But this is no ordinary morning. It is, in every sense, a new dawn; for a task now lies 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 whether 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, had been forced to walk the final four miles when his horse had lost a shoe. He had 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 the great house 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; 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 a Thursday 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. John Hooper, one of his Lordship’s footmen, whom I later befriended), 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. ‘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 that I have ever cared much for, though of course it may have changed since my time. 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 opinion 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 that his interrogation was taking.
‘And you have, as I understand, kept up your learning – reading, writing 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 this 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 23rd 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. There 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. His Lordship 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 mercenary terms that he presented Dr Daunt with the task of preparing a catalogue raisonnée 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.