The Meaning of Night

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 sometimes thought him uncouth and frightful in his antics, though she knew that 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 that her reticence 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. He began to call her his Princess.

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; for she had a serious and haunting beauty, as well as a serious mind. Her father, Mr Paul Carteret, had observed only too plainly which way the wind 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.

The fact was that Mr Carteret, 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. To put the matter frankly, Mr Carteret disliked and distrusted Lord Tansor’s protege. 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.

But like that of 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.

At their first encounter after her return from France, in the presence of her father, Miss Carteret received the young man with courteous reserve. She asked him politely 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. She had grown quite beautiful in her French clothes and bonnet a la mode, with its delicately shaded, pointed ribbons and little bouquet of pale roses, violets, and primroses; but her father was greatly relieved to observe that her character was as thoughtful, and her behaviour as obedient, as before. Gratifyingly, during the many subsequent occasions on which they were obliged to meet over the course of the summer, Miss Carteret studiously continued to maintain the same air of calm and courteous detachment towards her former playfellow.

As the year 1841 drew to a close, P. Rainsford Daunt, BA, set his mind to conquering the world of letters. The following spring, Lord Tansor arranged for his portrait to be painted, and there was intense excitement in the bosom of Mrs Daunt when an invitation addressed to the young gentleman arrived at the Rectory, requesting the pleasure of his presence at Her Majesty’s bal masque at Buckingham Palace, at which the Court of Edward III and Queen Philippa was recreated in astonishing magnificence. A week later, he was formally presented at Court, at a levee at St James’s Palace, absurdly resplendent in knee breeches, buckle shoes, and a sword.

His saddened father, meanwhile, retreated to his study to correct the proofs of his catalogue; his Lordship spent a good deal of time in town closeted with his legal man, Mr Christopher Tredgold; and I had set my feet on the path that would eventually lead to Cain-court, Strand.

^*[‘After clouds, the sun’. Phoebus was the sun god. Ed.]

^*[It was published in Daunt’s Scenes of Early Life (1852). Ed.]

15

Apocalypsis^*

I left Heidelberg in February 1841, travelling first to Berlin, and thence to France. I arrived in Paris two days before my twenty-first birthday, and settled myself in the Hotel des Princes^† – perhaps a little expensive, but not more than I thought I could afford. As I had reached my majority, the residue of my capital, which had been entrusted to Mr Byam More, was now mine. Inspired by this happy thought, I allowed myself to draw deeply on my reserves, in anticipation of their being very soon replenished, and abandoned myself to the infinitely various pleasures that Paris can offer a young man of tolerable looks, a lively imagination, and a good opinion of himself. But there must be an end to all pleasure, and soon the nagging apprehension that I must soon settle on a way to earn my living began to intrude most unwelcomingly on my days and nights. Reluctantly, after six highly entertaining weeks, I began to make my preparations for returning to England.

Then, on the morning before my intended departure, I ran across Le Grice in Galignani’s Reading Room,^‡ which had been my daily place of resort during my stay. We spent a delightful evening recounting the separate courses that our lives had taken over the five years since we had last seen each other. Of course he had news of several old school-fellows, Daunt amongst them. I listened politely, but changed the subject as soon as I decently could. I had no need to be reminded of Phoebus Daunt; he was constantly in my thoughts, and the desire to execute effectual vengeance on him for what he had done to me still burned with a bright and steady flame.

Le Grice was en route to Italy, with no particular purpose in view other than to pass some time in pleasant surroundings and congenial company whilst he considered what to do with himself. Given my own uncertainty on this subject, it did not take much persuasion on his part for me to abandon my plan of returning to Sandchurch, and join him on his ramblings. I immediately wrote to Mr More, requesting him to transfer the balance of my capital to my London account, and sent word to Tom that I would be remaining on the Continent for a little longer. The next morning, Le Grice and I began our journey south.

After many leisurely detours, we arrived at length in Marseilles, from whence we proceeded along the Ligurian coast to Pisa, before finally setting ourselves up, in some splendour, in a noble Florentine palazzo, close to the Duomo. Here we remained for some weeks, indolently indulging ourselves, until the heat of the summer drove us to the cooler air of the mountains and, in due course, to Ancona, on the Adriatic coast.

By the end of August, having made our way north to Venice, Le Grice was beginning to show signs of