Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

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 church-yard.

In due course came the sound of the church door being opened. 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, now with 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 crape 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, like the smoke-black angry sky above.

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 to what we all must come. I found that 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 cut 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 beginning to lessen, 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 whether her friend were 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 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 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 companion was waiting for her. As she reached the door of the carriage, Mademoiselle Buisson took out a white handkerchief, gently wiped her friend’s face, and kissed her on the cheek.

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 gathered at the Dower House, I felt unsure of my ability to maintain my assumed identity in his presence. Yet as I reached the outskirts of the town, the desire to feed on her beauty once more overcame my misgivings. I turned on my heels and retraced my steps back to Evenwood.

As I reached the lane leading down to the Rectory, it occurred to me that I might leave a note for Dr Daunt, as a matter of courtesy, apologizing for not having read his proofs. When I knocked at the door, the girl informed me that the Rector and Mrs Daunt, as well as Mr Phoebus Daunt, were still at the Dower House, and so I requested pen and paper and was left alone in Dr Daunt’s study to write my note. When I had finished, and was about to leave, I noticed three or four thick leather-bound note-books lying on the desk, each with a label carrying the words DAILY JOURNAL. It was wrong of me, I admit it, but I could not help myself from opening one of the volumes and reading it. In a moment, I had taken out my pocket-book and had begun frantically scribbling in shorthand; for the pages contained entries relating to the Rector’s Millhead years. I expected the girl to return at any moment, but she did not; and so I continued in my task for as long as I decently could, before slipping out unseen. I had discovered nothing of great significance, except the satisfaction of knowing a little more concerning the upbringing and character of my enemy; but that, to me, had justified my actions.

Ten minutes later, I was standing within the Plantation, looking out across the lawn towards the Dower House.

Through the drawing-room window, the figure of Lord Tansor could be easily picked out, talking with Dr Daunt; 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 I was able to see into the room.

Miss Carteret was standing by the fire, alone. Elsewhere, her guests – a dozen or so in all – had arranged themselves into quietly conversing groups. A young lady broke away from one of these and walked over to join her. 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.