Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

At first I could feel nothing; but then my fingers closed round something soft and separable, almost like a lock of flattened-out hair. Quickly withdrawing my arm and reaching for the lamp, I peered in.

Protruding from the narrow space between the back wall of the chamber and the coffin was what I could now see was the edge of a fringed garment of some kind – a shawl perhaps. I extended my hand behind the rear of the coffin and began to pull, but immediately met some resistance. I pulled again, with the same result. Lying down on my side, I stretched into the space and round the edge of the coffin as far as I could. After a little more gentle tugging and grappling, I finally extracted my discovery from its resting-place, and set it down in the yellow light of the lamp to examine it, breathing out my relief that it had not been necessary to disturb the coffin.

It was indeed a fringed shawl – a Paisley shawl, which had been rolled up and wedged behind the coffin. It seemed of little interest at first, until I began to unroll it. Then it soon became apparent that there were other objects wrapped inside it. I laid the shawl out on the floor.

Within another wrapping of white linen, I was astonished to find an exquisitely embroidered christening robe, a pair of tiny silk shoes, and a small book bound in old red morocco. This last item was quickly identified: it was the first edition of Felltham’s Resolves, printed in duodecimo for Seile in about 1623. *It bore the bookplate of William, 23rd Baron Tansor. There was no doubt in my mind that it was the copy that my mother had asked Mr Carteret to bring to her from the Library before her death in 1824. Dr Daunt’s failure to locate the copy listed by Burstall when compiling his catalogue was now explained. But who had put it here, and why?

That it had been intended, with the other items, to convey some message or signification was clear. Though it had been in its hiding place for over thirty years, it was in remarkably good repair, the burial chamber being clean and dry. I examined the title-page: Resolves: Divine, Morall, Politicall. There was no inscription of any kind, and so I began slowly turning over the leaves one by one, to scrutinize each of the hundred numbered essays. I could detect nothing out of the ordinary – no annotations or marginalia, and nothing inserted between the leaves; but as I was closing the book, I observed that it did not shut quite flat. I then saw why: a sheet of paper had been carefully pasted over the original end-leaf. On closer examination, it was possible to make out that something had been interpolated between the false and the real end-leaf.

I took out my pocket-knife, and began to prise away the false leaf. It proved to have been only lightly fixed, and soon came away to reveal two folded pieces of thin paper.

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 pride of race , from which, by this act, I have sought to protect you.Yet because I am conscious of my sin, in so depriving you of what you might have had, and my husband of the heir for which he yearns, I have placed everything in God’s hands. If it is His will to lead you to the truth, then I promise before I die to provide the means for you to reclaim your true name, if that is what you desire – though I pray to Him before Whom I must be judged that it is not what you will desire; and that you will have the strength to disown what you were born to.So sleep, my beautiful son. When you wake I shall be gone. You will never know me as your mother, but I shall always know you as my son.Ever your loving mother,L.R. DUPORT Dinan, June 1820

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 she wished he might one day have. She placed all her trust in God to bring these things forth from the darkness of the grave into the light of day once more, if it is His will to do so. This is my last service to her. May God rest her soul.J.E. 1824.