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 –
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
‘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.
‘But you must at least see the Library before you go,’ cried Dr Daunt suddenly.
‘I’m afraid I must return to London tomorrow.’
‘But we could go now, if that would be convenient.’
Nothing could have been more to my liking, and so I eagerly assented to the proposal. We quickly finished our tea, and Mrs Daunt rose to leave.
‘Good-bye, Mr Glapthorn. I do hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon. Perhaps when you next visit Evenwood, Fate will look more kindly on us and allow us to introduce you to my step-son.’
I said that that would be a pleasure which, I hoped, would not be long deferred.
She had drawn herself up to her full height and I found myself gazing into her grey eyes. How old was she now? Fifty-three or fifty-four?* I could not remember. Whatever her age, she still had about her a fascinating look of practised coquetry. I began to see how she had managed matters with Lord Tansor in respect of her step-son: her undeniable beauty and charm, in concert with her commanding personality, had no doubt been deployed to the full on his behalf. As she looked at me with those winning eyes – it was but for the most fleeting of moments – I felt sure that she had divined that, in some way that she could not yet comprehend, I was a threat to her prosperous condition, and to that of her precious Phoebus. In short, she disliked and distrusted me, as I did her.
Left to ourselves once more, Dr Daunt and I reverted to an earlier discussion concerning the Neoplatonic philosophy, with particular reference to Taylor the Platonist’s† translations of Plotinus and Proclus. The Rector was discoursing on Taylor’s paraphrastic rendering of Porphyry’s
‘Mr Glapthorn,’ said Dr Daunt at length. ‘I wonder whether I might ask a favour of you?’
