My friend’s only son soon became a great favourite with Lord Tansor, who was instrumental in sending the boy to Eton. It became of great concern to me to observe how my cousin began to look upon the Rector’s son almost as his own. I watched this conspicuous liking for the boy grow over time into something other than mere partiality. It became a kind of covetousness that fed on itself, blinding my cousin to all other considerations. The boy was strong, healthy, lively, good at his books, and properly grateful for the attentions that he received from his father’s noble patron; perhaps it was natural for Lord Tansor to see in him a reflection, pale though it was to a less partial observer, of the lost heir. What did not seem natural to me (I hesitate to express criticism of my noble relation, but feel under a solemn obligation to state my opinion) was his Lordship’s patent desire – expressed in countless material benefactions, personally audited by myself in my professional capacity – to possess the Rector’s son as his own (if I may so put it). He could not, of course, buy him outright, like a horse of good stock, or a new carriage; but he could, and did, appropriate him gradually, binding the boy ever more closely to himself by the strongest of chains: self-interest. What young man, just down from the Varsity, could fail to feel flattered to the highest degree, and be mightily emboldened in his self-regard, at being treated with such extraordinary attention by one of the most powerful peers in the realm? Not Mr Phoebus Daunt, certainly.
The notion of adopting Mr Phoebus Daunt as his heir had first occurred to my cousin after the young man came down from Cambridge. As time has passed, it has gradually become fixed in his mind, and, at the time of writing, nothing, it seems, can now persuade his Lordship against pursuing this course of action. It is not for me to question the wisdom or propriety of my cousin’s desire to leave the bulk of his property to this gentleman, on the single condition of his changing his name to that of his noble patron; I will only say that the choice of his heir perhaps does not demonstrate that acuity of judgment that his Lordship has usually displayed in his affairs; further, ever since the disclosure of his decision to the parties concerned, the effect on my friend’s son has been pernicious, serving to magnify a number of deficiencies in his character. This little ceremony took place some three months since, at a private dinner at Evenwood to which only Dr and Mrs Daunt, and their son, were invited; and I may say that, when the news became generally known, it was remarked by many in our local society that, while the young man and his step-mother instantly began to put on airs, and behave in an altogether insufferable manner (I regret the candour of my remarks, but do not withdraw them), the Rector maintained a dignified silence on the matter – in fact, he appeared positively disinclined to speak of it.
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,