It is true, indeed, that the desire accomplished is sweet to the soul.† Behold, then, how my labours were rewarded at last. On the first piece of paper were the following words:To My Dearest Son, —I write this because I cannot bear to leave you without also leaving some brief record of the truth. When you see me again it will be as a stranger. I have given you up to the care of another, and have begged God that you will never know that it was not she who brought you into the world. And yet I am compelled by my conscience to write down these few words, though keeping what I have written safe by me until I am called to a better place. Perhaps this piece of paper will one day find its way into your hands, or be discovered by strangers centuries hence, when all these things will be forever beyond recall. Perhaps it will moulder with my bones, and you will live in ignorance of your true identity. I leave its fate to God, to whose tender mercies I also commit the fate of my sinful soul.You are fast asleep in a wicker basket belonging to Madame Bertrand, a lady who has been very kind to us here in Dinan. Today has been warm, but it is cool in the courtyard, and pleasant to hear the water splashing in the fountain.And so, my dear sweet little boy, though you are dreaming (of what I cannot imagine), and though you hardly know what it is to live and breathe and think, and though you could not understand me even if you were to open those great black eyes of yours and hear my voice, yet I still wish to say three things to you as if you were fully conscious and comprehending of my words.First, the person to whom you will owe your duty as a son is my oldest and dearest friend. I pray you will love her, and honour her; be always kind to her, never disparage her memory or hate her for the love she bore me; and remember that faith and friendship are never truly tried except in extremes. This was said by the author of a little book that has often brought me comfort in past weeks, and to which I know I shall often turn hereafter.* I pray you may find such a friend as mine. I have had many blessings in my life; but truly, her friendship has been the greatest.Second, the name you now bear is not your own, but do not despise it. As Edward Glyver, you must find your own way through life, using the strengths and talents that God has given you, and nothing else; as Edward Duport, you would have ridden in great coaches and dined off golden platters, not through your own merit, but for no other reason than that you were the son of a man possessing great inherited wealth and power. Do not think such things bring happiness, or that contentment cannot be found in honest toil and simple pleasures. I used to think so, but I have seen my error. Fortune and plenty have made me shallow, a weightless bubble, a floating feather. I shudder now to think what I have been. But this is not what I wish for you – or what I now wish for myself. So be properly proud of your adopted name, make it prosper by your own efforts, and so make your own children properly proud of it.Third, do not hate me. Hate only what has driven me to do this thing. And do not think that I have denied you through indifference, or worse. I have denied you because I love you too much to see you corrupted, as your father has been corrupted by the blood that he holds so dear, crippled morally by that blind and terrible
The second sheet of paper contained only these words, in a shaky and irregular hand:To My Dearest Son, —I have kept my promise to you, and have given you the key to unlock your true identity. If God in His wisdom and mercy should lead you to them, use them, or destroy them, as your heart dictates.I wept when I came to see you for the last time, playing at my feet, so strong and so handsome, as I knew you would be. But I shall never see you more, until that day when the earth gives up its dead, and we are reunited in eternity.The light is fading. This is all I can write. My heart is full.Your mother,L.R. DUPORT
At the bottom of the page, in another hand, was written the following:She died yesterday. The shawl that she was wearing when I closed her poor eyes encloses these letters to her lost son (the last words she ever wrote), the two mementoes of his birth, and also the little book which comforted her so greatly and which
The hand, of course, was that of Julia Eames, who, before her own death, had written out the two words that had been inscribed on her friend’s burial place and had sent them to Mr Carteret as a hint or clue to the secret that she had kept so faithfully for so many years. How she had contrived to place the shawl and its contents in the loculus before it was sealed, I could not imagine; yet here they were. The Almighty, it seemed, with a little help from Miss Julia Eames, had made His will known.
I re-read the letters from my mother, holding them close to the lantern and poring over every word, especially the beginning of the second letter: ‘I have kept my promise to you, and have given you the keys to unlock your true identity.’ I thought at first it was a riddle that I would never solve; then I considered again the remark that I had ‘played at her feet’, and in an instant all became wondrously, deliriously clear.
A picture of Miss Lamb rushes into my mind: sad, thin Miss Lamb, running her long gloved fingers down my cheek as she watched me playing on the floor beside her, with the fleet of little wooden ships that Billick had made for me. Time passes, and another memory of her is called up: ‘A present from an old, old friend who loved you very much, but who will never see you again.’ And then a final, conclusive, recollection: a receipt for the construction of a small box made of rosewood by Mr James Beach, carpenter, Church-hill, Easton, found by Mr Carteret in my mother’s papers after her death. Two hundred golden sovereigns – in a rosewood box that still stands on my mantelpiece in Temple-street. But what else did it contain?
In a state of intense excitement, exhilarated beyond words by my discovery, and jubilant that I had solved the riddle left behind by Miss Eames, I replace the slab as best I can, to close the opening of the loculus, then stand for a moment contemplating the inscription. It is a curious sensation, to feel that my mother lies only a few feet from me, within that cold narrow space, encased in lead and wood; and yet she has spoken to me directly, in her own voice, through the letters I now hold in my hand. The tears course down my face, and I fall to my knees. What do I feel? Elation, certainly, at my triumph; but also anger, at the gross folly and selfishness of my mother’s actions; and love for her to whose care I was consigned. I think of the portrait of her Ladyship that hung above Mr Carteret’s desk, and recall her haunting, imperious beauty; and then I think of her friend, Simona Glyver, always bent over her work-table, writing her books, keeping her secrets. When I first discovered the truth about my birth, I resented her faithfulness to her reckless friend; but I was wrong to do so. I called her my mother once. What shall I call her now? She did not carry me in her womb; but she cared for me, scolded me when I was bad, protected me, comforted me, and loved me. Who was she, then, but my mother?
Yet I blessed Laura Tansor for submitting to her conscience; and I blessed Miss Eames for sending Mr Carteret the clue that had delivered me from the yoke of perpetual dissimulation. The keys to the kingdom were now in my possession, and I was free at last to face the world as Edward Duport, to marry my dearest girl, and to lay my enemy low at last.
*[‘I shall rise again’.
*[The picture in question, of Anthony Charles Duport (1682–1709), by Sir Godfrey Kneller (1646–1723), is now in the National Portrait Gallery.
*[A lantern with a thick protuberant lens of blown glass on one side for concentrating the light.
