The Meaning of Night (52 page)

the court is that you shall be taken hence to a place of execution, there to be hung by the

neck until you are dead. Do you have anything to say?’

I fill my lungs with air and try to scream out a protest at the top of my voice. But

there is only silence.

Back in Temple-street the following day, I remained indoors, beset by a

vacillating and porous state of mind in which nothing could be fixed or retained; and so,

with the afternoon drawing to a close, I thought I would go down to the Temple Steps and

take my skiff out on the river for half an hour.

Later that evening, Bella received me at Blithe Lodge with her customary warmth,

and with many demonstrations of amity.

It was our first meeting since I had made the acquaintance of Miss Carteret, and I

was never more conscious of being ‘a thing of sin and guilt’.? I sat a little way off and

watched Bella as she sat by the fire in Kitty Daley’s drawing-room with some of The

Academy’s junior nymphs. Whores, every one of them, of course, but a sweeter, kinder,

and livelier bunch of gals you could not wish to meet; and Bella was the sweetest and

kindest of them all. She looked so fresh and alive, discoursing easily and amusingly to

the little sorority gathered all around her of Lord R—’s insistence, during a recent

encounter, that she must dress herself up like the Queen, complete with a diadem of paste

diamonds and a pale blue sash across her bust, whilst he whispered warm

encouragements into her ear, in a German accent, as they went to it.

Laughter fills the room; champagne is brought in; cigarettes are lit; Miss Nancy

Blake trips to the piano-forte to extemporise, con brio, a spirited little waltz, whilst Miss

Lilian Purkiss (a flame-haired Amazon) and Miss Tibby Taylor (petite, grey-eyed, and

lusciously agile) canter round and round and in and out of the furniture, giggling as they

repeatedly bump into chairs and tables. Bella, clapping her hands in time to the waltz,

looks across to me from time to time and smiles. For though, as usual, she is at the centre

of the gaiety, I know she never forgets me: in company, she will always seek me out, or

will let me know, by a loving look or by gently pressing my arm as she passes, that I am

the true and only occupier of her thoughts. Even when I leave here tonight, she will

continue to think fondly of me, and to muse on what we have done together, and what we

shall do when I next return to Blithe Lodge.

But what can I now offer her in return? Only neglect, inattention, and betrayal. I

am a damned fool, I know, and do not deserve the tender regard of such an excellent

creature. But it is my fate, it seems, wilfully to cast this treasure from me. She is vividly

and gloriously present to my senses at this moment, here in Kitty Daley’s drawing-room;

yet I know that I shall give her but little thought when I once again see the face of Miss

Emily Carteret, whom I love as I can never love Bella. And yet I cannot bear to give

Bella up – not yet. For my affection for her has not been snuffed out or negated by what I

feel for Miss Carteret. It remains bright and true, though overshadowed by a greater and

stranger force. As I look at her, it is brought home to me that my heart would be broken,

too, if I was to turn away from her now, and for nothing gained.

After the rest of the company has departed, she comes over and sits next to me,

placing a jewelled hand on mine and looking smilingly into my eyes.

‘You have been quiet tonight, Eddie. Has anything happened?’

No, I tell, her, running my finger-nail gently down her cheek and then placing her

hand to my lips. Nothing has happened.

32:

Non omnis moriar?

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Wednesday, November the second, 1853.

I arrive back at the Town Station in Peterborough and take a coach to the Duport

Arms in Easton. The town, which lies some four miles south-west of the great house

belonging to the family from which this establishment takes it name, is, as far as I am

aware, distinguished for nothing in particular, except for its antiquity (there has been a

settlement here since the time of the Romans), its quaint cobbled market-square, and the

picturesqueness of its slate-roofed houses of mellowed limestone, many of which look

out across the valley, from atop the gently sloping ridge upon which the town is built, to

the village of Evenwood and the wooded boundaries of the great Park.

After I had settled myself in my room, a long low-beamed apartment overlooking

the square, I opened my bag and took out a small black note-book, a remnant of my

student days in Germany. Tearing out some notes I had made on Bulwer’s

Anthropometamorphosis,? I wrote on the new first page the words: Journal of Edward

Duport mdcccliv. I pondered this title for some time, and decided that it looked very well.

But the sensation of forming the letters of my true name for the first time had engendered

a frisson which was both exhilarating and productive of a strange feeling of unease – as

though, in some way I could not comprehend, I had no right to possess what I knew to be

rightfully mine.

I had decided, before leaving for Northamptonshire, that I would begin recording,

in brief, the daily course of my life, partly in emulation of my foster-mother’s habit, but

with the additional purpose of providing myself, and perhaps posterity, with an accurate

digest of events as I embarked on what I had become convinced would be a critical phase

of my great project. Enough of irresolution and fluctuation. Not only had I forgotten who

I was, and what I was capable of: I had also forgotten my destiny. But now I can hear the

Iron Master’s hammer once more, like gathering thunder, rolling ever closer – the blows

raining down faster and harder to fashion the unbreakable links, sparks flying up to the

cold sky, the great chain tightening around me as I am dragged ever closer, and now

swifter than ever, to meet the fate he has reserved for me. For it is the afternoon of my

life, and night approaches.

So I began to write in my new journal, and it is from this source that I have

mainly drawn for the remainder of my confession.

Ten o’clock. The square is deserted. A thin rain has been falling this past hour but

is now pattering harder against my window, beneath which a creaking board carrying the

ancient arms of my family – with the painted motto ‘Fortitudine Vincimus’ – sways back

and forth in the wind.

I take dinner in one of the public rooms, with only a sullen, lank-haired waiter for

company. Self: ‘Quiet tonight.’ Waiter: ‘Just you, sir, and Mr Green, up from London

like yourself.’ Self: ‘Regular?’ Waiter: ‘Sir?’ Self: ‘Mr Green: a regular here, perhaps?’

Waiter: ‘Occasional. Another glass, sir?’

Back in my room I lay down on my bed and took out an octavo volume of

Donne’s Devotions, which I had brought with me for its inclusion of the incomparable

‘Deaths Duell’ – Donne’s own funeral sermon. The book was a much treasured travelling

companion of mine, having been purchased new just before I left England to study in

Heidelberg.? I contemplated the reproduction of the striking frontispiece to the 1634

edition, showing an effigy of the author in a niche wrapped in his winding sheet, and then

mused for a moment on my youthful signature on the fly-leaf: ‘Edward Charles Glyver,

Sandchurch, October, 1840’. Edward Glyver was gone; Edward Duport was to come. But

in the here and now, Edward Glapthorn fell asleep over John Donne’s great rolling

periods and woke up with a start to hear the church clock striking midnight.

I go over to the window. The square is lit by one gas-lamp on the far side. It is

still raining hard. I note a late wanderer in a long cloak and a slouch hat. My breath

clouds the window-pane: when I wipe the glass clean with my sleeve, the wanderer has

gone.

I lay my head back on the pillow and sleep for an hour or more, but on a sudden I

am clear awake. Something has roused me. I light my candle – twenty minutes past one

o’clock by my repeater. There is no sound, except the rain against the window, and the

creaking of the inn sign. Is that the sign swinging on its hinges? Or a footfall on the

shrunken boards outside my door?

I sit up in bed. There, again – and again! Not the sign swaying in the wind; but

another sound. I reach for my pistol as the door handle slowly and silently turns.

But the door is locked and, just as slowly and silently, the handle is turned back.

The floor-boards creak once more, and then all is silence.

Ten minutes later, pistol in hand, I carefully open the door and look out into the

corridor; but there is no one there. There are rooms on either side of mine, Numbers One

and Three. Stairs lead down to the tap-room, with another flight up to the next floor, on

which are situated two more rooms. There is no way of knowing whether my unwelcome

visitor is still on the premises, perhaps in one of these rooms; but I do not think he will

return. I tip-toe to the first of the adjacent chambers: the door is unlocked, the room

unoccupied. But the other door, at the head of the stairs, I find is locked.

I lay awake for another hour, pistol at the ready. But, as I expected, I was not

disturbed again. I conclude at last that I am being foolish, that it was only a fellow guest

mistaking my room for his.

And so I gave myself up to sleep.

I awoke to weak sunshine, but, looking outside, saw that the square was still wet

from the night’s rain and that there was a threatening look to the eastern sky. Going

downstairs, I asked the waiter from the previous evening if my fellow-guest, Mr Green,

had come down yet. The waiter, still sullen, could not say; so I took my breakfast alone.

After concluding my meal, I returned to my room to prepare myself. I had to take

the greatest care to avoid being recognized by Phoebus Daunt, whom I had presumed

would be present at the interment. I examined myself closely in the mirror. We had not

seen each other, face to face, for fifteen years, not since our last meeting in School Yard

in the summer of 1837. Would he trace the lineaments of his old school-fellow in the face

that now looked into the glass? I did not think so. My hair was longer and thicker, and,

with the assistance of dye, blacker than formerly; altogether, I felt confident that the

changes brought about by the passage of time, together with the luxuriant mustachios and

side-whiskers I had since acquired, and a pair of green-glass spectacles, would shield me

from discovery. I donned my top-coat, procured an umbrella from the sullen waiter, who

seemed to be the only servant in the whole establishment, and set off.

A pleasant walk down a steep tree-shaded road, the banks on each side smothered

with glistening ivy, led me out of the town down to Odstock Mill. At the bottom of the

hill, I took the way that veered eastwards towards Evenwood village. It wanted a quarter

of an hour to eleven o’clock.

In the village, there were already people walking down the lane leading to the

church – villagers, I perceived on getting a little closer, amongst whom I recognized

Lizzie Brine, walking with another woman of about the same age. She did not see me, for

I was already taking care to intrude myself as little as possible on the scene, having

determined not to present myself at the Dower House with the other invited mourners,

but to stand back from the proceedings and observe them from a distance.

I therefore waited until the little crowd had turned under the lych-gate and into the

church-yard, and then positioned myself a little way off, behind the trunk of a large

sycamore tree. From here, I had a good view, both of the church and of the gravelled

track that branched off to the Dower House. I was also shielded from the view of anyone

else coming down the lane that led back to the village. To my left was St Michael and All

Angels, a noble building, largely of the thirteenth century, dominated by its celebrated

spire – tall and needle-pointed, resting on a slender tower, and crocketed up the angles.

As I was gazing up at the golden cross placed on its tip, it began to rain. Before long, it

had become a regular torrent, requiring me to open up my borrowed umbrella.

As the clock struck eleven I heard the sound of footsteps on gravel, and looked

out from my place of concealment to see the vanguard of the funeral procession coming

down the narrow track from the Dower House ahead of the coaches– a large squadron of

pall-bearers, feathermen, pages, followed by bearded mutes carrying wands, all solemnly

be-gowned, and all looking more melancholy even than their duties demanded on account

of the heavy rain now soaking their hired finery. A few moments later, the glass-sided

hearse appeared, with its canopy of black ostrich feathers and decorations of gilded skulls

and cherubs, the coffin inside covered over with a dark purple cloth. Following close

behind was the main armada of six or seven funeral coaches. Then I saw Dr Daunt

emerge from the porch of the church with his curate, Mr Tidy, at his side. As the first

coach passed my vantage point, I noticed that one of the blinds was up, enabling me to