In the course of the week there came dire news to the parish. A telegram from his attendant physician in Cannes announced to Mr. Campbell the death of his rector, the Rev. Dr. Orton, and added that his body would be brought to the rectory to be interred under the chancel of the Haymore church.
The Rev. James Campbell had been prepared for this blow for many weeks, or at least he thought he had been so; yet when it fell it nearly overwhelmed him. He was grieved for the loss of his friend and he was perplexed for his household. At first he did not know what to do at all. He was not a man of resources. Should he immediately vacate the rectory with his family, and go to the village tavern, horrid, beery place, with a bar and taproom, or should he seek lodgings in the village, dreadful, little, stuffy rooms, in such a place, or should he remain at the rectory until the arrival of the family with the remains of the deceased?
At the church he must remain, of course; but at the rectory when the family of the late rector were returning with his remains.
The family of the late rector, by the way, consisted of an aged widow and a maiden daughter, both of whom were with him at Cannes, and two unmarried sons, one a professor at Oxford, and the other a popular preacher in London. The curate consulted his wife.
“Telegraph the widow and know her will before you take any step,” was Hetty’s advice, and Jimmy acted upon it.
In a few hours came a courteous answer from Miss Orton, saying, in effect, that Mr. Campbell was by no means to disturb himself or his family. That the delicate condition of the widow’s health must prevent her from leaving a sunny climate for a frosty one at this severe season; that the daughter would stay with her mother; that the remains of the deceased rector would be accompanied by his two sons, and taken directly from the train to the chancel of the church, where the second funeral services would be held on Friday, at 4 P. M. (the first having been held at Cannes), immediately after which the sons would leave for London and Oxford. So the curate’s family need not be disturbed in the rectory until the appointment of the new rector.
“‘Until the appointment of the new rector!’ How long reprieve would that be?” inquired the curate. And then he blamed himself for his selfishness in thinking so much of his own and his family’s interests, when he should be thinking only of his departed friend.
On Friday morning the parish church at Haymore was decked in solemn funeral array to receive the remains of its rector. The pulpit, altar and chancel were draped with crape. Places of business and schools were all closed for the day, and all the parishioners filled the church, many in deep mourning, and all the others with some badge of mourning on their dresses.
The wife and daughter of the curate sat in the rectory pew. There, later, they were joined by the two sons of the deceased rector.
The curate, in full vestments, waited the arrival of the casket, and, book in hand, went to meet it at the church door, through which, upon a bier of ebony, covered with a pall of black velvet, it was borne by six bearers, and marshaled it up the aisle and before the chancel, repeating the sublime words of our Lord: