Authors: The Glass of Time (mobi)
III
Recollections of Mr John Lazarus Continued
THE ARRANGEMENTS FOR our departure from Lanzarote were duly put in hand, and Mr Edwin Gorst and I began our journey northwards to Madeira, on the brigantine Bellstar.
For the first part of the voyage, my new companion seemed distracted and disinclined to talk. He spent long hours by himself, gazing out concentratedly at the horizon, yet in a strange unseeing way, as if he were mesmerized by some other prospect of sea and sky and cloud, distant and unearthly, of which only he was aware.
Then, as our destination drew nearer, he became suddenly loquacious, and began to speak animatedly once more of the glorious vitality of London, and of how he missed the dirty old Thames and the noisy rain-soaked streets. He asked whether I had ever ascended to the Golden Gallery of St Paul’s, which I confessed I had never done, although I had lived close by for many years.
‘It is a most inspiriting sight,’ he said, ‘even on a gloomy day, but you must not go alone. Take someone with you to share the pleasure.’
He also spoke fondly of the book-stalls in Leicester Square, where he had once found a copy of Thomas North’s celebrated translation of Plutarch, proceeding from this happy memory to another, and then another.
It was impossible not to feel that this passionate attachment to his former metropolitan life must render his separation from it almost insupportable. Yet again, the question naturally arose concerning the unyielding nature of the circumstances that bound him so fast, in chains of his own devising, to a life so opposite in every way to the one he had previously led. However, as I had agreed not to question him concerning his past, I was obliged to let my curiosity – more than curiosity, indeed: rather the keenest interest born out of genuine concern – go unsatisfied.
At last, on a fine August morning, at a little before noon, we tacked into the port at Funchal on a gentle south-westerly, and lay to anchor a little way off from the quay.
High above the town, dark clouds were beginning to roll threateningly across the bare mountain peaks, and long fingers of grey-black mist were seeping down into the densely wooded clefts that radiated from the serrated heights; but in the harbour, the sun was warm on our backs, the waves sparkled and danced, and the white houses reflected a dazzling light. Dazzling, too, were the colours that met our sea-wearied eyes: the vivid hues of oleander, blue hydrangea, and heliotrope, the white blossom of coffee-trees; and, eastwards, beyond the old city walls, up towards the Mount and the Palheiro,
*
shining swathes of golden broom.
Turning to my companion as we stood together on the fore-deck, I saw that he was smiling to himself. Naturally, I enquired after the source of his amusement.
‘Oh, it is nothing,’ he replied. ‘I was merely reflecting that your name is Lazarus, and yet it is
you
who have raised
me
from the dead by bringing me here, where perhaps I can live again, and be happy, if only for a brief time.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I am glad indeed to be the agent of your recuperation; for you are certainly ill, and this, you know, is the very place to make you well again. You’ll find the climate entirely beneficial, and I hope to see you back in full working order in no time at all.’
I had spoken with some confidence, for I had seen many remarkable instances, amongst the numerous foreign invalids who had taken up residence on the island, of permanent recovery from serious illness and debilitation. My own dear wife’s brother, Mr Archibald Fraser, had spent two years here, having arrived in a most deplorable condition following a diplomatic posting to India, and had returned home completely revivified.
I was recounting the story of my brother-in-law’s wonderful restoration to health by the Madeiran climate when we were approached by the visit boat, the Portuguese Bicolour fluttering gaily in the bow, in which were seated the Harbour Master, the Health Officer, and a physician, the duties of the two latter gentlemen being to ascertain whether any vessel coming into the port could be allowed to communicate with the shore, or be placed under quarantine. This party was quickly followed by the Customs House boat; and then, the arrival formalities having been concluded to the satisfaction of all concerned, Mr Gorst and I took our places in the skiff that was to take us off the
Bellstar
.
We landed on the beach, composed here of pebbles mixed with finely granulated black sand, and my companion stood for a moment gazing up at the wooded flanks of the mountains that reared up behind the town – or city, rather, for Funchal boasts an episcopal church, the Sé Cathedral. Then he kneeled down to pick up a handful of sand, which he let trickle through his fingers.
‘Thus,’ I heard him say in a low voice, ‘my life runs away, and is blown to the four winds.’
Whether he intended me to hear his words, I cannot say; but I affected not to, and instead cheerfully clapped him on the back and welcomed him to the island of Madeira.
A
carro de bois
*
was waiting to take us up through the steep streets and lanes towards the lower slopes of the Serra. Here, surrounded on all sides by close-packed woods of pine and chestnut, was situated the modest
quinta
, or manor-house, the Quinta da Pinheiro, which – as recounted in an earlier chapter – I had purchased in 1849.
On our arrival, I called for tea, and my guest and I sat conversing on the balcony, shaded from the midday heat by the gigantic fronds of an ancient palm, as we waited for our luggage to be brought up from the Customs House.
‘Will you be comfortable here, do you think?’ I asked.
He did not answer immediately, but continued to gaze out towards the Desertas, the three uninhabited and waterless islands that could be seen rising out of the turquoise and sapphire-blue sea to the south-east of Funchal. Then he turned his long, sun-burned face towards me.
‘More comfortable than I deserve,’ he said, with a sad smile.
‘Come now,’ I remonstrated, ‘that is harsh. We all deserve a little comfort.’
‘I beg to differ,’ was all he replied.
Here was an opportunity that I might have taken to begin making some preliminary enquiries into his history, to see where lay the cause of his previous self-incarceration in a place so utterly removed from his former life; but that avenue was shut off, and so I contented myself with remarking, in a general way, that it was often the case that we judge our actions more harshly than they deserve, and that, in any case, no man is beyond redemption.
‘If only I could believe that,’ he said; and then, before I could respond, he had changed the subject abruptly and asked whether I had any English newspapers in the house.
‘It has been a good while since I last saw one,’ he continued. ‘My only indulgence, from time to time, and when I can, has been to alleviate my exile with a little out-of-date news from home.’
I quickly procured an old copy of the
Illustrated London News
, which I had happened to bring with me from London on my voyage out. He received it with great anticipation, saying that it had always been a favourite periodical of his, settled himself in his chair, and began reading with great attention.
At that moment, a knock at the front door, and the sound of voices in the hall, announced the arrival of our luggage; and so I left Mr Gorst to his reading. When I returned, some ten minutes later, he had gone.
The paper lay tossed aside on the floor. The first two sheets had been ripped out, torn in two, and then evidently trampled on, although whether deliberately or by accident, I could not tell. In amazement, I picked up the torn sheets to see whether they might yield any clue as to why Mr Gorst – or so it seemed – had vented his rage upon them.
On a cursory examination, they appeared to contain nothing of great remark: a leading article on the American Question; an account of a fancy-dress ball at the Royal Academy of Music, and another on the opening of new docks at Hartlepool. Had my guest been enraged by any of these, or by succeeding items on the Civil War in Kansas, or a conspiracy to assassinate the Queen of Spain? I could not think so.
Then I cast my eye over the epitomes of foreign and domestic news printed on the second sheet.
The first, and longest, paragraph concerned the arrival from the Continent of a Mrs Tadeusz Zaluski, the former Miss Emily Carteret, accompanied by her husband, Colonel Zaluski, and their recently born son, at Evenwood, the country seat of the lady’s distinguished relative, Lord Tansor. I looked at the remaining, and much shorter, epitomes, but they appeared entirely innocuous. Then I returned to the first item. Was it merely coincidental that it carried the clear impress of Mr Gorst’s boot upon it, as if he had tried to stamp out the information it contained?
I went to my study to lock the torn sheets in my desk drawer, although I cannot quite say why I felt it was necessary to retain something whose significance was entirely lost on me. Then I went to look for Mr Gorst.
I finally found him at the far end of the garden, gazing vacantly at the moss-covered base of an old thorn-apple tree. Hearing my approach, he turned a despairing face towards me.
‘Mr Gorst – my dear sir! What on earth is the matter?’
‘You see,’ he said, in a pathetic half-whisper; ‘it follows me here. Even here, to this paradise. There is no escape.’
I did not well know what to say in reply to his strange words, which, it was clear, bore reference to whatever he had read in the
Illustrated London News
. He saw my awkwardness, but made no attempt to alleviate it, nor did he offer any explanation for his behaviour, whilst I, for my part, refrained from mentioning the torn sheets from the paper that I had found on the balcony.
‘Come now,’ I said, as cheerily as I could. ‘You are fatigued from the journey. Come back to the house and take some rest. I must go down into the city on business, but shall be back at six o’clock for dinner.’
He nodded his assent, and we walked together in silence down the tree-shaded path and into the cobbled courtyard at the rear of the house, where I left him to make his way up to the room that had been prepared for him.
16
I
The Author’s Narrative Continued
I
LOOKED
up from reading Mr Lazarus’s recollections as the clock on the mantel-piece began to strike the hour. Four o’clock, and still no summons from my Lady. No matter. I was in no mind to play either maid or companion, and could not think what I would have done, had the bell in the corner of my room begun to ring. How would I maintain my customary role when my heart was on fire?
My father! My dear father! I now saw him so clearly in my mind’s eye – and with such a thrill of instantaneous recognition, like meeting an old and dear friend one has not seen for many years. As described by Mr Lazarus, he was how I had come to picture him: a man possessed of no common intellect, and having a largeness and distinctiveness of character that would have made him a presence of note in any company. Such persons are not easily forgotten – they leave a mark on the world. Mr Thornhaugh was one such. My father, I was sure, had been another.
Yet here were also mysteries and secrets, and still more unanswered questions, on which Mr Lazarus was unable to shed any light. My father had lived in London, as it now appeared; but what profession had he followed there? Had he been born in the metropolis, and into what condition of life? Above all, why had he left England, to exile himself on the inhospitable fastness of Lanzarote?
Something greater even than intense curiosity on these points, however, had ignited the conflagration in my heart, and set my mind racing.
The cause had been the incident, described by Mr Lazarus, concerning the number of the
Illustrated London News
that had carried an account of the arrival in England from the Continent of Colonel Tadeusz Zaluski and his wife, the former Miss Emily Carteret – the woman who was now my mistress. It seemed certain that there must have been a connexion between my father and the then Miss Carteret, and of such a character as to cause a temporary fit of rage when he had read of her marriage to the Polish colonel.
This piece of intelligence – which seemed to corroborate what Madame had intimated concerning Lady Tansor’s shaping role in my life – made me mad to learn more; but could Mr Lazarus tell me what I now longed to know?
Praying that the summoning bell would remain silent, I resumed my reading.
II
Recollections of Mr John Lazarus Continued
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I rose early and, leaving Mr Gorst to his slumbers, went down to the harbour, where I had several matters of business that required my attention. These kept me occupied for two or three hours, after which I took a
carro de bois
to the house of an old Madeiran acquaintance, Mr Danvers Pryce.
I had a particular reason for calling on Pryce that was entirely unconnected with the mutual business interests through which we had been introduced when I had first come to the island. As I had hoped, I also found Mrs Pryce at home, for it was to her that I especially wished to speak.
This lady took a close interest in all the doings and begettings of what our grandfathers used to call the ‘haut ton’. The
Court Circular
was her constant companion, and I truly believe that she could name every lord and lady in England, as well as all their offspring, their country seats, town-houses, and annual incomes, and knew to the last detail all their comings and goings, either as reported in the public prints, or by the tongue of vulgar gossip. When I mentioned the name of Lord Tansor, therefore, it was with some confidence that my curiosity concerning this noble personage would be amply satisfied.
‘Lord Tansor!’ she cried, throwing down the piece of work on which she had been engaged. ‘Oh my dear John, you must remember!’
‘Remember what?’ I asked.
‘But it was the most shocking thing,’ she replied excitedly. ‘You surely cannot have forgotten?’
Once again I had to profess my ignorance.
‘The murder of his heir, my dear, Mr Phoebus Daunt, the poet. Now you must remember?’
The name of Mr Phoebus Daunt, whose celebrated works had long been greatly admired by my dear wife, was of course instantly familiar to me. I then recollected that I had been in the Azores at the time of his death, in December 1854, and consequently news of this national tragedy had not reached we Atlantic nomads for several weeks. Soon afterwards, I had been obliged to take ship for Lisbon, and so was deprived of further intelligence concerning the event and its consequences.
I now learned from Mrs Pryce that, a little time before his death, Mr Daunt had been named by Lord Tansor as the heir to his extensive property; not only this, but he had also been engaged to marry a relative of his Lordship’s, Miss Emily Carteret. Of course I immediately recognized the name as being that of the lady on the page that Mr Gorst had torn from the
Illustrated London News
, and I listened eagerly as Mrs Pryce told me that Miss Carteret had subsequently taken the place of her murdered fiancé as Lord Tansor’s successor. There was this difference, however: in addition to her relative’s fabulous wealth, and his principal seat of Evenwood, her blood relationship would also qualify her to inherit the ancient Tansor title as the 26th Baroness.
‘It hit the old man hard, being childless since the death of his only son,’ said Mr Pryce, at which he was instantly admonished by his wife for the use of what she described as ‘a disrespectful epithet’.
‘Well,’ he countered, ‘Lord Tansor has two arms and two legs, and walks upright I think, and so may be called a man like any other; and as he is no longer young, then I suppose he may be called old.’
A little more good-humoured banter of this kind ensued; and then Mrs Pryce, warming to her theme, spoke at length of Lord Tansor’s distress at the terrible loss of his chosen heir, of whom he had been inordinately fond, and of the lady who had taken his place.
‘Miss Carteret – Mrs Zaluski, as I should now call her – is a proud, cold thing, my dear, by all accounts.’
Mrs Pryce leaned confidingly towards me.
‘And yet she is accomplished, and a great beauty; and the death of poor Mr Daunt positively broke her heart. Her own father had also been the victim of a murderous attack. Only think! Her future husband and her father, both killed!’
‘But she is now married, it seems,’ I observed.
‘Indeed,’ came the reply, with a decidedly disapproving emphasis. ‘To a foreigner with hardly a penny to his name; and all done before poor Mr Daunt was hardly cold in his grave!’
At this, Mr Pryce gave a sceptical ‘Harrumph!’ by way of objection.
‘Hardly cold! Six months! Cold enough, I think.’
‘As you say, six months,’ his wife retorted. ‘Some might consider that to be indecent haste.’
Mr Pryce gave another ‘Harrumph!’
‘Well, you may express yourself in that vexing way, Mr Pryce,’ she continued, with a little toss of her head, ‘but it does not alter the case. Propriety was offended. Public opinion was against her.’
‘Propriety! Public opinion!’ cried Mr Pryce. ‘What should Lord Tansor’s heir care for either? She can laugh in the face of both. And there’s this to consider, Mrs Pryce. She acted, as I’ve heard it said, with the full approval of Lord Tansor. What do you say to that, eh?’
This challenge appeared to hit home, for when Mrs Pryce replied, it was in a more conciliatory tone.
‘It’s true, I suppose, that her conduct may have been shaped by a very natural desire to accommodate the wishes of her noble relative. That, I admit, would be a very great consideration.’
‘What Mrs Pryce means,’ said her husband, turning towards me, ‘is that
old
Tansor’ – here he gave his good lady a benignly significant look – ‘had no more prospect of finding – or, indeed, of fathering – another heir than he had of swimming the English Channel. You may tut-tut, Mrs Pryce, but it’s the plain truth. That stick of a wife—’
‘Second wife,’ interrupted Mrs Pryce.
‘As you say,’ conceded Mr Pryce, ‘that stick of a
second
wife will never produce an heir for him, that’s clear; and an heir – as everyone knows – is what he desires above all things. Of course he’d prefer a son of his own, or someone he could call a son; but the former Miss Carteret, who has the good old Duport blood in her, will do very well. And now
she
has a son, and so all’s well in Lord Tansor’s world.’
What all this had to do with Mr Gorst, I could not guess; and so I asked Mrs Pryce whether anyone by that name was known to her.
‘Gorst?’ She shook her head with oracular certainty. ‘No one of that name has been mentioned in any of the accounts concerning the family that I have read, nor have I heard it spoken of.’
‘You are sure?’ I asked.
Mr Pryce gave another loud ‘Harrumph!’ as if it were rank folly to suggest that his wife’s intelligence on this subject was in any way defective.
‘Quite sure.’
‘No former admirer of Miss Carteret’s?’
‘Naturally, I cannot be certain on that point,’ she conceded, ‘but I do not think I have ever heard of one. It was reported that the murderer of Mr Phoebus Daunt had conceived an attachment to Miss Carteret, but his name was not Gorst.’
I thanked my old friends for their hospitality and set off back home, my curiosity about Mr Edwin Gorst as strong as ever.