The Man with a Shadow

by George Manville Fenn

Rope rattle, boom, and a loud chuckle.

“Ah, that you will, Dally. There, be off, and don’t forget to come to me to-morrow morning.”

“I shan’t forget, gran’fa,” cried the girl, hurrying out, and going round by the back of the church to the vestry door, as another loud boom rang out from the church tower.

People were gathering, but Dally was not seen, and passing into the vestry, she opened the old oaken door in the corner, drew out the key to insert it on the other side, draw it to after her and lock herself in, and stand panting for a few moments before ascending the narrow, corkscrew staircase, which led to the traceried opening in the side of the chancel, from which place she could have an excellent view of all that was about to take place.

For it was to be “a fine berrin’.”

This was the accepted term for Luke Candlish’s funeral.

His brother, Tom, heir to the title and estate, consequent upon Luke’s single life, had given orders to the London undertaker—very much to the disgust of the King’s Hampton carpenter and upholsterer, as his sign-board announced, for this individual wanted to know why he couldn’t bury the squire as well as a Londoner—that everything should be worthy of the family. So the London man had brought down his third best suite of funeral paraphernalia. The first was retained for magnates: the second for London folk of rank; the third for the leading country families, who always ordered and believed they had the beat.

But it was very nearly the same. The ostrich plumes of sable hue were common to all ranks, and the velvet and silk palls and carriages that were used for the higher magnates one year, descended to the second place a year or so later, and then came into country use. It was only a question of freshness, and what could that matter when the eyes of the mourners were so veiled with tears that they could not tell the new from the old?

So it was a fine berrin’, with the carriages of all the neighbouring gentry sent down to follow, and a most impressive service, which, read impressively by the rector, who had driven over from King’s Hampton, sounded almost blasphemous to Hartley Salis, who had the misfortune to know the character of the deceased by heart. The coffin of polished mahogany, with gilt handles, had been greatly admired; the favoured few had read the inscription; and when it was borne from the Hall to the church, that edifice was fairly well filled, and the carriages extended from the lych-gate right away down to Moredock’s cottage—three hundred yards.

It was a funeral, but to very few was it a scene of sadness, being looked upon as a sight quite as interesting as a wedding, and the lookers-on had duly noted who descended from the various carriages to enter the church, among the followers being Cousin Thompson, who had found it necessary to stay down at his cousin’s house with Horace North, to transact a certain amount of business for the new baronet.