The Meaning of Night

other.

On reading these words, perspiration begins to bead on my forehead. I lay down the letter and walk over to the window to try to open it, but it is locked tight shut. I feel entombed in this tenebrous, dusty room, with its hideous brown-painted wainscot, its dark and elaborate furniture and heavy green-plush curtains; and so I close my eyes for a moment and dream of air and light – the open sky and sunlit woods, wind and water, sand and sea, places of peace and freedom.

A door bangs, and I open my eyes. Feet scurry down the passage, then silence. I return to the letter.

He had known me all this time, from the moment I had been shown into his drawing-room in Paternoster-row by Albert Harrigan on that Sunday morning in September 1848: despite my subterfuge, my identity had been written on my face as clearly as if I had sent up a card bearing the name ‘Edward Duport (formerly Glyver)’. He had known me! I had stood before him, the son of the woman he continued to adore, and he had seen her in me. Here was the reason for his immediate and obvious regard for me, his willingness to oblige me, his alacrity in offering me employment. He had known me! During all our walks in the Temple Gardens, and our Sundays together, poring over masterpieces of the erotic imagination, and through the working out of all his ‘little problems’. He had known me! As I had laboured – alone and unknown, as I had thought – to reclaim my birthright, he had known me! But he had vowed to keep my mother’s secret safe – even from me; and so, through all the years of my employment, he had watched me, the son of the woman he had loved above all others, knowing who I was, and what I had been born to, but powerless to assist me in the task that I had undertaken. He saw that I had come to him in the guise of Edward Glapthorn for no other purpose than to find some means of regaining my true self. But in this he was also helpless, for – as he had admitted – he had destroyed every trace of his dealings with Lady Tansor, and possessed nothing – no letter, no memorandum, no document of any kind – that could prove conclusively what he and I knew to be the truth about my birth. He could only watch and wait, bound as he was, both by the vow that he had made to my mother, and by the code of his profession.

But then events began to threaten the accommodation that Mr Tredgold had made with his conscience.

The first indication of an impending crisis had come when Lord Tansor had indicated to Mr Tredgold that he wished to make Phoebus Daunt the heir to his property, on the single condition that the beneficiary would then take the Duport name. Everything that should have been mine was to go to Daunt, being the step-son of Lord Tansor’s second cousin, Mrs Caroline Daunt, who, by this relationship, might one day complete her triumph and inherit the title herself, as a female collateral descendant of the 1st Baron Tansor.

What should Mr Tredgold do? He could not tell Lord Tansor that he had a living heir, for that would have been to betray my mother’s secret, even if he had possessed proof of the assertion; but the unworthiness of the prospective heir was, to him, so apparent (though not to Lord Tansor) that his professional conscience almost revolted, and more than once he had been close to laying the whole truth before his noble client in order to prevent this calamitous outcome. The following passage was of particular interest to me:Of course I knew of your former acquaintance with Daunt, as school-fellows, and guessed what estimation you might have of his subsequent endeavours. My own was very low indeed. I had received disturbing reports of his character from Mr Paul Carteret; and, indeed, I had reasons of my own to suspect him of having inclinations of the basest kind. From an early age he had been pushed forward by his step-mother as a kind of substitute for Lord Tansor’s son – his younger son, I should say. Mrs Daunt has always exhibited a tigerish concern for her step-son’s future prosperity (and certainly for her own as well). With great skill and determination, she constantly deployed her influence with Lord Tansor to advance the boy in his estimation. In this she succeeded, beyond all expectation.I did everything I could, on many occasions, to intimate to my client, as far as my professional position allowed, that he would be well advised to reconsider his decision to adopt Daunt as his heir. But I could not persuade his Lordship, and at my final attempt he told me, with some force, that the matter was closed.

But then had come Mr Carteret’s letter, and all was changed. Mr Tredgold had immediately sensed a startling probability: that his old friend had discovered what he himself had striven to keep secret for so many years. And so I had been despatched to Stamford, with consequences that I have already set out. On Mr Tredgold, these had had a severe effect. To hear, in the report that I had sent from Evenwood, of the fatal attack on Mr Carteret had induced a profound shock, and probably contributed greatly to the paralytic seizure that he subsequently suffered.

Just then the door opened, and I turned to see Miss Tredgold framed in the opening. The sun had dipped behind the houses on the other side of the street, leaving the room in an even deeper condition of brown-stained gloom than before. She held a light in her hand.

‘If you wish, I will take you to my brother.’

^*[‘The lover’s confession’. The title of the famous fourteenth-century poem by John Gower (1325?–1408?). Ed.]

^*[Swiss physician and alchemist (real name Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim, 1493– 1541). Ed.]

^*[‘Stanzas for Music’, written 28 March 1816, and first published in the volume of Poems issued by John Murray in that year. How widely accepted the rumour was that Laura Fairmile was the subject of these famous stanzas is perhaps debatable, and I have seen it cited nowhere else in the literature. The poem is usually said to have been addressed to Claire Clairmont. Laura Fairmile married Julius Duport in December 1817. Byron himself had married Annabella Milbanke in January 1815. Ed.]

39

Quis separabit?^*

I followed Miss Tredgold into the hall and up the dark stairs, along a cold dark landing, and into a darkened room. Mr Tredgold sat hunched in the far corner, by a little desk on which were placed some sheets of paper and writing implements. He was wrapped in a woollen shawl; his head had dropped down over his chest, and his once immaculate feathery hair was disarranged and thin-looking.

‘Christopher.’

Miss Tredgold spoke softly, touching her brother gently on the shoulder, and raising the candle so that he might better see her face.

‘I have brought Mr Glapthorn.’

He looked up and nodded.

She motioned to me to take a seat opposite my employer and placed the candle on the desk.

‘Please ring when you are ready,’ she said, indicating a bell-rope just behind Mr Tredgold’s chair.

As she closed the door behind her, Mr Tredgold leaned forward with surprising vigour and grasped my hand.