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 …