The Meaning of Night

minutes to wait before the next train to London. As we rattled southwards, I felt a curious elation of spirits, as though a door – be it ever so small – had opened an inch or so, and let in a little gleam of precious light on the darkness through which I had been wandering.

Of Mr Lewis Pettingale’s guilt in the clever conspiracy described to me by Dr Maunder, I had not the least doubt; but it was clear that he had not worked alone. This Leonard Verdant, now: he had been a co-conspirator I was sure, a conclusion indicated, I thought, by his possession of a most unlikely name, concealing – whom? I had my suspicions, but they could not yet be tested. And then there was Mr Phoebus Daunt. Ah, Phoebus, the radiant one, unsullied and incorrupt! There he stood, as ever, whistling innocently in the shadows. Was he as guilty as his friend Pettingale and the elusive Mr Verdant? If so, what other iniquities did he have to his credit? At last, I began to sense that I was gaining ground on my enemy; that I had been given something that might, perhaps, give me the means I needed to destroy him.

Yet with regard to more pressing matters, all this was of scant comfort. I was returning to London with no more knowledge of why Mr Carteret had written his letter to Mr Tredgold than when I had started out; and the expectations that I had cherished that the secretary might be in possession of information to support my cause had also been shattered by his death. The only certainty I had brought back was that what Mr Carteret knew concerning the Tansor succession had led, directly or indirectly, to this catastrophe. As for me, what a change had been wrought in the matter of a few days! I had left London believing that I might be falling in love with Bella. I returned the helpless slave of another, in whose presence I constantly burned to be, and for love of whom I must turn my back on the certainty of happiness.

Do not ask me why I loved Miss Carteret. How can such an instantaneous passion be explained? She seemed beautiful to my eyes, certainly, more beautiful than anyone I had known in my life. Though I knew little of her character and disposition, she seemed to possess a discerning, well-stocked mind, and I knew from direct experience that she could claim musical ability well above the common. These accomplishments – and no doubt others of which I was yet unaware – were worthy of admiration and respect, of course; but I did not love her for them. I loved her because – because I loved her; because I could not help succumbing to this irresistible contagion of the heart. I loved her because choice was denied me by some greater force. I loved her because it was my fate to do so.

^*[‘Let us be judged by our actions’. Ed.]

^†[King’s is the neighbouring College to St Catharine’s. Ed.]

^‡[The Magus (1801) by Francis Barrett, born between 1770 and 1780, is a seminal work on the subject of magic and occult philosophy. The Preface states that it was written ‘chiefly for the information of those who are curious and indefatigable in their enquiries into occult knowledge; we have, at a vast labour and expense, both of time and charges, collected whatsoever can be deemed curious and rare, in regard to the subject of our speculations in Natural Magic – the Cabala – Celestial and Ceremonial Magic – Alchymy – and Magnetism’. Ed.]

^*[‘Under guardianship or scholastic discipline’; i.e. undergraduates. Ed.]

^†[Alexander Wale of St John’s College, then Senior Proctor. The incident took place in April 1829. Ed.]

^*[i.e. sent down from the university for a specified time. Ed.]

PART THE FOURTH

The Breaking of the Seal

October–November 1853

Nothing wraps a man in such a mist of errors, as his

own curiosity in searching things beyond him.

Owen Felltham, Resolves (1623), xxvii,

‘Of Curiosity in Knowledge’

29

Suspicio^*

That night, I took my supper at Quinn’s – oysters, a lobster, some dried sprats on the side, followed by a bottle of the peerless Clos Vougeot from the Hotel de Paris. It was still early, and the Haymarket had not yet put on its midnight face. Through the window I contemplated the usual metropolitan bustle, the familiar panorama of unremarkable people doing unremarkable things, which you may see out of any window in London at eight o’clock on a Friday evening. But in a few hours’ time, after the crowds had poured out of the Theatre, taken their supper at Dubourg’s or the Cafe de l’Europe, and made their laughing way home to warmth and comfort, this broad and glittering thoroughfare of shops, restaurants, and cigar-divans would take on a very different aspect, transformed then into a heaving, swollen river of the damned. What is your pleasure, sir? You may find it here, or hereabouts, with little trouble, at any hour of the night after St Martin’s Church has tolled the final stroke of twelve. Liquor in which to drown; tobacco and song; boys or girls, or both – the choice is yours. Ah! How often have I thrown myself into that continually replenished stream!

Evenwood! Had I dreamed thee? Here, lying at my ease once more on the scaly back of Great Leviathan, feeling the monster’s deep, slow breath beneath me, its rumbling pulsing heart beating in time with my own, the things that I had so recently seen and heard and touched now seemed as real in imagination, and as unreal in fact, as the palace of Schahriar.^* And had I truly breathed the same air as Miss Emily Carteret, when I had stood so close to her that I could see the rise and fall of her breast, so close that I only had to stretch out my fingers to caress that pale flesh?

I loved her. That was the plain and simple truth. It had come upon me suddenly on swift wings, pitiless as death: inescapable, and undeniable. I felt no joy at my new condition, for how can the conquered slave be joyful? I loved her, without hope that she would ever return my love. I loved her, and it was bitter to me that I must break my dearest Bella’s heart. For there is no mistress like Love. And what cares she for those who suffer when their dearest one betrays them for love of another? Love only smiles a conqueror’s smile, to see her kingdom advanced.

A second bottle of the Clos Vougeot was perhaps a mistake, and at a little after ten o’clock I walked out into the street, somewhat unsteadily, with a light head and a heavy heart. It had begun to rain and, assailed by melancholy thoughts, and feeling a great need for company, I headed off to Leadenhall-street, in the hope of finding Le Grice taking his usual Friday supper at the Ship and Turtle. He had been there, as I had expected, but I had missed him by a matter of minutes, and no one could tell me where he had gone. Cursing, I found myself back in the street again. Normally, in such a mood of restless melancholy, I would have taken myself northwards, to Blithe Lodge; but I was too much of a coward to face Bella just yet. I would need a little time, to regain some composure, and to learn dissimulation.

Down to Trafalgar-square through the dirt and murk I wandered, and then eastwards along the Strand –