This was the accepted term for Luke Candlish's funeral.
His brother, Tom, heir to the title and estate, consequent upon Luke's
single life, had given orders to the London undertaker--very much to the
disgust of the King's Hampton carpenter and upholsterer, as his
sign-board announced, for this individual wanted to know why he couldn't
bury the squire as well as a Londoner--that everything should be worthy
of the family. So the London man had brought down his third best suite
of funeral paraphernalia. The first was retained for magnates: the
second for London folk of rank; the third for the leading country
families, who always ordered and believed they had the beat.
But it was very nearly the same. The ostrich plumes of sable hue were
common to all ranks, and the velvet and silk palls and carriages that
were used for the higher magnates one year, descended to the second
place a year or so later, and then came into country use. It was only a
question of freshness, and what could that matter when the eyes of the
mourners were so veiled with tears that they could not tell the new from
the old?
So it was a fine berrin', with the carriages of all the neighbouring
gentry sent down to follow, and a most impressive service, which, read
impressively by the rector, who had driven over from King's Hampton,
sounded almost blasphemous to Hartley Salis, who had the misfortune to
know the character of the deceased by heart. The coffin of polished
mahogany, with gilt handles, had been greatly admired; the favoured few
had read the inscription; and when it was borne from the Hall to the
church, that edifice was fairly well filled, and the carriages extended
from the lych-gate right away down to Moredock's cottage--three hundred
yards.
It was a funeral, but to very few was it a scene of sadness, being
looked upon as a sight quite as interesting as a wedding, and the
lookers-on had duly noted who descended from the various carriages to
enter the church, among the followers being Cousin Thompson, who had
found it necessary to stay down at his cousin's house with Horace North,
to transact a certain amount of business for the new baronet.
The doctor was not well pleased, for the society of his cousin bored him
just at a time when his mind was full of great ideas which he was
anxious to carry out; but he submitted with as good a grace as he could
assume, and at the funeral they sat side by side in one of the
carriages, and then occupied the same position in a pew. And while the
Reverend Maurice May spoke with tears in his throat of the departed
brother, the doctor thought of science, and his cousin of money, and of
the brother who had not departed.
Mrs Berens uttered a loud, hysterical sob once during the service, for
she had gone so far as to hope at one time that she might become the
mistress at the Hall.
This sob came from one part of the church, while a second sob came from
the Rectory pew, where Leo sat--another who had once thought it possible
that she might become the lady of the Hall through the deceased; and, as
she sat there, she recalled certain love passages which had taken place
between them, prior to Luke Candlish displaying a greater fondness for a
love of a more spirituous character, when his brother stepped into his
place, and the fierce quarrels which had been common nearly ceased.
There were spectators in all parts of the church, Dally Watlock being
the best placed, and out of sight of the congregation. She sat aloft,
with her elbows on her knees, and her chin in her hands, watching two
people--Leo Salis and Sir Thomas Candlish.
The girl's eyes flashed, and displayed her nervous excitement, as, with
her head perfectly motionless, she watched, with her gaze now in one
pew, now in the other, ready to trap the first glance. For to her it
was no solemn scene, only a worldly battle, in which she had made up her
little mind to come out victor.
The service proceeded, and Tom Candlish half sat, half knelt in his
rarely occupied place, close to the grotesque effigy of his ancestors.
He did not kneel, for he had an antipathy to making the knees of his new
black trousers dusty; but his mien was quite contrary to established
custom. When he did attend Duke's Hampton church, he spent as much as
possible of his time standing, with his hands resting over the side of
the pew, staring at every woman in the place. Now, to Dally's great
satisfaction, he did not once look about him, but kept his chin upon his
breast--his way of displaying his grief.
Leo, in her place in the Rectory pew, was as careful of mien, and an
ordinary watcher would have been content. But Dally Watlock was not an
ordinary watcher, and she had settled in her own mind that Tom Candlish
and Leo would, sooner or later, look at one another, if only for a
moment, and it was to catch that glance she waited.
Dally was right, and the glance was so keen and quick that she was the
only one who noticed it. But there it was, sure enough, just at the
moment when the rector stepped down from the reading-desk, and there was
a shuffling noise in the centre aisle, where the undertaker's men were
busy. One quick interchange at one moment, as if those two
instinctively knew that the time had come, and Dally Watlock drew a long
breath between her set teeth, while her little eyes glittered, and again
seemed to flash.
Then the church slowly emptied, the churchyard filled, and the people
formed a half-circle about the mausoleum, whose railing-gates stood
open, and whose door at the foot of the stone steps gaped, while a faint
glare came from within, to shine upon an end of the coffin, as the sun
shone upon the other.
The Reverend Maurice May's pathetic voice rose and sank through the rest
of the service to the time when the coffin was borne down the steps, and
there rested once more; and his words sounded even more tearful still as
he finished, closed the book, and with bent head took four steps into
the vestry, and sat down and sighed, before removing his gown, bowing to
his curate as if too much overcome to speak, and returning to his
carriage, to follow the others to the Hall.
Meanwhile, with a great show of importance, Moredock assisted the
undertaker's men in the closing of the yawning door of the vault,
afterwards shutting the iron gates with a strange, echoing clang, and
turning the key; while North, who seemed wrapped in thought, stood
watching him.
At that moment Salis came out of the vestry, with his sister, and was
about to go up to North and speak; but he drew back as Cousin Thompson
came round the end of the chancel.
"Why, here you are!" exclaimed the latter. "The carriage is waiting,
and all the rest are gone."
"Gone?" said the doctor dreamily. "Gone where?"
"Where? Why, up to the Hall, of course. We must hear the will."
"No," said North coldly; "the will does not concern me. I am not
coming."
"Not coming?" cried Cousin Thompson. "Why, the man must be mad."
He hurried along the path, to spring into the carriage waiting at the
gate, while after a glance round at the knots of people waiting about
the churchyard, North walked slowly up to old Moredock.
The old man saw him coming, and half turned away as if to speak to his
grandchild, but North checked him.
"Moredock," he said quietly, "you'll want that medicine to-night."
"No, no, doctor," said the old man uneasily, "no more--no more."
"Yes, you will want some more," said the doctor meaningly; and the old
man returned his fixed look, and then stood rubbing his withered yellow
cheek with the key of the vault as the doctor walked away.
"I don't like it," he muttered. "I don't like it. Not in my way. Ah,
Dally, my lass, going home?"
"I'm going back to the Rectory, if that's what you mean," said the girl
shortly, as she turned away.
"Ah, there she goes," muttered the old man, "and why not? She's
handsome enough. But the doctor--the doctor, coming down to-night.
Well, I must do it; I must do it, I suppose, for I can't get on without
him, and it's too soon to die just yet. Bit o' money, too--a bit o'
money. Man must save up, so as not to go in the workhouse. Dally, too.
Fine clothes and feathers, and make a lady of her. Why not, eh? How
do I know he wouldn't poison me next time if I didn't mind what he
said?"
Volume 2, Chapter III.