The day of the funeral was a trying one for Freda. She ran up to her own room when the undertaker’s men arrived, and would have remained there for hours if she had not been disturbed by a peremptory knock at her door, and by Crispin’s voice telling her to get ready to go to the church. She opened the door, trembling with fear and repugnance.
“Crispin,” she entreated, “don’t make me go! I can’t go, when I know it is only a sham. I can’t pretend to be sorry, I can’t, and I won’t.”
“Oh, well, nobody will expect much sorrow from you, but you will have to go to the church. Haven’t you got a black dress?”
“Yes.”
“Well, put it on, and make haste. Nell is waiting.”
“Aren’t you going?”
For Crispin wore his usual costume: a threadbare velveteen coat, evidently one of his late master’s, riding-breeches and gaiters.
He shook his head.
“No, I can’t stand old Staynes. If I went I should laugh.”
“People won’t think it very respectful of you, will they?”