Indeed, the two sweet babes often played together, and had been doing so on the afternoon that our little angel fell from the bridge that carries the road from the South Gates across the river to the great house. Our lives were darkened irredeemably from that day.
But it is of my cousin that I write; and I have dwelled on his grief at the death of his only son for this reason: to demonstrate as clearly as I can the terrible nature of the crime I believe was wilfully visited upon him. In the light of what I have said concerning Lord Tansor’s monomaniacal desire to secure an heir for his line (I do not say he was actually mad on this point, but the phrase, I maintain, is metaphorically apt), what would be the greatest harm, barring physical assault or murder, that could be done to such a man as this?
I leave the question unanswered
Well, then, to be as brief as I can. The death of his only son and heir might have been borne by my cousin, as far as such a thing can be borne by a sentient human soul, if his second marriage had been productive of other heirs; but it had not been, nor perhaps would ever be. As the years have passed, his Lordship has therefore been obliged to consider his position afresh; and now, in his sixty-third year, he has devised another method to secure his desires in respect of a successor. I shall return to this critical point in due course.
IV
Sunday, 23rd October 1853
In the summer of 1830, our little circle received a most welcome augmentation when the Reverend Achilles Daunt, whom I am now proud to call my friend, was appointed to the living of Evenwood by my cousin. Dr Daunt, accompanied by his second wife and a son from his first marriage, came to us from a Northern parish with a high, and most deserved, reputation as a scholar. Evenwood offers many blessings, but I fear that men of real intellectual accomplishment are not many in number hereabouts, and the addition of Dr Daunt to our society was a great thing indeed for me, providing, as it did, a man of discernment and wide knowledge with whom to share and discuss my own historical and palaeographical interests. I had the honour of assisting my friend, in a modest way, in the preparation of his great catalogue of the Duport Library; and it was at his suggestion that I later took upon myself the task of collecting material towards a history of the Duport family, in which enterprise I am grateful to have been encouraged and supported by my cousin.
My friend’s only son soon became a great favourite with Lord Tansor, who was instrumental in sending the boy to Eton. It became of great concern to me to observe how my cousin began to look upon the Rector’s son almost as his own. I watched this conspicuous liking for the boy grow over time into something other than mere partiality. It became a kind of covetousness that fed on itself, blinding my cousin to all other considerations. The boy was strong, healthy, lively, good at his books, and properly grateful for the attentions that he received from his father’s noble patron; perhaps it was natural for Lord Tansor to see in him a reflection, pale though it was to a less partial observer, of the lost heir. What did not seem natural to me (I hesitate to express criticism of my noble relation, but feel under a solemn obligation to state my opinion) was his Lordship’s patent desire – expressed in countless material benefactions, personally audited by myself in my professional capacity – to possess the Rector’s son as his own (if I may so put it). He could not, of course, buy him outright, like a horse of good stock, or a new carriage; but he could, and did, appropriate him gradually, binding the boy ever more closely to himself by the strongest of chains: self-interest. What young man, just down from the Varsity, could fail to feel flattered to the highest degree, and be mightily emboldened in his self-regard, at being treated with such extraordinary attention by one of the most powerful peers in the realm? Not Mr Phoebus Daunt, certainly.
The notion of adopting Mr Phoebus Daunt as his heir had first occurred to my cousin after the young man came down from Cambridge. As time has passed, it has gradually become fixed in his mind, and, at the time of writing, nothing, it seems, can now persuade his Lordship against pursuing this course of action. It is not for me to question the wisdom or propriety of my cousin’s desire to leave the bulk of his property to this gentleman, on the single condition of his changing his name to that of his noble patron; I will only say that the choice of his heir perhaps does not demonstrate that acuity of judgment that his Lordship has usually displayed in his affairs; further, ever since the disclosure of his decision to the parties concerned, the effect on my friend’s son has been pernicious, serving to magnify a number of deficiencies in his character. This little ceremony took place some three months since, at a private dinner at Evenwood to which only Dr and Mrs Daunt, and their son, were invited; and I may say that, when the news became generally known, it was remarked by many in our local society that, while the young man and his step-mother instantly began to put on airs, and behave in an altogether insufferable manner (I regret the candour of my remarks, but do not withdraw them), the Rector maintained a dignified silence on the matter – in fact, he appeared positively disinclined to speak of it.
I might say a good deal more concerning Mr Phoebus Daunt; but I am conscious that I digress from my immediate purpose.
To return to my projected history of my cousin’s family (and, of course, of my own). I need not weary the reader of this statement by rehearsing in detail the progress of the work, the sources for which are extensive and requiring of careful and patient scrutiny. Year by year I continued to work, slowly but steadily, through the documents accumulated and stored by each successive generation, making notes thereon, and composing drafts.
In January of the present year, 1853, I was drafting an account of the perilous Civil War period, during which the family’s fortunes stood in dire jeopardy. I happened to look up, as I often did, at the unfinished portrait of my cousin’s first wife that now hung on the wall of my work-room. My secretary’s duties were over for the day, and for the next hour or so the history of the family during the time of Charles I should have claimed my attention; but I was much wearied by my recent exertions and, as I contemplated the image of the beautiful face in the picture above me, suddenly wished very much – I cannot say why – to look again at the remnants of the life of Laura Tansor, which I had gathered together after her death. It was most unmethodical and, I may say, uncharacteristic of me to deviate from a logical course of action, for I had been proceeding with assembling material for my projected
I looked again at her wonderful sketches and drawings, especially those executed during her time in France, and read for the first time poems and other effusions that immediately brought her back to mind, so passionate were they, so full of life and spirit. I then turned my attention to a large bundle of letters and, not wishing to put my time to waste, began to compose some brief notes thereon; but when I had finished, I was presented with a puzzle.
Her Ladyship’s correspondence was extensive, dating back to letters written to her by my cousin during their courtship, and including a large number of communications from members of her family and friends from the West Country. Faced with such a large number of items, I usually commence by arranging them by date and sender; but when I had finished ordering them in this way, it was clear that a quantity of letters were missing, particularly those from a certain Simona More, later Glyver, who appeared to have been an old childhood friend of her Ladyship’s. There was a sequence of communications – at least one a month, sometimes two or three – from this lady, beginning in August 1816, the year that her Ladyship first became acquainted with my cousin; but then, in July 1819, the letters ceased altogether, only resuming their previous frequency in October 1820. It was manifest, from her letters to Lady Tansor, that Miss More, or rather Mrs Glyver, as she soon became, had enjoyed an exceptionally intimate acquaintance with my cousin’s first wife, which made the gap in the correspondence – a period of some
