘Dieppe? Whatever for?’

‘Dearest, I have told you before. It is where her mother was born, and she has determined to retire there. There is a house she has coveted this past year, and it is now for sale. She wishes me to go with her to view it.’

‘And you will go?’

‘But of course.’ She laid a gloved finger gently across my cheek. ‘You don’t mind, do you, dear? Say you don’t – it will only be for a day or so.’

Now even though the thought of not having the comfort of her dear person near me at this time of crisis unsettled me badly, I told her I did not mind in the least; but this, of course, was exactly what I should not have said, and I saw that she had taken exception to my feigned indifference, for she instantly removed her hand from my cheek and looked at me sternly.

‘Well, then,’ she replied, ‘I may as well stay on in Dieppe a little longer, as Kitty wishes me to. I’m sure there will be gentlemen aplenty who will be glad to entertain me.’

Now it is curious but it had never before troubled me that Bella’s profession required her to be, shall we say, companionable to other fellows; those services that she performed for Kitty Daley’s select circle of gentlemen had concerned me little. But my accommodating attitude, I already knew, had begun to irk her somewhat, and from time to time she had tried to arouse in me some spark of jealousy – which I believe ladies often interpret as a form of flattery. Her present attempt was transparent enough; but tonight, wrought to such a pitch by recent events, I was suddenly jealous of others enjoying that sweet body; and yet, in my confusion of mind, I found myself saying entirely the wrong thing.

‘You must do as you please,’ I told her, in a hard, careless tone. ‘I have no hold over you.’

‘Very well,’ said Bella, ‘I shall indeed please myself.’

With which she gathered up her skirts and walked angrily away.

Now this I could not allow, for I hated to see her upset and vexed; and so I called after her.

She turned. Her cheeks were reddened, and I saw clearly that I had hurt her.

I am not a monster. I could kill a stranger, but I could not bear to see Bella distressed, even though I had not treated her as she deserved. And so I folded her in my arms – it was growing dark, and we were alone on the stretch of path that led out of the Park – and kissed her tenderly.

‘Oh, Eddie,’ she said, tears welling up in her eyes, ‘do you not like me any more?’

‘Like you?’ I cried. ‘Of course I like you. More than – more than I can say.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly,’ I replied. I told her I hated myself for upsetting her so, that of course I would miss her while she was away, and that I would count the hours until she returned. It was the complete truth, but it brought forth a chiding laugh.

‘Now, now,’ she said in mock admonishment, ‘don’t come the poet with me, sir. An occasional thought in the course of the day will be quite sufficient.’

We kissed once more, but as she withdrew her lips from mine I saw again that look of seriousness in her eyes.

‘What is it, Bella?’ I asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

She hesitated for a moment. ‘No, not exactly wrong.’