The Glass of Time

by Michael Cox

  From the Rectory garden, some distance beyond the trees, a dog begins to bark excitedly, followed by a shout. Mr Thripp is an early riser, and is no doubt preparing to walk out with the ebullient little terrier that is his constant companion. The picture that forms in my mind of the Rector – absurd and irritating though he is – making his way up the tree-bowered lane to the church, his dog scampering hither and thither before him, panting with pure instinctual delight, as terriers do, seems to belong to some other world, far removed from this place of contemplated death. As the sound dies away, my conscience begins to awaken.

  Can I really stand coolly by and watch this woman die, and do nothing to save her? I urge myself, once again, that it must be done: the duty to which I have pledged myself, heart and soul, demands it. I must be as stern and unbending as a judge passing sentence on a convicted malefactor, thinking only of her offences.

  Yet as I watch her, my resolve – to let her do what she has come here, of her own free will, to do – begins to falter; and then a new and shocking thought takes hold.

  Will not inaction be a kind of killing, and make me a kind of murderer? I have no blade, no pistol, to use against her; no poison to be secretly administered; I would lay no hands on her, to choke off her life. Yet if I do nothing, I will be a silent accomplice in her death. It is an absurd notion; but it produces a stinging sense of culpability that slowly starts to eat away at my former determination to remain a dumb witness to what is unfolding before me.

  My heart should have been hardened by now against all feelings of pity or compassion for my former mistress. Yet common human sympathy is sweeping irresistibly through me, and tears start to run down my face.

  Even now I can save her, even now. I am young and strong; she is weak from illness, debilitated by sorrow and guilt. I could run to her, pull her back to the bank, and then urge her to fly, no matter where, from the inevitable consequences that await her once Inspector Gully has called, at nine o’clock sharp, to pay his compliments. There is still time. It is not too late.

  I cannot believe that Madame, or even my departed father, had either foreseen or desired that things would end in this dreadful way. They had wished only to punish Emily, by depriving her, and her sons, of their illicit inheritance. Why not save her, then – from herself, and from the full rigour of the law? If she escaped, as my father had escaped, she would still lose everything that she had plotted and schemed to maintain.

  I can never forgive her for betraying my father, and for driving him almost to madness; but I know that she acted under the spell of her surpassing love for Phoebus Daunt, who had then paid the price for their mutual guilt with his life. Can I be certain that I would not have done as much for Perseus?

  I am sick to the heart of plots and secrets and double-dealing, of pretending to be what I am not. The Great Task is no more. All is lost, and I am almost glad that it is so. I am weary also of obeying instructions, even from dear Madame. I, too, have a will of my own. I must – I shall – exercise it. I shall be myself at last.

  With painful slowness, dragging the weight of her water-logged cloak behind her, Emily has now passed through the shallows towards the middle of the stream.

  In a moment, all confusion has melted away, like mist before the rising sun. My decision is made.

  I will not let her die.

  A WIDENING STRAND of the palest, purest light is breaking over the eastern horizon as the bells of St Michael’s begin to ring out. I hear the sound, but cannot tell which hour, or half-hour, they are proclaiming. It almost seems as if the flow of time has ceased, replaced by a perpetual present moment, poised between life and death.

  The water is now waist-deep around her as Emily wades further and further into the Evenbrook. I move forward and stand on the bank to call out to her; but before I can open my mouth, she turns and looks back at me, her chest heaving with shortness of breath, her body rocked gently from side to side by the current.

  I now notice, for the first time, that she is wearing the black velvet band with the locket containing the strands of hair she cut from the head of Phoebus Daunt as he lay dead, by my father’s hand, in the snow-covered garden of Lord Tansor’s town-house. Seeing me about to speak, she places a finger against her bloodless lips, to show that she wishes me to remain silent. Then she stretches out her other hand, palm towards me, by which gesture I understand her to mean that I must stay where I am; and of course I obey these unspoken commands, for she is my mistress still.

  Her revived will is impossible to resist. I see now that I cannot save her, for she will not be saved.

  She is magnificent, dishevelled and diminished though she is – a queen indeed, unassailable, unconquerable, her beauty transfigured into something strange and unearthly. I wonder how I could ever have believed that I could overcome her. It is only too plain. She has overcome me, despite all my stratagems, all the tricks I had devised, under Madame’s instructions, to bring her down.

  Yet there is something more, something equally incontestable, in the smile she now gives me – sad and affectionate, but charged with a mysterious knowingness – which unnerves me, as though she has uncovered every secret I have striven to keep from her. Such a thing seems impossible; but the mere thought only serves to strengthen her ascendancy over me.

  Thus we stand, silently regarding each other, in wordless complicity, as the new day is met by a swelling chorus of bird-song, and a gentle breeze ruffles the fluffy seed-heads of the tall grasses growing between the path and the water’s edge, making the overhanging willows whisper and sigh.

  She smiles once more; but now that unsettling knowingness has gone; and again, unbidden, my heart goes out to her.

  TIME PASSES, AND nothing is said, or done. Emily remains waist-deep in the water, sometimes looking expectantly upstream, towards the Rectory, as though some significant event is imminent.

  Then, in a glorious uprush of new-born light, the morning sun rises at last above the wooded horizon laying a shimmering carpet of dazzling, dancing stars over the surface of Evenbrook. Turning towards the rising sun, Emily takes something from the pocket of her night-gown. At first I cannot make out what it is. Then my poor heart begins to beat with wild alarm.

  It is the photograph, in its black-bordered frame, of Phoebus Daunt, which should be where I so recently left it – shut away in its hiding-place behind the portrait of Anthony Duport.

  She knows, then, that her lover’s letters have been taken; but does she know, or has she guessed, by whom?

  With her face now bathed in light, she raises the photograph to her lips and kisses it, before pressing it, with rapturous tenderness, to her breast. Closing her eyes, and still clasping the photograph, she falls slowly forwards.

  For a moment she remains floating gently, face down, on the bubbling surface of the water, her loosened hair streaming out behind her. Then the weight of her cloak begins to drag her under, as she finally submits to the cold embrace of the Evenbrook.

  I can watch no more, and turn away in tears. When I pluck up the courage to look again, she has gone – carried swiftly downstream by the rapid current.

  Thus died Emily Grace Duport, 26th Baroness Tansor.

  My enemy.

  My friend.

  II

  The Gamekeeper’s Bag

  HALF AN HOUR has gone by since my return to the house – unobserved, I am certain – bringing with me the battered leather bag that Emily left on the grass by the Evenbrook.

  I had decided not to examine the bag’s contents until I had returned to the safety of my room. Once there, shaking from head to foot with the shock of what I have just witnessed, and having locked my door, I place the bag on my table under the window, and unbuckle it.

  I take out two sealed envelopes: one directed to Inspector Gully, the other to me. The latter I here transcribe in full.

  Evenwood Park

  Easton, Northamptonshire

  28th May 1877

  MY DEAREST ESPERANZA (Alice no longer),—

&nb
sp; When you read this, you will know what I am resolved to do.

  I am informed that Inspector Gully & several officers have come up from London & are presently in Easton. I know only too well why they are here, & so shall now put into effect what I have been preparing for these several weeks past.

  Nothing now can turn me from the course I am resolved upon; but there are certain matters that must be set down before I take this final, irrevocable step. A separate letter, for the eyes of my dear eldest son, has been placed with Mr Donald Orr, with instructions that it should be given to him in the event of my death.

  I knew you from the first, my dear girl, when you stood before me for interview. As soon as you entered the room, I was transported to the day, over twenty years ago, when I first met a certain gentleman, in the hallway of the Dower House. You perhaps do not know how much you resemble that gentleman, but I saw it instantly – not merely in the similarities of feature & bearing, striking although some of them were, but more especially in less tangible, but even more powerful, impressions. When I first saw you, I could see – and feel – him standing before me, though I looked upon the form of a nineteen-year-old girl.

  My instinctual certainty of who you were explained so much – the powerful affinity that I immediately sensed existed between us, & why someone possessing such an abundance of attainments, so beautiful, so well-informed, & so assured, despite the attitude of docility you put on, should seek the menial position of lady’s-maid. Did you not think it odd that you secured the position so easily, when there were others who applied for the situation who were far more qualified?

  The story you gave me was plausible, and subsequent enquiries appeared to substantiate it; but it was a story, was it not?

  Thus, although I could not be absolutely certain, I knew you in my heart for who you were – the daughter of Edward Glyver, the man who should now be the 26th Lord Tansor. There – I have written his name, or should I say one of his names? What shall we call him? Edward Duport? Edward Glyver? Edward Glapthorn? Or perhaps Edwin Gorst? Plain Edward might be best, which is how I think of him. So let it be Edward.

  As for the name by which you are presently known, both Mr Vyse & Mr Shillito strongly suspected you of hiding your true identity, although neither of them discovered that Esperanza Gorst was really the daughter of my dearest love’s murderer.

  I have no doubt that Mr Vyse would have found you out in time. He had already established, to his own satisfaction, that the man Mr Shillito met on Madeira had indeed been your late father; and Mr Shillito would doubtless have eventually remembered where he had known Edwin Gorst before – at school, as you may or may not know – and under what name. But is it not strange and ironic that I, of all people, should have resolved to keep your secret safe from Mr Vyse and to protect you from him by countering his suspicions, knowing well what he was capable of?

  Why had you come here? That was the question I constantly asked myself. To kill me, or to find some other means of punishing me for what I had done to your father? The only certainty was that your presence at Evenwood was no accident, & that it did not augur well for me.

  Then I wondered who had sent you, for (like Mr Vyse) I was sure you had not come of your own volition. It could not, of course, have been your father, for I knew him to be dead. I thought perhaps it might have been some old friend or former associate of his, unknown to me, in whom he had confided. Then, later, I was sure that you must be in league with Mr Wraxall, who has long harboured suspicions against me. Only time would tell; & so I decided to engage you, and wait until you showed your hand.

  Then certain events intervened, which placed me in extreme jeopardy, and from which there is now no escape. Whether you have been involved, as part of your purpose, in bringing Inspector Gully & his officers to Evenwood, I cannot say; but it no longer matters to me why you came here, or at whose behest. Indeed, I am glad that it should be so, & that I go from this world in ignorance of these things, wishing in my last hours to think of you as being not wholly indifferent to me and my welfare.

  As for the late Mr Vyse, his loyalty to the memory of dear Phoebus placed a deep, tho’ unwelcome, obligation on me; but he possessed certain letters of mine containing information that I wished, at all costs, to remain confidential. This placed me even more in his power, & using these letters he sought to force me into marriage.

  One letter in particular, the source of my present troubles, was supposed to have been destroyed by him; but he betrayed me by retaining it, hoping thereby to make it impossible for me to refuse his advances. But he too appears to have been betrayed, & this letter – with the others – has now fallen into the hands of the police. I foolishly put all my trust in Mr Vyse, and now I am utterly undone.

  I suspect that you, and your friend Mr Wraxall, possess some knowledge of these matters. Did you also have a hand in Mr Vyse’s death, & that of Mr Shillito? I cannot think so. Yet what does it signify? They are both dead & gone, & I am now past all caring.

  I betrayed your father, and deprived him for ever of what was his by right of birth – I confess it once more; & in so doing, I sent my dearest love to his grave. Can you imagine what torments of mind & soul I have had to bear as a consequence?

  Time is short, & I wish to say only a few more words to you before I conclude with the real purpose of this letter – the first and last I shall ever write to you.

  Believing that I knew who you really were, you will naturally find it hard to comprehend why I sought your friendship. You must believe me, dear Esperanza, that I truly desired it – & for this supreme reason.

  I loved your father from that first moment in the hallway of the Dower House – although not as I loved Phoebus. Nothing could ever compare to the attachment that had existed between my dearest Phoebus and me since we were children together.

  Yet I say, & swear, that I loved Edward Glyver, & believe that he loved me, although at first – having always my darling’s interests at heart – I revolted against the notion that I could entertain even the slightest affection for yr father, whilst any deeper regard seemed beyond absurdity.

  Nonetheless he entered into my heart on that fatal afternoon when we first met, & his presence there proved impossible either to resist or to root out. He has remained there, defying every natural instinct, ever since.

  In public – especially to the late Lord Tansor – I execrated your father’s memory at every opportunity. In private I strove constantly to rip him from the place he had occupied in my heart; but I never could do it. I call it love, therefore, this most undesired and unwelcome feeling, for I have no other word for it, tho’ it has rendered the perpetual grief & guilt I suffer more unendurable with each passing day.

  Thus, loving the father as I did, is it so very strange that I should also have felt a spontaneous affection for the daughter, & have wished her to be my friend?

  Whilst of a different character, that affection has grown in strength & preciousness over recent months to rival what I felt for the dear friend, Miss Buisson, of whom I have often spoken, & whose friendship I had never thought could be replaced. But I was wrong. You have been a friend indeed, & I believe that you have also felt some reciprocal affection for me, in spite of your deceits & deceptions, & this gives me the greatest comfort in these last hours.

  I have nearly done. Only one thing remains, & that of the greatest importance.

  The papers that proved Edward’s claim to be Lord Tansor’s legitimate son and heir were not destroyed, as he – and my dearest Phoebus – believed. For several years they remained under lock & key, with other private papers, at my London bankers. When I succeeded my cousin, I brought them back to Evenwood and placed them secretly in my study.

  I now restore them to their rightful owner – to you, Edward’s daughter. You will find them in my apartments, in a place I believe you have already discovered. I do not have to tell you where to find the key.

  Why did I not put beyond all reach what I now bequeath to you, when the continued existence of these paper
s threatened everything that Phoebus & I had risked so much to achieve, and for which I had already paid a terrible price? I could not explain it then, & I cannot do so now. If you will have a reason, put it down to a simple act of conscience, & to the remorse – bitter & insistent – I felt for what I had done. The papers were still for ever lost to your father, & that was enough for our purpose. It was the only time I ever deceived Phoebus, & I suffered much from the guilt of it; but, the decision once made, I found I could not go back on it. Perhaps I knew in my heart that, one day, reparation must be made, & now that day has come.

  By thus giving you the instruments of yr restoration, I hope – with all my heart – to gain some measure of forgiveness for the injuries I have done: to Edward, to you, & to others. If I could receive absolution directly from your lips, it would help to ease my final journey. But that cannot be, for the hour is late, & there is still much to do.

  Yet honesty compels me to say this. I suffer every day for the wrongs I have done; but I would willingly blacken my soul with fresh sins if my adored Phoebus required it of me.

  This, then, is what I wished to say to you, before you and I part for ever. In the bag – that same bag, belonging to John Earl, gamekeeper here in Lord Tansor’s day, which my poor father was carrying on the day he died – you will find a letter to Inspector Gully, in which I fully & freely confess all, & which I would ask you to ensure that he receives when he comes – as I am certain he will.

  I have one final wish, & it is this: that you might find it in your heart to take my dear son, Perseus, as your husband, & so bring to an end at last the enmity that existed between your fathers, which has proved so injurious to us all. He has lost everything because of me, and he has played no part in any of the events that have brought me to the end I now contemplate. I know also that he esteems you highly, for he has told me so. I hope, & believe, that you may also regard him with a degree of favour & affection that may, in time, grow into something more. I would also wish that you will be kind to Randolph, if you can. He, too, is innocent of my sins.