The death of Lieutenant Lancelot Chalfont North, Viscount Craigmore, First Battalion, Royal Flying Corps, only son of Earl North, was announced with solemnity in all the newspapers. Since there seemed no reason to single out his titled family amid a steady trickle of aristocratic deaths, and as the death was not part of a major battle or act of heroism, Hugh was left to conclude that the interest lay more in their ability to accompany the news with a dashing photograph of Craigmore in full flying gear and white scarf, waving from the cockpit of his Farman trainer.
The service in London was to be private and there was a rush to obtain invitations. The saddest of occasions became a social prize and, with the whisper that a member of the royal family might attend, the maneuverings among London hostesses were fierce. Colonel Wheaton and Lady Emily had received an invitation, and Aunt Agatha reported that Mr. Tillingham had written a letter of condolence running to three pages of praise for the youth—in whose company he had spent such a delightful evening as could never fade from the mind—and had been rewarded with a black-edged envelope.
When Hugh went to tea with Lucy, prepared to apologize again for abandoning her at the dance in Rye, she had been more eager to ask about whether he planned to attend the funeral of his cousin’s good friend and whether she might support him with her presence. He tried to answer in a vague manner. He would have been glad to support his cousin, Daniel, if asked, but he could not tell Lucy that Daniel had not received an invitation.
“If we need to be officially engaged…” she said, looking demure. From this Hugh understood she would trade much for an invitation.
“I do not expect to be invited,” he said curtly and begged her pardon for leaving early to look after his grieving cousin.
Daniel had obtained leave and come to London, but having sent a note of condolence in which he begged to be called upon to do whatever service the family might need, he had received no communication, not at his father’s house, where he went each day to check the post, or at Hugh’s lodging. When he was not keeping busy at the offices of The Poetry Review, which had agreed to publish his David poem in honor of the young son of Lord North, Daniel lay for hours in a grieving stupor on the cot in Hugh’s dressing room and caused Hugh’s landlady to weep for “the poor young man” and his dead friend.
On the evening before the funeral, Hugh came home from a day of field medicine training and drilling exercises to find Daniel sitting on the doorstep of his building, counting pigeons on an opposite rooftop.
“I am shut out,” said Daniel, in response to Hugh’s greeting.
Hugh sighed. After a long day, it was sometimes hard to be patient with Daniel, who was as fragile as a pierced and blown eggshell. “Isn’t the landlady home? Must you sit on the step like a vagrant?” he asked.
“I went to Craigmore’s home, only to find I am barred,” said Daniel.
“What did they say?” asked Hugh. With some concern for his uniform, Hugh squeezed in alongside his cousin, hitching his trousers at the knees and splaying his feet out from the low step. It was an undignified but, he hoped, supportive gesture.
“I was refused entry by the footman, but I stood fast at the door of the gatehouse, even when they threatened to call the constable,” said Daniel. “Finally, Craigmore’s sister beckoned me from a side door in the long wall and came out into the street to talk to me.”
“You thought her a bland miss, I seem to remember,” said Hugh.
“Only she had the courage to face me,” said Daniel, “to let me know that I am blamed for Craigmore’s death.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Hugh.
“They settled on the Flying Corps to get him away from my bad influence,” said Daniel. “He had refused all urging to join his father’s old regiment, but he could not resist the lure of flying, and his father offered him a commission to give me up.”
“Preposterous!” said Hugh, knowing in his heart it was true. “Even so, you cannot be held responsible for what happened.”
“A father’s loss, a mother’s grief,” said Daniel. “I am to be the sacrificial goat that is to carry all our sins into the desert.”
“And the funeral?”
“I am not wanted,” said Daniel. “Twenty-four college friends and professors will follow the coffin in cap and gown, but I am asked to stay away.”
“It is cruel,” said Hugh.
“She offered me a ticket for a balcony seat reserved for former tutors, retired retainers, and so on,” said Daniel. He did not look offended, but more astonished. “She risked the wrath of her parents and injury to her reputation, and apologized because it was all she could do for me.”
“At least you can attend then,” said Hugh.
“I refused, of course,” said Daniel.
“Why?” asked Hugh. “At least you would be in the church!”
“What’s a funeral but pageantry and sentimental hymns, and ladies fanning themselves through the prayers while comparing hats?” To Hugh’s relief, he stood up and rubbed a hand across his forehead as if to wake his brain. “I have made my eulogy in the form of a poem. I shall stand in the street in the rain and watch my friend pass one last time.”
“How do you know it will rain?” asked Hugh, making a mental note to make sure he had two umbrellas at his lodging.
“God would not be so cruel as to taunt us with sunshine,” said Daniel. “Grief begs for dark skies.”
—
It rained as Daniel wished, a chill, persistent rain that wilted ladies’ hats and lingered in wool coats to chill the watchers in the street and the funeral guests in the cold stone of the church. A large crowd gathered on the roadside to watch the cortège pass. Some came to salute the dead; old soldiers in their medals, and a few Chelsea pensioners in their scarlet coats. Many more, whipped into a frenzy of maudlin fascination by the illustrated papers, had come to point and exclaim over the parade of notables and to scan the carriages for any royal guests.
The yellow press had continued to fill their pages with photographic arrays: Craigmore as a child, Craigmore in a rowing blue with an oar over the shoulder, a misty panorama of his family’s estate. A newly commissioned photograph showed his sister and his fiancée, weeping around an elaborate fountain in flowing black crepe and drooping feathers, the one holding a Bible and the other a sword in its scabbard. Even The Times had published the funeral program this morning, and featured an excerpt from a eulogizing poem. To Hugh’s slow-dawning astonishment, as he read lines that seemed strangely familiar, the excerpt was from Daniel’s “Ode to the ‘David of Florence,’?” reprinted from The Poetry Review.
In a street near the church, Hugh and Daniel took up a position in a doorway where they could see the procession from an elevated step and keep off some of the rain. Daniel, who had expressed no elation at being in The Times, and who had objected to Hugh running out to buy extra copies, was shivering in his wool coat, with the collar turned up, a copy of The Poetry Review stuffed in one pocket. He insisted on being bareheaded, and his hair was already plastered to his face. Hugh thought this a ritualistic affectation liable to bring on bronchitis or worse.
The sound of bagpipes and drums signaled the coming of the glass-sided hearse, drawn by four black horses. Their feet were muffled in canvas bags, and they wore heavy purple plumes and large black blinkers to shield their eyes from their somber task. Two footmen rode on the back step and six outriders to either side. The oak coffin, much set with bronze ornaments and heavy bronze rails, was topped with a flag of the family crest and a blanket of red roses.
As the coffin passed, Hugh gripped Daniel’s elbow but said nothing. His cousin only shivered and followed the hearse with his eyes, reaching out a hand as it passed down the street. He stared after it for a long time, as if he could see the hearse now turning in to the street in front of the church, now see the long procession of clergy and acolytes with their swinging thuribles of incense and shining brass crucifix, now see Craigmore’s coffin placed, with gentle finality, at the foot of the altar.