Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

I might say a good deal more concerning Mr Phoebus Daunt; but I am conscious that I digress from my immediate purpose.

To return to my projected history of my cousin’s family (and, of course, of my own). I need not weary the reader of this statement by rehearsing in detail the progress of the work, the sources for which are extensive and requiring of careful and patient scrutiny. Year by year I continued to work, slowly but steadily, through the documents accumulated and stored by each successive generation, making notes thereon, and composing drafts.

In January of the present year, 1853, I was drafting an account of the perilous Civil War period, during which the family’s fortunes stood in dire jeopardy. I happened to look up, as I often did, at the unfinished portrait of my cousin’s first wife that now hung on the wall of my work-room. My secretary’s duties were over for the day, and for the next hour or so the history of the family during the time of Charles I should have claimed my attention; but I was much wearied by my recent exertions and, as I contemplated the image of the beautiful face in the picture above me, suddenly wished very much – I cannot say why – to look again at the remnants of the life of Laura Tansor, which I had gathered together after her death. It was most unmethodical and, I may say, uncharacteristic of me to deviate from a logical course of action, for I had been proceeding with assembling material for my projected Historia Duportiana on a strictly chronological basis. But I succumbed to this sudden keen desire and, going upstairs to the Muniments Room, opened the little iron-bound chest in which I had placed my Lady’s papers nearly thirty years earlier.

I looked again at her wonderful sketches and drawings, especially those executed during her time in France, and read for the first time poems and other effusions that immediately brought her back to mind, so passionate were they, so full of life and spirit. I then turned my attention to a large bundle of letters and, not wishing to put my time to waste, began to compose some brief notes thereon; but when I had finished, I was presented with a puzzle.

Her Ladyship’s correspondence was extensive, dating back to letters written to her by my cousin during their courtship, and including a large number of communications from members of her family and friends from the West Country. Faced with such a large number of items, I usually commence by arranging them by date and sender; but when I had finished ordering them in this way, it was clear that a quantity of letters were missing, particularly those from a certain Simona More, later Glyver, who appeared to have been an old childhood friend of her Ladyship’s. There was a sequence of communications – at least one a month, sometimes two or three – from this lady, beginning in August 1816, the year that her Ladyship first became acquainted with my cousin; but then, in July 1819, the letters ceased altogether, only resuming their previous frequency in October 1820. It was manifest, from her letters to Lady Tansor, that Miss More, or rather Mrs Glyver, as she soon became, had enjoyed an exceptionally intimate acquaintance with my cousin’s first wife, which made the gap in the correspondence – a period of some fifteen months – all the more singular.

Some of the other categories of document – bills, receipts, &c. – showed similar chronological disruptions. After considering the matter for some little time, and going back to the Dower House to consult my own daily journal on the matter of dates, I concluded that a deliberate attempt had been made to remove, and perhaps destroy, any document, no matter how trivial, that dated from July 1819, just before her Ladyship left for France, until after she returned to her husband, at the end of September the following year.

I went to make discreet enquiries of my cousin as to whether any of his first wife’s papers were still in his possession, but it seemed they were not. I even made another search of her former apartments, and other places where I thought perhaps they might be, but could find nothing. And so, baffled, I placed the letters back in the chest.

V

Sunday, 23rd October 1853 (continued)

I see from my journal that it was on the 25th of March 1853 that I received the following communication:DEAR MR CARTERET, —I regret to inform you that my sister, Miss Julia Eames, passed away on Thursday last, the 21st inst. Her family and many friends thank God that, though her sufferings have been great, her final hours were peaceful.Before the end came, my dear sister had strength enough to request, most insistently, that I write you this note, to be sent after God had taken her, to tell you that there is something here she was most desirous for you to have, something placed into her keeping that she said must now pass to you.I therefore hope that you will favour me with a reply at your earliest convenience, stating a day and a time that will suit you to visit us here, so that I may discharge this last duty to my dear departed sister.I am, sir, yours very sincerely,

C. MCBRYDE (MRS)

My cousin happened to be on the Isle of Wight just at that time, advising the Prince-Consort on some matter connected with Her Majesty’s new residence, *and was not to return for some time; and so I immediately arranged with Mrs McBryde to call upon her on the following week.

I was received kindly by this lady, who bore a close resemblance to her late sister, at a well-appointed house in Hyde-Park-square, in that new residential district of London known as Tyburnia. †After the usual introductions and exchanges, during which I commiserated most sincerely with Mrs McBryde for her loss, I was offered tea, which I declined. She then walked over to a large cabinet in the corner of the room, which she proceeded to unlock.

‘This is what my sister wished you to have.’

I had last seen it nearly thirty years ago, standing on a table in my Lady’s sitting-room at Evenwood. A large ebony writing-box, bearing the initials ‘LRD’ in mother-of-pearl on the lid.

‘There is this also.’ She handed me a letter, addressed to myself.

After a few words more, I took my leave. As I had some further business in town the next day, I had taken a room at the Hummums Hotel; ‡and it was to this establishment that I now repaired.

I did not immediately investigate the contents of the box. Instead, I placed it on a table in my room and proceeded to open the letter.

It was, as I had surmised, from Miss Eames, written in an unsteady hand, and dated three days before her death. I transcribe it here.MY DEAR MR CARTERET, —I do not know how much longer I may have on this earth, only that my time is short. Not wishing to pass into the hands of Almighty God without discharging my last duty to my dear friend, the late Laura Tansor, I am therefore arranging for a certain object, entrusted to me on my friend’s death, to be placed in your hands by my sister after my own departure from this life of sin, according to my friend’s wishes. When you read this, therefore, I too will have passed beyond pain and suffering and, in the hope of being delivered of my offences by God’s grace, will walk again through all eternity with her whom I served faithfully in life.For the last years of my friend’s life, her conscience was sorely troubled by an action taken by her some time before, which could be neither admitted nor undone. I – with another – was a party to that action, and my conscience, too, has been burdened, until sometimes I have thought I could stand no more. For though I tried, on several occasions, I could not dissuade my friend from the course of action she was set on taking. I once asked you never to think ill of me. I beg you now to consider what I have done, by the sin of omission, in the light of friendship and trust, in which I know you place the highest value; for I made a solemn promise, on my mother’s Bible, to keep my Lady’s secret safe, never to betray her while she lived, and to hold fast to that promise until such time as it pleased the Almighty to take me to His own. That I have done, as God is my witness, faithfully and unswervingly, through all these years. If I have done wrong in keeping faith with the dearest of friends, then I pray to be forgiven – by the Lord of mercy and judgment, and by those remaining whom my silence may have injured.And so, dear Mr Carteret, I die in the hope that what now passes into your possession may perhaps be used by you to set right what was made wrong by my friend’s action. I do not condemn or blame her for what she did; for who is without sin? She was mortal, and her passion – born of fierce loyalty to a beloved parent – blinded her. She repented of what she had done, truly repented, and sought to make amends. But she was consumed by the constant thought of her sin – she saw it as such; it made her mad, and drove her at last into the arms of death. I go now to meet her, and my heart is glad.The Lord God bless you and keep you. Pray for me, that my unrighteousness be forgiven, and my sin covered. *