The Meaning of Night (13 page)

intellectual and antiquarian interests to which he had clung so desperately at Millhead,

and he saw no reason why he should not do so.

It was not long before his wife set to work forging as close a bond as possible

between the Rectory and the great house. Her kinship with the Duport family

undoubtedly gave her a degree of privilege, which she adroitly used to her advantage. To

Lord Tansor, she quickly made herself indispensable, much as she had done to her

husband after the death of his first wife. Nothing was too much trouble. She would not

hear of his Lordship being incommoded in any way whatsoever, no matter how small the

circumstance. Naturally, she did not undertake any menial tasks herself, displaying

instead a winning ability to get them done by other people. She soon became possessed of

a thorough knowledge of the house’s domestic arrangements, and began to exert a degree

of control over them that was wonderful to behold. She did all this, moreover, without a

word of complaint from the below-stairs population, who – to a man and woman, even

including Cranshaw, his Lordship’s long-serving butler – demurred to her commands like

old campaigners to the orders of a much-loved general. Indeed, she insinuated herself

into all the doings of the household with such tact, combined with effortless charm, that

no one appeared in the least affronted by what otherwise might have been seen as rank

impudence.

Lord Tansor was delighted by the active deference and domestic assistance of his

relative, whom he had barely known before her marriage to the Rector, but whom he now

regarded as a signal adornment to the society of Evenwood. Mrs Daunt’s diplomatic

skills were also put to work on mild Lady Tansor, who, far from feeling injured or

indignant at the former’s swift assumption of dominance in her house, was touchingly

grateful to be relieved of duties which, in truth, she was only too glad to relinquish.

So it was that Dr Daunt and his wife attained an enviable measure of prosperity

and eminence in the country round about Evenwood. It would surely have been

forgivable if Mrs Daunt, surveying her work, and seeing that it was good, privately

allowed herself the merest smile of satisfaction. But in accomplishing her ends, she had

opened a veritable Pandora’s Box, with consequences she could not possibly have

foreseen.

I sometimes like to imagine Dr Daunt, for whom I have always had a sincere

regard, coming into his study of a morning – say a bright August morning in the year

1830 – and throwing open the windows to a nascent and glittering world, in a conscious

gesture of satisfaction at his lot.

Observe him now, on this imagined morning. It is early, the sun new risen, and

the servants not yet about. The Rector is in high good humour, and hums a merry tune

quietly to himself as the sweet sunrise air flows gently in from the garden. He turns from

the window, and looks about him with pleasure and pride.

As I have seen for myself, his books are arranged methodically from floor to

ceiling on every wall; uniform notebooks (carefully categorized and labelled) and papers

(sorted and docketed) are stacked neatly to hand, together with a plentiful supply of

writing materials, upon a large square table, on which also stands a seasonal posy,

renewed daily by his wife. All is order, comfort, and convenience – exactly as he likes it.

He stands by his desk, affectionately surveying his library. In an alcove on the far

wall are the works of the Church Fathers – his eye picks out the familiar presence of his

Eusebius, St Ambrose (a particularly choice edition: Paris, 1586), Irenaeus, Tertullian,

and St John Chrysostom. By the door, in an ornate case, are his biblical commentaries,

the writings of the Continental reformers, and a cherished edition of the Antwerp

Polyglot, whilst on either side of the fireplace are ranged the classical authors that are his

enduring passion. But this is no ordinary morning. It is, in every sense, a new dawn; for a

task now lays before him which, God willing, may vindicate at last his decision to quit

the University.

Late the previous afternoon, a message had come from Lord Tansor asking if the

Rector would be good enough to step up to the house as soon as was convenient. It was,

as it happened, rather inconvenient just then, for Dr Daunt had earlier ridden into

Peterborough on business and, on the way back, been forced to walk the final four miles

when his horse had lost a shoe. He’d arrived at the Rectory hot, uncomfortable, and ill

tempered, and had barely had time to remove his boots when Lord Tansor’s man knocked

at the front door. But no request from Evenwood could easily be refused – least of all

because of sore feet and an unbecoming sweat.

He was admitted to the house and conducted through a succession of formal

reception rooms towards the terrace that runs the length of the West Front. Here he found

his Lordship seated in a wicker chair in the purple evening light, his spaniel by his side.

He was smoking a cigar and contemplating the sun setting over Molesey Woods, which

marked the boundary of his property on its western side.

A word or two concerning Dr Daunt’s patron. In person, he was of no more than

middling height height; but he carried himself like a guardsman, his ramrod back making

him seem far taller than he really was. His world was circumscribed by his principal seat,

Evenwood, his town-house in Park-lane, the Carlton Club, and the House of Peers. He

rarely travelled abroad. His acquaintances were many, his friends few.

One did not trifle with his Lordship. It took very little for him to suspect

presumption. The only thing to do with Lord Tansor was to defer to him. On that simple

principle was the world of Evenwood, and all its dominions, maintained. The inheritor of

an immense fortune, which he had already significantly augmented, he was a naturally

accomplished politician, with influence at the highest levels. When the Duport interest

demanded action, his Lordship had only to whisper quietly in the ear of Government, and

it was done. By nature he was an implacable opponent of reform in every sphere; but he

knew – none better – that publicly articulated principles, of whatever complexion, can

gravely incommode the man of affairs; and thus he was careful so to frame his views as

to remain always at the pivot of power. His opinion was sought by men from all sides. It

was of no consequence who was in, and who was out: his sagacity was valued by all.

Lord Tansor, in a word, mattered

A summons from his Lordship, therefore, was always something to heed, and

perhaps to be anxious about. Whether Dr Daunt was definitely anxious when he

approached his patron, I cannot say; but he would certainly have been curious to know

why he had been called up to the house so urgently on aThursday afternoon.

On becoming aware of his visitor, Lord Tansor rose, stiffly proffered his hand,

and gestured to his visitor to sit beside him. I have obtained a résumé of their

conversation, from a most reliable source, which forms the basis of the following

elaboration.

‘Dr Daunt, I’m obliged to you.’

‘Good evening, Lord Tansor. I came as soon as I could. There is nothing wrong, I

hope?’

‘Wrong?’ barked his Lordship. ‘By no means.’ Then he stood up, dropping the

butt of his still smoking cigar into a nearby urn as he did so. The spaniel looked up

expectantly.

‘Dr Daunt, I was lately in Cambridge, dining with my friend Passingham.’

‘Dr Passingham? Of Trinity?’

Disdaining the question, his Lordship continued.

‘You are well remembered there, sir, very well remembered. Cambridge is not a

place I have ever cared much for, though it is my Alma Mater. But Passingham is a sound

fellow, and he spoke highly of your abilities.’

‘I am flattered to hear you say so.’

‘I do not say it to flatter you, Dr Daunt. I will be frank. I deliberately sought

Passingham’s opinions of your competence as a scholar. I believe, from his testimony,

that you once stood pretty high in the estimate of the best men there?’

‘I had some small reputation, certainly,’ replied Dr Daunt, with increasing

wonderment at the course his interrogation was taking.

‘And you have, as I understand, kept up your learning – reading, articles, and

what not.’

‘Certainly I have endeavoured to do so.’

‘Well, then, the case is this. I am satisfied from my enquiries that your talents

recommend you for a commission of the highest importance to me. I hope I can rely on

your acceptance.’

‘By all means, if it is within my power . . . ’ Dr Daunt felt rather acutely that the

qualification was redundant. He knew that he had no choice in the matter. The realization

was irksome to his still doughty self-esteem; but he had learned discretion. His education

in humility since coming to Evenwood from Millhead had been swift, spurred on by

necessity and by the exhortations of his wife, who was ever eager to oblige the Duports

whenever an opportunity presented itself.

Lord Tansor turned and, followed by his dog, walked towards a pair of imposing

French-windows, leaving Dr Daunt to make the assumption that he intended him to

follow.

On the other side of the windows lay the Library, a magnificent apartment of

noble proportions, decorated in white and gold, with a sumptuous painted ceiling by

Verrio.? Lord Tansor’s grandfather, the twenty-third Baron, had been a gentleman of

various, though somewhat contradictory, talents. Like his father and grandfather before

him, this gentleman had possessed a cool head for business and had shrewdly extended

the family’s interests, before retiring at an early age to Evenwood, where he sat to

Gainsborough with his plump wife and two rosy-cheeked boys, planted a great number of

trees, bred pigs, and – to the complete indifference of his wife – entertained numerous

lady admirers (his Lordship being both handsome and famously virile) in a secluded

tower situated in the far reaches of the Park.

From these activities he would turn, in a moment, to his other great passion: his

books, for he was one of the great collectors of his day, paying frequent trips each year to

Paris, Cologne, Utrecht, and other Continental cities, where he purchased liberally, and

with discernment, amongst the booksellers and collectors of those places. The

consequence, at his death, was a collection of over forty thousand books and manuscripts,

for the housing of which he had caused the former ballroom on the West Front of

Evenwood to be transformed into the Library in which his grandson and Dr Daunt now

stood.

The present Lord Tansor had not, in the slightest degree, inherited his grandsire’s

bibliographical enthusiasms. His reading matter was confined, on the whole, to the

Morning Post, The Times, his accounts, and an occasional foray into the novels (never

the poetry) of Sir Walter Scott; but he was aware, no one could be more so, that the

volumes in his custody represented a considerable material asset, if it were ever to be

realized, as well as a visible demonstration of the family’s talent for augmenting its

physical possessions generation by generation. For the intangible significance of the

collection, he cared not a jot. He wished instead to establish exactly what he owned and

its approximate value in pounds, shillings and pence, though it was not in these terms that

he presented Dr Daunt with the task of preparing a catalogue raisonée of the entire

collection.

As they entered the Library, a man, small of stature and wearing a pair of round

spectacles, looked up from an escritoire at the far end of the room, where he had been

busily engaged with a pile of documents.

‘Do not mind us, Mr Carteret,’ said Lord Tansor to his secretary, and the man

returned quietly to his work, though Dr Daunt noticed that he would now and again look

surreptitiously across to where they stood, returning to the perusal of the documents that

lay upon the desk with an exaggerated expression of concentration.

‘It would be a service to me to know what I have here,’ continued Lord Tansor to

Dr Daunt, looking about him coldly at the ranks of volumes packed tightly behind their

gilded metal grilles.

‘A service also to learning,’ said the Rector, lost for a moment in delighted

consideration of the task that had been laid before him.

‘Quite so.’

Here was an undertaking of great usefulness and, for Dr Daunt, of surpassing

interest. He could not imagine a more congenial assignment, or one more suited to his

talents and inclinations. The scale of the project did not dismay him in the least; indeed

he welcomed it as making its accomplishment all the more worthy of applause. He also

saw how he might revive his lapsed reputation as a scholar, for in preparing a catalogue

of the collection he had already determined to produce extensive commentaries and

annotations to the most important volumes, which in themselves would be of lasting

value to generations of scholars and collectors to come. Of these unspoken aims Lord

Tansor guessed nothing, and would have cared less. He wished, like the man of business

that he was, to have an accurate inventory of his stock, and this Dr Daunt appeared to be