by Michael Cox
I begin to fret, and am kept awake night after night by vague fears. But what is there to be fearful of? The race is won, or nearly so. Why, then, do I feel so restless and abandoned?
Then my demons start to whisper and chatter, reminding me of what is always available, just beyond the confines of my room, to blot out my fears. For a time, I resist them; but then, one night, when the fog is so thick that I cannot see the roofs of the houses opposite, they finally get the better of me.
The fog, however, is no impediment; I would know my way blindfolded. The subdued throb of the great city surges all around, though nothing can be seen but dim human shapes, appearing out of the gloom and immediately disappearing into it, like shuffling phantoms, their faces illuminated momentarily by the smoky flare of the link-boys’ torches,* or by the feeble light of gas-lamps in houses and shop windows. These living forms I can at least see, though briefly and indistinctly, and sometimes feel them as we bump into each other; I can only hear and sense, more than see, the home-going stream of carriages, carts, omnibuses and cabs, proceeding blindly, and with painful slowness, up and down the muddy thoroughfares.
It is past midnight when I stumble down the Strand, having been pursued by nightmares all the way from Bluegate-fields. The fog is beginning to lift a little, dispersed by a stiffening breeze off the river. I can now see the upper storeys of the buildings, and occasionally catch sight of eaves, smoking chimneys and ragged patches of ink-black sky through the shifting pall.
Almost before I realize it, I am in the Haymarket, and sway through a brilliantly lighted door. A young woman is sitting alone. She bestows an obliging smile on me.
‘Hello, dearie. Fancy something?’
A little conversation ensues; but as we rise to leave, we are approached by two more females, one of whom is instantly familiar to me.
‘Goodness me, if it ain’t Mr Glapthorn,’ she says pleasantly. ‘I see you’ve made the acquaintance of Miss Mabel.’
It is none other than Madame Mathilde, proprietress of the Abode of Beauty. I see a look pass between her and the girl, and immediately understand how things lie. ‘And you have added another string to your bow, Madame.’
‘Things became a little slow at the Abode after that unfortunate misunderstanding with Mrs Bonner-Childs.’
I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Oh, I don’t blame you, Mr Glapthorn. I like a man that does his duty no matter what. But there, these things are sent to try us, ain’t they? Besides, as you have guessed, I have another little concern now, in Gerrard-street – quite successful, too, tho’ I say so mesself. Miss Mabel is one of my protijays, along with her sister here. P’raps,’ she continues, looking suggestively from Mabel to her equally comely sister, Cissie by name, ‘we might discuss a discount on quantity?’
In for a penny … I think. And so I retire to Madame’s inconspicuous house in Gerrard-street, with Miss Mabel and Miss Cissie on each arm, and spend a most satisfying evening in their company, for which their employer is recompensed handsomely.
My demons temporarily satiated, I climb the stairs to my room at first light, my senses dulled, my head aching, and my conscience racked with guilt and self-loathing. I miss my dearest girl, so dreadfully. Without her, what hope is there for me?
Another week goes by. But then, one bright October morning, a note comes. It is from Lizzie Brine.SIR, —I thought you should know that my mistress returned from Ventnor three days ago.Hoping this finds you well,
L. BRINE
I sit for a full ten minutes, stunned. Three days! And no word sent! Think, think! She has been otherwise engaged. Lord Tansor has kept her constantly by his side. She has been attending her Ladyship night and day. There are a hundred most plausible reasons for her not writing to tell me that she is home. Perhaps, at this very moment, she is putting pen to paper.
Instantly, I resolve that I will surprise her. My Bradshaw lies on the table. The eleven-thirty departs in just under an hour. I have plenty of time.
At Evenwood, the leaves are falling. They flutter forlornly across paths and terraces, and scuttle about the courtyards, almost like living things, in the suddenly cold wind that scythes up from the river. In the kitchen garden, they accumulate in sodden heaps amongst tangles of decaying mint and drooping borage, and beneath the plum-trees at the north end of the orchard, they lie in thick, goldenblack swathes, soft underfoot, beneath which the grass is already turning a sickly yellow.
Rain begins to sweep in dark funereal sheets across the formal gardens and pleasure-grounds. When I had last seen them, the rose-beds at the end of the Long Walk had been ablaze with colour; now their early-summer glories have been cut down; and the bare earth of Lady Hester’s former Clock Garden – a pointless conceit, which she had planted up with purslane, crane’s bill, and other flowers that supposedly opened or closed at successive hours of the day – now seems a mute and terrible witness to human folly, and to what time will do to us all.
I push open the little white-painted door, and climb up the winding stairs to the first floor, to the apartments above the Library where my mother died, and where I hope to find my dearest girl. I have missed her so very dreadfully, and my heart is afire to see her again and to kiss her sweet face. I bound up the last few stairs, feeling my spirit surge with joy at the thought that we need never be parted again.
Her door is shut, the corridor deserted. I knock twice.
‘Enter!’
She is sitting by the fire, beneath the portrait of Master Anthony Duport, reading (as I soon discover) a volume of Mrs Browning’s poems.* A travelling cloak lies on the sofa.
‘Emily, my dearest, what is the matter? Why have you not written?’
‘Edward!’ she exclaims, suddenly looking up with an expression of surprise. ‘I was not expecting you.’
Her face had taken on that terrible frozen look, which had struck me so forcibly when I had first seen her standing in the vestibule of the Dower House. She did not smile, and made no attempt to rise from her chair. There was no trace now, in either her demeanour or her voice, of the warmth and tender partiality that she had formerly shown me. In their place was a nervous coolness that instantly put me on my guard.
‘Do you know Mrs Browning’s Portuguese sonnets?’ she asked. The tone was flat and false, and I put my question again.
‘My love, tell me what is the matter? You have not written, and you said you would.’
She closed the book and gave a short impatient sigh.
‘You may as well know. I am leaving Evenwood this afternoon for London. I have a great deal to do. Phoebus and I are to be married.’
*[‘The materials of war’. Ed.]
*[A resort on south coast of the Isle of Wight known for its mild climate. Ed.]
*[A link was a torch made of tow and pitch used for lighting people along the streets; thus link-boys – boys who provided this service. Ed.]
*[As the subsequent reference to ‘Mrs Browning’s Portuguese sonnets’ (i.e. the ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’) makes clear, this is the edition of Poems published in two volumes by Chapman and Hall in November 1850. Ed.]
43
Dies irae*
The world seemed to contract and then fall away, leaving me sundered from what had once been, and from what I had known and believed before.
I stood in that dreadful room rooted to the spot in disbelief, feeling hope and happiness drain out of me like blood from a severed vein. I must have closed my eyes momentarily, for I distinctly remember opening them again, and finding that Miss Carteret had got up from her chair, and was now standing by the sofa putting on her cloak. Perhaps she had been in jest – one of those little games that women sometimes like to play with those who adore them. Perhaps …
‘You cannot stay here, you know. You must leave immediately.’
Cold, cold! Hard and cold! Where was my dear girl, my sweet and loving Emily? Beautiful still – so wonderfully beautiful! But it was not her. This furious simulacrum was anim
ated by a wholly different being, unrecognizable and dreadful.
‘Edward – Mr Glapthorn! Why do you not answer? Did you hear what I said?’
At last I found my tongue.
‘I heard, but I did not, and do not, understand.’
‘Then I shall tell you again. You must go now, or I shall call for assistance.’
Now her eyes were flashing fire, and her beautiful lips, those lips I had kissed so often, had pursed to a tight little pout. As she stood there, rigid and menacing, enveloped in her long black hooded cloak, she seemed like some sorceress of legend newly risen from the infernal depths; and for a moment I was afraid – yes, afraid. The change in her was so great, and so complete, that I could not conceive how it had come about. Like a photographic negative, what should have been light was now dark – dark as hell. Was she possessed? Had she gone suddenly mad? Perhaps it was I who should have called for assistance?
In a swirl of angry black, she headed for the door; and then it was as if I had woken suddenly from a dream. Sorceress? Humbug! This was plain villainy. I smelled it, and knew it for what it was.
Her hand was almost on the door-handle when I seized it and wrenched her towards me. We were face to face now, eye to eye, will to will.
‘Let me go, sir! You are hurting me!’ She struggled, but I had her fast.
‘A moment of your time, Miss Carteret.’
She saw the resolve in my eyes, and felt the superior strength of my grip; in a moment, she surrendered to the inevitable, and her resistance ceased.
‘Well, sir?’
‘Let us sit in our old seat in the window. It is such a pleasant place to talk.’ I held out a shepherding arm.
She threw off her cloak and walked over to the window-seat. Before joining her, I locked the door.
‘I see I am a prisoner,’ she said. ‘Are you going to kill me?’
‘You are pretty cool if I am,’ I replied, standing over her. She only gave a little shrug by way of reply, and looked out of the window at the rain-lashed gardens.
‘You mentioned a marriage,’ I continued. ‘To Mr Daunt. I don’t mind admitting that this comes as something of a surprise to me.’
‘Then you are a greater fool than we thought.’
I was determined to maintain an air of unconcerned bravado; but the truth was that I felt as helpless as a baby. Of course I had the advantage of physical strength; but what use was that? She had played me for a damned fool, right enough; and, once again, Phoebus Rainsford Daunt had taken what was rightfully mine. And then I suddenly found myself laughing uncontrollably, laughing so much that I had to wipe the tears away with my sleeve; laughing at my stupidity, my utter stupidity, for trusting her. If only I had taken Mr Tredgold’s advice!
She watched me for a while as I stumbled about the room, shaking with laughter like some maniac. Then she stood up, anger boiling up once more in her great black eyes.
‘You must let me go, sir,’ she said, ‘or it will be the worse for you. Unlock the door immediately!’
Ignoring her demand, I returned to where she was standing and threw her back into the window-seat. Her eyes began to dart round the room, as if she were looking for some means of escape, or perhaps for a weapon with which to attack me. If she had only smiled then, and confessed that it had all been a silly joke! I would have instantly folded her in my arms and forgiven her. But she did not smile. She sat bolt upright, breathing hard, her furious eyes wide open, larger than I had ever seen them before.
‘And may I enquire whether you love Mr Phoebus Daunt?’
‘Love him?’ She leaned her cheek against the glass, and a sudden calm came over her, almost as if she were in a trance.
‘I simply ask because you gave me the clear impression – as did your friend, Miss Buisson – that he was repellent to you.’
‘There is no word to describe what I feel for Phoebus. He is my sun, my moon, my stars. My life is his to command.’ Her breath had misted the pane, and she began slowly tracing out a letter, then another, and then a third and a fourth: P-H-O-E …
Stung now to real anger, I snatched her hand away and rubbed out the letters with my sleeve.
‘Why did you lie to me?’
Her reply was immediate.
‘Because you are nothing to me, compared to him; and because I needed to keep you fed with lies, until you delivered up to me the evidence of your true identity.’
She glanced towards the portrait of young Anthony Duport in his juvenile finery, hand on hip, a dark-blue sash across his chest. Her words were like a knife to the heart. In two strides, I was standing beneath the portrait. I took hold of it with one hand and attempted to open the cupboard it concealed with the other; but it was locked.
‘Would you like the key?’ She reached into her pocket. ‘I said I would keep everything safe.’ Smiling, she held out a little black key.
I saw her face, and knew then that all was lost; yet even in the agony of my despair, I took the key, inserted it in the lock of the cupboard, and the little panelled door swung open. Snatching up a candle from a nearby table, I peered inside. But I could see nothing. I stood closer and felt all around. The cupboard, of course, was empty.
‘You see,’ I heard her say. ‘All safe. No one will find your secrets now. No one.’
I did not have to ask where the papers were. He had them now. The keys that would have unlocked the gates of Paradise for me were now in my enemy’s hands.
And then I knew that I had been defeated; that every hope and dream I had cherished had been turned to dust and ashes.
What do you know? Nothing.
What have you achieved? Nothing.
Who are you? Nobody.
I was still standing with my back to her, staring into the empty cavity, when she spoke. Her voice had dropped to a rapt whisper.
‘I have loved him ever since I can remember. Even when I was a little girl, he was my prince, and I was his princess. We knew then that we would marry some day, and dreamed of living together in some great house, just like Evenwood. My father always disliked and distrusted Phoebus, even when we were children; but we quickly learned to feign indifference to each other in public, and grew more cunning in our ways as we grew older. No one suspected the truth; only once, at a dinner given in honour of Lord Tansor’s birthday, did we forget ourselves. It was such a little thing – not much more than a glance – but my father saw it. He was angry with me – angrier than I had ever seen him; but I persuaded him that he was wrong, and that Phoebus meant nothing to me. He believed me, of course. He always believed me. Everyone did.’
‘But Daunt killed your father!’ I cried. ‘How could you continue to love him?’
She had been looking fixedly once more through the misted pane of glass on which she had begun to write her lover’s name; but now she turned her face towards me, and I shivered to see the look of rage in her great dark eyes, and to hear the hard echo of an injury long borne in her voice.
‘I loved my father; but I also hated him, for hating Phoebus, and for allowing his unfounded prejudice of him to keep us apart. The loss of my sister was, I think, the cause. He wanted me always by him, to be his alone; and when my mother died, of course I became all in all to him. And so I remained ever dutiful, long after I had come of age; I submitted to his will, to please him, and to keep a promise made to my dear mother that I would not abandon him while he lived. He told me more than once that he would never again receive me as his daughter if I were to marry Phoebus, and that prospect I could not bear. But it was cruel to deny me so – to keep me from my heart’s desire, when he knew that I would continue to love and esteem him, and that I would never abandon him.’
‘But surely he did not deserve to die!’
‘No,’ she said, more softly. ‘He did not, and was not meant to. Pluckrose went too far, as usual. Phoebus was wrong to have brought him into it – he acknowledges it, and we have both suffered grievously for what Pluckrose did. Afterwards, when Pluckrose brought the lette
rs to Phoebus and told him what he’d done, Phoebus was beside himself with fury. No. He should not have died. He should not have died.’
The repeated phrase trailed off into silence. Was she weeping? Really weeping? She was not lost, then, to all decent feeling. Some humanity remained.
‘You have said enough to show me how utterly I have been deceived.’ She did not look at me. Her head was now pressed against the window-pane, through which she was gazing vacantly out into the deepening gloom. ‘But this I must know: how did you first discover what Lady Tansor had done?’
‘Dear Edward!’ Oh, her voice! So tender, so inviting, so beguiling! The cold fury had melted quite away; in its place was a look of pitying compliance, as if she wished to show me her secret side, and so spare me further anguish and uncertainty. She held out her hand, long and white. I took it, and sat down beside her.
‘I did not mean you to love me, you know. But when it was clear that you did – well, it made things so much easier. I know Marie-Madeleine warned you—’
‘Miss Buisson! She knew?’
‘But of course. Marie-Madeleine and I had no secrets. We were the closest of friends. Sometimes I told her things that even Phoebus didn’t know about me. But, I suppose, by the time that she wrote to you, things had gone too far, hadn’t they? Poor sweet Edward!’ She leaned forward and began to brush my hair away from my forehead; in my mesmeric state, I seemed powerless to stop her.
‘And, you know, I found your attentions rather pleasant. It made Marie-Madeleine terribly cross.’ She gave a sly little laugh. ‘On more than one occasion she told me I shouldn’t encourage them – that it was unnecessarily cruel. But I found I couldn’t help myself; and as time went on, well, I began to think I might be falling in love with you – just a very little bit. It was bad of me, I know, and it shocked Marie-Madeleine even more when I told her. The little minx! I think she would have liked to have had you for herself! But you were asking me how we came to learn about Lady Tansor’s little escapade.