The Meaning of Night

spill it.’

I looked quizzically at the girl, who blushed slightly before speaking.

‘We have come to tell you, sir, that I am to be married, and to thank you for all you have done for us.’

She bobbed sweetly, giving me such a fond and modest look as she did so, that it fair made my heart melt.

‘And who is your husband to be, Dorrie?’ I asked.

‘If you please, sir, his name is Martlemass, Geoffrey Martlemass.’

‘A most excellent name. Mrs Geoffrey Martlemass. So far, so good. And what sort of a man is Mr Martlemass?’

‘A good and kind man, sir,’ she replied, unable to hold back a smile.

‘Better yet. And what does good and kind Mr Geoffrey Martlemass do?’

‘He is a clerk, sir, to Mr Gillory Piggott, of Gray’s-Inn.’

‘A legal gentleman! Mr Martlemass holds a pretty full hand, I see. Well, I congratulate you, Dorrie, on your good fortune in finding good, kind Mr Martlemass. But you must tell him that I shall expect no nonsense from him, and that if he does not love you as you deserve, he shall have me to answer to.’

A little more good-humoured raillery on my part followed, after which Dorrie ran off to fetch in some breakfast, Mrs Grainger set to with mop and bucket, and I repaired to my bedchamber to wash my face and change my linen.

With breakfast over, and my chin shaved, I felt revived and ready for the day. Dorrie was off to meet her beau at Gray’s-Inn, and that piece of information immediately settled the matter of what I would do with myself for the next few hours.

‘If you will allow me, Dorrie,’ I said gallantly, ‘I’ll escort you.’

I offered her my arm, an act that appeared to amaze Mrs Grainger greatly, and off we went.

It was a clear bright morning, though there was a stiff breeze off the river. As we walked, Dorrie spoke a little more of Mr Geoffrey Martlemass, whom I began to conceive as a dependable sort of fellow, if a little serious in his outlook, an impression confirmed when we encountered a small man of notably anxious mien, distinguished by a pair of magnificently bushy mutton-chops,^* standing by the entrance to Field-court.

‘Dorothy, my love,’ he cried, in an anguished tone, on seeing us. ‘You are past your time. Whatever has happened?’

Dorrie, releasing her arm from mine and taking his, laughed and chided him gently that it was only a minute or two beyond the hour appointed, and that he must not worry so about her.

‘Worry? But naturally I worry,’ he said, apparently distraught that he could ever be thought too solicitous for the welfare of one so precious. We were introduced, and Mr Martlemass, Dorrie’s senior by some years, removed his hat (revealing an almost perfectly bald pate except for two little tufts of hair above each ear) and made a low bow, before grasping my hand and shaking it so vigorously that Dorrie had to tell him to stop.

‘You, sir,’ he said, with great solemnity, replacing his hat and throwing back his shoulders, ‘have the appearance of a man, and yet I know you to be a saint. You amaze me, sir. I thought the age of miracles had passed; but here you are, a living, breathing saint, walking the streets of London.’

In this wise, Mr Martlemass began to heap praises upon my head for, as he put it, ‘rescuing Dorothy and her estimable parent from certain death or worse’. I did not enquire of him what he conceived could be worse than death; but the warmth of his gratitude for the little I had done to remove Dorrie from the life in which I had first found her was most apparent, and rather affecting. I then learned that he was a member of a small philanthropical society that took an especial interest in the rescue and rehabilitation of fallen females, as well as being a churchwarden at St Bride’s,^† where he had first encountered Dorrie. Normally I cannot abide a treacly do-gooder, but there was a simple sincerity about Mr Martlemass that I could not help but admire.

I let the little man rattle on, which he seemed determined to do, but at last proclaimed that I must leave them, and so made to go.

‘Oh, Mr Martlemass,’ I said, turning back as though struck by an afterthought. ‘I believe an old College friend of mine has chambers in Gray’s-Inn. We have lost touch, and I would so like to see him again. I wonder whether you know him by any chance – Mr Lewis Pettingale?’

‘Mr Pettingale? You don’t say so! Why, certainly I know the gentleman. He has the set above my employer, Mr Gillory Piggott, QC. Mr Piggott is in Court today,’ he added, lowering his voice somewhat, ‘which is why I have been allowed to take an hour or so for an early fish ordinary at the Three Tuns^* with my intended. Mr Piggott is a most considerate employer.’

He directed me to a black-painted door in a range of red-brick houses on the far side of the court. I thanked him, and said that I would try to call on Mr Pettingale the next day, as I had some urgent business to attend to in another part of town.

We parted, and I walked off towards Gray’s-Inn-lane, dirty and dismal even on such a bright day. Stopping at a book-stall, I began idly turning over the mouldering tomes there displayed (ever hopeful, like all bibliophiles, of unearthing some great rarity). After five or ten minutes, I returned to Field-court.

The court was deserted, the love-birds had flown; and so through the black door I went, and up the stairs.

^*[‘Suspicion’. Ed.]

^*[The Sultan to whom Scheherazade tells her stories in The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. Ed.]

^*[Side-whiskers, narrow at the ears, broad and rounded at the lower jaw. Ed.]

^†[In Fleet Street. Designed by Wren and completed in 1703. Ed.]

^*[The Three Tuns Tavern was in Billingsgate. Its celebrated fish ‘ordinaries’ – i.e. fixed-price