The Meaning of Night Part 16

Feeling that he could not risk undertaking such a clandestine meeting himself, my employer had written back to Mr Carteret requesting his permission to send a trusted agent. At first the secretary had refused to sanction such an arrangement, saying that he would only speak to Mr Tredgold in person. But a further exchange of letters produced a slight softening in his att.i.tude, and at last it was arranged that I, as Mr Tredgold's surrogate, should travel to Stamford to meet Mr Carteret. The date agreed upon gave me a week to prepare myself.

The day prior to my departure happening to be a Sunday, Mr Tredgold invited me to spend the afternoon with him in his private residence.

'I think perhaps we should forego our usual bibliological entertainment,' he said after we had taken our lunch and were sitting before the fire in his sitting-room, 'and speak a little about the matter of Mr Carteret if you do not mind?'

'Of course. I am entirely at your disposal.'

'As you always are, Edward,' he beamed. 'Well, then, you have read Mr Carteret's letter, and no doubt you find it puzzling enough as I do also, with respect to the matter he wishes to disclose. It may be that Mr Carteret exaggerates the importance of what he has discovered; but I suspect, knowing him to be a gentleman of careful judgement, that he would not have written to me in this way unless it was of the greatest possible moment. I guess that it has some bearing on the Tansor succession this being clearly alluded to in Mr Carteret's reference to the matter that most concerns his employer but how he has come across this information is at present beyond me. Whether Mr Carteret will reveal the matter to you in person, I cannot say. It may be that he will place some written communication in your hands that he wishes you to bring back here for my consideration. Whatever happens, I hope you will be kind enough to keep me closely informed. I'm sure I do not need to impress on you the necessity for complete discretion.'

'I understand completely.'

'That is one of your most valuable qualities, Edward,' said Mr Tredgold. 'You instinctively understand what is required in any given situation. Is there anything else I can tell you?'

'Mr Carteret, you have said, is Lord Tansor's cousin.'

'That is correct. He is the younger son of his Lordship's late aunt. His father, Mr Paul Carteret Senior, fell into pecuniary difficulties, leaving his two sons with no alternative but to earn a living. Mr Lawrence Carteret, now deceased, entered the diplomatic service; Mr Paul Carteret Junior was offered employment by his n.o.ble relative.'

'A generous gesture,' I observed.

'Generous? Yes, you may say that, although the offer was perhaps made more out of duty towards Mrs Sophia Carteret, his Lordship's aunt.'

'You also mentioned, I think, during our talk in the Gardens, that Mr Carteret will inherit the t.i.tle.'

'He will a.s.suming of course that his Lordship's position regarding an heir of his own remains as it is at present.'

Mr Tredgold took out his red handkerchief and began to polish his eye-gla.s.s.

'You should be aware,' he continued, 'that Lord Tansor's resolve to bequeath the major portion of his property to Mr Daunt has been strengthened by a history of ill-feeling between the two branches of the family. A financial disagreement between Lord Tansor's father and Mr Paul Carteret Senior has, alas, coloured his Lordship's relationship with his cousin. The Carteret line, in his opinion, is also tainted by mental impairment.'

He lowered his voice and leaned towards me. 'Mr Carteret Senior's mother died insane, though there is not the slightest indication that his son has inherited the malady. Indeed, Mr Paul Carteret Junior is one of the sanest men I know; and his daughter, too, is decidedly free of any imputation of mental feebleness, being a fiercely intelligent and capable young woman and a beautiful one, too. His Lordship, however, is prey to an acute sensitivity on this subject, deriving, I believe, from the fact that his elder brother died of an epileptic seizure. More tea?'

We sipped silently, Mr Tredgold appearing to take keen interest in an area of the ceiling just above my head.

'Do you wish me to say something about Mr Phoebus Daunt?' he suddenly asked.

'Mr Daunt?'

'Yes. To better understand the circ.u.mstances that have led to the present situation.'

'By all means.'

Whereupon Mr Tredgold began to give me a full and detailed account of how Dr Daunt and his family had come to Evenwood as a result of his second wife's connexion with Lord Tansor, and of how the Rector's son had been taken into his Lordship's favour through his step-mother's influence much of what he told me has been incorporated into an earlier section of this narrative. Of course I listened most attentively, for it had become even more imperative to discover a way to bring Daunt down. My rage against him had still to be slaked; but now I must also prevent him from taking my place as Lord Tansor's heir.

'It cannot be denied,' Mr Tredgold was saying, 'that the young man is highly gifted. His literary genius is well known, and Lord Tansor takes pleasure in it as far as it goes. But he has also displayed a rather extraordinary talent for business, which is much more to his Lordship's taste. I think it is certain that this has played no little part in Lord Tansor's wish to see him succeed to his property, in preference to Mr Carteret and his successors.'

Now this was a completely new, and unexpected, view of my enemy, of which I was eager to hear more. According to Mr Tredgold, Daunt had been given two hundred pounds by Lord Tansor on his twenty-first birthday. Not six months later, the young man requested an interview with his patron, at which he confessed, with a solemn face, that he had committed the whole sum to a railway speculation recommended to him by an old college acquaintance.

Lord Tansor was not pleased. He had expected better. A foolhardy railway speculation! Why, better the boy had lost it all on the tables at Crockford's2 after all, a few salutary sacrifices to the G.o.ddess of chance were to be expected of gilded youth (not that he had ever been so irresponsible). But this po-faced confession was merely in the nature of a calculated lever de rideau;3 for, seeing Lord Tansor's face darken with disapproval, Daunt, no doubt grinning in self-satisfaction, then proudly announced that the speculation had been sound, and that it had paid out a handsome profit, which he had now realized: his original investment, it seemed, had all but doubled.

Lord Tansor, though gratified to hear this, was nonetheless inclined to think that the lad had been prodigiously lucky. Imagine his surprise, therefore, when, at a further interview some months later, he learned that the profit from the first venture had been invested in a second, with similar satisfactory results. He began to think that the boy might have a nose for these things he had known such people; and, in the course of time, after further demonstrations of Daunt's financial instincts, he decided to place some of his own money into the young man's hands. No doubt he awaited the outcome with not a little anxiety.

But he was not disappointed. His investment was returned to him within three months, together with a substantial profit. There was, as Mr Tredgold had suggested, no better way for Daunt to have recommended himself to Lord Tansor. Reading the many laudatory reviews of his work, was one thing; but this new talent was of a different order altogether. It impressed Lord Tansor, the consummate man of affairs, as no number of blank-verse epics could have done. Gradually, and with due diligence, his Lordship began to delegate little matters of business to Daunt, until by the time of which I now write his protege had his fingers in a number of exceedingly large Duport pies.

I made the observation that Mr Daunt must now be a man of some means.

'It would appear so,' Mr Tredgold replied. 'However, he has received nothing from Lord Tansor, as far as I know, other than the two hundred pounds I have mentioned; nor, I think, has Dr Daunt contributed to his upkeep. Whatever he has made of that princ.i.p.al sum, by way of speculation and investment, must have supported him in the life he presently leads.'

I thought to myself that he must be a genius indeed, to make such a sum go so far.

'Unluckily,' said Mr Tredgold, brushing a speck from his lapel, 'I appear to have arranged your meeting with Mr Carteret on a day when Mr Daunt is away from Evenwood he is in the West Country, inspecting a property recently acquired by Lord Tansor. But there will be other opportunities, I am sure, for you to make his acquaintance. And so, Edward, I think I have said all I wished to say, and now I wish you bon voyage. I shall await your report, whether written or in person, with the greatest interest.'

We shook hands, and I turned to go; but as I did so, I felt Mr Tredgold's hand on my shoulder.

'Take care, Edward,' he said quietly.

I had expected to see his usual beaming smile. But it was not there.

That evening I went to Blithe Lodge. Bella was in captivating mood, and I was utterly charmed by her, as we sat by the fire in Kitty Daley's private sitting-room, talking of this and that, and laughing at tid-bits of Academy gossip.

'You are such a dear,' I said, feeling a sudden uprush of affection for her as she sat in the firelight, gazing dreamily into the flames.

'Am I?' she asked, smiling. Then she leaned forward, cupping my face between her long fingers so that I felt the gentle impress of her rings on my skin, and kissing me tenderly.

'An absolute, utter, and complete dear.'

'You are quite sentimental tonight,' she said, stroking my hair. 'It is very pleasant. I hope you don't have a guilty conscience.'

'Why should I have a guilty conscience?'

'You ask me that!' she laughed. 'Every man who comes here has one, whether they admit it or not. Why shouldn't you?'

'That is rather hard, when all I wished to do was to pay you a compliment.'

'Men are such martyrs,' she said, giving my nose a mischievous little tweak. Then she sat down at my feet, placed her head on my lap, and gazed into the fire once again. Outside, the rain began to lash against the front windows of the house.

'Isn't it delicious,' she said, looking up, 'to hear the rain and the wind, while we are so warm and safe?' Then, resting her head on my lap once again, she whispered: 'Will I always be dear to you, Mr Edward Glapthorn?'

I bent down and kissed her perfumed hair.

'Always.'

The following afternoon I took an express train northwards to Stamford, arriving at the George Hotel just before dark.

I awoke the next morning to find that the day had broken grey, wet, and cold. Being market day, the town was full of local farmers and labourers; and by noon, the hotel was overflowing with a noisy bustling herd of muddy-booted, red-cheeked gentlemen, all eager to partake of the establishment's amenities.

In the tap-room, thick clouds of pungent pipe smoke mingled with the appetizing aromas of roast meats and strong ale. The press of burly country bodies, and waiters rushing hither and thither, made it impossible at first to make out if anyone there appeared to be waiting for me. After a few moments, however, a s.p.a.ce in the melee cleared temporarily and I saw a man, seated on a settle in front of the window that looked out onto the long cobbled yard round which the hotel was built. He was occupied in reading a newspaper, from the perusal of which he occasionally looked about him with a slightly anxious air. I knew immediately that it was Mr Paul Carteret.

In appearance, he was a series of rounds. A round face, from which sprouted a closely clipped black-and-silver beard, like a well-kept lawn; large round eyes behind round spectacles; round ears, a perfectly round b.u.t.ton nose above a cherubic round mouth, all set upon a small round body not corpulent, simply round. You instantly saw a natural disposition towards goodness, his roundness seeming appropriately indicative of a corresponding completeness of character that enviable, unaffected integration of feeling and temperament in which there is excess neither of preening self-regard nor impatience with the failings of others.

'Have I the honour of addressing Mr Paul Carteret?'

He looked up from his paper and smiled.

'Mr Edward Glapthorn, I think. Yes. Mr Glapthorn it is, I am sure. I am very pleased to meet you, sir.'

He rose from his seat, though his lack of height still caused him to look up at me as he did so, and held out his hand, with which he gripped mine with remarkable firmness.

He called over a waiter and we commenced on some pleasant preliminaries before, at last, he looked hard at me and said: 'Well, Mr Glapthorn, we had better start.'

After we had taken our drinks, we left the din and smoke of the tap-room and walked over the Town Bridge and up towards the soaring spire of St Mary's Church, which looked back from atop its little hill towards the River Welland. Mr Carteret set a brisk pace, turning round every now and again as if he expected to see someone following close behind.

'Are you a superst.i.tious man, Mr Glapthorn?'

'I do not believe so,' I answered, curious as to the question, and somewhat breathless at trying to keep up with the little man as we ascended the hill. 'I am what I think is termed a fatalist.'

'Ah,' he said, smiling, 'Desine fata deum flecti sperere precando.'4 'I must confess', I replied, recognizing the quotation, 'that prayer is not a regular habit of mine.'

I had hardly finished saying the words when my companion suddenly stopped and turned to me.

'Would you be surprised, Mr Glapthorn, if I told you that I have seen you before?'

I felt a sudden jump of my heart as he spoke the words. But they had been spoken smilingly, and without threat; and so I replied as pleasantly as I could.

'I do not think that can be the case. I have never been in Stamford before, and I am sure I have not had the pleasure of meeting you in London.'

'I did not mean in the flesh, Mr Glapthorn,' he said, with another smile. 'I have seen you in my dreams.'

The course of our conversation was now beginning to unsettle me; but still he continued to smile as he spoke, and still I felt the absence of menace.

'In fact, I have seen you often or, rather, someone very like you. You have a distinctiveness, Mr Glapthorn a very remarkable distinctiveness about your physiognomy that, once seen, is, I am sure, impossible to eradicate from one's memory. I am a connoisseur of distinctiveness: I like to know what makes a thing what it is its unique arrangement of particularities. For instance, why one nose, an appendage we all share, is never exactly the same as another, even though it may appear identical to casual observation. Why the smallest difference in the shape of position of a facial feature eyelids, for example can engender unforgettable individuality. Yes, I have seen you before, Mr Glapthorn.'

He chuckled.

'Forgive me,' he continued, 'I am being mischievous. All I mean to say is, that you bear a striking resemblance to someone I see every day of my life, though, again, not in the flesh.'

'Indeed,' I replied, 'and may I ask who this person is?'

'Was,' he said. 'Deceased, some years now, though her portrait hangs over my desk and I look up at her daily. A most distinctive face in its particularities. Most distinctive. I often catch myself looking at her, several times a day; and of course it is natural, as a result, that I see her in my dreams, too. And you, in turn, remind me of the face I often dream of.'

'You say I resemble this lady?'

'I saw it immediately.'

'Well, then, these particularities, as you term them, must be shared by millions of soul across the earth.'

'Or stamped, like a coin, on our children.'

He chuckled again.

'Don't look so alarmed, Mr Glapthorn. You look as if you have seen a ghost. What a serious fellow you are! All I mean to say is, that you have the look of this lady about you as perhaps a good many other persons in this world do, as you rightly observe. And as I see her often, in a manner of speaking, and hold her in affectionate memory, I believe your resemblance to her is a sign that we shall be good friends hereafter.'

And then he smiled, clapped me on the shoulder, and hurried me up the hill, for it had started to rain hard once more.

'Here,' he said.

We had reached the top of St Mary's Hill. Quickly ascending a short but steep flight of steps, we ran through the cramped little graveyard into the porch, to take shelter from the rapidly intensifying downpour.

He seated himself on one of the rough stone benches hewn out of the inside walls on either side and signalled to me to take my place opposite. The floor of the porch was still muddied over following a recent interment the newly filled grave was just within my view beyond the porch opening and our shelter was lit by two Gothic windows; but they were unglazed and the rain, blown in by strong gusts of wind, soon began to pound against the back of my coat. Mr Carteret, however, seemed not to notice the discomfort and sat smiling at me, his round hands gripping his parted knees, and looking as settled and comfortable as if he had been sitting before a blazing fire.

'May I ask, Mr Glapthorn,' he asked, leaning forward a little across the wet and muddy flagstones, 'how my letter was received in Paternoster-row?'

'Mr Tredgold was, of course, concerned by its implications.'

He did not reply immediately, and I noticed for the first time a look of weariness in his large round eyes, which regarded me intently from behind his thick round spectacles. 'You come here, Mr Glapthorn, as I understand, with the full authority and confidence of Mr Christopher Tredgold, whom I have had the pleasure of knowing these many years past. I am perfectly happy, as a consequence, to put my complete trust in Mr Tredgold in his choice of a surrogate.'

I said I appreciated his sentiments, and a.s.sured him that I had been charged with no other task than to listen, note, and report back to my princ.i.p.al. Mr Carteret nodded in approval, and thereupon I a.s.sumed the neutral manner of an unengaged intermediary, opened my pocket-book, and proceeded to take down in shorthand what he now began to tell me. A precis of his account, mostly in his own words, with some few interjections of my own, follows.

'I have been employed', he said, 'by my cousin, Lord Tansor, as his confidential private secretary for over thirty years. My dear and much lamented mother was alive then, but my father had recently died. A good man, but I fear an irresponsible one, like his father before him. He left us with debt and discredit, the consequences of foolish and reckless investments in concerns about which he knew nothing.

'After my father's death, Lord Tansor was kind enough to allow my late wife and I, together with my mother, to take up residence with his step-mother in the Dower House at Evenwood, which he refurbished at his own expense. He also offered me employment as his secretary.

'For my cousin's treatment of me, when my brother and I were left almost dest.i.tute, I shall always feel the deepest grat.i.tude. While I live as his employee, I intend to serve him as well as I can, with no other end in view than to earn my salary to the best of my ability.

'Mr Tredgold will, I'm sure, have told you that Lord Tansor has no heir. His only son, Henry Hereward, died when still quite a boy. The shock to my cousin was beyond words, for he loved the boy to excess. The loss of his son was terrible enough; the loss of his only direct heir compounded his grief dreadfully.

'The continuation of his line has been the dominant I may say the animating principle of my cousin's life. Nothing else matters to him. He had received much from his father, who had received much from his father before him; and Lord Tansor intended that his son should receive much from him, in a cycle of giving and receiving, the maintenance of which he held to be a trust and duty of the highest order.

'But when that cycle was broken when the golden chain was snapped, so to speak the effect on him was almost catastrophic, and for several weeks after the death of Henry Hereward he locked himself away, refusing to see anyone, hardly eating, and coming out only at night to wander the rooms and corridors of Evenwood like some tormented spirit.

'Gradually, he recovered himself. His dear son was gone, but time, he realized, was still on his side and could yet furnish him with an heir, for he was only then in his forty-second year.

'This, I'm sure, will all be familiar to you, Mr Glapthorn, but you must hear it all again from me for this reason. I do not look upon his Lordship as most people do, who see him as cold and aloof, concerned only with his own affairs. I know he has a heart, a feeling heart, a generous heart even, though it has only been revealed in extremis. It is there, nonetheless.'

I let him talk on, and still the rain came down.

Bye and bye he said: 'It does not improve. Let us walk in.' So we stood up and moved towards the great black studded door of the church, only to find it was shut fast.

'Oh well,' he sighed, 'we must stay where we are.'

'A metaphor of Fate, perhaps,' said I.

He smiled as he took his seat again, this time tucking himself tightly into the corner of the porch away from the window, beneath an already blackening memorial tablet of erected to Thomas Stevenson and his wife Margaret, deceased three months apart (also their daughter Margaret, ob. 1827, aet. 17).

'I knew Tom Stevenson,' he said, observing me looking up at the memorial. His poor daughter drowned, down by the bridge there.'

He was silent for a moment.

'I shared Lord Tansor's sorrow, you see, for our first-born child had been taken from us just the previous year. Drowned, like Tom Stevenson's girl, but in that river's companion' he nodded down the hill towards the Welland 'walking along the top of the bridge in the Park, as children will do. All over in a moment. Seven years old. Just seven.' He sighed, and leaned his round head back against the cold stone. 'But there. The ever-flowing stream that took her has gone to its own unknown ends. But the heart's lacerations, Mr Glapthorn: they remain.'