Guy seemed quite able to bear his part. He hardly looked paler than Godfrey, and was less agitated, as he stood with the white wreath in his hand, looking down at the pavement. It was a day of heavy driving clouds, and the light in the dark old church dimmed and brightened alternately, catching now and then the stony figures of the older Waynfletes, till Cuthbert felt as if it would hardly have surprised him if the ghostly form of the traitor ancestor had stood among the mourners and mocked their grief. It grew so dark as the service went on that he could see little but the fair heads of the two brothers before him, and the white surplice of the vicar.
The prayers and hymns were over, the coffin was lifted up again and carried out across the nameless grave of the unhappy Guy, whose shortcomings she who was gone had retrieved so resolutely. But the Guy who followed the funeral, who had also lost the inheritance for himself, stopped short. He stooped and laid the white and scented wreath over the brief record on that unhonoured stone, then drew himself up, and slowly and resolutely looked all round the church, his eyes resting at last on the door in front of him. There was, or Cuthbert fancied so, an instant’s recoil, then he walked straight on, as if he were walking up to a cannon’s mouth, and followed the coffin out of the church. Godfrey, who had stood with drooping head, fighting with boyish tears, stared after him in amazement at his action.
The long drive to Kirk Hinton, and the weary commonplaces of the railway journey were got through in time, and at Ingleby station the scene changed. The invited guests were waiting on the platform—rough, sensible-looking business men, with some few of the more nearly connected ladies, in handsome black.
Outside, it might have been the burying of a princess—the open space in front of the station was filled with grave, weather-beaten faces. And two and two, the work-people, in their Sunday clothes, formed behind the funeral party and walked after them through the smoky town, into the big, ugly parish church, full of pews and galleries, and with plain square windows letting in a dull glare of cold grey light. It was soon filled to overflowing with silent men and women.
There were only two surpliced figures; but in the west gallery were the choir, by their own request, and the funeral hymn rose up, full, sweet and strong, joined in by all the vast concourse of people.
Then they passed out into a large churchyard, filled with square grey stones, in which the family vault of the Palmers had been opened, and there Margaret Waynflete’s body was laid among those for whom, and with whom, she had worked through all her long life.
In consideration of Guy’s fatigue, and of Godfrey’s obstinate reluctance to take his place, there was no formal meal, but the party gathered in the big dining-room at the Mill House, where various cold refreshments were placed on the table, with a great display of heavy, handsome plate.
Presently Guy, after such civilities as were required of him, raised his voice above the decorous murmur of the guests, and said—
“I have asked Mr Manton to read aloud my great-aunt’s will, as I have no doubt every one here will wish to know what it is. And, first, I wish to say that, though its contents were a great surprise to my brother Godfrey, they were not at all unexpected by me. I know the grounds on which my aunt acted, and I am fully aware that, to the best of her belief, she acted rightly.”
It perhaps goes without saying that the two young Waynfletes were not very popular with the Palmer clan. Guy, in especial, with his delicate face and girlish eyes, was an incomprehensible person to them. He compelled attention now, however, as after this little speech he sat down near the head of the table, while Godfrey shrank into a dark corner, only withheld from a protest by the force of his brother’s will.