The Meaning of Night

by Michael Cox

  ‘Plainly? Very well. Here it is, as plain as I can make it. My name is not Edward Glapthorn. It is Edward Duport, and I am Lord Tansor’s son.’

  *[‘To know all things is not permitted’ (Horace, Odes, IV.iv). Ed.]

  *[The bookseller David Nutt, at 270 and 271 Strand. Ed.]

  *[A Collection of Poems, edited by Charles Gildon (1665–1724) and published by Bernard Lintot in a small octavo, one-volume edition in 1709 (it later appeared in two volumes). It contains Venus and Adonis, The Rape of Lucrece, The Passionate Pilgrim, and ‘Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Musick’, which are in fact the last six poems in the preceding work. Ed.]

  41

  Resurgam*

  She listened in silence as I told her my story. I spared her no detail. Everything was laid out before her: the conspiracy devised by Lady Tansor and my foster-mother, Simona Glyver; my upbringing as Edward Glyver at Sandchurch; my first meeting with Daunt at Eton, and his subsequent betrayal of me; the discovery of the truth concerning my birth in my foster-mother’s journals; and my continuing quest to find the final proof that would enable me to claim my rightful place as a member of the Duport family. I told her also of how I had first come to London as Edward Glapthorn, to seek information from Mr Tredgold on the arrangement made between Lady Tansor and my foster-mother, and how I had retained my assumed name after the Senior Partner had offered me employment. Finally, I spoke of Daunt’s criminal character, and of his association with Pluckrose and Pettingale. With each truth that I revealed, I felt cleansed, with a sensation of sweet relief that the burden of deceit had been lifted at last.

  When I had finished, she walked to the window, and looked out across the darkling Park. I waited expectantly.

  ‘This is so hard for me to comprehend,’ she said at length, ‘though at least I now understand your interest in Mr Phoebus Daunt. Lord Tansor’s son – is it possible? Oh—’ She gave a little cry and placed her hand to her lips. ‘Cousins! We are cousins!’

  Then she turned towards me.

  ‘Why did you not tell me before?’

  ‘Dearest Emily, don’t be angered. How I have wished – most desperately – to bring you into my confidence; but how could I do so until I could be sure that you felt for me as I feel for you, when so much was at stake? Now that I know beyond all doubt – by your letters, and by the sweet words that you have spoken to me, and by all the tender moments we have shared – that your love for me is as strong and as unbreakable as is mine for you, why of course the situation is entirely different. Where true love is, trust and frankness must follow. There can now be no more secrets between us. When we are married —’

  ‘Married?’ She seemed to sway a little, and I reached out to wrap her in my arms.

  ‘It is what you wish, is it not, my love?’

  She nodded slowly. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, in a soft low voice. ‘It is what I wish above all things in the world. It is just that I have not allowed myself to hope that you might ask me.’ Then she raised her beautiful tear-stained eyes towards me. ‘But surely, my love, we can do nothing until you have proved your claim to be Lord Tansor’s son?’

  ‘No,’ I acknowledged, ‘you are right. But when that day comes – as come it must – you will be beholden to his Lordship no more, for you will have become the wife of Edward Duport, the future 26th Baron Tansor.’

  ‘Oh, Edward,’ she cried, ‘let it come soon!’ And then she began to weep tender tears – of joy at the prospect that I had presented to her, though mixed no doubt with natural apprehension.

  ‘You understand, of course, my love,’ I said, as I held her in my arms, ‘how imperative it is that the secrets that we now share must be kept safe – not a word of what I have told you must be spoken of, or hinted at, to anyone. And, for the time being, it will be best to keep my visits to you confidential. For if Daunt should discover that Edward Glapthorn is Edward Duport, then my life – and perhaps yours – will certainly be in peril.’

  ‘Danger? From Mr Daunt?’

  ‘Oh my love, yes, from Daunt. He is a far worse villain than you think.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Do not make me tell you.’

  ‘What are you saying? Why do you not speak? Tell me, tell me!’

  Her eyes were wild, and she seemed once again in the grip of that strange agitation of spirit that I had witnessed in the Temple of the Winds, walking round and round distractedly in a little circle in the middle of the room. I brought her back to the window-seat and took her hand.

  ‘I believe Daunt was responsible for the attack on your father.’

  I had expected some powerful uprush of emotion in reaction to my words; but instead she fell gently towards me in a swoon. I caught her, and laid her down on the seat. She was as pale as death, and her hands made strange fluttering movements, as if under the intermittent influence of some galvanic current. I was on the point of calling for help when she opened her eyes.

  By and by, her colour began to return and she was able to take a sip or two of wine, which gradually effected a revival of her faculties, though she remained deeply distressed by what I had told her, and by what I now revealed concerning the documents that her father had been carrying with him when he had been attacked, as well as the reason that Daunt had gone to such lengths to obtain them.

  ‘I do not say that Daunt intended to murder your father,’ I said. ‘Indeed, I believe he did not. But I am certain that he ordered the attack by Pluckrose to gain possession of the documents proving the existence of a legitimate heir.’

  Then she asked me how I knew what had been in her father’s bag, and so I told her of the Deposition, at which she became greatly agitated.

  ‘But what if Mr Daunt should also obtain this document? How will you then hope to prosecute your case successfully?’

  ‘He will not find it,’ I said, with a confident smile.

  Before coming to Evenwood, I had realized that Mr Carteret’s Deposition, together with the little black volumes containing the daily record of my foster-mother’s life, must now be removed to a place of absolute safety. My rooms in Temple-street were always securely locked; but locks can be picked; and Mrs Grainger’s possession of the only other key had given me further concern: suppose she should be followed, or set upon? And then there was Jukes, whom I already suspected of snooping through my private papers. And so I had determined, once I had made my confession to her, and had been forgiven for keeping so much from her, to ask my dearest girl to become the custodian of these most precious items.

  ‘But how can you be so sure that he won’t find them?’ she asked, her anxiety still plainly apparent.

  I told her that I had given a copy of the Deposition to Mr Tredgold, and that I intended to place the original, as well as my mother’s journals, beyond Daunt’s reach.

  ‘But where, dearest?’ she cried, looking most pathetically apprehensive.

  ‘Here,’ I replied. ‘Here, with you.’

  And then relief seemed to flood over her dear sweet face. ‘Yes, yes,’ she sighed. ‘Of course, you are right! Here is the last place in the world that he will think of looking! He would never have a reason to come into these apartments, nor can he know that you have taken me into your confidence. But I am still fearful for you, my love, so very fearful, until you can bring the documents from London.’

  I took her hand and kissed it, assuring her that I would waste no time but would return to London in the morning to collect the Deposition and the journals, and bring them back to Evenwood.

  ‘Where shall we put them?’ I asked.

  She thought for a moment, and then an idea struck her. ‘Here,’ she said, running over to a small oval portrait of Anthony Duport,* younger brother of the 21st Baron, as a boy. Taking down the portrait she opened a small cupboard concealed in the panelling.

  ‘Will this do?’

  I inspected the interior of the cupboard and pronounced it ideally suited.

  �
��Then that is settled,’ she said, closing the door and replacing the portrait.

  We sat together in the window, holding hands, talking quietly, as close as two hearts can be. She called me her dearest love; I told her that she was my angel. Then we kissed our good-byes.

  ‘My sweet girl,’ I whispered. ‘Are you sure that you wish to become the custodian of these documents? Perhaps, after all, I should remove them to the bank. If Daunt should—’

  She placed her forefinger against my lips to prevent me from saying any more.

  ‘Dearest Edward, you have asked me to do this for you, and I have said I will. Whatever you ask of me, now and in the future, I will do my best to carry out.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘You know that I shall soon, I hope, commit myself to honour and obey you, in sickness and in health, and so there is no harm in beginning now. It is such a little thing to ask of me, after all, and I would do anything – anything – for the man I love.’

  She walked with me to the door, and we kissed for one last time.

  ‘Come back to me soon, my dearest love,’ she whispered. ‘I shall count the minutes till you return.’

  I left, unseen, by the new way, down the little winding stair-case and out onto the path by Hamnet’s Tower.

  At the South Gates of the Park, I stopped. The Dower House could just be glimpsed through the Plantation; lamps were burning in the drawing-room, and in one of the upstairs rooms. On a sudden impulse, I took the track round into the stable-yard. My luck was in; the door to the tack-room stood open, throwing a pale rectangle of light onto the cobbles.

  ‘Good-evening, Brine.’

  He had been binding the head of a besom broom when I had entered, and looked round in surprise at the sound of my voice.

  ‘Mr Glapthorn, sir! I – we did not expect you.’

  ‘And you have not seen me,’ I said, closing the door behind me. ‘Have you the duplicate key I asked for?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He opened a drawer in an old dresser and handed the key to me.

  ‘I shall need some tools. Can you get me some? And a lantern.’

  ‘Tools? Why, yes, of course, sir.’ I told him what I required and he went into an adjoining room, returning in a few minutes with a bag of the necessary implements, and a bull’s-eye lamp.*

  ‘Remember, Brine, I was not here. You understand?’ I handed over the usual consideration.

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

  In a few moments, with the bag across my back, I was walking along the gravel bridle-way that skirts the Park wall and leads up to the Mausoleum. It was just at that melancholy time when the savour finally goes out of the day, and twilight begins to surrender to the onset of darkness. Somewhere ahead of me a fox barked, and a cold low wind troubled the trees that lined the path running up from the bridle-way to the clearing in front of the Mausoleum. My head had been full of my dearest girl; but as I approached the lonely building, my wildly joyous mood began to seep away as I contemplated the awful reality of what I had come here to do.

  Sursum Corda. What else had Miss Eames intimated, in sending these words to Mr Carteret, than that what they were inscribed upon covered something of crucial significance? This was the instinctive conclusion that I had reached, and on which I was now about to act. But it was a fearful prospect: to break into my mother’s tomb, without the least idea of what I was looking for. I prayed that, whatever was hidden there, if it was hidden there, would be easily found within the loculus itself. But if it should be in the coffin! That might be a horror beyond even my ability to face.

  I entered through the great double doors, using the key that Brine had provided, and went about my work.

  It was past midnight when the slab that closed off my mother’s burial chamber finally yielded to my chisel. I had broken open the protective gates of the loculus easily enough, but it took nearly an hour to cut out the rectangular slate slab, and all my strength to support the weight of it and lay it on the floor. But at last it was done, and I turned to see, by the light of the lamp that I had brought from the tack-room, what lay within.

  A plain coffin of dark oak, placed lengthways in the space, filled most of the cavity. Lifting the lantern a little higher revealed a simple brass plate, bearing the words ‘LAURA ROSE DUPORT’, affixed to the lid of the coffin. There was barely a foot between the lid and the vaulted roof of the little chamber, and only two or three inches between the coffin itself and the back wall of the loculus; on either side, however, there was a narrow gap, perhaps eight or nine inches wide. I kneeled down at the foot of the coffin, and reached forward into the darkness, but only cobwebs and fragments of mortar met my touch. Moving across to the other side, I reached in again.

  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 stra
ngers 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. DUPORTDinan, June 1820