The Meaning of Night

grinning in self-satisfaction, then proudly announced that the speculation had been sound, and that it had paid out a handsome profit, which he had now realized; his original investment, it seemed, had all but doubled.

Lord Tansor, though gratified to hear this, was nonetheless inclined to think that the lad had been prodigiously lucky. Imagine his surprise, therefore, when, at a further interview some months later, he learned that the profit from the first venture had been invested in a second, with similar satisfactory results. He began to think that the boy might have a nose for these things – he had known such people; and, in the course of time, after further demonstrations of Daunt’s financial instincts, he decided to place some of his own money into the young man’s hands. No doubt he awaited the outcome with not a little anxiety.

But he was not disappointed. His investment was returned to him within three months, together with a substantial profit. There was, as Mr Tredgold had suggested, no better way for Daunt to have recommended himself to Lord Tansor. Reading the many laudatory reviews of his work was one thing; but this new talent was of a different order altogether. It impressed Lord Tansor, the consummate man of affairs, as no number of blank-verse epics could have done. Gradually, and with due diligence, his Lordship began to delegate little matters of business to Daunt, until, by the time of which I now write, his protege had his fingers in a number of exceedingly large Duport pies.

I made the observation that Mr Phoebus Daunt must now be a man of some means.

‘It would appear so,’ Mr Tredgold replied guardedly. ‘However, he has received nothing from Lord Tansor, as far as I know, other than the two hundred pounds that I have mentioned; nor, I think, has Dr Daunt contributed to his son’s upkeep. Whatever he has made of that principal sum, by way of speculation and investment, must have supported him in the life that he presently leads.’

I thought to myself that he must be a genius indeed, to make such a sum go so far.

‘Mr Phoebus Daunt is away from Evenwood at present,’ said Mr Tredgold, brushing a speck from his lapel. ‘He is in the West Country, inspecting a property recently acquired by Lord Tansor. But there will be other opportunities, I am sure, for you to make his acquaintance. And so, Edward, I think I have said all I intended to say, and now I wish you bon voyage. I shall await your report, whether written or in person, with the greatest interest.’

We shook hands, and I turned to go; but as I did so, I felt Mr Tredgold’s hand on my shoulder.

‘Take care, Edward,’ he said quietly.

I had expected to see his usual beaming smile. But it was not there. That evening I went to Blithe Lodge. Bella was in captivating mood, and I was utterly charmed by her, as we sat by the fire in Kitty Daley’s private sitting- room, talking of this and that, and laughing at tid-bits of Academy gossip.

‘You are such a dear,’ I said, feeling a sudden uprush of affection for her as she sat in the firelight, gazing dreamily into the flames.

‘Am I?’ she asked, smiling. Then she leaned forward, cupping my face between her long fingers so that I felt the gentle impress of her rings on my skin, and kissing me tenderly.

‘An absolute, utter, and complete dear.’

‘You are quite sentimental tonight,’ she said, stroking my hair. ‘It is very pleasant. I hope you don’t have a guilty conscience.’ ‘Why should I have a guilty conscience?’

‘You ask me that!’ she laughed. ‘Every man who comes here has one, whether they admit it or not. Why shouldn’t you?’

‘That is rather hard, when all I wished to do was to pay you a compliment.’

‘Men are such martyrs,’ she said, giving my nose a mischievous little tweak. Then she sat down at my feet, placed her head on my lap, and gazed into the fire once again. Outside, the rain began to lash against the front windows of the house.

‘Isn’t it delicious,’ she said, looking up, ‘to hear the rain and the wind, while we are so snug and safe?’ Then, resting her head on my lap once again, she whispered: ‘Will I always be dear to you, Mr Edward Glapthorn?’

I bent down and kissed her perfumed hair.

‘Always.’

The following afternoon, the 24th of October 1853, a year to the very day before my chance meeting with Lucas Trendle, I took an express train northwards to Stamford, arriving at the George Hotel just before dark.

I awoke the next morning to find that the day had broken grey, wet, and cold. As it was market day, the town was full of local farmers and labourers; and by noon, the hotel was overflowing with a noisy bustling herd of muddy-booted, red-cheeked gentlemen, all eager to partake of the establishment’s amenities.

In the tap-room, thick clouds of pungent pipe smoke mingled with the appetizing aromas of roast meats and strong ale. The press of burly country bodies, and waiters rushing hither and thither, made it impossible at first to make out whether anyone there appeared to be waiting for me. After a few moments, however, a space in the melee cleared temporarily and I saw a man, seated on a settle in front of the window that looked out onto the long cobbled yard round which the hotel was built. He was occupied in reading a news- paper, from the perusal of which he occasionally looked about him with a slightly anxious air. I knew immediately that it was Mr Paul Carteret.

In appearance, he was a series of rounds. A round face, from which sprouted a closely clipped black-and-silver beard, like a well-kept lawn; large round eyes behind round spectacles; round ears, a perfectly round button nose above a cherubic round mouth, all set upon a small round body – not corpulent, simply round. You instantly saw a natural disposition towards goodness, his roundness seeming appropriately indicative of a corresponding completeness of character: that enviable, unaffected integration of feeling and temperament in which there is excess neither of preening self-regard nor impatience with the failings of others.

‘Have I the honour of addressing Mr Paul Carteret?’

He looked up from his paper and smiled.

‘Mr Edward Glapthorn, I think. Yes. Mr Glapthorn it is, I am sure. I am very pleased to meet you, sir.’

He rose from his seat, though his lack of height still caused him to look up at me as he did so, and held out his hand, with which he gripped mine with remarkable firmness. He then called over a waiter, and we commenced on some pleasant preliminaries before, at last, he looked hard at me and said: