At length every thing was waiting. No more carriages came—no more people. There was no more looking into the casket—no more whispering and moving. The rooms were full of a silent company, and they were all waiting. The clock ticked audibly. The wind rustled in the pine-trees. What next? Would not the master of the house appear to welcome his guests?
He did not come; but from the upper entry, at the head of the stairs, near a room in which sat Hope Wayne, and Lawrence Newt, and Mrs. Simcoe, and Fanny Dinks, and Alfred, and his parents, and a few others, was heard the voice of Dr. Peewee, saying, “Let us pray!”
And he prayed a long prayer. He spoke of the good works of this life, and the sweet promises of the next; of the Christian hero, who fights the good fight encompassed by a crowd of witnesses; of those who do justice and love mercy, and walk in the way of the Lord. He referred to our dear departed brother, and eulogized Christian merchants, calling those blessed who, being rich, are almoners of the Lord’s bounty. He prayed for those who remained, reminding them, that the Lord chastens whom he loves, and that they who die, although full of years and honors, do yet go where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest, and at last pass beyond to enter into the joy of their Lord.
His voice ceased, and silence fell again upon the house. Every body sat quietly; the women fanned themselves, and the men looked about. Here was again the sense of waiting—of vague expectation. What next?
Three or four workmen went into the parlor. One of them put down the lid and screwed it tight. The casket was closed forever. They lifted it, and carried it out carefully down the steps. They rolled it into a hearse that stood upon the gravel, and the man who closed the lid buttoned a black curtain over the casket.
The same man went to the front door and read several names from a paper in a clear, dry voice. The people designated came down stairs, went out of the door, and stepped into carriages. The company rose in the library and drawing-room, and, moving toward the hall, looked at the mourners—at Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe, at Mr. and Mrs. Budlong Dinks, Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Dinks, and others, as they passed out.
Presently the procession began to move slowly along the avenue. Those who remained stepped out upon the piazza and watched it; then began to bustle about for their own carriages. One after another they drove away. Mr. Kingo said to Mr. Sutler that he believed the will was in the hands of Mr. Budlong Dinks, and would be opened in the morning. They looked around the place, and remarked that Miss Wayne would probably become its mistress.
“Mrs. Alfred Dinks seems to be a very—a very—” said Mr. Kingo, gravely, pausing upon the last word.
“Very much so, indeed,” replied Mr. Sutler, with equal gravity.
“And yet,” said Mr. Grabeau, “if it had been so ordered that young Mr. Dinks should marry his cousin, Miss Wayne, he would—that is, I suppose he would—;” and he too hesitated.