A day or two followed, of that strange, hushed quietness, yet of much coming and going,—of the sense of a suspension of ordinary life, which prevails in a house where Death has for the time taken possession. The living are generally impatient of this time, and shorten it as far as possible, especially where no deep sense of real grief is felt. But Mr. Singleton, in death as in life, was too important a person for every due propriety not to be observed. There were arrangements to be made, friends to be summoned, and details of funeral and burial to be settled. These things required time; and when it was finally settled that the funeral would take place in Scarborough, but the body would be carried for burial to the home of the dead man, there was a sense of relief in the minds of all concerned.
Marion accompanied Mrs. Singleton to the funeral in the Episcopal church, which had so much pleased her taste on her first arrival in Scarborough. It was as pretty as ever; but how little correct architecture, stained glass or rich organ tones could give life to the mockery of death which is called a burial-service, and which contains no reference to the individual dead person whose body lies—one wonders why—before a so-called "altar," where no sacrifice is offered, from which no blessing is given! Even the glorious promises of St. Paul, which the preacher reads with studied effect, fall upon the ear like something infinitely distant; the heart instinctively longs for one word of personal application, one cry for mercy and pardon on behalf of the poor soul that, in mute helplessness, can no longer cry for itself. But one listens in vain. There is not even an allusion to that soul. The general hope of immortality—which can be applied in any way that suits the listener—having been set forth, a hymn is sung, and, save for a few formal prayers at the grave, all is over.
Perhaps it was because she had so little religious sentiment to supply for herself what was lacking that, as Marion listened, she felt her heart grow sick with pity and disgust. "What is the possible good of this!" she exclaimed mentally, with indignation. "If no prayer is to be said for the soul, no blessing given to the body, why is it brought here? What meaning is there in such empty formalism? It is a mockery, nothing less; and if one cannot have what the Catholics give, I, like the materialists, who are the only logical Protestants, would have nothing."
After the service, which impressed at least one observer in this manner, the body was at once taken away. Mr. Singleton, of course, accompanied it, but his wife remained behind; and it was understood that immediately on his return the will would be read.
Eagerness on this score no doubt kept Mr. Singleton from the delay with regard to his return in which he might else have indulged, being a man who had a constitutional objection to haste. But for once he accomplished a very quick journey. On the third day after the funeral he returned, and the will was opened by the lawyer who had drawn it up according to the dead man's last instructions.
There was a strain of intense curiosity and anxiety regarding this will in the minds of all concerned. It was by this time generally known that, toward the last, Brian Earle had fallen hopelessly out of his uncle's favor; but no one felt able to conjecture with any certainty who would take his place in the will, although every one cherished a secret hope that it might be himself. There were several of these would-be heirs—cousins more or less removed—of the dead man; but Tom Singleton was, in the absence of Earle, the nearest relative, being the son of a half-brother, while Earle was the son of Mr. Singleton's only sister. The former, with all his easy-going quietness, felt that it would be an outrage if he were not the heir; although, knowing his uncle better than any one else, he knew also that he should not be surprised by whatever grim caprice the will revealed.
And such a caprice it did reveal, to the amazement and rage of everyone concerned. Mr. Singleton remembered with a legacy everyone whom it was proper that he should remember—the largest of these legacies being fifty thousand dollars to Tom Singleton,—and then he bequeathed the remainder of his fortune to his "adopted daughter," Marion Lynde.
The disappointed heirs looked at one another with expressions that baffle description. What! half a million to a girl who had no claim upon it whatever, whose relationship to the old man was of the most vague and distant description! They could hardly believe that he had really been guilty of anything so infamous. They would have felt it less an injury if he had endowed a college or a hospital.
But one reflection seemed to occur to all; for, after the expressive pause which said more than any words, almost every voice spoke simultaneously, "The will won't stand! His mind was weak when he made it. It's evidently a case of undue influence."
The lawyer shook his head. "No, gentlemen," he said; "don't make a mistake. This will can not be broken. My client took care of that, and I took care also. As for his mind being weak, Mr. Singleton here knows that up to the day of his death his mind was as clear and vigorous as it ever had been."