The Glass of Time

by Michael Cox

  ‘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.

  III

  Recollections of Mr John Lazarus Concluded

  FOR THE REMAINDER of August 1856, and into the following month, Mr Gorst remained a resident of the Quinta da Pinheiro.

  His health, as I had hoped, steadily improved through these late summer days. He would take long walks through the nearby pine-woods or, more often, up to the Mount, where he seemed particularly fond of sitting before the doors of the Church of Our Lady and gazing out, across the city far below, to the distant line of the horizon. At other times, returning from Funchal after a day’s business, I would find him in the garden, asleep in a hammock slung between two apple-trees, a straw hat over his face, or else sitting on the balcony, feet up on the rail, smoking a cigar, and reading.

  I had given him the liberty of my modest library, which afforded him evident pleasure, for he was, as I knew well by now, a great bibliophile, and never more content, it seemed, than when discoursing about colophons, bindings, press-marks, and the like, and with an enthusiasm that was most engaging. There was little enough, to be sure, in my own collection to satisfy such a refined bibliophilic taste; but he seemed content to settle down of an afternoon with an undistinguished edition of Smollett or Fielding, and I remember well how a dilapidated copy of Gulliver’s Travels sent him into a perfect ecstasy.

  ‘I’ve not read this since I was a boy!’ he exclaimed, and I rejoiced to see his careworn face take on an expression of simple, unalloyed delight at his discovery.

  So matters continued until the third week of September.

  The time for me to leave Madeira and return to England was drawing near. My companion’s health had signally improved; and although it had not been completely restored, he said that he felt strong enough to resume his life on Lanzarote. This, however, I was unwilling for him to do, believing that he would quickly sink back into his former state of debilitation.

  ‘Won’t you stay,’ I asked, ‘until I return, and then decide? It would undo all the good work of the kind Madeiran climate if you were to go back too soon and then fall ill again; and besides, it would also be a great favour to me to know that the house was occupied, and in good hands, while I’m gone.’

  ‘I’ve little reason to go back to Lanzarote, it’s true,’ he replied, ‘except for what’s left of my former resolve to live out my days there. And of course it will be hard to leave this Eden. Yet I think I must do so.’

  In all the weeks that we had passed in each other’s company, he had revealed nothing of his past and, true to my word, I had made no attempt to broach the subject. But something had changed: some weakening of his will to remain in self-subjugation on Lanzarote had taken place. I had seen it plainly, as the September days advanced, and heard it again now in the half-hearted words he had just spoken. Life and hope were returning to Edwin Gorst.

  To be short, after several protracted conversations, he agreed at last to remain at the Quinta da Pinheiro until my return, and to decide then whether he would go back to the Canaries, remain on Madeira, or take some other course.

  A WEEK BEFORE my departure, a note came from my old friend George Murchison, at the English Consulate. It contained an invitation for my house-guest and me to attend a reception the next evening at his quinta, in honour of some new visitors to the island.

  When we arrived, a numerous party had already assembled in the principal salon. Murchison, a jocular and rumbustious soul, shook our hands vigorously by way of welcome, and immediately ushered us away to meet the guests of honour.

  ‘Mr Blantyre, may I present my old friend, Mr John Lazarus. John, this is Mr James Blantyre, director of Blantyre & Calder.’

  Now here was a name I knew well, for the firm of which Mr Blantyre was a principal was a leading importer of Madeiran wine, although one with which I had never yet done business. With him was his elder brother, Mr Alexander Blantyre, the other director of the firm. The rest of the party consisted of the son of the widowed Mr James Blant
yre, Fergus by name; Mrs Alexander Blantyre and her daughters, Miss Marguerite and Miss Susanna; and Mrs Blantyre Senior, the mother of Mr Alexander and Mr James – a frail, snowy-haired old lady, for the benefit of whose health the trip to Madeira had chiefly been undertaken.

  We were introduced to each of the family members in turn, ending with Mr Alexander Blantyre’s eldest daughter, Miss Marguerite Blantyre. To everyone else, Gorst had merely bowed slightly and uttered a stiff ‘Good-evening’ but to Miss Blantyre, he delivered a most gallant little speech of welcome, assuring her that Madeira was a perfect paradise, and expressing the hope that she would pass a very pleasant winter on the island, as well as the further hope that her grand-mother would find the climate as beneficial as he himself had done.

  ‘You have been here for some time, then, Mr Gorst?’ I heard her asking him.

  ‘A few weeks only,’ he replied, ‘although the effects on my health have been considerable, even in so short a period. And I hope for further improvement to come, for Mr Lazarus has kindly allowed me to remain in his house until he returns.’

  A little more conversation ensued concerning my imminent departure, and then Mr James Blantyre intervened to introduce us to a friend of his son’s, a Mr Roderick Shillito, who was staying with the family at their rented quinta for the duration of their winter residence.

  I must confess that this gentleman, who was much of an age with Gorst, as I guessed, did not produce an immediately favourable impression on me – still less on Gorst, who quickly excused himself after being introduced, and made his way over to the other side of the room, where he attached himself to a group that included my friend Dr Richard Prince, one of Funchal’s most distinguished English physicians. During the introductions, Mr Shillito had expressed himself honoured to meet me, but to Gorst he had offered none of the usual civilities, merely nodding, with a perceptible narrowing of his eyes, and a slight furrowing of the brow, as if he were trying hard to bring something to mind.

  After Gorst had gone, I stood for a moment regarding Miss Marguerite Blantyre. She was a most comely girl of about twenty, quite short of stature and slightly built, with light-brown hair, a dimpled chin, and a sweet, open look about her. I later learned from her mother, who seemed eager to confide in me, stranger though I was, that there had long been an understanding that she would become engaged to her cousin Fergus as soon as she came of age.

  ‘It is so pleasant,’ said Mrs Blantyre, ‘to see two young people so deeply attached to each other, don’t you think, Mr Lazarus?’

  Of course I assented to the proposition, as a matter of courtesy, although I did so in the abstract, as it were, having detected little sign of obvious affection between the cousins. As for her cousin Fergus, a rather puffy-faced youth with a short neck and a narrow forehead, he seemed altogether an unlikely object of any young lady’s passion, let alone such a patently sensible, and undeniably pretty, young lady as Miss Blantyre.

  His father, Mr James Blantyre, on the other hand, impressed me as a most purposeful individual – clean-shaven, well fed, firm of jaw, and altogether different from his elder brother, a gaunt, long-chinned, narrow-mouthed man, with thick grey side-whiskers, who stood for much of the evening a little apart from the rest of the family party, and only occasionally contributed to the conversation.

  It struck me as curious that, although he was the senior of the two brothers, Mr Alexander Blantyre appeared to defer in a most marked way to Mr James, who had immediately assumed a position of authority at the centre of the group. It was Mr James who steered the talk towards topics of mutual interest; who ensured that Mrs Blantyre Senior was comfortable and lacked for nothing; who complimented his nieces on the perfection of their posies; and it was to Mr James that the others looked for guidance when it was suggested by Murchison that the party might wish to take a turn along the terrace, to see the Chinese lanterns that had been strung through the many stately trees that were a principal feature of the garden.

  All this time, Gorst had continued to converse with Dr Prince on the far side of the salon; but when he observed the Blantyres, along with Mr Shillito, making their way to the terrace, he returned to where I was standing with our host.

  ‘And how do you find our new residents, Mr Gorst?’ asked Murchison.

  My companion said nothing, which obliged me to answer for him.

  ‘They seem a most agreeable and interesting family,’ I said, ‘and of course the reputation of Blantyre & Calder is second to none.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ Murchison replied, ‘and I’ll tell you what else. Mr Fergus Blantyre will have to look to his laurels this winter. There’s many a young man on Madeira who’d be glad to usurp his place with his pretty cousin – eh, Gorst?’

  To my surprise, the reply came immediately.

  ‘Miss Blantyre is most charming, and would certainly be an adornment to any society.’

  As he spoke the words, we both saw him cast his eyes towards the terrace, where the young lady was standing with her mother admiring the Chinese lanterns.

  ‘Ah!’ said Murchison, with a knowing twinkle. ‘That’s how the land lies, does it? I spoke more truly than I thought. What d’ye think of that, Lazarus?’

  I did not well know what to think. I could not blame Gorst – a single man, after all – for admiring Miss Blantyre; it was simply that I had not anticipated such a display of partiality from a man I knew to be so fiercely disinclined to reveal himself to others. I thought back to when I had first met him – a broken-spirited exile, sundered from common human contact and sympathy by an uncommon act of will, waiting only for death to set him free from the burden of which he would never speak – and I felt both glad and thankful that I had been the humble means of setting him on the road to recovery.

  So the evening passed, at the end of which I began to go about the room, to say my farewells to the many acquaintances and business associates that Murchison had invited to welcome the Brothers Blantyre and their family to Madeira. Mr Shillito had remained outside on the terrace for most of the evening, walking up and down in company with Mr Fergus Blantyre, cigars in mouths, deep in conversation. I was glad of their absence from the main gathering in the salon, since it removed the chance of any unpleasantness with Gorst, in whom Mr Shillito, or so it appeared, had unaccountably aroused a deep antipathy. It sometimes happens, certainly, that we experience a spontaneous antagonism towards a stranger; and yet I could not help feeling that something more was at work here, although its cause – as with so much else connected with my new friend – remained mysterious.

  My social duties done, Gorst and I prepared to leave. Murchison was standing in the front hall, wishing his guests good-night as they left. Just as he was shaking hands with Gorst, the Blantyre party appeared, preceded by Mr Shillito.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Gorst,’ the latter said in a cool, hard tone. ‘I wanted to ask you – are you sure we haven’t met before? It has been puzzling me all evening where I might have seen you before, for I’m sure I have, you know.’

  In that moment was made dramatically manifest the change that had been accomplished in the hours that my house-guest had spent walking in the pine-woods, and the weeks of relaxation and recuperation at the Quinta da Pinheiro.

  At Mr Shillito’s words, Gorst seemed instantaneously infused with an almost menacing vigour. Standing there, fists clenched, shoulders thrust back, feet planted firmly and a little apart on the stone flags, as if in readiness to spring forwards, he returned Mr Shillito’s insolent gaze in the most determined and challenging manner.

  I confess I hardly recognized him during the few brief seconds that the incident lasted, so transformed was he from the usually pensive and world-weary individual whom I had come to know since we had arrived in Madeira. His attitude, although he had drawn himself up to his full commanding height, reminded me of nothing so much as a terrier that has caught the scent of vermin, and is about to pounce.

  Mr Shillito also observed the startling change in him, and something more, too, that was lost on me. He had gone s
uddenly pale, and took a nervous step backwards, as if Gorst had called up some fearful, but long-suppressed, memory. Then Murchison was amongst the party, laughing and shaking hands with the gentlemen, bowing to the ladies, and gallantly enquiring of Mrs Blantyre Senior whether he would allow him to escort her to her palanquin. * As the business of departure was going on, Gorst turned and walked out into the darkness.

  When I caught up with him, he was standing in the lane that ran along the side of Murchison’s quinta, looking up at the moonlit peaks of the mountains, and smoking a cigar.

  ‘Is anything the matter, Gorst?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing whatsoever. Care for a cigar?’

  I declined the offer, and we walked up the steep lane a little way in silence.

  ‘There’s an ox-sledge waiting,’ I said. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘I think I’ll walk back, if you don’t mind,’ he replied. ‘I can get home this way.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you—’

  ‘No,’ he broke in, somewhat brusquely. ‘Pray don’t trouble.’ Then, in a calmer tone: ‘If you don’t mind?’

  As I was feeling rather tired, I did not mind in the least for myself, wishing only to be assured that he would indeed find his way back to the Quinta da Pinheiro, a distance of a mile or so; but he seemed confident of his way, and so we parted.

  It was a clear, still night. I watched his tall figure make its way up the narrow lane, past high walls overhung with palm-fronds, honeysuckle, and the laden branches of various fruit-trees. At a bend in the lane, he stopped and turned. Above the door of a little turreted house a lantern burned, casting a pale yellow light over the cobbles. He stood for a moment beneath the lantern, took a puff on his cigar, and waved. Then he was gone.