The Meaning of Night (19 page)

Montgomery, Mr de Vere, and Mr Heraud, ? and a few others of their ilk – not, it must be

admitted, first-division talents; but Lord Tansor had been much satisfied, both by their

presence and by their expressions of encouragement when Mr Phoebus was persuaded to

bring out one or two of his own effusions for their perusal. The literary gentlemen

appeared to think that the young man had the mind and ear – indeed the vocation – of the

born bard, which gratifyingly confirmed Lord Tansor’s view that he had been right to

allow the young man his head in respect of a possible career. The author himself was also

flattered by the kind attentions of Mr Henry Drago,? the distinguished reviewer and

leading contributor to Fraser’s and the Quarterly, who gave him his card and offered to

act on his behalf to find a publisher for his poems. Two weeks later, a letter came from

this gentleman to say that Mr Moxon,? a particular friend of his, had been so impressed

by the verses the critic had placed before him that he had expressed an urgent wish to

meet the young genius as soon as may be, with a view to a publishing proposal.

Before Daunt had finished his studies at Cambridge, he had completed Ithaca; a

Lyrical Drama, which, with a few other sundry effusions, was duly published by Mr

Moxon in the autumn of 1841. So was launched the literary career of P. Rainsford Daunt.

Mrs Daunt, now established as the de facto chatelaine of Evenwood, naturally

watched these developments with a warm glow of satisfaction; it was most pleasant to

observe her plans for ingratiating her step-son with Lord Tansor succeeding so well. Her

husband, with more discernment, felt a good deal of disquiet at the palpably hollow

lionization of his son when the boy had done nothing, in his view, to deserve the plaudits

he was receiving, other than to have fallen under the capacious wing of his Lordship’s

patronage. With the end of his labours on his catalogue in sight, the Rector now felt able

to turn his full gaze on the character and future prospects of his son. But his position was

weak in respect of his patron’s growing dominion over his only child. What could be

done? Give up his comfortable living in this place of beauty and contentment and risk

removal to another Millhead? That was out of the question.

And yet he felt impelled to do his utmost to retrieve his son, and put him back on

a path more consonant with his upbringing and antecedents. It might not be possible to

bring him to ordination – the Rector’s dearest hope – but it might be possible to dilute the

effects of Lord Tansor’s increasingly prodigal attentions.

The Rector thought he might have a solution to the problem. Removing his son

from Evenwood and the influence of Lord Tansor for an extended period might have the

effect of loosening his patron’s grip somewhat on his son. He had therefore quietly

arranged through a cousin, Archdeacon Cyprian Daunt of Dublin, for the boy to spend a

further year of study at Trinity College. It now only remained for him to acquaint his son,

and Lord Tansor, of his decision.

14:

Post nubile, Phoebus?

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A week after attaining his majority, P. Rainsford Daunt, plainly agitated and with

a rather high colour, could have been seen leaving the Rectory at Evenwood, mounting

his father’s old grey cob, and making his way up towards the great house, where he was

received as a matter of urgency by a concerned Lord Tansor.

The Rector had summoned his son early in order to present him with his decision

that he should further his studies in Dublin, after taking his degree. Words were spoken –

I do not have an exact transcript – and things were said, perhaps on both sides, which

made compromise on the matter impossible. The Rector certainly told the boy, coolly and

frankly, that if he did not fall in with the arrangement he would himself go to Lord

Tansor to request that he intervene on his behalf.

Poor man. He had no conception that it was already too late; that he had lost every

chance of influence over his son’s future; and that Lord Tansor would do nothing to

support his wishes in the case.

‘I do not, of course, say that it is a bad plan,’ Lord Tansor opined when, that

afternoon, the Rector stood before him, ‘for the young man to go to Ireland – that, of

course, must be a matter for you to settle with him yourself. I only say that travel in

general is overrated, and that people – especially young people – would be better advised

to stay at home and look to their prospects there. As for Ireland, there can, I think, be few

places on earth in which an English gentleman could feel less at home, or where the

natural comforts and amenities of a gentleman’s condition are less susceptible of being

supplied.’

After more barking pronouncements of this sort, delivered in Lord Tansor’s best

baritone manner, Dr Daunt saw how things lay, and was dismayed.

The Rector’s son took his degree that summer, and so returned again to

Evenwood, on a fine warm day, to ponder his future.

A fictional fragment, part of an uncompleted prose romance entitled Marchmont;

or, The Lost Heir, undoubtedly describes that return, though transposed from summer to

autumn for dramatic effect. I append part of it it here:

Fragment from ‘Marchmont’

By P. Rainsford Daunt

Beyond the town the road dips steeply away from the eminence on which the little

town of E— is situated, to wind its tree-lined way down towards the river. Gregorius

always delighted in this road; but today the sensation of a progressive descent beneath a

vault of bare branches, through which sunlight was now slanting, was especially delicious

to him after the tedium and discomfort of the journey from Paulborough, sitting with his

trunks on the back of the carrier’s cart.

At the bottom of the hill, the road divided. Instead of crossing the river at the

bridge by the mill, he turned north to take the longer route, along a road which ran

through thick woodland, with the aim of entering the Park through its Western Gates. He

had in mind to sit a while in the Grecian Temple, which stood on a little eminence just

inside the gates, from where he would be able to see his favourite prospect of the great

house across the intervening space of rolling parkland.

The woods were chill and damp in this dying part of the year, and he was glad to

gain the wicket-gate in the wall that gave on to the Park and pass out into pale sunlight

once more. A few yards took him on to a stony path that ran off from the carriage-drive

up towards the Temple, built on a rise and surrounded on three sides by a plantation of

good-sized trees. He walked with his eyes deliberately fixed on the gravel path, wishing

to give himself the sudden rush of pleasure that he knew he would feel on seeing the

house from his intended vantage point.

But before he was half way along the path, he was aware of the sound of a vehicle

entering the Park behind him from the western entrance. He was but a little way off the

road, and so turned to see who was approaching. A carriage and pair were rattling up the

little incline from the gates. Within a moment or two the carriage had drawn level with

the spur of the path on which he was standing. As it passed, a face looked out at him and

momentarily held his gaze. The glimpse had been fleeting, but the image held steady in

his mind as he watched the carriage crest the rise and descend towards the house.

He remained staring intently after the carriage for several moments after it had

disappeared from view, puzzled, in a peculiarly keen way, that he had not immediately

resumed his way towards the Temple. That pale and lovely face still hung before his

mind’s eye, like a star in a cold dark sky.

Despite the crude attempt to disguise the location (‘Paulborough’ for

‘Peterborough’), and himself (as ‘Gregorius’), wrapped up and prettified though it all is,

the place and source of the author’s lyrical remembrance are easily explicated and dated.

On the sixth day of June, 1841, the day Phoebus Daunt came down from Cambridge for

the last time, at approximately three o’clock in the afternoon, Miss Emily Carteret, the

daughter of Lord Tansor’s secretary, returned to Evenwood after spending two years

abroad.

Miss Carteret was at that sweetest of ages – just turned seventeen. She had been

residing with her late mother’s younger sister in Paris, and had now come back to

Evenwood to settle permanently with her father at the Dower House. Their nearest

neighbours were the Daunts, just on the other side of the Park wall, and she and the

Rector’s son had each grown up with a decided view of the other’s character and

temperament.

Little Miss Carteret had been a serious young lady from an early age, with a

serious mind and serious expectations of others. Her young neighbour, though capable of

seriousness when he pleased, found her meditative disposition galling, when all he

wanted to do was tumble down a slope with her, or climb a tree, or chase the chickens;

for she would think about everything, and for so long at a time, that he would give up

coaxing her in exasperation and leave her alone, still thinking, while he attended to his

pleasures. For her part, the young lady thought him uncouth and frightful in his antics,

though she knew he could be kind to her and that he was by no means a stupid boy.

It would have been strange indeed had not the boy found her indifference towards

him only increased her fascination. Though his junior by four years, Miss Carteret

appeared to rule him with the wisdom of ages, and as they grew older her sovereignty

over him became complete. In time, of course, he asked for a kiss. She demurred. He

asked again, and she considered a little longer. But at length she capitulated. On his

eleventh birthday she knocked at the Rectory door with a present in her hand. ‘You may

kiss me now,’ she said. And so he did.

To him, she was Dulcinea and Guinevere, every aloof and unattainable heroine of

legend, every Rosalind and Celia, and every fairy-tale princess of whom he had ever read

or dreamed of; for she had a serious and haunting beauty as well as a serious mind. Her

father, Mr Paul Carteret, like Dr Daunt, saw, and was concerned by, Lord Tansor’s

indulgence of Phoebus, perceiving – what even the Rector could not as yet see – that he

was rapidly turning into an arrogant young puppy. Mr Carteret had observed only too

plainly which way the way blew in the mind of Phoebus Daunt with regard to his

daughter, even before she had left for the Continent. Now two years’ of travel and

education, as well as some exposure to the best Parisian society, had rendered her allure

irresistible.

Miss Carteret’s father, in the face of received opinion at Evenwood,

unaccountably failed to regard Phoebus Rainsford Daunt as a precocious specimen of

British manhood. He had always found the Rector’s son ingratiating, plausible, slippery,

cleverly insinuating himself into favour where he could, and ingeniously spiteful in

revenge where he could not. It may therefore be supposed that he did not relish the

prospect of his daughter’s return to Evenwood, and to the attentions of P. R. Daunt, at a

time when that young gentleman’s star was on its seemingly irresistible rise. Mr Carteret

disliked and distrusted Lord Tansor’s protégé. On more than one occasion he had come

across him in the Muniments Room, where he had no obvious business, rummaging

through the documents and deeds that were stored there; and he was sure that he had

surreptitiously perused his Lordship’s correspondence as it lay on the secretary’s desk in

the corner of the library.

But like his neighbour, the Rector, Mr Carteret’s position was also dependent on

Lord Tansor’s good opinion. It was thus perplexing to Mr Carteret as to how he ought to

proceed if and when – as seemed possible – the young man confided to his patron the

nature of his feelings for his daughter. Could he actively forbid any amorous advances,

especially if they were made with his Lordship’s approval, without the likelihood of

severe consequences to his own interests? For the moment, he had no choice but to

watch, and hope.

Of Daunt’s reunion with Emily Carteret, when she at last came home from the

Continent, little need be said. He had not seen her for two years, though they had

corresponded. Her return now, a young woman, just as he stood on the brink of manhood,

and exhilarated in his heart by his LordTansor’s blossoming indulgence, naturally excited

him greatly with its possibilities. But the reality did not quite match up to the quivering

anticipations of the hapless Gregorius, his fictional alter ego.

She received him affably enough, asked him how he had been, agreed that he had

changed a good deal since their last meeting, and accepted an early copy of Ithaca, signed

by the author. But he did not detect that pleasing warmth in her, infused with the memory

of old times together, of which he had been dreaming for so long. She seemed still the

disapproving and thoughtful little girl of their childhood, though now grown quite

beautiful in her French clothes and bonnet à la mode, with its delicately shaded pointed