Free The Meaning of Night by Michael Cox Page B

P. Rainsford
    Daunt (The Maid of Minsk, Book III); but there is a finer by Mr Tennyson, which I had
    constantly before my mental eye: ‘I was born to other things.’?

    On the Sunday following the interment of Lucas Trendle, I had called at Blithe
    Lodge, as arranged, and had been shown into the back parlour by Charlotte, the Scottish
    housemaid. I waited for some little time until, at last, I heard the sound of Bella’s
    distinctive tripping tread on the stairs.

    ‘How are you, Eddie?’ she asked. She did not take my hand, or kiss me
    spontaneously, as she might have done once, or even proffer her own cheek to be kissed.

    We exchanged the usual pleasantries as she sat down on a chaise-longue by the
    tall sash-window that looked down over the dark garden below.

    ‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘tell me what you’ve been doing. Things have been so busy
    here. So much to do, and so many things to think about! And with Mary leaving – you
    know of course that Sir Charles is going to marry her! Such excitement – and so brave of
    him! But she deserves it, the dear girl, and he does love her so. Kitty has a new girl
    coming tomorrow, but of course we never know how these things will work out, and then
    Kitty herself has gone back to France, and so it falls to me to conduct the interview, as
    well as everything else, and you know that Charlie is to go to Scotland for her sister’s
    confinement . . . ’

    She twittered on in this inconsequential way for some minutes, laughing from
    time to time and curling her fingers around in her lap as she spoke. But the old light in
    her eyes had gone. I saw and felt the change. I did not have to ask the reason. I could see
    that she had considered, in the cold light of day, what I had told her at the Clarendon
    Hotel, and had found it wanting – fatally so. A tale told to a child; a demeaning, absurd
    fantasy of a paste-board villain and his mysterious henchman – one of my mother’s
    stories, perhaps, dusted down for the purpose. All to hide the truth – whatever hideous
    truth it was – about Edward Glapthorn, who was not what he seems. It was only too
    apparent that she had taken ‘Veritas’ at his word.

    Charlotte brought us tea, and Bella continued with her trivial banter – I sitting
    silently, smiling and nodding from time to time as she went on – until a knocking on the
    front door announced the arrival of some member of The Academy to whom she had to
    attend.

    We stood up; I shook her unlingering hand and left by the garden door. She had
    been a dear friend and companion to me; but I had not loved her as she had wished me to
    do. I had sought, out of deep regard, to protect her from hurt; and, if my fate had been
    otherwise, would have married her gladly, and been content to give myself to her alone.
    But my heart had never been mine to bestow on whom I pleased: it had been ripped from
    me by a greater power and given to another, against my will, and would now remain in
    her possession, a poor forgotten prisoner for all eternity. My poor Bella had looked for
    assurances where none could be found; and, after considering what I had laid before her
    at the Clarendon, had made her mind up about me. When we next met, it would be under
    very different circumstances.

    The next day I sent a note over to Le Grice proposing a spin in the skiff I kept at
    the Temple Pier, to which he immediately agreed. Our plan was to row down to the
    Hungerford Passenger Bridge, take a little lunch at his club, and then row back. The
    weather had been against us on our first attempt, leaving me cooped up in my rooms and
    him in his club, and making us even more eager to be out on the water. But on the
    Thursday the morning broke fair, though with a brisk wind, and I sallied forth to meet
    him with a lust for exertion.

    At the bottom of the stairs, the door to Jukes’s room stood ajar. I stopped, unable
    to help myself.

    Across the street I saw the distinctive figure of my neighbour,