Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

Further letters from Mrs Glyver made the matter clear beyond per-adventure: my Lady had given birth to a son in the city of Rennes. He had been born in the Hôtel de Québriac, Rue du Chapitre, in the month of March of the year 1820.

But there was a deeper matter even than this, of such consequence that I could scarce believe it; and yet the evidence was here in my hands, in these letters written to her Ladyship by her friend, Simona Glyver, and also in others she received in Paris from Miss Eames. Lady Tansor returned to England on the 25th of September 1820 – alone. Where, then, was the child? The thought occurred to me that he might have died; but letters from Mrs Glyver received by her Ladyship after arriving back at Evenwood contained regular reports of the child’s progress – the habits he was developing, the darkening of his hair, the little sounds he made and how they were interpreted, how he loved to be taken down to the shore to watch the waves crashing in, and the gulls soaring above them. It also appears – astonishing as it is to think of – that the child was brought surreptitiously to Evenwood, in the summer before Lady Tansor died, when her husband had been called away on political business, and much discussion ensued concerning the little boy’s fascination with the white doves that fluttered around the spires and towers of the great house, and with the goldfish – many of great size and age – that glided silently through the dark waters of the fish-pond.

I read several of the letters over again, and then a third time, to make sure that I had not deceived myself. But there was no other possible interpretation of the evidence before me. Lady Tansor had brought her husband’s rightful heir secretly into the world, only to give him away to another.

So I come at last to my beginning. This was the crime to which I bear witness: the denial – by a premeditated act of determined duplicity and cruelty (I shall not go so far as to call it malice, though some might) – of paternity to my cousin, who lives only that he might pass on what he has inherited from his forefathers to his lawfully begotten son. This was badly done by my Lady, and I say so as one who loved her dearly. I aver that it was cruel beyond words to so deny my cousin that which would have completed his life; that it was an act of terrible vindictiveness, no one can deny; and to my mind, insofar as it took from Lord Tansor what was rightfully his, though he remained ignorant of his loss, this act of denial was, in its effects, criminal.

And yet, having arraigned her, having presented the evidence against her, can I now condemn her? She paid a terrible price for what she did; she did not act alone – others, one in particular, were guilty by association, though they aided her out of love and loyalty; she – and they – are now for ever beyond the reach of earthly justice, and have been judged by Him who judges all. For, as Miss Eames observed, who of us are without sin? No life is without secrets; and it may often be that the lesser evil is to keep such secrets hidden. Let me, as the accuser of Laura, Lady Tansor, therefore plead for clemency. Let her rest.

But the consequences of the crime remain, and they are not so easily remitted. For what accounts are still to be presented for settlement? Does the boy live? Does he know who he is? How can this be made right?

Since making my discovery, I have wrestled day and night with my conscience: to keep my Lady’s secret, or place what I know before my cousin? I am tormented by the knowledge that I now possess, as I fear dear Miss Eames had been; but now, at last, I am impelled to take action – and not only to forestall any accusation that I am withholding what I know in order to protect my own interests.

My cousin’s determination to adopt Phoebus Daunt as his heir in law, the device to which he has pledged himself in order to make good the deficit that Nature has apparently inflicted upon him, renders it imperative that I make the truth known, so that steps may immediately be taken to find the true heir, if he lives. I can no longer keep silent on this matter; for if the true-born heir be yet living, then everything must be done to discover him, and so prevent the disastrous course of action upon which my cousin is set. And there is another matter of concern to me.

Late one afternoon in April of this present year, I had just entered the Library when I witnessed Mr Phoebus Daunt softly closing the door of my work-room, where he had no business to be, and then looking about him to make sure that he was unobserved. A man, I thought, is never more himself than when he thinks he is alone. I waited, out of sight, for him to quit the Library through one of the terrace doors. When I got to my room, it was immediately clear that some of the papers on my desk had been disturbed; luckily, the door to the Muniments Room was locked and the key about my person.

Over the course of succeeding weeks, I would frequently encounter Mr Daunt in the Library, apparently engaged upon reading some volume or other, or occasionally writing at one of the tables. I suspected, however, that his real purpose was to seek an opportunity to enter my work-room, and perhaps gain access to the Muniments Room. But he never could, for I now took to locking the door to my work-room whenever I left the Library.

This was not the first occasion on which I had found reason to suspect my dear friend’s son of frankly despicable behaviour. Did I say suspect? Let me be blunt. I know him to have been guilty of reading Lord Tansor’s private correspondence – including letters of a highly confidential nature – when he had not been given permission to do so. I should have spoken out, and it is a matter of the greatest regret that I did not do so. But the point that I wish to make most strongly is this: what action might a determined and unscrupulous person contemplate if he suspected that his expectations – his most considerable expectations – were threatened in any way? I answer that such a person would stop at nothing to preserve his position. Let me be even clearer. I do not know how Mr Phoebus Daunt can have come by his knowledge, but I am certain that he knows the nature of the documents left to me by Miss Julia Eames.

Midnight

He is there, though I cannot see him now – he seems to melt away into the darkness, to become a shadow. But he was there – is there. I thought at first that it was John Brine, but it cannot be him. He stands so still, in the shadow of the cypress-tree – watching, waiting; but then when I opened the window, he was gone, taken up by the darkness.

I have seen him before – on many occasions, but always just out of sight, often at dusk when I have been returning home across the Park, and more frequently of late.

And then I am certain that there was an attempt last week to break into my study, where I am now writing, though I could find nothing missing. A ladder had been taken from one of the out-buildings, and was found discarded in the shrubbery, and the woodwork of my window had been damaged.

I feel constantly under his eyes, even when I cannot see him. What does it mean? Nothing good, I fear.

For I think I know who sets this watcher on me, and who it is that desires to know what I now know. He smiles, and asks me how I am, and he shines like the sun in the estimation of the world; but there is evil in his heart.

My candle is burning low and I must finish.

To those who may read this deposition, I say again that what I have written is the entire truth, as far as it is known to me, and that I have claimed nothing that has not been based on evidence provided by the documents in my possession, personal knowledge, and direct observation.

This I swear on everything I hold most sacred.