Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

But the door was locked and, just as slowly and silently, the handle was turned back. The floor-boards creaked once more, and then all was silence.

Pistol in hand, I carefully opened the door and looked out into the corridor; but there was no one to be seen. There were rooms on either side of mine, Numbers 1 and 3. Stairs led down to the tap-room, with another flight up to the next floor, on which were situated two more rooms. I had no way of knowing whether my unwelcome visitor was still on the premises, perhaps in one of these rooms; but I did not think he would return. I tip-toed to the first of the adjacent chambers: the door was unlocked, the room unoccupied. But the other door, at the head of the stairs, I found was shut fast.

I lay awake for another hour, pistol at the ready. But, as I expected, I was not disturbed again. I concluded at last that I was being foolish, that it was only a fellow guest – Mr Green, perhaps – mistaking my room for his.

And so I gave myself up to sleep.

I awoke to weak sunshine, but, looking outside, saw that the square was still wet from the night’s rain, and that there was a threatening look to the eastern sky. Going downstairs, I asked the waiter from the previous evening whether my fellow guest, Mr Green, had come down yet. The waiter, still sullen, could not say; so I took my breakfast alone.

After concluding my meal, I returned to my room to prepare myself. I had to take the greatest care to avoid being recognized by Phoebus Daunt, whom I presumed would certainly be present at the interment. I examined myself closely in the mirror. We had not seen each other, face to face, for seventeen years, not since our last meeting in School Yard in the autumn of 1836. Would he trace the lineaments of his old school-fellow in the face that now looked into the glass? I did not think so. My hair was longer and thicker, and, with the assistance of dye, blacker than formerly; altogether, I felt confident that the changes brought about by the passage of time, together with the luxuriant moustachios and side-whiskers that I had since acquired, and a pair of green-glass spectacles, would shield me from discovery. I donned my great-coat, procured an umbrella from the sullen waiter, who seemed to be the only servant in the whole establishment, and set off.

A pleasant walk along a steep tree-shaded road, the banks on each side smothered with glistening ivy, led me out of the town down to Odstock Mill. At the bottom of the hill, I took the way that veered eastwards towards Evenwood village. It wanted a quarter of an hour to eleven o’clock.

In the village, there were already people walking down the lane leading to the church – villagers, I perceived on getting a little closer, amongst whom I recognized Lizzie Brine, walking with another woman. She did not see me, for I was already taking care to intrude myself as little as possible on the scene, having determined not to present myself at the Dower House with the other invited mourners, but to stand back from the proceedings, and observe them from a distance.

I therefore waited until the little crowd had turned under the lych-gate and into the church-yard, and then positioned myself a little way off, behind the trunk of a large sycamore-tree. From here, I had a good view, both of the church and of the gravelled track that branched off to the Dower House. I was also shielded from the view of anyone else coming down the lane that led back to the village. To my left was St Michael and All Angels, a noble building, largely of the thirteenth century, dominated by its celebrated spire – tall and needle-pointed, resting on a slender tower, and crocketed up the angles. As I was gazing up at the golden cross placed on its tip, it began to rain. Before long, it had become a regular torrent, requiring me to open up my borrowed umbrella.

As the clock struck eleven, I heard the sound of footsteps on gravel, and looked out from my place of concealment to see the vanguard of the funeral procession coming down the narrow track from the Dower House ahead of the coaches – a large squadron of pallbearers, feathermen, *pages, followed by bearded mutes carrying wands, all solemnly be-gowned, and all looking more melancholy than even their duties demanded on account of the heavy rain now soaking their hired finery.

A few moments later, the glass-sided hearse appeared, with its canopy of black ostrich feathers, and decorations of gilded skulls and cherubs, the coffin inside covered over with a dark-purple cloth. Following close behind was the main armada of six or seven funeral coaches. Then I saw Dr Daunt emerge from the porch of the church with his curate, Mr Tidy, at his side. As the first coach passed my vantage point, I noticed that one of the blinds was up, enabling me to 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 church porch; after the latter had entered the building, 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 off purposefully 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 slight of build and of middling height, but except for an impression of pale hair tucked up under her bonnet, her features 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.

Though Miss Carteret, too, was veiled, 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 October afternoon. I watched her, arm in arm with her companion, as she walked towards the church, thinking again of how, in a moment, I had seen in those commanding eyes everything that I had ever desired, and everything that I had ever feared. It was clear that she was suffering – 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 came 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.’ †