The Meaning of Night (53 page)

catch a clear view of Lord Tansor. He sat, grim-faced, his mouth set tight shut. Then he

was gone, but not before I had caught the briefest of glimpses of a tall bearded figure

sitting at his right hand. I could not mistake the profile of my enemy.

The remaining coaches, all with their blinds closed, splashed past. Before the

lych-gate was an open area, where the vehicles pulled up to discharge their occupants.

Attendants rushed forward with umbrellas to shepherd the mourners towards the shelter

of the porch; after they had gone, the pall-bearers removed the coffin from the hearse and

carried it through the rain down the tree-lined path to the church. Lord Tansor,

straight-backed, his eyes fixed ahead of him, and looking the very image of proud

authority, waved away the offer of an umbrella, and marched purposefully off through

the downpour; but Daunt, a few steps behind his Lordship, haughtily signalled to the

same servant to perform the service for him that his noble patron had refused.

Miss Carteret had been in the second coach, with Mrs Daunt and two other ladies,

one of whom was unknown to me; the other, however, I thought must be her French

visitor, Mademoiselle Buisson. She was slim and of middling height, but her features,

except for an impression of pale hair tucked up under her bonnet, were obscured by her

veil. As Miss Carteret descended from the coach, she took her friend’s arm and pulled her

close; thus entwined, they made their way to the church, with John Brine following

behind holding a large umbrella over them.

Miss Carteret, too, was veiled; but the poise and grace of her tall figure could not

be disguised. Her back was towards me, but in my mind I could picture her face, as I had

first seen it, in the light of a late September afternoon. I watched her, arm in arm with her

companion, as she walked towards the church, thinking again of how, in the blink of an

eye, I had seen in those commanding eyes everything I had ever desired, and everything I

had ever feared. But she suffered – I saw it in her bowed head, and the way she leaned on

Mademoiselle Buisson for support; and I suffered for her, and longed to comfort her for

the loss of the father she had loved.

When all the company had entered the church, and the organ had begun to play a

solemn voluntary, I left my place beneath the dripping branches of the sycamore-tree.

Inside the porch, I halted. The choir had begun to sing Purcell’s divine ‘In the midst of

life we are in death’,? with its anguished dissonances. The bitter-sweet sound,

reverberating through the vaulted spaces of the church, tore at my heart in the most

extraordinary way, and I felt angry tears welling up as I thought of the man whose

blameless and useful life had been so violently cut down. Then I heard the resonant voice

of Dr Daunt intoning the words of St John:

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though

he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

I remained in the porch as the congregation began to say together the words of

Psalm 90, Domine, refugium, in which the Psalmist complains of the frailty and brevity

of our life on earth, and of the suffering that is inseparable from our sinful nature; then, as

the mourners came to the verses in which Moses speaks of God setting our misdeeds

before Him, and our secret sins in the light of His countenance, I picked up my umbrella,

turned away, and walked back out into the churchyard.

In due course came the sound of the church door being opened, and I saw that the

committal of Mr Carteret’s body was soon to commence. I moved away, tucking myself

in the recess of the west door, beneath the bell-tower, from where I was able to observe

the mourning party and the various attendants, along with a number of villagers and the

household servants from the Dower House, follow the pall-bearers through the rain to

where the pile of earth marked the last resting-place of Paul Stephen Carteret. Lord

Tansor followed directly behind the coffin, oblivious, it seemed, to the unremitting rain; a

few paces back, Phoebus Daunt, umbrella in hand, solemnly matched him step for step,

like a soldier on parade. One by one, the company began to assemble themselves about

the grave.

It was a most melancholy spectacle: the ladies in their bombazine and crepe

huddled together under umbrellas, the gentlemen, for the most part, standing unsheltered

in the rain or beneath the yew-trees that grew about the church-yard, the black bands on

their tall hats fluttering in the wind; the ranks of mutes and other mercenaries supplied by

Mr Gutteridge – some a little the worse for liquor – forlornly holding up their batons and

soaking plumes; and the simple wooden coffin being borne towards the terrible gaping

gash in the wet earth, preceded by the imposing figure of Dr Daunt – everything

contributed to a bitter sense of the futility of the mortal condition. All was black, black,

black, with a coal-black angry sky over all.

I found I could not take my eyes off the coffin, and saw again in imagination what

pitiless brutality had done to the round and once genial face of Mr Carteret. And now he

was to be consigned to a muddy hole in the ground. I never was so despairing and

comfortless, to see what he had come to, and what we all would come to. I found I could

not help but think of the deceased secretary as resembling Donne’s ‘private and retired

man’, who in life ‘thought himselfe his owne for ever, and never came forth’, but who, in

death, had to suffer the indignity of his dust being ‘published’ – such an apt and terrible

image – and ‘mingled with the dust of every high way, and of every dunghill, and

swallowed in every puddle and pond’. It was, as the preacher averred, ‘the most

inglorious and contemptible vilification, the most deadly and peremptory nullification of

man, that we can consider’.? I did consider it. And it was indeed so.

Miss Carteret had emerged from the church with Mademoiselle Buisson again by

her side, and both ladies now stood next to Dr Daunt as he began to deliver the final part

of the Order for the Burial of the Dead.

Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery.

He cometh up, and is cutteth down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never

continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death . . .

And so, with the rain now easing, they buried Paul Carteret at last, to the

mournful tolling of a single church bell. Requiescat in pace, was all I could think. In

small groups, the mourners – led by Lord Tansor, with Daunt close by his side –

dispersed to their coaches, the mutes and the feathermen tramped off, and Dr Daunt

returned to his church. Only Miss Carteret lingered by the grave, whilst Mademoiselle

Buisson, with John Brine in attendance, began to walk back to her carriage. She turned

her head as she reached the lych-gate, to see if her friend was following; but Miss

Carteret remained for some minutes at her station, looking down at the coffin. She

appeared to show no external sign of grief – no tears, at least; but then, as she brushed

aside the black silk ribbons of her bonnet, which a sudden breeze had blown across her

face, I clearly saw that her hands were trembling. Then she nodded to the sexton and his

assistant, a boy of about sixteen, to do their work and began to walk slowly back towards

the church.

I stood alone, watching her tall figure until it reached the open ground beyond the

lych-gate, where her friend was waiting for her. As she reached the door of the carriage,

Mademoiselle Buisson took out a white handkerchief, with which she gently wiped her

friend’s face. ?

33:

Periculum in mora?

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I waited until Miss Carteret’s carriage had splashed its way up the lane towards

the Dower House before leaving the church-yard to begin my walk back to Easton. I

wished so much to see her again, to hear her voice, and to look once more into those

extraordinary eyes; but, expecting that Daunt would be amongst the company, I felt

unsure of my ability to maintain my assumed identity in his presence. Yet as I reached

the main street of the village, the desire to feed on her beauty once more overcame my

misgivings, and I turned back towards the gate-house and stood within the Plantation

looking out across the lawn.

From here I could see into the drawing-room of the Dower House. The figure of

Lord Tansor could be easily picked out, standing near the window with another

gentleman; behind him, I could see Mrs Daunt, with her step-son by her side. To gain a

closer view of the proceedings, I moved stealthily through the dripping trees, taking up

my station amongst a planting of shrubs close to one of the windows. The blind had been

half drawn, but by crouching down on the wet grass I was able to see into the room.

She was standing by the fire, alone. Elsewhere, her guests – a dozen or so in all –

had arranged themselves into quietly conversing groups. Then I saw a lady break away

from one of the groups and walk over to Miss Carteret. She had blonde hair, of a most

unusual paleness, which, with the unconsciously familiar way she took Miss Carteret’s

hand in hers, confirmed to me that she must be Mademoiselle Buisson.

They said nothing, but remained, hands clasped, for some moments until they saw

Phoebus Daunt approach, at which they disengaged and stood side by side to greet him.

He gave a little bow, in acknowledgement of which Miss Carteret inclined her head

slightly, and spoke a few words. Her face remained expressionless, and she merely

dipped her head again in response to whatever he had said. Bowing once more to Miss

Carteret, and then to Mademoiselle Buisson, he took his leave. A few moments later I

saw him emerge through the front door and make his way back down the path to the

Rectory.

All through this brief scene my heart had been pounding as I strained to see how

Daunt would be received by Miss Carteret; but when it quickly became obvious that there

was not the slightest spark of intimacy between them, I began to breathe more easily –

the more so when, as Daunt had turned to go, I had seen Mademoiselle Buisson lean

towards Miss Carteret and whisper something in her ear. This had produced an

involuntary little smile, which she immediately sought to hide by placing her hand over

her mouth. From the rather mischievous look on Mademoiselle Buisson’s face, I made a

guess that the remark had been in some way uncomplimentary to Daunt, and was most

satisfied to see how Miss Carteret had responded to her friend’s comment. He meant

nothing to her – that was abundantly clear. She despised him – as anyone of sense and

discernment would. He was a figure of derision – even on such a solemn occasion.

Though I had no claim yet on Miss Carteret’s heart, it was some comfort to know that, as

far as this most precious jewel was concerned, Daunt had no power to thwart my desires.

After a while, the two ladies walked over to join Lord and Lady Tansor at the far

end of the room and disappeared from my view. It had begun to rain again, and so I

retraced my steps back through the Plantation in order to return to Easton.

In the tap-room of the Duport Arms, my friend the sullen waiter was throwing

fresh sawdust on the floor.

‘Has Mr Green left?’ I asked.

‘Two hours since,’ he said, without looking up from his work.

‘Are there any more guests tonight?’

‘None.’

The Peterborough coach was about to arrive, and so, dispensing with another

solitary dinner, I sent the man upstairs for my bags whilst I fortified myself with a gin

swizzle and a cigar. In ten minutes I had boarded the coach and was just settling myself

inside, thankful that I was the sole occupant, when John Brine’s face, red from exertion,

appeared at the window.

‘Mr Glapthorn, sir, I am glad to have caught you. Lizzie said I should run after

you to tell you.’ He paused for breath, and I heard the driver ask him if he intended to get

in.

‘One minute, driver,’ I shouted. Then, to Brine: ‘Tell me what?’

‘Miss Carteret and her friend are to leave for London next week. Lizzie said

you’d wish to know.’

‘And where will Miss Carteret be staying?’

‘At the house of her aunt, Mrs Manners, in Wilton-crescent. Lizzie is to attend

her.’

‘Good work, Brine. Tell Lizzie to send word of Miss Carteret’s movements to the

address I gave you.’ I leaned my head towards him and lowered my voice. ‘I have reason

to think that Miss Carteret may be in some danger, as a result of the attack on her father,

and wish to keep a close eye on her, for her own protection.’

He gave a nod, as if to signify his complete comprehension of the matter, and I

handed him a shilling so that he could refresh himself before returning to Evenwood. As

the coach moved off, I drew the tattered silk curtain against the rain, and closed my eyes.

(

‘Do you remember the last time we went to the Cremorne Gardens,’ I asked Le

Grice.?

He looked up and thought for a moment.