Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘And do you know whether Lord Tansor himself was aware that his wife had consulted your father on this matter?’

Mr Tredgold cleaned his eye-glass.

‘As to that, I think I can say with certainty that he did not. I can also say that the agreement you have in your hand was not finally incorporated into her Ladyship’s will, for she came to me some time later, with Lord Tansor’s full knowledge this time, specifically to prescribe new testamentary provisions following the birth of her son, Henry Hereward Duport.’

I had one final matter to raise with the Senior Partner.

‘Mrs Glyver …’

‘Yes?’

‘I believe certain arrangements were put in place, of a practical nature?’

‘That is so: a monthly remittance, which this office disposed through Dimsdale & Co.’

‘And that arrangement ceased … ?’

‘On the death of Lady Tansor, in the year 1824.’

‘I see. Well, then, Mr Tredgold, I need detain you no further. The business appears to have been concluded to the satisfaction of all concerned, and I think I can report to Mr Edward Glyver that he need have no further disquiet regarding this matter.’

I rose to go, but Mr Tredgold suddenly sprang up from his chair, with a speed that surprised me.

‘By no means, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, taking my arm. ‘I shall not hear of it! You shall stay to luncheon – it is all ready.’

And with this wholly unanticipated expression of civility towards me, I was escorted to an adjoining room, where a substantial cold collation had been laid out. We chatted easily for an hour or more over what was a really excellent repast – prepared and brought in for Mr Tredgold by a protégé of no less a person than M. Brillat-Savarin *himself. We soon discovered that the Senior Partner had spent some time in Heidelberg as a student, which precipitated some mutually happy memories of the town and its environs.

‘The receipt that you showed me earlier, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said at length. ‘Do you perhaps share Mr Glyver’s bibliographical interests?’

I replied that I had made some study of the subject.

‘Perhaps, then, you would give me your opinion on something?’

Whereupon he went to a glass-fronted case in the far corner of the room and took out a volume to show me – Battista Marino’s Epithalami (Paris, 1616 – the first collected edition, and the only edition printed outside Italy). †

‘Very fine,’ I said admiringly.

Mr Tredgold’s remarks on the character, provenance, and rarity of the volume were accurate and judicious, and although his knowledge of the field in general was inferior to my own, he nevertheless impressed me with the extent of his expertise. He affected to defer immediately to what he kindly claimed was my obviously superior judgment on such matters, and ventured to suggest that we might arrange another visit, at which he could show me more of his collection at leisure.

So it was that I charmed Mr Christopher Tredgold.

I left by one of the side entrances, escorted down to the street door by the serving man who had let me in a few hours before. Just as we reached the bottom, Mr Tredgold shouted down: ‘Come again, next Sunday.’

And I did; and the next Sunday, and the following. By my fifth visit to Paternoster-row, in early October, I had formed a plan that I hoped would take advantage of my increasingly friendly connexion with the Senior Partner.

‘I fear, Mr Tredgold,’ I said, as I was about to depart for Camberwell, ‘that this may have to be the last of our pleasant Sundays.’ He looked up, and for once the beam had vanished.

‘What? Why do you say so?’

‘My employment with Mr Glyver was, as you know, only temporary. It will be over as soon as he returns from the Continent in the next few days and I can discharge the final portions of my duty to him in person.’

‘But what will you do then?’ asked Mr Tredgold, with every appearance of genuine concern.

I shook my head and said that I had no immediate prospect of further employment.

‘Why, then,’ he beamed, ‘I can give you one.’

It had fallen out even better than I had dared hope. I had envisaged the possibility of finding a way to join the firm in some junior or even menial capacity; but instead, here was Mr Tredgold offering to employ me as his assistant. In addition, he offered to introduce me to Sir Ephraim Gadd, QC, the recipient of many of Tredgolds’ most lucrative briefs, who was at that moment seeking someone to act as tutor in the Classical languages to those applying for admission to the Inner Temple who had not taken a degree.

‘But I have no degree either,’ said I.

Mr Tredgold smiled – seraphically – once more.

‘That, I can assure you, will be no bar. Sir Ephraim is always ready to take the advice of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr.’

With my new position came a good salary of a hundred and fifty pounds per annum, * and a set of top-floor rooms in Temple-street, in a building owned by the firm, for which only a modest rent was requested. It was agreed that I would begin my employment – the precise nature of which remained almost deliberately vague – on the first day of November, in just over four weeks’ time, when the rooms I had been given were vacated by their present temporary occupant.

I returned to Camberwell elated by my triumph, but saddened at having to leave my comfortable lodgings. Signor Gallini, from whom I had received many kindnesses and attentions in the short time we had been acquainted, was the first new friend I made in London, and it was a real sadness to leave his quiet little house, not to mention the charms of the delectable Miss Bella, and move into the teeming heart of the city. But leave I did, and duly left Camberwell for Temple-street at the end of October. Now settled on this new course, I celebrated Christmas 1848 in the Temple Church, singing my heart out alongside the devout amongst my new neighbours, in a mood of genuine thanksgiving.

The first letter that I received in my new home was from Signor Gallini and Bella (with whom I had determined I should not lose contact), wishing me the compliments of the season and sending their very best hopes that I would prosper in my new career. A few days after Christmas two more letters were delivered, this time to the accommodation address that I had taken in Upper Thames-street, hard by, in order to receive any correspondence that might be directed to Edward Glyver.

One was from Mr Gosling, my mother’s legal man in Weymouth, advising me that the house at Sandchurch had been sold but indicating that, owing to its somewhat parlous condition, we had not achieved the price we had anticipated. The proceeds had been disposed of according to my instructions: the money owed to Mr More had been remitted to him, and this, in addition to other necessary disbursements, had left a balance of £107 4s. and 6d. This was far less than I had expected, but at least I now had employment, and a roof over my head.

The other letter was from Dr Penny, the physician who had attended my mother in her last illness.

Sandchurch, Dorset

4th January 1849 MY DEAR EDWARD, —It is with very great sorrow that I have to inform you that poor Tom Grexby passed away last evening. The end was swift and painless, I am glad to say, though quite unexpected.I had seen him only the day before and he seemed quite well. He was taken ill during the afternoon. I was called, but he was unconscious when I arrived and I could do nothing for him. He died, quite peacefully, just after eight o’clock.The funeral is today week the 11th. I am sorry to be the bearer of such mournful news.I remain, yours very sincerely,MATTHEW PENNY

A week later, on a bitter January afternoon, I returned to Sandchurch, for the last time in my life, to see my dear friend and former schoolmaster laid to rest in the little church-yard overlooking the grey waters of the Channel. A keen wind was coming in from the east, and the ground was flint-hard underfoot from several days’ hard frost. I remained alone in the church-yard after everyone else had departed, watching the last vestiges of day succumb to the onset of darkness, until it became impossible to distinguish where the sky ended and the heaving expanse of black water began.