Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘I think Mr Carteret mentioned to me that your son was born in the North?’

Dr Daunt seemed disposed to talk, and I was eager to let him. ‘Yes, indeed. I had taken a living in Lancashire on my marriage – my first marriage, I mean. I am sorry to say that my dear wife – my first wife, you understand – was taken from us soon after Phoebus was born.’

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, fragile 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 that 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 that 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 will 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 had 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.

‘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 that was 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 Carteret?’

‘We have only recently met.’

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 compliment 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. The reviews have been most gratifying, 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 that 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 that 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, 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. Then she asked me whether I had inspected the great house. I told her that I had visited the Chapel briefly that morning, to pay my respects to Mr Carteret, but that I hoped to enjoy a fuller acquaintance with Lord Tansor’s residence in the very near future.