Michael Cox (14 page)
Authors: The Glass of Time (mobi)
LIKE THE FIRST, the second cutting had been taken from the
London Monthly Review
, this time from the correspondence columns. It had been written by a subscriber to the magazine in response to the previous month’s memorial article on Phoebus Daunt by ‘A.V.’ It, too, carried inked markings made by Madame, emphasizing points she particularly wished me to note. Along the top of the first page she had written the following note: ‘E.—This is sent, as you will immediately see, as a
necessary
corrective to the other. Note it well. M.’
As before, having studied the cutting, and written out the relevant excerpts in my Book, I committed the original to the flames.
Heath Hall, Co. Durham
26th December, 1864
SIR,—
The article, ‘In Memoriam P. Rainsford Daunt’, by ‘A.V.’, which appeared in the December issue of your magazine, has just been brought to my attention. I hope you will allow me space in your columns to offer a reply.
Your anonymous contributor is to be congratulated for reminding the British public of the terrible events of the 11th of December, 1854. I have no desire to speak ill of the dead, especially of a public figure such as the late Mr Phoebus Daunt, who suffered so dreadful, and so entirely undeserved, a death. However, as someone who may claim some personal knowledge of both the victim and the perpetrator, I feel bound to offer another view of the two principal figures in the tragedy.
Having been in College at Eton from 1832 to 1839, I had ample opportunity to observe the respective characters of Mr Daunt (whom I also knew later at Cambridge) and his friend, Edward Glyver. As a consequence, I think I may say, without fear of contradiction, that the impression given by ‘A.V.’ of the former’s character lays itself open to challenge.
I must reiterate that it is not my intention to besmirch the posthumous reputation of Mr Phoebus Daunt. To the assertion of ‘A.V.’ that, in the opinion of those who knew him best, Mr Daunt was incapable of a despicable or wounding act, I therefore make no reply; except to recall the words of St Paul: that we all fall short of the glory of God, and to observe that some of us fall further than others. Let me, instead, confine myself to facts.
One might infer, from some of the remarks made by ‘A.V.’, that Mr Daunt had a wide circle of friends at Eton, of which Mr Glyver was but one. This was not the case. Indeed, the future poet seemed rather disinclined, than otherwise, to put himself in the way of approbation by his fellows. Until he was in the Sixth Form, indeed, I cannot remember him having any other companion than Mr Glyver, to whom he constantly attached himself. This signal fact, however, goes unmentioned by ‘A.V.’, and was the more remarkable because Mr Glyver enjoyed almost a superfluity of friends, Oppidans as well as fellow Collegers, and had no need to confine himself to the company of Mr Daunt, which he often did to the detriment of his own social interests.
Mr Glyver, by contrast with Mr Daunt, was universally admired and liked, and for good reason. He was, in all respects, a rare soul: personable, a most stimulating companion, and gifted with an exceptional and capacious mind. These qualities, combining with great physical prowess, which he demonstrated frequently on the river, the cricket field (for his innings against Harrow in ’36 he became a hero in all our eyes), and in the annual Wall Game, made him one of the most popular boys in the School. Here, then, is another material omission in the account by ‘A.V.’ – all the more puzzling because of Mr Daunt’s own fulsome recollections of his friend in the article ‘Memories of Eton’, which the poet published in the
Saturday Review
in October 1848. A man may change, of course, for better or worse; but one’s experience of him at fifteen or sixteen is usually a tolerable indication of his mature character. This I would certainly judge to be true of Edward Glyver.
I hold no brief to defend Mr Glyver – there can be no defence for striking a man down in cold blood, whatever may be urged in mitigation. I write merely as someone who once knew him, and who does not wholly disdain the memory. Nothing can exonerate him for his heinous deed; and that he escaped punishment under the full rigour of the Law is to be deplored by every right-thinking person. I venture to maintain, however, that this atrocious act was not the consequence of some inherent mental deficiency, of which, to my knowledge, Mr Glyver had never shown the slightest sign, despite what ‘A.V.’ implies.
I am not qualified to judge whether common envy of Mr Daunt’s expectations under the terms of Lord Tansor’s will, or blind jealousy with respect to the lady (now ennobled) to whom Mr Daunt was engaged, may have combined with some residue of an earlier alienation to produce sufficient cause for Mr Glyver to commit murder. It is a possible view of the case, certainly, although perhaps an incomplete one for those who can claim greater familiarity with Edward Glyver than ‘A.V.’
Shunning further speculation, I will only make this final point. To paint Mr Glyver as being other than he was is to do no service to the memory of his victim, who, through several of the most formative years of his life, regarded that gentleman – for gentleman he was – as the truest of friends.
‘Mysterious’ and ‘unresolved’ are the words used by ‘A.V.’ to describe the circumstances that led to the death of P. Rainsford Daunt. I sincerely and utterly deplore the manner of that death, and share the hope of ‘A.V.’ that, if still living, his murderer may yet be brought to justice, or, if dead, that he has come to that judgment to which we all must submit. Nevertheless, the facts in the case are few, the unattested conjectures many – to which ‘A.V.’ has added several of his own. It is to be further hoped that time may one day reveal the plain truth of what uncorroborated supposition and blinkered prejudice continue to obscure.
I remain, sir,
Yours most sincerely,
J. T. HEATHERINGTON
IT WAS APPARENT that Madame had wished me to judge the article by ‘A.V.’ in the light of Mr Heatherington’s critical reply. Yet, taking both at face value, I could not help wondering which of the opposing views was to be believed. For all my instinctual suspicions of Mr Vyse, his almost certain authorship of the encomium on Phoebus Daunt did not necessarily invalidate his estimation of the poet’s character, or that of his murderer. Conversely, I had no means of knowing whether Mr Heatherington’s opposite view of both could be relied upon.
The greater question, however, was what the murderer, Edward Glyver, had to do with me, or with the Great Task, and why Madame wished me to form a more favourable opinion of him than the one contained in Mr Vyse’s memorial. To this, I had been given no answer.
I was wearied with puzzles, and vexed with Madame for putting still more into my poor befuddled head. So, tired and confused, and having written up my Book, to bed I went; for I was needed early by my Lady.
END OF ACT ONE
ACT TWO
Then I saw that there was a way to Hell, even from the gates of Heaven.
JOHN BUNYAN,
The Pilgrim’s Progress
(1678)
8
I
The Road to Barnack
T
HE CARRIAGES
in which we were to travel to Barnack, for the funeral of Professor Slake, were called for ten o’clock.
At a minute or so past the hour, I followed my Lady down the steps into the Entrance Court, where Mr Perseus Duport and his brother, together with the other members of the party, were already assembled.
The day had broken cloudy and a little chill; but now there was a faint promise of sunshine, and a delicious woody smell of early autumn percolating through the damp air, which instantly called up memories of misty September mornings walking with Madame in the Bois de Boulogne.
My Lady had spoken little as I had dressed her, and I had made no attempt to engage her in conversation. Her face was pale and drawn as Barrington helped her into the carriage; and when she had taken her seat, she turned her eyes wearily towards the western woods. Although she had not sent for me during the night, I could see that the terrors had been upon her once more.
Another carriage had been provided to convey Mr Lancing, my Lady’s land-agent; Mr Baverstock, her secretary; the Rector (
sans
wife), who was to officiate for the Vicar of Barnack, Mr Candy; and myself. I was about to make my way towards it when my mistress called out to me:
‘No, Alice. You shall come with us.’
‘Yes, do, Miss Gorst. There’s plenty of room.’
Thus Mr Randolph Duport, who stood by the carriage, an inviting smile lighting up his face, his hand held out ready to assist me up the step.
It was such a signal mark of favour that I felt myself colouring, and hesitated for a moment; but he continued to hold out his hand, and so I took it lightly in mine, and quickly settled myself into my seat, opposite Lady Tansor. Mr Randolph then got in beside me, followed by his brother, dressed in a long black raglan, who seated himself next to his mother.
As Barrington closed the carriage door, I happened to glance back towards the house to see Mrs Battersby standing alone on the entrance steps observing our departure – observing too, no doubt, with disapproval, Mr Randolph’s kindness towards me. Then we were off, heading westwards, through the broad tract of trees that bordered the Park wall, and onwards to the gates on the Odstock Road.
My Lady had continued to look fixedly out of the window, her face emotionless, save only for the tell-tale tightening of the mouth, which I had already come to recognize as a sure sign of some held-down turmoil within. Then, as we were approaching the gates, through the band of trees, she suddenly reached out and, almost angrily, drew down the blind. She did not raise it again until we had left the gates well behind us.
From the village of Odstock, our way took us north, through Ashby St John, and then on to the principal road from Easton to Stamford. Mr Randolph had several times tried, cheerfully but unsuccessfully, to engage his mother and brother in conversation, but both had responded to his attempts with barely a word of reply. Then, as we were leaving Ashby St John, he looked over at me and asked whether I knew anything of the late Professor Slake.
‘Only that he was the Library’s custodian,’ I replied, feeling that, in the prevailing atmosphere of the carriage, I should say as little as possible.
‘And a great scholar, by report,’ returned Mr Randolph, ‘though of course I know nothing about such things. You might not know, Miss Gorst, that he had lately completed the history of our family, begun by my grandfather?’
‘You refer, I think, to Mr Paul Carteret?’
At my mentioning her father’s name, my Lady gave me the most fearsome look, both indignant and angry; but she said nothing, and soon turned away again to stare impassively out of the carriage window.
‘Slake may have been a good scholar, but he was far below grandfather in point of character and disposition.’
This from Mr Perseus, who was regarding his brother with ill-concealed displeasure.
‘The generality of humankind,’ Mr Perseus went on, in a cold censorious tone, ‘pass through life like grazing sheep, untroubled by the mysteries that daily surround them. It is for the good of nations that they do so. Professor Slake, however, was of the diametric persuasion, one of that band of troublesome eccentrics who see mysteries and conundrums in everything, even when – as is nearly always the case – there is nothing remotely mystifying or inexplicable to be found. As a consequence, they make themselves an infernal nuisance to everyone else.’
‘Enough, my dear,’ said his mother softly, still gazing out of the carriage window. ‘We must not speak ill of the dead.’
‘But what you describe is a kind of higher curiosity, ain’t it?’ objected Mr Randolph. ‘That must surely be something worthy of admiration.’
‘Only if it is confined and directed aright,’ retorted his brother. ‘For a scholar, mental curiosity is, of course, a pre-requisite; in ordinary life, however, that same inquisitive inclination – in certain individuals – can easily become the lowest form of vulgar curiosity, making the enquirer nothing more than a common meddler in other people’s private affairs.’
‘Perseus, dear, did you speak to Dr Pordage, as I asked?’
Lady Tansor’s question brought an end to Mr Perseus’s little diatribe, during which I had tried to appear as detached from the exchange between the brothers as I could. I deliberately dropped my reticule, and then, after picking it up, took out my handkerchief to dab my eye, as if I had some speck in it, hoping by these actions to give an appearance of being too engaged with my own petty affairs to pay attention to what was being said.
‘Pordage is going directly to Barnack with Glaister,’ said Mr Perseus, ‘but will return to Evenwood afterwards with Lancing and the others. There’s room enough.’
With a cold glance towards me, which I was convinced expressed the view that there ought
not
to have been a vacant place in the other carriage, despite his mother’s explicit invitation to me to accompany her and her sons, he pulled his raglan around him, and closed his eyes.
Mr Randolph, seeing my discomfort, raised his eye-brows in a considerate gesture of sympathy, and then gave me a smile, in which I read both apology for his brother’s high-handed speech, and a wish to remind me that he and I enjoyed a degree of amity that already set us apart from the other occupants of the carriage.
On we rolled, along the high road to Stamford, which we reached in good time. At the crossroads by the George Hotel, the carriage turned along a road that led us past the gates of Burghley, the great house of the Cecil family, and on to the village of Barnack.
II
Earth to Earth
SINCE LEAVING STAMFORD, Mr Perseus had remained silent, his head laid back against the padded lining of the carriage, eyes closed. Then, as we came into Barnack, he suddenly opened them and looked straight at me.
‘You are a great reader of poetry, I believe, Miss Gorst?’ he said. ‘Have you read mad Clare, one of our local peasant bards?’
I admitted that I had not.
‘He used to frequent this place,’ said Mr Perseus. ‘Over there – what they call the Hills and Holes, where they took out the ragstone.’
He nodded towards a curious tract of broken-up ground, behind a group of cottages.
‘You might mention Mr Kingsley also, dear.’
My Lady was now speaking, with a strained smile, as if she did so with considerable effort.
‘Kingsley?’ queried Mr Perseus. ‘Oh, the Water-Babies man. He lived here as a child, I believe, Miss Gorst, when his father was Rector.’
‘Your grandpapa told me that Mr Kingsley Senior came to dinner once at the Dower House,’ said my Lady to Mr Perseus. ‘I can even remember the year: 1829, in the week before my sister died.’
Her voice had taken on a strange, dreamy tone, and her forehead was damp with perspiration.
‘Are you feeling unwell, Mother?’ asked Mr Randolph, leaning towards her, and placing a solicitous hand on hers.
‘Perfectly well, thank you, Randolph. As I told you at breakfast, I have awoken with a headache these past two days, which is why I asked Perseus to get Dr Pordage to come. But it is nothing. Ah, here we are.’
