WILLIAM. On his death-bed, his faculties rapidly going, he may have indicated preference for a simple [223]ceremony. But certainly up to a few weeks of his passing, although it was naturally a subject which I did not care myself to initiate, he always gave me the impression that he anticipated an interment in the Abbey.
MARION. Yes, dear. I daresay I shall feel it more later, but just now I like to think of him where he wanted to be himself.
SEPTIMA. After all, Shakespeare isn’t buried in the Abbey.
WILLIAM. I don’t think that that has anything to do with it, Septima. I am not saying that the reputation of Oliver Blayds will suffer by reason of his absence from the national Valhalla—he has built his own monument in a thousand deathless lines; but speaking as an Englishman, I say that the Abbey had a right to him.
MARION. Well, it’s too late now, dear.
WILLIAM. I shall speak to Isobel again; I still feel sure she was mistaken.
MARION. Very well, dear. But don’t worry her more than you need. I feel rather uneasy about her. She has been so strange since he died.
WILLIAM. She will be worried enough as it is. Of all the extraordinary wills to make!
(OLIVER and SEPTIMA exchange glances.)
OLIVER. Why, what’s he done? We were wondering about that.