Gartram had been hated, but death had destroyed all petty dislikes, and the people only remembered now the many acts of charity he had performed.
It was unwittingly, and by proxy, for he never knew one half of the kindly actions done in his name, and as the procession wound through the place, there was many a wet eye among the lookers-on, and the saying that ran among the simple folks, quarrymen’s and fishers’ wives, was: “A hard man;” and then, “but oh, so generous and good.”
It was against the etiquette of the sad ceremony, but Claude had said that she should follow her father to the grave, and the cousins walked behind the plain massive coffin, swung at arm’s-length by the handles, and carried by three relays of Gartram’s stout quarrymen, all ready to say: “Yes, a good master after all.”
Every blind was down, every one was in the street or along the cliff, for “The King of the Castle” was dead, and, for the most part, Danmouth seemed to have been made by him. So its people felt real sorrow for themselves as they said: “What is to be done now?”
On and on, with the slow tolling of the bell echoing right up the glen, and startling the white-breasted gulls which floated here and there, uttering their querulous cries as the procession wound its slow way on to the granite-built lych-gate—Gartram’s gift; and as they passed on to the church, Claude was conscious more than ever that Chris Lisle was standing bareheaded by the church door till they passed, and then, through her tear-blinded eyes, she saw that Glyddyr was within, pale and ashen, as he rested one hand upon a pew door.
Then out to the wind-swept churchyard, and there, after a few minutes, it seemed to Claude that she was standing alone, to place a few flowers which she carried upon the hollow-sounding oaken case.
“Come,” whispered a voice at her side, and she took the hand held out to her by her cousin, and was led away, feeling that she was alone now in the world. Wealth, position, such as few women at her age could claim, all seemed as nothing. She was alone.
As the mourners went sadly away, Chris Lisle walked slowly up to the entrance of the vault, and stood gazing down at the shining breastplate.
“Good-bye,” he said softly. “I will not say I forgive you, only that you did not know me. It was a mistake.”
As he moved away, he was aware of a ghastly countenance at a little distance, as Glyddyr stood watching him; but his attention was taken off directly by a tall, dark figure going slowly to the door of the vault, to stand there with hands clasped, and looking down.