Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘Well, then, I am glad that we are of one view. I wish you to remain steady in that view, Mr Glapthorn, and remember always what kind of man my brother is. If he has erred, it is because he has been placed in an intolerable position by those who do not aspire, and who never will aspire, to the high ideals of conduct and character that have distinguished all my brother’s dealings, both personal and professional.’

I confess that I had no idea what the woman was talking about, but I smiled in a conciliatory way, which I hoped would convey my complete comprehension of the matter.

‘Mr Glapthorn, I have here a letter’ – she gestured towards the sealed envelope – ‘written by my brother the night before he was taken ill. It is addressed to you. However, before I give it to you, my brother has asked me to preface his words with some of my own. Do I have your permission?’

‘By all means. May I ask first, Miss Tredgold, if you have read your brother’s letter?’

‘I have not.’

‘But I may presume, I suppose, that it contains matters of a confidential nature?’

‘I think you may presume so.’

‘And are you yourself a party to any of those confidences?’

‘I am merely my brother’s agent, Mr Glapthorn. If he were well, then you may take it that he would be communicating these matters to you himself. However, there is one subject on which I have been honoured with his confidence. It is on this subject that he has asked me to speak to you prior to your reading his letter. Before I do so, I hope I may depend on your absolute discretion, as you may depend on mine?’

I gave her my word that I would never divulge what was imparted to me, and begged her to proceed.

‘You may wish to know first,’ she began, ‘that the firm of which my brother is now the Senior Partner was established by my great-grandfather, Mr Jonas Tredgold, and a junior associate, Mr James Orr, in the year 1767. In due course, my late father, Mr Anson Tredgold, joined the firm, which then became known as Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, a name which it has since retained, along with a reputation second to none amongst London solicitors.

‘It was my grandfather who first established an association between the firm and a certain noble family – of whom, I believe, you have some knowledge. I speak, of course, of the Duport family of Evenwood, holders of the Tansor Barony. Later, the management of the family’s legal affairs duly fell to my father; and then to my brother Christopher.

‘At the time that Christopher joined the firm, Father was in his seventy-first year, still sprightly in body and active in mind, though it must be confessed that his powers of concentration and application were perhaps not quite what they had once been. Nevertheless, as the Senior Partner, he continued to enjoy the complete confidence of the firm’s principal client, the present Lord Tansor, until his death.

‘And now my brother is the Senior Partner. Unfortunately, he has no son into whose hands he can place the governance of the firm, in the way that his father and grandfather had done before him. It is the tragedy of my brother’s life, for he would dearly have loved to marry, and so we must now contemplate the prospect of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr existing without the living presence of a Tredgold.’

‘Could you tell me, Miss Tredgold,’ I broke in, ‘what has prevented Mr Tredgold from following his inclination?’

‘That, Mr Glapthorn, is the particular matter on which my brother has asked me to speak, if you will be so kind as to allow me.’

Her reprimand was delivered with cold courteousness, and I felt obliged to apologize for my interruption.

‘It was passion, Mr Glapthorn, for an object that could never have been his – a passion that he knew to be wrong, but which he could not resist; a passion that rules him now as completely as it ever did, and which has kept him a slave to its original object for these thirty years and more. Indeed, I can give you the exact date when it commenced.

‘I came of age in July 1819, and on the twelfth of that month my father, Mr Anson Tredgold, was visited on a matter of business by Laura, Lady Tansor, the wife of his most distinguished client. Her reputation as a great beauty preceded her, and of course I was agog to see her – I was young and foolish then and knew no better. It was whispered, as you may perhaps know, that she had been the subject of those celebrated lines of Lord Byron’s, which begin “There be none of Beauty’s daughters”, *written (so it was rumoured) by the poet to Miss Fairmile – as she then was, of course – before her marriage to Lord Tansor. Whether that be true or no, she was constantly spoken about as being one of the loveliest and best turned-out women in England; and so, being apprised of her visit, and wishing to snatch a glimpse of this marvel, I made some excuse to be at the office when she arrived, and lingered on the stairs as she was received by the chief clerk and conducted up to my father’s room on the first floor. As she passed, she paused and turned her head slowly towards me. I shall always remember the moment.’

Miss Tredgold looked distantly into the black mouth of the great fireplace.

‘Her face was beautiful, certainly, but had an extraordinary impression of fragility about it, like an exquisite painting made on glass; indeed, her beauty and poise seemed almost too perfect to withstand the shocks that attend all human life. In that moment, as she looked directly into my eyes before honouring me with a brief nod of salutation, I felt a kind of sadness for her – pity even – that I could not explain. All beauty must pass, even hers, I thought; and those who are blessed with unusual physical beauty must, I supposed, feel this constantly. I was plain; I knew it. Yet I did not envy her – no, indeed I did not – for she appeared to me to be suffering from some great affliction of spirit that was already beginning to cast its shadow over that perfect face.

‘Lady Tansor conducted her business with my father, and was escorted by him to the front door, where they encountered my brother Christopher coming in. I had remained in the downstairs office, amongst the clerks, and was well placed to observe the scene.

‘I remember very well that her Ladyship appeared impatient and ill at ease, fingering the ribbons of her bonnet, and tapping the floor with the tip of her parasol. My father asked whether she would allow him to conduct her to her carriage, but she declined and made to go. My brother, however, intervened rather forcefully, and insisted that her Ladyship could not be allowed to descend the steps and cross the pavement unassisted. I had never seen him act the gallant before, and observed his attentions towards her with some amusement. She did no more than thank him, but you would have thought from his face, when he returned to the office from helping her into her carriage, that he had been in the presence of some divinity. Of course I teased him, and he was rather short with me, telling me not to be a silly little girl, which, having just attained my majority, I much resented.

‘But I did wrong to tease him, Mr Glapthorn, for it soon became apparent to me – though fortunately to no one else – that Christopher was smitten by the lady to a degree that was wholly incompatible both with his personal situation and his professional position. This infatuation, for which, as a young man, he could hardly be blamed, was to be the cause of his decision never to marry. It quickly grew, you see, into something fiercer, something all-consuming, that could not be denied, and yet which must be denied. It was a love of which poets sing, but which is scarcely seen in the world. He never confessed it to her, never acted upon it, and behaved at all times with the utmost propriety. There were times when I feared for his sanity, though it was only to me that he revealed the extent of his anguish. Gradually, he learned to master his situation – or seemed to – and took refuge in pursuits of a bibliographical nature, which have remained his solace during his hours of leisure. But when she died, the effect on my brother was terrible – quite terrible. Imagine, then, what he had to endure when his attendance was requested by Lord Tansor at her burial in the Mausoleum at Evenwood. He returned immediately to London and took a solemn vow in the Temple Church: that he would love her unto death, and take no one else into his heart, putting all his hope in being joined with her in eternity, when all care and suffering will be put aside for ever. He has kept that vow, and will go to his grave a bachelor because of his love for Laura Tansor.