The Meaning of Night (40 page)

He sighed again and turned away, and I saw him glance up at a small portrait in

oils that hung in an alcove between the bookshelves. It showed a slight ethereal figure in

a pale mauve gown and a neat cap, with misty blue eyes and clusters of airy curls at her

neck. It was plain enough that his love for his first wife was still strong. Clearing his

throat and brushing down his beard, he was about to speak again when the door opened

and a tall figure in rustling black silk swept into the room.

‘Oh! Forgive me. Achilles, I was not aware we had a visitor.’

‘My dear,’ said Dr Daunt, with the air of someone who has been caught in a guilty

act, ‘may I introduce Mr Edward Glapthorn?’

She gazed at me imperiously and held out her hand. I think she was expecting me

to kiss it humbly, like a queen’s; but instead I touched the ends of her outstretched fingers

in the briefest of gestures and bowed stiffly.

‘I am honoured to meet you, Mrs Daunt’ I said, and withdrew a few steps.

Well, she was a deuced handsome woman, I’ll say that. I could easily see how her

good looks, together with a spirited and capable character, would have made it – let us

not say easy, but perhaps less difficult for Dr Daunt, in his grief at the loss of his first

wife, and entombed alive as he had been in Millhead, to succumb to her charms. She had

brought life and hope to that dismal place, and I supposed he’d been glad of it. But he had

never loved her; that was plain.

‘Mr Glapthorn,’ the Rector ventured, ‘is staying at the Dower House.’

‘Indeed,’ came the frosty reply. ‘Are you a friend of the Carterets, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘I came up from London to see Mr Carteret on a matter of business,’ I replied,

intending to dispense as little information concerning my visit as possible. She had seated

herself next to her husband, placing her hand protectively over his whilst we spoke about

the shocking events of recent days and how the placid community of Evenwood had been

riven by what had happened to their well-liked neighbour. She possessed the most

exquisite grey eyes: large and liquid, and constantly darting from her husband to me as

we spoke in turn on the subject of poor Mr Carteret.

‘Mr Paul Carteret was my second cousin,’ intoned Mrs Daunt, ‘and so, naturally,

this terrible crime affects me particularly closely — ’

‘Not, perhaps, as closely as his daughter,’ I interjected.

She shot me a look intended no doubt to crush my impudence.

‘One must of course suppose that Miss Emily Carteret feels the loss of her father

deeply, especially under such dreadful circumstances. Do you know Miss Emily

Carteret?’

‘I have that pleasure.’

She smiled and nodded, as if to signify her complete comprehension of the matter.

‘And do you work in some professional capacity, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘I am a private scholar.’

‘A private scholar? How interesting. And is that a line of business?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You said just now that you had come to see Mr Carteret on a matter of business.’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘In a manner of speaking. I see.’

Dr Daunt, looking a little uncomfortable, then broke in.

‘Mr Glapthorn has been so kind as to complement me on my bibliographic

labours, my dear. It is always pleasant for us poor scholars to receive the approval of a

discriminating intellect.’

He was looking at me, in anticipation, I supposed, of some pertinent remark or

other; but before I could say anything, Mrs Daunt had spoken again.

‘My husband’s catalogue has been widely approved, by some of the most eminent

authorities,’ she said, intimating no doubt that my own praise of Dr Daunt’s labours was

poor enough by comparison. ‘And have you published anything in the bibliographical

line yourself, Mr Glapthorn?’

Of course I had to admit that I had not.

‘My husband’s son is also a published author,’ she continued. ‘He is, as you may

know, a poet of some distinction. He has always had a remarkable gift for literary

expression, has he not, Achilles?’

The Rector smiled helplessly.

‘Of course, his genius was immediately discerned by Lord Tansor, who has been

like a second father to Phoebus. Achilles, I’m sure Mr Glapthorn would be interested to

see Phoebus’s new volume. Hot off the presses, you know,’ she said, watching her

husband as he walked over to his desk to pick up the latest production from the pen of P.

Rainsford Daunt – Penelope: A Tragedy in Verse.

I dutifully flicked through the volume, stopping occasionally to read a line or two,

and nodding as if in sage appreciation of the beauties contained therein. It was, of course,

stuffed full of his usual hectic and overblown versifying.?

‘Remarkable,’ I said, ‘quite remarkable. Your son has several such volumes to his

credit, I believe?’

‘Indeed he has,’ replied Mrs Daunt. ‘And they have all been extremely well

received. Achilles, fetch Mr Glapthorn that copy of the New Monthly . . .’

‘Pray don’t trouble yourself, Dr Daunt,’ I said hastily. ‘I believe I have read the

article in question. What a thing, though, to have a poet in the family! Of course his

celebrity precedes him, and I confess I was hoping to have the pleasure of meeting your

son while I was in Northamptonshire.’

‘I’m afraid he is away. Phoebus enjoys the particular confidence of my noble

relative,’ said Mrs Daunt. ‘His Lordship, having been a little unwell of late, is

recouperating on the Isle of Wight, and has asked Phoebus to undertake a business

engagement on his behalf.’

‘It will be a great shock for your son when he learns of the attack on Mr Carteret,’

I said.

‘It will most certainly prostrate him,’ replied Mrs Daunt, with solemn emphasis.

‘His is a most feeling and compassionate nature, and of course he has known Mr Carteret,

and his daughter, since he was a little boy.’

After a moment or two’s silence, I turned to the Rector.

‘I suppose, Dr Daunt, that your son’s rise in the world now precludes him from

following in your footsteps?’

It was a mischievous question, I own, but it was intended for his wife, not for

him; and indeed, before he had time to speak, Mrs Daunt was already answering it.

‘Our lot here is an extremely fortunate one. We are not rich, but we live in the

hand of a most loving and generous master.’

‘You allude to God, perhaps?’

‘I allude, Mr Glapthorn, to the beneficence bestowed on us by Lord Tansor. If

Phoebus had no other prospects, then I am sure the Church would be a most suitable

channel for his talents. But of course he has great prospects, very great prospects, both as

an author and . . . ’ She hesitated for a moment. I looked at her, eyebrows raised in

expectation. But before she could resume, there was a knock at the door and a maid

entered with a tray of tea things.

This fortuitous diversion allowed Mrs Daunt quickly to change the subject, and,

as she poured out and passed around the tea, she began to ask me a number of questions

about myself – Had I lived in London all my life? Was I a Cambridge man, like her

step-son? Was this my first visit to Evenwood? How long had I known Mr Carteret? Was

I a member of the Roxburghe Club, like her husband, and had I known the late Mr

Dibdin,? whom they had often had the honour of entertaining at Evenwood? I answered

all her questions politely, but as briefly as I could. Of course she perceived my evasion

and countered by throwing out still more questions. So we continued in our dance – Dr

Daunt sitting all the while in silence – until the tea had been consumed. Then, placing her

empty cup and saucer back on the tea-tray, she asked me if I had been up to the great

house. I told her that I had visited the chapel briefly that morning, to pay my last respects

to Mr Carteret, but that I hoped to enjoy a fuller acquaintance with Lord Tansor’s

residence in the very near future.

‘But you must at least see the Library before you go,’ cried Dr Daunt suddenly.

‘I’m afraid I must return to London tomorrow.’

‘But we could go now, if that would be convenient.’

Nothing could have been more to my liking, and so I eagerly assented to the

proposal. We quickly finished our tea, and Mrs Daunt rose to leave.

‘Good-bye, Mr Glapthorn. I do hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you

again soon. Perhaps when you next visit Evenwood, fate will look more kindly on us and

allow us to introduce you to my step-son.’ I said that would be a pleasure I hoped would

not be long deferred.

She had drawn herself up to her full height and I found myself held captive by

those lovely grey eyes. How old was she now? Fifty-three or fifty-four? I could not

remember. But whatever her age, she looked no older than thirty, and still had about her a

fascinating look of practised coquetry. I began to see how she had managed matters with

Lord Tansor in respect of her step-son: her beauty and charm, in concert with her

commanding personality, had no doubt been deployed to the full on his behalf. As she

looked at me with those winning eyes – it was but for the most fleeting of moments – I

felt sure she had divined that, in some way that she could not yet comprehend, I was a

threat to her prosperous condition, and to that of her precious Phoebus. In short, she

disliked and distrusted me, as I did her.

Left to ourselves once more, Dr Daunt and I reverted to an earlier discussion

concerning the Neoplatonic philosophy, with particular reference to Taylor the

Platonist’s? translations of Plotinus and Proclus. The Rector was discoursing on Taylor’s

paraphrastic rendering of Porphyry’s De Antro Nympharum,? which led us on to other

equally engaging topics concerning ancient theology, a subject in which each of us

professed both interest and expertise.

‘Mr Glapthorn,’ said Dr Daunt at length. ‘I wonder if I might ask a favour of

you?’

‘By all means,’ I returned. ‘Name it.’

‘It is just this. Though I am an admirer of Mr Taylor in general, his philological

and linguistic skills do not always match his enthusiastic advocacy of these important

subjects. His translation of Iamblichus is a case in point. I have therefore presumed to

prepare a new rendering of the De mysteriis,? the first part of which is to be published in

the Classical Journal.? The piece is now in proof and is being looked over by my friend,

Professor Lucian Slake, of Barnack. Perhaps you are familiar with Professor Slake’s

work on Euhemerus?? The Professor’s knowledge of Iamblichus is sound, but not so

complete, I think, as yours. The favour I would wish very much to ask of you, therefore,

is this: would you do me the greatest kindness by agreeing to cast your eye also over the

proofs, before the piece goes to press? ’

I told him I would be pleased and honoured to review the work; and so it was

settled that Dr Daunt would immediately send word to Professor Slake, asking him to

direct the proofs to me at the George Hotel before my departure for London.

‘And now,’ he said brightly, ‘let us be off.’

The Library established by William Duport, the twenty-third Baron, soon after the

Revolution in France, was one of the finest private collections in Europe, and bore

comparison with those established by the second Earl Spencer at Althorp, and by the

third Duke of Roxburghe. The twenty-third Baron had inherited some three thousand

volumes, assembled haphazardly by his forebears over the centuries. Shortly after

succeeding to the title, he added to this stock by acquiring the entire library of a

Hungarian nobleman – around five thousand items, and particularly notable for

containing many hundreds of the first printed editions of the Greek and Roman classics,

as well as many outstanding examples of the de luxe printers of the seventeenth and

eighteenth century, such as Baskerville and Foulis. He then set about augmenting his

collection by methodical – and occasionally unscrupulous – means, travelling widely in

order to seek out early editions of those classical authors that had eluded Count Laczkó,

and gathering along the way a large number of early Bibles, fifteeners,? and – a particular

interest of his – examples of early English literature. By the time of his death, in 1799,

the collection had grown to over forty thousand volumes.

The original library at Evenwood had been housed in a dark and rather damp

chamber of the Elizabethan period, on the north side of the building, which was soon

overflowing with his Lordship’s acquisitions. And so in, 1792, as I have previously

described, Lord William wisely determined to refurbish the large ballroom on the West

Front, with its famous ceiling by Verrio, into a place fit to hold his rapidly growing

collection of bibliophilic treasures. The work took but twelve months to complete, and in

the summer of 1793, the books amassed to that date were transferred to their present

home, where they were soon joined by many thousands more.

I saw this wonderful room for the first time, in the company of the Reverend

Achilles Daunt, on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth of October, 1853. We had walked

through the Park from the Rectory, with the declining sun in our eyes, talking of Mr

Carteret.

Away from his wife, Dr Daunt was an altogether different man – voluble,