by Michael Cox
My father enquired whether she had been to the Sé Cathedral yet. She said that she had not. He told her that it possessed many points of interest and that, like all such places, it set a necessary distance between ourselves and the world, a reminder of what we truly are. She asked whether he belonged to the Catholic faith. He said that he observed no established religion, yet did not consider himself to be a heathen by disposition. Then, after a little more conversation, he went on his way.
On her return from Camacha, my mother committed the following words to her journal: What am I to make of the day that has just passed? Was it a turning point in my life, or a passing trifle? No! It cannot be it must not be what I wish so much for it to be. In six months time I shall be Mrs Fergus Blantyre; my life will be over, and all this will be but a lost dream.
But her prediction was wrong. After church the following Sunday, she contrived to take herself off alone to the Cathedral, but there was no sign of my father. The next Sunday brought a similar disappointment. If he had felt but a part of what I felt on that hot morning at Camacha, she wrote, then he would have been in the Cathedral, as I had thought he had intimated he would be. He was not there. He has not called. And I am a poor fool for thinking otherwise.
Three weeks passed. Then, on a bright and windy Monday morning, for what she had resolved would be the last time, my mother returned to the Sé Cathedral. If he was not there, then she would know that her destiny lay elsewhere.
She stood just inside the doorway, intently scanning the people entering and leaving and the few kneeling figures at prayer; then a group of English visitors standing a little way down the nave caught her eye.
She recognized him immediately, talking to a gentleman from the aforementioned group, his hat and stick in one hand, and pointing with the other upwards at the dark wooden ceiling, with its swirling ivory decorations.
She continued to watch him for several minutes, until he shook hands with the gentleman, bowed to the group, and began to walk slowly down the central aisle of the nave towards her:
I remained rooted to the spot, my heart beating wildly, as he approached ever closer to where I was standing.
The door just behind me had been left slightly ajar, allowing a broad stream of golden light to spread across the stone floor. Into this, Mr Gorst now stepped, eyes downcast, lost in the same intense concentration of thought that I had witnessed that day at the Mount. Then, of a sudden, he looked up and saw me at last.
He made no attempt to greet me, but I was not dismayed; for I instantly read again everything I had seen before in that glorious book of his smile, and in the way he regarded me as if he had wished to see no one else on Gods earth but me.
I do not say this to flatter or deceive myself. I say it because I knew it to be so, beyond all doubt, as surely as, in that moment, I knew that come what may, and at whatever cost I loved Edwin Gorst.
After a few more words had passed between them, my father asked her whether she was at liberty to walk down to the sea for half an hour, as the day now promised so fair. I here quote her later description of that walk in full:
In a kind of daze, I accompanied him into the street. I remember that we were conversing as we walked, although I can now hardly recall what was said nothing of importance, I am sure.
At length, we reached the remains of the pier that had been projected some years since, but which was broken in a winter storm, so that it now only reaches to the waters edge. It is a favourite place of resort for the more active of the islands invalids, and a few such persons were sitting here and there on some of the huge rocks that had been spared from the storms destruction.
Mr Gorst and I found a convenient place to sit, a little away from the others, and with a view of the distant Desertas shimmering palely in the intermittent sunshine.
The breeze blowing inland from the sea was cool, but not unpleasant, although Mr Gorst was concerned that I might catch cold, and asked me several times whether I wished to go back. But I would not have gone back for the world, even though I remained fearful of someone seeing us together, and reporting us to Uncle James and Fergus. But while I sat with Mr Gorst by my side, with the sound of the booming waves in my ears, and the winds of the wide Atlantic on my face, what did I care about the possibility of unpleasant consequences? There was time enough to consider them when and if they presented themselves.
We spoke but little an observation from Mr Gorst, a reciprocal remark from me, and mutual wordless smiles at the pleasantness of our situation; nothing more. And then the sun broke forth, in full majestic glory, from behind a looming bank of cloud; and in that shining moment, Mr Gorst turned his eyes full on me those deep and dangerous pools, in which I longed to drown!
I wish you to know, Miss Blantyre, he said softly, that Ive admired you from the first second that we were introduced at Mr Murchisons. It was wrong of him, he continued, to speak so, and he had fought against it for the past weeks and days, but now he found that he could no longer keep silent in my presence.
I cannot, and do not wish to, write more, although my heart and head are full to overflowing; for I am unable now to bring back to remembrance every word and phrase those sweet lips spoke, only the sense of overpowering joy that enveloped me, and which envelops me now, as I sit at my little desk by the open window, looking out at the moon shining down on the Convent of Santa Clara.
So it begins, the road that I must now take, away from the duty I owe to my family.
We sat for an hour or more, each of us striving to outrun the other in confessing the secrets that our hearts had been guarding, and which had brought us so suddenly, so unexpectedly to this moment.
I felt I feel no shame, no remorse; the transgressions that had once seemed so terrible to contemplate, to be shunned at all costs by decency and honour, I now embraced with the alacrity of a martyr. The word the sacred word of Love had not been uttered. What need was there? I knew I loved him, and knew that he loved me. He did not have to tell me. He would never have to tell me, for as long as I continued to see what I saw this afternoon in his eyes.
We walked back past the Church of the Colégio, and stood for a moment looking up at the four niches on the façade containing the images of various Jesuit saints. Mr Gorst asked whether he might accompany me to our quinta, but I said that I preferred to return alone.
Then may I call tomorrow? he asked.
He saw my hesitation, and did not press his request. We had not spoken of my engagement to Fergus, but now it rose up between us, like a black cloud, blotting out the promise of bright day. It fell to me, to face what must now be faced.
A few more words, and we parted.
The die was cast. More surreptitious meetings followed, and momentous plans were laid. At the beginning of December 1856, the final fateful step was taken. As an addendum to the narrative of my mothers final weeks on Madeira, I here set down without comment a letter from my father to Mr John Lazarus, printed in the latters recollections.
Quinta da Pinheiro
Funchal
21st December 1856
MY DEAR LAZARUS,
As you read this, you will already have received the news that Miss Blantyre & I have left Madeira. You shd also know which you may not yet that we are to be married.
I can only too easily conceive what you must think of me. A man whom you rescued from certain decay and death; to whom you have offered the freedom of yr home & introduced to yr friends, & who consequently owes you an infinite debt of gratitude, has repaid you with the meanest demonstration of contempt.
Believe me, dear sir, when I say that I am sensible no one could be more so of deserving every epithet of opprobrium and disgust that you can devise, & which is almost as bad I have no excuse to offer you for what I have done, only this which is, indeed, no excuse at all, but rather a statement of plain fact: you succeeded too well by bringing me to Madeira. In doi
ng so, you not only effected the recuperation of my body; you also revived something more, something that I believed had died for ever.
I am still unable to lay the truth of my situation before you, but I can assure you of this: that I shall always cherish the deepest affection for Miss Blantyre, and will do everything in my power to make her as happy as she deserves; that she comes with me willingly, in true mutual regard, with not the least stain of impropriety on her moral character; and that my intentions towards her have been, are, & will always be of the most honourable character.
Finally, know this, and be glad, dear friend. In giving me back my life, you have been God, or Fate, willing the unwitting agent of another restoration far greater, & infinitely worthier of yr efforts, than you could ever have imagined possible.
Yrs in sorrow, eternal friendship, & gratitude for what you have done for me,
E. GORST
III
Mr Perseus Takes Umbrage
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, dark and raw, with my feet slipping on ragged patches of thin ice that cracked and crackled beneath them, I set off through the Park to Willow Cottage with the letter I had written to Madame, my head still full of my mothers affecting account of her elopement with my father.
As we sipped our tea by the kitchen range, I asked Mrs Prout whether it was known why Lady Tansor had taken Mr Randolph away from Dr Savages academy.
That, miss, was a puzzle, to begin with, she said, putting down her cup. Mr Pocock called it a conundrum, for the young man was never happier than when he was at Dr Savages. Things were said, of course, she added, mysteriously.
Things?
Why, what else would folk say when a handsome young gentleman of prospects finds himself at liberty for the first time, away from home and the eye of his mamma, and is then suddenly brought back to that home, and to that eye, with hot words spoken when he arrives?
I really couldnt say.
Why, there was a lady in the case, my dear that was the general opinion. But nothing seems to have come of it. He moped and sulked for a time, of course, and took himself off to his friends house in Wales for several weeks. But all things pass, thank God, which is a great blessing, though we never think it.
And who was the lady if there was a lady? I asked, as Sukie refilled the teapot with hot water.
We never knew, miss, and now never will, I think. The only certain thing was, that her Ladyship took him away from the school immediately, for though hes the younger son, Mr Randolph is still obliged to marry well and his mamma was determined to make sure she had a say in it. Ah me, hes a dear boy! I hope he can be happy.
I TAKE MY way home through the church-yard, stopping for a while to sit in the porch.
I have not been there long before I hear the sound of footsteps approaching down the gravel path. As I look up from my reverie, I see Mr Perseus, book in hand, staring down at me from the top of the porch steps.
Good-morning to you, Miss Gorst, he says, with an awkwardly half-hearted smile. I observed you coming out of the Prouts cottage and thought you might be glad of some company on your way back to the house.
I am thrilled by the proposal; but, once more thinking that accepting it might displease my Lady, I make myself politely refuse it, saying that I would prefer to remain where I was for a little longer. I truly believe that I have made him a suitably courteous reply, although it pains me to turn him down. To my surprise, however, his face darkens.
Upon my word, Miss Gorst, he exclaims, in a sudden burst of angry exasperation, you make it hard on a fellow, when all he wants is to be agreeable.
His reaction to my gratefully expressed refusal appears out of all proportion to the offence, and I cannot help feeling hurt by his critical tone.
I hope, sir, I reply, my colour rising, that I have never shown you anything but the respect and consideration due to your station, and proper to my own position in your household.
He does not reply, and turns on his heel to go; but then he swings back towards me.
This is badly done, Miss Gorst, he says, descending the steps into the porch. Very badly done. Youll allow, I hope, that from the moment of our first acquaintance I have tried my best to extend the hand of friendship to you?
Still unsure how I have offended him, I find it difficult to frame a reply, and so make no attempt at one, which only seems to enrage him the more.
You still say nothing, I see, he says, giving me the most affronted look. Do you play games with me, Miss Gorst?
To this wholly unjustified accusation I again think it prudent to make no reply. Instead, I get up from the stone bench on which I have been sitting and make to leave, but he puts out his arm so that I cannot pass up the steps.
Will you just satisfy my curiosity, Miss Gorst, he says, and tell me what you find so objectionable in my behaviour towards you? There are some, you know, who might say that I demean myself by showing such favour to a former servant, even one who was, it seems, born into a superior station in life.
I see then that all his blustering is only partly due to my refusing his offer to accompany me back to the house, and that it really has some other cause. What is even more curious, as I look into his eyes, is that my own vexation at his intemperate words has now quite melted away.
If you will excuse me, sir, I reply, but I think that the less that is said on this matter, the better.
Rightly concluding that I am determined to end the conversation, he steps aside to allow me to ascend the steps.
I leave him standing in the porch and walk hurriedly towards the lych-gate, which I am about to open when he catches up with me.
This is for you, he says, not in the least angry now, and holding out the book he has been carrying. Ive inscribed it, so you may as well have it. Do with it what you will.
I take the book from him, and he goes on his way back up School Lane towards the main road.
He has given me a copy of Merlin and Nimue, in the de luxe edition published by Messrs Freeth & Hoare. On the fly-leaf he has written, in an elegant flowing hand:
To Miss Esperanza Gorst, affectionately, from the Author. December, MDCCCLXXVI.
21
A Child is Born
I
My Lady Seeks Reassurance
MR PERSEUS did not come down to dinner that evening, which spared me the embarrassment that I had anticipated, although I missed his joining us. Mr Randolph was quiet and pensive and soon left the table. My Lady also seemed out of sorts.
Later, as we were sitting with our work by her sitting-room fire, she looked up from threading her needle.
By the by, Alice, she said, what news from your fascinating Mr Thornhaugh? Is he still labouring on his magnum opus?
It keeps him continually absorbed, I replied, as all great and worthy enterprises must.
Yes, I suppose so. Did you ever tell me the subject of this great endeavour?
It is a history of alchemy, from the earliest times.
Alchemy? The turning of base metals into gold?
It is more than that, or so I understand. Mr Thornhaugh regards it as a system of mystical philosophy a philosophy of spiritual transformation.
Spiritual transformation, she said, thoughtfully. Well, well. A noble subject, indeed. And when will the work be finished? I think, after all, that it would interest me to see it.
Im not aware that Mr Thornhaugh has a definite date in view.
That is always the way with these scholars, she sighed. They can never bring matters to a close, but must go on and on, forever delving and delving, until they drop dead, and then the thing is never done. My father was a thoroughgoing scholar, and an unusually systematic one; but even he took too long to complete the history of our family that he had undertaken and, indeed, he never did bring his labours to fruition, despite all I could do to help him in the
latter stages of gathering and arranging the necessary documents.
She returned to her work. The fire crackled, and the clock ticked; all was warm and cosy, with only the pitter-pattering sound of rain against the window to disturb the comfortable silence.
Alice, dear.
I looked up enquiringly.
I must ask you a question and I hope you can answer it honestly, and not take offence. Will you promise to do that, dear as a friend?
What could I say? Only that I would try my best to satisfy her.
Although naturally, I added, mischievously alluding to her previous refusal to divulge the reason why the great friendship of her life had been severed, I could not break any pre-existing confidence.
Naturally.
Then tell me what you wish to know.
Well, its this. Have you been completely truthful with me, on every point concerning yourself, your upbringing, and so on everything youve told me on that subject since coming to Evenwood? There has been no deceit, has there, dear? No deliberate pretence or duplicity? Can you assure me of that, on all you hold most sacred?