The Meaning of Night (66 page)

‘It was my grandfather who first established an association between the firm and a

certain noble family – of whom, I believe, you have some knowledge. I speak, of course,

of the Duport family of Evenwood, holders of the Tansor barony. My grandfather

represented the then Lord Tansor,? in a case of libel (which unfortunately did not

succeed) that had been brought against the Editor of the Northampton Mercury. Despite

the failure of his suit, in the course of time his Lordship was gracious enough to entrust

all his legal work to the firm, and the arrangement continued when Lord Tansor’s son

William, the founder of the famous Duport Library, duly succeeded. After the death of

our grandfather, the management of the family’s legal affairs duly fell to my father; and

thus, from father to son, the association between the firm and the Duport family has

continued.

‘At the time my brother Christopher joined the firm, father was in his seventy-first

year, still sprightly in body and active in mind, though it must be confessed that his

powers of concentration and application were perhaps not quite what they had once been.

Nevertheless, as the Senior Partner, he continued to enjoy the complete confidence of the

firm’s principal client, the present Lord Tansor, until his death.

‘And now my brother is the Senior Partner. Unfortunately, he has no son into

whose hands he can place the governance of the firm, in the way his father and

grandfather had done before him. It is the tragedy of my brother’s life, for he would

dearly have loved to marry, and so we must now contemplate the prospect of Tredgold,

Tredgold & Orr existing without the living presence of a Tredgold.’

‘Could you tell me, Miss Tredgold,’ I broke in, ‘what has prevented Mr Tredgold

from following his inclination?’

‘That, Mr Glapthorn, is the particular matter on which my brother has asked me to

speak, if you will be so kind as to allow me.’

Her rebuke was delivered with cold courteousness and I felt obliged to apologize

for interrupting her.

‘It was passion, Mr Glapthorn, for an object that could never have been his – a

passion that he knew to be wrong, but which he could not resist; a passion that rules him

now as completely as it ever did, and which has kept him a slave to its original object for

these thirty years and more. Indeed I can give you the exact date when it commenced.

‘I came of age in July 1819, and on the twelfth of that month my father, Mr

Anson Tredgold, was visited on a matter of business by Laura, Lady Tansor, the wife of

his most distinguished client. Her reputation as a great beauty preceded her, and of course

I was agog to see her – I was young and foolish then and knew no better. It was

whispered, as you may perhaps know, that she had been the subject of those celebrated

stanzas of Lord Byron’s which begin ‘There be none of Beauty’s daughters’,? written (so

it was rumoured) by the poet to Miss Fairmile – as she then was of course – just before

her marriage to Lord Tansor. Whether that be true or no, she was constantly spoken about

as being one of the loveliest and best turned-out women in England; and so, being

apprised of her visit, and wishing to snatch a glimpse of this marvel, I made some excuse

to be at the office when she arrived, and lingered on the stairs as she was received by the

chief clerk and conducted up to my father’s room on the first floor. As she passed, she

paused and turned her head slowly towards me. I shall always remember the moment.’

Miss Tredgold looked distantly into the cold mouth of the great fireplace.

‘Her face was beautiful, certainly, but it had an extraordinary impression of

fragility about it, like an exquisite painting made on glass: indeed her beauty and poise

seemed almost too perfect to withstand the shocks that attend all human life. In that

moment, as she looked directly into my eyes before honouring me with a brief nod of

salutation, I felt a kind of sadness for her – pity even – that I could not explain. All

beauty must pass, even hers, I thought; and those who are blessed with unusual physical

beauty must, I supposed, feel this constantly. I was plain: I knew it. Yet I did not envy her

– no, indeed I did not – for she appeared to me to be suffering from some great affliction

of spirit that was already beginning to cast its shadow over that perfect face.

‘Lady Tansor conducted her business with my father and was escorted by him to

the front door, where they encountered my brother Christopher coming in. I had remained

in the downstairs office, amongst the clerks, and was well placed to observe the scene.

‘I remember very well that her Ladyship appeared impatient and ill at ease,

fingering the ribbons of her bonnet, and tapping the floor with the tip of her parasol. My

father asked if she would allow him to conduct her to her carriage, but she declined and

made to go. My brother, however, intervened rather forcefully, and insisted that her

Ladyship could not be allowed to descend the steps and cross the pavement unassisted. I

had never seen him act the gallant before, and observed his attentions towards her with

some amusement. She did no more than thank him, but you would have thought from his

face, when he returned to the office from helping her into her carriage, that he had been

in the presence of some divinity. Of course I teased him, and he was rather short with me,

telling me not to be a silly little girl, which, having just attained my majority, I much

resented.

‘But I did wrong to tease him, Mr Glapthorn, for it soon became apparent to me –

though fortunately to no one else – that Christopher was smitten by the lady to a degree

that was wholly incompatible both with his personal situation and his professional

position. This infatuation, for which, as a young man, he could hardly be blamed, was to

be the cause of his decision never to marry. It quickly grew, you see, into something

fiercer, something all-consuming, that could not be denied, and yet which must be

denied. It was a love of which poets write, but which is scarcely seen in the world. He

never confessed it to her, never acted on it, and behaved at all times with the most

complete propriety. There were times when I feared for his sanity, though it was only to

me he revealed the extent of his anguish. Gradually, he learned to master his situation –

or seemed to – and took refuge in pursuits of a bibliographical nature, which have

remained his solace during his hours of leisure. But when she died, the effect on my

brother was terrible – quite terrible. Imagine, then, what he had to endure when his

attendance was requested by Lord Tansor at her burial in the Mausoleum at Evenwood.

He returned immediately to London and took a solemn vow in the Temple Church: that

he would love her unto death, and take no one else into his heart, putting all his hope in

being joined with her in eternity, when all care and suffering will be put aside forever. He

has kept that vow, and will go to his grave a bachelor because of his love for Laura

Tansor.

‘And so, Mr Glapthorn, I have said what my brother wished me to say, and now I

give you this.’

‘She handed me the sealed envelope.

‘Perhaps you would be more comfortable if I retired to my room for half an hour.’

She rose from her chair and left. As the door closed behind her, I began to read

Mr Tredgold’s letter.

It was dated Friday the twelfth of May, and was several pages long. I do not

intend to transcribe it in full; but certain passages must be laid before you. Here is the

first.

How often, my dear Edward, have I wished to bring you into my confidence! But

the difficulty of my position has been, and continues to be, acute. But recent events – I

refer particularly to the death of Mr Carteret – have forced me to take a course of action I

have long contemplated, but which hitherto I have been constrained from adopting by

both duty and conscience.

When you first came to me, you did so in the capacity of confidential secretary (I

believe that was the phrase you used) to Mr Edward Glyver. You were enquiring after the

existence of an agreement made between Mr Glyver’s mother and the late Laura, Lady

Tansor. I must tell you now, and you must believe how much it pains me to confess it,

that I was not completely honest with you concerning the circumstances under which that

agreement had been drawn up.

In the first place, it was not my father, Mr Anson Tredgold, who drafted it; it was

I. His powers were in decline then and, subsequent to her ladyship’s first brief

consultation with him, he asked me to produce the draft. I then met privately with Lady

Tansor – on several occasions, away from the office – to ascertain that it met with her

approval. Her ladyship later returned to Paternoster-row with Mrs Glyver to execute the

document in the presence of my father.

The intention of the agreement I had drawn up – a copy of which is now in your

possession – was to give Mrs Glyver some measure of immunity from any adverse

consequences of certain impending actions, which she had undertaken solely at the urgent

behest of Lady Tansor. In truth, I do not know whether the document would ever have

held in law – my father was too ill to approve the wording and merely, as I say, officiated

at the signing. But Mrs Glyver was satisfied by it, and so matters proceeded.

I told you that I could find no record of the discussions that preceded the signing

of the agreement. That is the strict truth: I destroyed everything, except for a copy of the

agreement itself, which makes no mention of the circumstances that lay behind its

composition. My motive? A simple but unshakeable desire to protect Lady Tansor, as far

as I could, from the consequences of her action.

I loved her, Edward, as I believe few men have loved a woman – I cannot speak

of this at length here, except to say that my affection for her has been both the bedrock

and the source of all my actions. It has informed and directed everything. Her interests,

both when she was living and with respect to her posthumous reputation, have been my

only care.

It began in July, 1819, when her Ladyship first came to see my father. She had

embarked on a most dangerous enterprise. Unknown to her husband, Lady Tansor was

with child; she intended to escape to France in the company of her friend until her time

was due; the child would then be placed into the charge of Mrs Glyver, who would bring

it up as her own. She did not tell my father the true character of this desperate scheme,

speaking to him only in vague generalities, and she had sworn her friend, Mrs Simona

Glyver, to absolute secrecy. But she herself was weak in this regard and soon confided in

me, sensing, I believe, my deep attachment to her – illicit, I acknowledge, but never

revealed or confessed, or acted upon. I was already mesmerized by her – hopelessly

infatuated. So I vowed that I would help her, in whatever way I could, and that I would

tell no one her secret. ‘My dear sweet Saint Christopher,’ she said to me at our last

meeting. Those were her very words. And then she kissed my cheek – such a brief, chaste

kiss; but it sealed my fate. Though I swear I did not reveal my love for her, I told her I

would die rather than reveal her condition.

It was foolish of me – no: worse, much worse, than foolish – to have exposed

myself to calumny and professional disgrace: it went against every principle I had

formerly held sacred. I confess that I was greatly concerned by what I had done, and

conveyed to her Ladyship as strongly as I could that discovery of her plan was probable,

perhaps likely, and urged that the whole thing should be abandoned forthwith; for by this

terrible act, Lady Tansor was denying her husband the thing he desired above all others.

Of course my advice was disregarded – sweetly, but firmly.

I continued to regret that I had become an accessory to her Ladyship’s conspiracy.

But it was done; and I would not undo it for worlds. If it was iniquitous, then I would be

steadfast in my iniquity, for the sake of her whom I had sworn to serve unto death.

I thought of Mr Tredgold, suave and beaming. Mr Tredgold, polishing his

eye-glass. ‘You shall stay to luncheon – it is all ready.’ Mr Tredgold, eagerly hospitable.

‘Come again next Sunday.’

He went on to speak of the consequences on his own life of his love for Lady

Tansor; how it had made it impossible for him to seek the affections of any other woman,

and how, in consequence, he had turned to ‘other means’ – by which I understood his

secret interest in voluptuous literature – to assuage the natural passions and inclinations

that all men must attempt to master.

And so to the next passage.

After my father died, I became Lord Tansor’s legal adviser, and was often at

Evenwood on his Lordship’s business. His wife’s remorse at what she had done was plain

to see – it was remarked with sadness by poor Mr Carteret; but only I was aware of the

source of her misery. We spoke sometimes, when we found ourselves alone together; and

she would take my hand and call me her true friend, for she knew I would never betray

her, despite the dereliction of my professional duty to her husband, which I felt, and